“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.”