is involved?”
Christian explained he was responsible for checking the fan, capacitors, relay contacts, timer, gas springs, hinges, and ultraviolet lamps.
“And cleaning the whole Cabo after every use,” he added with a queasy wince, “Wiping down the surfaces, and all that.”
Spalding piped up: “He’s got some blood-curdling tales. Tell her what you found that one time in the canopy chamber.’’
“No, do not tell me—” Angie tried waving him off, too late.
“An extra-large Depends,” Christian reported mirthlessly, “burnt to a crisp.”
Angie said she wasn’t hungry anymore. The tanning-bed specialist apologized. He asked if she was seeing anyone.
“I’m sure Spalding told you I’m not,” she said.
“I didn’t know if I should believe him.”
“This time you can. Other times, no.”
“Screw both of you,” said Spalding. “I’m stepping out for a smoke.”
When they were alone, Christian made the rookie mistake of looking Angie in the eyes and saying, “Tell me about yourself.”
“You’re joking.”
“All right, then I’ll start. I just turned twenty-nine, my parents own a chain of coffee shops in Copenhagen, I’ve got two older brothers—”
“Hold it.” Angie made a slashing motion across her neck.
“What, really?”
“I’m sorry, but you’re not my type.”
He blinked in slow motion, like a frost-stunned lizard. “Harsh,” he said.
“No, Chris, it’s merciful honesty. I’m not your type, either.”
“How can you know that already? We haven’t even gotten our entrées.”
Angie felt a bit guilty, even though Christian had met her only twelve minutes ago and therefore couldn’t credibly claim that his feelings were hurt.
Still she said, “You’re right. Let’s see how it goes. I’ll text Spalding and tell him to leave us alone.”
“Oh. Cool.”
“Yeah, he can eat at the bar. That smartass.”
“Thank you, Angie.”
Lunch was fine. Christian ordered fried shrimp and crab cakes, and didn’t make a mess. He seemed good-natured and earnest. Twice he made her laugh.
But, alas, he didn’t grow any taller.
So when the police chief texted Angie asking her to hurry to a place called Blue Pelican Shoals, she lay a twenty on the table, and said farewell to young Christian with a handshake. On the way out, she cut through the bar to alert Spalding that his Scandinavian friend might need some cheering up.
FOURTEEN
The bright afternoon was cool and windy. Angie put on a fleece.
Agent Ryskamp wore a slate hoodie, jeans and black sneakers. Jerry Crosby showed up in the long-sleeved version of his chief’s uniform. It was the first time the two men had met, and they were deep in conversation when Angie arrived.
The purpling corpse of Uric Burns still hung from the bridge abutment. Photographers clambered around like coked-up marmosets. Every agency wanted its own set of photos—the Secret Service, the FBI, the sheriff’s office, the medical examiner’s office, the Palm Beach cops, even the U.S. Marshals. An unprofessional air of amusement was elicited by the colorful fishing lure hooked to the zipper fold of the dead man’s trousers. A secondary point of curiosity was the long-healed ding in the corpse’s forehead.
Meanwhile the media had been roped off in an area beside Soldier’s Creek, where the TV reporters could stage their stand-ups with the death scene in the background. They were also well positioned to observe a dirty white Dodge van being cranked onto a flatbed truck.
Angie, Ryskamp and Crosby stood together, all in sunglasses, apart from the central cluster of onlookers.
“How long’s he been up there?” Angie asked the chief.
“At least twenty-four hours. Inside the van they found a note confessing to robbing and murdering Mrs. Fitzsimmons. Keever Bracco, too.”
Ryskamp yawned. “Burns didn’t write that.”
“No shit,” said Angie. “He didn’t kill himself, either.”
Crosby went on: “The note said he knew he wouldn’t get away with it and didn’t want go to back to jail. Said he’d rather die first, whatever.”
Ryskamp asked if the faked farewell had been written by hand. Crosby said it came from a home laser-jet printer. “Burns didn’t own one,” he added. “Or if he did, they haven’t been able to find it yet.”
“In one of his many palatial residences.” Ryskamp laughed emptily. “You saw this ‘note’ with your own eyes?”
“I did. Got a picture, too.”
Angie said she wanted to go look at the dead man’s body. Crosby asked why.
“Because he’s one of the cockheads who broke into my apartment. I need closure, Jerry.”
Ryskamp said, “You’re taking this very personally.”
“I fucking well am,” Angie snapped.
“Oh, she definitely does,” the chief said to Ryskamp. “However, she should be aware that Mr. Burns soiled himself while expiring, adding to other unsavory elements.”
Angie remarked that nothing could smell as bad as the