mother. Not even a potted plant. She describes him as a solitary soul. His father says creepy loner.”
“How tall?”
“Five-ten.”
“Weight?”
“An even deuce,” Crosby said.
Together they overturned the garbage can and spread the bullet-riddled snake on the dock. Stepping back from the gore, Angie said, “Good news. This one didn’t eat anybody.”
“You’re sure?”
“See, no lump. Also, it’s not big enough to swallow someone as beefy as your missing angler.”
“Then what happened out there?”
“Well, pythons do love water,” she said. “I’m guessing it got tired from the long swim and crawled up into Huppler’s boat for a rest. If he’s not a fan of snakes, he probably freaked the fuck out and jumped overboard.”
Crosby said, “They counted nine empty beer cans on the skiff.”
“The contents of which would not improve one’s judgment, or endurance.”
“None of the life vests are missing.”
“Supporting the theory of a sudden exit.” Angie shrugged. “Let’s hope the poor guy’s clinging to a piling behind one of these mansions, waiting to be rescued.”
“Doubtful,” said Crosby. “The feds had an armada out there all night, plus three choppers.”
“Why the feds?”
“Because the wind blew Huppler’s skiff toward Casa Bellicosa.”
“Ah. That means our fearless leader’s in town.”
“No, but the First Lady is. Are we done with this damn thing?”
“Yes, sir, we are.”
The chief helped Angie fold the bloody reptile back into the garbage can. She snapped on the lid and said, “It’s weird, though. This part of the coast is definitely not their usual habitat.”
She’d chalked off the Burmese that grabbed Katherine Fitzsimmons as a geographic outlier, yet here was another jumbo edition straying out of its established range, crossing a busy waterway on a chilly winter night when it should have been dozing in a faraway swamp.
“How do you think it got here?” Crosby asked.
“Maybe they’re bailing out of the Everglades to find more prey.”
“I wish they’d wait until the season’s over.”
“These are encroachments, Jerry, not an infestation.”
“Thanks for clarifying. I feel so much better.”
Together they lugged the can of dead reptile to her new pickup truck. Angie waved goodbye and headed for the Turnpike, where a state biologist with a casket-sized cooler was waiting at the service plaza. On her return drive to the city, Angie called the jail and asked if she could see Diego Beltrán. After a lengthy hold, a deputy came on the line and said Mr. Beltrán would be available for a ten-minute visit.
Angie was resolved to stay upbeat. She still felt bad for raising the young man’s hopes so high after she’d leaked the Uric Burns suicide note to MSNBC. Rachel Maddow had gone beast-mode, condemning the “No More Diegos!” campaign as xenophobic propaganda, calling for Beltrán’s immediate release, and demanding monetary reparations be paid to him and his family.
For his part, Special Agent Paul Ryskamp had kept his word and paid a discreet visit to the state attorney, who murkily refused to budge.
Meanwhile the White House had shot back with a counter-leak so clever and slick that it couldn’t possibly have been devised by the President. Attributed to sources in the Justice Department, the story fed to Fox News and OAN asserted that Uric Burns had falsely exonerated Beltrán in his suicide note in order to protect Burns’s own loved ones, who feared a violent retaliation by Beltrán’s fellow terrorists—the same brutal gang that had “abducted and assassinated” presidential loyalist Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons. The Fox exclusive said Burns believed his family would be spared if, in his final act, he pretended never to have met the murderous Honduran outlaw.
Every word of the leak was fiction, and Angie naively had hoped that someone in the Burns family would step forward to debunk it. Instead a bespectacled lawyer-spokesperson went on CNN, saying Uric’s parents and siblings were still grieving for him and his victims, and collectively would have no comment.
So, months later, Diego remained in jail. The cell beside his was now occupied by a loose-fingered accountant, the llama molester having posted bail and fled the jurisdiction. Wyoming was the rumor.
Diego forced a smile as he entered the interview room. He looked listless and thinner than the last time Angie had seen him.
“That’s not what paralegals wear,” he said of her khaki capture garb. “I can’t believe they let you in here like that.”
“Gotta be the briefcase.” She opened it to reveal a stack of legal-sized file folders padded with blank copy paper. Diego made a sound like a deathbed chuckle.
“Unfortunately, I’ve got nothing new to report,” Angie said.
“Well, I do. I’m on my