Pineapple grenade

Chapter Six

Miami Morgue

The lieutenant stared in defeat at a shark and partially digested arm. “Is it too decomposed to get an ID?”

“Definitely.”

The officer took a deep breath. “Then I guess it’s the missing-persons files.”

“Randy Swade.”

“Who?”

“That’s his name.”

“But I thought you said-”

The M.E. stuck his pen into a tray and lifted a wristwatch. “Engraved.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me sooner?… Wait, where have I heard that name before?”

“Journalist for the New Metro Loafing Times.”

“That weekly rag with ads for sex-chat lines and kits to clean urine samples?”

The M.E. dropped the wristwatch in the pan. “Went missing a couple weeks ago in Costa Gorda. Found a passport and junk in his room.”

“Now I remember,” said the lieutenant. “They thought he got drunk at one of those spring-break bars that caters to underage American kids and then went swimming at night or some other misadventure.”

“They got the misadventure part right.” The M.E. snapped off his gloves and began washing up in the sink.

“You’re saying the shark swam all the way back to the Miami River?”

“Of course not.” The M.E. turned off the faucets. “I don’t think Randy ever left Miami.”

“But his passport and luggage…”

“Remember the investigative series he was working on for the paper?”

“I don’t read that trash,” said the lieutenant. “Nobody takes those conspiracy nuts seriously. All their articles about the CIA dealing crack.”

“I know most of it’s baloney, but still entertaining.” He grabbed a hand towel. “Randy was writing about Miami being the arms-smuggling capital of the Caribbean basin. Fancied himself landing the next Iran-Contra scoop. He was naming some pretty big fish, excuse the pun.”

“Luckily it’s a matter for the Costa Gordan police.”

The M.E. glanced toward the tray with the severed hand. “Looks like it just swam back into your jurisdiction.”

“Great.” A deep sigh. “Couldn’t he have gotten robbed somewhere else?”

The examiner walked over and tossed the towel in a bin. “Lieutenant, if it really was his stuff in that Costa Gordan motel and he never left Miami, someone went through a lot of trouble.”

Biscayne Bay

Midnight.

All quiet on the water. The bay had been dark toward the east, but now a thin line of alabaster light appeared on the ocean’s horizon, where a full moon prepared to rise over the Atlantic.

Toward the north, a magical white aura from the distant Miami skyline and, closer, the lights of Key Biscayne with the outline of the Cape Florida lighthouse anchoring its southern tip.

But the island remained a ways off, as did the mainland. Even farther to the south, the Ragged Keys and Boca Chita, the first dribbling specks of exposed coral that grew into the Florida Keys.

A luxury fishing boat drifted silently with the tide in one of the isolated spots of Biscayne National Park. Serge stood up on the bridge with a nautical map and a flashlight, waiting for the moon. Two would-be carjackers lay by the bilge, wiggling with hands tied behind their backs.

“We weren’t going to hurt anyone!” “I swear we’ll never do it again!”

“All my guests say that.” Serge unloaded scuba equipment from one of the oversize duffels in the boat. “And they’re always right.”

The assailants stared at weight belts and mesh gear bags. “W-w-what are you going to do to us?”

“Thought we’d play a little game. You watch David Letterman? He leaves me in stitches!”

“Please let us go! We’ll do anything! We’ll pay you!”

“Shhhhh.” Serge repacked the bag. “You won’t be able to experience the peace out here.”

A beer cracked. “Where’d you get this boat?” asked Coleman.

“Stan.”

“Stan?”

“The High-End Repo Man. He owed me. You’ll meet him later.”

The moon finally rose, giving Serge needed illumination. He raised binoculars.

Coleman guzzled. “What are you looking for?”

Serge scanned the water. “A house.”

“House?” Coleman crumpled the aluminum can. “But we’re in the middle of the sea.”

“It’s one of our state’s most fascinating and historic features.” The binoculars stopped. “And there it is.”

“What?”

“Stiltsville.” Serge cranked the twin inboards and began motoring east just above idle speed. “A village of old wooden shacks on piers in the water.”

“Way out here?” said Coleman.

“That’s the coolest part.” Serge pushed the throttle forward and brought the boat up on a plane. “Most pier houses simply extend from shore, or sit just a short distance from it. Not Stiltsville! In the 1930s, these crazy pioneers started building them far out in the bay on the edge of the open Atlantic, a harrowing distance from nearest land. At its peak there were dozens, but neglect and hurricanes thinned their numbers until now only seven are left standing. If it was daytime, you’d see a colorful collection of eclectic huts with wraparound decks perched in bright emerald-and-turquoise water.”

The boat continued across the water without running lights except for the orange glow from Coleman’s joint. “But why’d they build them so far from shore?”

“To party.” Serge brought the boat around starboard.

“Hold it,” said Coleman. “For a second I thought you said ‘party.’ ”

“It was the first of many wild eras in Miami. The well heeled needed places to keep law enforcement at bay, and they held wild affairs at since-forgotten icons like Crawfish Eddie’s, the Quarterdeck Club, the Bikini Club, and the Calvert. The area used to be called ‘the Flats’ and ‘the Shacks,’ until ‘Stiltsville’ stuck. Despite its remoteness, there still were frequent raids over alcohol and gambling. One outside porch got so crowded with partiers that it collapsed under the weight. They filmed episodes of Miami Vice there.”

Coleman leaned eagerly and strained his eyes. “Do they still party?”

“No, most are now just private homes.”

“Damn.” A frown. “I wish I lived back then.”

“You do in spirit.” Serge looked back toward the bilge. “Guys, you might want to sit up or you’ll kick yourselves for missing this. Actually you won’t be able to miss it, thanks to my plan.”

Coleman pointed with the joint. “Serge, I think I see one.”

“Our destination.” The boat came to port on dead reckoning. “Although most of the shacks are residences, I did a property-record search and this baby’s only occupied a couple weekends a month. Some boating club owns it.”

Coleman looked around. “Where are the others? You said seven.”

“Spread out for privacy. Just like I’ll need tonight. Plus it has the deepest channel.”

The boat completed the rest of the journey without conversation, until Serge pulled off the throttle and threw a line around a pier. He lashed the vessel fast to the cleats.

“Everyone out!”

Serge hoisted his prisoners and rolled them onto the dock. Then unloaded gear. “Coleman, give me a hand with this cooler. It’s super-heavy.”

Soon, they were all snuggled inside the Stiltsville shack. Serge walked around the perimeter, propping open shutters, and soothing views of moonlit water poured in.

Silence. Only lapping waves against the piers.

Serge set a portable, battery-powered TV on the counter and raised the antenna.

Captives flopped around.

Serge rotated the antenna, trying to get snow off the tube. He looked back at the floor. “All that worrying isn’t good for your blood pressure. We’re in one of the most picturesque places on earth. You should look out the windows-very easy on the nerves. I’ve been waiting my whole life to get inside a Stiltsville shack.”

A final twist of the antenna. Serge stepped back as the picture cleared. “There we go.”

Coleman lit another joint. “It’s Letterman.”

“I saw previews this afternoon.” Serge stood with hands on hips. “He’s going to do one of my favorite bits.”

On the tiny screen, Letterman tapped an index card: “And now another edition of ‘Will It Float?’…”

Stage curtains parted to reveal a large, clear tank of water. Statuesque assistants stood on each side.

“Tonight’s item is an Ionic Breeze Air Purifier… Paul Shaffer, think it will float?”

“There’s a lot of plastic. I think it’ll float.”

Serge looked at the carjackers. “Well? Is it going to float? Come on-play along.”

No response.

Coleman raised his hand. “I think it’ll float.”

“Me, too,” said Serge. “Let’s watch.”

The models next to the tank threw the ionizer in the water. It immediately went to the bottom.

“Ooooo.” Serge turned to the hostages. “Bad omen.” He flicked off the set and unloaded the duffel bags. “But maybe you’ll have better luck.”

Their eyes only held questions.

“What?” said Serge. “You don’t get it? We’re going to play the home version of ‘Will It Float?’ Tonight’s items? You!”

Meanwhile…

Spies never sleep.

Lights burned bright inside a converted 1960s safe house in Coral Gables. Cracked plaster, termite damage, boarded windows, new locks.

An emergency briefing.

The door flew open. Station Chief Duke “Nuke” Lugar. The nickname wasn’t a compliment. His temper. “What the hell was this business near the airport tonight?” Fiery eyes swung toward a junior agent in the first row. “Belcher!”

The agent’s hands shook as he opened his report. “Acquired subjects outside Miami International, 2108…” He passed forward eight-by-tens.

“A black SUV?”

Belcher nodded. “That’s Station Chief Oxnart’s surveillance team. We took those from our own black SUV.” He produced more photos.

“The president of Costa Gorda?” asked Lugar.

The agent nodded again. “We think they’re working an arms deal with Oxnart. Probably using a front corporation.”

“But I thought we were working the arms deal with them?”

The agent shrugged.

Lugar kicked over a chair. “That weasel’s moving in on my turf-and my promotion!” The station chief looked back at Belcher. “And what was this silliness you blathered on the phone about a carjacking?”

The agent fumbled more photos. “Here’s Oxnart’s black SUV on an access road near the Dolphin Expressway.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Looks like there was an attempt on Guzman’s life, but it was foiled.”

Lugar threw up his arms. “Great! Now he also gets commendations!”

Belcher timidly raised a hand.

Lugar clenched his teeth. “This better be good.”

“Sir,” said Belcher. “I don’t think Oxnart foiled the attempt.”

“Then who did?”

Trembling hands produced more photos. Night-vision close-ups of two faces.

“Who the hell are these guys?” asked Lugar.

“Nobody knows,” said Belcher. “But we ran facial recognition and got a hit. The tall one was photographed taking photographs outside the Costa Gordan consulate yesterday.”

“So Oxnart is working the arms deal! And he’s now got his own man inside the consulate!”

“Doubt it,” said Belcher. “These other photos show guards ejecting him from the building. They threw him to the ground really hard.”

“You idiot! That means they hired him.” The chief began pacing in thought. “This is a nightmare.”

The door opened at the back of the room. A man in a hat took a seat.

“You’re late,” snapped Lugar.

“Sorry,” said Mandrake. “Just got back from the bay. Picked up Oxnart’s surveillance team near the waterfront and spotted two unknowns, but they had a boat and slipped our tail.”

Lugar punched a wall. “Can’t anyone do anything right?”

“I think this is important.” Mandrake handed forward his own photographs.

“More mystery players?” said Lugar. “Dreadlocks and a shaved head?”

“The ones that attacked Guzman’s limo. Here’s another photo of them being marched onto the boat at gunpoint by our unknowns.”

“Hey,” said Belcher. “Those are the same guys from the consulate.”

“You’re a genius.” Lugar resumed pacing. “Okay, we need to get out in front of this. What have we got so far? Oxnart’s new agents are in bed with Costa Gorda, and they intercepted a hit team on Guzman. Then took them out on the bay at night. Standard procedure for interrogation and disposal…”

A new hand went up in the back of the room.

“Yes, Blankenship?”

“Sir, I think we may have this all wrong. Sometimes the simplest explanation is the correct one.”

“What are you talking about?”

Another file opened. “After the facial recognition hit, I searched some databases and came up with a name. Serge A. Storms, wanted by state authorities for questioning in at least two dozen murders.”

Lugar nodded. “Professional assassin.”

“Don’t think so.” Blankenship flipped pages in a computer printout. “These look like garden-variety homicides. None of the victims appears to have any link to the intelligence community.”

“That means he’s good,” said Lugar. “Maintained cover to protect the Company. If he ever goes down, it’s just the work of one of this state’s countless psychotic serial killers.”

“I don’t know…”

“You said two dozen murders?”

“Yes?”

“And he’s never been caught? How’s that possible unless he’s sanctioned? With a sanitation team working behind him. I’m thinking Oxnart.”

“So what do we do?”

“Cancel all vacations.” Lugar uprighted the kicked-over chair. “Maybe we can turn this Serge character.”

“Turn him?” asked Belcher. “But if you’re right, he’s already working on our side.”

“Not turn him from the enemy. From Oxnart. Somebody with his talents needs to be working for my station.”