James_Grippando_ _Jack_Swyteck_03_ _Last_to

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Larsen took another look at the body, the mangled hands trapped beneath the
hood, the bruises around the neck bruises that reflected the use of far more
force than was necessary to choke the life out of the victim. Got a lot of
rage here, contempt for the victim.
Which is consistent with a guy who does this to get his rocks off.
Literally.
Larsen shook his head and said, I don t think it s semen.
Lab will tell for sure.
I ll bet dollars to doughnuts it s saliva.
Saliva?
Larsen nodded slowly, absorbing the scene, watching more of the crime unfold
in his mind s eye. Like I said, we got real contempt here. Something
personal. Killing him wasn t enough. He took one last look at this pathetic
heap hanging from the front end of his eighty-thousand-dollar BMW, dredged up
every ounce of hatred in the back of his throat, and then let it fly.
He spat on him?
Yeah, he said as a dreamy smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Thank
our lucky stars. He spat on him.
Fifty-two
They want you to submit a DNA specimen for testing, said Jack.
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Tatum wiped the beer-foam mustache from his lip, silent, as if his lawyer
needed to say more before a response was merited.
A restaurant wasn t Jack s first choice of venue, but Tatum lived in north
Miami Beach, and he d groaned like a sick water buffalo about driving all the
way to Coral Gables for a meeting with his lawyer. So Jack had suggested they
meet for lunch at Gusto, a Cuban restaurant near the Lincoln Road area. The
service was friendly and the food was good, perfect for a first date or a
leisurely dinner with friends. But the colorful stories that came with the
meal seemed downright goofy when the basic objective was to get your client to
give up bodily fluids.
The waiter placed Jack s medium-rare palomilla steak before him, then slid
the house specialty in front of Tatum and said, El balserofor you, se�or.
What the hell s this? he asked. I thought I ordered regular old shrimp.
Jack said, The special has shrimp in it.El balsero, they call it. It means
the rafter, I think.
S�, s�. The rafter. The waiter smiled proudly, and Jack smiled back, though
somewhat bewildered. Jack had clients, friends, and even relatives who had
actually come to Miami by raft, so he wasn t quite sure what the politically
correct reaction was to a dish called the rafter. But thiswas a Cuban
restaurant, the waiter was more Cuban than he was, and a nostalgic mural of
Havana Harbor was painted on the wall, so he just kept smiling.
Tatum was staring at his plate.
El balsero, the waiter explained, was the personal creation of a talented
chef with a quirky sense of humor and, arguably, too much time on his hands.
The banana-shaped raft was made from the hollowed-out shell of a plantain so
lengthy that Freud would have had a psychological feast. The rafters inside
were six stuffed shrimp tail-up and held fast by a tomato enchilada sauce.
Thin french fries on either side of the raft were, naturally, the paddles.
Looks more like a gondola than a raft, said Tatum.
I was thinking a canoe, said Jack. Say, Lewis and Clark paddling down a
river of mojo sauce.
Ah, the waiter said with a wide smile of recognition. Sooper Mahn.
No, no, not Superman. That sLois and Clark. I m talking about the
nineteenth-century explorers you know, Lewis, Clark, Sacajawea?
The waiter just shrugged, lost. Jack considered trying to explain it in his
stilted Spanish, then decided against it, figuring that although he wasn t
exactly ahead, he might as well quit while he wasn t quite so far behind.
Never mind.Gracias por la comida , he said, thanking him for the food.
De nada, he replied. You re welcome.
Jack sprinkled chopped onions and parsley on his palomilla steak, poured the
black beans over his white rice and added a little hot sauce, just the way he
liked it. When he looked up, Tatum s shrimp were gone.
Pretty damn good, Tatum said. Lois was especially tasty.
Lewis, he said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand.
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Tatum sat back, seeming to have had his fill of shrimp passengers and small
talk. He looked at Jack and said, Tell me why I should give Larsen my DNA.
To get a swarming pack of homicide detectives off your back.
They think I killed Colletti, he said, more a statement than a question.
Of course they do.
I didn t.
I know. Theo told me you two were out on his boat fishing last night. Didn t
get home till this morning.
Tatum took another long drink from his tall glass of beer. Did you tell the
cops that?
Yes.
And they still want my DNA?
Larsen doesn t put much stock in an alibi that can be corroborated only by
your brother. Frankly, I don t blame him.
Tatum leaned into the table and said, Is it that you don t blame him? Or do
you think Theo s lying for me, too?
Jack looked away, not sure how to answer. Where are the fish, Tatum?
They weren t biting, he said flatly.
Not a single one all night long, huh? [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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