Карл Хайасен - Squeeze Me

“Certainly,” she said. “I’ve been in constant contact with Chief Crosby.”

When Chase asked to speak privately, she signaled for Secret Service Agent William to wait outside. His arctic nod suggested that he’d rather be waxing his nut sack than trailing Fay Alex around.

As soon as he was gone from the room, Chance spoke up: “So, the man who committed suicide is the same one who called in the tip about Mother’s body?”

“That’s right,” said Fay Alex. “He was one of the three killers, just trying to cash in. The police were waiting outside the bank to arrest him, but by then he’d already hung himself off that bridge. As POTUS himself said: Two scumbags down, one to go—”

“So Burns never collected any of the reward?” Chase asked.

“Of course not. That wasn’t ever going to happen.” Fay Alex sighed to herself, thinking: No wonder Kiki Pew gave up on these two stains in the gene pool.

Chance pressed on with pursed-lip intensity. “So, what about our hundred grand? Is anyone else trying to claim it? Is there a time limit?”

“Chief Crosby says none of the other tips were legitimate.”

“Then we, like, get to keep all our money?”

Fay Alex said, “Yes, Chance. The family can, like, keep the money.”

The Cornbright brothers emitted a lupine howl, knuckle-bumped each other, and called out for more drinks. Fay Alex excused herself and, in more or less a straight line, headed for the double doors of the Gumbo Limbo Room.

Her white Mercedes was idling in the shade of the portico. William opened a rear door for her, but then he sat in front with the driver.

Fay Alex said, “I don’t understand why you won’t ride back here next to me.”

It was the third time that day she’d brought it up. The agent patiently repeated his explanation: “Because I can see more when I’m up here, Mrs. Riptoad.”

“But Kelly Bean says her Secret Service man sits right beside her everywhere they go!”

“It’s a judgment call, Mrs. Riptoad.” William turned his attention to his sunglasses, thumbing a microfiber cloth in practiced circles over each mirrored lens.

Fay Alex, who’d assumed that a Secret Service escort would obey orders as unquestioningly as all her employees, sulked all the way home. There she retreated to her bedroom, shut the door, and endeavored to nap her way out of the steep vodka migraine that would ultimately delay her appearance that evening at the Bath Club, which was hosting a Disney-themed mixer for Peyronie’s Syndrome Awareness Week.

—

Angie knew Paul Ryskamp wasn’t thrilled that she’d invited the police chief to join them on their first date. However, the President’s inflammatory new tweet had so badly aggravated both Ryskamp and Jerry Crosby that Angie thought a group dinner could be venting therapy—and, for her, a way to get a few questions answered.

Beginning with: What can be done for Diego Beltrán?

“By us? Nothing,” the chief said with half a shrug. “It’s a goat wedding.”

Ryskamp agreed. “The kid’s more or less ass-fucked, for now.”

Angie finished her beer and ordered another. She said, “Having a pearl in his pocket isn’t enough to indict him for the old lady’s murder. No way. There’s not a jury in the world—”

“Don’t you think the prosecutors know that?” Crosby cut in. “They don’t want a damn jury trial. They don’t want this case going anywhere . All they want is a time cushion, and an excuse to keep Beltrán locked up like the President wants.”

“But for how long?” Angie asked.

“Until another poster villain comes along,” said Ryskamp. He reminded her about Mastodon’s gerbil-like attention span; eventually the man would get bored with the No-More-Diegos spiel. “Might take a week, a month, who knows,” Ryskamp added. “All depends on the media play he’s getting.”

A basket of hot rolls arrived. Angie grabbed one and smeared it with maple butter. She said, “You guys are okay letting this kid rot at county with all the no-bail shitbirds? Because I’m really not. Jerry?”

“I asked the state attorney about dropping the stolen-property charge, if Beltrán agreed to return to Honduras. He told me he couldn’t do it right now—too much blowback from the White House, Breitbart, the whole drooling mob.”

“What does he care about them?”

“For Christ’s sake, Angie, he’s up for re-election.”

“So’s the sheriff,” Ryskamp noted.

Angie stewed as the Secret Service agent and the chief continued eating. She took another swig of beer and grumbled, “Two sworn officers of the law, I swear to God.”

Crosby turned. “What was that?” he asked her crossly.

“Are you up for re-election, Jerry? No, you’re not.”

“But I serve at the pleasure of the town council, which—”

“Never mind,” said Angie. “Listen, it just occurred to me—I never got the story on that other pink pearl you showed me.”

Ryskamp’s fork halted halfway to his mouth. “What other pearl?”

Crosby quietly told them about his field trip with Diego Beltrán to the railroad crossing. Before Angie could add a word, he made a hushing gesture.

“There’s more,” the chief said. He took out his phone and showed them the street-cam video of the dead python flying from the trunk of the stolen white Malibu after it vaulted the train tracks.

Ryskamp merely nodded, but Angie erupted: “What the fuck, Jerry? What the fuck? How can Beltrán still be locked up? Did you not share these juicy little shit bombs with the prosecutor? That you found another pearl right where Diego found his? That you’ve got freaking video of the stolen car at the scene?”

“Hey, dial it down,” Crosby said sharply. “I’ve told the state attorney everything. He knows Beltrán doesn’t belong in jail but—for the reasons I already explained—he wants the dust to settle.”

“Did you also tell him you’ll go straight to the TV stations if he doesn’t cut the kid loose immediately?”

“No, I did not,” the chief replied stonily.

Angie turned a fierce stare on Ryskamp. “What do you think, Paul? If you can pry yourself away from your precious Caesar, I mean. Did you get enough anchovies, by the way? Jesus Christ.”

The agent made her wait until he was finished chewing.

“Obviously I didn’t know about the second pearl,” he began, “but it really makes no difference. The Secret Service doesn’t have the authority to order a state prosecutor to spike a case. Neither does Chief Crosby. The evidence is secondary to the politics. It sucks, Angie, but that’s how it works.”

“Thank you, Mr. Georgetown Law.”

“Young Señor Beltrán will remain Public Enemy Numero Uno until the President gets tired of ranting about him,” Ryskamp said, “which he will, one of these days. I guarantee it.”

In a low voice, Crosby added: “And if I did the hero thing and ran to the media on my own, I’d be out of a job. Or busted down to bike patrol, staking out the parking meters on Worth Avenue. For you it might not be a life-wrecking decision, Angie, but I’ve got a mortgage, two car payments, and three kids who are talking about college. Cue the violins, right? Well, guess what. I can’t afford to flush my career down the tubes for Diego Beltrán, or anyone else. Not right now.”

Angie backed off. “Last time I took the hero road,” she said, “I lost my job, too. Actually it was more like the crazed-avenger road. Point is, Jerry, I get your point. But this kid could get hurt in jail.”

The chief stood up. “Just for the record, it makes me sick to my stomach, knowing he shouldn’t be there.” He opened his billfold. “How much do I owe?”