Cut and Run (22 page)

They parked beside the building and got out, their vehicle the only one in the parking lot. It looked as if the place wasn't quite ready to open, but the sign was already in place over the entrance: huge, neon-green letters that spelled out
FROG WORLD
.

Natalia pulled open the unlocked door and they stepped inside. The interior was cool, dark, and cavernous; it gave the immediate impression of a large, damp cave. Fake stars twinkled in the high ceiling, and the walls were edged with tropical plants. The floor was rough concrete, littered with lengths of white PVC piping and scraps of wire.

“Looks like they're still under construction,” said Natalia.

“Yeah, but no workmen.”

“They've gone home for the day.” A tall, stout woman in coveralls and hiking boots stepped out of the shadows at the back of the room. “I'm the owner. Can I help you?”

“Sheila Smithwick?” asked Natalia. “I'm Natalia Boa Vista, with the Miami-Dade crime lab. This is Detective Frank Tripp.”

“Hello.” The woman strode forward and shook both their hands, her grip firm and her smile wide. She was in her forties, her skin tanned, her salt-and-pepper hair cropped short. “What does the crime lab want with me?”

“We'd like to ask you a few questions about Hiram Davey,” said Natalia.

“Ah. I see. Am I a suspect?”

“We're just collecting information, ma'am,” said Tripp.

Smithwick nodded. “All right. It was a real shame what happened to Mister Davey.”

“You two got along all right?” asked Natalia.

“Oh, yes. I was hesitant to talk to Mister Davey at first—he's a humorist, after all, and I take my work very seriously. He told me he was interviewing people for a murder mystery he was writing, and he promised he'd be scientifically accurate when discussing my field of expertise. He was quite intrigued by my efforts.”

“And your efforts have to do with…frogs?” asked Natalia.

Smithwick beamed. “That's right. Would you like me to show you around? All the exhibits aren't finished yet, but the main pond is ready and stocked and I just installed a bunch of exotic specimens today.”

“Sure,” said Natalia.

Smithwick motioned for them to follow her. She led them to the back of the room and through an arched doorway to an even bigger space beyond, lit in the same way. The room was dominated by a large, artificial pool, with a maze of walkways suspended just above it, hanging from the ceiling on steel cables. The outer walls were lined with glass terrariums. “I got the idea for the space at Disney World,” said Smithwick. “You know, the
Pirates of the Caribbean
ride that empties out into a Louisiana bayou at dusk? It's a beautiful illusion—the stars are just coming out, there's the faintest glow of the sunset still lingering on the horizon, you can hear the crickets and nightbirds. And the frogs, of course.”

“Sure,” said Tripp. “Been there with my wife. They make a mean mint julep—long as you don't mind the absence of booze.”

Smithwick marched down the walkways. “You can see the basic framework of the viewing areas already.”

Behind her, Natalia said, “Framework? They look pretty well ready to go, to me.”

“Oh, no. All the walkways are going to be completely enclosed in Plexiglas. Suspended and enclosed, to prevent actual physical contact between the amphibians and the public.”

“Sounds a little sterile,” said Tripp.

Smithwick turned and faced him. “That's the point. Did you know frogs are one of the fastest-vanishing species on Earth? Over sixty species in Latin America have completely disappeared in the last decade.”

“I know,” said Natalia. Tripp gave her an inquiring look, which she ignored. “Some scientists think higher global temperatures are promoting the growth of a fungus that's preying on amphibians.”

“That's one theory. More recent data imply that global warming is doing a lot more than just encouraging a fungus—it's changing whole ecosystems. Frogs are the first ones to suffer because they rely on two environments to thrive and reproduce—water and land. Disturb the balance of either one and their population suffers. Factor in skin made of a permeable membrane that'll absorb any toxins present and you have a species in a very precarious position. You know about canaries and coal mines?”

“Sure,” said Tripp. “Miners used to take one in a cage underground with them. If there were any poisonous gases, the canary would be the first to keel over.”

“Exactly. Frogs are the canaries of the global ecology—in fact, they were the first animals to develop a true voice. And we're all stuck in this coal mine together.”

“So that's what the Plexiglas is for?” Tripp asked. “To protect them?”

“Yes. I want people to see them in their natural habitat, but I want the impact on the frogs themselves to be minimal.”

“So,” said Natalia, “Hiram Davey shared your views on ecology?”

“I think so. He seemed very interested and asked lots of questions—especially about the more bizarre types of frogs. Like this one.” She walked over to the wall and pointed at one of the terrariums. “It's called Darwin's Frog, because that's who discovered it. The male guards the eggs for around two weeks after the female has laid them, then scoops them up in its mouth. The tadpoles live in the male's vocal sac until they've shed their tails and grown limbs. I wanted to get a gastric brooding frog—they actually gestate their tadpoles in their stomach—but there were only two species discovered, and they both went extinct in the mid-nineteen-eighties.”

Tripp nodded. “Yeah, I can see Davey getting a kick out of either of those ideas—not the extinction, the tadpoles-in-the-mouth-or-stomach part.”

“Or this one,” Smithwick said, indicating the next terrarium. “A microhylid of the genus
Kaloula.”

“Chubby little guy,” said Tripp.

Smithwick chuckled. “He sure is. He has stubby little arms, too—both of which cause him major problems when it comes to mating. Difficult for him to get in position and then stay there—but he has an ingenious solution.”

“Which is?” asked Natalia.

“Glue. He secretes a biological adhesive from his belly that attaches him to the female so securely he can't be removed until the glue breaks down or the female sheds her skin.”

“Now that's sticking to the job,” said Tripp.

“Speaking of which…” said Natalia. “I hate to ask, Miss Smithwick, but can you tell me where you were yesterday morning between five and six
A.M.
?”

“Of course. I was just getting out of bed—work on this place starts early. And to answer your next question—no, I don't have anyone that can corroborate that. I didn't get here until about seven-thirty.”

Natalia nodded. “Did Davey ever show you any of the book?”

“Oh, no. He said he never showed anyone what he was working on until he was finished. It's too bad—I was quite curious.”

Natalia glanced around. “This is all very impressive—but it must be expensive. Do you have a lot of investors?”

“Nope. It's all me.” Smithwick grinned. “I got lucky last year in the Powerball draw. Twelve point four million dollars. That's how I'm doing all this.”

“Congratulations,” said Natalia. “Culmination of a lifelong dream?”

“No, not really,” Smithwick said, her grin fading abruptly. “Actually, I only got interested in frogs about six months ago. I have a lot of interests.”

“Oh. Well, I'm sure Frog World will be a big success. Good luck.”

“Thank you. I'll show you out.”

 

On the drive back to the lab, Natalia asked, “Well, what do you think?”

Tripp glanced over, one hand on the steering wheel and the other tapping his thigh. “Florida's got a history of roadside wildlife attractions. I think she could make a go of it.”

Natalia rolled her eyes. “Not Frog World, Frank. Smithwick.”

“Her? If she's crazy, she did a pretty good job of hiding it.”

“Yeah. Right up until the end, anyway.”

“How long did she spend in that institution?”

“Four years. We don't have access to her medical records, of course, but we know why she was there.” Sheila Smithwick had been arrested for attacking a man with a machete in broad daylight, screaming about demons and talking toadstools. She was judged not responsible for her actions, and wasn't allowed to re-enter society until she'd spent a long stint in a mental health facility.

Tripp adjusted the air-conditioning. “You think she got a look at what Davey was actually writing?”

“Maybe. Sheila managed it, and she seems a lot brighter than him.”

“Sure. Which means she's a psycho with brains—
and
twelve million dollars.”

Natalia sighed. “Not to mention a whole lot of frogs.”

“I don't know—maybe she's got a sense of humor about the whole thing. What Davey wrote about her wasn't
that
bad.”

“Not that bad? Frank, let me refresh your memory.” Natalia opened up her laptop and called up the file, then read aloud: “Professor Cheryl Smash-wack regarded the swimming pool full of frogs with undisguised glee and just a touch of arousal. ‘Swim, my slimy army, swim! Soon it will be mating season, and you will be in the throes of amplexus! You will fill my pool with ova and spermatozoa, and I will soak in the glorious batrachian soup and be
renewed
!'???”

Natalia looked up and raised an eyebrow.

“So? You've read the notes—it's a beauty treatment she's trying to peddle.”

“Frank, Davey has her swimming in frog eggs. While they're being fertilized.”

“Hey, all beauty treatments sound weird to me. I stopped trying to understand 'em around the time women started washing their hair with beer—and what the hell's amplexus, anyway?”

“Frog sex.”

“That's what I figured, but I thought I'd make sure…okay, let's say she's crazy as a sackful of skunks. Maybe she'd take the whole amplexus-swimming thing as a compliment.”

Natalia tapped a few keys, then read from a different section: “Smashwack was a loon. Not just your average, everyday loon, but the kind of loon other loons crossed the street to avoid. Even her imaginary friends thought she was crazy. She worshipped the Egyptian goddess Heket, who had the head of a frog and was married to a guy with the head of a goat. Smashwack had tried a trial marriage to an actual goat once, in the spirit of ecumenical solidarity, but it hadn't worked out. The goat's parents couldn't stand her.”

Tripp grinned despite himself. “Okay, let's assume she read that and didn't take it in a good-natured way. You think she's capable of planning and executing a murder?”

“She's capable of planning a full-scale theme park, Frank.” Natalia had done some checking before they visited Smithwick building they'd seen was only the tip of an amphibian iceberg. Smithwick had applied for permission to build an entire park around her current obsession, including a roller coaster and a restaurant. Approval was still pending.

“Well, she doesn't have an alibi,” Tripp conceded. “Then again, neither do Adano Bermudez or Joshua St. George—and Gordon Dettweiler's is more than a little shaky.”

“Then I guess it's time to shake all their stories a little harder,” said Natalia, “and see what falls apart.”

“S
O NOW WE KNOW FOR SURE
,”
said Calleigh. She and Horatio were in the layout room, going over everything they had on the Breakwash case. “Timothy Breakwash
did
find Rodriguo's treasure.”

“According to his widow, yes. But we still have no hard evidence of that.”

“I know—hard evidence is in short supply on this case. She said there's a map?”

“Yes. She said she doesn't know where her husband hid it, and I believe her.”

Calleigh shook her head. “If there's a map, it's not at the Breakwash house. It's been searched three times, twice by professionals. He must have hid it somewhere else.”

“I agree. But let's not lose sight of one very important thing.”

“What's that, H?”

“That finding Rodriguo's treasure isn't our job. Finding Timothy Breakwash's killer is.”

Calleigh blinked. “Of course. Afraid I've been bitten by the treasure bug, Horatio?”

Horatio smiled. “You wouldn't be the first. Just a reminder to stay focused.”

“Oh, don't worry about me. When I watch pirate movies, I'm always rooting for the people getting robbed. Once a cop, always a cop, I guess.”

“No guessing about it,” said Horatio.

Calleigh's cell rang. “Calleigh Duquesne. Oh, hi, Alexx.”

“I took a closer look at those tumors I found in the bulldog,” said Alexx. “They're something called Sticker's sarcoma.”

Calleigh listened to what Alexx had to say for a few minutes, interjecting only once with a question. “Okay, Alexx, thanks. I'll talk to you later.”

“What's up?” asked Horatio.

“That hard evidence we were looking for?” Calleigh said, slipping her phone back in her pocket. “I think some just sat up and begged.”

 

“You know,” Fredo Bolivar said, “I'm getting real tired of this. First you take my gun, now you want my dog? What's next, my underwear?”

“That won't be necessary,” said Calleigh. Horatio sat to her right, Fredo across from her. “Not unless you raped Randilyn Breakwash as well as tortured her.”

“But you didn't do that,” said Horatio. “Did you, Fredo? No, you were focused on longer-range plans.”

“I still don't see what my dog has to do with this.”

“Your dog has a small cauliflower-shaped tumor growing on his nose,” said Calleigh. “I noticed it when we met in the Everglades.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So we also found tumors in the body of the Breakwash's young bulldog. It's a disease called canine transmissible venereal tumor, which usually manifests on the genitalia. In some cases—such as yours—CTVT can show up on the nose or in the mouth.”

Fredo waved his hand dismissively. “You must think I'm some kind of moron. So both dogs had cancer, so what? Cancer's not contagious.”

“In this instance,” said Calleigh, “it is.” She pushed two pieces of paper across the table at Bolivar. “See, Sticker's sarcoma is unique. In human beings, the papilloma virus can be spread through sexual contact and
cause
cancer, but that's not what's happening here. This is a case of the cancer
itself
jumping from one host to another—like a parasite.”

“And because of that,” said Horatio, “we can prove exactly where it came from. Your dog infected Breakwash's dog, Fredo—and DNA tests will confirm that.”

“You're saying my dog had sex with another dog? That'd be tough—I had that hound fixed years ago.”

“CTVT can be spread by saliva,” said Horatio. “The bulldog was notorious for licking anything and anybody—but she wasn't allowed out of the house. The only way she could have been infected was if your dog was in the Breakwash residence. We've got you, Fredo.” Horatio leaned forward. “Your alibi's no good, and we can put you inside the house.”

Fredo stared out the window as he considered Horatio's words.

“Okay, so I was in the house,” he said at last. “But I had a good reason to be there, and it didn't have anything to do with Mrs. Breakwash. Her husband and I were working together.”

“That's not exactly news to us, Fredo,” said Horatio. “We know you two were partners, and we know what you were looking for: a stockpile of art put together by your father. That's why you killed Timothy Breakwash, and why you tortured his wife.”

“You don't know as much as you think you do,
esse
. For one thing, I didn't kill Tim. Why would I? He knew where the plane went down, but he didn't tell me. If he had, don't you think I'd be out there right now, getting paid?”

“So Timothy
did
find the plane?” asked Calleigh.

“So he said. Wouldn't make much sense for me to kill the one guy who knows where it is, would it?”

“Maybe not,” said Horatio. “But it would give you plenty of motive to interrogate the one other person who might know.”

“Tim's wife? Like I said, I never met her. The only time I was even in the house, she wasn't there. But let me tell you something, Caine; that treasure is
mine
. My father didn't steal it, he bought it, and I'm his only living heir. I
own
it.”

“That's debatable,” said Calleigh. “First, that art was paid for with profits from drug dealing—if it belongs to anyone, it probably belongs to the DEA. Second, Rodriguo did a really good job of staying under the radar; no known photo of him exists, let alone a DNA sample. Good luck proving you're related.”

“I don't need luck. I know Tim made a map, and I'm going to find it.”

“I don't think so, Fredo,” said Horatio. “We both know it's not at the house. Randilyn Breakwash doesn't know where it is, either. I may not have the evidence to charge you with breaking into her home and brutalizing her, but I can make sure you never go near her again.”

“You do whatever you have to,” said Fredo coldly. “I always do.”

 

Natalia took Tripp out for ice cream.

They got large double-scoop cones at a place on Ocean Drive, then strolled down the sidewalk across from the beach.

“You know, I'm not really used to discussing cases in this kind of environment,” said Tripp. He'd gone for pistachio and strawberry and had already gotten some on his tie.

“I suppose you'd prefer some dark and grungy cop bar.” Natalia took a satisfying lick of her moccachino and chocolate-chocolate chip. “Mmm. Come on, Frank, loosen up. What's the use of living in Miami if you don't take advantage of it once in a while?”

“You ever see a bald man with a sunburned scalp? It's not a pretty sight. Besides, there are too many…distractions out here.” Tripp eyed a blond amazon in a bikini as she rollerbladed past, eyes veiled by sunglasses and ears plugged with an iPod, exposed to and insulated from the world at the same time.

Natalia laughed. “Deal with it, tough guy. I have faith in you.”

“All right, all right. Let's run down where we are.”

“Okay. I think we can forget about Marssai Guardon; Davey's book would have given her exactly the kind of publicity she wants.”

“Which is any kind at all. I don't think she could spell shame without a dictionary.”

“One down. Then there's Joshua St. George.”

“He's angry enough, that's for sure. Been arrested a few times, too—assault, disturbing the peace. If Davey had proof St. George killed someone during the Liberty City riots, Joshua might have killed him to keep it quiet.”

Natalia took a meditative lick of her cone. “Well, we didn't find anything like that on Davey's duplicate files. I guess he could have hidden them someplace else, though.”

“Yeah—like on his missing laptop. But if he went to the trouble to hide a backup copy of his files, I can't believe he wouldn't make a copy of something that important, too.”

“True,” Natalia admitted. She stopped to pet a small dog on a leash, while the owner, a gray-haired man in a yellow tracksuit, waited with a patient smile on his face. “So maybe,” she continued, “we need to take a closer look at Davey's house. See if we missed anything.”

“That's your department. Just make sure you finish your cone first.”

“Very funny. Who's next? Oh, Adano Bermudez.”

“Mister Sleepy? I think he's our best bet so far.”

She stopped, surprised. “Really, Frank? Why's that?”

“Adano may seem like a joke, but I saw the look in his eye. Frustration leads to rage, Natalia. There's only so much a man can take before he snaps, and Adano's had more than his fair share of humiliation. Whoever punched Davey's ticket was more than a little ticked off.”

“Knife attacks do tend to be personal—and Davey was stabbed multiple times.”

Tripp nodded. He'd finished off the pistachio and was halfway through the strawberry. “It may be a cliché, but it really is the quiet ones you have to watch out for. Half the time they're wrapped so tight that when they finally cut loose, it's like a bomb going off.”

“And then there's Gordon Dettweiler. The only one with an alibi.”

“An alibi that smells worse than the bowling alley he runs. He definitely bears checking out—I'm guessing his story won't hold water once we poke it a few times.”

“Okay. Poking is your department.”

Tripp raised an eyebrow, and Natalia laughed. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

“I'll let it go. Anyway, I don't trust Dettweiler any more than I trust his buddy—they've got
something
going on that's not on the level. I'll see what I can dig up.”

“And lastly, Sheila Smithwick. The Frog Queen.”

“Maybe—but I get the feeling that if she wanted to murder someone, she'd use some kind of poisonous pond-hopper to do the deed.”

“That's not a very scientific approach, Frank.”

“Neither is pistachio ice cream, but I'm warming up to the idea.”

“Alexx,” said Natalia. “Got a minute?”

Alexx looked up from the body she was working on. “Just finishing up—give me a sec.” She tied off the last stitch in the chest incision and cut away the loose thread. “All done. What do you need?”

“Some advice.”

“I was just going to grab a cup of tea—all right if we do this in the break room?”

“Fine with me.”

A few minutes later they were both seated in the break room. A lab tech who'd apparently had a late night was slumped over a table in the corner, head in his arms, fast asleep. “Reminds me of med school,” said Alexx. She blew on her tea carefully.

“Reminds me of a suspect in the case I'm working,” said Natalia. “But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. What do you know about long-term exposure to a combination of turpentine fumes and aerosolized sulphuric acid?”

“That's a pretty specific combination,” said Alexx. “You're talking about someone who worked in a turpentine camp, right?”

“Yes, for at least five years. He claimed his lungs were damaged—they certainly sounded like they were—but I wanted a doctor's opinion.”

Alexx put down her cup. “Did he wheeze? Take big, raspy-sounding breaths?”

“He did. We talked to him for at least fifteen, twenty minutes, and he never stopped. I just wanted to know if he could breathe normally if he had to.”

“If his symptoms are the result of his time in the camps, the answer is no. It's a condition called metabolic acidosis, when the body's pH balance is upset. The deep, rapid breathing is Kussmaul respiration; by exhaling more carbon dioxide, the body causes the alkalinity of its blood serum levels to increase, partially counteracting the acid. If he stopped breathing like that, his entire metabolism would be affected—he could have seizures or go into a coma.”