Clownfish Blues

Chapter 8

The Next Morning

Traffic stacked up on a lazy, hot stretch of Old Dixie Highway running south from Miami to Homestead. A carpet-remnant outlet just held its eighth going-out-of-business sale, but the turnout was so anemic that they had to go out of business.

Next to the store, two police cars sat side by side, facing opposite directions so the officers could talk through their open driver’s windows. In prison lingo, it’s called a sixty-nine.

“Two flakka arrests this morning.”

“What’s with these new street drugs?” said the other officer. “And why does Florida always get them first?”

“We’re number one!”

“I just don’t understand the drug fringe. And flakka is the worst yet. People pay good money for a substance whose primary effect is an overwhelming urge to get naked in broad daylight.”

“That tends to stand out. Like the guy having sex with a tree . . .”

“. . . Or leaping on hoods of moving cars, proclaiming he’s the god Thor.”

“. . . Or urinating in motel ice machines.”

“Remember when crime had a point?”

“At least this drug makes it easy for us. Three users this month ran into police stations demanding protection from invisible enemies.”

The officer facing the road stopped talking as his eyes followed a northbound vehicle. “I think we got one.”

The other cop turned around. When he did, the German shepherd in the backseat also turned. The dog’s name was Nixon. “Which car?”

The first officer pointed. “Rusty station wagon packed to the gills with garbage bags.”

“What’s our pretext?”

“The bags are blocking the view out the rear window.”

“Is that an actual infraction?”

A shrug. “Courts have upheld searches as long as we think it’s an infraction.”

“I love the War on Drugs.”

Both vehicles peeled out in diametric circles before regrouping on the highway. The lead patrol car radioed in the traffic stop.

Moments later . . .

If traffic was backed up before, now it was a festering, motionless river of irate drivers sticking heads out windows to investigate the delay. A station wagon had been pulled over, one tire on the curb, parked at a dysfunctional angle blocking the right lane. Red and blue lights revolved atop two cruisers sitting behind it. The first officer was all business at the driver’s window. “License and registration.”

A brown man smiled back.

“Didn’t you hear me? License and registration.”

The smile got wider as the man began nodding but doing nothing else.

“Do you understand me?”

The man continued nodding. “No hablo inglés.”

The officer spoke louder. “License-o.”

The other cop held a leash, walking Nixon around the Pennzoil-dripping heap. When they reached the rear bumper, the dog sat in a perky position and barked. He received an imitation-bacon treat.

“Dougan,” yelled the canine officer. “I think we got a hit.”

Dougan took a step back from the driver’s door and placed a hand on his holster. “Sir, get out of the car . . .”

The brown man smiled and nodded.

Then a voice from the backseat: “Please, he can’t speak English!”

The officer hadn’t noticed the second person in the car, obscured by the pile of bags. He pulled his Glock. “Show your hands!”

Two petite sets of fingers appeared from the bags. “Don’t shoot!” Thick accent, but at least the official language.

“Ma’am, don’t move!” The officer glanced back at his colleague with the dog. “We have a passenger!”

The second cop quickly rounded the car and opened the door. A plump older woman raised her arms in the air and got out, tumbling garbage bags onto the pavement. “Don’t shoot.”

“Is that your husband?” asked the officer.

“Sí.”

“Tell him to step out of the car before he gets hurt.”

She spoke rapidly in Spanish.

The driver complied, and they were given complimentary seats in the rear of one of the patrol cars.

“Ma’am, our dog indicated the presence of drugs in your vehicle—”

“No drugs! No drugs!”

“Then you won’t mind if we search?”

“No drugs!”

More units arrived, and a tedious excavation began in the rear of the station wagon. The sidewalk was soon covered with the contents of the plastic sacks. Mostly clothes, the kind that other people leave out for Salvation Army. Then loose utensils, hot plate, doorstop, Dixie cups, plastic bowls decorated with the Flintstones, half a set of dominoes, snarled yarn, hairnet, a lamp without a shade, glow-in-the-dark Elvis, a shade without a lamp, which wouldn’t fit the other lamp. It was the consumerism of hope.

Nine patrol cars later, the precinct lieutenant arrived. “Another garage sale?”

Dougan was bent over, pawing through the back of the car. “It’s got to be here somewhere. Nixon definitely picked up something.”

It came down to a final bag tucked low behind the spare tire. Dougan opened the top. “Well, well, well, look what we have here.”

“What is it?” The lieutenant peeked inside. A fifteen-gallon plastic sack crammed with unorganized cash of all denominations.

“Malloy! Bring Nixon over!”

The dog arrived and promptly sat on the pavement, barking at the money.

They pulled the two suspects from the back of the patrol car and uncuffed them. “No drugs!”

“You’re right,” said Dougan. “We didn’t find any illegal narcotics in your vehicle. However, our canine indicated that your cash is positive for cocaine residue, so we are required to seize it under Florida’s drug forfeiture laws.”

“No jail! No jail!” pleaded the wife.

“No, you’re not going to jail,” said the officer. “Since actual contraband wasn’t uncovered during our search, we have nothing to charge you with. Consider this your lucky day. You’re free to go.”

She pointed at a pair of officers dumping the money into an evidence bag. “Dinero?”

“I told you we have to impound it.”

Another officer strolled over and ripped an official page off the top of a clipboard. “Here’s your receipt. Under the law, you have the right to hire an attorney and appeal.”

Her eyelids rose in optimism. “You serious? We can really go?”

The patrolman gestured toward the undependable vehicle. “Stay out of trouble. And maybe have that suspension looked at.”

She quickly grabbed her husband by the arm and rushed him to the car. “Vámanos!”

The station wagon hopped down off the curb and chugged away.

The lieutenant ambled over. “They didn’t seem like drug smugglers.”

“They weren’t,” said Dougan.

“You mean you just confiscated money from innocent people?”

“What I’m saying is that the real drug smugglers are now hiring all these poor peasants to fly under the radar for them,” said the officer. “First, they were paying these unfortunate people a few hundred dollars to swallow enough condoms of drugs that it would kill everyone in our station house if they broke. Or worse: they hide drugs in a baby’s diapers, because infants are the perfect camouflage. But if any leaked—” The officer looked askance. “And I thought I’d seen evil before.”

“Except you didn’t find any drugs in this particular vehicle?” said the lieutenant.

“That’s how the pipeline works.” Dougan pointed at a distant station wagon belching black smoke. “The drugs come one direction. And someone has to take the cash back the other.”

“What was your probable cause to search?”

“Didn’t need any. The wife gave us permission,” said Dougan. “But even if she hadn’t, the dog barked. Who are we to argue?”

The lieutenant looked up and down the debris-covered sidewalk, which resembled a recycling sorting station. “But why did they leave all their stuff?”

“In a hurry to get out of here,” said Dougan. “More evidence of guilt.”

The lieutenant briefly bit his lower lip in strained thought. “Good job. Write it up, and I might be able to put a nice word in your files.”

The lieutenant departed and Officer Malloy came over. “Doesn’t he know anything? How did he ever get to be lieutenant?”

“Political appointment,” said Dougan. “Uncle’s on the commission.”

They looked farther up the road as a trail of black smoke dissipated over a bank building. “Think they’ll appeal the cash forfeiture?”

“If I was a betting man . . .”

Meanwhile . . .

Police cars were parked everywhere.

Because it was a police station. Coconut palms shaded a regulation handicapped ramp that led to the entrance with the city seal on the door. The seal featured a pelican because neighboring cities already had dibs on more popular birds.

The back door of a black Suburban opened. Reevis got out. “Could you please let me go in first and talk normally to these people before your blitz attack?”

“Easy enough,” said Nigel. “We need to get a running start anyway.”

“Whatever.” Reevis strolled toward the lobby in a rumpled dress shirt that was untucked in back.

The desk sergeant looked up. “Can I help you?”

The reporter flashed his credentials. “I’m Reevis Tome with Florida Cable News. Is the public information officer available?”

“Sure, I’ll get him.” He picked up the phone. “Lieutenant Schott, there’s a reporter here to see you . . . Okay.” He hung up. “The lieutenant will be out in a minute—” The sergeant suddenly jumped to his feet. “What in the hell?”

Nigel and Günter came crashing through the front doors with camera and lights.

“Turn that thing off now!” yelled the sergeant.

“Why?” asked Nigel. “Are you covering up police corruption?”

“I’m not going to ask you again!”

“You’re doing great!” Nigel told the sergeant. “Do you think you could draw your gun? . . .”

Fifteen minutes later, Reevis and the public information officer conferred quietly on the side of the police lobby. The lieutenant finally nodded and glanced over at the sergeant. “Uncuff ’em.”

The bracelets came off, and Nigel and Günter rubbed their wrists.

“The lieutenant is going to take us back to his office now,” said Reevis. “Do you think you can settle down?”

“No problem,” said Nigel. “You’re the journalist. You know better than anyone else how to do your job.”

The police officer led the trio through the security door and down a bare white hallway.

Reevis ended up in a chair in front of the desk, reviewing detectives’ files. It was still an ongoing investigation, so there was no public right to the documents. But the info officer had worked with Reevis before and knew he could be trusted—at least with the parts of the files he wanted the reporter to see. Another unwritten alliance in journalism: They both knew they were using each other, and everyone was content with the arrangement.

“Glad you’re doing a story on the case,” said the lieutenant. “When a crime goes this cold, we often get our big break when a witness we never knew existed sees something about it on TV and decides to come forward.”

“That’s what we’re hoping for,” said Reevis, flipping pages. “So you ruled out the landscaper who was found driving her car?”

“Ruled him out enough to let him go.”

“What about the auto-theft charge?” asked the reporter.

“Technicality with the traffic stop,” said the officer. “The dash-cam showed the turn signal actually was working, so we lost probable cause.”

“But the bottom line is that all three suspects are still active?”

“We prefer you’d call them persons of interest.”

“The husband?” asked Reevis.

The lieutenant shrugged. “He’s the husband.”

“Do you think there was motive because of his wife’s affair with the short-order cook?”

“We looked into that, and it’s not as suspicious as it sounds. The couple was estranged, and she had already moved into her own apartment before starting the relationship. According to all their friends, everything was out in the open, and the husband was copacetic.”

“What about the cook?”

The lieutenant smiled. Officially, he could only say so much. They were entering read-between-lines territory.

“As you can see in the file, he’s had some arrests, including arson about ten years ago. Did two years for torching his girlfriend’s place.”

“Wait,” said Reevis, flipping backward through the papers. “Didn’t I read where there was a small fire in the missing woman’s apartment that was quickly put out? Right after she disappeared?”

The lieutenant was deliberately economical. “Officially ruled an accidental fire started by a bad electrical fuse.”

Reevis scribbled notes. “I have a hard time believing that was a coincidence.”

The lieutenant smiled again. “Unless someone knew how to tamper with such a fuse to cover their tracks. Some arsonists learn from their mistakes.”

“And someone can pick up a lot of tips during a two-year stretch in the can.”

“You said that, not me.”

Reevis continued writing. “Where is the cook now?”

“Pulling another deuce. Larceny.”

“Oh, I get it now.” Reevis leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “May I theorize?”

“Be my guest.”

“You think the cook did it, but you don’t have a complete case. Lucky for you, he’s currently being detained in prison, so there’s no need to file charges and set the constitutional speedy-trial clock ticking. Your office will probably put a hold on him at the prison just before his release date.”

Another grin. “That’s an interesting theory.”

“Any guidance you’d like to pass along?”

“Nothing really. But the Sawgrass Lounge is an interesting piece of old Florida. You might want to check it out.”

“Already been there,” said Reevis. “But I know where you’re going with this. The missing woman never set foot in the bar, which existed a world away from her normal lifestyle. Yet her car was abandoned there. So if the cook was known to frequent the bar, it would link everything together.”

“Funny thing how some places don’t like to open up to the police.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Reevis looked back at his cameraman. “But I might have to mend some fences.”

The pair stood and shook hands.

“Great seeing you again, Reevis.”

“Thanks for the help, Lieutenant.”

They were startled by a single, sharp clap of hands. “Exquisite!” said Nigel. “Now could you do it again from the beginning, but this time argue like you’re very angry with him for questioning your lax investigation.”

“Argue?” said the officer.

Nigel nodded. “Then throw him out.”

“Why?” asked the lieutenant. “I don’t have any reason to throw him out.”

“Excuse me,” said Nigel. “What’s that on your desk?”

“Oh, this?” A proud smile. “It’s an old cast-iron model police car with the vintage bubble-top light. They presented it to my grandfather when he retired from the force.”

Nigel pulled out his keys and scratched the side of the small car with a cringe-inducing sound.