Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,44
had been indicted, tried and convicted in a breezy golf-course rant. Finding an untainted jury anywhere but the North Pole would be impossible.
Nobody in the chief’s circle of island insiders was able to explain how this toxic carbonation of shit got uncorked, but soon he had his answer. There, streaming on a local news feed, appeared Fay Alex Riptoad. She was aglow from the salon and sporting a Stars-and-Stripes brooch the size of a Philippine fruit bat. A male reporter asked if she was worried that she and the other Potussies were being targeted, like poor Kiki Pew.
“All of us are taking the threat very seriously,” Fay Alex said. “It’s a sad, sobering day for this great country. But, just like our brave President, we will never ever be intimidated by ideological terrorists.”
Crosby had only himself to blame. He was the one who’d told Fay Alex about Diego Beltrán’s arrest, though he’d had no warning that the information would be shared with the White House, woven into a bizarre xenophobic plot, and then trumpeted to the entire world. The facts of the case remained sparse and cloudy. Even the killing of Keever Bracco could be linked only by suspicion to the anonymous hotline tip about the death of Katherine Fitzsimmons. Nor had any evidence surfaced placing Bracco in Palm Beach on the night of the crime—or in the unlikely company of young Beltrán, a fresh-off-the-boat immigrant.
Yet demonstrators galvanized by seething talk-radio hosts had already gathered outside the county jail on the mainland. Some carried handmade signs, while others waved ineptly knotted lynch nooses.
All were chanting, “No more Diegos! No more Diegos!”
It was rampaging imbecility, and possibly unstoppable.
Crosby trudged into his office bathroom, where he scrubbed the taste of bile from his mouth. Only one person was waiting outside in the small lobby—a pretty, green-eyed woman wearing a ponytail and the unlikeliest of Palm Beach attire, long outdoor khakis with grass stains on the knees. She introduced herself as Angela Armstrong and said she was a wildlife-relocation specialist. The chief thought she didn’t look big enough to arm-wrestle a squirrel, but the logo on her shirt advertised a company called “Discreet Captures.”
“We specialize in humane techniques,” she added, “whenever possible.”
“I’m sorry, but you’ve caught me at the worst possible time. It’s crazy busy around here today.”
“Yes, sir, I bet. We should go somewhere quiet and talk.”
“Look, Ms. Armstrong, I’m not trying to be rude but—”
“It’s Angie, please.” She reached up and put a hand on his shoulder. “I promise you want to hear what I’ve got to say.”
Crosby was caught off guard by her directness. Also, those eyes.
He heard himself ask, “All right. What’s this about?”
“The late Katherine Pew Fitzsimmons. Specifically, the true and unusual nature of her death.”
Oh Christ, thought Crosby. Another escapee from Loonyville.
He said, “Somebody’s already put in a claim with the victim’s family for the reward. Now, I’ve really got to run. Late for a meeting—”
Angie blocked his juke to slip past her. “I don’t want a goddamn reward,” she said. “And don’t you dare brush me off.”
“Okay, sorry.” Crosby stepped back. “Tell me what you’ve got.”
“For starters, it was no coincidence they found Keever Bracco’s body in the same canal as that stolen car.”
The chief remained wary but was now intrigued. “What’s the connection between Bracco and the Malibu?” he asked his visitor.
“You’re whispering, sir, and there’s nobody here but us.”
“Yes or no—do you know who killed Mrs. Fitzsimmons?”
“It’s not a ‘who,’ ” said the woman named Angie. “May I call you Jerry? Come on, Jerry, I’ll buy you a beer.”
* * *
—
Uric Burns was still angry about the last phone conversation when his cell started ringing. The caller’s number had a blocked ID, but Uric answered anyway.
“Did you get this shit straightened out?” he barked.
A woman was on the other end. It didn’t sound like Judith from the tipster hotline. Uric had just cursed at her and hung up after learning that the rich snake lady’s relatives would only cough up half the promised reward. Judith had said the other half would be released after the police investigation was finished.
Fifty thousand dollars was still a shit-pile of money, more than Uric had ever made on a single job, and the sensible move would be to grab it and vanish. But he resented being jerked around, and the sweet scent of that other fifty grand held sway over his judgment, which wasn’t razor-sharp to begin with.
Uric didn’t consider his stubborn stance as one of shortsighted