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

by Lowe, Tom

  Courtney watched as the cat approached, a live lizard clutched in its mouth, the blue tail slapping the cat’s whiskers. The cat dropped the lizard near the table and observed with a detached stare as its prey attempted to crawl away. Courtney turned her head from the dying animal. “The poor lizard. That cat caught and hurt it just to watch the little thing die. And I thought only humans were capable of that.”

  “She used to bring me baby birds. That really freaked me out. Not that it’s okay to kill lizards. It’s just different, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know.” Courtney pulled the baseball cap out of her bag and slipped the dark glasses on her face. “Thanks for your help. If you can draw that map, I’ll be on my way.”

  Mariah sat straighter in her chair. She studied Courtney’s face for a few seconds. “Oh my God … you’re the girl on the news, the one they say could be the daughter of Senator Logan’s wife.”

  “I’m not her daughter.”

  “I had lunch at Gino’s around the corner. The news was on TV, and they showed a sketch that some street artist did of you at Jackson Square. The whole world’s hunting for you.”

  “Please, draw the map for me. I have to go.”

  “They say you killed two men … one was Tony Bandini.”

  “I was the only witness to the first man killed. And he was a friend of mine. Police didn’t believe me. Then Tony Bandini slapped me and tried to stick his dick in … he tried to force me to have oral sex with him. His gun was on the table. I grabbed it and warned him, but he laughed and came for me again. I didn’t have a choice.”

  Mariah reached across the table and touched the top of Courtney’s hand. “I understand, and I believe you. I’m sure Boots did, too, and he was no fool. You just got to get all this straightened out. You can’t keep running, looking over your shoulder.”

  Courtney heard a siren in the distance and wondered if it was safe to return to the Toyota truck.

  58

  I didn’t think that I wasn’t being followed as I drove from Ponce Inlet to DeLand, at least I didn’t see any signs of being tailed by a car. If I was being followed by a satellite, then someone must have hidden a GPS tracker somewhere on my Jeep. I’d done a thorough search in the parking lot at the marina before I left, found nothing but road grit and mud in the undercarriage and wheel wells. Earlier, I’d left a broken piece of a toothpick wedged out of sight between the hood and the body of the Jeep. It fell to the lot after I opened the hood.

  A good sign.

  On my drive to Deland, I took detours, sped up and slowed down, constantly watching the rearview mirror and taking a back road into the town. DeLand is Mayberry RFD on growth steroids. The quaint town, forty miles west of Daytona Beach, oozes southern charm, a lineage of yesteryear still in its brick streets. The entire stretch of Main Street, with a slow tempo composed by birdsong from shady trees, might as well be a picture postcard of a National Historic District. The Boston Coffeehouse mixed well with the antique shops, bookstores and upscale bars.

  I entered the coffee shop looking for a woman wearing a yellow T-shirt and the words: World’s Greatest Grandmother. She wasn’t there, and she didn’t sound like the type of person who’d be late. I walked through the shop with its dark-wood tavern feel, the smell of ground coffee, chocolate, and fresh-squeezed orange juice followed me to a table in the far corner. I sat and waited. Three other customers, college kids with open laptops and ears closed by ear-buds, occupied tables. I approached one student, twenty-something, jock build, Stetson University T-shirt, baseball cap on backwards. He looked up and took the buds out of his ears.

  I said, “How’s school?”

  “It’s all right.”

  “A grandmother needs a favor.”

  “Whadda you mean?”

  “She’s coming in for coffee. She just needs a strong guy like you to escort her back to her car. Here’s twenty bucks if you can walk her to her car.” I dropped a twenty dollar bill on the table.

  “Sure, dude. I don’t mind helping little old ladies.” He smiled.

  “Good. I’ll give you the high sign when she’s ready to leave.”

  “Cool. Where is she?”

  “She isn’t here yet, but she will be.”

  “No problem.”

  “Thanks.”

  I turned and walked back to my table. I was on my second cup of coffee and no sign of Lois Timbers. I hoped the college kid had a lot of homework. As I waited for her, I replayed the conversation I had with Kim on my boat. I’d mentioned where I was meeting Lois, but I didn’t speak her phone number aloud. If my boat, buy some remote chance was bugged, they’d know where I was meeting Lois, but they’d have no idea how to contact her. And I’d left not long after I’d spoken with her. No one, unless they lived in DeLand, could have arrived here quicker than I did.

  Then where was Lois Timbers?

  I thought about dialing her number on my disposable phone, and then a woman wearing a banana-yellow T-shirt strolled into the coffee shop. She paused near the front counter, her eyes adjusting from the sunlight outside to the dark interior. I stood and smiled. She nodded and walked to my table. “Mr. O’Brien. I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  “Please, call me Sean.”

  “It’s good to meet you. You’re bigger and even more handsome than you appeared on TV.” Her voice rolled off her tongue in a southern drawl that was charming and sincere. She was barely five feet tall, skin the color of the coffee I sipped, wide smile. She sat down and said, “My daughter and her youngest, little Timmy, were at my house. He fell riding his bicycle, poor thing, and he had a few well-earned scratches on his knees.”

  “How old is Timmy?”

  “He’ll be five next month.”

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Oh, yes, please. They know how to make it here.”

  I signaled for the waitress, and Lois ordered a cappuccino. I said, “Thank you for seeing me today. The number on your phone that Courtney dialed, did you call it?”

  “I thought about it, just to let whomever answered know that I’d seen Courtney. Figured someone was worried. Then all that stuff on the news seemed to happen overnight. Those murders, and the connection between you, Andrea Logan, and maybe Courtney. When I saw that video of you on the news, you looked really concerned—not so much about the questions the reporters were asking, but maybe deep concern for the girl. That’s when I called the marina and left a message with the woman who said she knew you.”

  “Kim.”

  “Yes, Kim. She was so sweet.”

  “May I have the number?”

  “Of course. I wrote it down for you.” She reached in her purse and handed me a folded piece of paper. “I did look up the area code.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Looks like she called someplace in South Carolina, but I don’t know where.”

  “Is the number still on your phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Delete it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if the number’s gone, no one will be able to call it.”

  “Well, to call it, they’d have to steal my phone from me, and that means they’d have to steal my purse.” She smiled. “One time a mugger in Detroit tried to do that. I have a scream that would wake the dead.”

  The waitress brought the cappuccino. Lois stirred sugar through the foam and sipped. “That’s delicious.” She held the cup in both hands, her eyes moving from the steam up to my face. “The girl, Courtney, she does favor you some. Do you think she’s your daughter?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I bet you’d make a fine father. An old grandmother like me can tell. Where’s the rest of your family?”

  “They’re all dead. No one’s left.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. Family and close friends is what life is all about, if you get right down to the real meaning of it.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes, yes I do. Maybe Co
urtney is your child, and maybe she’ll be part of your life and you part of hers, too. What if that’s why I saw you on the news and made the call? Something was pulling at my heart, weighing heavy on my mind.”

  “I’m glad you did make the call. Lois, some very bad men are frantically hunting for Courtney. The number on your phone might get them a lot closer to her. Right now only Kim and I know you have a tie to Courtney. No one can check your phone records because they don’t know your name or the connection. We want to keep it that way. I’m going to leave, and I’m going to go out the back door. I’m parked two blocks away. Wait at least ten minutes before you go, okay? The young man at the table next to the bookshelf is a college student. He attends Stetson. He will walk you to your car before you drive away. It’ll be just like you met him for coffee.” I stood and motioned to the college kid. He nodded.

  Lois looked around a second. “Sean, I’m getting a little bit frightened.”

  “Did you memorize the phone number?”

  “No.”

  “It’s deleted from your mind. Now, delete it from your phone. No one can take something that doesn’t exist. Thank you, Lois.”

  She smiled. “You’re a kind person. I hope you find Courtney before they do. And I hope she’s your daughter. I’m a teacher, and the one thing I’ve learned in life is people need to be needed. Courtney needs you. And I believe you need her.”

  59

  When I opened the door to my Jeep, I took the piece of paper from my pocket. I looked at the number Lois had written on it, and I wondered where in South Carolina this number would lead me. Was it to one of Courtney’s relatives? Her parents? A sister, brother, or grandparent? Maybe it was the number to one of Courtney’s friends.

  I sat in the Jeep, closed the door, sealing off most of the outside noise, and I lifted a mobile phone. What would I say to whomever answered? What could I say? It would depend on who answered the phone. I dialed the number.

  “Hello.” It was the voice of a woman. A tired voice. A soft voice that, in one word, spoke volumes.

  “Hi, is Courtney there?”

  Silence.

  “Is Courtney home?”

  “I’m sorry, but you must have a wrong number. There is no Courtney living here.”

  “Do you know Courtney?”

  A two second pause. My heart raced. Would she hang up?

  “There is no one here by that name. Goodbye—”

  “Wait! Please, don’t go. My name’s Sean O’Brien. I’m trying to help Courtney. She’s in a lot of trouble. None of it’s her fault. Do you know where I can—”

  “Please, sir, I have to go … I’m sorry.”

  Her breath was slightly labored. Emphysema, maybe. She disconnected. The sound of silence crushing. I lowered the phone from my ear and looked at the screen. Who was the person? What’s her relationship to Courtney? Was there a relationship—a connection? I believed there was something—a modulation in her voice gave it away. It was when she said, ‘There is no one here by that name …’

  She didn’t answer my question. Didn’t say whether she knew Courtney when I asked her a direct question. Only said there was no one here by that name. I started the Jeep, the voice of the mysterious woman from the phone call echoing in my ears like a troubled whisper imprisoned in my brain and bouncing off the inside of my skull.

  ***

  When I drove into the Ponce Marina parking lot, the cracking of the oyster shells under my tires popped thoughts that had transported me as far away as South Carolina. I’d considered calling the number again. Would the woman pick up the phone? If so, what could I say differently to try to convince her to speak with me?

  Nothing.

  Not a damn thing. If I wanted to talk with her, I’d have to find her—have to find her before Senator Logan’s black ops people found her, or before one of Bandini’s hit men tried to put a .22 caliber bullet between Courtney’s striking eyes.

  A black Mercedes with windows tinted dark pulled into the space next to my Jeep. I instinctively reached for the Glock wedged on the right side of the seat. My hand rested on the butt of the pistol. I waited for someone to get out. I glanced around the lot. Three cars. Two out-of-state license plates. One local. A TV news truck was pulling into the lot from the far side, closer to the Tiki Bar. The last thing I wanted was to be caught on camera in a possible shootout with whoever was sitting inside the Mercedes.

  The car’s driver-side door slowly opened. I saw boat shoes hit the ground. The guy who got out of the car was someone I knew. I felt my pulse slow. I slipped the Glock behind my back, under the shirt, and got out of the Jeep.

  It had been a few weeks since I saw the man who parked the Mercedes, but I knew he owned the sixty-foot Hatteras docked next to Jupiter. He was a chiropractor from Orlando. I said, “Hey, Kevin. How are you?”

  He turned and grinned. Fiftyish. Cotton hair. Deep tan. Very white teeth. “Sean O’Brien. How the hell are you? Man oh man. Nobody can remember all the names of Republicans who were in the horserace for the nomination, but the voters sure know you. Ever think of running for office?”

  I glanced to my far right and could see a TV news crew walking our way. “No, Kevin. Never thought about it. I hear your Hatteras is on the market. I guess you have a serious buyer, right?”

  “What? My boat’s not for sale. I haven’t even had Changes in Latitude a full year. Now, ask me in another year and I might sell her. You ready to step up your game—get a bigger boat?” He grinned.

  “So you had no marine surveyor on your boat?”

  “No, why?”

  “Thanks, Kevin. I need to check something.” I turned and ran past the news crew, heading for Jupiter.

  “Hey! Wait! Mr. O’Brien! Can we talk with you?” shouted a blonde reporter, her camera-man rolling video of me running by them.

  60

  I unlocked the sliding glass door between Jupiter’s cockpit and her salon. In thirty seconds, I had music coming from satellite radio tuned to a blues station, Keb Mo singing through the Bose speakers. Then I started searching. Checked every lamp shade. Checked behind the couch. Under the smoke alarm. Worked my way through the galley, the master berths, and the other sleeping areas. Nothing. If there was a bug somewhere on Jupiter, it couldn’t be buried in the engine room or the bilge to be effective. It had to be hidden in the open area to pick up conversations.

  But where?

  I sat on the couch and looked around at everything I’d touched. And I looked at places I hadn’t inspected. I got down on my knees and stared up at the underside of the bar. And there it was, hanging like a barnacle under a dock. I stood and stepped to the bar, bending down to get a better look. It was no larger than a cap from a bottle of beer, but deadly as a cobra within the striking distance of its listening limit, which was most of Jupiter.

  I assumed the bug was planted by the phony marine surveyor. What had I said, in person or on the phone, since then? I played back the conversations I’d had—conversations with Dave, Nick, and Kim … even chatting to little Max. When Kim and I talked, I made sure she wrote down the number to Lois Timbers, never speaking it.

  And now that might prove to be a horrible mistake. Although they didn’t have Lois Timbers name or number, they had Kim’s name, and they heard her talking with me. I remembered the part of our conversation, what Kim said, that might cause them to hunt for her. ‘She’s a school teacher in DeLand, and called from the school during her break. She said after dropping Courtney off at a clinic, she never saw her again until all of this news coverage began. She told me that Courtney asked to borrow her cell phone, and she made a call to someone.’

  I had one of three choices to make, and I had to make it now. I could either call Dave or Nick to Jupiter, and unknown to them, paint a picture that would tell the eavesdroppers that the call and message Kim delivered to me turned to be a nothing but a hoax. I could say it was probably some political junkie calling to stir things up. Since Nick or Dave had no clue that I would be
lying, the bluff might work.

  The second option would be to speak directly into the bug and give the listeners a warning. If they even considered approaching Kim, I’d hold a news conference—tell reporters what Andrea Logan told me about her husband, show evidence of the bug, and let the voters sort it out at the polls.

  But what if it was too late? What if they were at Kim’s home, or heading there? What could I really say? Maybe nothing. But I could do something, and that was to find Kim immediately.

  I stepped out of Jupiter, locking the door, jumping over the transom to the dock and running to Dave’s boat. He was sitting at a teak table in the salon working a crossword puzzle, windows wide open, white drapes flapping in a breeze blowing across the marina water. Max jumped from the couch to greet me. “Hey, Kiddo,” I said, scratching her head. “Dave, do you have Kim’s number?”

  He looked over the tops of his bifocals. “No. However, if I were twenty years younger, I’d make it a priority to get it. Why?”

  “I think she’s in danger.” I quickly told him what I knew, including my call to the mysterious woman in South Carolina. “Is Nick on his boat?”

  “I think so.”

  “Call him and see if he has her number or knows where she lives.”

  “Good idea.” He made the call and asked the questions. “Thanks, Nick. Yes, he’s standing here. Sure …” Dave handed the phone to me. He said, “Nick doesn’t have Kim’s number, and he says he thinks she rents a small home near the lighthouse.”

  I took the phone and Nick said, “That detective, the black guy who knows you …”

  “What about him?”

  “He was here about an hour ago. Said he tried to call you, but got no answer. He wants you to call him.”

  “Did he say what it was about?”

  “No, man. Told him I’d pass it on if I saw you. Is Kim okay?”

  “I don’t know, Nick. I need to find her.”

  “Big John ought to know how to get hold of her.”