No Sunscreen for the Dead Read online

  “I’ll get them.”

  “No, sit down and take a load off. It’s cool enough.”

  Ding-dong . . .

  “Is that the door again?” asked Mildred.

  “Don’t answer it,” said Buster.

  “The children.”

  “They’re in Kansas.”

  She opened it. “. . . We’re having company . . .”

  “Buster,” said Serge, quickly slurping his china cup, “who the hell are all these people?”

  “Solicitors.”

  “Does this happen often?”

  “All hours of the day.”

  “I’ll bet you’re on some kind of list.”

  “Gee, you think?” Buster pointed at a ring of spinning gold balls. “This room used to be pretty empty until we bought that stupid clock. Then all hell broke loose. I’m happy to sit in peace and quiet, but Mildred gets lonely and likes to talk to people on the phone. And at the door. Whenever an eight hundred number comes on TV, I have to change the channel or I’ll be up to my nipples in nonstick skillets.”

  Serge glanced toward the kitchen. “Can I get more coffee?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Serge was back in a flash with a fresh cup. “Hope you don’t mind that I chugged an extra one while I was in there to save time . . . So where were we?”

  Ding-dong . . .

  Mildred was in the bedroom getting something. Serge jumped up. “Allow me.”

  He answered the door. A man in a tie held a briefcase of color swatches. He grinned and started opening his mouth.

  Serge raised the front of his tropical shirt to reveal the butt of the pistol tucked in his waistband. “Go ahead, say a word! Say one fucking word!”

  The man’s mouth closed and his eyes opened wide.

  “Good,” said Serge. “And in case you’re thinking of coming back . . .” He kicked him in the nuts. “Now, if you don’t mind, we’re having company.”

  The door slammed.

  Buster had been watching the exchange in a gilded mirror on the wall. He started giggling.

  Chapter 5

  Sarasota

  Mildred Hornsby returned from the rear of the trailer with a leather-bound volume under her arm. “What so funny?”

  “Just sharing a joke,” said Buster.

  She looked out the sliding glass door as a salesman limped away in a serious rush.

  Serge was examining a frame on the wall displaying a Christmas card with a mechanical autograph from the second President Bush.

  “We gave to his campaign,” said Mildred. “And he was nice enough to send us that. He really signed it.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  She sat down on the couch and patted the spot next to her. “Have a seat.” She opened the volume in her lap. “This is the family album.”

  “Family album!” said Serge. “Those are the two most terrifying words in the English language! Friends and relatives violently upchuck, scrambling for escape routes . . . Whenever there’s an emergency, forget yelling ‘Fire!’ If you really want to clear the building in a hurry: ‘Here’s the family album.’ . . . But not me! I love photos of tots in high chairs covered with milk and Cap’n Crunch. Or the big family outing at the beach when everyone thinks they look like the Kennedys. And don’t forget the school plays where you had to dress like butterflies or Pilgrims . . . Let’s take a look, shall we? . . .”

  An hour went by. Phones and doorbells went unanswered.

  “Here’s the letter he got from the marines with his Star,” said Mildred.

  “I guessed it,” said Serge. “Machine-gun nest.”

  “And then on the next page . . .”

  “No, no, no, I’m not finished with this one yet,” said Serge. “Is there a magnifying glass anywhere in this place? You’re supposed to have one.”

  Another hour . . .

  Buster’s and Coleman’s heads rested back over the tops of their respective chairs, snoring. Mildred yawned. “Well, I’ll just be putting the family album away.”

  “No, no, no, I want to start again at the beginning!” said Serge.

  “But I need my afternoon nap.”

  Serge flipped back to the front of the book and bent over with a magnifying glass. “You go rest. I’m in command of the bridge . . .”

  Near dusk, there was a contagion of stretching as people in the trailer slowly awoke.

  Buster’s eyelids fluttered open, and he found Serge’s giant right eyeball staring back at him through a magnifying glass a few inches away.

  “Ahhhhhhh!” The old man jerked alive in his chair. “What are you doing? How long have you been there?”

  “Waiting for you to wake up. Half hour.” Serge dropped back down on the sofa. “The curiosity has been killing me! I didn’t notice it before because of all the other junk piled everywhere, but what is that big metal thing with the air vents at the end of the couch? Everything else in here is decorative, and that’s so industrial.”

  “It’s the ionizer.”

  “What’s it for?” asked Serge.

  “Supposed to keep us from getting sick,” said Buster.

  “I don’t mean to bring you down or anything, but I’ve seen home ionizers before. Sleek little models. That baby’s meant for a small warehouse.”

  Buster shrugged. “The salesman said we needed it.”

  Serge pointed toward a humming sound from another direction. “What’s that thing?”

  “Air purifier,” replied Buster. “To keep us from getting sick. Different diseases.”

  “What diseases?”

  “Swans.” Buster glanced out the front of the trailer at the lake. “The salesman had a brochure with pictures. The swans poop, and the droppings dry out and become airborne as little particles that come in the house and get you if you don’t watch out.”

  “Did this salesman happen to sell you anything else?”

  Buster worked a remote control to get his recliner to un-recline, then grabbed his cane. “Come with me.”

  They ambled down a short hall. The master bedroom was on the right. Buster opened the door on the left. They were hit with a chorus of sound that seemed quiet and loud at the same time: various soothing hums that combined harmonically in such high proportion to create a low-frequency, bone-tingling drone.

  Serge was boggled by a sight that looked like the HVAC center in the basement of a major downtown hotel. Two crammed rows of more metal encasements with ventilation slits.

  “You can’t even walk around in there,” shouted Serge.

  “We don’t use that bedroom anyway,” shouted Buster.

  “What are all these things?”

  Buster pointed with the rubber tips of his walking aid. “That’s the humidifier . . .”

  “Humidifier?” said Serge. “It’s Florida. The whole state’s one giant free humidifier!”

  “They said we needed it.” The cane swung. “And that’s the other humidifier.”

  “Two?”

  “They said one wasn’t enough.”

  “Jesus!” said Serge. “They’re even bigger than the ionizer. Each of those suckers could handle an office building in Albuquerque.”

  “And this next row are the dehumidifiers.”

  “Dehumidifiers?” said Serge. “Is this some kind of Steven Wright joke?”

  “We told them we were getting sweaty,” said Buster. “Now we don’t sweat.”

  “I’ll bet not.”

  Mildred joined them in the doorway. “Isn’t all that stuff great?”

  “What’s the thing installed in the back wall?”

  “The master zone air-conditioning control unit,” said Mildred. “Running zones one, two and three.”

  “But you already have central air,” said Serge.

  “They said it would save money.”

  “Even the Pentagon doesn’t spend like this.” Serge grabbed his stomach. “Did they sell you anything else?”

  “Just the security system.”

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p; “Okay, security.” Serge nodded. “At least something practical. Always good to have that.”

  Mildred nodded in return. “Also controls the smoke detectors and monitors for carbon monoxide, carbon dioxide, carbon trioxide . . .” She opened a closet and pointed at a flat screen. “Plus all the surveillance cameras are displayed on the same screen. I don’t know how they do it.”

  “Sixteen cameras?” Serge began to shake. “I’ve witnessed all manner of predation before, but this is beyond the pale.”

  “Your face is all red,” said Buster.

  “Maybe you need to sit down,” said Mildred.

  They returned to the living room.

  “Do I have this straight?” said Serge. “The same salesman sold you all this stuff?”

  “Actually, there were two,” said Mildred. “The first was such a nice young man that I ordered a small ionizer. And the next day an even nicer older gentleman showed up. By old, I mean older than the kid, about forty. And he said my ionizer was too small, but I could trade up for a discount since it was barely used. And then he got out his brochures for the humidifiers—”

  “May I jump in?” asked Serge. “I can tell you how this works. They hire these young kids and pay them next to nothing to go out cold-calling. It’s a low-percentage game, and it takes a lot of knuckles on doors to get a sale. But once they find a customer, the percentage rises appreciably. They give the kid a commission and yank him off the case. Then they send in the seasoned con men known as closers. They have absolutely no soul. They will sell and sell and sell until you either lose your house or call the cops.”

  “Oh my,” said Mildred. “Is that what happened?”

  “Hate to be the one to break the news.”

  “But he seemed like he really cared.”

  “That’s the worst part,” said Serge. “Call me old-school, but back in the day, we left the most vulnerable alone, and we respected our elders. That is, if I ever did anything requiring such choices, which I didn’t. But this new breed lives by no code and goes straight for the weakest victims first.”

  “I told you,” said Buster, staring at a snowbank on TV.

  “But one thing I don’t understand,” said Serge. “You guys live in a gated community with a guard booth. And yet your doorbell’s been ringing all day. I thought the guard would stop salesmen.”

  Mildred looked down in thought. “I was wondering about that phone call. Earl said a man was at his booth claiming he had an appointment with me, except I didn’t recall scheduling anything. But who knows with my memory? I would feel guilty if I inconvenienced him.”

  “And that’s exactly what he was counting on,” said Serge. “That you would have values. That you would care about him. It’s their version of trying to get buzzed into an apartment building when you don’t know anyone and just start hitting intercom buttons. And then they’re inside the guarded retirement community, free to cold-call up and down the street.”

  “I had heard some people were like that,” said Mildred. “But you could spot them because they looked like criminals.”

  “The new ones don’t.” Serge placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “But all is about to change for the better. Do you think you could find the receipts so I can tabulate how much you’ve spent on everything?”

  “I can probably do that.”

  “Good,” said Serge. “And one more item. Would you happen to have his business card?”

  Tampa

  Benmont Pinch placed a sausage-and-cheese croissant on a napkin and turned on his computer for the day. He liked to arrive at Life-Armor early, before the others, to enjoy simple morning routines while it was still quiet. He blew on the top of a steaming cup from Dunkin’ Donuts and checked his e-mail.

  There it was, right at the top. An overnight message with an attachment from the police department. His newest crime-fighting assignment.

  The previous afternoon, Benmont and his boss had met again at police headquarters. A string of unsolved home invasions. This time there wasn’t a single flimsy file but box after box of evidence.

  Quint slapped Benmont on the back. “Dazzle ’em, sport!”

  Benmont took the cover off each carton in turn and fished through the sealed clear bags. Everyone leaned forward, expecting a dramatic Sherlock Holmes moment.

  “Sorry,” said Benmont. “I don’t do forensics.”

  Shoulders sagged around the table.

  “But let me see those lists of stolen items again.”

  Someone handed them over, and Benmont laid the pages side by side across the table. An index finger ran down each column. “I’m assuming you have all the pawnshops on alert for the most valuable possessions.”

  A lieutenant nodded.

  Benmont tapped a spot in the middle of the last list. Then went backward, comparing and tapping similar spots in the others. He held up a page. “This item here. It’s just a category. I need a detailed list from each crime scene.”

  “But that stuff’s virtually worthless,” said a sergeant.

  The lieutenant held up a hand for silence. “Get it for him.” The meeting dispersed . . .

  . . . And now Benmont sat at his desk the next morning, sipping coffee as he pressed a button to open an e-mail attachment with extensive inventory.

  “Now this is more like it.” He grabbed a legal pad and began jotting. He called up websites. He grabbed the phone . . .

  . . . Near the end of the day, Benmont approached the open doorway of his boss’s office. There were family photos on the desk, next to a nameplate that said Quint Powers. On the wall behind him hung a framed novelty photo with a doctored scoreboard that said Quint had just hit a home run at Wrigley Field.

  Quint was nearing his fiftieth birthday but still had broad shoulders from yard chores and lifting stuff. He used to work at a tax preparation franchise in a strip mall until QuickBooks came along. Now he was here.

  Knock, knock, knock . . .

  Quint looked up from his computer. “Benmont! Come in, come in!” He removed bifocals. “Have a seat.”

  A page was passed across the desk. The bifocals went back on. “What’s this name?”

  “The head of the home invasion ring.” Benmont settled into a chair. “I also compiled a list of most likely associates from his metadata.”

  “I’m speechless again. How?”

  “My gut. At most of the break-ins, a bunch of DVDs were stolen. But that’s all it said in the police files: ‘various DVDs.’ That’s why I asked for a complete list of titles.”

  “Movie titles cracked the case?”

  “I called one of our clients, the people at Blue Box . . .”

  “You mean those vending machines that now rent movies after Netflix turned all the brick-and-mortar video stores into nail salons?”

  “Exactly. I plotted the robbery sites, pinpointing the geographic center, which I figured was their comfort zone. Then I located all the vending machines within a three-mile radius and requested a list of particular titles rented less than a week after each invasion.”

  “Why?”

  Benmont shrugged. “People like to watch sequels.”

  “Sequels?”

  Benmont spread a map across Quint’s desk. “Two days after the first robbery, the next installment of the Fast and Furious franchise was rented here, then the next home was hit and the follow-up Die Hard was rented from the same machine, then the second Hangover and so on. Of course, dozens of people rented those movies, but when you narrow it by robbery dates and overlay the lists, only one credit card pops up. I checked, and the cardholder is a woman with a clean history, but her husband was just released last year from Raiford for B-and-E.”

  “Amazing.” The boss picked up the phone. “Lieutenant, this is Quint at Life-Armor. Prepare to be pleased. You got a pen? . . .”

  The conversion ended and Quint hung up. He put his hands behind his head and leaned way back in his leather chair. “Benmont, you have a big raise coming.”

 
“Thanks.”

  “I thought you’d be happier,” said Quint. “What’s that look on your face?”

  “Nothing.” Benmont wiggled in the chair. “Just been thinking. You know how sometimes you get a vague feeling that something’s out of place, but you don’t know what? And then you can’t get it out of your head, and it keeps nagging. Know what I mean?”

  “Not really. Continue.”

  “It was an assignment I had last month. Another request for cyber-gibberish. One of those nebulous data crunches where you have no idea what the client is looking for, but who cares as long as they pay on time.”

  “Sounds like most of our clients,” said Quint.

  “This was about Social Security numbers,” said Benmont. “We told them that legally we could only provide the last four digits, and they said that was fine. Just give them a list in numerical order. Doesn’t that seem odd to you? Who has use for only the last four numbers?”

  “Like you said, they pay on time.” Quint sat forward. “And this is what’s bothering you?”

  “That’s just the front end,” said Benmont. “I performed the rest of their data collection, collated the other requested fields for names and birthdays, and e-mailed the finished project to you. I didn’t give it another thought until Monday, when I suddenly woke up in the middle of the night and wondered: ‘What the hell?’ . . . I figured I must be imagining things, but I checked my files here the next morning and there it was.”

  “What?”

  “Anomalies.”

  “Still nothing’s registering on my end,” said the boss. “Specifics?”

  “Coincidences will always occur with this much information, but there’s randomness and then there’s randomness.” Benmont reached into the briefcase by his feet. “I made printouts and circled each instance.”

  They stopped talking as a young man with heavy piercings and a ponytail came bobbing into the office to whatever sounds were in his headphones. He set a file on the desk without speaking and bobbed his way out.

  Quint craned his neck to watch him leave, then turned to Benmont. “What do you think of the kids?”

  “Their style choices throw off our generation, but after you get to know them, they’re really quite nice. More so than we were at that age.”