Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

A white Chevy Malibu Super Sport, arriving on the third morning after Mrs. Fitzsimmons disappeared.

It stayed less than an hour. The broken front headlight was easy to spot when the Malibu pulled out, driven by a white male. A companion, also white, sat on the passenger side. The chief froze the video, but the car’s grimy windshield made it impossible to positively identify the occupants as Keever Bracco and Uric Burns, whose most recent mug shot—complete with dented forehead—lay on Crosby’s desk near the railroad conch pearl.

Unfortunately, the recovered Malibu had already been cubed for scrap. The county’s overworked auto-theft squad had elected to spend zero time searching for microscopic evidence in a vehicle that had been submerged for days in murky water. A corpse in the back would have piqued their interest, but the Malibu’s trunk was empty. “Except for a mudfish,” the owner of the impound lot had told Crosby.

And no one, of course, would have found it noteworthy that the SS insignia was missing from rear end of the vehicle.

Another item on the chief’s desk was the Fitzsimmons autopsy report. Kiki Pew was ruled to have died from asphyxiation caused by massive trauma from an unknown source or sources. She was drunk at the time of her death, and blood tests additionally revealed a .18 g/L plasma concentration of the drug MDMA, commonly known as Ecstasy. Because she had been purposely entombed in concrete, the coroner’s speculation about her final hours did not include the scenario of a random reptile attack. In any event, testing a victim’s skin and garments for digestive python enzymes had not yet become standard post-mortem procedure in Florida.

Finally, stacked on Jerry Crosby’s desk beneath the autopsy findings, was a file detailing the short, peculiar criminal record of Angela Christine Armstrong. The case had received almost no publicity because the media paid little attention to wildlife agencies, the poaching of a deer being of less interest to the public than gang shootouts at the county fair.

If a regular road cop had forcibly severed the limb of a criminal suspect and fed it to an alligator, it would have sparked an uproar. Yet, because Crosby had a soft spot for animals, he found himself empathizing with Angie as he read her account of the airboat incident. In the court transcripts, Pruitt came across as an unrepentant asshole, the same impression that the chief had taken away from their short exchange on the phone, while he and Angie were at the Brazilian Court.

“Ms. Armstrong says you call every night and threaten her,” Crosby had said to Pruitt.

“And who the hell are you?”

The chief had told him.

“Bullshit,” was the one-handed stalker’s response. “You’re just another loser she’s boning. Better break it off now, dude, unless you want to end up as dead as her.”

“Every one of these calls you make is a felony.”

Pruitt, taunting: “There’s no way to trace ’em, so they’ll never catch me. Now put Angie on the line, Chief Dicklicker, or whoever you really are.”

Crosby had hung up and asked Angie if she wanted to press charges.

“Not necessary. I keep tabs on him, Jerry.”

“You know where he lives? What kind of car he drives?”

“As of last week, yes.”

“And you’ve got a gun at home? Just in case.”

Angie had smiled. “I’m a felon, remember? No bang-bang allowed.”

The chief seldom met women who made him wonder what it might be like to be single again, but Angie Armstrong was one who did. The voice, the eyes, the attitude. He chased from his mind whatever adolescent fantasy was forming; after all these years, Crosby was still crazy about his wife.

Before leaving his office, he locked away Angie’s arrest file and the thumb drive containing the Chevy Malibu video. Then he went to scope out the SunTrust bank branch where Uric Burns was due to arrive the following morning with the aim of collecting $100,000 from the Fitzsimmons family tipster fund.

—

Joel came by Angie’s apartment to watch the Heat-Bulls game. He brought tortilla chips and a bowl of sketchy guacamole. At halftime Angie received a call from man who identified himself as the manager of a country club in the western part of the county. He said there were mice in the kitchen.

“We don’t do mice, sir,” she told him.

“Please? I can’t get anybody else out here on a Sunday. Your website says twenty-four-seven service.”

“Our website also says we don’t remove and relocate house rodents. We find it not to be worth the trouble and expense. Just go buy some traps at Home Depot.”

The manager said, “Would three thousand dollars make it cost-effective?”

Angie asked him to hold on. When she whispered the details of the ridiculous offer, Joel said, “Jump on it. Miami’s already down by nineteen.”

“Maybe they’ll make a run.”

“Sure, and maybe Jennifer Lawrence will show up topless at my front door. Take the gig, Angie. I’ll go with you.”

The man on the phone gave her directions to the club, Loxahatchee Downs. Angie had never heard of the place. Joel said it was new: Golf, tennis, equestrian, sporting clays and a six-figure membership fee.

Angie stacked some small box traps in the truck and waited for Joel to finish texting his latest girlfriend, who in her fifth leisurely year at UF had switched majors again, this time from art history to philosophy. The move in no way improved the young woman’s employment prospects, but Angie kept her doubts to herself. Joel usually came to his senses.

The sun went down during the drive to Loxahatchee Downs, way out in cattle country. Surrounded by pines and palmetto scrub, the clubhouse and facilities weren’t visible from the road. Angie would have missed the turnoff had it not been for the lighted sign above a one-lane entrance. Beyond the closed gate was a winding, unlit road.

Joel looked up the club’s website on his phone and learned that the grand opening was three weeks away. When Angie tried to call the manager back, she got a recording that said no such phone number was in service.

Th at fucking Pruitt, she thought.

Before she could back up, a car with its headlights off pulled in behind her truck, blocking the only way out. The driver was wearing a rubber Mitch McConnell mask.

“Run,” Angie said to Joel.

“What?”

“Get your ass into the woods. Now! ”

Something landed with a metallic bang in the bed of her pickup.

“Joel!” she yelled.

“Okay, I’m going.”

“Keep your head down.”

“No shit.”

Angie jumped out the door and sprinted. The moment she heard the explosion behind her, she wondered if it had been a mistake to let Chief Jerry Crosby speak with her stalker. Instead of being scared off, Pruitt had snapped.

With no light, Angie ran at a cautious jog, weaving through the tall pines, palmetto thickets and moon shadows. The long khakis protected her arms and legs, but random twigs and thorny vines clawed at her face. She wasn’t concerned about running up on a wild animal because she’d dealt hands-on with every species from bears to rattlesnakes. However, she was worried about Joel, who had no experience with nighttime transit in deep woods. When her cell began ringing, she pulled it from her pocket and knelt behind a tree. Joel was on the other end of the line.

“Tripped over a damn log,” he reported. “I’m pretty sure my ankle’s broken.”

“How far’d you get from the road?”

“I dunno. Maybe twenty yards.”

“That’s all?” said Angie. “Then keep your voice down. He’s gonna hear you.”

“The prick already took off. Can’t you see the flames?”

“No, but I smell smoke.”