Tourist Season by Carl Hiaasen Read Free Book Online

of the bathroom. It was Harold Keefe, the lead detective.
    â€œWho’re you?” he asked Keyes.
    â€œA friend of Al’s.” Keyes looked at Garcia. García had an oh shit! look in his eyes.
    â€œDon’t touch anything,” Keefe growled on his way out the door. “Al, don’t let him touch anything, got it?”
    García checked the bathroom to make sure no other detectives were sneaking around. He didn’t say another word until the fingerprint man packed up his kit and left.
    â€œChrist! I didn’t know that bastard was in the john!”
    â€œRelax, Al. He doesn’t know who I am.”
    García started stuffing B. D. Harper’s clothing in a clear plastic evidence bag. “Check out the stains on the floor,” he told Keyes.
    Two streaks of dried blood made a wavering trail from the bedroom to the bathroom. It was not very much blood, certainly less than one would have expected.
    â€œThe lab guys are on their way,” Garcia said, “so I’m gonna give it to you once. Then I want you to get out of here before I get in trouble.”
    â€œWhatever you say, Al.”
    â€œOn the night of November 30, two men rented this room for one week. They paid cash in advance, three hundred and sixty bucks.”
    â€œWhat’d they look like?”
    â€œOne was described as a muscular black male in a tight yellow pullover,” Garcia said, “and the other was a young Latin male wearing blue jeans.”
    Keyes grimaced. “I suppose you showed Cabal’s mug shot to the desk clerk.”
    â€œYeah, and she’s seventy-five percent sure it was him.”
    â€œSeventy-five won’t cut it in court, Al.”
    â€œDon’t worry, she’ll be one hundred percent positive by the time this goes to trial.”
    â€œAnyone see them with B. D. Harper?”
    â€œWe got a couple faggots in room 225 who saw the Latin male enter this room about eleven P.M. with a chubby Anglo matching Harper’s description. They heard some loud voices, and then the door slammed. The fairies peeked out just in time to see Harper being led down the stairs by the black dude and the little Cuban. Oh yeah, and the Cuban is carrying a red Samsonite.”
    â€œSo they took Harper someplace, killed him, cut his legs off, stuffed him in the suitcase, and—”
    â€œBrought him back here,” Garcia said. “This is where the weird shit happens. These blood smears come from dragging the corpse into the bathroom. That’s where they dress him up in that stupid flowered shirt and smear the Coppertone all over and stuff him in the suitcase.”
    â€œDon’t forget the sunglasses,” Keyes said.
    â€œRight. Then they drive out to Key Biscayne and heave him into the bay.”
    â€œWhy all the trouble?”
    Garcia said, “Beats the hell out of me. Anyway, the black guy and the Cuban haven’t been back since early on the morning of December 1. The maid just opened the room today. She saw the blood on the floor and called the Beach police. ”
    â€œWell, this is great news, Al.”
    â€œI’m not finished. Remember I told you I had a line on those goofy clothes? Well, I got a sales clerk at a joint down the street who says she sold them to a skinny little Cuban guy on November 29.”
    â€œEmesto?”
    â€œShe’s eighty percent sure. The creep was wearing a floppy hat, so she’s not absolutely certain.”
    â€œGive her time,” Keyes said glumly. Things were looking bleak for Senor Cabal. Keyes wondered if he’d been wrong about the little guy. Maybe he wasn’t just a crummy car burglar trying to get by.
    García knotted the top of the evidence bag and scanned the room to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. “Time for you to hit the road,” he told Keyes. “And remember, I don’t know your fucking name.”
    â€œRight, Al.”
    Keyes was in the parking