“Wonderful,” said the captain, closing his eyes and massaging the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely fantastic. The press is going to be all over this.” He opened his eyes. “Please tell me those aren’t Cuban cigars.”
“Afraid so.”
“Dammit,” said the captain. “Freak murder. Killed by Cubans in Miami . . . Could this crime be any more headline-ready?”
“Not really.”
The captain took off his hat and pulled up a chair. “Okay, get me up to speed so I can start piling the sandbags back at headquarters.”
The medical examiner pointed to an evidence bag containing three drinking glasses with a tannic film inside. “This was the first step. He put one cigar in each glass and filled them with water. Then he let it set. After a few hours, the water turned dark brown from the cigar’s ingredients—hold that thought in your mind. Now, this guy was sharp: He used Cuban cigars to ensure his plan worked.”
“Why’s that?” asked the police captain.
“Because of the embargo, you often see ads for cigars grown in other countries from Cuban seeds, but they’re not the same.” The examiner set a bag aside and picked up another. “It’s all about Mother Earth. Most places with rich topsoil are inches deep, but because of Cuba’s prehistoric volcanic activity, its richest soil often goes down seven or eight feet, which nurtures cigars that are a league apart in strength. Think of it as Bud Light versus grain alcohol.”
“I still don’t see how it killed him.”
“Stay with me.” He held up the next bag. “These are common pump bottles from a drugstore. Spray anything with them like perfume . . .” Another bag. “. . . And these are compressed air canisters from a computer store to clean keyboards. See how it has a long tube to get in tight spots between the keys?”
“Yeah, so?”
“So the killer substituted his own flexible tubes, and inserted the other ends into holes he had fashioned into the spray bottle’s pump mechanism. Then he disabled the original mechanism.”
“Slow down. I’m having trouble following.”
“Okay, it simply accomplished this: Instead of having to pump your finger on the button every time you wanted the spray bottle to squirt something, the can of compressed-air keyboard cleaner now powered the spray bottle, creating a continuous mist.”
“I’m starting to catch up,” said the captain. “Now what?”
“I’d love to meet this guy and pick his brain.”
“No, I mean what was the next step with these contraptions?”
“He activated all three by using heavy-duty duct tape to hold down the buttons on the air canisters.”
The captain just stared.
“You don’t get it?”
“Lost me again.”
“These cigars obviously contain a high amount of nicotine, which is also used as a powerful pesticide. In liquid form, that is. So after soaking the cigars, he poured the fluid in the spray bottles and activated the air canisters. Then I’m guessing he left pretty quickly. See those three circular tan stains on the carpet? They’re just like the marks you’d get if you didn’t lay down newspaper first before using Black Flag to bug-bomb a room.”
“He was bug-bombed to death with Cuban cigars?”
“I’d bet my paycheck you won’t find a single roach anywhere in here.”
“But why go through all that trouble?” said the captain. “Why not just use regular bug bombs?”
The examiner shook his head. “Not strong enough. The victim would get dizzy and nauseous, maybe require a brief hospitalization. The killer knew he needed maximum strength.” A smile crossed his face. “This was at least a dozen times more toxic, with a pretty cool Miami angle.”
The captain glared.
“Sorry, I know you’re not looking forward to the headlines.”
A police captain stormed out through the lobby of a luxury high-rise resort on Biscayne Boulevard.
A team of workers from a local glass company stood idle next to a man in a tuxedo playing a baby grand.
Someone called to the officer. “Excuse me?” It was the hotel manager.
The captain turned. “What!”
“When can you release those rooms? We’ve got a lot of customers coming in and the glass company is waiting.”
“I’ll release them when I feel like it!” Then he was out the door.
The manager turned and barked even louder. “What are all of you looking at? Get back to work.”
The staff at the reception desk quickly stared down at their computer screens.
The day wore on.
Competition for tourist dollars was especially fierce among the downtown resorts. It was the economy, and it was Miami. The hotel manager was particularly testy because the home office had him on a brutal occupancy quota, and now twenty rooms on the seventeenth floor didn’t have windows. Which meant added urgency to free up all other suites.
He stuck his head in a back room. “How are those maids coming? I want every last room ready in thirty minutes or you’re fired!”
The tension spilled into the hotel lounge, where guests were stacking up and going through free liquor courtesy of the management. The three o’clock check-in time had come and gone. Now it was almost five. The manager knew the booze could hold them at bay for only so long, and then it would turn on him. The bar had a theme of eighteenth-century sailing ships, complete with masts and riggings. The manager took over one of the reservation computers himself to speed the process. He nervously glanced over at the lounge and was met with a row of icy stares coming back at him through the portholes.
Detectives and crime-scene technicians began dribbling off the elevator. That’s a good sign, thought the manager, typing away.
The people in the lounge grew surlier as they drank. Except one person. Sitting alone at the bar. The eyes of every woman were on him. Because he was:
Johnny Vegas, the Accidental Virgin.
Johnny didn’t mind the delay because he never intended to stay at the hotel—although he wouldn’t mind suddenly needing a room.
A tap on his shoulder. Johnny turned around.
“Hi there.” The luscious blonde swayed with an umbrella drink in her hand. Twenty-five years old, tops, with a plunging neckline and come-hither green eyes. “My name’s Fawn. What’s yours?”
“J-J-Johnny.”
“Well, J-J-Johnny. My girlfriends and I placed a bet . . .” She looked back at a corner table, where four equally fetching gals whispered and giggled over their own drinks in pineapples and coconuts. Fawn took the stool next to Johnny, except she misjudged and Johnny had to grab her arm.
The bartender looked up with raised eyebrows, thinking, Nice save.
“My knight in shining armor,” said Fawn, sipping her tropical drink through the stirring straw. “What was I talking about?”
“You had a bet with your girlfriends.”
“We wanted to know how long your ring finger was compared to your index finger.”
“Why?” He curiously held up his hand.
Fawn grabbed his wrist. “Holy shit!”
She pulled up his arm to display his hand toward the table in the corner. Four jaws fell. Then they huddled over the drinks and giggled again and something got spilled.
Johnny looked toward the circular booth and back at Fawn. “What’s going on? What’s with the fingers?”
“It’s supposed to indicate the size of your . . . you know.” She covered her mouth and chortled. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. Normally I would never . . . I’m a little drunk.”
Thirty seconds later, Johnny crashed into the reception desk that was staffed by the manager. “I need a room immediately! I don’t care what it costs!”
“Do you have a reservation?”
“No,” said Johnny.
Perfect, thought the manager. Those who already had reservations would keep; some were even non-refundable. But a walk-up was one more room in the occupied column.