TOURIST SEASON by Carl Hiaasen

This onslaught of violent and weird events destroyed Detective Harold Keefe’s hoax theory (not to mention his career) and convinced the civic leaders of Dade County that a ruthless band of psychopaths was indeed roaming the streets.

Toeless and sullen, Keefe was spared the shame of a demotion and allowed to take a generous disability leave from the police department.

On the morning of December 20, while Brian Keyes was on the phone to the U.S. State Department, three uniformed police officers arrived at his office and politely requested his company downtown. Keyes had been expecting the visit, and was in no mood to argue. He had spent the week dodging Ricky Bloodworth and trying to negotiate the release of the two Shriners from a Bahamian prison, where they were being held on vague charges of espionage and lobster poaching. Keyes sent word to Skip Wiley that enough was enough, the joke was over, but all he got back was a cable that said: “Don’t you have work to do?” Eventually Burt and James were fined five thousand dollars each and placed on a nonstop Nassau-to-Chicago flight. Keyes had been playing dumb with the State Department when the cops showed up.

At police headquarters Keyes was led to a soundproof conference room and told to wait. The windowless suite was newly carpeted and smelled like paint. On the wall hung a blackboard on which someone had chalked the words: “Las Noches de Diciembre? Nights of December?” After a few minutes Al Garcia strolled in, grinning like a whale.

“No more motor pool!” he chortled. “Welcome to the big time.”

“Big time, Al?”

“My very own task force. Can you believe it, Brian, they put me in charge.”

“In charge of what?”

“In charge of solving the Las Noches murders.”

“No offense, Al,” Keyes said, “but why you?”

“Well, the gang has a Spanish name. I’m a Spanish cop.” Garcia laughed until he turned red. He sat down at the head of a long table and lit a cigarette. “It’s all top secret, this task force, and let’s keep it thataway. We don’t want to cause a panic, close the hotels, God forbid. It’s the season, y’know.”

Garcia was still chuckling. Keyes knew he didn’t give a shit about the hotels.

“How big is your task force?”

“Four detectives, including me, plus a guy at the FBI if we need him. We got a real code name and everything: Fuego One.”

“I like it,” Keyes said. Almost time for the big decision. Garcia was finished circling.

“So, my friend, you’ve had quite a time of it, eh?”

“Quite a time,” Keyes agreed.

“Let’s talk about it.” Garcia fished a spiral notebook from his rumpled jacket. “What do you know about this outfit?”

“I know they set up Ernesto Cabal for a fall. The poor putz had nothing to do with Sparky Harper’s death, just like I tried to tell you weeks ago.”

Garcia frowned. “I’m sorry, man. Really. He looked hot, and he was all we had at the time.”

“And that’s it? Adios, Ernesto.”

“What do you want, five Hail Marys? I said I was fucking sorry, and I am. Don’t forget I didn’t kill Cabal, Brian, he killed himself. A little more patience and the hijo de puta mighta walked out of jail a free man.”

Keyes said, “He was scared, that’s all.”

“Yeah, man, well, I’m kinda scared too. I’m scared these nuts are gonna murder more innocent people. And I’m scared that I’m going to have to look at more legless dead bloated bodies. But most of all I’m scared of what my wife’s going to do when I tell her I have to work through Christmas! So, rest in peace and forgive me, Ernesto”—Garcia made a perfunctory sign of the cross—”but I got to get busy.”

“I’ll try to help, Al.”

“Excellent. You can start by telling me who you saw out there in the Glades. Anybody interesting?”

“Guy named Jesus Bernal.”

“Hey, our bomber! Sloppy fucker, too. Left his fingerprints all over the piping. Buys the wire in Hialeah.” Garcia jotted in his notepad. “He the one who jammed the shiv in your ribs?”

“I think so,” Keyes said.

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