Carl Hiaasen – Native Tongue

“Just what I’ve read in the papers,” she said, sipping. “That’s the organization that is taking credit for freeing the mango voles, is that correct?”

“Right.”

“I’m assuming this is what gives you jurisdiction in this matter—the fact that the voles are a federally protected endangered species.”

“Right again,” said Hawkins. She was a sharp one.

Behind the bedroom door, Bud Schwartz was ready to yank his hair out. The crazy old twat was screwing with the FBI, and enjoying it!

Danny Pogue looked as confused as ever. He leaned close and whispered: “I thought sure he was after you and me.”

“Shut up,” Bud Schwartz said. He was having a hard enough time hearing the conversation in the living room.

The FBI man was saying: “We have reason to suspect a connection between the Wildlife Rescue Corps and the Mothers of Wilderness—”

“That’s outlandish,” said Molly McNamara.

Agent Hawkins let the idea hang. He just sat there with his square shoulders and his square haircut, looking impassive and not the least bit accusatory.

Molly asked: “What evidence do you have?”

“No evidence, just indications.”

“I see.” Her tone was one of pleasant curiosity.

Billy Hawkins opened his briefcase and took out two shiny pieces of paper. Xeroxes. “Last month the Mothers of Wilderness put out a press release. Do you remember?”

“Certainly,” said Molly. “I wrote it myself. We were calling for an investigation of zoning irregularities at Falcon Trace. We thought the grand jury should call a few witnesses.”

The FBI agent handed her the papers. That one’s a copy of your press release. The other is a note delivered to the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills soon after the theft of the blue-tongued mango voles.”

Molly held both documents in her lap. “It looks like they were done on the same typewriter,” she remarked.

In the bedroom, Bud Schwartz slumped to his knees when he heard what Molly said. He thought: She’s insane. She’s crazy as a goddamn bedbug. We’re all going to fail!

Back in the living room, Molly was saying, “I’m no expert, but the typing looks very similar.”

If Agent Billy Hawkins was caught off guard, he masked it well.

“You’re right,” he said without expression. “Both of these papers were typed on a Smith-Corona model XD 5500 electronic. We don’t know yet if they came out of the same machine, but they were definitely done on the same model.”

Molly cheerfully took the half-empty teapot back to the kitchen. Hawkins heard a faucet running, the sound of silverware clanking in the sink. In the bedroom, Danny Pogue put his mouth to Bud Schwartz’s ear and said: “What if she shoots him?”

Bud Schwartz hadn’t thought of that. Christ, she couldn’t be that loony, to kill an FBI man in her own apartment! Unless she planned to pin it on a couple of dirtbag burglars in the bedroom….

When Molly came bustling out again, Billy Hawkins said: “We’ve sent the originals to Washington. Hopefully they’ll be able to say conclusively if it was the same typewriter.”

Molly sat down. “It’s quite difficult to tell, isn’t it? With these new electronic typewriters, I mean. The key strokes are not as distinct. I read that someplace.”

The FBI man smiled confidently. “Our lab is very, very good. Probably the best in the world.”

Molly McNamara took out a pale blue tissue and began to clean her eyeglasses: neat, circular swipes. “I suppose it’s possible,” she said, “that somebody in our little group has gotten carried away.”

“It’s an emotional issue,” agreed Billy Hawkins, “this animal-rights thing.”

“Still, I cannot believe any of the Mothers would commit a crime. I simply cannot believe they would steal those creatures.”

“Perhaps they hired somebody to do it.”

Hawkins went into the briefcase again and came out with a standard police mug shot. He handed it to Molly and said: “Buddy Michael Schwartz, a convicted felon. His pickup truck was seen leaving the Amazing Kingdom shortly after the theft. Two white males inside.”

Behind the bedroom door, Bud Schwartz steadied himself. His gut churned, his throat turned to chalk. Danny Pogue looked frozen and glassy-eyed, like a rabbit trapped in the diamond lane of 1-95. “Bud,” he said. “Oh shit.” Bud Schwartz clapped a hand over his partner’s mouth.

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