“Your new empathy coach, and if you pass, it could go a long way to getting you out of this jam. Believe me, you won’t like my detention hall.” Serge pulled a square from his back pocket and unfolded it. “For our first day of class, you’re going to write a lot of apology letters. I took the liberty of composing a sample to get you started.” He held the letter down to Roscoe’s eyes. “I have you referring to yourself as ‘the biggest prick in the world,’ but if you’d like something stronger, feel free to substitute.”
Roscoe spit in Serge’s face.
Serge nonchalantly found a rag in the trunk and wiped it off. Then he cracked Roscoe in the head again with the iron rod and made his way back to the driver’s seat. He picked up the binoculars and stared across the street.
Coleman stuck the eyedropper in a can of Bud. “What now?”
“I love Busch Gardens! Especially after it’s empty at night when the staff doesn’t force you to limit the park’s possibilities with their rule-crazy narrowness.”
“No, I mean, that guy back there.”
“Roscoe?” The binoculars panned from the Montu to the Kumba roller coaster. “In his case, the psychologists were right: Empathy can’t be taught.”
“But you said your zeal . . . I mean, you gave up pretty quickly.”
The binoculars reached the gondola over the Serengeti Plain. “I thought maybe we had environmental differences, but hocking a giant loogie in someone’s face is a language that crosses cultural lines.”
Chapter Three
PALM BEACH
The drive down South Ocean Boulevard, along the sand and surf of the Atlantic, is one of the most inspiring in the country. People come away describing an almost morphine-like sense of euphoria and bliss.
“Motherfucker!” screamed Courtney Styles, punching the ceiling of her Geo Prizm that needed transmission work and non-bald tires.
She pulled up the driveway of her uncle’s vacation cottage and couldn’t stay mad for long. It was the cutest little bungalow, and only three doors down from the ocean, cozily tucked in a nest of traveler’s palms and banana trees. Courtney especially liked the color combination of the villa’s yoke-yellow Bahama shutters and a phosphorus tropical green from those giant rain-forest leaves draping over the trim.
She unlocked the front door. One step inside before her fingers went numb. Keys hit the polished, blond-pine floor. Courtney’s unbelieving eyes worked their way wall to wall. “What on earth—?”
The first phone call was to the owner.
“No,” said her uncle. “We’ll call the cops. You go over to the neighbors where you’ll be safe.”
Before Courtney could ring the doorbell on the next house, nine squad cars and two vans from the Palm Beach Police Department arrived like they were paid massive bonuses for response time and overwhelming force to protect wealth, which they were. Black helmets dashed in a low crouch through the snapping foliage and took up an eight-point interlocking perimeter with laser sights and flash-bang options.
“Miss, are you okay?”
“Yes, but—”
The leader held up a hand as his walkie-talkie squawked. “Go ahead, Team Indigo? . . .” He listened, then turned to Courtney with a reassuring wink. “Indigo went in and cleared the kill box.”
“Kill box?”
“Office language,” said the commando commander. “Important thing is you’re safe. Come with me . . .”
Courtney decided she was beginning to like the thought of going back to school for her graduate degree. They reached the front of the bungalow, and the commander introduced her to a pair of detectives with mirror sunglasses and clipboards.
“So if I understand, ma’am, a few minutes ago you returned to this unfurnished cottage when something seemed suspicious?”
“Yes, it used to be furnished.”
“Of course,” said the second detective. “And the previous owners took their stuff when they left.”
“No, my uncle still owns it,” said Courtney. “They’re letting me live here this summer after graduation.”
“But they stripped the place down after the season, right?” said the first detective. “Very common here. I can give you statistics.”
“I’m saying it was furnished this morning.” She pointed. “Seventy-inch LED flat-screen in front of that jimmied-open wall safe.”
“But the safe is empty,” said the second.
“That’s the point,” said Courtney. “They got everything. I can’t believe how thorough they were.”
“I see.” The first wrote something on his clipboard. “When was the last time you saw this furniture?”
“About nine this morning when I left.”
“And where did you go?”
“Worth Avenue.”
“Did anyone see you there?”
“Wait a minute,” said Courtney. “
“We’re not saying that,” began the first detective. “Some homes are hit at random . . .”
“. . . Others are targeted,” completed the second. “We’re just trying to determine if someone was watching you to establish your patterns.”
“Seen anyone out of place in the neighborhood?” asked the first. “Maybe in a parked car on your street?”
“No,” said Courtney. “Nobody.”
