Hothouse Orchid

Holly was driving back from the airport after her day’s training when an unmarked police car suddenly passed her, moving fast. Lauren Cade was looking at her in the rearview mirror, waving, with Hurd Wallace sitting next to her. Holly’s curiosity was piqued: another murder? She accelerated and fell in behind the car.

They pulled off the road at Vero Discount Tires, and Holly followed. What were they doing? Getting a flat fixed? If so, what was the hurry? She got out of the car. “Hey, Lauren, Hurd.”

“We found a tire print with a deep cut in it at the crime scene yesterday,” Hurd said, “and we got a report from Jimmy Weathers that Jim Bruno’s cruiser had such a tire cut, but Bruno replaced the tire earlier today. Join us?”

“Afternoon,” a clerk behind the counter said. “What can I do you for, folks?”

Hurd flashed his badge. “Did Police Chief Bruno buy a replacement tire here today?”

They followed the man through the back door into a shop, then out behind the building.

“The chief’s old tire will be in this pile over here . . .” The man stopped; there was no pile of tires. “I’m sorry,” he said, “looks like we had a pickup this afternoon. The pile was here this morning.” He called to one of the men in the shop. “Hey, Mike, did we get a pickup today?”

The man turned back to Hurd and his group. “We get a pickup from an outfit in Melbourne about once a week. They specialize in disposing of old tires, batteries, that sort of stuff.”

“Can you give me the name and address of the company?” Hurd asked.

“Sure. I’ve got it inside.” He went back into the front room, rummaged through a desk drawer and came up with a business card. “Here you go,” he said, handing Hurd the card. Environmental Disposal Corporation. They’re out beyond the Melbourne airport.”

“Thank you,” Hurd said. “Holly, you want to come with us?”

“I can’t Hurd; I’ve got to cook dinner for a friend, and I haven’t even been to the store yet. Good luck.” Holly watched them drive away.

They found the EDC sign between the airport and the interstate, and Lauren turned into a road leading toward a group of steel buildings. She parked the car in front of a building with a sign that said oFFICES, and she and Hurd went inside.

Hurd showed his badge. “May I speak with the manager, please?”

“I’ll tell him you’re here,” the woman said. “Please have a seat.”

They did, and ten minutes passed before a man in a shirt and tie appeared.

“I’m Charles Meeton,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“We need to find a tire that you picked up in Vero Beach today,” Hurd said.

“This one would be on a truck that picked up tires at Vero Discount Tires an hour and a half, two hours ago,” Hurd said.

A noise came from outside that practically drowned him out. “What’s that?” Hurd asked.

“Just some of our equipment,” Meeton said. “Alice, can I see the dispatcher’s log?”

“Let’s see,” Meeton said, “that would be Al Parker’s truck. What number is Al Parker’s truck, Alice?”

Meeton handed her back his clipboard. “Come on, folks, let’s take a look outside.” He led the way out the way they had come in.

Outside, the noise was deafening. “There’s Al’s truck,” Meeton shouted over the din, pointing. A hundred yards away, a dump truck was depositing its load in what appeared to be a steel-sided container about fifteen feet across. The three of them began to walk toward it.

Hurd fell in alongside Meeton. “What’s making the noise?” he shouted.

“The shredder,” Meeton yelled. “You see, we shred the tires, and then . . .”

But Hurd was already running toward the truck, waving his arms. “Stop!” he was yelling at the driver. “Stop!”

Lauren caught up with him as he was yelling at the driver. The man got into the truck and worked a lever, and the back of the dump truck went down. Lauren hopped onto the running board and looked into the truck bed: empty.

Hurd was yelling at Meeton again to shut off the shredder. Meeton walked from behind the dump truck, waved at the shredder operator and drew a finger across his throat. The man pulled a lever, and the noise stopped.

Hurd turned to Meeton. “We’ve got to get into the hopper,” he said.

Meeton led the way up a rickety flight of stairs next to the hopper, and Hurd and Lauren followed. Lauren looked into the huge hopper and saw a dozen or so tires lying on a conveyer belt, ready to be fed into the shredder.

“There’s a ladder over here,” Meeton said. He flung a leg over the edge and found the top rung of a steel ladder bolted to the inside of the hopper. Hurd and Lauren followed him down.

“Your chances of finding a specific tire are slim and none,” Meeton said, pointing to the remaining tires. “But you’re welcome to look.”

Lauren spoke up. “Bruno’s tire would have gone onto the top of the pile,” she said, “which means it would have been at the bottom of the truck bed. We’ve got a shot.”

She and Hurd began picking up tires and looking at them. “Bruno’s was a Michelin,” Lauren said. “I remember that.”

Hurd was looking at the names on the tires and pushing them aside. “Lots of Goodyears,” he said.

Lauren looked, too. “Here’s a Michelin,” she said. Hurd joined her as they rolled the tire so as to see the whole tread. “Not this one,” she said.

They continued to look through the remaining tires but found nothing.

“Well,” Hurd said, “it’s gone.” As they climbed back to the top of the ladder, he pointed to the rear of the shredder. There seemed to be no piece of a tire larger than what would fit into his hand.

They stopped back on the stairs and Lauren looked at the shredded rubber. “I guess we could go through all that,” she said.

“What’s the point?” Hurd replied. “Even if we found exactly the right piece, we couldn’t prove it came from Bruno’s car.”

“I guess you’re right,” she said. They were both filthy from handling the old tires. “Is there some place we can wash up?” she asked Meeton.