Tim Dorsey Collection #1

by Dorsey, Tim

  The deputies got the vibe the moment they stepped in cabin number five. Absolutely nothing out of order—no sign of struggle or robbery. It was all wrong. The wallet and the blaring TV. The can of beer on the dresser, warm and full.

  A week later, nothing. A month, still nothing.

  Anita demanded answers from the sheriff’s office. She just couldn’t accept it. She had driven George to the airport herself and kissed him good-bye, and he had gone to Florida wearing a loud shirt and disappeared into hot air.

  MRS. Braintree was the primary suspect, mainly because she was half her husband’s age—the trophy wife. They had no children, and she stood to get everything. But the detectives’ audit of the Braintrees’ finances revealed George was worth more to Anita alive. He was underinsured and top-heavy with debt. She would have to sell the house.

  The police swung their glare to George’s partner, Frank Lloyd Sirocco, who was now the sole proprietor of their business. Frank said that on the day George disappeared, he was watching a Patriots game in a Boston bar, fifteen hundred miles away. Dozens of people saw him.

  Who were they?

  He wasn’t sure; they were dressed like Minutemen.

  What set off bells with the detectives was the seven life insurance policies on George. A small one had named Anita as beneficiary, but six named Frank.

  What did Sirocco have to say for himself?

  “Standard business practice,” said Frank. He showed them the books. The policies totaled half the company’s value on paper. Partners regularly did that so if one of them died, the survivor wouldn’t have to dissolve the company to pay off heirs. He showed them the buy-sell contract.

  But why six different policies?

  “George had a bad ticker,” said Frank. “He had to purchase a bunch of small policies that didn’t require physicals.”

  The cops let Frank go, but kept an eye on him.

  Frank immediately started dating George’s widow. She moved in a month later, and they married the following June.

  If there’s one thing cops hate, it’s someone getting away with murder and yukking it up in the process. Frank and Anita weren’t even trying to hide it. New cars, trips, parties, even rumors Anita was coming down with a nasty drug habit.

  The police kept checking, turning up threads of information that meant little individually but together began to weave a compelling circumstantial case. Shortly before George’s disappearance, Frank Lloyd Sirocco had reported his gun stolen. He made large cash withdrawals. On the weekend in question, there were three calls to Florida from the pay phone around the corner from Frank’s home. They checked the log of money orders at the nearest convenience store—several large ones coincided with Frank’s withdrawals. But there were no names on the log and the security tapes had been erased.

  The police knew they had their man. They decided to bluff. Frank was confronted. He didn’t ask for a lawyer, but he also refused a lie detector. “I saw something on 60 Minutes about how they’re unreliable.”

  “You took up with the widow awfully fast.”

  “Had to,” said Frank. “Some of the life policies were screwed up. No collateral assignment. She still owned thirty-one percent of the company—was going to sell to her brother. You know what an idiot he is?”

  They took the file to the DA. The prosecutor said he was convinced Frank was their man. But that was entirely different from winning a case, and he refused to take it to the grand jury. The police argued they had more evidence on Frank than against half the murder suspects who got indicted.

  The prosecutor shook his head. “Without a body, you need twice as much.”

  It was all there, he said—almost. Bring him one piece of physical evidence tying Sirocco to the crime. Or a body.

  “Fat chance,” said the head detective. “If anyone’s not going to leave a trace, it’ll be someone in his line of work.”

  Frank and George owned Clean Sweep, Inc. “Crime scene restoration, biohazardous abatement and remediation, 24 hours, discreet.” They marketed to banks and other financial institutions, and—between disgruntled workers and suicides—it was more business than they could handle. Their clients didn’t care how much it cost, just make it go away, and Frank and George made a fortune scraping hair and bone off the walls of executive suites with million-dollar views. Their logo was a chalk outline.

  A year quickly passed.

  January was a busy month for the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office. More specifically its marine patrol. From Ley Largo to Key West, thirty-seven separate incidents of tourists with no nautical experience renting boats with enough horsepower to change the weather. Add: unmarked channels, no depth charts, and Bacardi, and a lot of visitors were returning to the rental offices soaking wet without boats.

  A twenty-foot twin-engine Wellcraft was found in the middle of Big Spanish Key. They estimated it was planing at fifty when it sheared through a hundred feet of immature mangrove. As deputies winched the boat back, they discovered it had plowed away the sand and muck of a shallow grave. Forensics determined the two holes in the back of the skull were from a .38, but crabs had eaten the fingerprints.

  A week later and forty miles up the Keys, an unemployed marijuana addict was living off a diet of illegal seafood. He was diving in fifteen feet of water under the Long Key Viaduct when he found two lobsters sharing a coral hole with a .38 Special. The diver was in great spirits as he loaded a cooler full of crustaceans into his ’75 Honda Civic. He had enough food for a week and a gun that would bring at least forty bucks. He decided to celebrate by firing up a fat one right where he was parked on the side of the causeway, which was where the police awoke him six hours later with a knock on the driver’s window.

  The discoveries of the gun and body remained unconnected until the monthly cold-case call from Boston.

  Bam. Dental records ID’d the body, and the FBI matched ballistics with the slugs in George’s head. They raised a serial number off the gun where someone had tried to burn it off with acid. Registered in Massachusetts to one Frank Lloyd Sirocco.

  IN the wake of George’s disappearance, Frank had turned over the active management of Clean Sweep to underlings and was now trying to manufacture glory days as coach of a local peewee football team.

  It was a Friday-night game. Frank grabbed a pair of linesmen, a face mask in each hand. “You’re playing like pussies! I want you to take out that quarterback. After he releases the next pass, one of you grab him and stand him up and the other roll into his knees!”

  Two cops showed up.

  “Frank Lloyd Sirocco?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re under arrest for the murder of George Braintree.”

  He was led away in handcuffs as a quarterback in first grade was stretchered off the field.

  Frank was extradited to Florida and found guilty in a three-day trial in Key West. It took the jury four hours to come back with a recommendation of death, based upon the aggravating circumstance that Frank had been a real dick on the witness stand.

  Frank Lloyd Sirocco—the newspapers always used his middle name—would spend the next decade in a cell at Union Correctional Institution in Raiford, thirty miles southwest of Jacksonville. He became close friends with the vampire killer, the werewolf killer, and the Angel of Death, but Ted Bundy didn’t want anything to do with him, calling Frank “creepy.”

  Six months before the 2002 gubernatorial debates got under way, Frank was transferred to Florida State Prison at Starke. It was not a good sign. Most of Death Row was at Raiford, but the front of the line resided at Starke, with the electric chair. Frank wore orange T-shirts, distinguishing the condemned, and got an hour a day for exercise. Otherwise he was kept in his cell.

  The worst part: no air-conditioning.

  8

  PIMENTO BEAMED PROUDLY as he concluded his report on capital punishment and the Sirocco case.

  “Well? What did ya think?”

  Marlon’s and Escrow’s heads had fallen back
over the tops of their chairs, and their mouths were open, snoring.

  “You weren’t even listening!”

  “Sure we were,” said Marlon, waking up quickly. “Every word.”

  “I can go over it again if you want.”

  Marlon and Escrow: “No!”

  Escrow looked at his watch and jumped up. “Yikes! We have to prep for the press conference!”

  Marlon didn’t care. He turned on his computer fishing game and called over his shoulder to Pimento, “Phone Belvedere’s firm. Get Elizabeth Sinclair on the line.”

  “What for?” asked Pimento.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  Pimento grabbed a phone on the other side of the office and began dialing.

  “Sir, the press conference,” said Escrow. “You’re being hammered for all these crony favors—”

  “Then stop making appointments! You’re the one who keeps sending them in to see me. What am I supposed to do? Be rude?”

  “I’m not pointing fingers,” said Escrow. “We just have to rehearse for some hard questions.”

  Pimento pressed touch-tone buttons. “…Welcome to Belvedere and Associates. Please press one, all others press two. Choose from the following selections. If you know your party’s extension, enter it now. If you do not know your party’s extension, press three….” Pimento pressed three. “…Welcome to the directory. Please spell the last name of the party you wish to speak to, using the corresponding alphanumeric buttons on your touch-tone phone.” Pimento punched in S-i-n-c-l-a-i-r. “We’re sorry, your selection is invalid. To enter a valid selection, press nine-four. To enter an invalid selection, press four-nine…. If you would like assistance, press seven….” He pressed seven. “You have pressed seven. If this is correct, press five. If this is not correct, press eight. Your current wait is now estimated at two minutes. Calls will be handled in the order in which they have been received. Please do not hang up and redial, as this will delay the handling of your call. To delay the handling of your call, press four-three, all others press star-five. Rotary callers, please hang up. Your current wait is now estimated at four minutes….”

  “Sir, the press conference!” said Escrow.

  “Shit!” said Marlon. A tarpon stuck out its tongue. Marlon turned off the fishing game and surfed to a porn site. “Don’t bunch up your pants, Escrow. Just pack the place again with my staff. Works every time.”

  “You’ll be flying solo,” said Escrow. “They’ve all gone on some junket.”

  “With this budget deficit?”

  “Don’t worry. No tax money is involved. It’s all being paid for by the people they regulate.”

  “Good,” said Marlon. “Wouldn’t want to get raked over the coals for that, too.”

  Pimento pressed buttons. “…Your current wait is now estimated at six minutes. Please have your account number ready. Enter your selection now, all others press star-nine. To hear your options again, press pound-two. To return to the previous menu, press star-eleven….” Pimento pressed more buttons. “…Hello, this is the voice mail of George Defazio. I’m away from my desk right now….”

  Pimento held the phone away from his face and gave it a weird look. “Who the hell is George Defazio?” He hung up and redialed.

  “Welcome to Belvedere and Associates. Please press one…” Pimento pressed buttons. “…You have entered an invalid selection. Please select again. If you would like to speak to a representative, press the pound key…. We’re sorry, all representatives are busy at this time. If this is an emergency and you require immediate assistance, press star-one….” Finally, thought Pimento, pressing star-one. “Hello, this is the voice mail of George Defazio….”

  Pimento gritted his teeth as he hung up and redialed. “Welcome to Belvedere and Associates. Please press one…”

  “Sir, these favors—” said Escrow.

  “Shhhh! You’re making me mess up.” Marlon typed in sex chat with someone named Mindy.

  “Sir, perhaps if you didn’t spend so much time playing video fish—”

  “I’m not fishing. I’m at Catholic Schoolgirls in Bondage.”

  Pimento pressed more buttons. “…Your current wait is now estimated at eight minutes. You have not entered a valid selection. Enter your selection now. If you would like to hear this menu again, press star-pound. If you would like to press star, press star. Your current wait is now estimated at eleven minutes. Thank you for calling Belvedere and Associates. Good-bye.” (click)

  “They’re gonna have us for lunch,” said Escrow. “These press guys—you don’t know ’em like I do.”

  “You worry too much. I’ll just—”

  There was a loud crash. Marlon and Escrow turned to see a broken desk phone sticking halfway out a fresh hole in the drywall. Pimento stood next to it with a red face and heaving chest.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’ll pay for that.”

  “If you want something done right…” Marlon grabbed his own phone. He dialed a private number to Belvedere’s firm. “Elizabeth Sinclair, please.”

  There was a pause as the receptionist connected Marlon. He gave Escrow a knowing wink.

  “This is Elizabeth Sinclair.”

  “Liz, Marlon. Why don’t we meet at Clyde’s after work and talk some business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “You know, business business.”

  “Thank you, but I’ll have to pass.”

  “Your loss.”

  “Maybe next time.”

  Marlon replaced the receiver. “Frigid!”

  “Sir, we’re running out of time,” said Escrow, tapping his watch. “You’re overconfident.”

  “Chill,” said Marlon, picking up the joystick. “I’ll just say I’m a friend of business and the workingman. If that doesn’t work, I’ll accuse them of being against free enterprise.”

  “You’ve got free enterprise confused with capitalism,” said Pimento.

  Marlon and Escrow turned.

  “The last thing capitalists want is free enterprise. McDonald’s and Burger King are mortal enemies, but there’s one thing that’ll unite them like lost brothers—a Taco Bell going up on the block. They’ll do anything to keep ’em down in the fast-food ghetto.”

  Pimento began pacing and waving his arms.

  “Capitalists don’t want free trade any more than they want whooping cough. Their nature is to conglomerate, homogenate, vertically integrate and dominate until there is no competition. The rules? Screw the rules! They’ll rig the game, spit on the ball, bribe the refs, tilt the playing field, pork the cheerleaders and kick free enterprise in the nuts.”

  “That’s it!” said Marlon. “Random drug test!”

  “But—”

  “Go!” Marlon pointed at the door. “Piss! Now!”

  Pimento slinked out of the office.

  ESCROW knocked on Marlon’s open door. He held a personnel file gingerly like a Dead Sea scroll.

  “What now!” said Marlon, clicking “hit me” on Internet blackjack from the Cayman Islands.

  “Sir, I think you need to see this…it’s the results of Pimento’s drug test.”

  “The what?”

  “The one you ordered, remember?”

  “Oh, right, sure,” said Marlon. “So what’s he on? Psilocybin? Angel dust?”

  “No, nothing illegal. But they found traces of lithium and Elavil. To get those, you have to be under psychiatric care. He’s a head case.”

  “We already knew that,” said Marlon.

  “Sir, I don’t think it’s prudent to have someone of questionable stability so close to the seat of power.”

  “You’re the one who hired him.”

  Escrow recoiled. Marlon was right. If there was a psychiatric hand grenade in Pimento’s past and it went off in the media, the trail would lead back to Escrow. He had to handle this delicately, get Marlon to dismiss Pimento on ostensible grounds.

  “Sir, I don’t think you’re taking this seriously e
nough.”

  “What’s in his file?”

  “Just the usual—no red flags,” Escrow lied. He clutched Pimento’s personnel file to his chest. The file was empty except for the drug test—another Escrow oversight and another excellent reason he didn’t want this drawing any attention.

  Jack Pimento had begun his government career six months earlier in the mailroom without the required background check—a security breach that slipped through the cracks because of a government office laboring under the crushing hardships of overstaffing, nepotism and banker’s hours.

  Pimento slipped into the public affairs office a month later in the scramble to fill a spate of openings created by the discovery of rampant functional illiteracy among speechwriters. The camel’s straw was Marlon’s last TV appearance, when he looked as perplexed as the audience after reading “the electrical college” off the TelePrompTer.

  As chief of staff, Escrow got called on the carpet good for that one. He was ordered to purge public affairs. In desperation, Escrow looked around and saw Pimento eating a peanut butter cup at the watercooler, and he gave him a shot at a one-paragraph press release. When that came out unmangled, Pimento got longer releases to write, then a speech, then he pinch-hit for the governor’s State of the State Address. Everything that came off Pimento’s fingertips was clean, terse and expositorily bulletproof. Marlon’s handlers couldn’t believe their luck, and in a perverse Tallahassee twist that had everyone crying foul, Pimento rapidly rose to the top of his department based on ability.

  Escrow had signed off on the promotion himself without even looking at the paperwork. Now he rued the day.

  “But sir,” he said, standing at Marlon’s desk. “I really think you should consider dismissal—”

  “Nothin’ doing,” said Marlon, remembering his father’s advice.

  “Can we at least send him to a state shrink? Quietly, of course. Just to cover bases?”

  Marlon swiveled his chair back to offshore baccarat. “If that’s how you get your jollies.”

  ONE week later, a state psychiatrist paid an afternoon visit to Marlon and Escrow.

  “I can’t get into specifics because of patient confidentiality, but you have nothing to worry about with Mr. Pimento.”