A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [111]
Tom Stratton arrived by cab at 7:15 A.M., a haggard presence among the rabid, coffee-hopped reporters. Because he was carrying a fresh spray of flowers, Stratton was immediately marked as a grief-stricken relative and besieged with questions. Who would want to steal Mr. Bertecelli’s body? Had a ransom note been received? Did Mr. Bertecelli practice satanism? How was the widow holding up?
Stratton deflected his interrogators and was relieved when a plump brunette woman identified herself as Violet Bertecelli and began to tell her sad story to the mothlike newsmen. The moment also offered a breather for Officer Sanderson, so Stratton walked up and asked what had happened.
“Some assholes ripped off a corpse here, which is grand theft, presuming the item taken has a value in excess of one hundred dollars. We’re looking for two or three perpetrators, at least one of them armed with a pistol.” Sanderson shrugged. “Who knows what to think? You want my opinion? Kids. Maybe it’s some kind of sick fraternity ritual. Else it could be ’Ricans. They’re all into that witchcraft shit. Voodoo, eatin’ chicken heads. Could be that. Hey you! Get out of the fuckin’ hole!” Sanderson waved his nightstick at a photographer. “Get out of the goddamn grave. What are ya, some kinda sick hump?”
“Somebody said there was an ambulance here,” Stratton remarked.
“Yeah, that’s the odd thing.” Sanderson took out his notebook and read from the top page. “Victim’s name was Charles Robinson, aged seventeen. Long juvenile record for b-and-e, shoplifting, boosting bicycles. Nothing like this.”
“Was he hurt badly?”
“Naw, you know them people. You got to shoot ’em in the asshole to do any real damage.” The cop laughed. “You a relative of Mr. Bertecelli or what?”
“No, I brought some flowers for my grandmother’s grave. It’s up the hill a ways. I was just curious, that’s all.”
“Well, the little shit was shot in the arm. He’ll live. I’m pretty sure he was involved in the whole thing. He’s not talkin’, naturally. Says he was walkin’ by the graveyard on his way to church when some crazy Chinaman shot him.” Sanderson shook his head admiringly. “You got to give these douche bags credit for imagination. Fuckin’ weird, even for Queens.”
The retinue clinging to Violet Bertecelli suddenly moved with her to the edge of the damaged grave. She stared at the broken casket and began to wail, accompanied by the sibilance of a dozen motordrive Nikons.
Chapter 24
THEY DROVE SOUTH. Broom was careful to stay at fifty-five, and even so he could not keep his eyes off the rearview mirror. He was ragged and nervous. A shooting had been the last thing he had expected. The Chinaman had balls, that was for sure—how the hell had he gotten that gun?
As always, Wang Bin rode in silence. In contrast to Broom, the deputy minister was placid, almost serene. He seemed to pay particular attention to other cars. The brighter and newer they were, the more he stared. One time, when a black Porsche flew past them, Broom thought he noticed Wang Bin smiling.
He’s like a little kid, the art dealer thought. A little kid with a chrome-plated .38.
“I am hungry,” Wang Bin said.
Broom found a Burger King. He used the drive-in lane, braking as they pulled abreast of a plastic menu board.
“What do you want?” he asked the deputy minister.
Wang Bin squinted at the colorful menu sign for a long time. A young girl’s voice cracked on a speaker box and said, “Good morning, can I help you?”
Wang Bin sat back, startled.
“Tell her what you want,” Broom commanded.
“Tell who?”
“The girl! Tell her what you want to eat!”
“I see no one.” Wang Bin looked above and beneath the sign. “Who is speaking?”
“Welcome to Burger King, can I help you?”
“It’s a bloody microphone, Pop!” Broom leaned out the window and shouted: “Two Whoppers, two fries and two coffees!”
After Broom paid for the food, he parked the car in the shade of a maple tree. He tore open his hamburger carton,