Coconut Cowboy (20 page)

“Looks like Betsy missed a carrot on the other side,” said Serge. “She's coming back.”

“So is Lu,” said Coleman. “Make that ketchup.”

“Damn.” Serge tapped on the keyboard. “Thought it would last a little longer.”

“What are you doing now?”

“My latest task in social engineering for a brighter tomorrow,” said Serge.

“Which is?”

“A sentimental touch. I'm posting this on the Internet.” Keys tapped. “The best part is that Lu rediscovered true romance . . .”

Footsteps and a yawn. “Can I see what you guys are watching?”

Serge slammed the laptop closed. “Criminy sakes! Matt, don't sneak up on us like that!”

“Sorry.” He sat down on the edge of a bed with mussed hair, smacking his lips and tongue with cotton mouth. “So what was that on the screen anyway? Looked like someone in serious trouble.”

Serge turned the laptop over and studied its underside. “There's something wrong with the power supply. It does that at the worst times.”

 

Chapter
TWENTY-FIVE

THE NEXT DAY

L
ate-­morning traffic whizzed by on U.S. Highway 19. Out-­of-­state tourists in SUVs and rental cars slowed as they approached the parking-­lot entrance, then continued on when they saw the barricades and police officers waving orange batons.

The roadside attraction didn't have any visitors this day, but its lot was still full. Police and other emergency vehicles. Detectives, state officials, satellite trucks.

A TV reporter stood on the side of the road in front of the crime tape.

“This is Jessica Meredith reporting live from Homosassa Springs state park, the site of an overnight tragedy reminiscent of the killer-­whale death at Sea World. Police are releasing few details, but apparently an intruder cut through a fence under cover of night and found his way into the pen of the locally beloved celebrity hippo named Lu, where he was inadvertently stomped to death. Those close to the case describe a macabre scene too gruesome for words, as well as the presence of a mystery donkey seen in this photo wearing the cutest little hat . . .”

Medics wheeled a zippered body bag to the coroner's van.

“ . . . Unnamed sources have identified the victim as Rudolph Blix, the operator of a controversial sex website that has been assailed by animal-­rights activists such as those who can be seen here to my left . . .”

A row of roadside ­people cheered and waved signs at traffic:

H
ONK
I
F
Y
OU
L
OVE
L
U!

“ . . . In a final twist to the already bizarre chain of events, someone anonymously posted an Internet video supposedly showing the actual moment of death, and those knowledgeable in the field say it has become an instant viral favorite among the crushing-­fetish community . . .”

A high-­handlebar motorcycle honked as it sped past the sign wavers.

ACROSS THE STATE

Another packed lunchtime crowd in Lead Belly's.

Baby backs, pulled pork, slaw. Three tables formed a long one. Everyone pushed empty plates forward. “Let's get started.”

“Court is in session,” said Jabow. “The Honorable Judge Vernon presiding.”

He used a saltshaker as a gavel. “Bail is set at a hundred dollars.”

“I don't have that on me,” said Peter.

“What you got?”

He looked in his wallet. “Seventeen.”

Saltshaker banged. “Bail reduced to seventeen dollars. Defendant is free to go.”

“I am?”

“No, Jabow's taking you to a safe place until all this blows over.”

“But—­”

“Kid, you're not from around here,” said Vern. “When things get ugly, it's butt-­ugly.”

Jabow looked up at a wall clock advertising defunct root beer. “We better get going before you-­know-­who shows up.”

“Take the rear door,” said Vernon. “Car's waiting.”

“Do you
have
to put a coat over my head?” asked Peter.

“Yes.”

They disappeared out the back, and Steve came in the front.

Vernon stood and waved with a smile. “Come on over!”

Steve walked purposefully with an air of deliberate action. Most who had seen it before didn't see it, or anything else, again. He stopped at the edge of the table. “Maybe I need glasses, but there doesn't seem to be any money or my cousin.”

Otis pulled out a chair. “Please have a seat.”

Steve just glared. So did his goons, who were much closer to the table this time, no longer caring if other customers noticed they were packing.

“First,” said Vernon. “I'm sorry we had words yesterday. But it caught us totally off guard because we had absolutely nothing to do with any of this.”

Steve's stone face said he wasn't buying.

“It deeply concerned us,” the mayor continued. “So we got right on the case. I put all my officers on it. From what we've learned, it was totally understandable how you reacted.”

Otis nodded. “We all would have done the same.”

Steve's head turned slowly from one face to another. “You have something to tell me, or are we just getting old here?”

Vernon slapped the empty wooden chair. “You really need to have a seat. Then we'll give you every last detail.”

As they say, the silence was deafening. Nobody spoke in the high-­stakes staring contest. Vernon thinking:
This could go either way
.

Finally, Steve looked over his shoulder with a brief tilt of his head, and the goons fell back to flanking positions on each side of the front door. He sat down. “Speak.”

“This is kind of hard to say, so I'll just say it: Your cousin's dead.”

If Steve's eyes were lasers, everyone at the table would have burst into flames. “What happened?”

“We haven't pinpointed the exact cause yet, but it was definitely murder. And definitely connected to your missing money,” said Vernon. “I was horrified to think such a thing could happen in our lovely town—­and to a relative of one of our finest citizens, I might add. So like I mentioned before, we threw every resource we had at this, and you'll be happy to know we've already made an arrest.”

Another glare.

“Maybe ‘happy' isn't the best word.”

A single measured syllable: “Who?”

“Peter Pugliese. You've seen him in here, mid-­forties, office type.”

Steve inhaled hard through flared nostrils. “My patience has left the building. You just made the wrong enemy.”

“What? Why?” Vernon held out innocent hands. “We gave your concerns our total attention and got immediate results.”

“You think I'm so stupid I can't see through your bullshit?” said Steve. “Scapegoating some cubicle gnome?”

“He actually works in the field,” said Vernon. “With a real hard hat.”

“He's a dork who wouldn't last five minutes in Miami.” Steve shook his head. “It was all of you. I know it as sure as I breathe. Martin uncovered what you were doing with the money, and you took him out before he could say anything.”

“But it was Peter—­”

“Then how do you explain the text Martin sent me? ‘They're crawling under a house with the money'?”

“That puzzled us, too,” said Vernon. “But if you notice, it doesn't specifically say who ‘they' are. We have reason to believe Peter buried your money under
his
house.”

“Why?”

“Because that's where he also buried your cousin's body.”

Steve swallowed hard at the news. “Where's his body now?”

“Still under the house.”

Another stare from Steve, but this time from his brain locking up. “This is the craziest fucking town.”

“I know it's complicated, so just hear me out,” said Vernon. “Turns out Peter was into all kinds of deep shit that we never imagined. Remember you said he was a dork, but consider this: ­People would have thought the same thing about you, sitting in here in that dry-­cleaned shirt eating ribs with a knife and fork. Because that was the false image you were creating. So was Peter . . .”

Steve's expression said:
You just bought yourself another minute.

“ . . . I don't want to go into specific details here for obvious reasons, but we also had some money of our own that needed a little rinse cycle. Somehow Peter got wind and approached us. Said it was one of his specialties, so we gave him a shot.”

“Then he just buried the money?”

“Apparently that was just a waypoint before he could get the funds offshore,” said Vernon. “But he really came through. We've actually seen our accounts in the Caymans and Panama. So when you needed the same ser­vice, we told you we could handle it through our bank but instead gave the money to Peter and split the commission.”

“So you lied to me?”

“Steve, we didn't lie. We just didn't tell you about Peter—­just like you wouldn't want us giving
your
name to
him,
” said Vern. “We were insulating you. I'm sure that's how you'd want us to handle business.”

That part did make sense, but: “I'm still not convinced.”

“I wouldn't be, either,” said Vernon, reaching into his pocket and unfolding paper. “Check these out.”

Steve scanned the pages. “What am I looking at?”

“Peter heard we had an issue with an insurance underwriter pulling out of our subdivision project,” said Vernon. “So he came to us again and said he could fix our problem, but it would cost much more than his usual testing fee. Those are his geology reports.”

Steve held the pages side by side. “Why two reports? And why are they completely different?”

“He filed the false one with the underwriters,” said the mayor. “To give the project the go-­ahead.”

“What about the other report?”

“He just gave it to us,” said Vernon. “We asked him about it, and all he said was that it was
his
insurance. But the insinuation was clear: If we ever double-­crossed him, he'd claim it was the real report and we had switched them. Got to admit that's pretty sharp. We're also looking at some irregularities at the water plant due to another report he provided without us even asking.”

“This really is on the level?”

“He blindsided us. And on our own turf,” said Vernon. “Don't underestimate him.”

“Okay.” Steve stood. “I'm going to have some ­people look into it further, and if all this bears out, it might get a little messy around here. Can I count on your police not to be vigilant?”

“It's the slow season. I need to schedule a lot of vacation time,” said Vernon. “Sorry about your loss.”

Steve and the goons departed without pleasantry.

The guys at the table watched until the door closed.

“Now Phase Two,” said Vernon. “Follow me.”

They went outside and piled into the mayor's car. Vernon broke open a package containing a prepaid, untraceable cell phone. Then he dialed a familiar number and wrapped the phone in a handkerchief.

“Sheriff Highsmith here.”

“Sheriff, I understand you're investigating a homicide out at the Pugliese residence.”

“Who is this?”

“That's not important. You need to take a look at what business the victim was in. His cousin recently bought a home here, and they've both been making frequent trips to Miami.”

“I'm listening,”
said the sheriff, getting out a notepad and clicking a pen.

“A little bird also told me some airplanes without flight plans have been landing at night in certain fields around here.”

“Wait, this voice sounds familiar,”
said the sheriff.
“Do I know you?”

Vernon smashed the phone apart on the dashboard.

“What just happened?” asked Jabow.

“You've heard of vicious circles?” said Vern. “This is a vicious triangle.”

“Huh?”

“Peter knows too much. We don't need him remaining the prime suspect and risk getting interrogated by the sheriff. So we just diverted the sheriff's suspicion to Steve. And we didn't want Steve suspecting us, so back in the rib joint we diverted his suspicion to Peter.”

“And Peter's now walking around free so Steve can make sure he never talks?”

“And after Peter's out of the way, the sheriff takes
Steve
down.”

“You mean you actually had this whole thing all planned from when you first arrested Peter?”

“Love to take credit, but it was Senator Pratchett's idea.”

“So all we have to do is sit back and enjoy the show?”

“Almost,” said Vernon. “There's one more loose end.”

“What is it?”

“We want that money.”

“But it's thirty feet down a sinkhole at a crime scene . . .”

“It's also a public hazard, and we wouldn't be responsible if we didn't keep this town safe.”

“I see the light.” Jabow smiled. “Now who around here could possibly be qualified to deal with sinkholes?”

 

Chapter
TWENTY-SIX

DISPUTED BORDER COUNTRY

T
he rural road was normally a relaxing drive, but not today with all the news trucks. A row of reporters jockeyed for space on the grassy shoulder.

“This is
Live Eye Five
coming to you live at five from Wobbly, Florida, and the site of the latest fatal sinkhole that swallowed an entire bedroom . . .”

“ . . . Authorities are still attempting to recover the body, but cite difficulties due to unstable ground conditions . . .”

“ . . . The victim's name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin; however, property records shows the home belongs to a Peter Pugliese of Saratoga Springs . . .”

A gray Buick Skylark came up the road. The driver reached an arm across the front seat. “Get your head down.”

“Why?” asked Peter, looking up from under the dash.

“Vultures.” The Buick rolled to the police checkpoint. The cops had recognized the vehicle from a distance and already removed the cones.

The mayor gave a half salute as he passed. “Thanks, Reemus.” And continued up the drive.

The outside of the house was ringed with activity. Deputies and county investigators eating sandwiches, drinking coffee, laughing.

“Sheriff,” said Vernon, approaching the crime tape. “You still here?”

“I'm not leaving until we retrieve the body.” He glanced back at the coroner's van.

“I know, I know, jurisdiction,” said Vernon. “Then why are all your boys just standing around chatting so festively, or is that the latest crime-­fighting technique in the big fancy departments?”

“You're the one who's delaying everything,” Highsmith checked his watch. “The sinkhole could widen. We have to wait for your certified expert to arrive and declare the site safe.”

“He just got here . . . Peter, come on over and say hi to the sheriff.”

“Him?”

“One of the best. Done some excellent work for us in the past, so we contracted his company with a personal request. And as you know from the statutes, decisions over structural safety fall to municipalities.”

“But . . . he's your suspect.”

“Not anymore,” said Vernon. “New shit has come to light.”

The sheriff was about to say something, but stopped when he heard that last comment. He was hot on the trail of an anonymous tip . . . Had the same person also called Vernon? He'd sat at this card table before with the mayor, time after time, and didn't want to push his chips forward until he had a better idea what kind of hand his nemesis was holding. “So, uh, what is this new information?”

“Confidential because of our ongoing investigation,” said Vernon. “But since I like you, a little professional courtesy wouldn't hurt. Peter agreed to take a polygraph and passed with flying colors.”

“I did?”

Vern elbowed him.

The sheriff smiled. Gotcha. Vernon had just given him a straight flush. He knew Peter wasn't guilty. And also knew he could provide valuable information. “Well, since he's no longer under arrest, I'd like to bring him in for questioning.”

“Peter doesn't want to.”

Highsmith smiled again, ready to collect Vernon's chips. He reached behind his back for a pair of cuffs. “Then I'm afraid you leave me no choice but to arrest him. He's still the only suspect . . . Peter, turn around.”

“That's your call,” said Vernon. “But if, at this very moment, you're already looking at another suspect, and arrest Peter anyway, you open the county to a massive lawsuit. And if that other suspect ever goes on trial, Peter's arrest today will torpedo that case with reasonable doubt because the second you snap those cuffs, you've created an alternate theory of the crime. But what do I know? I'm just a country poke.”

Damn,
thought the sheriff,
Vernon definitely must have gotten the same call.
His straight flush had just turned into a hand of nothing. He stowed the cuffs. “Changed my mind. It's a higher priority for him to help us get at the body before the whole place falls in.”

The radio in the Skylark squawked.
“Vernon? . . .”

The mayor reached through the window for the mike. “Go ahead.”

“There's someone down here who says he knows you . . .”

Vernon looked toward the foot of the driveway, where a late-­model Mercedes was detained behind the cones. “Yeah, he's good. Send him through.”

The sedan rolled up the hill and parked next to the Skylark. Steve got out. He froze at the sight of Peter. The sheriff froze at the sight of Steve. Vernon grinned inside at the sight of his triangle.

“Steve,” said the mayor, putting an arm around his shoulders. “Can we talk for a second?” He walked him out of earshot.

Steve could barely contain his rage. “What's
he
doing here?”

“Take it easy,” said Vernon. “The sheriff's watching.”

“Someone called me with an anonymous tip that I'd find something of great interest out here.”

Good,
thought Vernon,
he didn't recognize the voice of the puppet master, which is me.
“We're walking him through the crime scene.”

“Why?”

“To build our case against him. He thinks we hired him for geology work with the sinkhole, but we're actually hoping he'll let something inadvertently slip.”

“I thought you were going to let me handle this my way,” said Steve. “For family honor.”

“We are,” said Vernon. “But if I don't stall by pretending to build a case, the sheriff will immediately grab him and you'll never get the chance.”

A large industrial truck from Peter's company arrived. Men raised the roll-­up back panel and unloaded scientific instruments and robot probes.

“Okay, then, just act normal,” Vernon told Steve. The pair walked back around the cars. “Sheriff Highsmith, I'd like you to meet Steve DeVinsenzi, one of our other fine new citizens. Auto brokerage, I believe? Well, I'll let you two talk . . . Peter, we need to get started inside.”

The mayor and the geologist ducked under crime tape.

Back in the yard, it was like the first dance in junior high.

“Sheriff? . . .”

“Uh, it was Steve, right? . . .”

Vernon led the way into the living room and turned to Peter. “You're in charge.”

“Nobody step any farther.” Peter raised his chin, checking the usual spots for plaster cracks, then held up earlier police photos for comparison to see if additional settling had occurred.

“How's it look?” asked the mayor.

“So far, so good.” Peter headed back to the door. “Now I need to get the equipment under the house. Radar should tell whether it was a confined breach in the limestone bedrock or if it's wider, and the tertiary layer of clay is only temporarily supporting the overburden.”

“Whatever you just said.” Vernon followed him outside, and Peter waved his crew toward the crawl space on the side of the house.

A '55 Ford pickup arrived and three young men got out. They saw a pair of loafers disappear under the building.

“Vernon,” said Elroy. “What's going on?”

“He's not wearing the right shoes . . .”

Two hours later, Peter wiggled out from under the house.

“What's the verdict?” asked Vernon.

“I'm somewhat surprised, but we're good to go.” Peter looked down at his shirt and thought of the new drip-­free caps on laundry detergent.

“That means we do what?”

“My guys will erect a scaffolding with floodlights, which will be anchored through doorways in other rooms, because we want to distribute the weight away from the hole, and they'll be standing on wide base plates with large, load-­bearing footprints, like snowshoes.”

“That doesn't sound like we're good.”

“Nothing's a hundred percent, but I'm confident.” Peter walked to the back of the company truck. “Then I'll strap on a harness and they'll lower me with a safety pulley. And we always use the buddy system, so one of the other guys will go down with me.”

And maybe spot the money,
thought Vernon.
That's one too many pair of eyes.
“No! . . . I mean, I didn't mean to shout, but I want one of our ­people to be your backup.”

“Don't worry.” Peter grabbed a handful of thick orange straps with mountain-­climber D-­rings. “They're experienced.”

“That's not it,” said Vernon. “It's for your own protection. This is still a crime scene, and you've only just been cleared. Relations aren't the best with the sheriff right now, and if a representative of the city is present down there, it'll protect you from any future accusations of tampering with evidence.”

“Fine with me.” Peter pulled straps up between his legs and snapped them in place. “You know this area better than I do. But he'll have to sign a company release.”

“We can do that.”

“I'll grab a second harness. Who's the lucky volunteer?”

Vernon approached the young trio and grabbed Slower by the arm. “Do not fuck this up.”

“What?”

“You're going down in that hole with him.”

“I don't know anything about sinkholes.”

“You don't need to know squat,” said Vernon. “Just keep an eye out for the money. And keep an eye on Peter, in case he happens to spot it while retrieving the body.”

“Money?”

“What you buried, you moron.”

“But we buried it shallow.”

“Shut up and put on the harness.”

A fire engine arrived, complete with firemen who got out and leaned against it. EMTs readied the precautionary first-­aid station.

The pair of adventurers went inside, where other ­people from Peter's firm attached them to the pulleys hanging from an iron I-beam. No way that was going anywhere. Someone else fitted them with tool belts.

“Ready,” said Peter.

“Hard hats.”

“Right.”

And down they went.