Slater smiled. “So you’re already familiar with my show? I’m flattered.”
“I never miss an episode. I’m interested in the subject matter, and you’re not nearly as full of crap as some of the other hosts of programs like you’re. The guy with the wild hair? Total nutbag.” Bones said.
Slater laughed. “Let’s not name any names, but I know exactly what you mean.” Just then, the waiter arrived with their drinks. “Good service here.”
“I thing beautiful women get good service here. He wasn’t nearly that fast when I did the ordering.”
Slater arched an eyebrow. “Do you really think I’m beautiful or are you just hitting on me?”
“A little bit of both, but business before pleasure.” He took a long drink, enjoying the rich flavor and the tangy zing of lime.
Slater took a drink, set her bottle down, and then leveled her gaze at Bones. “I’m investigating the skunk ape.”
Bones closed his eyes and shook his head. “Seriously? Dude, I can point you to half a dozen legends that are more worthy of investigation than that thing.”
Also known as the swamp ape, Florida Bigfoot, and swampsquatch, among other names, the skunk ape was a primate cryptid reputed to reside in the southeastern United States. Though sightings ranged throughout the South, from North Carolina all the way to Arkansas, the creature was most commonly identified with southern Florida, where nearly all the alleged sightings had occurred.
“You don’t think there’s at least a story worth investigating? You weren’t always such a skeptic.” Slater opened a portfolio, drew out a sheet of paper, and slid it across the table. She had printed out a screen capture from an Internet forum. Bones recognized it immediately.
“Look at the date on that post. I made it years ago. I didn’t know crap back then.”
Slater was undeterred. “You believed it at the time. What changed?”
“I did a little investigating. There’s no solid evidence, just some crappy video of drunk college kids in monkey suits and a few misidentifications of black bears.”
“There’s a lot more than that,” Slater said. “I’ve investigated my share of cryptid reports and some of these witnesses seem reliable to me. They describe the way it looked, sounded, even the way it smelled.”
“And if any of them had spent much time in the woods they’d have recognized that smell for what it probably was — a bobcat.” He held up a hand, forestalling her next argument. “I’ve also seen the plaster casts of supposed skunk ape tracks. They’re all fake. You’ve done Bigfoot investigations so you know the telltale signs.”
Slater sighed. “I can see you’re going to be a hard sell. You are correct. I do know the telltale signs of falsified primate tracks, which is why I believe these are genuine.” She took out a stack of glossy, 8 x 10 photographs and handed them to Bones. “I haven’t had the chance to examine them up close yet, but from what I can tell, they look like the real thing.”
Bones could see what she meant. Most of the castings that were made of primate footprints, at least of the cryptozoological kind, were too regular, too even. These were different. They were deeper in some places, reflecting the way a primate’s weight distribution shifted as it walked and the way it bore more weight on the big toe than on the others. He couldn’t deny he was impressed. What’s more, he had, in his time, personally confirmed the existence of a few so-called cryptids, though he kept that information to himself.
“Not bad,” he admitted, handing the photographs back to Slater. “Where did you get these?”
“From an investigator who lives south of Sarasota. You know, the area where the Myakka photographs were taken?” Slater smiled, her brown eyes twinkling. She seemed to think she had Bones hooked.
“You mean the anonymous photographs of an orangutan? Even if they’re legit, all it proves is someone’s pet got loose.”
“And if that’s what the investigation turns up, that’s fine by me. The Everglades is home to plenty of non-native species: exotic birds, escaped pet snakes that grow to giant size, and more. I think our viewers would be fascinated by the idea of an orangutan, or even a troop of them, surviving and maybe even thriving in the Florida swamps.”
Bones nodded. He couldn’t deny the woman was persuasive but he still wasn’t completely buying it. “Why did you reach out to me?” he asked, changing the subject.
“We found you through that message board post. My staff tracked you down and vetted you. There’s surprisingly little information about you out there.”
“No comment.” Bones took a long drink and let Slater continue.
“Anyway, we learned enough about you to determine that you have interest in, and knowledge of, cryptids. Also, nothing we found raised any red flags, meaning you’re not a total whack job.” She hesitated, blushed, and took a drink. “Also, you would look… impressive on camera.”
“So my porn career never came up?” Bones laughed as Slater’s eyes went wide and her jaw dropped. “Just kidding.” He took another drink just to keep her in suspense, and then smiled. “All right, you’ve piqued my interest. What’s the pay?”
Chapter 2
The offices of the Sarasota Sun stood on the corner of Ringling Boulevard and South Osprey Avenue in the heart of town. Bones squeezed his Dodge Ram pickup truck into a narrow parking space, cranked up some AC/DC on the stereo, and waited for Slater to arrive. He hadn’t been there long when a sharp rap on his tailgate startled him. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a man in the all-black uniform of the Sarasota County Sheriff’s Department beckoning to him.
Bones rolled down his window and stuck his head out. “What can I do for you, officer?”
“It’s deputy, and you can start by shutting off that vehicle and getting your narrow behind out here where I can talk to you.” Though his ruddy features and sturdy build didn’t scream “inbreeder”, the man’s southern drawl marked him as a likely member of one of the long-term native families rather than a more recent transplant from somewhere up north. He was probably a redneck. Bones hated rednecks.
Slowly, he cut the engine, opened the door, and slid out into the tight space between his truck and the vehicle alongside him.
“I don’t know how they do things down in Munro County,” the deputy said, glancing at Bones’ license plate, “but around here, when an officer of the law gives you an order you obey it without… ” He halted in midsentence as Bones stepped out from between the vehicles. The deputy was not a small man. He was a shade over six feet tall and solidly built, and probably accustomed to physically intimidating most of the people he encountered, but next to the broad shouldered, six foot five Cherokee, he was a bit on the small side.
“Sorry about the delay,” Bones lied, trying to make his smile as friendly as possible, “Deputy Logan,” he added after a glance at the man’s name tag. He said nothing else. He knew he done nothing wrong so he simply waited for the deputy to explain himself.
“You know why I called you out here?” The deputy had regained some of his fire, but his demeanor was decidedly less pugnacious than it had been a moment before.
“If it’s to tell me how freaking hot and humid it is in this town, I’ve already noticed.”
The deputy didn’t crack a smile. “You mind telling me what you doing sitting here?”
“Listening to music. Good old classic rock. You into that stuff?”
“Excuse me?” The deputy shuffled his feet as if debating whether or not to take a step toward Bones.
“Am I free to go?” Bones knew he probably shouldn’t mess with the man, but he didn’t appreciate being rousted for no particular reason. “Or am I under arrest?”