by Tom Lowe
“That’s reserved for one a.m.”
O’Brien slipped her a twenty and said, “We’ll be gone by then. In the meantime, we’ll enjoy some of your best champagne in that booth.”
The hostess smiled. She spoke into her microphone. “Sheila, we’ll be having guests coming up the lift. Please show them to the Opium Den.”
The glass elevator, shaped like a hot-air balloon, moved very slow, giving O’Brien time to canvas the club as the glass orb rose above the packed dance floor.
Beyond the lights, thought O’Brien, behind the façade of Oz, was the real wicked wizard. Somewhere one of the dark alcoves led to the spot where an evil wizard hid behind a curtain pulling human strings. Somewhere in the building was Jonathan Russo’s office. The key was to find it. But as O’Brien stepped from the elevator to the second floor, he saw a curtain being drawn in a VIP suite.
And now he had a better plan.
FORTY-EIGHT
Barbie sat on the leather couch and said, “We sure don’t have any sofas like this at the club where I work. Look at this place! Real fur. All these pillows. Soft lighting. Plants and a little fountain flowing over there in the corner. It’s even got curtains. This is nicer than my apartment. Let’s dance, Ken.”
There was a tap at the door.
“Come on in,” said Barbie.
A woman wearing a short white toga dress stepped into the suite. Her dark skin was in contrast to the white fabric. More high cheekbones. No tan lines. She had a regal elegance to her movement. She sat on the couch near them, crossed her legs and said, “I’m Nikki. Welcome to Oz and your suite—the Opium Den. I’ll be your server. I have a staff to assist me, too. We can get you anything you desire. Award-winning food and drink to even a back rub.”
“That sounds nice,” said Barbie.
O’Brien was silent.
Nikki said, “Here are the menus. Our specialty is gourmet tapas foods. May I start you out with a drink or a bottle, perhaps?”
“Do you carry Krug champagne?” asked O’Brien.
“Of course? What year would you like?”
“You pick.”
Nikki smiled. “The 1987 is excellent.”
O’Brien looked at the wine list. The Krug 1987 was priced at $1,500 a bottle.
“Sounds like a good year,” he said with a smile
Barbie said, “I’m really hungry. Can I go on and order?”
“Of course,” said Nikki.
“I’ll take the chicken…how do you say it, cotee—”
“Chicken Cote d’Azur,” said Nikki. She stood to leave.
“Nikki,” said O’Brien.
“Yes.”
“Please tell Jonathan that Mr. Sergio Conti is here and waiting for him in the Opium Den.” O’Brien glanced at Barbie. “Tell Jonathan I brought him a gift…a gift younger than the champagne, and I hope he’ll share with us.”
Nikki smiled, glanced at Barbie and said, “I’ll convey your message.”
As Nikki closed the door, Barbie asked, “Did you just do what I think you did?”
“What”
“Pimp me out?”
“No, Barbie, listen closely. A very bad man will be coming in here in a few minutes. Just play along with me. I’m going to ask you to do one thing and then you can go dance the night away.”
“What’s that one thing?”
“I want you to cuff him when I tell you to.”
“I knew it. You’re a cop, aren’t you?”
“Sort of.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m unofficially investigating a crime.”
“What kind of crime?”
“Murder.”
“Murder!”
“She wasn’t much older than you when she was killed.”
“Is this guy you just invited in here...this Jonathan dude, did he kill her?”
“I don’t know.”
“What are you gonna do? What if he has a gun?”
O’Brien stood and closed the curtains. He pulled the Glock from under his shirt and said nothing.
Barbie looked at the gun and blurted, “Ohmygod! You’re gonna kill him!”
“Calm down, okay? I’m here to see if a shoe fits.”
“You’re one of those bounty hunters, aren’t you?”
“My only bounty is to try to correct a bad mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“An innocent man, Barbie, is in prison. He’s on death row. The guy walking in here might know something that could free this innocent man.”
“I know I’m the one askin’ questions, but you don’t have to tell me if you feel I ought not to know.”
“I believe you’ll make a good witness if I need one. You’re an honest woman.”
There was a tap on the door.
O’Brien slipped the Glock under his shirt. He nodded to Barbie. She said, “Come in.”
Nikki entered with another woman dressed in a short toga. Blonde and shapely. Dimples when she smiled. Nikki sat the bottle of champagne and glasses down. She started to open it and said, “This is Shana, she’s here to assist you in whatever you may need, too.” Shana set the small tray of Chicken Cote d’Azar on the glass coffee table.
“What a delightful menagerie,” said O’Brien, “I hope Jonathan can join us before the champagne is gone.”
“Mr. Russo will drop in soon. May we offer either of you anything else?”
“No, thanks,” said O’Brien.
The women left. Barbie said, “I can’t believe I’m hungry.” She scooped up one of the flat tapas bites. It looked like pieces of chicken on a slice of baked pita bread. “This is sooo good,” she said, pouring a glass of champagne. She sipped. “Wow! Kinda sweet and dry, too. Love the tiny bubbles. Aren’t you eating?”
“I’ve eaten.”
“Ken, cop or no cop, I think you’re a good person. And this is the best, kinkiest sort of date I’ve ever been on.” She finished the glass of champagne just as the door opened.
Jonathan Russo stepped into the room.
FORTY-NINE
Jonathan Russo wore a dark suit with a black tee shirt under the jacket. His salt and pepper hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Wide shoulders. Flat stomach. A bodybuilder’s pronounced way of moving. A gym rat in a tight-fitting Armani jacket.
“You’re not Sergio Conti,” said Jonathan Russo.
“And you’re not the Wizard of Oz,” said O’Brien. “Sit down.”
“Fuck you!”
O’Brien grabbed Russo and threw him into the couch. His eyebrows arched, like they were painted on his forehead. As he tried to sit up, O’Brien used the palm of his hand to shove him back into the couch. Russo’s mouth opened, a protest stopped in his throat as O’Brien backhanded him and pulled out his Glock.
Barbie jumped up, spilling the food on the floor.
“You’re a dead man!” shouted Russo. “Who the fuck are you? Where’s Serg?”
“He’s been silenced.”
“What!”
O’Brien pointed the Glock directly between Russo’s eyes. “I should have arrested you eleven years ago.”
“What? Fuck you, pal.”
O’Brien locked the door, turned the recorder on, and slid it across the glass table. He said, “You killed Alexandria Cole eleven years ago. You killed Sam Spelling, and you killed a friend of mine, a priest, Father John Callahan.”
“Wait a minute!” Russo held his hands up. “I remember you. You’re the cop, the detective, who came around when they found Lexie’s body. You busted her redneck boyfriend on that one.”
“But that was my mistake. And I’m done with letting my mistake make more mistakes. You’re going to trade places with Charlie Williams.”
“You’re fuckin’ insane! I told you back then, I didn’t kill her. She was my meal ticket. Lexie was one of the reasons I had enough dough to partner in with this club. We’ve expanded to three locations on South Beach. I wasn’t happy to see what that stupid shit f
rom podunk Carolina did to her.”
“Stand up!”
“What?”
“Stand up!” O’Brien stepped closer to Russo.
“I’ll have your ass on a platter for coming in here and—”
“Shut up! If I shoot you, the music is so loud I could set a bomb off and no one would hear it.”
Russo stood. He was breathing hard. His heart beat fast, causing a gold necklace pendant to vibrate on his chest.
O’Brien said, “Put both of your hands by the door handle.”
Russo slowly did as ordered. O’Brien gestured to Barbie with a quick jerk of the head. “Barbie, cuff him to the door handle.”
“What do you want?” asked Russo.
“The truth. And I have very little time to get it or an innocent man dies. ”
Barbie picked up the handcuffs and clamped one on Russo’s left wrist, ran the other through the door handle and secured the cuff to his right wrist.
O’Brien held the Glock less than two feet from Russo’s face. “Since you have a hard time remembering the night you killed Alexandria Cole, let’s start more recently. Where were you the last three days?”
“Out of town…on business.”
“Where!”
“I was in Detroit on Wednesday. Orlando on Thursday, and up until the time I flew back to Miami late this afternoon.”
“Who were you with?”
“Investors.”
“Give me names!”
“Uhh, Robert Kohns and Ted Jacobs in Detroit. They’re with Michigan Enterprises. In Orlando, I met with, uh, Morgan Coldwell and a business attorney, his name is…uh, Rice, Jim Rice.”
“It’s all about the alibis, isn’t it Russo? You’re good with calling favors, having people vouch for you—no—lie for you. Eleven years ago it was Sergio Conti. You told
Conti to tell me and the other investigators that you spent the night at his place, eating stone crabs and tossing their shells over the balcony.”
Russo was silent.
“Didn’t anybody ever tell you that your lies can come back to bite you one day?”
Russo squirmed, sweat popping on his forehead. “I didn’t lie.”
“You did! You told me you were dining on stone crabs the night Alexandria Cole was stabbed seven times. That was a lie, Russo. Your pal, Conti admitted that to me earlier tonight. Said you weren’t around. He tells me, right here on tape, that you—you pervert, were banging an underage girl. But I differed with him. I believe you were killing Alexandria Cole because she was firing you. She didn’t need your slime around her anymore. You tried to keep her addicted to pills and coke. But she finally had enough. You couldn’t stand to lose the dollar signs, the connections she represented. You knew she was making up with her boyfriend. He’d even had sex with her the night you killed her in a rage.”
“You’re fuckin’crazy.”
“Not only could you have killed her, you had no alibi, and you did have a motive. You knew enough about her boyfriend to plant Alexandria’s blood in his truck. What did you do, carry some out in a Ziploc bag and spread it on his clothes and car seat when he was passed out drunk?”
Russo was quiet. He licked his dry lips. “You’re making a big mistake.”
“You made a big mistake when you also carried out the murder weapon and tossed it, because someone in the complex saw you. He blackmailed you. He knew a big shot supermodel manager and nightclub mogul was good for the money. All was quiet
for years because he was behind bars on drug charges. But the closer he came to getting out, the more he wanted to dip back into your till. And when Sam Spelling was transported from his cell to testify in an unrelated drug trial, you shot him, or you had someone shoot him. You knew if you killed him, the cops would think it was a hit the defendant in the trial had ordered. But all along, it was to silence an old nemesis that caught you in a murder.”
“I never heard of this Sam Spelling.”
“Sure you have. You killed him. And after you killed him, you murdered one of the finest men I’ve ever known, Father John Callahan.”
“I’m fuckin’ Catholic! You think I’d whack a priest, huh?”
“I think you’d kill anyone who got in your way, including a prison guard that his wife reported missing. The same guard that overheard Spelling talking with Father Callahan. I’m betting he got greedy just like Sam Spelling. Called you and you gave him the same payback you gave Spelling.”
Russo tried to pull the door handle off with the handcuffs. His watchband broke, the watch landing on the carpeted floor. O’Brien picked up the watch. “An Omega. I bet you were wearing this the night you shot Father Callahan. I’m going to ask you one last time, why did you kill Alexandria Cole?”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“Your alibi is a lie! Sergio Conti admits you weren’t eating stone crabs at his condo the night she was killed. Where were you?”
Russo licked his lips. Sweat soaked his silk shirt around the collar. He said, “Look, man. I was with somebody I shouldn’t been with, okay?”
“Who?”
“A girl.”
“What girl?”
“I don’t even know her name. I bought her from a pimp for a few hours. I have a little problem,” he paused and looked at Barbie. “I find myself drawn to girls…you know, the young ones. Said her name was Lucy, but who the hell knows. They all lie.”
“The tough life of a pedophile,” said O’Brien. “So many kids, so little time.”
“I haven’t ever stalked a girl, I’m surrounded by so many people—women, lots of adult bitches. It’s nice to do it with someone I can teach, somebody that won’t talk back. So, now you know my secret.”
“Where is this girl? Where’s this pimp?”
“I don’t know, man, it’s been eleven years. She’s probably gown with kids. He’s probably dead.”
“She’s probably warped for life after you taught her something, something evil.”
Russo shrugged his shoulders. “This has been goin’ on since Roman times.”
“Shut up! You disgust me. I believe your little story, you sick narcissist bastard. But I don’t believe it happened the night Alexandria was killed. You stabbed her in an emotional rage.”
“You got some fantasy thing happening, Detective.”
O’Brien leaned in closer to Russo, looking for any hint of deception in Russo’s eyes or body language. “Look at me! What did you do with the letter Spelling wrote to Father Callahan?”
Russo smiled. “What fuckin’ letter?”
O’Brien stared at Russo. “Barbie, hand the purse to me.”
“Since we’re being recorded,” she said, “the purse isn’t technically mine.”
“Hand it to me.”
She gave O’Brien the purse. He lifted the stone crab out, holding it by the back of the shell. The two large claws opened wide, snapping, the crab’s eyes dark as small black pearls.
“Hey! C’mon, man! What the fuck you doin’?” Russo’s voice was higher, pleading.
O’Brien said, “A stone crab this size can generate almost two-thousand pounds of pressure in its claw when it clamps down.”
Russo’s eyes darted from the crab to O’Brien. “You’re insane.”
FIFTY-ONE
There was a soft knock at the door. O’Brien leaned closer to Russ and whispered. “Tell your people to go away or they’ll mop up what’s left of you.”
Russo’s eyes bulged. He swallowed dryly, heart hammering. He shouted, “It’s okay. Leave us alone.” He looked back at O’Brien. “You gotta believe me; I’m not mixed up in all this shit.”
“This is the kind of crab you told me you ate and tossed their shells over the balcony at Sergio Conti’s. Their claws are amazing—almost too large for their bodies. They use them to crush clams and mollusks. Imagine what this claw could do to your nose.”
“You’re a dead man, O’Brien.”
O’Brien stepped closer with the crab, the claws opening like
traps.
“Name your price!” said Russo. “Look, I’ll give you anything you want. A hundred grand and you and big tits here can go away to some fuckin’ island.”
“All I want is the truth.”
“I’m telling you the truth!” Russo looked down at the large crab.
“If this crab can shatter a clam, it could split your little finger like a chicken bone.”
“O’Brien…please…”
Barbie held her hand to her mouth. “Now I’ve really lost my appetite.”
“A hundred-thousand bucks! I’ll give it to you in cash. And you walk outta here. No questions asked. We do a deal and all this is history.”
“Where’s Spelling’s letter?” shouted O’Brien, the crab’s claws snapping air.
“You got the wrong guy! Look up your own tree—” Russo’s face twisted like the skin was going to peel off. The veins in his neck expanded. He turned crimson and then lost all color.
“My chest!” he yelled. “I can’t breathe! My heart!”
“I won’t cheat the state out of its right to lock you away, Russo, so I’ll dial 911, but before I do…tell me, why did you kill Alexandria Cole? The truth!”
“All right!” screamed Russo. “All right! I killed the bitch! That what you wanted to hear? I fuckin’ killed her!”
He stopped talking. His arms and hands shook. He slumped to his knees. Saliva dripping out of his open mouth.
“Ken!” shouted Barbie. “Do something! He’s dying!”
O’Brien said, “There’s a house phone on the table to the left of the couch. Tell them Jonathan Russo is in the Opium Den having a heart attack.” O’Brien unlocked the handcuffs and Russo dropped face down on the floor like a broken doll. As Barbie made the call, O’Brien set the crab back in the purse, picked up the tape recorder and handcuffs.
“I’m scared, Ken!”
“Don’t be.”