Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,72
fries, and a cup of black coffee. Joel wore a jacket and tie because he had a job interview.
“Assistant manager at Staples,” he said. “See, fantasies do come true.”
“Try to be a ray of positivity.” Angie pinched a brown tick from her shirt, crushing it between her fingers. “Little bastard,” she said, and went to the restroom to wash her hands and check herself for more job-related parasites. When she returned to the bar, Joel said he had some news.
“Krista and I moved in together,” he said.
“Sweet! Her place, I assume.”
“Yeah, the condo in Palm Beach Gardens.’’
“She seems like a good one. I’m happy for you, Joel.”
“Thanks. But there’s something else I couldn’t talk about in front of her. I’ve been getting some phone calls.”
“Oh shit,” Angie said. “Pruitt?”
“Six o’clock sharp, every evening.”
“Ass. Hole.”
“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to freak. Krista doesn’t know yet, but I’ve got to tell her.”
“No need to scare her. I’ll deal with it.”
“This has been going on a week or so,” Joel said.
“And what does he say when he calls? The usual?”
“That’s the thing. At first he’d just rant and rave and hang up, but last night it got real. He said he knows where Krista lives so she better watch out. He said I ought to make you start her car every morning.”
Angie pushed her plate away. “Did he mention the actual address?”
“No, so he’s probably been bluffing. But still…”
“The phone numbers he uses, they’re all spoofed?”
“Yup. Different area code every time.”
“Okay, I’m on it.”
“What’re you going to do?” Joel asked.
“Go find him, what else.”
“That’s nuts, Angie. You’ve got cop friends—let them handle it.”
She said, “You guys should go stay with your dad and the equestrian.”
“What’s our cover story?”
“The condo’s getting painted. Or tented for fleas, I don’t care. Bedbugs?”
Joel nodded pensively and took a sip of coffee. Angie called for the check and got up to leave.
“Yo, finish your burger,” said Joel.
“Next time lunch is on you, when you’re a big shot at Staples.”
“Where are you going? See, this is exactly what I was afraid of.”
“Good luck with the job interview,” she said. “Then go talk to your girlfriend and get packed. Tell her the bedbug crew is coming tomorrow, whatever. You’re a bright young fellow, you’ll think of something.”
From the truck Angie tried to call Jerry Crosby. He didn’t pick up, so she left a message saying that fucker Pruitt was back in action. Next she tried to reach Paul Ryskamp in the hope he was finished sulking. Since he didn’t answer the phone, she drove to the building where the Secret Service had its West Palm office. Without the keypad code to the agency’s private elevator, Angie found herself staking out the lobby. Her khaki ensemble made it impossible to blend in, and before long an agent appeared, handed her a clip-on laminate and led her upstairs. Ryskamp was dressed in total tiki-bar mufti, including flip-flops.
“I’ll have an apple margarita,” Angie said, “with a floater.”
Ryskamp pointed at the bank of surveillance monitors upon which her movements had been tracked from the moment she’d parked the pickup.
“I tried calling first,” she said. “I figured you were still pissed.”
“I wasn’t, and I’m not.”
“Once again, you’re a terrible liar.”
Ryskamp’s smile wasn’t quite the same as before. “I’m not mad, Angie. But if you’re here to discuss the subject we’ve already exhausted, then Agent Frey will be taking you back downstairs.”
She said, “Don’t worry, I’m not here about Beltrán. This is personal.”
“Have a seat.”
“Man, when you hit the Off switch, you hit it hard.”
“So, what’s up?”
Angie told him about Pruitt’s phone calls to Joel. “Supposedly he moved out of the county and vanished. I need some help, Paul.”
“He doesn’t sound smart enough to vanish.”
“Even if he did, you people can find anybody. That’s your thing. Some meth-head living under a bridge says he’s gonna pop the President, you guys have the crazy fool locked up by the end of the week.”
“Sometimes,” said Ryskamp.
“Pruitt might be in Iceland for all I know, but he’s still gotta pay rent and utilities, or at least have a credit card. For sure his name and address are in a database somewhere.”
“Has he ever done anything worse than make phone calls?”
“Look, he’s threatening my stepson and his girlfriend. I can’t take a chance that he hasn’t suddenly stripped his gears.”
“Say I was able to locate him. Tell me what you’d do with the information, Angie.”
“Notify the authorities that have legal jurisdiction?”
“Give me an effing