“Here you have it,” Garcia said.
A pile of men’s clothing lay in the middle of the floor: blue silk socks, turned inside-out; an undershirt; a pair of soiled Jockey shorts; and a powder-blue double-knit suit with a J. C. Penney label. The legs of the suit had been sheared off below the knees. Lying beneath the clothes was a pair of highly polished black Florsheims.
The room showed no signs of a mortal struggle. There was a half-finished bottle of Seagram’s and a couple cans of soda on the dresser. On the nightstand, next to the Magic Fingers machine, sat three plastic bottles of Coppertone tanning butter with coconut oil. A fingerprint man studiously dusted the containers; he was crouched on his haunches, oblivious of everything.
With a long pair of tweezers, Garcia picked a plastic bag off the floor. The red-and-white lettering on the bag said: “Everglades Novelties.”
“This,” Garcia intoned, “was used to transport the instrument of death.”
“The toy alligator?”
Garcia nodded.
“So this is where it happened.”
“The murder? No, we don’t think so.”
Suddenly a big redheaded cop barged out of the bathroom. It was Harold Keefe, the lead detective.
“Who’re you?” he asked Keyes.
“A friend of Al’s.” Keyes looked at Garcia. Garcia had an oh shit! look in his eyes.
“Don’t touch anything,” Keefe growled on his way out the door. “Al, don’t let him touch anything, got it?”
Garcia checked the bathroom to make sure no other detectives were sneaking around. He didn’t say another word until the fingerprint man packed up his kit and left.
“Christ! I didn’t know that bastard was in the john!”
“Relax, Al. He doesn’t know who I am.”
Garcia started stuffing B. D. Harper’s clothing in a clear plastic evidence bag. “Check out the stains on the floor,” he told Keyes.
Two streaks of dried blood made a wavering trail from the bedroom to the bathroom. It was not very much blood, certainly less than one would have expected.
“The lab guys are on their way,” Garcia said, “so I’m gonna give it to you once. Then I want you to get out of here before I get in trouble.”
“Whatever you say, Al.”
“On the night of November 30, two men rented this room for one week. They paid cash in advance, three hundred and sixty bucks.”
“What’d they look like?”
“One was described as a muscular black male in a tight yellow pullover,” Garcia said, “and the other was a young Latin male wearing blue jeans.”
Keyes grimaced. “I suppose you showed Cabal’s mug shot to the desk clerk.”
“Yeah, and she’s seventy-five percent sure it was him.”
“Seventy-five won’t cut it in court, Al.”
“Don’t worry, she’ll be one hundred percent positive by the time this goes to trial.”
“Anyone see them with B. D. Harper?”
“We got a couple faggots in room 225 who saw the Latin male enter this room about eleven P.M. with a chubby Anglo matching Harper’s description. They heard some loud voices, and then the door slammed. The fairies peeked out just in time to see Harper being led down the stairs by the black dude and the little Cuban. Oh yeah, and the Cuban is carrying a red Samsonite.”
“So they took Harper someplace, killed him, cut his legs off, stuffed him in the suitcase, and—”
“Brought him back here,” Garcia said. “This is where the weird shit happens. These blood smears come from dragging the corpse into the bathroom. That’s where they dress him up in that stupid flowered shirt and smear the Coppertone all over and stuff him in the suitcase.”
“Don’t forget the sunglasses,” Keyes said.
“Right. Then they drive out to Key Biscayne and heave him into the bay.”
“Why all the trouble?”
Garcia said, “Beats the hell out of me. Anyway, the black guy and the Cuban haven’t been back since early on the morning of December 1. The maid just opened the room today. She saw the blood on the floor and called the Beach police.”
“Well, this is great news, Al.”
“I’m not finished. Remember I told you I had a line on those goofy clothes? Well, I got a sales clerk at a joint down the street who says she sold them to a skinny little Cuban guy on November 29.”