The Death Box(30)

I banged the door. “Mr Carosso? It’s Detectives Ryder and Gershwin. We need to speak to you again.” Nothing. I banged twice again, to no avail. I found Gershwin in the side bushes peeking in the window. “Uh-oh. You better check this out.”

I saw a body on the floor and kicked the flimsy door open to find Carosso staring at the ceiling as a syrupy red halo encircled his head, the product of a slit throat that looked like a huge and hideously grinning second mouth. The room stank of blood and released body products. Flies had found their way inside; they always do.

Three Miami-Dade units arrived in minutes, the senior officer a fortyish sergeant named Shep Bertleman. He was a string bean, six-two or so, maybe a hundred fifty pounds with a pocketful of nickels. His eyes were large and thoughtful and his nose had been broken a time or two.

We showed identification, mine making me the de facto owner of the scene. Bertleman was respectful but didn’t know me well enough to trust my getting things right so he covered the scene as well. I liked him from the git-go.

When we finished he stood beside me, smelling of talcum powder and a fresh haircut. “FCLE, huh? I hear y’all going through changes over there.”

“I’m part of it. Hired over from the Mobile department.”

“Celia Valdez, she’s fine, right?”

“We haven’t had a chance to talk much.”

“Ceel was hired outta our department. I was pissed at McDermott for stealing her. Still, the man knows quality.”

The FCLE forensics team arrived like a techno army commanded by a petite woman who could have played lead in a stage production of Peter Pan, a layered shag ’do framing a pixie face. I nodded as she came my way, foot-pushing a heavy case across the floor.

“You’re Ryder, I take it. I’m Deb Clayton. Pleased to meet you and all that. You found the vic?”

“Me and Gershwin over there.”

“Looks pretty cut and dried. Or maybe slit and bled out. You take your look?”

“Yep. All yours, Miz Clayton.”

“It’s Deb. And welcome to the weird and wonderful world of Fickle.”

I looked out the window to see a Miami-Dade Medical Examiner van pulling up. The two departments shared the facilities of the MDME, the FCLE having staff pathologists. From here on, the scene was the province of the evidence pros and medical folks.

Gershwin and I headed out to canvass neighbors, finding the closest one was visiting relatives in North Carolina. No one knew much about Carosso and I got the feeling it was one of those neighborhoods where everyone has secrets and won’t poke into yours if you don’t poke into theirs.

We watched the ambulance take Paul Carosso on his final journey and headed back to the office, happy to find two desks, two desk chairs, two chairs for sitting, one low couch, two file cabinets and a whiteboard. Each desk had a computer terminal linked to a printer and both phones worked. A box of office supplies was in the corner.

We sat and started digging into Carosso’s financial records. An hour of calls to various banking voices revealed that two grand had been deposited in Carosso’s account a year ago. Though it wasn’t much, it was an anomaly, most deposits being paycheck range: three to five hundred every couple weeks.

Gershwin leaned back with purple skate shoes on his desk and his hands jammed in the front pockets of his paint-tight black jeans. “Maybe Carosso got a big payoff and spent it on something, had two grand left.”

“I don’t think the guy owned anything that cost more than fifty bucks.”

My phone rang, Morningstar. “Hello, Doctor,” I said in my most charming and inoffensive voice. “What can I do for—”

“I need those fibers tested now, not yesterday …”

“Excuse me, Doctor?”

“Wake up, Diego! Get me more one-quart evidence bags …”

I realized that Morningstar had dialed, then started issuing orders, forgetting the phone in her hand.

“One goddamn Coke,” she bayed. “How hard is that?”

“YO!” I yelled. “DOCTOR MORNINGSTAR!”

A beat, and I heard the phone bump her cheek. “Yeah, Ryder. I hear you. Whatdaya want?”

“You called me.”

“Oh yeah. How about you haul your ass to the site?”

“Haul my what where?”

A pause while she reconsidered her tone. “Can you stop by, Detective? We’ve got some new information you’ll find interesting.”

We booked to the site and entered the tent – IDs predominant on our chests – and found Morningstar at the upper bank of examination tables. She looked up as we approached.

“I heard you just sent a body to the morgue, Ryder. Connected to this case?”