American Tropic - By Thomas Sanchez Page 0,34
is willing to sacrifice. No one is—”
Luz notices Chicken sniffing aggressively, his nose pointed at a gnarly blob of a toad with bulging eyes and a milky substance foaming from its fat, warty lips. The toad squats in the grass next to a Zamora grave. Chicken stiffens, prepared to attack. Luz grabs the dog by the collar and pulls him back. “That’s a Bufo toad. He’s poisonous. One bite of him and you’re dead.”
Chicken barks, but not at the toad. He sees a dark figure outlined by the sun’s glare approaching through the gravestones. Chicken growls as the figure comes closer. It is Moxel. He stops in front of Luz, panting from the heat, the armpits of his blue uniform dampened by sweat rings. His words rush out hoarse from his dry throat. “I was just at your house. Joan told me you’d be here. The Chief wants you in his office.” Moxel glances down at Nina. “How you doing, little girl? Your mom should know better than to bring someone in your condition out in this hundred-degree heat. This sun will turn your skin blacker than charcoal.”
The toad next to a grave in the grass springs up and takes two lunging hops toward Moxel. He squints in the glaring sunlight at the toad. “What’s that ugly-ass frog?”
Luz keeps her hand tight on Chicken’s collar as the dog strains to get at the toad. “Poisonous. Don’t touch it.”
“Poisonous, no shit.” Moxel unsnaps his side holster, yanks out his revolver, and shoots, blasting the toad. Toad fragments spew into the air and splatter across the carved name ZAMORA on a headstone. Nina screams and cringes in her wheelchair. Moxel shoves his gun back into its holster and grins. “I hope I didn’t blow away an endangered species.”
Luz spins Nina’s wheelchair around so Nina can’t see her whip her Magnum from its holster. She jams the pistol’s barrel into the side of Moxel’s head. “You are an endangered species.”
Inside the Police Chief’s office, the Chief and Moxel stop their animated conversation as Luz enters. Moxel’s face reddens as he blurts at Luz: “You pulled a gun on me for shooting a frog! What the fuck is that? I’m the one who saved your ass in the bat tower. If I hadn’t climbed up that ladder and risked my life to help you, you would have fallen to your death.” Moxel swings around to the Chief. “What kind of force is this if she’s allowed to pull a gun on another officer? You should fire her for unfit conduct. You should—”
The Chief cuts Moxel off. “Calm down. I don’t have time for fraternal squabbles.” He turns to Luz and hands her a thick folder of papers. “This forensic report just came in. The Haitian kid’s fingerprints were found all over Pat’s boat.”
Luz takes the thick folder. “I’ll read it. What about Pat’s body? Were Rimbaud’s fingerprints found on her body?”
“No, nothing. Maybe the kid was wearing gloves.”
“Rimbaud told the interpreter he saw Bizango on the boat. Did the lab find any trace of that?”
“Zip, no fingerprints, no hair, no footprints, no nothing. If Bizango was on that boat, he doesn’t just wear gloves, he must be dressed in a glove. Only prints found were from the Haitian and Pat’s boat mate. You got something on the mate?”
“Found him up the Keys at the Pink Grouper strip club in Marathon. Checked out his alibi. Says he was at the club the night of the murder.”
“Witnesses to that?”
“All six of the pole dancers who performed that night. One of them says he shoved a hundred-dollar bill beneath her panties, up her butt hole.”
“Good to know some guys are still gentlemen.”
Luz looks curiously at the report folder. “Anything in here about the hooks puncturing Pat’s lips?”
“Mustad Super Marlin J-hooks. No prints on them, but we hit a different jackpot.” The Chief picks up a black micro–digital recorder from his desk. “A recorder like this was found inside Pat’s mouth.”
Luz eyes the recorder. “Same kind found in Bill Warren’s mouth at the bat tower. There’s a Bizango recording on it?”
“Yeah, but saying something different.”
“Is it in English, like the Bill Warren recording?”
“Of course, why?”
“Because Rimbaud only speaks French. I know this for a fact. He can’t be Bizango if this recording is in English.”
Moxel snorts derisively. “Did you ever think that somebody else recorded it for him? There could be a team of Bizangos operating in Key West.”
Luz moves closer to the Chief. “Maybe we should go