“Forgive my ignorance,” said the second detective. “But don’t stumps do a pretty good job holding themselves down? That’s why people have to pay for heavy machinery to come out and remove them.”
The examiner shook his head. “Not this one. There are two ways to deal with stumps: Use a grinder to chip it down just below ground level, leaving only the roots. Or use a small front-end loader and scoop the whole thing. This one was scooped from somewhere else.”
“It doesn’t make any sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.” The examiner pointed to where his team now worked with lengthy crowbars to tip the stump. “After it was originally removed, someone sheared away the underlying root structure, leaving it with a level base to lie flat on the ground. And with the roots gone, the hurricane screws became necessary. They became the roots.”
“But why did they need to do that to begin with?”
“To hold the stump in place over the victim.”
“The victim’s under there? Jesus, are you saying he was killed by being buried alive?”
“You’re halfway there.” The examiner grabbed another evidence bag from an assistant and held it up toward the detectives.
“Looks like a small plumbing pipe.”
“For showerheads.” The examiner handed it back. “It’s how the victim was able to breathe underground. And the pipe was the first thing that bounced off the grinder’s safety glass.”
“You mean his face was right under—” The detective placed a palm on his stomach. “I think I may be sick.”
“I told you it gets ugly. Whoever did this had a lot of rage. He left the guy overnight to think about it, and arranged for the landscaping company to come in this morning and do the dirty work. Literally.”
A third detective arrived.
“Got any leads?” asked the one in charge.
The new guy shook his head and opened a notebook. “The property owner of record checks out. Clean rap sheet. Says he never ordered any work. And the landscapers say the job was requested over the phone, which turns out to be a prepaid disposable cell that’s impossible to trace.”
“Payment?”
“Stolen credit card.”
The detective stared down again at the nasty pool of blood, then closed his eyes tight. “What kind of monster are we dealing with?”
DOWNTOWN TAMPA
Skyline. Hustle and bustle. Historic theater with balconies, the hockey arena, the landmark “beer can” building. People moving briskly to the thriving rhythms of the big city.
In one of the towering buildings, people came and went in slow motion, indicating it contained government offices.
A black Firebird pulled into a metered spot at the curb.
“Lower that joint!” Serge jerked a thumb sideways. “That’s the county office.”
“But we just wrapped up that Corvette case for Mahoney.” Coleman cupped his hand for a quick hit. “It’s our day off.”
“Since when do we ever have a day off?”
“We’re always just aimlessly driving around.”
“
“And Felicia’s killer?”
Serge pursed his lips. “Okay, that’s the primary reason.”
“So how are you going to start?”
“I already did.” Serge flipped through the pages in his lap. “You can find almost anything on the Internet: voting records, campaign donors, business associations, even travel. And what I couldn’t find, I’m submitting Freedom of Information Act requests to be sent to Mahoney because we really don’t have a mailbox.”
“Who are you investigating?”
“Remember that political operative we took care of in the Gulf? He was wired into the whole conspiracy that got Felicia killed. So I figured why not start with the candidates he placed in office. It’s a two-for.”
Coleman stubbed out the roach. “Find anything yet?”
“Not sure.” Serge held up a page and squinted. “Like I said, the whole universe runs on patterns. And all his guys have some connection to Costa Gorda: junkets, trade bills, vacation villa, but it’s always something.”
“So you’ve figured it out?”
“Not yet.” Serge stuffed the papers away. “I’ll know more when those document requests come in to Mahoney. Meanwhile, we need to infiltrate the political parties so we can gather intelligence on the ground.”
“How do we do that?”
“The obvious first step is registering to vote.” Serge got out of the car with quarters for the meter. “We should do that anyway. It’s the sacred obligation of every citizen to participate in democracy and preciously preserve the integrity of the voting booth. So I got some fake IDs.”
Serge led Coleman into the building and up an elevator.
“How soon till they let us vote?” asked Coleman.
“Since we haven’t done it in a while, I’m hoping immediately.”
The elevator dropped them in a sterile office that was cut in half by a long counter with a series of customer-service stations. Serge took a paper ticket with a number, and they grabbed two chairs against the wall.
