need to get moving, Mr. Iboch.”
“Certainly.” He bowed. (See? Thespian.) “So Mrs. Sanders misplaced an article of jewelry?” he asked.
“She thinks so,” Fantasy said. “A big ole diamond. She thinks she may have thrown it away, and we’re here to look for it.”
“Very well. Follow me.”
Four miles later.
“It’s empty.” Fantasy’s whole head was in the bin.
“It can’t be.” Fisher Iboch stuck his head in too.
Two heads in the garbage bucket were better than three. I held back.
Fisher Iboch produced a flashlight and a ray gun from somewhere around his middle. Maybe it was a barcode gun. Whichever, he aimed it at a panel on the side of the bin, then pulled it to his nose. “This bin hasn’t dumped in five days!” (Barcode gun.) He stuck his head in again. “There’s no way it should be empty!” His voice echoed around. “The elevator must be stuck.”
“Let me see your flashlight.” I held out my hand. His flashlight was a ten-inch Maglite. I knew it well from my years with the Pine Apple Police Force. It could go from spot-to-flood with a twist. I chose flood. We took a look. The chute above the bin was your basic scary, dark, steel opening, and at first glance, nothing looked out of order.
“There’s something.” Fantasy pointed.
“Where?” I aimed the beam.
“There.” Fantasy pointed to a corner. “It looks like a shoe.”
We’d just been through several Hefty bags of Bianca’s rejects. A shoe wouldn’t be out of the question. Fifty shoes wouldn’t be out of the question.
“Oh, my word,” Fisher Iboch said. “No telling how much waste is behind that shoe.” He disappeared, then reappeared, crow bar in hand.
“What are you doing?” Fantasy asked.
He was climbing in the garbage bin was what he was doing.
“If the shoe is stuck, I’ll shove it out of the way. That might release the lift.”
“If it works, Mr. Iboch, won’t you be smothered in garbage?” I took a giant step back. “Won’t it all fall out?”
Clank, clank. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m not tall enough. I’ll have to call maintenance.”
I smiled at my ten-foot-tall partner. (She really is almost six-feet tall.)
“No way,” she said. Then after a full minute, “Dammit, Davis.” She hiked her skirt, then lobbed a long leg over the side of the bin, trading places with Fisher Iboch.
She aimed and pushed with the crowbar one time before we heard a mechanical growl. She’d hit paydirt. She scrambled to get out of the bin before the lift released its load, but didn’t quite make it. Peyton Reynolds fell out on top of a mountain of garbage. She was either very dead or very close to it. Fantasy was somewhere underneath.
TEN
“Stop calling her Mr. Microphone’s wife, Peyton Reynolds, Bianca’s bitch, the preacher’s daughter, and everything else under the sun, Davis.” No Hair had No Patience. “I don’t have enough time to figure out who you’re talking about. The prints came back Peyton Beecher, so we’re calling her Peyton Beecher, and that includes you.”
After taking care of almost-naked, almost-dead PEYTON BEECHER, we were back in our offices, which we now knew weren’t all that far from Waste Management.
“You’re on the other side of the property, Davis.” No Hair was far from concerned. “You might as well be in a different time zone.”
“Says you, No Hair,” said me. “We want new offices and a bunch of stock options.”
“And new cars,” Fantasy added.
“Tough.”
Tough didn’t begin to describe what we’d been through. There wasn’t a car out there that would make up for it. My plan was to never set foot in Waste Management again, or even use the words “waste” or “management” again for the rest of my life.
Fisher Iboch and I passed out cold (my new and annoying trick) upon the discovery of the pile of Peyton, which left Fantasy alone to swim up from the waste and then see if the girl had an ounce of life left in her.
“Certainly.” He bowed. (See? Thespian.) “So Mrs. Sanders misplaced an article of jewelry?” he asked.
“She thinks so,” Fantasy said. “A big ole diamond. She thinks she may have thrown it away, and we’re here to look for it.”
“Very well. Follow me.”
Four miles later.
“It’s empty.” Fantasy’s whole head was in the bin.
“It can’t be.” Fisher Iboch stuck his head in too.
Two heads in the garbage bucket were better than three. I held back.
Fisher Iboch produced a flashlight and a ray gun from somewhere around his middle. Maybe it was a barcode gun. Whichever, he aimed it at a panel on the side of the bin, then pulled it to his nose. “This bin hasn’t dumped in five days!” (Barcode gun.) He stuck his head in again. “There’s no way it should be empty!” His voice echoed around. “The elevator must be stuck.”
“Let me see your flashlight.” I held out my hand. His flashlight was a ten-inch Maglite. I knew it well from my years with the Pine Apple Police Force. It could go from spot-to-flood with a twist. I chose flood. We took a look. The chute above the bin was your basic scary, dark, steel opening, and at first glance, nothing looked out of order.
“There’s something.” Fantasy pointed.
“Where?” I aimed the beam.
“There.” Fantasy pointed to a corner. “It looks like a shoe.”
We’d just been through several Hefty bags of Bianca’s rejects. A shoe wouldn’t be out of the question. Fifty shoes wouldn’t be out of the question.
“Oh, my word,” Fisher Iboch said. “No telling how much waste is behind that shoe.” He disappeared, then reappeared, crow bar in hand.
“What are you doing?” Fantasy asked.
He was climbing in the garbage bin was what he was doing.
“If the shoe is stuck, I’ll shove it out of the way. That might release the lift.”
“If it works, Mr. Iboch, won’t you be smothered in garbage?” I took a giant step back. “Won’t it all fall out?”
Clank, clank. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m not tall enough. I’ll have to call maintenance.”
I smiled at my ten-foot-tall partner. (She really is almost six-feet tall.)
“No way,” she said. Then after a full minute, “Dammit, Davis.” She hiked her skirt, then lobbed a long leg over the side of the bin, trading places with Fisher Iboch.
She aimed and pushed with the crowbar one time before we heard a mechanical growl. She’d hit paydirt. She scrambled to get out of the bin before the lift released its load, but didn’t quite make it. Peyton Reynolds fell out on top of a mountain of garbage. She was either very dead or very close to it. Fantasy was somewhere underneath.
TEN
“Stop calling her Mr. Microphone’s wife, Peyton Reynolds, Bianca’s bitch, the preacher’s daughter, and everything else under the sun, Davis.” No Hair had No Patience. “I don’t have enough time to figure out who you’re talking about. The prints came back Peyton Beecher, so we’re calling her Peyton Beecher, and that includes you.”
After taking care of almost-naked, almost-dead PEYTON BEECHER, we were back in our offices, which we now knew weren’t all that far from Waste Management.
“You’re on the other side of the property, Davis.” No Hair was far from concerned. “You might as well be in a different time zone.”
“Says you, No Hair,” said me. “We want new offices and a bunch of stock options.”
“And new cars,” Fantasy added.
“Tough.”
Tough didn’t begin to describe what we’d been through. There wasn’t a car out there that would make up for it. My plan was to never set foot in Waste Management again, or even use the words “waste” or “management” again for the rest of my life.
Fisher Iboch and I passed out cold (my new and annoying trick) upon the discovery of the pile of Peyton, which left Fantasy alone to swim up from the waste and then see if the girl had an ounce of life left in her.
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