Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels

by Steve Brewer

  They drove back to Cetacean Park in the cruiser, along an unpaved access road. The cops told Steve everything they knew from the radio call. Wade Grisby had shot someone, another guy in a wet suit. A third perp, the cop said. It happened on a path near the security shed. Steve’s nephew wasn’t near the shooting, didn’t even see it happen. The kid was talking to a detective now. He was just fine.

  Steve felt the relief immediately. If Victoria was his heart, Bobby was his soul. Eighteen months earlier, Steve had risked everything to rescue the boy—kidnap him, really—from his own mother. Janice Solomon, Steve’s drug-addled sister, was an abusive parent and a pathological liar, and those were her best qualities. When Bobby came to live with Steve, the boy was terrified and helpless, plagued by night terrors, his psyche a scrambled mess. Steve decided then that he’d do anything to make the kid’s life better. Bobby had made great progress, but not without some setbacks. Overall, the kid was so sweet and innocent he gave Steve faith in the goodness of the species, notwithstanding all evidence to the contrary.

  Three more police cars and an ambulance angled alongside the seawall, lights flashing. A covey of cops in uniform and two others in plainclothes milled about. A fire-rescue vehicle was pulling up, two EMTs leaping out. On the causeway, another siren wailed.

  A few yards from the killer whale tank, Bobby sat in the front row of the bleachers, wrapped in a pink beach towel, sipping soda from a can. A Miami-Dade sheriff’s deputy Steve recognized from the Justice Building took notes on a pad. “Then Uncle Steve took off after the guy,” Bobby said, his voice stoked. “You shoulda seen him. Awesome! Like a zillion miles an hour.”

  “Hey, kiddo. You okay?” Steve scooped up his nephew and hugged him.

  “Did you catch him? ’Cause they should pay you a big reward, a big chunk of cheddar.”

  The deputy held up a hand. “Give us a minute, Mr. Solomon.”

  Steve studied his nephew. “Sure you’re okay, Bobby?”

  “Abso-posi-tutely. But where are Spunky and Misty?”

  “In the Bay somewhere.”

  Bobby’s expression froze. The energy drained from him.

  “Where in the Bay?”

  “I don’t know, kiddo. They were headed for the southern tip of the Key.”

  Meaning they could be in the deep, blue Atlantic by now, but Steve chose not to say that.

  “Can you find them, Uncle Steve?” Fear in his voice. “Can you get them back?”

  “I’ll try, kiddo.”

  How, I don’t know. A writ of habeas porpoise, maybe.

  “Please, Uncle Steve.”

  “Gonna do my best.”

  “Not enough!”

  “What?”

  “Not enough. Not enough. Not enough. I want them back. Now!”

  Whining. Swaying. His mouth contorted. The old Bobby. Insecure and frightened. Bobby had made so much progress, had become so socialized, it was difficult to remember the skin-and-bones, bruised and grimy kid locked in a dog cage, his legs festering with open sores.

  Steve picked up Bobby. The boy slung his legs around his uncle and locked his ankles together. Steve gave him a squeeze and whispered in his ear, “It’s gonna be okay, kiddo.”

  “Sure.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  Steve felt teardrops roll from Bobby’s cheek to his own. “I know how much Spunky and Misty mean to you. They’re like the brother and sister you don’t have.”

  “You could change that,” Bobby said.

  “How?”

  “You and Victoria, I mean.”

  “Oh, that. Let’s get the dolphins back first, then we’ll discuss whether the world needs any more Solomons.”

  “Deal,” Bobby said. Sounding better. He untangled himself from Steve, rubbed his nose with a thumb, and turned back to the deputy. “Would you like to hear the rest of my statement now, Officer?”

  Sounding like an expert witness who’d been doing this for years. That was Bobby for you. One moment a babbling kid, a second later he’d name every turnpike stop from Homestead to St. Lucie.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Steve asked.

  “Go,” Bobby said. “Maybe you can pick up some clues.”

  Steve left Bobby with the deputy and headed toward a semicircle of cops on the path that led to the security shed. Two large feet in rubber dive booties stuck out of a low hedge of ficus trees.

  Moving closer, Steve caught sight of the body. A man in a black wet suit, just like the one worn by the Jet Skier. The man lay on his back in a pool of blood. A deep pool. More blood than it seemed any one body could hold. The man’s chest had been blown wide open. Shotgun blast at close range. Ugly.

  A second blast—or more likely the first—had torn through the man’s right hip. Near his feet was a roll of duct tape, flecked with gore and body tissue. A small coil of nautical line curled near one knee. A police photographer hovered over the corpse, snapping off rapid-fire pictures.

  Two plainclothes detectives stood nearby, listening to Wade Grisby, who sucked at a cigarette, his leathery hands trembling. “A man’s got a right to defend himself, don’t he?”

  Grisby was in his early fifties, short and wiry, with sunbaked skin and a gray-flaked beard. He looked up as Steve approached. “This fellow knows me. Tell them, Steve. I wouldn’t shoot a man unless it was self-defense.”

  Steve joined the circle. “Wade, you might not want to make any more statements until you have a lawyer.”

  “I got nothing to hide.”

  “Still, Wade. It’s time to lawyer up.”

  Steve was about to announce his own availability at reasonable rates when he heard a familiar voice. “Don’t need a mouthpiece when you got the po-lice.”

  Mellifluous tones. Bourbon flowing over ice.

  Steve turned and saw Ray Pincher striding toward them. The State Attorney wore a dark suit and a dress shirt, leaving off only the tie, perhaps a concession to the pre-dawn hour. Pincher was a fit African-American man in his forties with a narrow mustache and an irritating habit of cracking his knuckles to emphasize that he’d just made an important point. He’d grown up in the Liberty City projects and won some amateur boxing titles as a middleweight before heading off to a seminary in Jacksonville. The idea was to return home as pastor of the Primitive Baptist Church. But somewhere along the line, Ray Pincher lost his faith and found the law. A tough prosecutor who’d paid his dues from Traffic Court to the Homicide Division, he now was the county’s elected State Attorney.

  “Ain’t no suspense when it’s self-defense.” Pincher sounded part rap artist, part preacher. He signaled Steve to walk with him. “If you’re hustling a case, Solomon, forget about it. Grisby was within his rights. He’ll never be charged.”

  “That’s it? You’re here all of one minute and you know what happened?”

  “We been keeping an eye on this place.”

  “You had men here tonight?”

  “A mile away. Sewage plant on Virginia Key.”

  Right. Virginia Key. A place of natural dunes and beautiful beaches. Turtles and manatees. Hardwood hammocks and mangroves. Naturally, it’s where the city padres built a sewage treatment plant. Even though it was hidden from sight, when the wind was right, you could smell it from the causeway.

  “Animal Liberation Movement,” Pincher said. “Bunch of losers and lefties. Once they knocked over that primate lab in the Keys, we figured Grisby’s place might be next.” Pincher cracked his knuckles with a crunch.

  “Who’s the dead guy?”

  “Don’t have an ID yet.”

  “Why’d he come ashore?”

  “Looks like he planned to tie up the security guard. Instead, he ran into Grisby and his twelve-gauge.”

  “Was the guy armed?”

  “A .45. Gun flew into the ficus hedge when he was hit.”

  “The timing’s off. The dolphins were already gone when the shots were fired.”

  “Grisby was holding the guy, waiting for us to get here. The guy went for
his piece.”

  “Who does that? If someone’s holding a twelve-gauge on you, would you pull a gun?”

  “Didn’t say the guy was smart. Only said he was dead.”

  “And why two shots? Guy would have bled out with either one.”

  “What’s with you, Solomon? You want Grisby indicted so you can get some work?”

  “I’m just wondering why you’re closing the book on this. You’ve got no independent witnesses. But you’ve wrapped up your investigation while the body’s still warm.”

  “And what’s it to you?”

  Good question. Steve wasn’t sure why the story troubled him. He was a defense lawyer to his very core, so his natural instincts were to believe Grisby acted in self-defense. But Pincher was a prosecutor to the depth of his soul, and he never believed anyone. Why so quick to clear the man in a brutal shooting?

  But what the hell. None of this concerned him.

  All I care is that Bobby’s safe.

  “Means nothing to me, Ray. Nothing at all.”

  Pincher led Steve toward the patrol car where the two muscle-bound cops still had the first perp in the backseat. “The asshole say anything I might want to know?” Pincher asked Steve.

  “Like I told Tubbs and Crockett here, all he did was call me names.”

  The Hispanic cop nodded to Pincher, then opened the back door of the cruiser. The man leaned out, his chiseled features illuminated by the ceiling lamp.

  Pincher stood, paralyzed. “What the fuck?”

  Looking delighted with himself, the man grinned at Pincher. “Hello, Uncle Ray. Mom says hi, too.”

  Pincher clenched his jaws so tightly, Steve heard his teeth grind. “Solomon, say hello to Gerald Nash, my sister’s punk-ass boy.”

  “We’ve already met,” Steve said.

  Pincher wagged a finger in Nash’s face. “Your momma shoulda whupped your ass, ’stead of taking all that sass.”

  “You’re just a tool of the establishment, Uncle Ray. A tiny cog in the wheel of corrupt corporations and warmongering politicians.”

  “I hear your daddy talking. All that left-wing bullshit.”

  “Dad’s always been right about you, Uncle Ray. You’re just a puppet.”

  “You were mine, Gerald, I woulda taught you some discipline.”

  “I learned a lot from you, Uncle Ray.” Hands cuffed behind him, Gerald Nash scooted around in his seat, laced his fingers together, and cracked his knuckles. Then he cackled with laughter.

  “How funny’s it gonna be when you’re doing life in Raiford?” his uncle demanded.

  “Life, Uncle Ray? For trespassing? Breaking and entering? I don’t think so.”

  Pincher turned his back on Nash. “Solomon, tell this punk the news.”

  Steve didn’t relish being ordered around by his old antagonist. Still, it had been a long night and he didn’t mind rubbing Nash’s face in the mud. “It’s called ‘felony murder.’ Wade Grisby might have shot your pal, but you’re the one who’ll go down for it.”

  Seven

  ALL STEVE,

  ALL THE TIME

  “Let me get this straight,” Judge Frederick Barash said. “You’re suing this website where men comment on women they’ve dated.”

  “Don’t Date the Bitch–dot-com,” Victoria Lord said, trying not to reveal her embarrassment. She hated cleaning up Steve’s messes, handling cases for his low-rent clients. “The website posted insulting and derogatory remarks about our client, Your Honor.”

  The judge licked his thumb and riffled through the complaint. “To wit, that Ms. Lexy Larson is ‘a shallow, superficial gold digger who gives perfunctory blow jobs.’ ”

  Judge Barash harrumphed and peered over the tops of his reading glasses toward the plaintiff’s table. He had served twenty-seven years on the bench and was a few months shy of retirement. A small man with a fine crop of judicial white hair, His Honor would have dismissed every case on his docket if he could, just to play golf every day. You could almost smell the burnout.

  “That’s what our complaint alleges,” Victoria said, referring to Steve’s sloppily worded written pleading. Sitting alongside was her client—actually, Steve’s client—Lexy Larson, a six-foot-tall model with spiky blond hair.

  “ ‘Perfunctory,’ ” the judge mused. “Not a word usually associated with blow jobs, is it?”

  “Is that a grammatical question or a personal one, Your Honor?” Victoria shot back.

  Dammit, Steve. From now on, handle your own crap.

  “Don’t get your undies in an uproar, Ms. Lord. Just tell me, what’s libelous here? ‘Superficial gold digger’ or ‘perfunctory blow job’?”

  This is not happening to me.

  “Perfunctory?” Lexy whispered, her face scrunched up. “Is that like sloppy? Because I can give head wet or dry.” She made a slurping sound.

  This is so not happening to me.

  Back at Yale, Victoria had envisioned herself a top trial lawyer, winning major cases, dispensing her opinions on Court TV. In her organized, methodical way, she had charted a path. Five years as a prosecutor, trying hundreds of cases, building a name. Another ten years in a private firm, making some serious money. Finally, the bench. Public service.

  “Judge Lord.” It had a ring to it.

  Never did she imagine she’d be debating the quality of fellatio performed by a model with a two-digit IQ.

  “Sometimes, I spit on the guy’s cock,” Lexy whispered, fidgeting in her chair. “But some guys, if it’s too slippery, they claim they don’t feel a thing.”

  “Shhh.” Victoria placed a hand on Lexy’s bare, artificially tanned and superbly toned arm. The model wore a leopard-print strapless cotton sundress, and her oiled skin was goose-bumpy in the meat-locker-cold courtroom. A jumbo Fendi crocodile purse sat next to her feet, which were shod in red patent leather Mizrahi mules. A great outfit for a drink at the Delano, but Victoria would have preferred something more conservative for court. Still, as Lexy usually dressed like a Victoria’s Secret model—which, in fact, she was—it could have been worse.

  Lexy was one of the moe-dels—her pronunciation—from Les Mannequins, the second-rate agency where Solomon & Lord enjoyed free office space in return for legal counsel. When Steve had rolled in just before dawn, bruised and still wet, he’d asked Victoria to handle his morning calendar. Meaning she had to oppose the motion to dismiss the libel suit, a case as flimsy as the gold mesh bra peeking out of Lexy’s dress.

  “Let’s take a look at what else is posted on the website,” the judge said, turning a page, then reading aloud, “ ‘Don’t date a bitch named Lexy, a SoBe model with mud for brains. She’s a vapid, vacuous airhead who drinks Cristal by the magnum, which she’ll charge to your platinum card.’ ”

  “Creepskate,” Lexy murmured.

  Meaning, Victoria figured, a guy who was both cheap and a creep.

  “Now, Ms. Lord,” the judge continued, “did your client charge champagne to this man’s credit card?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Victoria admitted.

  Not to mention ordering two rounds of drinks for a table of strangers, a twenty-four-ounce porterhouse steak for herself, of which she ate two bites, and a four-pound lobster “to go” for her Himalayan kitty, Veruschka.

  “Then I don’t see how you can maintain an action for libel,” Judge Barash said. “All the other comments are statements of opinion, and the law says there’s no such thing as a false opinion.”

  “Nine out of ten guys say I give great head,” Lexy hissed in Victoria’s ear.

  “Hush,” Victoria cautioned, using one of her mother’s favorite words. She turned toward the bench. “Your Honor, by posting intimate, personal information, the website invaded Ms. Larson’s privacy.”

  “I don’t believe your complaint makes that allegation,” the judge replied.

  Your complaint being Steve’s flabbily worded pleading. He’d probably dictated it without a minute of legal research. Or maybe he’d just let Cec
e Santiago, their assistant/secretary/personal trainer, write the damn thing. Either way, it was a mess, just like Steve’s underwear drawer.

  “In that case, Your Honor, I would consent to a dismissal without prejudice in order to file an amended complaint stating a cause of action for invasion of privacy.”

  “Excellent idea, Ms. Lord.” Doubtless thinking he’d be retired to Hilton Head before this lame lawsuit came to trial.

  “What’s happening?” Lexy demanded. “Whadaya mean, ‘dismissal’?”

  “Everything’s fine. Go to your Pilates class. I’ll rewrite the complaint for Steve.”

  “Where is that cutie? He should have been here.”

  Lexy said it with a little whimper that men probably found enchanting.

  “Like I told you, Lexy, the cutie had a hard night.”

  When he had dropped into bed, Steve mumbled something about trouble at Cetacean Park.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Later. Sleep now.”

  He started snoring then, a sound vaguely reminiscent, Victoria decided, of the whistles made by Bobby’s dolphins. When she dressed for court, Steve was still snoring. She checked on Bobby, curled up in his own bed, breathing heavily. As she left the house, she saw Bobby’s bicycle sticking out of the trunk of Steve’s car.

  This was the third time in a month the boy had sneaked out, and Victoria was worried. He’d been making progress, seeming to adjust so well. But then his fascination with dolphins pushed everything else aside. He was obsessed with the animals, and it didn’t seem healthy.

  “Ms. Lord,” the judge said, “I wonder if you could join me in chambers a moment.”

  Now what?

  “Is there a problem, Your Honor?”

  “Not with this pipsqueak of a case.” The judge eased out of his chair and headed for the door behind the bench, tossing over his shoulder, “A murder trial, Counselor.”

  What murder trial?

  The firm of Solomon & Lord didn’t have any. These days, their clients were mostly Whiplash Willies and hapless misdemeanants. Steve’s job was to hustle most of the cases. But as a rainmaker, he was more of a drizzler.

  They’d also had a run of bad luck. Just last week, a jury rejected their client’s claim that he was sleepwalking when he entered the liquor store with gun in hand. When the judge sentenced him to seven years in prison, the jerk said he’d rather get eight years, because 8 was Daunte Culpepper’s jersey number, and the quarterback was his favorite Miami Dolphin, even if he was over the hill. Victoria started to protest, but Steve said he was just thankful the guy’s favorite player wasn’t Jason Taylor. It took Victoria a second to realize that Steve meant Taylor wore number 99.