The phone rang at 12:30 a.m., awakening me from a deep
sleep.
"Give me a break, Darcy," I complained to the night
dispatcher who'd called. "I'm still on vacation."
"Sorry, Maggie. According to the chief, you're back on the
clock as of midnight."
George Shelton, Pelican Bay's chief of police and
certifiable closet redneck, had been the bane of my
existence for the past fifteen years, so his attitude
didn't surprise me. I scribbled the address Darcy gave me
and hurried to dress.
Ten minutes later, with a bad case of bedhead and my body
screaming for caffeine, I drove east along Main Street,
deserted except for the crowded parking lot at the Blue
Jay Sports Bar.
Pelican Bay, a picture-postcard retirement town and
tourist mecca on Florida's central west coast, is
populated primarily by retirees and snowbirds from the
northern States and Canada, and few are night owls. Once
the sun sets and television enters prime time, you might
as well roll up the sidewalks, because no one ventures
out — aside from a few of the younger folks and the
occasional criminals.
The criminals are where I come in. I've been a cop for
over twenty-two years and a detective with the Pelican Bay
Police Department for the past fifteen, and being hauled
out of bed after midnight was making early retirement seem
more alluring by the minute.
The address Darcy had given me turned out to be a pizza
place in a strip mall a few miles west of U.S. Highway 19,
the main artery that bisected the county from Tarpon
Springs at the north to the Sunshine Skyway Bridge at the
mouth of Tampa Bay. All of the strip stores were dark
except the center one, Mama Mia's Pizzeria. Lights blazed
from the large plate-glass windows and illuminated a
scattering of bistro tables and chairs in what was
primarily a take-out joint.
I parked my twelve-year-old Volvo in a diagonal parking
space between a Pelican Bay Police Department cruiser and
the sheriff's crime scene unit van, clipped my shield to
the pocket of my blazer and climbed out.
A crescent moon hung high in the east and palm fronds
rustled above the parking median's lush floral
landscaping, but a chill wind, compliments of a late
November cold front, dispersed any semitropical illusions.
I hurried into the pizzeria, as much to escape the cold as
from any burning desire to fight crime.
Dave Adler, who'd been assigned as my partner at the
beginning of the weight-loss clinic murders six weeks ago,
met me at the door. Looking rested, bright-eyed and young
enough to be my son, he greeted me with a grin. "How was
your vacation, Detective Skerritt?"
At least I'd finally broken him of the habit of calling
me "ma'am."
"Terrific," I lied.
During the past two weeks I'd spent several pleasant hours
on the beaches of Caladesi Island and the deck of a cabin
cruiser owned by Bill Malcolm, my former partner when I
first became a cop with the Tampa P.D. twenty-two years
ago. But for the remainder of my vacation, I'd been bored
out of my gourd. Accustomed to working 24/7 in our
understaffed CID — Criminal Investigation Department — for
a decade and a half, I'd forgotten how to relax and enjoy
myself. Without new or cold cases to occupy my mind, I had
wandered my waterfront condo, restless and unable to
concentrate, even on the popular novels I was so fond of.
"New hairdo?" Adler asked.
I resisted the urge to wipe the teasing grin off his too
young, too handsome face. "What have we got?"
"Armed robbery."
"Anyone hurt?"
Adler shook his head. "The owner's shook up. She was the
only one here."
"Mama Mia?"
He nodded, then jerked his head toward a door behind
him. "She's back there."
I crossed the room, heavy with the smell of onions and
Italian spices, rounded the take-out counter and entered
the office at the back.
Steve Johnson, the patrolman who had responded to the 911
call, stood beside a woman who huddled in a desk chair and
was trying to light a cigarette with trembling fingers.
Johnson, big and beefy with a paunch that didn't need
supplementing, stuffed the last of a slice of cold pizza
into his mouth. "Hey, Maggie. Thith ith Maria Ridoletthi,
th'owner."
"Maria Ridoletti?" I clarified. Johnson's full mouth had
made me guess at the correct pronunciation.
Johnson swallowed hard. "Yeah. I'll be out front if you
need me."
"Keep your hands in your pockets and your mouth closed.
For all I know, you just consumed evidence." I smiled to
take the bite out of my criticism. Johnson wasn't the
brightest bulb in the chandelier, but his heart was in the
right place. However, with the department under siege by a
city council lobbying to shut us down and save taxpayer
money by contracting with the county sheriff to take over
policing Pelican Bay, we couldn't afford any screw-ups.
His pudgy face flushed with embarrassment, Johnson slid
past me to the door and left me alone with Mama Mia.
"You want to tell me what happened?" I asked. Maria
Ridoletti was far from my image of an Italian mother.
Midthirties, rake thin with stringy dark hair, narrow face
and a body that looked as if she'd never eaten pizza or
much of anything else, she stared up at me with dazed,
black-lined eyes. "I was robbed."
"By a customer?"
She shook her head. "I'd already closed and locked up for
the night. I was just beginning to count the day's
receipts for the night deposit when I looked up and found
him standing right where you are now. When he saw me, he
jumped, like he hadn't expected anyone to be here."
"Was he someone you recognized?"
Maria nodded.
I dug deep for patience and asked, "Who was he?"
"Bill Clinton."
"Who?" Somewhere in my sleep-deprived brain, Bill
Clinton's appearance at a pizza parlor made perfect sense.
Especially since Mickey D's had closed for the night.
"You know," Maria said. "Bill Clinton, the former
president."
I was about to call the CSU tech to bag what she was
smoking when she explained.
"It was a mask, like on Halloween."
"A big man?"
She shook her head. "A runt, no bigger than me. But he
kept one hand in his pocket and acted like he had a gun.
So I didn't argue when he ordered me to hand over the
cash."
"You're sure it was a man?"
She closed her eyes a moment, as if trying to remember,
then nodded. "Yeah. No boobs, no butt. Scrawny neck with a
big Adam's apple."
"Deep voice?"
"No, sort of squeaky."
"As if he was trying to disguise it?"
Maria shrugged. "Maybe."
"Did you see any identifying marks? Scars? Tattoos?"
"Except for his neck, he was pretty much covered up. Even
wore gloves."
"What else was he wearing?"
"Jeans. A Buccaneer ball cap and sweatshirt. Black Nikes."
I couldn't help sighing. She'd just described the wardrobe
of choice of almost half the men in the Tampa Bay
area. "You said you locked the front door. Was the back
locked, too?"
She nodded. "I always double check the doors before I
count the money."
"So how did Mr. Clinton get in? You have any employees
with keys?"
"No way. I can't pay much, so the turnover here's pretty
high. Don't have anyone I'd trust with keys." She took a
long pull on her cigarette and exhaled.
I waved away the smoke. "Security system?" She
grimaced. "Never thought I needed one till now."
"How much did Clinton steal?"
"I hadn't finished counting. Most of our business is
credit cards, but we sell a lot of pizza during Sunday
football games. Had to be somewhere between six hundred
and a thousand dollars." Her black-lined eyes misted with
tears. "Times are tight, Detective. Will I get it back?"
Probably not. "We'll do our best."
"Detective Skerritt." Adler stood in the doorway. "Come
look at this."
"You okay?" I asked Maria.
She swiped at her eyes with the back of one hand, smearing
her eyeliner, then nodded and took another drag. I didn't
have the heart to remind her about the state law that
banned smoking in restaurants.
"Sit tight. I'll be right back." I left the room and
followed Adler down a hallway that branched to the kitchen
on the right, restrooms on the left. He shone his Maglite
at the ceiling. Where the grate for the air-conditioning
duct should have been was a gaping hole.
I groaned. "We've got ourselves a rooftop burglar." I
continued down the hall, pushed the panic bar on the rear
exit and stepped outside. A gust of wind blew a tattered
newspaper across the rear parking lot, empty except for a
car I later learned was Ridoletti's. A dog barked in the
distance. In the harsh glow of security lights, I scanned
the back of the building. A Dump-ster stood along the rear
wall with a wooden pallet leaning against it. Another
pallet atop the Dumpster rested against the wall like a
ladder.
"There's your access," I said. "Make sure the techs
process this area."