Tiger Shrimp Tango

Chapter Eleven

JUST BEFORE SUNRISE

A convoy of landscaping trucks arrived before most people were out the door for work.

But those people were not near. The field was down a soothing country road west of the city. It curved through cattle land and bulldozed citrus groves awaiting rows of identical pre-fab houses with screened-in pools stacked on top of one another. Small egrets picked bugs off the backs of cows. Herons worked the standing water, and vultures worked the road.

Mini-tractors and other riding equipment were unchained and rolled backward off flatbed trailers. A lone machine began buzzing, which touched off many more, like the first cricket in a mating swarm.

Someone with a chain saw on a long pole attacked a dead limb overhead. Twin bush-hog mowers went at the field from opposite ends. Another tractor-like vehicle lowered a mechanical arm in front of the cab. At the end of the arm was a whirling vertical cutting disk with menacing carbide teeth along the circumference. The operator had a protective screen of safety glass to deflect any high-velocity debris as the disk hit the ground and swept side to side.

A giant branch snapped with a loud crack. A man in a construction helmet took off running with his chain saw before the limb landed where he’d just been standing. The bush hogs made progress to meet in the middle of the field like spike-drivers on the Transcontinental Railroad. The employee with the spinning disk had ear protection and didn’t hear when he hit metal. But he wondered what had just bounced so violently off his safety glass.

Then someone else in a helmet ran at him, waving wildly. “Stop the stump grinder! Stop the stump grinder!”

The employee operating the grinder was suddenly blinded when an aggressive red spray covered his safety glass. The machine went silent. The spinning disk slowly rotated to a stop.

All the mechanical crickets in the field were quiet when police arrived. The other employees had abandoned their own equipment and were standing around the stump grinder. Then they were told to stand somewhere else. The crime-scene people initiated a grid excavation with surveying stakes and twine. The only things they could bag and tag were small fragments of possible evidence.

The detectives hated wearing suits in open fields at noon. They threw their jackets in the cars and went looking for the medical examiner.

“Where’s the body?” asked the lead investigator.

“Working on it,” said the coroner.

“You called us out here and we don’t even know if we have a body?”

“No, we have a body all right,” said the examiner. “Just can’t rush and disturb the scene. This is an ugly one.”

“So where is it?” said a second detective.

“Right there.”

The detectives looked down at a broad circle of bloodstained wood chips. “Okay, that’s the homicide scene, but where’d they move the body to?”

“They didn’t.”

“What?”

A forensic excavator worked tediously with an archaeologist’s brush. He dusted off one of the larger roots along the edge of the stump. “Sir, I found another one.”

“Another what?” asked the detective.

The coroner didn’t answer as he knelt next to his assistant. “Okay, slowly cut the root, freeing the eyelet . . . Perfect. Now start twisting carefully . . .”

The detectives watched in bewilderment as an unidentified object slowly rotated up out of the ground and revealed itself.

“What’s that?”

The examiner grabbed it with a latex glove and pulled it the rest of the way from the dirt. He walked back to the detectives and slipped it into one of his larger evidence bags. “Hurricane tie-down.”

The investigators stared at the iron corkscrew. “Tie-down?”

“Found three so far, and I’d bet my paycheck there’s another in the fourth quadrant,” said the examiner. “They’re screwed into the ground to firmly secure sheds and stuff from being overturned or blown away in tropical storms.”

“I’m not making the connection here.”

The examiner handed the bag to an assistant. “The culprit used these to hold down the stump.”

“Forgive my ignorance,” said the second detective. “But don’t stumps do a pretty good job holding themselves down? That’s why people have to pay for heavy machinery to come out and remove them.”

The examiner shook his head. “Not this one. There are two ways to deal with stumps: Use a grinder to chip it down just below ground level, leaving only the roots. Or use a small front-end loader and scoop the whole thing. This one was scooped from somewhere else.”

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.” The examiner pointed to where his team now worked with lengthy crowbars to tip the stump. “After it was originally removed, someone sheared away the underlying root structure, leaving it with a level base to lie flat on the ground. And with the roots gone, the hurricane screws became necessary. They became the roots.”

“But why did they need to do that to begin with?”

“To hold the stump in place over the victim.”

“The victim’s under there? Jesus, are you saying he was killed by being buried alive?”

“You’re halfway there.” The examiner grabbed another evidence bag from an assistant and held it up toward the detectives.

“Looks like a small plumbing pipe.”

“For showerheads.” The examiner handed it back. “It’s how the victim was able to breathe underground. And the pipe was the first thing that bounced off the grinder’s safety glass.”

“You mean his face was right under—” The detective placed a palm on his stomach. “I think I may be sick.”

“I told you it gets ugly. Whoever did this had a lot of rage. He left the guy overnight to think about it, and arranged for the landscaping company to come in this morning and do the dirty work. Literally.”

A third detective arrived.

“Got any leads?” asked the one in charge.

The new guy shook his head and opened a notebook. “The property owner of record checks out. Clean rap sheet. Says he never ordered any work. And the landscapers say the job was requested over the phone, which turns out to be a prepaid disposable cell that’s impossible to trace.”

“Payment?”

“Stolen credit card.”

The detective stared down again at the nasty pool of blood, then closed his eyes tight. “What kind of monster are we dealing with?”

DOWNTOWN TAMPA

Skyline. Hustle and bustle. Historic theater with balconies, the hockey arena, the landmark “beer can” building. People moving briskly to the thriving rhythms of the big city.

In one of the towering buildings, people came and went in slow motion, indicating it contained government offices.

A black Firebird pulled into a metered spot at the curb.

“Lower that joint!” Serge jerked a thumb sideways. “That’s the county office.”

“But we just wrapped up that Corvette case for Mahoney.” Coleman cupped his hand for a quick hit. “It’s our day off.”

“Since when do we ever have a day off?”

“We’re always just aimlessly driving around.”

“That’s our job. Everyone else is too busy.” Serge grabbed a stack of papers from the glove compartment. “And since I did close that case, it’ll buy me some time with Mahoney to get started on my political private-eye career. Investigate some congressmen. The American people can’t wait much longer to be united.”

“And Felicia’s killer?”

Serge pursed his lips. “Okay, that’s the primary reason.”

“So how are you going to start?”

“I already did.” Serge flipped through the pages in his lap. “You can find almost anything on the Internet: voting records, campaign donors, business associations, even travel. And what I couldn’t find, I’m submitting Freedom of Information Act requests to be sent to Mahoney because we really don’t have a mailbox.”

“Who are you investigating?”

“Remember that political operative we took care of in the Gulf? He was wired into the whole conspiracy that got Felicia killed. So I figured why not start with the candidates he placed in office. It’s a two-for.”

Coleman stubbed out the roach. “Find anything yet?”

“Not sure.” Serge held up a page and squinted. “Like I said, the whole universe runs on patterns. And all his guys have some connection to Costa Gorda: junkets, trade bills, vacation villa, but it’s always something.”

“So you’ve figured it out?”

“Not yet.” Serge stuffed the papers away. “I’ll know more when those document requests come in to Mahoney. Meanwhile, we need to infiltrate the political parties so we can gather intelligence on the ground.”

“How do we do that?”

“The obvious first step is registering to vote.” Serge got out of the car with quarters for the meter. “We should do that anyway. It’s the sacred obligation of every citizen to participate in democracy and preciously preserve the integrity of the voting booth. So I got some fake IDs.”

Serge led Coleman into the building and up an elevator.

“How soon till they let us vote?” asked Coleman.

“Since we haven’t done it in a while, I’m hoping immediately.”

The elevator dropped them in a sterile office that was cut in half by a long counter with a series of customer-service stations. Serge took a paper ticket with a number, and they grabbed two chairs against the wall.

Coleman tugged Serge’s sleeve. “Are all the employees dead?”

“What?”

“They’re like statues. Nobody seems to be moving.”

“The human eye is inadequate. But special time-exposure scientific cameras have recently discovered they’re actually living organisms. It is believed they are the building blocks that create bureaucratic reefs.”

Serge raised his shirt, pulled out a clear tube attached to a plastic bladder Velcro’d to his stomach and began sucking coffee. Slurp, slurp, slurp. Coleman lifted his own shirt to grab a bladder tube for vodka. Slurp, slurp, slurp. A stranger sitting on the other side of Serge stared at them a second, then got up and moved six seats down.

Serge got up and took another chair six seats down next to the stranger. He clenched the tube in the corner of his mouth. “You got a lower number.”

“What?” asked the stranger.

“You have a lower customer-service number on your ticket than I do. Good for you, fair and square. Mine’s forty-three. People automatically think that the numbers are non-transferable, but they’re blind to possibilities. Like sometimes I’ll just go to a motor-vehicles office or a supermarket deli when I have no plans of conducting any business. Then I grab fifty numbers and wait for a whole bunch of people to arrive. And I redistribute the numbers based upon apparent need and good behavior until I’ve shuffled the whole social structure of the crowd.” Slurp, slurp, slurp. “It’s one of the few chances you get to play God. I know I shouldn’t play God, but the temptation is too great. You into Conrad? Heart of Darkness? Apocalypse Now?”

The stranger got up and moved another six seats away.

Serge stood and moved six seats with him. Suck, suck, suck. “Because the ticket system is a micro-example of everything that’s wrong with the country. We’re barreling full tilt into social Darwinism. Can’t thrive in the free market? Lie down in that unpatriotic ditch and die. Same thing in a supermarket deli. Low numbers often go to the pushiest people. Like I’ll see some young mother trying to manage three tots in a shopping cart, and then this buttoned-down young prick intentionally rushes past her to grab a number first. But he has no idea I’ve got my fifty numbers. So I hand the mom my lowest number and wish her blessings. Then more people arrive, and I give numbers to other moms, old people, the poor and the handicapped. Now the prick is ten more spots back. And he glares at me and opens his mouth, and I go, ‘Don’t say a word. I’ve got forty more numbers and can do this all afternoon.’ But he says something anyway—not polite to repeat it. And guess what? I did it all afternoon: Every time someone new arrived, I gave them a lower number, and the jerk could never get to the counter for his marinated mushrooms. I’m guessing about that part, but he looked the type . . . I sure would like your ticket, but I’d never ask. No, no, no, that would put you on the spot, and I’m all about not making people uncomfortable.”

The stranger tossed the stub in Serge’s lap—“take it”—and rushed out of the office.

Serge strolled back to Coleman, who was leaning with his head turned toward the door. “Man, that guy sure left in a hurry. Wonder what got into him.”

“Probably heading to the deli to play God.”

From flush-mount speakers in the ceiling: “Number forty-two . . . Number forty-two? . . . Is forty-two here? . . .”

“He went to the deli,” yelled Serge.

Coleman tugged his sleeve again. “The guy gave you his number before he split.”

“Oh, right!” Serge jumped up and waved his ticket in the air. “Me! Me! Me! I’m forty-two!”

They took a couple of seats at the counter.

“Now, how can I help you today?” asked a matronly civil servant.

“We want to vote!” said Serge.

“Good to hear. You want to register to vote.”

“Right, and then we want to vote.”

“When?”

Serge sucked the clenched tube. “Immediately.”

“But there’s no election going on.”

“What?” Serge removed the tube. “Listen, is this some kind of deal where you’re just trying to leave work early?”

“That’s not it—”

“Because I understand the hardship with government pay and all, but it’s nothing like the minimum-wage customer-care people. I won’t mention names, but you know the stores . . .” The tube went back in, slurp, slurp, slurp. “. . . Those lard-bricks have it down to a science with a one-size-fits-all answer: ‘No.’ And I’m trying to return a toaster, with a receipt no less, but it’s after the thirty days . . .”

“Excuse me—”

“. . . And the woman says I can only exchange it for the exact same model, and only if it’s defective, even though I’ve already told her that I want to upgrade to a better toaster and am willing to pay the difference—like she’s not listening to a single word I’m saying . . .”

“Excuse me—”

“So she plugs it in and says it’s not defective. And I say, ‘Oh, it’s defective all right. It doesn’t meet my toast requirements.’ ” Slurp, slurp. “I need ‘fast’ toast with my coffee for today’s balls-out lifestyle . . . Oh, if that last phrase was offensive, I meant like juggling a lot of balls in a hectic schedule, as opposed to, say, my balls. Darn, I’m just making it worse. Anyway, I love toast, especially with runny yolk, but toast is like the last food left that you can’t microwave, even though I’ve tried with special homemade reflectors that they ‘say’ you’re not supposed to put in the microwave, but I wasn’t believing it . . .”

“Excuse me—”

“. . . Now I have to return a defective microwave, and they asked, ‘What the heck did you put in here? and I said, ‘Just toast and hope.’ And they wouldn’t give me my money back because of so-called misuse. But here’s the remedy for that scenario: If you approach ten employees in these stores, you get ten different answers. So I waited until they went on break and found someone else at the counter who was busy texting and gave me my refund, which I wanted even less than to vote right now . . .”

“Excuse me—”

“So if you don’t mind, I’d like to try someone else in this office for a different answer. What about that fat lady over there eating a bag of Funyuns? Maybe I’ll ask her.”

“Sir, I’m quite sure of this.”

“What about early voting? Or absentee voting? Or one of impenetrable ten-paragraph constitutional amendments on homestead ad valorem reform. I’m ready to be counted!”

“Sir, there aren’t any elections for weeks.”

Serge pouted and pooched out his lower lip.

The woman smiled warmly. “Why don’t you just register to vote for now, and then it’s taken care of and you’ll be ready to vote when the election does come?”

Serge slowly sat up straight. “Alllllll right. I guess that will have to do.”

“Good,” said the clerk, getting out the forms. “Do you want to register with one of the political parties so you can vote in the primaries?”

“Definitely,” said Serge.

“Which one?”

“Both.”

The woman looked up. “You can’t join both.”

“Why not?” asked Serge.

“That’s just the way it works.”

“Are you sure you don’t have to leave work early?”

“I’m positive you can’t be in both parties.”

“Can I register to vote twice?”

“No.”

“I’m not getting this,” said Serge. “You can have dual citizenship. Surely loyalty to a political party isn’t more important than the country.”

“Actually it is.”

“Let’s fix that.” He opened a notepad and scribbled.

“Why do you want to join both parties anyway?”

“Because each has some great ideas, as well as some that are quite stinkaroo.” Serge stuck the tube in his mouth again. “Why not harness the best that both have to offer so it’s morning in America again? I already did the math.”

“You sound like you mean well, but the parties’ rules don’t permit it.”

Serge raised a fist over his head. “That’s the whole problem! I have no issue with fellow citizens pushing opposing viewpoints as long as it doesn’t involve drum circles or long-term magazine subscriptions. In fact, I’ve changed so much over the years that now I disagree with most of the people I used to be. And I liked those guys, who were me. Where is that tube? Oh, it’s in my mouth.” Slurp, slurp, slurp. “My beef isn’t philosophical; it’s strategic. The parties want half of America to hate the other half so we’re distracted from their real game. ‘Look! Over there! Two dudes are making out!’ ‘Where? I don’t see anything . . . Hey, I’m upside down on my mortgage, and my retirement account just lost three fucking decimal places!’ ”

“Sir, your language.”

“I’m on it.” Slurp, slurp. “You do that long enough to people and there’s open insurrection in the streets until we’re Northern Ireland, spending entire lives cutting through fields of shamrocks so we don’t pass any parked cars. I have enough on my plate already.”

The county clerk saw a way out of the quicksand. “You do realize there’s no rule against volunteering for both parties.”

Serge stopped for a moment with his mouth open. Then he grabbed Coleman by the arm and ran out the door.

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