Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,26
a necklace.”
“Well, you would know.”
“Did you keep some for a girlfriend?”
“Yeah. Your little sister.” Uric assumed that any lost pearls were in the trunk of the Malibu, at the bottom of the canal.
“Just give me the damn money,” he snapped at the pawnbroker.
* * *
—
Mockingbird lay up to her neck in the bathtub. She wore silver seahorse earrings and fresh rose-colored lipstick. Her long auburn hair was pinned into a bun, and her unpainted toes peeked over the marble sill. She turned off the water jets and reached for her Cosmo. It was the third of the evening. She wasn’t keeping track, but somebody on the staff undoubtedly was. They kept track of everything.
Almost.
Her bathroom had a westward view, overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway. Mockingbird put on her favorite Dior shades to watch the sun go down over the mainland. She left them on after darkness fell.
“Yo, Keith,” she called out. “Where are those snake pics?”
“On my phone,” replied a voice from the other side of the door.
“I want to see!”
“Soon as you’re done, ma’am.”
“No, Keith, now.”
Keith Josephson’s real name was Ahmet Youssef, one of the sharpest young agents in the satellite detail assigned to protect the President’s wife. His father was a Syrian Muslim but his mother was Boston Irish, so Ahmet had been raised Catholic. Professionally, the Youssef surname had become problematic because of Mastodon’s festering distrust of Muslims—and anyone looking or sounding like they might be Muslim. To avert a blowup, the Secret Service had created a new neutral-sounding identity for Ahmet Youssef a week before he joined Mockingbird on the campaign trail. Ahmet had been shocked and offended, yet he’d said nothing; the agency offered a solid future, and Mastodon wouldn’t be president forever.
The ID switch had worked splendidly. On Keith/Ahmet’s first trip aboard the campaign plane, Mastodon had expressed no curiosity about his heritage, commented enviously on his skin tone and demanded the name of his bronzing product. Caught off guard, Keith had lied and said he favored tanning beds.
“Agent Josephson, where are you?” Mockingbird sang out from the bathroom.
He entered sideways, averting his eyes as he edged past the makeup table toward the tub. It wasn’t the first time that the First Lady had been naked when she summoned him.
“Would you like a towel?” he asked.
“No, I’d like to see those pictures.”
“My phone case isn’t waterproof.”
“I’ll be careful, Keith. Give it to me, please.”
Mockingbird sat upright, the bathwater dripping in soapy rivulets from her breasts. The walls were plated with gold-lace mirroring, which from several angles gave Keith an unavoidable, glorious view. He gave her the phone. She kept her sunglasses on.
“My God, that thing’s a beast!” she exclaimed. “Even with no head.”
“Burmese python. It was a messy scene.”
“What’s all that goop?” she asked, tapping one of the images on the screen.
“The intestines, ma’am. And other organs, I imagine.”
“Where on earth did it come from?”
“This particular species has spread all over the Everglades,” said the agent, unsuccessfully trying to stare at anything other than the First Lady’s body. “We’re not sure how this one ended up where it did.”
Mockingbird laughed. “Are you kidding? It just crawled there, of course. That’s what snakes do. Then it got killed by a car, obviously.”
“No, ma’am. The head was removed with a sharp object, possibly a sword or a machete.”
Mockingbird scrolled back and forth through the graphic sequence of photos. She said, “It’s gross but also kind of exciting, yes?”
“We’re in Florida. This is what goes on.”
“Maybe it’s more. Maybe it’s an omen.”
“Of what, ma’am?”
“We’ll see. Here, catch,” she said, tossing him the phone. Then she rose in the tub and let her hair down.
He held his breath. “Now may I get you a towel?”
“How long ’til my girlfriends arrive for dinner?”
“Twenty-six minutes.”
“Plenty of time, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. Probably.”
“So. Are we going to do this or not?”
“It’s up to you.”
“You’re funny,” she said, plucking off her shades. “Lock the door, Agent Josephson. And take off your gun.”
SEVEN
Special Agent Paul Ryskamp was a good listener but a poor liar.
“I believe you, Ms. Armstrong.”
“No, sir, you do not. And call me Angie.”
“I don’t know much about snakes, but it sure looked big enough to eat a small person.”
“The part about burglars stealing it from my storage unit? There’s an actual police report. Same shitbirds who tossed my apartment.”
Again Ryskamp said, “I believe you.”
“Even though I never actually saw the woman’s body?”
“Just a lump in the python, right?”
“Correct,” Angie said. “As I said, the burglars were hired for one reason—somebody didn’t