Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,32
as Katherine Pew Fitzsimmons.
The police chief had called a press conference to reveal that the woman had been robbed of her jewelry and brutally slain. Angie figured that the burglars who stole the python from her warehouse unit had removed the victim’s valuables before hiding the corpse. In her view, such coldblooded shitsuckers deserved to be punished like murderers, not just thieves.
The TV newscast replayed video taken where the body had been found. Angie had seen the footage the night before, and recognized the scene as the construction site she’d driven past on A1A.
She phoned her date, whom she’d met only once previously, for coffee.
“I’m really sorry,” she said, “but something urgent just came up.”
“Like what? Urgent how?” His name was Jesse, and originally he was from Queens. Now he worked at Merrill Lynch in Boynton Beach.
“It’s work-related,” said Angie.
“Can I come with?” Jesse knew she relocated wild animals for a living; she’d shared a few of her better stories over coffee at Starbucks.
She said, “Not tonight. Maybe another time.”
“This is way rude.”
“I don’t mean to be. It’s a business emergency.”
“Unbelievably rude, Angie.”
“Seriously?”
“My ex used to pull this kind of shit all the time.”
“Well, I wish I could say I’ll make it up to you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Bye.” Angie put down the phone like it was a hot poker. Right away it started ringing. The caller ID displayed a number supposedly in Ketchum, Idaho. Angie didn’t know anyone in that area code.
“Hello, Pruitt,” she said.
“Why the hell do you answer if you know it’s me?”
“You’re late tonight. It’s six-thirty-seven.”
“Fuck you, bitch. Your time is up!”
“Is one of the dogs sick?” Angie asked. “Is that why you’re late—you just got back from the vet’s?”
“Stop talkin’ shit,” Pruitt snapped.
“I know the Bichon struggles with gout. It’s been a tough road, hasn’t it? Lots of emotional ups and downs.”
“Hey, cunt, I’m going to blow up your stupid pickup truck with you inside.”
“Pruitt, listen to me. A one-handed amateur should not be dicking with live explosives. That prosthesis is fine for routine household tasks—washing dishes, folding laundry and so forth—but not wiring a bomb. Just a thought.”
“Anyway, who the fuck told you about my dogs?”
“Gotta run,” said Angie. “Have a peaceful evening, sir.”
She couldn’t reach Paul Ryskamp by phone, so she drove to the hangout bar in West Palm. Along the way, she noticed the roadblocks were down; that meant the President was gone. Angie thought Ryskamp might be unwinding with some of his agent friends and, sure enough, he was.
Angie walked up and said, “You look positively lethal in that suit.”
“What are you drinking?” Ryskamp asked.
“Nothing.”
They moved to a table in the corner. Angie asked Ryskamp if he’d heard the news about Mrs. Fitzsimmons.
The agent nodded. “Your alleged python victim. It’s a bummer.”
“Not alleged. She definitely got eaten. Then whoever stole the snake from my warehouse put her body under two feet of concrete.”
“Like I told you before, it’s a local case. We don’t investigate that kind of crime…whatever you’d call it.”
Angie said, “They took her damn jewelry. I’d call that robbery.”
Ryskamp tapped his beer mug. “The way the statutes are written, I’m not sure you can ‘rob’ a dead person that you didn’t kill yourself. Stealing from a corpse is probably grand theft.”
“Suddenly you’re an attorney?”
“Not suddenly. Georgetown Law, class of ’98.”
Angie shrugged. “Okay. Decent school.”
“It is.”
“You want me to admit I’m impressed?”
Angie was well aware that the Secret Service didn’t normally investigate burglaries and body snatchings. All she wanted from Ryskamp was a little help. She knew that, because of the President’s frequent presence at Casa Bellicosa, the Palm Beach police regularly shared information with Ryskamp’s office.
“What else do the cops know?” she asked him.
“I’m not supposed to—”
“Talk about it? Let me point out that your agency would still have a large mangled reptile in its Sub-Zero, if not for me. Sir.”
“Call me Paul, okay? And it’s not a Sub-Zero, it’s a fucking Kenmore. But I agree—you were punctual and efficient.”
“Don’t forget ‘discreet.’ As advertised.”
“Very discreet,” Ryskamp said good-humoredly. “All right, here’s the latest from the locals, which you did not hear from me. They’re looking for one suspect and interviewing another guy as a possible second.”
“Who’s got him?”
“Immigration, technically. But they moved him over to the county lockup.”
“Do they have a solid ID?” Angie asked.
“We’re waiting to confirm.”
“What about the first dude?”
“His name I’ve got.”
“Outstanding. I’ll take it.” Angie reached in her bag for a pen.
“What the hell are you going to do?” the agent asked.
“Assist my