Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [27]
Meadows stood in the parking lot. Out of habit, he gave the new building a once-over. The earth tones made it warmer, all right, but the windows were so small, like Leavenworth. Maybe the architect was trying to shield the office workers from the merciless afternoon sun. It was still too institutional, Meadows decided. The police probably felt right at home.
Inside, Meadows paced the slippery lobby floor, rehearsing what he would tell Octavio Nelson when he gave him the sketch. Would the detective laugh? Would he tell Meadows that he was hallucinating, that the Coconut Grove killers were long gone from this country?
Meadows sat down and stole another look at his drawing.
Two uniformed cops shoved a drunk through the lobby. “Lemme alone,” the man whined. “Lemme go home.” Meadows could see where the handcuffs had chafed the man’s wrists. He wondered if anything more would happen when the cops had the drunk all to themselves.
IN THE FOURTH-FLOOR offices of the Vice and Narcotics Unit, Detective Wilbur Pincus hunched over his tiny desk and wrote in a small brown notebook. Carefully obscured under his right arm on the desk was a miserably faint photostat marked Vehicle Incident Report-Nonaccident.
Pincus had gotten the report from a friend in the police garage. There was no supervisor’s signature on the last line, so the report would never be filed. There was, however, a significant bit of information about the Mercedes 450 SEL sedan.
In his notebook Pincus printed in short, precise strokes: “PRW 378 fl.” He folded the photostat and ripped it into strips, tossing them into a waste can.
Pincus picked up the phone.
“Communications.”
“Is Dennis on duty this afternoon?”
“Who’s this?”
“Pincus in Narcotics.”
A few minutes later, a new voice came on the line. “Hey, Detective, what can I do for you?”
“Can you run a tag for me, Dennis?”
“No problem. Fire away.”
Pincus read the Mercedes’s tag numbers to the dispatcher.
“Call you back in five minutes,” Dennis said.
As Pincus hung up, he felt a hand on his shoulder. His mouth went dry, and he turned in his chair.
“Excuse me I didn’t mean to startle you.…”
“It’s OK,” Pincus said.
“I’m looking for Octavio Nelson,” the man said. He was tall and sandy-haired, familiar. Although he had a good physique, Pincus marked him instantly as an academic, Ivy League.
“Nelson isn’t here right now.”
“I’m Chris Meadows. I think we met once before.”
“Sure,” Pincus fumbled. “In the hospital, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re feeling better, obviously. I didn’t recognize you.”
Meadows smiled wanly. “It was probably all the tubes running out of my face.”
“Can I do something for you?”
“When is Nelson coming back?”
Pincus leaned back to look across the office at a wall clock. “Probably not at all this afternoon, Mr. Meadows. He’s working a homicide way down in Homestead, so he’ll probably go straight home afterward.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“Bright and early,” Pincus said. “I’ll tell him you’re coming by. Are you sure I can’t help you with something?”
“Uh, no, no, that’s OK,” Meadows said. “I’ll talk to Nelson tomorrow.”
Funny guy, the detective thought as he watched Meadows leaving. Wonder if he remembered something about the shooting? Happens often enough after the trauma wears off. Probably should have pressed him some more…
The phone made him jump.
“Got your ten-thirty-nine,” said Dennis in Communications. “The name is Nelson, Roberto Justo. You want the DOB and all?”
“Everything,” Wilbur Pincus said, forgetting Meadows. “Everything you got there.”
THE TRIP BACK to his house from downtown Miami was only ten minutes, but Meadows drove slowly, distractedly, and nearly missed his turn off Main Highway.
He wondered if he should have given the sketch to Pincus. The guy looked every bit as sharp as Nelson, more professional in fact. The square, smooth face, neat, if not too short, hair, blue suit—everybody’s favorite FBI agent right off the television.
But Nelson was Cuban. Like the killers. It was precisely for that reason