Pineapple Grenade by Tim Dorsey Page A

you’ve been following us since the airport?”
    “Just keeping a friendly eye.”
    The president joined Serge in looking back at the Plymouth. “That was close. I’ve heard of the crime around here.”
    “This might not have been a robbery,” said Serge.
    “Then what was it?”
    “Who knows?” Serge made a lobbing motion with his arm like he was tossing a hand grenade. “Heard you’ve been having a little trouble with some rebels.”
    “My generals have all that under control now,” said Guzman. “It’s been blown way out of proportion by the press.”
    “Let it be blown,” said Serge. “You’ll get more foreign aid.”
    A block west, a second black SUV pulled up.
    President Guzman squinted into Serge’s eyes. “Foreign aid. Who are you really with? You’re Latin, but the accent’s American.”
    “Born and raised an hour north of here.”
    “So you’re actually on loan from . . . the CIA?”
    Serge just smiled again.
    The president nodded solemnly. “I understand.” He turned to his bodyguards in disapprobation. “You could learn something from this guy about real security. If it wasn’t for him . . .”
    Serge began walking back to his car with Coleman.
    “Excuse me?”
    Serge turned around. “Yes?”
    “What are you going to do with the guys in your trunk?” asked Guzman.
    “I need to find out who was behind this. We’ll debrief them.”
    “But I mean after that?”
    Another grin. “What guys in the trunk?” He resumed walking back to the car.
    “One more thing,” said the president. “Thank you.”
    “Just doing my job.”

Chapter Six

    Miami Morgue
    The lieutenant stared in defeat at a shark and partially digested arm. “Is it too decomposed to get an ID?”
    “Definitely.”
    The officer took a deep breath. “Then I guess it’s the missing-persons files.”
    “Randy Swade.”
    “Who?”
    “That’s his name.”
    “But I thought you said—”
    The M.E. stuck his pen into a tray and lifted a wristwatch. “Engraved.”
    “Why the hell didn’t you tell me sooner? . . . Wait, where have I heard that name before?”
    “Journalist for the New Metro Loafing Times .”
    “That weekly rag with ads for sex-chat lines and kits to clean urine samples?”
    The M.E. dropped the wristwatch in the pan. “Went missing a couple weeks ago in Costa Gorda. Found a passport and junk in his room.”
    “Now I remember,” said the lieutenant. “They thought he got drunk at one of those spring-break bars that caters to underage American kids and then went swimming at night or some other misadventure.”
    “They got the misadventure part right.” The M.E. snapped off his gloves and began washing up in the sink.
    “You’re saying the shark swam all the way back to the Miami River?”
    “Of course not.” The M.E. turned off the faucets. “I don’t think Randy ever left Miami.”
    “But his passport and luggage . . .”
    “Remember the investigative series he was working on for the paper?”
    “I don’t read that trash,” said the lieutenant. “Nobody takes those conspiracy nuts seriously. All their articles about the CIA dealing crack.”
    “I know most of it’s baloney, but still entertaining.” He grabbed a hand towel. “Randy was writing about Miami being the arms-smuggling capital of the Caribbean basin. Fancied himself landing the next Iran-Contra scoop. He was naming some pretty big fish, excuse the pun.”
    “Luckily it’s a matter for the Costa Gordan police.”
    The M.E. glanced toward the tray with the severed hand. “Looks like it just swam back into your jurisdiction.”
    “Great.” A deep sigh. “Couldn’t he have gotten robbed somewhere else?”
    The examiner walked over and tossed the towel in a bin. “Lieutenant, if it really was his stuff in that Costa Gordan motel and he never left Miami, someone went through a lot of trouble.”
    Biscayne Bay
    Midnight.
    All quiet on the water. The bay had been dark toward the east, but now a thin line