items. “These were used as braces and placed under this blood-pressure tester that was wrapped around his neck. Next to the windpipe.”
“What the hell for?”
“Why else? So he could apply a sleeper hold, of course. Once I saw the Great Malenko-”
“You’re driving me insane! What killed him?”
The examiner raised another bag.
The detective scrunched his eyebrows. “Lipstick and a pen?”
“That’s why I want to meet this guy. We’ve got a new, more exciting version of the ‘sleeper’ on our hands.” He tossed the evidence bag aside. “The whole contraption was designed not to cut off blood to the brain, but from the brain.”
“You lost me.”
The coroner stuffed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and talked as he chewed. “Compress everything, and you got a classic ‘sleeper’ pass-out. But compress only the jugular, and leave the carotid open… Blood keeps flowing upstairs with no place to go.”
“That’s a murder?”
“Ever had your car radiator boil over?” The examiner wiped mayo off his mouth with surgical gauze. “In his case, ultramassive intracranial hemorrhage.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“His head exploded from the inside, like a stroke, except times a hundred.”
“And that makes you smile?”
“Must have been interesting to watch.”
Chapter Thirty-One
A camera flashed, illuminating blue-and-gold bas-relief friezes along the top of a vintage Art Deco landmark.
Another flash. This time from a Bic lighter. Coleman fired up a toke from a prosthetic leg with a Willie Nelson bumper sticker. “What is this place?”
“Historic Dinner Key.” Serge raised his camera again. “Just south of downtown on the shore of Biscayne Bay. Used to be an island, but they filled the gap to Coconut Grove.”
“What’s that building you keep taking photos of?”
“Miami city hall.” Another camera flash. Serge uncapped a thermos of coffee. “Wasn’t always city hall. That just started in the fifties, but-and this staggers the trivia-hungry mind-it used to be one of the largest airports in the world!”
Smoke drifted across the parking lot. “That little building?”
“The old Pan Am terminal was the main connection between North and South America.” Another camera flash, swig of coffee. “And the other structure over there used to be an airplane hangar that became the public arena where Jim Morrison of the Doors was arrested for exposing himself in 1969, and later the Floridians of the ill- fated American Basketball Association played home games. Can you freakin’ dig it?”
“Yeah, buildings.” Coleman exhaled. “But where are the runways?”
“Weren’t any.” Serge drained the rest of the thermos and raised arms. “It was the golden age of seaplanes, like the Sikorsky F-40s and of course the Brazilian Clipper. Passengers boarded from floating barges. Charles Lindbergh landed his Lockheed here in ’33 after a transatlantic flight.”
Felicia came running around the corner of the building. “What’s with all the camera flashes? We’re supposed to be on surveillance. And I could smell the dope all the way down to the dock!”
Coleman and Savage waved and smiled. Serge ran in a circle.
“Serge!” she snapped. “What are you doing?”
“Dribbling an invisible basketball and grabbing my crotch. It’s a history mash-up.”
Coleman took another hit. “The Doors.”
“Knock it off!” said Felicia. “Just got a tip from the Canadian consulate. Might be our big break.”
“The antique, winged Pan Am clock still hangs in the city council chambers.” Serge pointed. “Let’s take a look through the windows, shall we?”
“No!”
Serge pointed another direction. “Then can we fuck behind the hangar?”
“No!.. How can you be aroused at a time like this?”
Serge looked down at his sneakers. “I drank coffee and there’s a bunch of old stuff around. That usually does it.”
“Hurry! They should be here any minute.” She looked back up the road. “And we already have company. Don’t turn around.”
Coleman turned around. A black SUV sat in the darkness on the shoulder.
“Are they the people we’re waiting for?” asked Serge.
“No, another interested party taking surveillance photos. If my hunch is right, that’s part of their plan.” Felicia ran around the side of city hall and led them down to the waterfront. Binoculars went to her eyes. “Coleman, what the hell are you doing?”
Coleman was down at the edge of the bay, floating something out into the water. “Catch and release. I’m setting the fake-leg bong free so it can drift to distant places where someone else can enjoy it. That would be far out.”
“Just stay alert.” A propeller sound in the distant sky. Felicia raised her binoculars again. “There it is now, on schedule… Oh, Serge, take me!”
“I thought you said this was an inappropriate time to be aroused.”
She caressed her left breast. “Espionage, danger, remember?”
“Right.” He pointed. “Behind the Jim Morrison hangar.”
The pair took off in a sprint. Serge stopped and turned around. “Coleman, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Coming with you.”
“Coleman!”
“I won’t watch. Much.”
“Go back to the parking lot with the walkie-talkie and do what I said.”
“Poo.”
Moments later:
“Oh God! Oh yes!” shrieked Felicia. “Faster! Faster!..”
Serge was on top, thrusting at maximum speed and looking out over her head with binoculars. A Grumman Mallard made a splash landing in the unseen waters, one of the few seaplanes in recent years to visit Dinner Key.
“Don’t stop!” Felicia dug her fingernails into Serge’s neck. “ I’m coming! I’m coming! Oh my God! I’m coming!..”
A walkie-talkie squawked next to her head.
He grabbed it. “Serge here. Come in, Coleman.”
“Are you still fucking?”
“Yes, what’s up?”
“Nothing. I was just trying to picture it.”
“… I’m coming!..”
“Was that Felicia?” asked Coleman.
“She’s busy.”
“Can I listen?”
