Csi = Miami Cult Following

1 Lightning flashed in the sky like paparazzi chasing angels; the detonation that followed an instant later sounded more like dynamite going off than thunder. A September storm in Miami, Horatio Caine thought as he pulled his Hummer over to the curb and parked, was more like an aerial assault than a natural phenomenon. It could explode overhead with aboomso intense it sometimes jolted tourists into an involuntary shriek in response. Horatio's only reaction to the explosion was a slight narrowing of his eyes. Years of living here had acclimatized him...but he still preferred the quiet of the Miami-Dade crime lab. His time on the bomb squad had given him a somewhat negative perspective on sudden, loud noises. He gloved up, translucent white of the latex incongruous against the sleeves of his Hugo Boss suit jacket; in Miami, a sense of style was almost as important as a grasp of the subtle and ever-shifting politics that went with being head of the CSI unit. Horatio usually wore a good suit -- no vest, no tie, shirt open at the collar -- that was stylish but informal; it helped him blend into the background of casual chic that had evolved in South Florida, where even a T-shirt could be considered high fashion if it had the right label. Appearance was a useful tool, and Horatio was willing to use whatever tools were available to get the job done. He grabbed his CSI kit and got out, the afternoon air like the moist breath of a large animal after the AC of the Hummer. Coral Gables, once a suburb of Miami and now a city proper, was an affluent and distinctive place, home to over twenty consulates as well as a thriving theater and shopping district. West of Little Havana, the Gables was a designed city, planned in the twenties by an eccentric citrus millionaire named Merrick. Wide avenues, towering banyan trees and more Spanish architecture than a bullfighters hometown gave it a memorable look: red-tiled roofs, marble fountains and terra-cotta arches in every shade of pastel available. A few warm, fat drops of rain spattered on the sidewalk as he walked toward a Mediterranean-style storefront cordoned off with yellow tape, an art gallery on one side and a women's boutique on the other. The neon above the door read, THE EARTHLY GARDEN, with a smaller sign beneath it proclaimingVegetarian Cuisine.The uniformed officer stationed at the door recognized him and nodded as Horatio ducked under the tape and went inside. Horatio stopped and looked around, taking in everything. The restaurant wasn't large, seating no more than fifty; decor was simple, consisting of a few watercolor paintings on whitewashed walls. Oval-shaped tables of blond wood that sat four, with a cut-glass light fixture suspended over each. Only one of the tables was occupied, and from their clothes Horatio guessed all four were employees. A tall, olive-skinned woman with curly black hair spilling down the back of her tailored gray suit stood next to them, but broke off her conversation when Horatio walked up. Detective Yelina Salas motioned Horatio toward the door to the kitchen with a nod and fell in step beside him. "What have we got?" Horatio said. "Vic's name is Phillip Mulrooney," Salas said. "He's a waiter here -- or was. Body's in the staff bathroom, back here." She led him through a swinging door and past the stainless steel glint of the cooking area. The ghosts of garlic, ginger and curry hung in the air, cut with something sharper. Burnt plastic, and a touch of ozone. The door to the bathroom was open. It was a small room, with barely enough space for a sink and a toilet. The victim was on his knees, slumped across the toilet bowl. His shirt, pants and socks were in tatters, one shoe in the far corner, the other in the sink. Horatio could smell burnt flesh now as well. Little bits of plastic and metal were scattered across the floor. Eric DelkCortez, Donn is the author of 'Csi = Miami Cult Following', published 2005 under ISBN 9780743480574 and ISBN 0743480570.