The Death Box(100)

“Here you go, kid,” Roy said, flipping Gershwin a badge wallet. Zigs studied the ID with a grin.

“Not ‘Provisional’?”

“I’ve had my eye on you, Zigzag. Why I suggested to Señor Grocery-store magnate that he send you my way. A lot quicker than going through channels.”

More laughter. Degan went to the coffee cart to find a cup to torment.

“Are you ever planning on growing up, Roy?” I asked.

“When it works for me. So far it hasn’t.” He walked to the front of the room, pivoted on his heels like a dancer, spun back to face us, clapping the hands. “So how about we go pull some folks out of hellholes? There are warrants to be obtained, local departments to be contacted. Time for you kiddies to earn your exorbitant incomes.”

We filed out in unison, Roy McDermott’s crime crew, the crème de la crime.

Three days passed. Kazankis was dragged off to jail screaming about being a martyr for Christ and I figured some prison psychiatrist was going to have a field day. The crew, my crew, Ziggy’s crew, told us to take a couple days off while they handled the legwork.

There was much good to study, and a tiny bit of bad to deal with. On the good side: My first-ever case in Florida was closing on a soprano arpeggio. Leala Rosales was being assisted by Victoree Johnson. I had high hopes, her resiliency was amazing, her fortitude uncanny. A survivor.

And the bad? I was getting booted from the coolest digs I’d ever known: a nifty house with my own private jungle. It seemed the parcel was zoned for multi-occupancy dwelling and had been bought over the weekend by C & A Enterprises to remake as a condo complex. I’d not had time to search out another place yet, so today’s challenge was seeing if the new owners would give me a few days to find a cheap apartment where I could hole up and look for a house.

I was taking one of my final looks at the quiet little cove when the knock came to the door, a death knell. Roy entered, followed by one of the department’s legal types, T. Raymond Bellington, a compact and overdressed guy with too much cologne and seeming a bit too happy at selling my transient digs from beneath me.

I tapped Bellington’s fingers in the approximation of a handshake. “So you got a new place I hope, Detective?” he said. “Ready to vacate today?”

“Working on it.”

Roy wanted coffee, which I had, Bellington asking did I have a non-caffeinated herbal tea? When I said I did not, but go outside and pick leaves from something and I’d boil them for him, he gave me a look and said water would be fine. I fetched beverages and we went out to the deck. I wanted to spend as much time as possible in my vanishing kingdom.

“Seems kinda sad to turn this into condos,” Roy said.

Bellington disagreed. “Better land usage,” he noted. “Higher occupant density.”

We heard tires moving down the lane. I seemed unable to rise and Roy went inside to answer the door, stepping to the deck a minute later and leading a tall and square-jawed man in his early forties and his assistant, a squat and dark-eyed woman reminiscent of Gertrude Stein. His name was Alan Winquist, hers Francine Bashore. They wore conservative business attire, Winquist opting for a gray palette, Miz Bashore going for a subdued purple, though offset with a sunny orange scarf.

“You work for C & A Enterprises?” I asked, pulling out a chair for Bashore and trying to appear upbeat.

“On a retainer basis,” Bashore said, nodding and sitting. “C & A has a finger in several pots, as they say. Development is a new endeavor.”

“You’re from a Memphis law firm?” Roy asked. He’d spent a few early years in Memphis where, I assumed, they were still recovering.

“Barlett, Duncan, and Ives.”

“Haven’t they all been dead since the Civil War?” Roy said.

“I believe Mr Duncan lived until the late fifties,” Bashore said. “The rumor that he studied under Oliver Cromwell is incorrect, but he did clerk for Oliver Wendell Holmes.”

The firm of BD&I was old line white-shoe. Not the type to grant exceptions. Dropping to my knees and begging was out.

“Our employer was considering sitting in,” Bashore said, glancing at her watch. “But we’re to go ahead if he couldn’t make it.” She pulled a sheaf of papers from her briefcase. “Any questions before we make it official?”

“Uh, Carson,” Roy said. “Didn’t you have a small request?”

I cleared my throat. “I’ve been, uh, intending to find another place, but it seems I’ve not quite located a suitable, uh …”

A frown from Bashore. “If you’re asking if you can remain here, we’re only here to transfer the property. I’m afraid you’ll have to—”