Strip Tease by Carl Hiaasen Read Free Book Online Page B

was separated from Darrell Grant at the time—he’d phoned her from jail, and that was that. Phoned her at work, the moron! Told her to hurry and ditch the Camaro and for God’s sake don’t let the cops look in the trunk. Darrell Grant, yelling these instructions, forgetting that most phone calls out of the Broward County Jail (and all phone calls into the FBI building) were automatically recorded.
    Erin herself was never suspected of complicity, for on both audio tapes her words to Darrell Grant were clear:
    “You asshole. Where’s my daughter?”
    Although she didn’t want to leave the job, Erin wasn’t bitter. She understood the problem. Nobody should be married to a career criminal, but it was especially important for employees of the FBI. Agent Cleary was crestfallen, and wrote a glowing letter of reference, To Whom It May Concern, on official FBI stationery. For him that was quite a daring gesture. As it turned out, the letter was not needed when Erin applied for work at the Eager Beaver lounge. “Show me your boobs,” Mr. Orly had said. “Fine. When can you start?” Erin didn’t have the heart to tell Agent Cleary of her new occupation.
    Ironically, the felony charge against Darrell Grant was dropped, as he’d agreed to become a secret informant for the sheriff’s department. His first task was ratting out three of his scumdog thief friends; for this, Darrell was rewarded with a pristine new past, courtesy of the DELETE button on the sheriffs crime computer. The vaporizing of Darrell’s prior record was egregiously illegal but not without precedent; if questioned, Darrell’s handlers could always claim it was an accident. Crime computers were famous for spontaneous erasures.
    In the subsequent battle for custody of Angela, Erin found herself fighting not just Darrell Grant, model citizen, but the detectives who so foolishly believed that he was working on their behalf. Whenever a new court date was set, the detectives conveniently arranged for Darrell Grant to be out of town on an undercover assignment. Affidavits attesting to the urgency of the mission were available by the handful. On the rare occasions when Darrell actually showed his face in court, not a soul came forward who would swear to his felonious exploits. The file room had been purged as neatly as the computer’s memory. On the issue of Darrell Grant’s criminal character, the judge was left only with Erin’s word, which he coolly rejected.
    Broke and discouraged, Erin refused to give up. She planned to pursue Darrell Grant through the legal system for as long and as far as necessary. Angela was in peril not because Darrell was abusive, but because he was unfailingly careless. It was only a matter of time before something bad happened to him, and then the real nightmare would begin. Then Erin’s daughter would be delivered into the custody of the great state of Florida, which was not known for its attentiveness toward children.
    Angie would never be a foster child. Erin wouldn’t let it happen. To save the girl, she would do anything, including stealing Rita Grant’s mail off the kitchen counter.
    Erin put on a Jimmy Buffett tape, lay down on the bed and went through Rita’s letters. She wore cutoff jeans and a baggy Hawaiian shirt and wraparound shades, electric blue. Her hair was in a ponytail, tucked under a pink cotton baseball cap.
    Her bare feet bounced to the music, and she was feeling better about her prospects.
    Most of the stolen mail was worthless to Erin’s private investigation—the electric bill, a Penthouse subscription reminder, a homesick letter from yet another wayward sibling (Darrell’s youngest brother, feigning insanity at the state hospital in Chattahoochee), and a membership notice from the National Rifle Association, to which both Rita and Alberto had hopefully applied.
    Only one item was of interest to Erin: the telephone bill. FBI training wasn’t necessary to scan the long-distance entries and pinpoint