Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [115]
Nelson reached across his office desk and punched the intercom. “It’s almost eight. Round up the posse and let’s move.”
“We’re ready, Captain, but Reilly had a question.”
“What is it?”
“Those people inside that you told us to watch out for? Who they with?”
Good question, Reilly, Nelson muttered inaudibly. “Let’s just say they’re with a friendly force.”
DR. HARRY APPEL was fourteen blocks and eight glorious minutes out of the morgue when the beeper on his belt went off. For just once on a Saturday night, he had hoped to slip away early, but now his plans dissolved. He congratulated himself for not having made any serious arrangements for the evening. In his line of work it was hard enough getting dates.
Appel negotiated a daring U-turn at the toll plaza on the Airport Expressway, and he was back in the office ten minutes later. Dr. Frank Cline greeted him in the lounge as Appel unfolded a starched, clean lab coat.
“Harry, I’m sorry to call you back, but this one’s got me stumped.”
“Just one? Thank God. I thought we’d had another quadruple. I may get out of here at a decent hour yet.”
Appel picked through his locker for a bag of prized pipe tobacco. Cline was only two years out of his residency, but Appel valued his work. Good pathologists were hard to come by.
“They found this guy at the airport,” Cline told him as the men rode downstairs to the morgue. “At first they thought he was hit by a cab, but he wasn’t.”
“No traumatic injuries?”
“Nope.” Cline held the door for his boss, followed him through and pointed to the autopsy table. Sitting nearby in a straight-backed chair was Detective Wilbur Pincus. Appel gave a friendly wave.
“Christ, Wil, what brings you out? This a VIP?”
Pincus said nothing. His face was ashen.
In a low voice Cline said, “Pincus was there when the guy collapsed. He’s not real eager to talk about it. Seems he was tailing the deceased off an airplane.”
Appel gave the body a once-over. He picked up Cline’s chart and read from the notes. “Roberto Justo Nelson,” he said aloud. “This shows an address on Hibiscus Island.”
“Right,” Pincus murmured.
“Frank, the toxicology isn’t done yet?”
“I sent it down an hour ago. The lab is very busy.”
“Call them back, and tell them to push it. I don’t want to keep Pincus any longer than necessary.” Appel noticed that the young detective was keeping a liberal distance between himself and the corpse. Cline left the morgue to use the phone.
Appel turned to Pincus. “This guy an informant?”
“No,” Pincus said. “It’s Octavio Nelson’s brother.”
“Shit,” Appel said heavily, mouthing an unlighted pipe. “Why were you tailing him?”
“He was dealing coke.”
“Is Nelson involved?”
“I think so,” Pincus said gravely. “There were some peculiar circumstances…”
Appel lifted Roberto’s bluish arms and peered at the veins. “Where is Nelson?”
“On a stakeout.”
“Have you called him?”
“No,” Pincus said, growing pale. “Not yet.”
Appel sighed and struggled into a pair of latex surgical gloves. Cline came back and reported that the lab technicians were moving ahead on the blood testing with renewed haste.
Appel began probing Roberto’s organs. Pincus turned his chair away; the wooden legs squealed like chalk on the bare tile, breaking the silence.
“Wil, was this a convulsion?”
“Yes. A seizure. There was some salivation, thrashing around. Then his heart stopped, and I tried CPR until the ambulance got there. It was too late by then.”
“Was he arriving on an international flight?” asked Appel, holding up a yard-long length of intestines.
“Right. Colombia.”
Appel said, “Frank, look at this.” The two men huddled over the purplish soup inside Roberto Nelson’s splayed abdomen. Pincus stared at the chilly walls and rehearsed the speech to his partner. He had plenty of ammunition—the phonied towing report, the ride to the Avianca terminal. Octavio