Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,31
before, ICE officers had removed Diego from the immigration lockup, slapped on the handcuffs, placed him in a government car, and transported him to the county jail. No reason was given.
Diego was unaware that the Palm Beach police had sent insurance photos of a homicide victim’s missing jewelry to all major law-enforcement agencies, and that the ICE agent who’d first booked Diego remembered the exotic little pearl among his meager belongings. Nor could Diego foresee that the commander-in-chief of the United States would soon take an ardent interest in the case because the wealthy victim had belonged to an all-female political fan group. Diego likewise couldn’t know that the President would become animated—almost giddy—when informed that one of the suspects in the elderly Potussy’s death was an illegal Hispanic immigrant who was rounded up at a factory only a few miles from the crime scene. The story line would jibe splendidly with one of the President’s favorite fake-populist narratives: The nation was under siege by bloodthirsty hordes charging like rabid wolverines across the borders.
Diego said: “I swear I didn’t steal anything from anybody.”
The detective told him a prominent resident of the island had been kidnapped, robbed, and barbarically killed. She’d been wearing diamond earrings and a necklace made of rare pink pearls, one of which bore a constellation of faint saffron freckles.
“Just like yours does,” the detective added acidly.
“Can I take a look?” Diego held out his hand.
The detective wouldn’t give up the pearl. “You’d need one of those special magnifying glasses to see what I’m talking about.”
“A jeweler’s loupe.”
“That’s right, smartass. Don’t worry, it’s the same damn pearl as in the picture.”
Diego didn’t believe him. “I want to call a lawyer, please.”
“Oh, Christ, here we go,” the detective sneered, “like you’re some kind a regular citizen.”
“I went to college in Miami.”
“But you re-entered the country illegally on a smuggling vessel from the Bahamas last week. True or false? Spoiler alert: We’ve already interviewed some of your fellow passengers.”
“Yes, I admit I was aboard that boat.”
“Same night our victim disappeared, not far from where you and your people snuck ashore. Was His Highness the Prince of Percocets waiting for you at the beach?”
Diego slid lower in the chair and rubbed his eyes. “I want to call a lawyer,” he said again.
“Well, of course you do, amigo!”
* * *
—
Angie didn’t care about the frail-hipped equestrian girlfriend, but she remained bitter about the way Joel’s father had left her, with no warning or discussion. One afternoon, four women—all strangers wearing camo yoga leggings—had swept into the marital residence to haul away her husband’s belongings and loot the kitchen.
After snatching the coffee maker, the last of them paused at the door and nodded equably.
“Namaste this, bitch,” said Angie, raising both middle fingers.
Later she discovered that one of the yoga mafia was her husband’s mistress, the equestrian.
On the day the divorce was finalized, Angie stopped her ex outside the courtroom and said, “I just want you to be happy, Dustin,” which wasn’t true. She wanted him to be regretful, lonely, riven with guilt and self-doubt.
It was a deplorable attitude, and Angie was ashamed by its longevity. Her friends said she’d feel differently as soon as she found somebody new, somebody special. So far, she’d met not one male soul that she’d found dazzling. Her friends said that she should be more outgoing, that she was setting the bar too high, that she was too judgmental, too cautious, too literal.
“Maybe I’m not emotionally available,” Angie would tell them, “but at least I’m polite.”
She didn’t want to get married again, though she would’ve liked a relationship that lasted longer than four dates. It was always disheartening when the conversation ran dry—that graveyard stillness at the end of dinner, so unforgiving that you could hear a widower buttering a French roll at the next table.
Angie’s friends tried to rally her with tales of crazed inconsequential sex, but in her experience such a thing didn’t exist. Even a half-drunken fuck inevitably got misread by one or both parties as commitment. By now Angie knew the script, which usually stalled in the second act.
Nothing romantic was in progress when the virus pandemic struck, so her social calendar had not been noticeably impacted. Now that people were dating again, she was trying to move forward with a more receptive attitude. She was getting ready for a rare night out, in brand-new jeans, when a TV bulletin announced that the body found in Palm Beach had been positively identified