and apparently hectoring him about something as he tried to work on the contents of a small evidence bag.
Leaning on the wall in one corner was a man I didn’t know, about thirty-five, with dark hair and a medium build. No one offered to introduce him, and he was not pointing a weapon of any kind, so I just walked past him and into the lab.
Debs looked up at me and gave me the kind of warm and loving greeting I have come to expect from her. “Where the fuck have you been?” she said.
“Ballroom dancing lessons,” I said. “We’re doing the tango this week; would you like to see?”
She made a sour face and shook her head. “Get in here and take over from this moron,” she said.
“Great, now I’m a moron,” Vince grumbled, and nodded at me. “You see how smart
you
are with Simone Legree halfway up your ass.”
“If it’s only halfway up, I can see why you’re upset,” I said. “Can I assume that there’s been some development in the Marty Klein case?” I asked Debs politely.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Deborah said. “But if ass-wipe can’t get his ass in gear, we’ll never know.”
It occurred to me that Debs and Vince both seemed to be dwelling on “ass” this morning, which is not really the way I prefer to start my day. But we all need to show tolerance in the workplace, so I let it slide. “What have you got?” I said.
“It’s just a fucking wrapping paper,” Vince said. “From the floor of Klein’s car.”
“It’s from some kind of food,” the stranger in the corner said.
I looked at the man, and then back at Deborah with a raised eyebrow. She shrugged.
“My new partner,” she said. “Alex Duarte.”
“Oh,” I said to the man.
“Mucho gusto.”
Duarte shrugged. “Yeah, right,” he said.
“What kind of food?” I asked.
Deborah ground her teeth. “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” she said. “If we know where he ate before he died, we got a good chance to stake it out and maybe find this guy.”
I stepped over to where Vince was poking at a wad of greasy white waxed paper in an evidence bag. “All that grease,” he said. “There’s gotta be a fingerprint. I just wanted to look for it first. Standard procedure.”
“Asshole, we already got Klein’s fingerprints,” Deborah said. “I want the killer.”
I looked at the congealed grease through the plastic of the evidence bag. It had a reddish brown tinge to it, and although I don’t usually hang on to food wrappers long enough to be certain, it lookedfamiliar. I leaned over and opened the bag, sniffing carefully. The cold pills had finally dried my nose, and the smell was strong and unmistakable. “Taco,” I said.
“Gesundheit,” said Vince.
“You’re sure?” Deborah demanded. “That’s a taco wrapper?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Can’t miss the smell of the spices.” I held up the bag and pointed out a tiny yellow crumb on one corner of the waxed paper. “And right there, that has to be a piece of the taco shell.”
“Tacos, my God,” said Vince with horror. “What have we come to?”
“What,” Duarte said. “Like from Taco Bell?”
“That would have a logo on the wrapper, wouldn’t it?” I said. “Anyway, I think their wrappers are yellow. This is probably from a smaller place, maybe one of those lunch wagons.”
“Great,” Deborah said. “There must be a million of those in Miami.”
“And they
all
sell tacos,” Vince said very helpfully. “I mean,
yuck
.”
Deborah looked at him. “You’re a total fucking idiot, you know that?” she said.
“No, I didn’t know that,” Vince said cheerfully.
“Why tacos?” Duarte said. “I mean, who eats fucking tacos? I mean, come on.”
“Maybe he couldn’t find empanadas,” I said.
He looked at me blankly. “Empa-what?” he said.
“Can you find out where it came from?” Debs said. “You know, like analyze the spices or something?”
“Debs, for God’s sake,” I said.
Leaning on the wall in one corner was a man I didn’t know, about thirty-five, with dark hair and a medium build. No one offered to introduce him, and he was not pointing a weapon of any kind, so I just walked past him and into the lab.
Debs looked up at me and gave me the kind of warm and loving greeting I have come to expect from her. “Where the fuck have you been?” she said.
“Ballroom dancing lessons,” I said. “We’re doing the tango this week; would you like to see?”
She made a sour face and shook her head. “Get in here and take over from this moron,” she said.
“Great, now I’m a moron,” Vince grumbled, and nodded at me. “You see how smart
you
are with Simone Legree halfway up your ass.”
“If it’s only halfway up, I can see why you’re upset,” I said. “Can I assume that there’s been some development in the Marty Klein case?” I asked Debs politely.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Deborah said. “But if ass-wipe can’t get his ass in gear, we’ll never know.”
It occurred to me that Debs and Vince both seemed to be dwelling on “ass” this morning, which is not really the way I prefer to start my day. But we all need to show tolerance in the workplace, so I let it slide. “What have you got?” I said.
“It’s just a fucking wrapping paper,” Vince said. “From the floor of Klein’s car.”
“It’s from some kind of food,” the stranger in the corner said.
I looked at the man, and then back at Deborah with a raised eyebrow. She shrugged.
“My new partner,” she said. “Alex Duarte.”
“Oh,” I said to the man.
“Mucho gusto.”
Duarte shrugged. “Yeah, right,” he said.
“What kind of food?” I asked.
Deborah ground her teeth. “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” she said. “If we know where he ate before he died, we got a good chance to stake it out and maybe find this guy.”
I stepped over to where Vince was poking at a wad of greasy white waxed paper in an evidence bag. “All that grease,” he said. “There’s gotta be a fingerprint. I just wanted to look for it first. Standard procedure.”
“Asshole, we already got Klein’s fingerprints,” Deborah said. “I want the killer.”
I looked at the congealed grease through the plastic of the evidence bag. It had a reddish brown tinge to it, and although I don’t usually hang on to food wrappers long enough to be certain, it lookedfamiliar. I leaned over and opened the bag, sniffing carefully. The cold pills had finally dried my nose, and the smell was strong and unmistakable. “Taco,” I said.
“Gesundheit,” said Vince.
“You’re sure?” Deborah demanded. “That’s a taco wrapper?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Can’t miss the smell of the spices.” I held up the bag and pointed out a tiny yellow crumb on one corner of the waxed paper. “And right there, that has to be a piece of the taco shell.”
“Tacos, my God,” said Vince with horror. “What have we come to?”
“What,” Duarte said. “Like from Taco Bell?”
“That would have a logo on the wrapper, wouldn’t it?” I said. “Anyway, I think their wrappers are yellow. This is probably from a smaller place, maybe one of those lunch wagons.”
“Great,” Deborah said. “There must be a million of those in Miami.”
“And they
all
sell tacos,” Vince said very helpfully. “I mean,
yuck
.”
Deborah looked at him. “You’re a total fucking idiot, you know that?” she said.
“No, I didn’t know that,” Vince said cheerfully.
“Why tacos?” Duarte said. “I mean, who eats fucking tacos? I mean, come on.”
“Maybe he couldn’t find empanadas,” I said.
He looked at me blankly. “Empa-what?” he said.
“Can you find out where it came from?” Debs said. “You know, like analyze the spices or something?”
“Debs, for God’s sake,” I said.
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