“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.
Episode 2
Chapter 9
The Gulf Coast
A silver Corvette sped south on the Tamiami Trail. The sun had only been up a couple hours, but the heat felt like noon.
“This time you’ve got me stumped,” said Serge. “We’re definitely not going to do it, but curiosity is killing me: Why on earth would you want to fake that you’re a scuba diver with the bends?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Coleman unwrapped an aluminum-foil package. “To get inside a decompression chamber.”
Serge’s eyes reflexively crossed. “I guess it’s a two-part question. Why a decompression chamber?”
“Because it gets you higher.” Coleman peeled back the last piece of foil. “That’s why I made these brownies. Ingestion lasts longer with a delayed onset for a smooth, extended ride when there’s no opportunity to blaze one. I’m really looking forward to a decompression chamber.”
“But wasn’t it enough for you to fake the bends last summer?”
“I didn’t fake anything. They simply assumed I had the bends.”
“Why? Just because the rescue helicopter found you floating incoherently miles off the coast, completely naked except for the scuba inflation vest that kept you from going under?”