by Tim Dorsey
Heather opened a notebook. “Did you send a DNA sample to a company called Ancestors R Us?”
“What a waste of money,” said Dixon. “It was three a.m. and I was drunk and an infomercial came on. I have to stop ordering stuff like that. It’s how I got the stupid hard-boiled-egg machine.”
“But they did send you a report with their results?”
Dixon resumed diligence on a quart bottle of malt liquor. “Apparently I’m part Estonian, part Danish, with a family history of unibrows. I also got worthless hits on distant relatives that I couldn’t give two shits about, from Tarpon Springs and Vermont.”
“Mr. Dixon, the reason we’re here is that we recovered some DNA from a crime scene . . .”
“Not mine.”
“Like I said earlier, you’re under no suspicion,” continued Heather. “We just need your help constructing a family tree to determine whose DNA it is.”
“One of my relatives did something wrong?”
“A very distant relative,” said Archie, followed by a lie that police are allowed to tell: “And he may not even be involved. His DNA was just found at the scene, but we have to check it out anyway in case he might have witnessed something.”
“How distant?”
Heather reviewed her notes. “Potentially third cousin with a six percent margin of error.”
“I don’t even know what a third cousin is. I don’t know my brother anymore,” said Dixon. “After that bullshit he tried to pull stealing cable service and blaming me. Is that what you’re really here about? Because I can prove it was him.”
“Mr. Dixon,” said Heather, “I can assure you this is simply about your family tree.”
“Then what do you want?”
Heather referred to her notebook again. “We were able to document most of what we needed from public records, but there are still a few gaps. Do you know if your grandmother on your father’s side had any siblings?”
“What’s that?”
“Brothers or sisters.”
“How would I know?”
Heather had the growing sensation of a fool’s errand. She looked around the trashed living room and doubted the value of her next question. “Would you perhaps have any kind of family records?”
“No records,” said Dixon. “But we did have one of those heavy old Bibles, the fancy kind where you write a bunch of family stuff on some of the front pages. Would that work?”
“Actually, that would be very helpful.”
Dixon slowly pushed himself up from the recliner. “Let’s see if I can find that thing. Last I saw it was the hall closet.”
He disappeared. They heard a door open, followed by a small avalanche of stored junk. “Shit.” Then footsteps toward another room and a refrigerator door. Dixon returned with a Bible and another malt liquor. He handed the book to Heather. “Want a beer?”
“We’re on duty.” She flipped through the front pages and turned to Archie and nodded. Pay dirt. She pulled out a cell phone and snapped photos of the genealogy.
When she was done, she placed the Bible on a coffee table. “One last question. Do you have any relatives that you have a funny feeling about? Where something’s not quite right, like they might have a secret life?”
“Yeah.” Dixon scoffed. “My shiftless brother.”
“Besides the cable thing.”
“Not really.”
The agents stood up from the couch. “We appreciate your time,” said Heather. “You’ve been of great assistance.”
“I don’t see how.” Dixon swigged from the brown bottle. “But funny thing . . .”
“How’s that?” asked Archie.
“I don’t usually get many visitors. Actually, none,” said Dixon. “Now I’ve had two in the same week. And the other guy was asking about this ancestor stuff, too.”
The agents sat back down. “What other guy? Law enforcement?”
“No, real weirdo. Had this fat clown with him.”
“What did he want?”
“To trim my ear hair.”
“That’s weird.”
“Told you.” Dixon swigged again. “He said his life was now all about making people happy. And he wanted to know about my family tree.”
“Did you recognize him from anywhere?” asked Heather. “Did he say why?”
“Never laid eyes on him before, but he said he had sent in his own DNA, probably the same infomercial. And it came back with a hit on me as one of his distant cousins.”
Heather looked at her partner. “It couldn’t be the cousin from Tarpon Springs because that was a woman.” Heather went through her phone and pulled up a photo.
“Who’s that?” asked Dixon.
“Your cousin from Vermont.”
“Not him.”
The agents stood again. “You’ve been more than helpful. Would you mind if we sent over a sketch artist?”
“Only if he brings beer.”
“I think we can arrange that,” said Heather. “And if you remember anything else, please give me a call. Here’s my business card. I’ll write my personal number on the back . . .” She set it on top of the Bible.
The agents let themselves out, and a Crown Victoria headed back to the office.
Archie turned in the passenger seat. “What did you make of that odd visitor he got?”
“Something’s not kosher,” said Heather. “Our investigation might have been compromised. Relatives tipping each other off. We could have touched a nerve.”
“But what about the stranger saying he got a hit on Dixon as a distant cousin? It doesn’t add up. We only got the three total from Ancestors R Us. If the guy who showed up at his house was telling the truth, then we should have gotten four.”
“There are two possible explanations,” said Heather. “The DNA company slipped up and didn’t provide us with a complete list.”
“What’s the other?”
“This mystery man sent his DNA in for a family search after we received our results . . .”
A vintage Chevelle poured black smoke from the tailpipe as it pulled up to a ranch house. The driver walked up and knocked on a door with a dead Christmas wreath.
Raúl Dixon opened it. He saw someone with an equally stained T-shirt, and a six-pack dangling from his right hand. “Art, come on in. I’ll owe for the beer.”
“What a shock.” The visitor pulled a can off the plastic ring and tossed it underhand to a man in a recliner. “Any pizza left from last night?”
Dixon pointed at the box on the floor.
Art opened it and found the last slice. “Still good.” He began munching on the sofa. “What’s been going on?”
“Strange week. Remember that whack-job I told you came to the door?”
A cold bite. “That’s almost normal for these parts.”
“It just got even stranger today,” said Dixon. “When you knocked just now, I thought you were the sketch artist they were sending over.”
Art stopped eating. “Sketch artist? What are you talking about?”
“For that weirdo who paid me a visit. I guess they’re interested in him.”
“Forget the weirdo,” said Art. “Sketch artist means police.”
Dixon nodded as he chugged. “That’s right. Two detectives were here earlier asking about my family. Really nosy. The woman detective took photos of my Bible and everything. That’s her business card on top of it.”
Art leaned all the way forward with elbows on knees. “What did they say it was about?”
“Found some DNA at a crime scene and were trying to trace it.”
“But why on earth would they come to ask you?”
“Toss me another one.” A second beer can flew, and Dixon popped it. “Remember that stupid ancestor thing I ordered in the middle of the night from that infomercial? What was I thinking?”
“Back to the cops.”
“I guess they sent in the crime scene DNA, and it came up with three hits, including me,” said Dixon. “I’m suppose
d to be related to whoever did whatever crime they’re looking into. Third cousin or something. They wanted to re-create my family tree.”
“Did they give any hint what kind of crime scene?”
Dixon shrugged and chugged. “Probably a stolen car or burglary.”
“I seriously doubt it,” said Art. “DNA tests, making house visits to research family trees. They only put in that kind of time and money for something really big. I’m thinking a murder case.”
“You might be right,” said Dixon. “It did seem kind of important.”
“Local cops?” asked Art.
Dixon shook his head and pointed again at the business card on the coffee table. “State agents.”
Art picked it up. “Florida Department of Law Enforcement? They’re the heavy hitters.”
“Like I said, strange week.”
“Did you say anything about me?”
“No, but they asked.”
Art sat up rod straight. “Specifically?”
“No, generally. They asked if I had any relatives that I had bad vibes about that I thought they should look into.”
“And what did you say?” asked Art.
“Given all your past shit, I figured you didn’t need the aggravation.”
“Good thinking.”
Dixon tossed an empty can over his shoulder. “Beer.”
Another can flew. “So they’re coming back with a sketch artist?”
“That’s what they told me.”
“What if they keep poking around and eventually ask about me?”
Raúl chugged. “I won’t bring it up.”
“But what if they do?”
“I don’t know,” said Raúl. “I hear you can get in trouble lying to the police. I mean, you haven’t done anything. Not that bad. And the statute of limitations has run out on most of it.”
Art nodded. “You’re right. I don’t have anything to worry about. And I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”
Raúl tossed another can over his shoulder. “By the way, while we’re talking about family trees, how is it we’re related again?”
“Third cousins.”
Chapter 25
Ramrod Key
A blue-and-white Ford Cobra sat outside one of the largest tiki bars in Florida.
“Serge, you’ve returned!”
“You know I can’t stay away for more than a few months.” He took off a backpack and grabbed a seat at the table.
“So what else have you been up to?” asked Captain Katie.
“Parks, passports,” said Serge. “Tracking a serial killer and making people happy.”
“In other words, the usual?” said Katie.
“If you get me started you’ll regret you asked . . . Okay, you got me started.” Serge reached in his backpack for a small personal-effects dry box with a rubber gasket. “Check out the stamps in this book! . . .” Proudly displaying page after page.
She regretted asking, but not much. “You’re also hiking?”
“With a magnesium-white flame,” said Serge. “I was just walking around out at your Ramrod Beach again.”
“Oh yeah, that funky Christmas tree is still up,” said Katie. “It’s a Keys thing.”
“So I told Coleman.” He pulled out his phone. “I bought this great new app with all the official Florida hiking trails. I was recently watching little turtles out at Blue Hole, you know, that freshwater depression in the rock in the National Key Deer Refuge on Big Pine?”
“I know.”
“Why do turtles always climb on each other? They were like three high. Anyway, I also took both the Watson and Mannillo trails through pine rocklands, buttonwoods and silver palms.” Serge held up the phone that had recorded his route. “I’m used to hiking in woods and mangroves with canopies. But down here it’s freaky how everything is so low. Plus all the hurricane damage from Irma! Tipped-over trees with exposed roots encrusted in limestone. Imagine the force to pull roots out of rock. And on the way back, that big cross outside the Lord of the Seas church is now at an angle.”
“It was a bad one. Let me see that thing.” Katie took the phone and scrolled across the screen with a finger. “If you want to hike someplace really neat, go out to No Name Key.”
“I didn’t know it had a park.”
“No park, not even an official trail, but it acts as one.” She tapped a spot on the phone. “Right here. There’s a locked gate on the south side a little more than halfway to the ferry dock ruins. Looks like there’s nothing to see, so only a few locals know about it. You just leave your car outside and walk around the gate. That’s where I go when I want to get out in nature and lose myself walking. And there’s a surprise you’ll never expect.”
“I’m there!”
The Ford Cobra rolled across the Bogie Channel Bridge, from Big Pine to No Name Key.
Coleman toked and looked out the window. “Those miniature deer again. They’re so cute.”
Serge slowed and scanned the side of the road. “Did I already pass it? . . . No, there it is, right where she said.” He parked at an anonymous steel gate across an unmarked gravel road.
The pair got out and climbed around the barrier. The trail was straight and wide at first, with patches of white mud, then made a bend to the west and narrowed through sea grapes and slash pines.
“This is cool but creepy.” Serge adjusted his bucket hat. “So isolated and unauthorized. The first trail I’ve been on where I felt like I need a gun.” He patted his waistband. “Lucky for me.”
Coleman pinched his roach for a last hit. “Wonder what that surprise was she mentioned?”
“I think we’re about to find out.” Serge outstretched an arm. “That spot in the middle of the trail up there doesn’t look normal.”
“What do you think it is?”
“Still too far away to tell.”
They continued hiking and trying to guess what they were coming upon. Then Serge made out a tiny glimpse of water. “In the middle of No Name?”
They soon found themselves at another gate, this one open, rusted and chain-link. They stopped and stared across an immense body of shimmering water with right angles.
“What the hell?” said Coleman.
“It’s an old, water-filled derelict quarry.”
The duo looked up at a giant abandoned crane covered with graffiti. Then immense rectangular blocks that were stacked to form a wall along the east side of the man-made lake. It also had been tagged with spray-painted words: Does anything even matter anymore?
Serge leaned over the wall. “It’s a sheer drop. I can’t see the bottom.” Just the sound of wind. Not even birds. “As Buzz Aldrin said on the moon: Magnificent desolation.”
It almost had them in a trance. Then an unexpected sound from behind made them both jump.
“Hey, Mr. First-In-Last-Out!”
Serge was half expecting to see Katie, but the voice was a notch off. Maybe she had a cold. He turned around.
Not Katie.
“Who are you?” asked Serge.
“A fan.”
“Do I know you?”
“Not yet,” said the woman. “Sorry about giving you a heart attack.”
“I’ll live,” said Serge. “But seriously, who are you?”
“I’ve been on the dive boat when you’ve gone out before. Actually, a couple of times,” said the woman. “You’re pretty impressive in the water. Never seen someone do that many laps around the Kokomo. You never stop.”
“In my element . . . So you know about this place?”
“Sure, the old quarry. The whole island is fascinating. Remote and harsh.”
“Perfect for the CIA to train counterinsurgents for the Bay of Pigs invasion,” said Serge.
“But eventually their remnants became of little use, and they were just loitering,” said the woman. “In 1963 local law enforcement responded to complaints from residents and raided the island to flush them out.”
“I get chills standing in an
empty place like this and thinking back about such exciting history.” Serge took another slow look around. “War games? Out here? Insane!”
“But history was repeating itself,” said the woman. “In 1895 revolutionaries also trained here to invade during the War of Cuban Independence.”
Serge’s head jerked back momentarily. Then an arm aimed east. “You know about the ferry dock ruins at the edge of the island?”
She nodded. “Ten years before the Overseas Highway was finally complete in 1938, automobiles had to take the ferry over a forty-mile gap from Lower Matecumbe.”
The gauntlet was down and the competition was on.
“The upper islands are Key Largo Limestone,” said Serge. “But down here—”
“It’s Miami Oolite.”
“Okay, early pest control was primitive, and they crisscrossed some of these Keys by digging mosquito ditches—”
“And filled them with gambusia fish, which look like guppies and feed on the larvae . . . You up on hydrology?”
“I know porous oolite holds water.”
“What about a freshwater lens?”
“Uh, no.”
“Freshwater isn’t as dense, and down below in some of these islands, up to twenty feet of freshwater floats kind of like a contact lens right on top of the salt water. Back in the day, they could use dynamite to open a drinking hole.”
Game, set, match. He stopped and extended a hand. “Name’s Serge.”
She shook it. “I’m Sandy.”
Serge paused to reappraise his new acquaintance. The name didn’t match the raven hair flowing out from under her own bucket hat. And freckles? Jade eyes? Some fascinating ancestry. She was wearing a hydration pack with a Florida State Parks passport book sticking out of a pocket, and a Nikon camera hung from her neck. Her calves were like pistons. Black-rimmed glasses. Brains.
“Serge,” whispered Coleman. “She has a plaid shirt.”
“Shut up.” Serge elbowed him in the stomach. “Mr. Blinky already knows.”
“First visit to the quarry?” asked Sandy.
“Yeah, what about you?”
“Been here many times.”
“What about the reef?” asked Serge.