Shark Skin Suite

by Tim Dorsey

  “Who are you?” said Serge.

  “Explain later. Right now we need to work fast.” He handed Brook the gun—“Hold this”—then he grabbed one edge of the plastic sheet. “Serge, give me a hand. I’m guessing you know your way around this neighborhood.”

  Serge didn’t move. “I need to know who I’m dealing with before we go any farther.”

  “Okay.” The man let go of the sheet and stood up. “Name’s Clint Racine. Brook’s law firm sent me to watch out for her.”

  “That’s why I thought I was being followed,” said Brook.

  “Because you were,” said Clint.

  “So you work for her firm?” asked Serge.

  “Not exactly,” said Clint. “They hired a private investigations company who hired me. That way they’d have a buffer of deniability on the off chance that their suspicions were correct—which they were—and things got messy.” He looked down. “Which they have.”

  “So you’re a private investigator?”

  “No, a fixer. Actually have a law degree, if you can believe it.” He bent down and grabbed the plastic again. “But I like the adrenaline.”

  “I hear ya.” Serge knelt next to him. “Just one question: The shooting was totally justified, so why are you wrapping the body instead of calling the police?”

  Clint rolled Bones over on the bloody sheet. “Because I did some background checking on Brook and learned the reason behind the ostensible blackmailing: her involvement with you, the fake beating. If I call the police, it’ll all come out and she’ll be ruined, not to mention the firm’s reputation and—most important of all—losing the class-action case against Consolidated. I specialize in protecting clients when there aren’t any solutions in a courtroom.”

  “Does her firm know about all this?”

  “They know that they don’t know. That’s why fixers are paid so well. Anyone can fix a problem, but I make it totally vanish. I never tell them how I handled the job or even that it’s done, and they never ask.” He reached across Bones’s chest. “Now grab the other edge . . .”

  Serge helped Clint roll Bones into a neat package, then wrapped him again in a bedspread.

  “I’ll pull my van up,” said Clint. “There’s this incinerator. You don’t need to know where. All that’s important is you’ll never see me again, and nobody will ever miss this dirtbag, so you can both sleep well.” Clint noticed Brook holding his gun at arm’s length like a scorpion. “And I’ll take that back now . . .”

  In short order, the body was loaded under cover of darkness. Clint climbed into the driver’s seat and stuck his head out the window: “Remember, this never happened.” Then he drove off into the night.

  Chapter THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE NEXT MORNING

  The clock in the Monroe County courtroom was broken. Ziggy stared at it.

  Brook had that weight-off-her-shoulders spring in her step as she approached the plaintiffs’ table. “Good morning.”

  Ziggy continued staring.

  Brook slowly unlatched her briefcase. “You okay?”

  “Shhh! The clock . . .”

  She looked up. “It’s broken.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Ziggy.

  “Are you high?” asked Brook.

  He tilted his head back and dripped Visine. “I thought time was folding over on itself again.”

  “Great.” Brook sighed. “Just don’t say anything today.”

  The back doors flew open. Serge bounded up the aisle with an irrepressible grin. “How’s it going?”

  “He’s high.”

  “So what?” said Serge. “You’re back on the case! Can’t wait to watch you beat ’em to a pulp. Start with a combination corpus delicti, ad hominem, ipso facto, nolo contendere”—throwing quick boxing jabs in the air—“a big ad hoc in their face to set up a final flurry of quid pro quo, pro forma, pro se, pro bono, Sonny Bono . . .”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I drank coffee. They’ve got the radioactive-strength Cuban kind down here.”

  “Wonderful.” Brook grabbed her stomach. “I’ll be right back.”

  Serge took the vacant seat next to Ziggy. “Is Brook okay?”

  “She seems a little weird today.”

  “Did you notice the clock?” said Serge. “Either it’s broken or we’ve just found an opening to the fourth dimension.”

  Ziggy stared up at the wall. “Existentially, the clock isn’t completely broken. It’s actually correct twice a day.”

  “Those are the wormholes. They’re your secret escape hatch if things get sticky in here today.” Serge picked up a pen. “The defense will never know what hit ’em.”

  “What are you doing?” asked Ziggy.

  “Writing a reminder note on your forehead.”

  Down the hall in the ladies’ room, Brook doubled over with cramps inside her favorite stall. She heard the outer door open.

  “Brook?”

  A man’s voice in the women’s room again. What the hell? Then she realized she recognized it. “Clint? Clint Racine? Is that you?”

  “You honestly don’t think that’s my real name.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “To tell you that you’re withdrawing from the case.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Brook.

  “Because the police just found Bones’s body in Blue Hole up on Big Pine.”

  “But I thought you were—” She moaned with another cramp. “Did something go wrong?”

  “No, it went exactly as I planned it.”

  “Planned—?”

  “Shut up! Soon they’ll be pulling a bullet from Bones that will match the ballistics of the gun that you handled and got your fingerprints all over. You know that cottage you rented yesterday? They should seriously consider getting those locks changed because they’re so easy to pick. The gun is in a case hidden somewhere inside that you’ll never, ever find. Also in the case’s accessory pouch is a thumb drive describing your whole saga with enough detail to put you away for three lifetimes. Stay away from that courtroom and it remains hidden. If not, evidence has a way of being found.”

  Brook began shaking like a cicada. “But you can’t count on getting a warrant from just an anonymous tip anymore.”

  “Who said anything about a warrant? Stolen evidence cuts both ways . . . Remember, not a toe inside that courtroom.”

  She listened as the footsteps faded.

  Moments later, a door in the back of the courtroom slowly creaked open. “Pssst! Serge, Ziggy, come here.”

  “Brook,” said Serge. “Why are you whispering? And why won’t you come in the courtroom?”

  “Yeah,” said Ziggy. “You’re acting strange.”

  “Just get out in the hall and I’ll tell you.”

  They joined her. “What’s the matter?”

  She explained the whole story.

  “But he told us he was working for your firm,” said Serge.

  “I’m guessing that was a lie,” said Brook. “What do we do?”

  “The obvious,” said Serge. “Get back to that cottage.”

  “What about the trial?”

  “Ziggy’s got it,” said Serge. “Don’t you, Ziggy?”

  Ziggy held his right hand in front of his face. “Far out.”

  “See? Nothing to worry about,” said Serge. “Now let’s get moving.”

  ALONG THE MIAMI RIVER

  The drawbridge was up. A long line of stationary drivers cursed, changed radio stations and talked in Spanish on cell phones. A trawler sailed underneath on its way to Bimini with pallets of bulk food and toiletries from Sam’s Club.

  A few blocks away, the downtown library stood next to a stately piazza on Flagler. Upstairs, a row of academic types sat diligently before a row of microfilm machines. A m
otorized spool spun in one of the consoles, where ten boxes of previously viewed reels were stacked next to a sandwich. The film stopped and backed up. The person in the chair leaned closer. “I don’t believe it.”

  Reevis pressed the print button, then held half a tuna sandwich in his mouth as he quickly gathered up notepads and files.

  BACK IN THE KEYS

  The motel office counter had a map of the property laminated on top with overlapping Scotch Tape. Next to it was a bell if someone wanted service.

  Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding . . .

  “Yes, yes . . .” A woman in curlers rushed out of the back room. “Good God, what is it?”

  Ding, ding—

  Serge’s hand grabbed the bell to still the after-ring.

  “Uh . . . you need something?”

  Serge tapped the map. “We want the cottage we were staying in yesterday. Fourteen.”

  “Fourteen, fourteen . . .” said the clerk, flipping through a dusty index-card system. “Fourteen’s taken. But we’re pretty empty. We have others. One to thirteen, in fact.”

  “I must have fourteen,” said Serge. “Sentimental value.”

  “But I already told you there are other people in fourteen.”

  “For now.” Serge rushed out of the office and ran across the parking lot.

  Knock-knock-knock.

  A bleary-eyed tourist from Wichita opened the door a crack. “No maid service.”

  “I want your room!”

  “What?” The door started closing.

  Serge blocked it with his foot and opened his wallet. “The place is fifty a night. I’ll give you three hundred. Deal?”

  “You want to pay me three hundred to give up my room?”

  Serge flapped the cash through the opening in the door.

  “Sure,” said the tourist. “It’s a deal.”

  “Great,” said Serge, forcing the door open the rest of the way and grabbing the man by his arm. “Out you go!”

  “Hey, what about my luggage?”

  Two suitcases flew into the parking lot and the door slammed.

  “Okay,” said Brook, looking around. “What now? He told me we’d never find it.”

  “He said you would never find it.” Serge began unscrewing wall outlets and other things that were meant to stay screwed. “But I know how he thinks: I’ve hidden a ton of stuff in motel rooms, and I’m so good I haven’t been able to find half of it. Still wondering where I put that snorkel.”

  “Why would you hide a snorkel?”

  Serge lifted a mattress. “Met this chick who was a sexual three-ring circus, day and night. At first any guy would say, hot damn, yeah I can do that, I can wear that, I can talk like that. Then three weeks into a wholesale downward spiral of health, you’re forced to start hiding her equipment.” He lifted the other mattress. “Where can that gun be?”

  A cell phone rang.

  Serge pulled a painting off a wall with one hand and answered with the other. “What’s shaking? . . . Oh, hi, Reevis. Totally forgot about you . . . The library? . . . What do you mean, ‘I finally found it’?”

  Chapter THIRTY-NINE

  KEY WEST

  Judge Boone stared at an empty plaintiffs’ table.

  In the men’s room, pungent marijuana smoke wafted out the top of a locked stall. “I definitely need this.” Ziggy continued sucking on his briefcase, then closed the latch and stood. “Whoa.” He sat back down. “I keep forgetting how strong they’re crossbreeding weed these days . . .”

  The judge turned to the side of the room. “Bailiff?”

  “I’ll go look for him.”

  Before he could, Ziggy ran in.

  The judge didn’t care much for tardiness. He sarcastically pointed up at the clock.

  “It’s broken, sometimes.” Ziggy stared down at his notepad.

  “Would you like to cross-examine their last witness?”

  “Definitely.” He approached the stand.

  “Excuse me,” said the judge. “Do you have something written on your forehead?”

  “It’s just a reminder.”

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know. It was backward in the bathroom mirror,” said Ziggy. “May I proceed?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  Ziggy turned to the witness. “Do you work for the CIA?”

  “No.”

  “Involved in the bombing of Cambodia?”

  “No.”

  “Ever taken LSD?”

  “No.”

  The judge raised his hands. “Attorneys approach.”

  They formed another line in front of the bench. Boone looked at the defense. “I normally don’t ask this, but why aren’t you objecting?”

  “What for?” asked Yale.

  “Relevance,” said the judge.

  “We’re more than delighted to let him continue this line of questioning.”

  “All right, then.” The judge made a shooing motion with his hands. “Step back.”

  Ziggy leaned against the witness stand and smiled. He looked down at the wooden railing and marveled at the lives of trees and carpenters throughout history. He looked up. The witness’s head began to shimmer. Wow, this must be that new hydroponic strain of killer weed going around. Ziggy started to open his mouth. He suddenly realized the room was exceptionally bright. The sound of his own heartbeat pulsed in his ears like the beginning of a Pink Floyd album. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of his nose. He became concerned that his eyes were betraying the thoughts behind them: Why is the guy in the black robe staring at me like that? And the woman behind the typing machine? And those twelve people in the box? In fact, everyone in the whole room is staring at me. What the fuck is that about? I’m minding my own business, not hurting anybody, unless . . . they all know. I hate it when they all know. Jesus, I have to get the hell out of here. Okay, be cool, ride it out. Just stand here perfectly still and eventually they’ll all ignore you and go back to whatever it was they were doing before.

  “Hmm-hmm-hmmmm-hmmmm—”

  A loud crack of a gavel.

  Ziggy jumped back and spun. “What!”

  “Any more questions?” asked Boone.

  “Questions?”

  “For the witness.”

  “Oh,” said Ziggy. “Ohhhh, right.” He stepped back up to the box. The witness stared at him. But not in his eyes. Above them.

  Ziggy gripped the railing with white knuckles. “What are you looking at?”

  “Something’s written on your forehead.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “ ‘They all . . . know.’ ”

  “Ahhhhh!” Ziggy ran out the door.

  A gavel banged.

  “Recess!”

  Two hours later, Serge stopped in the center of the room and folded his arms. “That’s it. Can’t find the stupid thing.”

  “I have to go to the bathroom.” Brook went in and turned on the light. Her voice echoed out: “Did you check the toilet tank?”

  “Twice.”

  Brook finished her business and turned the light back off.

  “It’s driving me crazy,” said Serge. “Just like that snorkel . . .”

  Another echo. “Serge . . .”

  “ . . . and then I walked over . . .”

  “Serge, come here.”

  He arrived in the bathroom doorway. “What is it?”

  “Look.”

  “Turn on the light so I can see.”

  “No, that’s the point,” said Brook. “Something’s glowing behind the mirror.”

  “That’s where I put the snorkel!” Serge ran for his travel tools and began prying up an anchor bolt. “These old places have some funky conduits and shoddy plaster.”

  “The gun is in a conduit?�
��

  “No, but that’s where the glow is coming from. The conduits rust or crack and light from wherever bleeds in the walls.” Serge freed a second bolt. “I got this end.”

  “I got the other,” said Brook.

  “Lift slowly out of those bottom two brackets and set it on the floor.”

  They stood in a moment of silence. The drywall had been broken out behind the mirror and the leather case hung by plastic ties from a framing stud. Serge slashed the straps with a pocketknife. “What exactly did Clint say again when you mentioned a warrant?”

  “That stolen evidence cuts both ways . . . why are you smiling?”

  “I know what they have in mind . . .”

  Brook stuck her head out the bathroom door as a soft melody began coming from the front of the room. “Is that the theme from Flipper?”

  “My cell,” said Serge, grabbing it off the dresser. “Just got an e-mail. Perfect timing.”

  “What e-mail?”

  Serge scrolled through his in-box. “This young reporter I hired to look into some of Ziggy’s documents that had us stumped. Said he’d be sending an e-mail with attachments that would make everything clear. About a file called Brand-Gourd Holding or something.”

  “Stop right there. Could it instead be ‘Grand-Bourg’?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Why?” said Serge, distracted by his smartphone. “Heard of it?”

  “Oh my God! Shelby was wondering about the same file,” said Brook. “Then it could mean he—” She closed her eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Serge.

  “Let me see that e-mail.”

  Serge handed her the phone. Brook began shaking more and more as she read down. “Looks like it is true. There isn’t any better explanation.”

  “What’s true?” asked Serge.

  She handed back the phone and let him read as she spelled it out. “. . . Except it’s all circumstantial. We just can’t prove it.”

  Serge stopped and stared off at a random point in space. He slowly began nodding to himself. “Then let’s make it true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have a plan.” Serge grabbed his wallet. “Do you have any blank stationery from your firm?”