by Tom Lowe
“What do you mean…turn myself in?”
“Baby, you’re my favorite first cousin. I want to see you get famous, okay? Like in Playboy, or a Miami Heat cheerleader, or something, but sending a man to the hospital, wreckin’ a club. Wow!”
“What?”
“The TV news said ya’ll run off with a two-thousand dollar bottle of champagne, too. You know that expensive brand the hip-hop singers drink in the clubs? Hey, did you and cutie pass the bottle to each other in the back of the cab makin’ your getaway?”
“Sue, look, I just woke up. I’ll call you back. Has Mama seen any of this?”
“Don’t know. Want me to call her for you…sort of ease her into it?”
“No! No, I’ll talk to her. Bye.”
Barbie pulled the sheet over her body and sat at the edge of her bed to think.
The phone rang again.
She looked at the caller ID. Club Paradise. She picked up the phone. “Hi.”
“Barbie, it’s Jude. Had two cops in the club and a detective asking me questions about you. I’ve seen that shit on the news that you pulled in Club Oz with that ex cop. What the hell were you thinkin’, huh?”
“Jude, look, I didn’t do anything. The whole thing at Oz was a kinda like a date, that’s all. I was just there.”
“You and ex cop picked the wrong club to start crashin’ and the wrong guy to be bashin’. Russo’s got connections. Lot’s of people owe him lots of favors; you know what I’m sayin’? Do you, huh, stupid—”
“Okay! I know.”
“Take a couple of days off to let the heat die down some. Come back then.”
“I need the money. I have rent and—”
“But I don’t need this kind of headache, not to mention the unwanted publicity.”
He hung up.
Barbie pulled on a pair of jeans, T-shirt, and flip-flops. She ran her fingers through her hair and stepped out her apartment door, leaving the door unlocked. She walked downstairs to the first floor and bought a paper out of the machine. Looking at her picture with O’Brien made her blush. She read a few lines and held the paper to her breasts, glancing around her before walking up the steps to her apartment.
Barbie entered, locked the door, and sat on the couch to read the story. She pulled her feet up under her. After a few minutes she mumbled, “This is bullshit…that’s not how it happened…”
There was a sound. The creak of the simulated wood floor. Barbie stood. Listening. She sat the paper on the couch, picked up a knife from her kitchen, and slowly walked down the hall toward her bedroom. She wished her roommate were home. But she knew Jan was still at work. Barbie gently pushed opened Jan’s bedroom door, her heart racing. Nothing. Only an unmade bed and a pair of Jan’s jeans draped on a chair.
There was a knock at the door.
Barbie lowered the knife to her side and tiptoed into the living room. She raised one blind a quarter inch and looked out the front window.
The police. An officer and a man in a shirt and tie. Probably a detective.
They knocked again. Louder. “Miss Beckman,” said one of them through the door. “This is Miami Beach Police. Please open up the door. We need to talk with you.”
Silence.
Barbie tried to control her breathing. She thought her heart was going to leap out of her chest. Her mouth was dry, and she couldn’t swallow.
“Okay, Miss Beckman, next time we come, it’ll be with a search warrant and a warrant for your arrest. Rather than talk in your apartment, we’ll take you downtown for questioning.”
She waited a full minute before tiptoeing to the door. She looked though the peephole. Gone. Barbie let out a pent-up chest full of air and turned to enter her bedroom.
She placed the kitchen knife on the bathroom counter, slipped out of her clothes, and got under a hot shower, letting the water run over her head a long while before opening her eyes. When she did open her eyes, she turned to reach for the soap.
The shower door was open. Barbie screamed.
A man stood there—watching—holding the butcher knife. His eyes absorbing her naked body like a cat watches a bird in a cage. The eyes were primal. His thin lips bright red and wet from licking them. His jaw muscles popped, causing his short beard to move like something crawling under a rug.
“Hello, Barbie,” said Carlos Salazar. “My, what a sharp knife you have.”
FIFTY-NINE
FBI lab technician Eric Weinberg pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose and looked at the computer screen for a few seconds in silence. He punched the keyboard and enlarged the image. He turned to Lauren Miles and said, “I can get a reading on some of it. But the rest is less distinct, like the writer was growing weaker the further along he wrote.”
“Let’s see what you have.”
“I’ll route what I have on the high-def monitor.” He hit a few of the keys and Sam Spelling’s handwriting appeared on the screen.
To Father John and God -
My name is Sam Spelling. I am real sorry for my sins. I wish to ask God for forgiveness...and I know now I done some bad things in my life. I hope to make amends. On the night of June 18th, 1999, I was working a deal, trying to score some cocaine at the Mystic Islands condos in Miami. I was supposed to meet a dealer there. It was the same night Alexandria Cole was stabbed to death. I was sitting in a car in the condo lot, waiting for the dealer to show when I seen
a man come out of Miss Cole’s condo. But before I go any more in this letter, I want to say right now where the knife can be found in case I get too tired to finish this letter. It’s in the town of St
Lauren stared at the screen and said, “Looks like Spelling was writing the ‘town of S - t…something…maybe St. Petersburg?”
“Could be,” said Eric.
“Run a search on all Florida cities and towns beginning with S - t.”
Eric keyed in the information and within seconds. He read, “Starke, Stuart, St. Augustine, St. Petersburg, St. Cloud, Steinhatchee, and St. George Island.”
“Maybe Spelling has or had family in one of those. See what you can find.”
Eric nodded. “Are you going to send the letter to headquarters?”
“Yes, counter-to-counter.”
He handed Lauren the letter. She carefully placed it in a folder. “Thanks, Eric. I owe you one for coming in today.”
#
LAUREN CAUGHT THE elevator down to her floor. She entered the office and saw someone walking into the break room. She followed.
Christian Manerou poured himself a cup of coffee as Lauren stepped into the break room. She said, “Oh, Christian, it’s you. Putting in a little weekend duty?”
“Yeah, forgot the Dade Federal.” Manerou looked at the file Lauren carried. “What brings you in on a Saturday?”
“Trying to offer some assistance to Sean O’Brien. You and Mike met him.”
“Yes, according to the Herald, his old employer, MPD, would like to find him.”
“Sean has always operated on the edge, but when he was a detective, his conviction record was unparalleled. He knows he’s up against the clock in this Charlie Williams execution, which will be a deathwatch soon. Sean’s squeezing Russo.”
“It wasn’t easy for the DEA to get a drug conviction pinned on Russo. I imagine O’Brien will have his hands full, especially since it didn’t go so well the first time. And now, Russo has had a lot of time to separate himself from Alexandria Cole.”
“Could work against him. Too much time and he forgets which lies he told.”
“Lauren, I know you put a lot of stock in Sean O’Brien. You’ve worked with him on the Santana murders. Anyway that I can help, let me know. My caseload isn’t so heavy now that I can’t offer some assistance if it’s needed. I’d have to get the ok through Mike. I remember Russo pretty well. He’s a first class son-of-a-bitch. Let me know if I can help.”
“It might be a stretch to get Mike’s permission, he seemed preoccupied. Maybe even a little territorial about
the Russo – Alexandria Cole investigations. That’s kind of odd for him, but you can ask him.”
“Mike’s under a lot of pressure. Maybe you’ll get something on that page O’Brien left.”
“Just did, Eric came in on a Saturday for me.”
“What’d he find?”
Lauren’s cell rang. It was O’Brien. She answered it quickly. “We have a little something more. Where do you want me to meet you?”
“Miami Beach Marina, off Alton Road. Thanks, Lauren. Please hurry.”
#
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Lauren Miles drove slowly through the Miami Beach Marina parking lot. She saw O’Brien approach in a Jeep. He pulled up and lowered the window. “Thanks for coming, what do you have?”
“We managed to read some of Spelling’s letter. The first sentence or two he says he’s sorry for his life, makes amends, and says he was in the condo parking lot that night to score some cocaine. We lost the best imprint as he was identifying where he hid the knife. A Florida city that has the first two letters beginning with an S and a T.”
“St. Petersburg would be the largest.”
“But there are six others, including his old home, Florida State Prison in Starke. I have a list for you.” She handed O’Brien the slip of paper. “Here, too, is your recorder and dubs of the Russo confession. Spelling’s letter is in this package. I’m going to the airport to send it to Quantico. We’ll see if they can get a better read.”
“Lauren, I really appreciate what you’re doing.” He touched her shoulder.
O’Brien’s cell rang. It was Detective Dan Grant. “Dan, do you have anything?”
“One of our deputies found Lyle Johnson’s body. Pretty nasty, Sean. It’s the best intent to make it look like a suicide that I’ve ever seen. There is GSR on Johnson’s hand. The perp nailed Johnson in the right temple. Probably reloaded with a round after he’d killed Johnson. I’m betting he held Johnson’s hand to the pistol grip as he fired a shot into the sky. If it weren’t for the circumstances, Johnson’s connection to Spelling, this
would be written off as a suicide, considering Johnson’s martial strife and debt load. How are we going to catch somebody this good in the time Charlie William’s has left?”
“Begin by seeing who Lyle Johnson spoke with before he was killed. See if he placed a call to Jonathan Russo.”
SIXTY
District attorney Stanley Rosen finished a tenth lap in his backyard pool. He climbed out, toweled off, and stood by his terracotta tile wet bar to mix a vodka and tonic. As he squeezed a fresh lime in the drink, he saw something move to his far left.
“Hello, counselor,” O’Brien said, opening the screened pool door and stepping onto the Mexican-tiled patio.
“What are you doing here, O’Brien?” Rosen sipped his drink.
“I have an audio tape of Jonathan Russo admitting to stabbing Alexandria Cole eleven years ago.”
“Did you have to assault Russo to get it?”
“Those media reports aren’t accurate.”
O’Brien pressed the play button on the small tape recorder. His voice came through the speaker: “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, did you kill Alexandria Cole? The truth!”
“All right!” screamed Russo. “All right! I killed the bitch! That what you wanted to hear?”
Rosen said, “What did you mean, ‘right to lock you away?’”
“I wanted Russo to admit his guilt in the Alexandria Cole killing.”
Rosen sipped the drink. “First we have to indict Russo. If he’s found guilty—”
“You can use his admission to request a stay. Buy me some time, Rosen.”
“Why? Doesn’t mean I’d get one. Besides, like I told you in my office, a place where we ought to be having this discussion, I’m not going in front of a jury to reopen the Cole case unless I have solid proof—real evidence—that I feel will result in a conviction. This screaming match between you and Russo won’t stand up.”
“Maybe not, but a stay will give me time to find what you need.”
“Find what?”
“The murder weapon for starters. FBI’s running tests on a piece of paper that was directly beneath the page that Sam Spelling used to write the confession. We couldn’t find Spelling’s letter on Father Callahan’s body, but we believe we can find the knife in a matter of days.”
“Even if you find it, O’Brien, you don’t know if there’s anything on it. Could have been wiped clean.”
“Maybe, but we don’t know until we run tests.”
“You won’t know that until you find it. Until then, I’d appreciate it if you leave my property. And the next time, make an appointment.” Rosen turned and walked over to a chaise lounge and sat down.
O’Brien said, “Alexandria Cole was murdered. In the last two days, three people who knew the ID of the killer are dead. The last one was a prison guard who overheard Spelling’s confession to Father Callahan. They just found his body. Shot in the head. Close range. I think Russo’s hired a pro. And now Charlie Williams has thirty-five hours to live. They’ll remove him from his cell and take him to a death watch cage less
than fifty feet from the death chamber. You have a chance to postpone it for a few days. If I can’t find evidence, at least you tried to save an innocent man’s life.”
“Twelve people agreed Williams killed his girlfriend in a fit of jealous rage. You helped convict him, remember? And nothing you’ve said to me or have shown me changes that. If you aren’t gone in ten seconds, I’ll have you locked up.”
“I can admit my mistake. You won’t even consider the fact you’re making one. But consider this, counselor, you’ll be just as guilty as Russo if Williams dies. If I find the proof after Williams is dead, you can tell the media why you did nothing to stop it.”
O’Brien walked to his car parked on the side of the palm-tree-lined street.
Rosen knocked back the rest of his vodka, picked up the cell phone by his chair, dialed a number, and said, “This is district attorney Stan Rosen, I understand there’s an APB out for Sean O’Brien.” He paused. “O’Brien just left my house, on Monroe Terrace. Looks like he’s in a green Jeep and heading south toward Collins.”
SIXTY-ONE
The female police dispatcher sat in front of a darkened console at police headquarters, looked at the LED grid map of Miami Beach and keyed her radio microphone, “Airborne, unit three.”
“Unit three.”
“Need the bird for an aerial recon in the vicinity of Flamingo Park and Collins.”
“Ten-four.”
“Subject vehicle is a green Jeep. Two ground units are in the area. Subject is considered armed and dangerous. ID, Sean O’Brien, forty-three year old W.M. Knows the area well. Formerly with Miami-Dade homicide.”
“Be airborne in three minutes.”
As the two helicopter pilots suited up and left the building, one said to the other, “Let’s go round up Dirty Harry.”
#
O’BRIEN LOOKED IN HIS rearview mirror, driving east on 11th street. He assumed that Rosen had made a call to MPD. O’Brien cut off of 11th onto a side street and drove slowly down the street until he saw a house with a for sale sign in the front yard. The grass was in need of mowing and the curtains were gone from the windows. O’Brien pulled in the driveway, shut off the motor, and sat. He lowered the windows and listened. He heard the ticking of the cooling engine, the chant of a mockingbird in the
tree, a tennis racquet serving a ball, and the howl of sirens. O’Brien lowered the window a little more. The unmistakable sound of a helicopter was coming his way. He started the Jeep and pulled farther up the driveway, under the cover of a massive banyan tree.
A minute later the helicopter flew directly over him, the prop wash causing a few leaves to spiral down off the tree and land on the Jeep’s hood and windshield.
He opened his laptop, found a signal and keyed in a name: T
ucker Houston, defense attorney, Miami, Florida. He scanned a biography. Houston retired nine years ago. Lived in Coconut Grove. O’Brien set the GPS for the address, backed the Jeep out of the driveway, and headed in the opposite direction from where the posse was going.
In less than five minutes, O’Brien was approaching MacArthur Causeway. A traffic accident blocked an intersection causing O’Brien’s Jeep to become part of a parade going nowhere. He couldn’t back up, go right or left. Stuck.
They were just pulling the sheet over the biker’s face as O’Brien was coming into the intersection. He purposely avoided looking directly at the officer who was waving cars around the scene. As O’Brien passed, he glanced up in his rearview mirror. The officer had stopped the cars behind him and turned to look at O’Brien’s Jeep. He tilted his head toward his left shoulder, keyed the mic, and began speaking.
“All units, the subject’s Jeep just drove around a ten-sixteen at Euclid and Eighth. Looks like he’s heading for the Mac Causeway.”
O’Brien knew he’d been made. He pulled off Euclid, cutting through a Seven-Eleven lot and onto Poinciana Boulevard heading north. He pushed the Jeep to ninety as he weaved through traffic. He heard sirens. Dozens of cars. He knew the taser and sniper squad would be among them.
O’Brien slammed on his brakes and cut down a street lined with banyan trees. He drove north on Collins, cutting through the parking lot of the Haulover Golf Course. He pulled into a strip mall parking lot. A grocery stock boy was ending his shift. The teenager walked through the lot and opened the door to his green Jeep, turned on the air conditioning, and called his girlfriend on his cell as he waited for the Jeep to cool.
O’Brien drove on through the lot, the sound of sirens in the distance. He whipped into a Mobile gas station and headed behind the building to a covered automatic carwash. O’Brien shoved eight quarters in the slots and drove his Jeep inside the carwash, stopping when a red light flashed. In seconds, the wash began. Even with the sound of water all around him, O’Brien could hear the MPD helicopter circling nearby.