TOURIST SEASON by Carl Hiaasen

“What else do we need?”

“A witness or two might be nice.”

“Patience, Brian. We’re working on it.”

“And a motive?”

Garcia held up his hands. “Robbery, of course.”

“Come on, Al, this wasn’t a knife in the ribs. It was the ritual murder of a prominent citizen. How did Harper get into those silly clothes? Who smeared suntan oil all over him? Who stuffed a goddamn toy alligator down his throat? Who sawed his legs off? Are you telling me that some two-bit auto burglar concocted this whole thing?”

“People do crazy things for a new Oldsmobile.”

“You’re hopeless,” Keyes said.

“Don’t tell me you believe Cabal’s story? Brian, you got to get this liberal-crusader shit out of your system. I thought two years away from that newspaper would cure you.”

“You’ve got to admit, it’s a very weird case. You guys checked out the car, right?”

“It was clean, except for Cabal’s prints.”

Keyes took out a legal pad and started jotting notes. “What about the suitcase?”

“No prints. Its model number matches a batch sent to Jordan Marsh about a year ago, but we can’t be sure. Could’ve just as easily come from Macy’s.”

Keyes said, “Any sign of the missing legs?”

“Nope.”

“Did you trace that terrific Hawaiian wardrobe?”

“Ugh-ugh.” Garcia made a zipper motion across his lips.

“Oh, you got something, uh? A store, perhaps. Maybe even a salesman who remembers something odd about this particular customer—”

“Brian, back off. This is a very touchy case. If the chief even suspected I was talking to you, I’d be shaking out parking meters for the rest of my life. I think we’d better call it quits for today.”

Keyes put the legal pad back in his briefcase. “I’m sorry, Al. I appreciate what you’re doing.” Keyes was telling the truth. Garcia didn’t owe him a damn thing.

“Normally I wouldn’t mind, Brian, it’s just that this one is Hal’s case. He’s the lead detective. Went out to the scene and all. I don’t want to screw it up for him.”

“I understand. What’s he got you doing?”

Garcia rolled his eyes. “Checking out dead-enders. Take a look at this.” He slid a sheet of paper across the desk.

It was a typed letter. Keyes scanned it quickly. He started to read it again, when Garcia snatched it away.

“Crazy, huh? It came in today’s mail.”

Keyes asked for a Xerox copy.

“No way, Brian. The PD’s office would cream over something like this. And it’s crap, take my word for it. It’s going right into the old circular file as soon as I make a couple routine calls to the feds.”

“Read it out loud,” Keyes said.

“I’ll deny I ever even saw it,” Garcia said.

“Okay, Al, you got my word. Read it, please.”

Garcia slipped on a pair of tinted glasses and read from the letter:

Dear Miami Chamber of Commerce:

Welcome to the Revolution.

Mr. B. D. Harper’s death was a milestone. It may have seemed an atrocity to you; to us, it was poetry. Contrary to what you’d like to believe, this was not the act of a sick person, but the raging of a powerful new underclass.

Mr. Harper’s death was not a painful one, but it was unusual, and we trust that it got your attention. Soon we start playing for keeps. Wait for number three!

El Fuego,

Comandante, Las Noches de Diciembre

Al Garcia removed his reading glasses and said, “Not half-bad, really. For a flake.”

“Not at all,” Keyes agreed. “What do you make of that number-three business? Who was victim number two?”

“There wasn’t any, not that I know of.”

“So who are the Nights of December?” Keyes asked.

“A figment of some nut’s imagination. ‘The Fire,’ he calls himself. El Fuego my ass. I’ll check with the Bureau, just in case, but J. Edgar himself wouldn’t have taken this one seriously. Still, I might ask around with the guys on the antiterrorism squad.”

“And then?” Keyes asked.

“A slam dunk,” Garcia said. “Right into the wastebasket.”

Cab Mulcahy poured the coffee. Skip Wiley drank.

“The beard is new, isn’t it?”

“I need it,” Wiley said, “for an assignment.”

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