The 24th Letter ((Mystery/Thriller))

by Tom Lowe

  “Florida has more hate groups than any other state. As a matter of fact, Omega, one of the symbols the priest drew before he died, is tied to a far right extremist group based in Tampa called The Omega Order. One of the many things they preach is that violence is a means to an end and justified to achieve their goals. Sort of a jihadist creed. People with Salazar’s skills can free-lance. These groups don’t recruit him to join them. They hired him to train them.”

  “Train them in what?”

  “Plain and simple—killing.”

  “Wouldn’t imagine they need that much coaching.”

  “They don’t, Sean. What they needed was someone who could teach them the art of traceless killing.”

  “Traceless?”

  “They call it ‘dusting without leaving any dust behind.’”

  “Like he did with Spelling and Father Callahan. There’s another to add.”

  “Who?”

  “The D.O.C. guard assigned to Spelling. Volusia SO found his body in a rural area. Perp shot him at close range. Made it look like suicide. Traceless, if you will.”

  “You think it’s Salazar?”

  “Him, or someone connected to him and Russo. Whoever did it was extremely precise, calculating, and very fast. In a few hours, he killed the three people that could tie Russo to a murder eleven years ago. I know that Russo sent Salazar to intimidate and beat Barbie Beckman.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She’s at Jackson Memorial, a few floors down from Russo’s room.”

  “I gather that you’ve paid them both a hospital visit.”

  O’Brien said nothing.

  “Sean, we know Russo uses his club as a front for drugs. These people get so deep in the cartel that they have dozens of shell companies. They’re in bed with some of the Miami mob families with extended business dealings with their New York and Chicago cousins. One of Russo’s eccentricities is he likes to dabble in the model, music, and movie scene. Club Oz gives him the stage. Salazar’s one of the dozen or so pros he has at his disposal. You can’t effectively function as a one-man-army. It’s suicide.”

  “With the hours running out in Charlie William’s life, I don’t have a choice.”

  “You get ready to go in…call me, okay? Bye, Sean.”

  From the window of the cab, O’Brien watched a high-speed power boat zip over the glass-like surface of Biscayne Bay. He called Ron Hamilton. “You’ll probably get a call from Russo dropping charges against me.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he knows it’s in his best interest. But I’m betting the call won’t come until I neutralize Carlos Salazar.”

  “Where is Salazar?”

  “I’m beginning at the Sixth Street Gym and then going to Sticks Billiards in Little Havana. If he’s not at either place, maybe somebody will know where I can find him.”

  “What are you going to do? For Christ sakes, Sean, you can’t even arrest him. What proof have you found to tie him to the murders of the priest, Spelling or the guard?”

  “None, yet. But he almost killed Barbie. You could hold him on that.”

  “So you want me there…the question is do you want me as backup, or as someone for you to hand Salazar to?”

  “You’d have to come alone. Anyone else in the department would try to take me down. You hold Salazar before he skips. I’ll find the nail to hold him for good.”

  “I’d bet the pool hall would be a good possibility first.”

  O’Brien smiled and said, “I bet you’re right. Also, I’d bet that Russo’s tipped off Salazar. Be careful on your approach.”

  “When?”

  “I have one stop I have to make. See you at seven sharp, two hours. And Ron...”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  SIXTY-SIX

  The home was almost hidden. O’Brien got out of the cab in front of a small house tucked away behind old banyan trees and terraces of blooming bougainvillea. The house was built in the late fifties. Mediterranean. Beige stucco exterior veiled behind banana trees. Rose bushes were in need of pruning. Walking up the river stone footpath, O’Brien could smell the fresh-cut grass, roses, sweet bananas, and mimosa flowers.

  Knocking on the door, he watched a bumblebee hover above a flowering yellow periwinkle. The door opened and a man in his late sixties looked over the rims of his reading glasses at O’Brien. The man didn’t seem surprised. His eyebrows were wild as his rose bushes, kind blue eyes, uncombed white hair, forearms scarred from the sun. He wore chlorine-faded swimming trunks and a Miami Dolphins T-shirt.

  “I recognize you,” said Tucker Houston. “How you been, Sean?”

  “Better. It’s been a long time, Tucker. May I speak with you?”

  “Come in.”

  O’Brien followed Tucker Houston through the house to a screened-in patio by a small pool. “Sit down, Sean. Excuse the look of the place. Everything is sort of under control of the forces of nature. Wherever I leave a magazine or book, it seems gravity won’t release its grasp, hence, I don’t pick up too much since Margaret passed. Want something to drink?”

  “No thanks. I’m sorry to hear about Margaret. After Sherri died, I sort of got out of touch.”

  “And you got out of Miami. Then, I retired. So, I guess we both clocked out, but reading the Herald, looks like you clocked in, and everybody in the city knows it.”

  “I’m here to ask you a favor.” O’Brien stared at the blue pool water before looking at Tucker. “When I was a cop, I used to think about you.”

  “Oh, how so?”

  “You made me a better cop. Because one of the first things I thought about was how would the defense work the case—how would Tucker Houston work the case. You had grilled me enough times on the witness stand to know you did your homework. And you forced me to do mine.”

  Tucker Houston listened without interruption as O’Brien played the audio tape recording, told him the story of Alexandria Cole and the events that had transpired during the last three days.

  “I see your dilemma,” Tucker said, sitting back in a deck chair. “I’m not sure I can help you. I’ve been out of the legal loop a while now.”

  “While a lot of defense attorneys troll for scum to turn a dollar, the misfits that they plea out and collect a toll from, the junkies they recycle, the snitches they use…you seemed above reproach on that. I wanted to tell you that one time. The scales of justice on the Charlie Williams case are beyond out of balance…eleven years worth of extra weight added to William’s side, plus the execution pending. Can you get a federal judge to issue a stay for at least thirty days?”

  Tucker was silent, the circulating blue of pool water reflecting from his eyes “If I could catch old circuit court judge Samuel Davidson after the church service tomorrow, I might have a chance to get his ear.”

  O’Brien smiled. “Thank you.” He looked at his watch and stood. “I need to call a cab. I have to make a couple of stops downtown.”

  “Tell you what, I’ve got two cars in the driveway—one more than I need. Couldn’t bear to part with Margaret’s black thunderbird after she died. She loved that car. We used to enjoy putting the top down and head to Key Largo on weekends. The car is one of the last Ford made before ending production in oh-three. She only put three thousand miles on it. Car’s in need of driving. Take it. Drop if off when you’re done.”

  #

  O’BRIEN DROVE ACROSS the MacArthur Causeway, keeping the little T-Bird humming just below the speed limit. His cell rang. It was Dave Collins. “I may have come up with a lead on the picture of the moon you emailed me. I compared it with a cropped close-up from the image Father Callahan drew, the one you had Detective Grant email to me. I believe it may date to a fifteenth century painter, a man many people thought was deranged. But, with Father Callahan’s art history background, it makes sense.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the painter used the Omega sign. A lot of his work was about good and evil,
heaven and hell…that might explain the six-six-six.”

  O’Brien thought about the night he found Father Callahan dead—open eyes locked on the stained glass.

  “Sean, you need to see this.”

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  A light rain fell as O’Brien drove slowly by the Sixth Street Gym. It was a two-story art deco, rehabbed, and painted a shade lighter than a slice of ripe honeydew melon. A canvas awning with a red neon sign hanging beneath the marquee read:

  Sixth Street Gym

  Boxing, Ju Jitsu and Tai Chi Training

  World’s Best Aerobics and Weight Training

  O’Brien read the marquee as he drove past the gym, circled around, and parked a block away on 71st Street. He walked in the rain, watching the bounce of headlights reflecting off wet streets, the neon like red lava flowing into dark puddles.

  O’Brien saw a woman get out of a parked car on the opposite side of the street. She used the palms of both hands to smooth her mini-shirt down, stood under an awning to light a cigarette, blew the first drag of smoke over her shoulder and started walking. Her heels were like taps against the wet sidewalk.

  A man in the car pulled away from the curb, driving fast down the rain-slick street, the red taillights leaving a reflective trail as he hit brakes, turned left and was gone.

  O’Brien approached the front door of the Sixth Street Gym. A Cadillac Escalade, a white Chevy pickup truck, and a yellow Ferrari were parked near the curb. The black

  writing on the melon-colored door had the style of Japanese characters that were painted to look like small samurai swords. They read:

  Boxing – Kickboxing – Karate – Heavy Bag Training – Personal Trainers

  World’s Best Exercise for the Mind and Spirit

  Enter the house of dragons, thought O’Brien as he opened the door to loud music and the smell of gym sweat. He walked down a hall that resembled a hall of fame. Pictures of boxers and celebrity boxers framed and placed on both walls. Kid Gavilan. Sugar Ramos. Kid Chocolate. Stallone. Ali. Mickey Rourke. Foreman. Sugar Ray. Angelo Dundee. And among them stood an old black-and-white photograph of Ernest Hemingway in the ring with a smaller man. The caption read: “Poncho & Papa.”

  O’Brien could hear the pounding on the heavy bags, the rattle of the speed bags, the clank of metal-on-metal, the buzz of machines and the rock ‘n roll from the loud speakers. He wondered when he turned the corner and entered the gym, would he see Carlos Salazar lifting weights, punching a heavy bag, or ready to take his head off.

  He stepped into the main part of the massive gym. A large American flag hung at the far end. There were dozens of people training on machines, lifting weights, and riding stationary bikes, while half a dozen others worked the heavy bags. They wore wireless headphones and pounded leather on leather to soundtracks only they heard.

  There were two separate rings. Behind the ropes in both rings, personal trainers barked encouragement, threw jabs and taunts at boxers. The trainers use hand-boards, the boxers smacking the boards with lightweight gloves.

  O’Brien stood near a heavy bag that was not being used. He scanned as many faces as he could. Mostly men. Mostly white. Lots of ink on the bare chests and backs. Testosterone as heavy in the air as the smell of sweat.

  A twenty-something Hispanic woman, dark skin, hourglass figure, tight black shorts and using pink boxing gloves, spared with a male partner.

  O’Brien walked through the gym trying not to seem like he was looking for something or someone. Less than ten feet to his right, a man began doing arm curls with a thirty-pound weight. He had an Irish shamrock tattooed on his shoulder, the interconnecting cloverleaves forming a 666. His left earring was a black onyx shaped like an eye.

  O’Brien glanced at the man’s face. Ruddy. Irish-American. Big boned. Shoulders like a buffalo. The man said, “Do I remind you of somebody, pal?” His accent was brogue Irish.

  “No, just passing through,” said O’Brien.”

  The man said nothing, his eyes suspicious and the tendons in his neck taut like piano strings as he lifted the weight.

  O’Brien moved on toward the center ring. A trainer was finishing a light sparing round with a man who looked like he had a military background. Shaved head. An American flag was tattooed above a Special Forces insignia on his right upper arm. The left arm had a small map of Iraq with the dates 2006 - 2007. The man removed his gloves, toweled off his face, and climbed out of the opposite side of the ring.

  The trainer stepped down near O’Brien and said, “Can I help you?” He wore a sweat-stained tank top. He had a square, angular face. One eye looked more to the left than the other eye, a white scar between the left nostril and lip. Biceps and forearms like hammered iron. He used his teeth to pull on the drawstring to his left glove.

  “I like your place. What does personal training costs?”

  “Depends. Nothing better than working with a trainer on the heavy bag. Great for the cardio and upper body. You’ll build stamina and add muscle to your legs.”

  “How about training in the ring?”

  “The best. It builds mind and body. Why sit on a stationary bike and watch some clown on CNN when you can go one-on-one in the ring?”

  “I see you offer training in the martial arts?”

  “Absolutely. Got some of Miami’s best trainers?”

  “Would Carlos Salazar be one?”

  He turned his head slightly, looked at O’Brien a beat though his left eye, cocked his head like a lizard before attacking an insect. “Never heard of the guy.”

  “Rather than train people in martial arts, maybe he just comes here as a customer—big guy, like you. Wears a beard short—”

  “Don’t recognize the dude. Got another client waiting.”

  “Here’s how you can recognize the dude. He’ll look like a coward because he beats women and priests. If you see Salazar, tell him Sean O’Brien sends his best.”

  The trainer used the back of his knuckle-scarred hand to wipe a drop of sweat from his chin. He stepped around O’Brien, grazing his left shoulder against O’Brien’s shirtsleeve and leaving a dark stain of perspiration.

  O’Brien walked to a remote corner of the gym and called Ron Hamilton. “I’m at the Sixth Street Gym. Spoke with one of the trainers. He knows Salazar. Wouldn’t admit it, but definitely knows him.”

  “I’m at Stick’s Billiards now. Just drove around the place. Checked the parking lot for Salazar’s car. Not here.”

  “What’s he drive?”

  “We checked DMV’s database. The world of contraband and selective elimination must pay well. There’s a 2009 Ferrari registered in the name Carlos Salazar.”

  “He’s here. Get here quick as you can.”

  As O’Brien closed his cell, he saw a reflection off the dark phone screen. A slight movement. Someone behind him. No time to duck.

  Time stopped in the bright flash of white light and faded to black.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  He was hit in the face with a pail of cold water. O’Brien opened his eyes. Dizzy. His head aching. He was sprawled on his back, lying on hard canvas. He squinted under the bright light directly above the ring. He leaned to one side, slowly sat up and tried to stand. His legs felt like they had gone so sleep—the circulation beginning to push blood through the calves and feet.

  Where was he? How long had he been out?

  “I hope you like the ring!”

  O’Brien turned around. Carlos Salazar walked into a pocket of light near the ring. He was dressed in boxer shorts. No shirt. His lean body hard and sculpted. Muscles moving under the skin like waves. Thick, hairless chest. In the center of his chest was an image of the Virgin Mary. Below it, in Spanish was the word La Virgen.

  Salazar climbed in the ring, held his arms high above his head, and slowly turned around. On his back was a red and blue tattoo of a muscular winged demon-like figure, hooves for feet, serpent’s tail. In Spanish the word below the tattoo spelled el Satanas. Salazar stepped closer to
O’Brien. “You like the art, no?’ The finest artist in Bogota did this. You know what takes for great art to be better?”

  O’Brien said nothing.

  “I’ll tell you,” said Salazar. “Great art becomes more valuable after the artist dies. When he can no longer produce because of his death, whatever is left is, shall we say, is limited quantity. After the master finished with me, I turned to the old man and

  gave him a mushroom to chew. He said he enjoyed the feeling, the illusions—the paintings that came alive on my body. When he looked at the art, I said to him: ‘old man, you have a choice in life. Like the Virgin, you can choose to be good, or like Lucifer, you can choose to be bad. You are a good artist. I, though, am a bad person. I’ll make you a great artist by ending your life before your talent fades. It ensures your place in art immortality. And it confirms my place in hell.’”

  O’Brien shook his head. Must be a dream—a nightmare. He heard a muffled sound. Then there were the collective sounds. The drone of whispers. People shuffling. Just beyond the curtain of light—shoes, pants, the soft dark roundness of people sitting. A crowd watching—watching him in the ring with Salazar.

  “Know what I did Mr. Detective O’Brien? I cut the old man’s throat.” He took his index finger, moving it swiftly from ear to ear, smiled and continued. “The old man, he looked down at the blood turning his shirt red, touched it with the tip of his finger and placed a drop on my chest—the Virgin’s mouth, he gave red color to the Virgin’s lips. Then he smiled and whispered ‘masterpiece’ and he went to sleep…forever.”

  “What do you want?” O’Brien asked, his voice sounded like he crawled in a drainage pipe to speak.

  “What do I want? Isn’t it what you want? You want me, no? Isn’t that what you told Russo, and you come in here and tell that to Michael, yes? You want me. Now, ex-cop you got me. Or maybe I got you…because these are the once-a-month fights that we do here. We conduct them for invited guests only. It is not a fight for a few rounds. It is a fight for life.” He laughed and said, “But, since you asked, I’ll tell you what I want. I want to make you my masterpiece. Maybe the canvas below your feet will be my work