The Death Box by J. A. Kerley

Maserati, I can’t build a distinctive abode, I can’t do anything fun without calling attention to myself, which I mustn’t do, lest the constabulary take an interest in my existence. I’ll give you the money.”
    “I thank you for your offer, Jeremy. But I prefer to make my own money, just like you do. Secondly, you can’t simply give me money. It would have to be reported.”
    He stared at me for a long moment. “This event has been hard on me, Carson. Not knowing where you were. I realize I should see you more.” There was a strange flicker of mirth in his voice.
    “What do you mean?” I asked.
    He touched his mouse and disappeared.

16
    Monday morning I met Gershwin at a Mexican restaurant on the southern edge of Miami, anxious to brainstorm more on the Carosso connection, our only solid lead.
    “You figure Carosso did something weird with the concrete load?” Gershwin said, ladling salsa verde over huevos rancheros. “That was why he was so hinky-dinky?”
    “He might have actually done as he said, dumped it. Or diverted the concrete to some site where he got paid for the load. He was afraid of being fired for stealing ’crete. He might not have a thing to do with the murders.”
    “How about we add pressure anyway?”
    A Redi-flow dispatcher told us today was Carosso’s off day and we were at his door in twenty minutes. “I hope the guy’s taken a shower since Friday,” Gershwin said. “It was like standing beside a rotting mule.”
    I banged the door. “Mr Carosso? It’s Detectives Ryder and Gershwin. We need to speak to you again.” Nothing. I banged twice again, to no avail. I found Gershwin in the side bushes peeking in the window. “Uh-oh. You better check this out.”
    I saw a body on the floor and kicked the flimsy door open to find Carosso staring at the ceiling as a syrupy red halo encircled his head, the product of a slit throat that looked like a huge and hideously grinning second mouth. The room stank of blood and released body products. Flies had found their way inside; they always do.
    Three Miami-Dade units arrived in minutes, the senior officer a fortyish sergeant named Shep Bertleman. He was a string bean, six-two or so, maybe a hundred fifty pounds with a pocketful of nickels. His eyes were large and thoughtful and his nose had been broken a time or two.
    We showed identification, mine making me the de facto owner of the scene. Bertleman was respectful but didn’t know me well enough to trust my getting things right so he covered the scene as well. I liked him from the git-go.
    When we finished he stood beside me, smelling of talcum powder and a fresh haircut. “FCLE, huh? I hear y’all going through changes over there.”
    “I’m part of it. Hired over from the Mobile department.”
    “Celia Valdez, she’s fine, right?”
    “We haven’t had a chance to talk much.”
    “Ceel was hired outta our department. I was pissed at McDermott for stealing her. Still, the man knows quality.”
    The FCLE forensics team arrived like a techno army commanded by a petite woman who could have played lead in a stage production of Peter Pan , a layered shag ’do framing a pixie face. I nodded as she came my way, foot-pushing a heavy case across the floor.
    “You’re Ryder, I take it. I’m Deb Clayton. Pleased to meet you and all that. You found the vic?”
    “Me and Gershwin over there.”
    “Looks pretty cut and dried. Or maybe slit and bled out. You take your look?”
    “Yep. All yours, Miz Clayton.”
    “It’s Deb. And welcome to the weird and wonderful world of Fickle.”
    I looked out the window to see a Miami-Dade Medical Examiner van pulling up. The two departments shared the facilities of the MDME, the FCLE having staff pathologists. From here on, the scene was the province of the evidence pros and medical folks.
    Gershwin and I headed out to canvass neighbors, finding the closest one was visiting relatives in North Carolina. No one knew much about Carosso and I got the