“It’s just a fucking wrapping paper,” Vince said. “From the floor of Klein’s car.”
“It’s from some kind of food,” the stranger in the corner said.
I looked at the man, and then back at Deborah with a raised eyebrow. She shrugged.
“My new partner,” she said. “Alex Duarte.”
“Oh,” I said to the man. “Mucho gusto.”
Duarte shrugged. “Yeah, right,” he said.
“What kind of food?” I asked.
Deborah ground her teeth. “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” she said. “If we know where he ate before he died, we got a good chance to stake it out and maybe find this guy.”
I stepped over to where Vince was poking at a wad of greasy white waxed paper in an evidence bag. “All that grease,” he said. “There’s gotta be a fingerprint. I just wanted to look for it first. Standard procedure.”
“Asshole, we already got Klein’s fingerprints,” Deborah said. “I want the killer.”
I looked at the congealed grease through the plastic of the evidence bag. It had a reddish brown tinge to it, and although I don’t usually hang on to food wrappers long enough to be certain, it looked familiar. I leaned over and opened the bag, sniffing carefully. The cold pills had finally dried my nose, and the smell was strong and unmistakable. “Taco,” I said.
“Gesundheit,” said Vince.
“You’re sure?” Deborah demanded. “That’s a taco wrapper?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Can’t miss the smell of the spices.” I held up the bag and pointed out a tiny yellow crumb on one corner of the waxed paper. “And right there, that has to be a piece of the taco shell.”
“Tacos, my God,” said Vince with horror. “What have we come to?”
“What,” Duarte said. “Like from Taco Bell?”
“That would have a logo on the wrapper, wouldn’t it?” I said. “Anyway, I think their wrappers are yellow. This is probably from a smaller place, maybe one of those lunch wagons.”
“Great,” Deborah said. “There must be a million of those in Miami.”
“And they all sell tacos,” Vince said very helpfully. “I mean, yuck.”
Deborah looked at him. “You’re a total fucking idiot, you know that?” she said.
“No, I didn’t know that,” Vince said cheerfully.
“Why tacos?” Duarte said. “I mean, who eats fucking tacos? I mean, come on.”
“Maybe he couldn’t find empanadas,” I said.
He looked at me blankly. “Empa-what?” he said.
“Can you find out where it came from?” Debs said. “You know, like analyze the spices or something?”
“Debs, for God’s sake,” I said. “It’s just a taco. They’re all pretty much the same.”
“No, they’re not,” Deborah said. “These tacos got a cop killed.”
“Killer tacos,” Vince said. “I like that.”
“Maybe it’s a hangout,” I said, and Deborah looked at me expectantly. I shrugged. “You know, sometimes word gets around, like the burgers are great at Manny’s, or the medianoche at Hidalgo is the best in town, or whatever.”
“Yeah, but these are tacos,” Vince said. “I mean—seriously.”