Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

Angie, Ryskamp and Crosby stood together, all in sunglasses, apart from the central cluster of onlookers.

“How long’s he been up there?” Angie asked the chief.

“At least twenty-four hours. Inside the van they found a note confessing to robbing and murdering Mrs. Fitzsimmons. Keever Bracco, too.”

Ryskamp yawned. “Burns didn’t write that.”

“No shit,” said Angie. “He didn’t kill himself, either.”

Crosby went on: “The note said he knew he wouldn’t get away with it and didn’t want go to back to jail. Said he’d rather die first, whatever.”

Ryskamp asked if the faked farewell had been written by hand. Crosby said it came from a home laser-jet printer. “Burns didn’t own one,” he added. “Or if he did, they haven’t been able to find it yet.”

“In one of his many palatial residences.” Ryskamp laughed emptily. “You saw this ‘note’ with your own eyes?”

“I did. Got a picture, too.”

Angie said she wanted to go look at the dead man’s body. Crosby asked why.

“Because he’s one of the cockheads who broke into my apartment. I need closure, Jerry.”

Ryskamp said, “You’re taking this very personally.”

“I fucking well am,” Angie snapped.

“Oh, she definitely does,” the chief said to Ryskamp. “However, she should be aware that Mr. Burns soiled himself while expiring, adding to other unsavory elements.”

Angie remarked that nothing could smell as bad as the decaying buzzard carcass she’d removed the previous day from a dairy barn in Moore Haven. “So, Jerry,” she said, “let’s have a peek at the deceased.”

Uric Burns was in nasty shape though Angie had seen worse—week-old floaters, pulled from the swamp—during her time as a wildlife officer. From such experiences she’d learned when not to inhale. Burns’s face was shapeless and mottled; both eyelids had swollen shut and were turning black. The rope had elongated his grimy neck like a snapping turtle’s.

“You sure that’s him?” Ryskamp asked.

“Fingerprints match,” Crosby replied. “Also, the dent in his head.”

“What’s that on his wrist?”

“His coded ID for the Fitzsimmons hotline. He probably wrote it there the day he phoned in the tip. See how the marker ink’s faded.”

The chief’s phone rang, and he moved out of earshot to take the call. During their few moments alone, Ryskamp surprised Angie by asking if she was free for dinner. She surprised both of them by saying yes.

“Seriously?” Ryskamp said with an endearing look of relief.

“Long as you’re not married.”

He held up the bare fourth finger on his left hand. Angie had already noticed.

“Maybe the ring’s in your pocket,” she said.

“Nope.” He turned his front pants pockets inside out.

“Fine,” said Angie, “I’ll meet you at Nikko at seven. Let’s keep it casual.”

He smiled. “Next you’re gonna tell me we’re splitting the tab.”

“Dream on,” she said.

Up on the bridge, two stocky attendants from the medical examiner’s office were struggling to pull the corpse of Uric Burns over the rail and onto the roadway, where a uniformed woman waited with a bright yellow tarp.

When Jerry Crosby got off the phone, he was steaming. “Anybody bring a laptop? Never mind, I need to get back to the office.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Angie.

“He did it again. Same shit as before.”

“Who did what?” said Ryskamp.

“That dysfunctional hump in the White House. Your boss.”

At that moment Ryskamp’s phone lit up; his ringtone was “Life in the Fast Lane.” He glanced down at the caller ID and muttered, “Aw shit. What now?”

“I won’t spoil it for you,” said the chief.

—

As their newly assigned Secret Service agents stood like totems outside the Poisonwood Room, the surviving Potussies stayed late drinking after lunch. Fortunately, none of the women had driven themselves to Casa Bellicosa, for by mid-afternoon their blood-alcohol levels far surpassed the legal limit. Fay Alex Riptoad would have blown .12 on a roadside breathalyzer; Dee Wyndham Wittlefield, .14; Kelly Bean Drummond, .15; Dorothea Mars Bristol, .17; and for both Deirdre Cobo Lancôme and Yirma Skyy Frick, a teetering .19.

Their degrees of incoherence varied due to dosage differences in their prescription meds, none of which was recommended to be taken with cocktails. Of the group, Fay Alex was the least impaired and therefore the best equipped to interpret the President’s latest Twitter commentary. (It was a ritual among the Potussies to pause all social meetings when there was a new tweet stream.)

“Listen up, ladies,” said Fay Alex, standing. She adjusted her Chanel readers and raised her smartphone almost to her nose. Slurred chatter persisted at the table, so Fay Alex barked: “That’s enough, please! Put down your goddamn drinks!”

As the group fell silent, one of the Secret Service agents opened the door and peeked into the room. Fay Alex waved him off, and began to read:

“This is direct from the Presidential Twitter account, as of six minutes ago:

‘I’m delighted to report the death of a second suspect in the robbery and murder of my dear friend, Katherine (KIKI PEW) Fitzsimmons. The Attorney General just informed me that Uric N.M.N. Burns of West Palm Beach has hung himself. Burns knew cops were closing in fast and escape was impossible. A suiside note confessing to his terrible crimes was found in the dead coward’s van…He also tried (BUT FAILED!) to scam reward money from Fitzsimmons family. So, folks, bottom line: two bad guys down and one to go! All our law-enforcement resources can now focus on prosecuting the final suspect, Diego Beltrán, for his role in Mrs. Fitzsimmons’ death. Or should I say aledged role (JUST TO KEEP THE LIBERAL LAWYERS HAPPY!)…This notorious outlaw—who snuck into America illegally—remains locked down at Palm Beach County jail. Thanks to all my supporters for turning out in HUGE RECORD numbers to rally for justice there and other places around the country…As your President, I won’t rest till Diego receives ALTIMATE PUNISHMENT allowed by law. I also promise to protect you from all future Diegos that are conspiring to cross the border to rape, kill and muttilate other innocent citizens who happen to believe in my beautiful vision for this fantastic nation. NO MORE DIEGOS!!! And God bless America!’ ”

The Potussies clapped as spiritedly as their wooziness allowed. Fay Alex Riptoad considered the recitation to be one of her finest and by no means easy, since the President clearly had fired off the multi-segmented tweet without waiting for his full-time proofreader. The “N.M.N.” in his identification of Uric Burns was cop-speak for “no middle name” and should have been deleted on the first edit, but more problematic was the higher than usual number of spelling errors that Fay Alex defensively referred to as typos.

Once the Twitter presentation was finished, the gathering dissolved into a nasal cacophony of overlapping conversations that from outside the Poisonwood Room must have sounded like crows on a road kill. An immodestly beaming Fay Alex was interrupted on her way to the powder room by her personal Secret Service agent, whose name was William something. He said that the Cornbright brothers, who were also lunching late at Casa Bellicosa, wished to meet with Fay Alex in the Gumbo Limbo Room. They said it was an urgent matter.

Fay Alex found Chase and Chance in cordovan armchairs at a bay window overlooking the impeccable croquet lawn, upon which a quartet of geriatric billionaires in shin-high socks spastically flailed candy-colored mallets. The slow-motion melee was being watched with cruel glee by the two Cornbrights. They wore crested navy blazers, button-down Oxfords, creased linen pants (beige and twilight blue, respectively), and Ferragamo driving shoes that had never tapped the accelerator of an American-made vehicle. The young men rose in tandem to greet Fay Alex Riptoad, and Chance immediately asked if she’d heard the big news about Uric Burns.