The Death Box(61)

“Dios mio, is that a pito or a crayon?”

“Stretch it out, Xavie! Nasty little Minnie. This will teach you to spy on Xavie.”

“That’s it, Dolores, his name will be Minnie! Minnie-Minnie-Miney, why is your pito so tiny?”

With a yip of laughter Xaviera releases Minard’s penis. His face is on fire as he bolts to the basement to hide in a corner until Xaviera and her friends scamper out the door. Alternately screaming curses and crying, Minard Chalk runs upstairs and flushes four of his mother’s earrings down the toilet. When his parents return Xaviera’s mother is accused of theft and fired.

Though he never sees Xaviera again, her laughter never leaves his brain.

“Minnie-Minnie-Miney, why is your pito so tiny?”

When Chalk wakes – the sheets, as always, soaked with sweat and, oddly, semen – he will phone a number in Miami and close a recently discussed deal.

With the HomeSec twins out of our hair – at least for now – we could catch up on the latest from the front or, in this case, the pit. Roy had a meeting in Tallahassee and booked for the airport to catch one of the department’s Cessnas, another gift from the drug lords.

“So we’ve got two bodies,” I recapped to Gershwin and Morningstar. “One with a neatly severed penis in its mouth and a severed head, and the other with his hands removed and throat cut.”

“But the chopped-off hands were in the matrix,” Gershwin said. “So it wasn’t to hide fingerprints. By the way, Doctor …”

“I just heard from the lab,” Morningstar said. “The skin got dissolved. But whoever killed the vics was someone who keeps a sharp blade nearby. Of course, your Carosso body …”

“Yep,” I nodded. “Blade again.”

We had a perp who liked to use a knife, a truly ugly inclination. I pulled my cell and called Vince Delmara.

“How you doing, Vince?”

“I’m doing scut work at a sleazebag massage parlor off I-95. The Taste of Heaven, how do you like that? Place burned down last night, looks like arson. Or maybe a concerned citizen doing the city a favor.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“A bouncer got burned bad hustling the chickadees out. Naturally, nobody’s saying a thing. I don’t know whether to hand the case off to the fire investigator or Vice. Whatcha need, Detective?”

“How’s your snitch network, Vince?”

“A thousand tiny stars shining in the dark, Detective. Some a lot dimmer than others.”

I asked if he could check his snitches for anyone known for using a blade. There were plenty of bad people who favored knives, but the one we sought would be borderline or fully sociopathic, the type to kill for an audience to enhance his reputation.

“I’ll put out the word.”

“And I’ll copy you FCLE reports of everything we dig up. And what we have to date.”

I could hear his grin. “Cooperation and information? You’re an odd guy, Ryder.” He rang off. There was little for Gershwin and me to do but keep digging. Vince Delmara would work the Miami-Dade snitch angle, trying to find if anyone out there knew of a cutter.

It was a long shot.





32





Leala lay in her hideaway, the muted light telling her the sun was fading. It was hot and Leala had shed her dress to keep from spoiling its freshness. She wiped her brow with the scarf, ate her last banana and waited until night arrived.

The door creaked open and her eyes checked the house, still black, still safe. Cars and motorcycles roared on nearby streets and when a vehicle swerved into the alley Leala slipped into shadows, grateful for trash cans to squat behind.

She slipped to the house with the pool and slid into the cool blue water. It was bitter on her lips but delicious against her skin. She was submerging when the night exploded into light, hard and white and everywhere.

“Someone’s out there!” a voice screamed from the house. “Someone’s in the pool! YOU! GET OUT OF HERE!”

An alarm was tripped and a sonic blade knifed the air. Zeee-yup, zeee-yup, zeee-yup. Leala grabbed her dress, running naked across the grass and out the gate. Shaking uncontrollably, she threw the dress over her head and shook it into place, sprinting across front yards before dashing toward the alley. Dogs were barking now, each alerting the other to an intruder in the neighborhood.

Orzibel and Morales were crisscrossing the grid of blocks forming Little Havana and searching for Leala. Orzibel grinned. “Did I tell you, Chaku? Cho called Amili an hour after our match man left, probably while the flames were highest. Said she’d like to continue our business relationship.”

Morales snorted and slapped the steering wheel in delight. Orzibel went back to scanning the street. He paused and canted his head toward the window.