Blood of Cain (Sean O'Brien (Mystery/Thrillers))

by Lowe, Tom

  “Old enough to know better.” The dwarf held his hands like he was looking into an invisible window. “I can see back to your birth. You were born thirty-seven years ago.”

  The man’s mouth dropped, eyebrows arching. “That’s damn good.”

  “Tell the crowd your age?”

  “I’m thirty-seven, turning thirty-eight next week.”

  “But that doesn’t count right now. Thank you, sir. Next person for the Guesser, step right up here.”

  The man grinned and pulled a baseball cap back on his head and walked away with his girlfriend, both laughing. The teenagers drifted off, chasing toward the Toboggan Run ride. The dwarf turned to Nick and me. “Aren’t you a tall one? Bet I can guess your weight, height and age.”

  “I bet I can guess your name … Isaac Solminski.”

  He looked at me, eyes widening, smile growing. He tilted his head. “That’s impressive.” His falsetto voice rose slightly. “However, I recognize your voice, too, Mr. O’Brien. And your friend is …”

  “I’m Nick. You’ll never guess my age ‘cause Greeks age differently than most of the world. I’m a two-thousand-year old optical illusion.”

  “I like your friend, Mr. O’Brien. He doesn’t look a day over forty-four.”

  Nick grinned. “Something’s wrong here. Nobody ever gets my age on the nose. Either I’ve aged a hellava lot in the last two days, or you’re really good.”

  “It’s the latter.”

  I watched Solminski click off the switch on the microphone. I said, “Courtney trusted you enough to tell you about my birthmark. Did she tell you how she knew, who told her? Your answer is very important.”

  “She told me exactly what I relayed to you on the phone.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I couldn’t say for sure.”

  “You’re a good guesser but a bad liar. I’m the only one looking for her who actually believes she’s not a killer. I need to find her first.”

  “I wish I could help you, but to help you would only hurt Courtney. But I can say …” He paused and looked beyond my left shoulder, his eyes cautious, locking on to something behind me. He set the microphone on a corner of his stool. “If I were to venture another guess about you both, I’d say you’re being watched, no you’re being followed.”

  I looked up at a slight reflection off the round glass face on the scale. I could see two men standing in the midway, their body language in surveillance mode, standing out in a crowd of moving people. “Is it Carlos Bandini?”

  “No. It’s some guys who work for him. Why are they tailing you two?”

  “You know a guy named Randal Barnes and one called Smitty?”

  “Smitty is Tyler Smith. Barnes works directly for Bandini.”

  “Barnes and Smitty were drinking in a bar, someone overheard them saying Lonnie was a drug mule for the Bandini family. I wanted to give Barnes the opportunity to tell me how Courtney wasn’t involved.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because if he wasn’t involved in the Bandini drug enterprise, he might be willing to tell me just enough to take any potential heat off him. But now I know his job description is beyond only working as a ride operator. Smitty was Lonnie’s friend. I strongly encouraged him to call the same detective who spoke with you the day you called me, Detective Grant. Smitty can vouch that Courtney Burke had nothing to do with Lonnie’s murder.”

  “But will he? I’ve worked carnivals, circuses, and sideshows when it was politically correct to pay money to point, stare, and laugh at what were called freaks of nature. The real freaks aren’t created by nature. Greed is the mother of most spiritual mutants. Evil is their father. Mr. O’Brien, the Bandinis aren’t freaks of nature, they’re products of gluttony. After you and Nick leave, I will be questioned by them. When this season ends, I’m hanging it up. You’d best be going now.”

  “Before I leave, tell me, do you know where I can find Courtney?”

  “No.”

  I watched him for a moment. “I think you know. And you believe that by not telling me, she will be better for it. She won’t. That’s no guess. It’s a fact. You have my number. If you change your mind, call me. If you hear from Courtney, have her call me.”

  Nick and I left and walked toward the midway, the two men following us trying to blend into the crowd. I glanced at the House of Mirrors and caught a quick reflection of the Guesser still sitting on his stool, watching us leave. For an instant, he resembled a character from a Lewis Carroll book, Tweedledee or was it Tweedledum? All I could remember from Through the Looking Glass was something about how a large black crow swooped down on the little men.

  Even through the noise from the midway, somewhere near the vanishing point of my perception, I thought I heard the mocking cries of a crow.

  30

  From the west side of the midway to the lot where I’d parked my Jeep, it happened. The two guys tailing us disappeared. Maybe they thought we’d spotted them. Maybe they’d decided to ask Isaac Solminski what we’d chatted about. He was a savvy carny. A survivor. Smart. He’d tell them what he wanted Bandini to know.

  The parking lot was nearly filled. My Jeep was parked between two yellow school buses, almost invisible from any passersby. Nick glanced over his shoulder and said, “Looks like the dudes are gone. You think that guesser guy really doesn’t know where to find Courtney?”

  “I believe he knows, but until he trusts us, he’s keeping his cards close to his red vest. In the meantime, the feds and police will tighten the dragnet for her.”

  Walking across the lot, my phone rang in my jeans pocket. Dave Collins said, “Sean, you and Nick had better get back here. This thing with Senator Logan’s wife is gaining traction. The video with you and her in the coffee shop has more than two million views on YouTube. Kim Davis told me that a TV news satellite truck drove up a little while ago and parked in front of the Tiki Bar. Looks like something’s going down. The final Republican primary debate is tomorrow night. I have a feeling your former relationship with the senator’s wife might be part of the agenda.”

  I listened to Dave as I unlocked the Jeep, Nick walking around to the passenger side. From the reflection on the Jeep’s side window, I noticed a slight movement inside the school bus behind me. Maybe a student. Maybe the driver. Maybe not.

  The bus door flew open and Randal Barnes stood on the step with a .357 pointed at me. “Hands up asshole!”

  I dropped my phone and lifted my arms as a second man came from behind Barnes. “You too!” he yelled at Nick. Nick’s hands shot straight up. Both men stepped out of the school bus, Barnes first, followed by the guy who wasn’t showing a pistol. He seemed to be the leader. He was tall, hawk faced with dirty blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. He wore a tank top, steroid biceps, Australian bush hat, and an alligator-tooth necklace. A knife protruded from a sheath on his hip. Gatorman looked at Nick, “Move! Stand beside your pal.”

  Nick’s jawline popped. His dark eyes narrowed. He rolled his shoulders and walked around the Jeep and stood to my left, closest to the Jeep.

  Gatorman said, “We really don’t need the silencer. So much noise at the carnival, nobody would ever hear us pop you dudes. You with the Hawaiian shirt on, turn around and put your hands on the top of the Jeep.”

  I complied and he lifted my shirttail, pulling the Glock out of my belt.

  He held my Glock and said, “Turn around and stand next to your pal.”

  Nick and I stood beside each other. Gatorman slipped my Glock beneath his belt next to his right pants pocket.

  Barnes moved to my right, gun pointed at my chest. He said, “You fucked up when you pulled a gun on Smitty.”

  I smiled. “Thought you didn’t know anybody called Smitty.”

  “Shut up!”

  Gatorman stepped next to Barnes and sneered, his predator teeth small, lips thin. “Nobody walks into Mr. Bandini’s sandbox and pulls a pistol on one of his employees. Sends the wrong message.”

&n
bsp; “Why doesn’t Carlos tell me that?”

  “That’s what he’s doin.’ We’re just delivering the message.”

  I watched Gatorman. His first mistake was sliding the Glock under his belt. So the immediate plan was to remove the cocked gun from Barnes’ right hand, the same hand where the tattoo on top of his fingers spelled E-V- I- L.

  Gatorman pursed his thin lips, looked away for a second, and then cut his red-rimmed eyes to me. He shook his head like a disapproving parent. I knew he’d say something mild, non-threatening, before he made his move. Keep the prey off-guard. In that moment, I wished I could warn Nick. Gatorman said, “Maybe you boys can promise to never come back to our sandbox and we can all do what we do without gettin’ in each other’s ways. Follow what I’m sayin’?

  Nick nodded and glanced at me. That one second was the green light. Gatorman slammed his fist into Nick’s mouth. Barnes aimed the pistol at my head. The tattooed E on his trigger finger less than three feet from my face. Come a little closer, I hoped. As Nick wobbled, holding onto the Jeep’s hood, blood spurting from his mouth, I pressed the emergency button on the key remote in my left hand. Barnes whirled around toward the Jeep. Green light in my lane. I hit him hard as I could on the left jaw. He fell to his knees like he was hit with a Taser. He dropped the pistol on his way to the sawdust. I scooped it up and had the barrel pointed at Gatorman before he could pull the Glock out of his belt.

  I nodded. “Nick, get my gun.”

  Nick held his left hand to his bleeding mouth and pulled the Glock from Gatorman’s belt. As soon as Nick stepped back, Gatorman said, “You have no fuckin’ idea what you’re doing.”

  “You’re wrong. I have more than an idea, I have a plan. Let’s call it a business plan. Here’s bullet point number one.” I fired a shot, the bullet making a thump in the sawdust next to his left foot.

  “You’re fuckin’ crazy!” His eyes jutted, a string of saliva hanging from his lower lip.

  “You’re probably right about that. Bullet point number two will be through the top of your foot if you think of lying to me. What and how much is Bandini running?”

  He glared at me, a vein moving like an earthworm under his right eye. I pointed the pistol at his shoe.

  “Okay! Fuck! He’s runnin’ coke, crystal meth, and heroin. Used to sell a lotta weed ‘til they started making the shit legal in some states. And then the medical marijuana crap hurt business real bad.”

  “How much is the family running?”

  “What?”

  “Quantities? How much do the Bandinis move?”

  “I don’t know that. A shitload. They got six carnivals. They’re all over the country, which means their drug operation is all over the nation. Movin’ from one city to the next.”

  I kept the gun leveled at him as I bent down and picked up my phone. I hit the speakerphone button and said, “Jimmy, did you hear all of that?”

  Dave cleared his throat. “Yes. Loud and clear.”

  Gatorman looked like he’d pulled a herniated disc. I said, “The other bullet points will hurt more than a bullet through your foot because they’ll send you to prison. These points include three witnesses who will swear in a court of law what we heard you say. Could be painful for you to testify against the family. Here’s the last bullet point.” I raised the gun.

  “No dude!” he yelped.

  “The last point is the most important. I’d share it with Bandini if he had the balls to stand here. But since he doesn’t, I have to rely on you and sleeping beauty to deliver it. Listen closely, Crocodile Dundee. You tell Carlos Bandini I’m here for one reason, and that’s Courtney Burke, the girl who Bandini’s brother, Tony, tried to rape. She shot him in self-defense. So tell Carlos to back off; leave her alone. If he doesn’t, if he tries to harm her, the DEA, FBI, and local cops will be at each of Bandini’s carnivals with search and arrest warrants. Now, do you get that point?”

  He shook his head. “Yeah.”

  Nick spit blood and stared. I said, “Come on, Nick.” I used the tip of the barrel to motion for Gatorman to step out of the way. He stood a moment too long. Nick backhanded him with his wide right hand. The blow spun Gatorman around.

  We got in the Jeep, and as I started to pull away, I held the pistol through the open driver’s side window. Gatorman watched me, his eyes burning. I said, “I’ll keep this souvenir from the county fair. A Beretta sure beats a Teddy bear.”

  I drove off, glancing up in the rearview mirror just as Barnes was coming to, standing on wobbly legs. They watched us drive away, Gatorman sticking his middle finger high in the air, then punching the buttons on his phone. I wondered what he was going to tell Carlos Bandini.

  31

  On the way back to Ponce Marina, I dialed Detective Dan Grant. “Dan, the second guy in the Tiki Bar that night Nick overheard their conversation, his name is Tyler Smith. Goes by Smitty. I ran into him at the fair and gave him your card. He was talkative, admitted that the Bandini’s are big players in the distribution of stolen meds, crystal meth, coke, and heroin. He said Lonnie Ebert was a friend of his and Lonnie told him Tony Bandini had threatened him. This is the motive, something Courtney Burke didn’t have.”

  “Psychopaths don’t need a motive. Desire works for them.”

  “I doubt Smitty will pick up the phone and call you. But you can find him working as a ride op on the Tilt-A-Whirl.”

  “You said you ran into him.” Dan sighed. “Leave it alone, Sean. What’d you do, use a water-board to torture the guy before he’d admit that stuff?”

  “No, actually I opened the door to a toilet he and his best friend were using. In all the confusion and embarrassment, he starting talking. Couldn’t shut him up, really. Smitty’s pal at the bar, Randy Barnes, also admitted the Bandini family is using the carnival circuit as a drug route.”

  “I’ll pay another visit to the carnival before they pull out. The fact is, though, this guy Smitty and his friend Barnes can say whatever they want. The physical evidence established Courtney Burke was there—her prints on the ice pick in the vic’s heart. She’s a scorned lover. And she fled from a murder scene. One other thing, the deaths of the two other carnies earlier this year, the murders were two months apart. Both happened near a carnival owned by Bandini Amusements. At the time of each murder, Courtney Burke was working at that specific carnival. Even you, Sean, can’t believe that was a coincidence. Are you chasing this thing because she mentioned the birthmark and you still think she might be related to you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Does this have anything to do with all this stuff about you and Senator Logan’s wife? It’s all over the news.”

  “I don’t know.”

  He was silent a moment. “Sean, don’t fucking tell me the kid that the media are talking about, the one that you and the senator’s wife supposedly had, is this girl … Courtney Burke?”

  “Let me know if you find Smitty. Got to go, Dan.”

  ***

  When Nick and I drove onto the Ponce Marina parking lot, trouble had beat us there. Two television news satellite trucks, a few SUVs painted in TV station logos and displaying slogans such as: Your 24-Hour News Source, and Eyewitness News First.

  “Wonder what’s going on?” Nick mumbled. “You think this is because of what happened at the fair?”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What is it then? Oh shit. I recognize that dude from CNN. Sean, they’re walking toward us.”

  I slid the two pistols under the seat. Within half a minute, a squad of reporters was encircling the Jeep. “Nick, don’t say anything to them.”

  “I got nothin’ to say. Plus my lip’s busted.”

  “We have to get you some ice.”

  “Let’s walk through the Tiki Bar and then onto the docks. It’s private property and gated. That’ll slow them down.”

  We stepped out and were surrounded by reporters, cameras, microphones, iPads, lights, and then the shot-gunning of questions started. “Is it tr
ue that you conceived a child with Andrea Logan?”

  I said nothing.

  A second reporter said, “How long had you two dated?”

  A third barked, “Were you ever given the chance to see the baby?”

  A fourth asked, “Why didn’t you seek custody?”

  The FOX News correspondent said, “Mr. O’Brien, can we sit down for an interview?”

  “Not right now,” I said, working my way through the pack.

  “Okay. Let me ask you this then, do you think your involvement in the take-down of the terrorist group last year in Jacksonville will come into play during this presidential election?”

  I stared hard at the guy, so hard, he looked away, fumbling with his notes. Another reporter asked, “Any comments before tomorrow night’s final Republican presidential primary debates? Polls indicate Senator Logan, the front-runner, is less than five percentage points ahead of Governor Les Connors. The fact that you and Mrs. Logan had a child together is of a lot of interest to many Americans. Your thoughts on the circumstances in view of the upcoming presidential election?”

  “My thoughts have to do with walking my dog. Now, excuse me.” I stepped through the mob. Ignoring more questions, Nick making a bee-line for the Tiki Bar entrance. I followed right behind him, the horde after us.

  As we waked across the restaurant, Kim looked up from behind the bar, her full mouth forming an O. Two charter boat deckhands almost spilled their mugs of beer, turning on their barstools, watching the entourage. I smiled at Kim, her face still locked in disbelief.

  Nick and I stepped out on the public dock and then quickly dialed the combination lock and entered L Dock, slamming the gate behind us with loud bang. The sign on the gate read:

  PRIVATE DOCK - BOAT OWNERS ONLY

  See Dock-Master in Office

  We walked toward our boats. I could see Dave standing in Gibraltar’s cockpit, Max standing in one of the deck chairs, her nose pointed in our direction. I whispered to Nick, “Don’t look back. No need sending distress signals to the media.”