“So what happened, pet detective? Someone murder a shark?”
“Remember the dead shark in the middle of Flagler Street from the TV news shows?”
“Which one? The guys keep throwing them around the city.”
“Tuesday’s shark.” The examiner pointed toward a clear, sealed evidence bag. “That came from its stomach . . . Help yourself to some Vaseline.”
The lieutenant dabbed his upper lip. “Looks like a mullet or something.”
The M.E. used a pen to lift something from a metal tray. “Wearing a Timex?”
“That’s an arm?”
“Most of one. I know it’s hard to tell between the regular decomposition and digestion.”
“Great. We got a shark attack.” The officer added more dabs. “Chamber of commerce will love this.”
“I don’t think it was an attack.”
“But you said it was in his stomach.”
“Postmortem.”
“The victim was already dead?”
“That’s my bet.”
“Okay, so he accidentally drowned somehow, and the shark came along later.”
“Doubtful.”
The lieutenant emitted a whine. “ Eeeeeeeee . . . It’s been a bad week. Can’t you just call it a shark attack?”
The M.E. emptied the evidence bag into a tray and pointed with his pen. “This along the mid-forearm is the shark’s bite line. I pulled these teeth out.”
“Sure sounds like a shark attack to me.”
The pen pointed farther up. “And here is where they used the hacksaw.”
Chapter Three
Tampa International Airport
The flight was full.
Repeated intercom instructions about stowing luggage quickly and taking seats, but the aisle remained clogged by passengers struggling with overhead bins and non-bin-shaped bags.
Serge led Coleman to row 27. “Here are our seats.”
A businessman was already sitting in the middle. “Would you like me to move so you two can be together?”
“No,” said Serge. “We deliberately got the window and aisle seats. I’m big on looking outside at tiny buildings and stuff, and Coleman needs the aisle for emergencies. But coffee makes me pee like a Chihuahua, so we’ll be switching seats a lot.” He slid by the man’s knees and plopped down. “Boy, there’s really no legroom anymore. You don’t mind if I stretch my leg out a little, or maybe a lot, to get around that partition and under the seat in front of you?”
Coleman tapped the man’s right arm. “Do you know when they start serving alcohol?”
Serge tapped his left arm. “Coleman and I have a bunch to discuss, but don’t feel like you’re imposing. We’ll just talk across the front of you, and you’re welcome to eavesdrop and join in.” He grinned and raised his eyebrows. “It can get pretty interesting! I was on a transcontinental flight with this one executive, having a great four-hour discussion on my favorite aviation disasters. Actually I was doing all the talking because I guess he was really interested in crashes, and then he couldn’t wait to look it up on the Internet because he was trampling people after we landed. Like this one plane exploded off San Diego. But just the front part with the pilots blew off, and the rest of the plane kept flying perfectly straight for almost a minute . . .” Serge made a downward gesture with his right hand. “. . . before slowwwwwwwwly nosing over into the sea. What would be going through your mind? ‘Hey, I can see the new mall from here.’ . . . We’re going to Miami for the fabulous Summit of the Americas! Dignitaries and countless journalists from twenty Latin countries about to overwhelm the city, actually making Miami less diverse . . .”
Coleman tapped the businessman’s right arm. “Going to be sick. My seat pocket doesn’t have a barf bag.”
The man dove for his own pocket and handed a bag to Coleman.
Serge tapped his left arm and stood up. “I have to pee. Excuse me.” He slid by the man’s knees.
Coleman held up a bag. “Serge, could you take this for me.”
Two hours later.
Serge looked out the window.
At
“Remember the dead shark in the middle of Flagler Street from the TV news shows?”
“Which one? The guys keep throwing them around the city.”
“Tuesday’s shark.” The examiner pointed toward a clear, sealed evidence bag. “That came from its stomach . . . Help yourself to some Vaseline.”
The lieutenant dabbed his upper lip. “Looks like a mullet or something.”
The M.E. used a pen to lift something from a metal tray. “Wearing a Timex?”
“That’s an arm?”
“Most of one. I know it’s hard to tell between the regular decomposition and digestion.”
“Great. We got a shark attack.” The officer added more dabs. “Chamber of commerce will love this.”
“I don’t think it was an attack.”
“But you said it was in his stomach.”
“Postmortem.”
“The victim was already dead?”
“That’s my bet.”
“Okay, so he accidentally drowned somehow, and the shark came along later.”
“Doubtful.”
The lieutenant emitted a whine. “ Eeeeeeeee . . . It’s been a bad week. Can’t you just call it a shark attack?”
The M.E. emptied the evidence bag into a tray and pointed with his pen. “This along the mid-forearm is the shark’s bite line. I pulled these teeth out.”
“Sure sounds like a shark attack to me.”
The pen pointed farther up. “And here is where they used the hacksaw.”
Chapter Three
Tampa International Airport
The flight was full.
Repeated intercom instructions about stowing luggage quickly and taking seats, but the aisle remained clogged by passengers struggling with overhead bins and non-bin-shaped bags.
Serge led Coleman to row 27. “Here are our seats.”
A businessman was already sitting in the middle. “Would you like me to move so you two can be together?”
“No,” said Serge. “We deliberately got the window and aisle seats. I’m big on looking outside at tiny buildings and stuff, and Coleman needs the aisle for emergencies. But coffee makes me pee like a Chihuahua, so we’ll be switching seats a lot.” He slid by the man’s knees and plopped down. “Boy, there’s really no legroom anymore. You don’t mind if I stretch my leg out a little, or maybe a lot, to get around that partition and under the seat in front of you?”
Coleman tapped the man’s right arm. “Do you know when they start serving alcohol?”
Serge tapped his left arm. “Coleman and I have a bunch to discuss, but don’t feel like you’re imposing. We’ll just talk across the front of you, and you’re welcome to eavesdrop and join in.” He grinned and raised his eyebrows. “It can get pretty interesting! I was on a transcontinental flight with this one executive, having a great four-hour discussion on my favorite aviation disasters. Actually I was doing all the talking because I guess he was really interested in crashes, and then he couldn’t wait to look it up on the Internet because he was trampling people after we landed. Like this one plane exploded off San Diego. But just the front part with the pilots blew off, and the rest of the plane kept flying perfectly straight for almost a minute . . .” Serge made a downward gesture with his right hand. “. . . before slowwwwwwwwly nosing over into the sea. What would be going through your mind? ‘Hey, I can see the new mall from here.’ . . . We’re going to Miami for the fabulous Summit of the Americas! Dignitaries and countless journalists from twenty Latin countries about to overwhelm the city, actually making Miami less diverse . . .”
Coleman tapped the businessman’s right arm. “Going to be sick. My seat pocket doesn’t have a barf bag.”
The man dove for his own pocket and handed a bag to Coleman.
Serge tapped his left arm and stood up. “I have to pee. Excuse me.” He slid by the man’s knees.
Coleman held up a bag. “Serge, could you take this for me.”
Two hours later.
Serge looked out the window.
At
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