No Sunscreen for the Dead

by Tim Dorsey

  “But what about what the witnesses heard? Two shots.”

  “Must have been a silencer,” said Cheadle.

  “Now you’re deep-sea fishing.”

  “Am I?” The detective picked up a square foil pouch from the nightstand.

  “Torn-open condom wrapper?” asked Sussman.

  “With the condom still in it. He was ready for another round. Why shoot?”

  “Who knows?”

  Cheadle turned to everyone else in the room. “Check for a third bullet hole.”

  It was daytime, but they still used bright flashlights to make it easier.

  An hour later: “Anything?”

  All heads shook.

  For once, the alarm clock was off. The baby-blue digits said it was a lazy 8:48 a.m.

  Benmont threw off the covers and stretched with a yawn. Then he remembered and smiled.

  Aruba.

  The law firm of Ramsey, Walcott & Kerfuffle had e-mailed the tickets overnight, along with photos of his cabana on stilts in the banana trees. Everything had been packed in his car the night before. For some reason he thought he’d need his old tennis racket. He felt nervous about carrying the four grand in cash from Ramsey’s money clip.

  He showered, dressed and got in his car. The radio came on a station for the It Generation.

  “. . . This is going to be the best day of my life . . .”

  “Wait, I actually know this one,” Benmont said to himself. “It’s from an ad for a motel chain.”

  He backed out of his driveway and checked his watch. Still four hours till his flight. The car idled, hanging halfway out in the suburban street. There was an itch in his brain he couldn’t scratch. He really wanted to talk to Quint before he left. He dialed his boss’s cell phone. It rang and rang. He hung up and sat in thought. Then: What the hell? He cut the steering wheel the other way . . .

  Twenty minutes later, he stepped into the office of Life-Armor and glanced around the empty floor plan. “What now?” He looked toward Quint’s office. Still dark with the door closed.

  He left the empty cubicle matrix for the lunchroom. A crowd was staring up again at a flat screen. Most of them sobbing.

  Benmont tapped someone’s shoulder in the back of the group. “What’s everyone so upset about?”

  A discreet whisper. “Quint is dead.”

  “What!”

  The young man pointed up at the screen. “Police found two bodies in a room at the Savoy. TV hasn’t mentioned the names yet, but word got back to us.” He lowered his voice again. “They’re thinking murder-suicide.”

  “Quint?” said Benmont. “That’s not possible!”

  “I’m just telling you what I heard.”

  Benmont and the others gradually began drifting back to their cubicles. When they arrived, a police team was already there, gathered outside the door of Quint’s office, just like the similar team currently going through Quint’s house on the other side of town.

  Benmont quickly marched down the aisle. “What are you doing?”

  “Please stand back,” said a detective.

  “You’re looking for a suicide note, aren’t you?”

  “This is just routine.”

  A maintenance man unlocked the office, and the police streamed in.

  Benmont called through the open door: “You’re not going to find any note!”

  Detective Cheadle stood with hands on hips in the middle of room 614 of the Savoy Arms. The bodies were zipped up and wheeled out of the room on gurneys. The search had been called off for the magic third bullet. The police presence was now down to a pair of evidence techs dusting for a few final prints. And the two detectives.

  “How could I have been so wrong about this?” Cheadle asked himself.

  “It was a good theory,” said his partner. “You were being thorough.”

  A knock came from behind them on the open door of the hotel room.

  They turned around to find a new arrival.

  “Reinforcements?” asked Cheadle.

  “No, we just got another call,” said the sergeant at the door.

  “What kind of call?”

  “Another guest didn’t check out on time and wasn’t answering his phone. You might want to see this.”

  Cheadle and Sussman glanced at each other, then followed the sergeant out of room 614, and just as quickly into room 615. They stopped silently in the doorway.

  Lying peacefully on his back in bed, still wearing pajamas, was a paint salesman from Knoxville. On the left side of his head, the sheets soaked deep red.

  Cheadle approached the victim and crouched next to the bed, examining the gunshot wound. His eyes followed an imaginary line of trajectory as he turned around and faced the wall. “Damn.”

  “What do you think?” asked Sussman. “Robbery? Revenge?”

  “No, just one unlucky bastard.” Cheadle got up and stuck the tip of his pinkie in a small hole in the plaster. Then he practically ran over everybody on his way back to the first room.

  Sussman brought up the rear. “What’s going on?”

  “There it is,” said Cheadle, this time probing with a pen from his jacket. “They missed it because it was right at the edge of the dresser.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” said his partner. “A bullet hole. So there were three shots after all.”

  Two more suits arrived in the room. The first displayed a badge. “Agent Baxter.”

  “FBI?” said Cheadle. “What are you doing here?”

  “We went to his house first and found your uniformed officers already there, and they told us about this room.”

  “But why is the FBI interested in a local murder?” asked Cheadle.

  “We didn’t even know he was dead,” said Baxter. “We just wanted to talk to him.”

  “So he was into something?” asked Sussman. “Drugs? Insider trading?”

  “Not exactly.” Baxter bent down and looked at a hole in the wall with a pen sticking out of it. “What have you got so far?”

  “Staged murder-suicide with a prostitute.”

  Baxter glanced at his colleague. “That would fit.”

  “Excuse me,” said Cheadle. “But could you please tell me what’s going on?”

  “No.”

  Chapter 19

  Sarasota

  Residents from Boca Shores were out on their evening strolls when a Ford Falcon pulled alongside one of them.

  Serge hung out the window. “Lawrence, checking on Candace?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Because you’re at her driveway. Mind if we join you?”

  Lawrence led the way again. “Candace, you remember Serge from yesterday?”

  “Of course, I’m not senile, you know . . . Ahhh! Who’s that?”

  A wave. “I’m Coleman.”

  Crash.

  “He knocked over my rack of TV-dinner trays.”

  “Sorry, I’ve got it.” Coleman tried rehanging the trays, but ended up with everything on top of him instead.

  “Dang it.” Serge shot a grin toward Candace as he propped trays back against the wall. “I’m his caregiver.”

  “What’s his problem?”

  Hushed tones: “Put the sippy cup away and wait outside!”

  “I always have to wait outside. There are bugs.”

  “Get going!”

  “I like it in here. Lucy’s on TV.”

  Serge threw another grin Candace’s way. “Excuse us just a minute.”

  He grabbed Coleman’s ear. “Ow! Ow! Ow! Let go!”

  “Onto the lawn with you!”

  Candace strained to see the commotion. “Are your friends all right?”

  “They’re fine,” said Lawrence. “But how are you doing?”

  “Same as every time you ask.” A TV tray fell and she jumped.

  Lawrence stood up and promised to report back to her family that all was good on the home front.

  Serge came back inside. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”
<
br />   “Leaving,” said Lawrence.

  Serge pointed down the hall. “What was that sound?”

  “Where?” asked Candace, looking over her shoulder.

  Serge snatched the teddy bear off the shelf. “My ears are playing tricks again. I need them checked.”

  “But you’re so young.”

  Lawrence waved. “Good night, Candace.”

  They collected Coleman from the yard and got him into the Falcon. Lawrence glanced at the teddy bear under Serge’s arm. “Do I even want to know?”

  “Not really.”

  They departed again in opposite directions.

  Back in his Tamiami Trail motel, Serge pulled the memory stick from the back of the teddy bear. He plugged it into his laptop and started the video.

  Everything was fine for the first half hour, except Gil had taken away the remote control for his own TV-viewing pleasure. That’s when Candace said she was thirsty.

  Gil got up from the couch. Serge inched toward the laptop’s screen. He suddenly winced and turned away. He covered his face with a hand and turned back toward the computer, peeking between his fingers. Another wince. “I can’t watch any more.”

  Coleman came over. “Why is she crying? . . . Jesus! He just slapped her for no reason!”

  Serge ran into the bathroom, and Coleman followed. “Are you throwing up?”

  “Just a little.” Serge wiped his mouth.

  “Man, I mean I throw up like ringing a bell,” said Coleman. “But you never, ever do.”

  Serge rinsed with a handful of water from the sink. “This is a different ball game.”

  They returned to the laptop. Serge tried to be swift, but couldn’t get the memory stick out before a final slap.

  “What’s the matter with that guy?” asked Coleman.

  “Some people are just wired wrong,” said Serge. “It makes no sense to the rest of us, but these bad units have a syndrome. They otherwise appear and behave totally normal. Then, in private, they abuse small children, really old people, animals. They seek out the most vulnerable, those without much of a voice.” He grabbed his keys.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the Party Store!”

  The next morning, Serge bounded up the steps of a screened-in porch and went inside. He knocked on the glass.

  Candace slid the door open a crack. “Who are you?”

  “Serge. I visited the last couple days with Lawrence.”

  “Your voice sounds the same, but you look different. You look so old. You have a big gray mustache.”

  “I’m in disguise. The Party Store has everything!” He held out a bouquet of freshly picked marigolds. “These are for you.”

  “They’re beautiful!” She opened the door the rest of the way. “We better get those in some water.”

  “I’ll handle it.” He found a vase in a cabinet and soon the flowers brought cheer from the top of the TV.

  “That was so thoughtful of you,” said Candace.

  “There’s no good way to say this, so I’ll just say it.” Serge pulled a chair over and held her right hand. “I know what’s been going on. I know about Gil.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I left a surveillance camera in here. We watched everything.”

  She covered her face. “I’m so embarrassed. So ashamed.”

  “That’s what he’s counting on,” said Serge. “It’s a common reaction to the loss of control, not to mention fear of the future.”

  “They’ll put me in a nursing home!”

  “Nobody’s putting you anywhere while I’m around. You’re a proud woman, and nobody can take that from you.”

  Sniffles. “Thank you. You understand.”

  “Yes, I do. But I’m going to need your help.”

  “How?”

  “I called your caregiving service and said you had some appointment for the first couple hours, but your brother was visiting and would need assistance in the meantime. They’re sending Gil over on the same schedule . . . All I need you to do is go in your bedroom with Coleman, lock the door and not make a sound.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Most important,” said Serge. “Keep that door closed. Whatever you do, don’t look.”

  They heard a car pull up out front. “That’s him now,” said Serge. “Get going.”

  The odd pair hurried down the hall and locked the door.

  A knock at the sliding glass.

  “It’s open!”

  Gil walked in. “Christ, you look even older than your sister.”

  An ancient accent: “I’m just a frail, helpless old man.”

  Gil went into the kitchen. Rummaging sounds. “What’s good in the fridge? Nothing, as usual.” He grabbed some chips from the pantry and returned. “Give me that remote control!” He plopped down on the couch for another rerun of Baywatch. “And don’t talk to me!”

  A crackly voice. “But I’m thirsty.”

  “What did I just tell you?” Gil hopped to his feet. “Now you’re going to get it!” He rolled up a magazine and swatted Serge back and forth across his face—one blow for each word: “Shut . . . up! . . . Shut . . . up! . . . Shut . . . up! . . .”

  “Why are you doing this to me?” asked Serge. “Why are you being so mean?”

  “You don’t listen for shit, do you?” Smack, smack, smack . . .

  The last blow from the magazine pulled the costume glue loose, and a bushy mustache went flying.

  Gil was about to strike again when he stopped in confusion, staring at a clump of gray hair on the floor. “What the hell?”

  Serge smiled. “The Party Store has everything!”

  “Who are you?”

  “Not an old man. At least not as old as you like them.”

  Before Gil knew it, Serge had twisted his right arm behind his back, and he was pinned to the floor.

  “How does it feel, asshole?” Serge pressed the face deep into the carpet pile. He reached in a pocket for a plastic zip-tie wrist restraint like police use at riots. Then he jerked Gil to his feet and pushed him toward the side door.

  Just then, another door opened at the end of the hall. Serge looked up like he was caught in headlights, standing there seizing a handcuffed Gil by the back of his collar. Candace covered her mouth—“Oh my”—and slammed the door.

  “Shit. Just have to deal with that publicity problem later.” He reached the back door and peeked outside. No witnesses. Candace didn’t own a car, which had allowed Serge to back his Falcon into her carport. He put his mouth right to Gil’s ear. “Make one sound and I swear to God I’ll break your skull!”

  Gil stumbled and wept as Serge rushed him down the steps to the back bumper. He popped the trunk. “In you go!” Thud. “And I don’t trust you about the quiet thing.” A strip of duct tape was ripped from a roll and pulled tight across Gil’s mouth. The trunk slammed shut.

  Serge turned to face the back door and took a deep breath. “Now for damage control . . .”

  He trotted back inside and knocked on the bedroom door at the end of the dark hallway. Then he took a few steps back so as not to startle Candace. “Everything’s super! You can come out now!”

  The door opened a half inch, just enough to reveal an eyeball.

  “Really, it’s okay,” Serge said in a chipper tone. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Coleman.

  “You idiot! I thought you were Candace. Get out here!”

  The two emerged from the bedroom and joined Serge at the kitchen table. “Candace, I’m very sorry you had to witness that. It wasn’t my intention.”

  “Witness what?”

  “When you opened the door and saw me and Gil.”

  “I never opened the door.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t see anything.” She got up and went to the fridge. “Would you like some juice?”

  Coleman leaned and whisper
ed: “Man, her mind really is slipping.”

  “Just the opposite.” Serge sat back and chuckled. “She’s still sharp as a tack.”

  Chapter 20

  Meanwhile . . .

  On the campus of Life-Armor, police were back for a second day. Now that suicide had officially been ruled out, the office of Quint Powers needed a more thorough combing. All the desk drawers were open.

  “Anything yet?” asked a lieutenant.

  “Just that the hard drive and all physical files are missing.”

  “The attorneys have those,” said the lieutenant. “They called and gave us a heads-up, but wouldn’t say what was going on.”

  A woman with thin gloves looked up from one of the drawers and shook her head.

  “So we’ve got nothing? . . .”

  The employees were standing back at a safe distance, watching the police and starting rumors. They’d all been summoned by the company for police interviews, including Benmont. Especially Benmont. Besides Quint, he was the only person whose hard drive had been recently and unceremoniously ripped from his computer. He had to postpone that flight to Aruba.

  “When are the lawyers going to get here?” asked the lieutenant. “We’re in the dark on these hard drives.”

  The lawyers arrived.

  They walked down the main aisle three abreast in a brisk manner announcing that the take-no-shit people had arrived.

  “Listen up, everyone! Nobody says a word to the police without us present.” Then to the lieutenant: “We’ll be sitting in on all interrogations.”

  “They’re not interrogations, just interviews,” said the lieutenant. “Now, where are the hard drives?”

  “Ramsey’s bringing them,” said an attorney.

  “Who’s Ramsey?”

  “One of the partners.”

  “Where is he?”

  “On his way.”

  They held the employees in a kind of standby area, and the police commandeered the executives’ glass offices for questioning. They began leading the workers in one by one.

  A cell rang. Then another. Finally, a whole chorus of electronic chirping from pockets. All the lawyers and all the cops simultaneously pulled out their phones and answered.