Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

At the moment Uric’s hotline hottie hung up on him, Palm Beach Police Chief Jerry Crosby was standing in the oak-paneled billiard room of Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons’s house, waiting for her sons to finish a monotonously unskilled game of eight-ball. Fay Alex Riptoad was present in her self-appointed role of family adviser, and she was engaged full-throttle.

“What did the tipster sound like on the phone?” she asked the chief.

“Late twenties, early thirties.”

“No, Jerry, I’m talking about his color. White or black?”

“He’s got a mild Southern accent.”

Fay Alex nodded. “So we can rule out the Hispanics. That helps.”

Crosby said no, his detectives couldn’t rule out anyone based on telephone recordings.

“The issue right now is what to do about the reward money, Mrs. Riptoad. Whoever this person is, it was his information that led us to Mrs. Fitzsimmons. All the other tips we got were garbage. Now, is he telling the truth about hearing it from the killer at a bar, or was he involved in the crime himself? That’s our concern.”

“Duh,” said Fay Alex.

Either Chase or Chance finally scratched, ending their inept duel. They both slapped their cue sticks down on the pool table, gouging the burgundy felt.

“Do we really have to pay this guy?” Chance asked. “A hundred grand’s a lot of dough.”

His brother said, “Yeah, what’s he gonna do—sue us for it? Our mother just died, for God’s sake.”

The chief, who was experienced at interacting with overbred dolts, crafted a simple path for the Cornbrights:

“The media’s already asking if the reward’s been claimed. If you don’t pay up, they’ll want to know why—and, if there’s not a damn good reason, you can expect major PR blowback. Here’s what I recommend: Stall for a few days to give my detectives time to work up some assailant profiles, then you put out a press release, pay the reward and we’ll see if the evidence trail leads to anyone who matches up with the caller.”

Chance glanced at Chase, who shrugged one shoulder. “The whole hundred thousand?” he asked.

“It’s not my money,” said Crosby. “But it’s not my reputation, either.”

He was talking about the family’s status on the island. Being pegged as welshers would cost the sons of Kiki Pew some valuable social points.

Fay Alex, who wished not to be tainted by association, urged Chase and Chance to cough up the dough. “Otherwise you’ll be all over social media, and not in a good way. Think about your wives and children. Palm Beach is a hideously small town. This is a legacy issue.”

The brothers mulled the problem. Eventually Chance said, “Mother probably would want us to pay the reward.”

“Yes, but not necessarily all of it,” added Chase.

Fay Alex stewed, her taut cheeks turning color.

Jerry Crosby was looking out a window at the immaculate green yard, where a lawn worker’s leaf blower had caught fire. The worker calmly heaved it in the swimming pool and ambled away.

“Here’s another idea,” Crosby said, turning back to the group. “Give the phone tipster half the money now, and promise to pay the balance in a couple weeks. You can tell the media you’re acting on the advice of the police.”

The Cornbright brothers agreed in an instant. Relieved to be unburdened, they departed for an early lunch at the Alabaster Club, leaving the chief alone with Fay Alex in the billiard room. She continued fuming about Chase and Chance:

“They’re whining about a lousy hundred thousand bucks—my God, Kiki Pew spent more than that every year on stem cells! And did her boys even once ask about the progress of the murder investigation?”

The chief said, “Not that I heard.”

“Well, I’m asking, Jerry. Is there anything new? Anything at all?”

“My detectives are interviewing a young man who had a pink pearl in his possession. We believe it belonged to Mrs. Fitzsimmons. The kid claims he found it on the railroad tracks, which we’re not buying.”

“Obviously. Come on.”

“Right now we’re trying to connect him to Keever Bracco, the drug dealer identified by the anonymous caller as the one who killed your friend.”

Fay Alex paused to consider the momentous development. “This new suspect,” she said, “the man with Kiki Pew’s pearl, I assume he’s in jail?”

“Immigration busted him. He came by boat from the Bahamas the night she disappeared.”

“Oh, dear Lord.” Fay Alex wrung her well-moisturized hands. “What’s the bastard’s name, Jerry?”

“Diego Beltrán. However, we’re not ready to release that—”

“Diego ?”

“Correct.”

“I knew it! I knew it had to be one of those horrible Hispanic caravan people.”

“No, I told you he arrived by sea,” the chief said uselessly. “The investigation is still in the early stages. We haven’t charged him with anything yet.”

“What on earth are you waiting for? I cannot believe the nonsense I’m hearing.” Fay Alex was practically levitating with distress. “Suppose this thug gets out of jail and flees back to…I don’t know, whatever shithole he came from.”

“Honduras, Mrs. Riptoad. But he’s not going anywhere, trust me.”

“I bet he’s MSNBC. They’ll try to bust him out. Happens all the time. Don’t you pay attention to the news?”

The chief didn’t need to ask which network she’d been watching. He said, “We’ve got no evidence Beltrán is a gang member. And it’s MS-13, not MSNBC.”

“Hell, you know what I mean,” Fay Alex growled. “And I don’t care if he’s chairman of the Cozumel Kiwanis Club, his lying brown ass belongs in maximum security. Make it happen, Jerry!”

She executed a fluttering, pinched-face departure. After so much time on the island, the chief was unfazed by melodrama but keenly tuned to political pressure. He decided it would be a good idea to sit down with Diego Beltrán, one-on-one.

NINE

When Germaine Bracco returned from a productive road trip to Beckley, West Virginia, he found stuck in his door the business cards of two police detectives. Germaine didn’t bother unpacking; it was time to move. He pulled a second suitcase from a closet and stuffed it with the remainder of his clothes and personal belongings, including an unlicensed .38 he’d stolen from the handbag of a patient who’d fallen asleep on the table, her ears bristling with needles. Germaine was a self-taught acupuncturist with no legitimate credentials but many faithful clients. He didn’t want to abandon them, yet there was no choice.

He flung open the door, picked up his suitcases, and found the way blocked by a small woman with an ash-blond ponytail. She was holding a pole tipped with a slender noose.

“Where you going, Germaine?” she said.

“Move out of my way.”

“I’m not the police.”

He said, “I’ve got a plane to catch.”

“Where’s your brother?” the woman asked.

Germaine swung the suitcases trying to knock her aside. When he regained consciousness, he found himself sprawled on the kitchen floor with the noose around his throat. It was loose enough to let him breathe, but not slack enough to let him fit his fingers under the coated wire.

The ponytailed chick sat on the countertop beside the microwave looking down at him. She had pinned him with the pole and was tapping the soles of her hiking shoes together, like Dorothy in her damn ruby slippers.

“Where’s your brother?” she repeated.

“Which one? I got three.”

“Prince Paladin.”

“Who?”

“Keever. The one the cops are looking for.”

Germaine said, “I dunno. I been outta town.”