“Yes.” Joe stepped into the cockpit and petted Max.
O’Brien poured a second cup, this one in a stainless steel thermos. He handed it to Joe. “We can leave your truck in the lot. Might as well put the mileage on the Jeep.” O’Brien filled another thermos, locked the salon doors and scooped Max up with one hand. “Let’s hit the road.”
They walked over to Gibraltar, Dave standing on the ancillary dock near the cockpit. He sipped from a large ceramic mug with the words Barney’s Coffee on one side. “Hey, Joe. It’s good to see you again.”
“You’re looking rested, Dave.”
He smiled. “I haven’t had the kind of stress you’re facing. I hope you and Sean can clear this thing up quickly. If there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate to let me know.”
Joe nodded. “Thank you.”
O’Brien handed Max to Dave. “She’s all yours. We could be down there most of the day or overnight. I’ll let you know. You might want to let Nick sleep in before visiting with Max.”
Dave grinned. “Nick will live to be over a hundred. It’s the Mediterranean diet and the exercise. By the way …” Dave handed O’Brien a small box.
“What’s in here?”
“The latest GPS tracker. Should you find a vehicle you’d like to keep tabs on, slap this puppy on the undercarriage. It’s got some very strong magnets. Won’t vibrate loose. I can monitor it for you.”
* * *
O’Brien drove south from Ponce Inlet on I-4 connecting with 441 and heading around Lake Okeechobee through Clewiston and going south on Highway 846 toward the Big Cypress Reservation. They passed through thousands of acres of sugar cane fields flooded with pesticides and fertilizers, the murky runoff leeching into the waters feeding the Everglades.
Billie stared out the window, looking at the near infinite expanse of sugar cane. He turned to O’Brien. “My grandfather used to hunt and fish this land. Back then the waters ran clear. You could drink from the groundwater. He once told me there was a time when the great wading birds would take flight on a sunny day and the sky would grow dark, hundreds of thousands of white pelicans and other birds blocking the sun like a great cloud as they moved over the glades.”
“And then Big Sugar put down roots, hired lobbyists, bought politicians and basically rewrote the laws giving them environmental controls when it came to water management.”
“I saw some aerial pictures recently that showed the result of what happens when the water management people decide to release runoff into the Indian River Lagoon because of high water in Lake Okeechobee. The putrid water released into the lagoon looked apocalyptic, like a black cloud of death moving through otherwise pristine water, the toxic sludge killing everything from dolphins to crabs. Mother Nature has a hard time shaking that off.”
O’Brien followed Josie Billie Road into the Big Cypress Reservation. He asked, “Who is or was Josie Billie, and are you related to him? “
“He was one of the greatest medicine men who ever lived. He was kind, compassionate, very spiritual, and he knew the breath of nature like no one before or since. I’m not directly related. The last name, Billie, is sort of like Smith among the Seminoles. Lots of us have the surname.”
The reservation, at least the areas that could be seen from the main road, drew in tourists. The land was dotted with cabbage palms and scrub oaks. O’Brien drove past the Big Cypress RV and Campground just as a family from New Jersey, a portly father behind the wheel, came through the main entrance. O’Brien passed the Swamp Safari, speaking louder over the sound of an airboat revving its engine, giving a quick glance to the tourists lined up for a ride through the wetlands and swamps, the hot sun already causing sunburns.
O’Brien glanced over to Billie. “It’s good to see the spirit of free enterprise doing so well. Where do we find the police department and Jimmie Stillwater?”
“It’s about a half a mile on the right. You think we should call him, maybe make an appointment?”
“Why give him a possible excuse not to meet? Sometimes a surprise appearance yields greater results.”
TWENTY-THREE
The Seminole Police Department was a series of modern two-story buildings surrounded by professionally landscaped grounds. Green border grass and rose bushes were planted in small islands of red mulch, the color matching the red exteriors of some buildings. O’Brien parked under the shade of canary palms next to the visitor’s lot. The air carried the scent of freshly cut grass. He got out of the Jeep. Joe Billie followed.
Billie stopped, looking across the lot toward the employee parking. “Maybe we won’t have to go inside to ask for him. That’s Jimmy Stillwater getting out of the Chevy Malibu.”
O’Brien watched the man lock the car. He was medium build. Early forties, wearing jeans, pale blue dress shirt, and a dark sports coat. “Let’s make his acquaintance before he goes into the employee entrance.”
Billie walked toward the man, O’Brien following. Billie raised his hand and shouted. “Hey, Jimmy. How you doing?”
Jimmy Stillwater turned, looked at Billie and then at O’Brien, not sure how to respond. He nodded and grinned. “Joe … long time no see. As a matter of fact, I don’t see you on the rez anymore. See your sister and her husband from time to time, but not you, my brother. How you been?”
“Fine. Working steady.”
“Good, man. You work too hard, Joe.” Stillwater looked over at O’Brien. Billie said, “Jimmy, this is my friend, Sean O’Brien. Sean, meet Jimmy Stillwater.”
Stillwater extended his hand. “Any friend of Joe’s is a new friend of mine.”
O’Brien shook his hand. “Good to meet you.” Stillwater’s eyes were black as coal. O’Brien could make out a faded scar on his forehead near the hairline. His dark hair was neatly cut, parted on the left. A slight pit in his left earlobe, indicating he may wear an earring off duty or while working undercover.
Stillwater nodded, turning to Billie. “What brings you gentlemen to our humble reservation?”
Billie smiled. “You do, Jimmy.”
“Me.” His eyebrows rose. “How’s that?”
“Remember the time, about five years ago, I found that guy digging in one of the burial sites?”
“Yeah, I remember. What about him?”
O’Brien said, “He’s dead.” He studied Stillwater’s reaction, looking for the slightest indication that he knew about the murder. “I’m surprised the detectives in Citrus County haven’t spoken to you already.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because they think Joe killed the man.”
“What? What the hell’s going on? I just came back from a crime conference in San Diego, so I’ve been out of the loop.”
O’Brien nodded. “Maybe we can sit down to talk. Joe and I will bring you into the loop.”
Billie said, “Remember a few weeks ago … I’d called you. I wanted to talk. You were going on vacation and told me to speak with another detective.”
Stillwater’s face was blank for a moment. He grinned. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that, Joe. I was heading for a vacation with the wife and kids. Last minute crap, and we were about to miss our plane. Did you want to see me about the guy who’d dug in the graves?”
“No, something else.”
“Did Detective James help you?”
“Not much.”
Jimmy Stillwater rocked on the soles of his shoes for a second, his eyes cutting from Billie to O’Brien. “C’mon, let’s go to my office. We can talk there.”
They followed Stillwater through the employee entrance, down a series of halls and into the CID suite of open offices. Two male detectives were on the phones, another detective, Wynona Osceola, was typing a report, light from her computer filling her face. Clerical staff dropped paperwork into in-boxes. A secretary handed Stillwater a stack of return-call notices and said, “Welcome back, Jimmy.”
“Thanks, Betty.” He looked over to Billie, motioning toward a desk in one corner. He sat beh
ind the desk. Billie and O’Brien took the two chairs in front.
Stillwater leaned forward. “All right, Joe. What’s going on?” He glanced at his messages as Billie began.
“The guy I found digging in the sacred grounds ... name’s Lawrence Barton. His body was discovered in a remote part of Florida in Citrus County. A rancher friend of mine owns the land. He discovered the body near an old mound, not far from where Osceola had his last camp. Barton’s throat had been slit, and he’d been scalped.”
“Scalped?”
“Yes, and the only reason the police have questioned me is because I was on that property the day the guy was killed. But I wasn’t near the crime scene. It’s almost eleven thousand acres.”
Stillwater nodded. “So they have no physical evidence to tie you to the murder. No witnesses?”
“None.”
Stillwater held a pencil tightly in his right hand. O’Brien watched him use his thumbnail to scrape off a flake of yellow paint. “I remember that night you found the guy with a shovel in his hand, digging. He was charged with the vandalism of a cemetery. I think he wound up paying a fine with a promise never do to it again. You say his body was found near a temple mound? Had he been digging there, too?”
O’Brien said, “Someone had. There are fresh excavation areas. Most of the dirt had been tossed back in the holes.”
“That’s odd. Grave robbers usually aren’t that considerate. It’s all about the bones and their pursuit of a fantasy treasure.”
O’Brien leaned forward. “In this case, it may have been about the illusion.”
Stillwater pushed back in his chair. He tilted his head as if to better process what O’Brien just said. The detective glanced at one of the phone messages, slightly raising his voice. “I do have a message from a Detective Robert Edwards in Citrus County. After ya’ll are gone I’ll return his call. But we don’t deal in illusions, Mr. O’Brien. So why don’t you tell me what you’re getting at, all right?”
Detective Wynona Osceola looked up from her desk. She stood and walked over, staring at Joe. “Excuse me. It thought it was you, Joe.”
Billie smiled. “Hello, Wynona. It’s been awhile.”
“Too long, Joe. When you get a minute, I need to speak with you. It’s about your niece, Kimi.”
O’Brien looked at Joe’s eyes, the subtle trace of sorrow buried in his thoughts.
TWENTY-FOUR
Detective Wynona Osceola returned to her desk, making a phone call. Stillwater watched her for a moment, shifting his view back to O’Brien. “What do you mean, illusion?”
“The only common thread between the incident in a Seminole burial ground five years ago and what happened near the mound in Citrus County is Joe. Everything else could be chalked up as a fluke. Maybe it was a twist of fate that the dead guy, Barton, was here on the rez property and found years later at another burial site a couple hundred miles away. Maybe not. Joe has a history of harvesting palmetto fronds on that land. Joe had a history with the dead guy. Somebody knew it. And somebody went to great lengths to set Joe up. I want to know why?”
Stillwater blew out a breath, his cheeks puffing. “That sounds like a heck of a leap to me. It’s probably nothing but coincidental. You said the Citrus County guys have no physical evidence. I wouldn’t sweat it. Stuff happens. You, Joe, were just a little too close to the wrong place at the wrong time. Doesn’t mean they can charge you with anything.”
O’Brien said, “This kind of stuff doesn’t happen unless someone planned it. Besides you, who knew about that night five years ago?”
Stillwater set the pencil down in the center of his desk. He stared at it a moment and then raised his dark eyes up to O’Brien. “What’s your association with Joe?”
“I’m his friend.”
“I don’t particularly like the thrust of your question. That sort of implies I’d do something to implicate Joe in a crime I knew nothing about until you two told me what happened. What’s your background?”
“I worked not too far from your Hollywood, Florida, reservation a few years ago.”
“Doing what?”
“Investigating killers. I worked homicide with Miami-Dade PD.”
Stillwater smiled. “Gotcha. Now I understand your sniffing around. It’s hard to get police work out of your blood.”
“It’s more difficult to witness a failure of justice. And that’s what I’m trying to prevent with Joe. Who else knew about Joe finding Barton in the burial grounds?”
“Anyone in the department, really. The reports are all part of public record. Anyone from a clerk to a secretary to the judge that fined Barton after he pled no contest to the charges.”
“How about someone on the tribal council?”
Stillwater picked up the pencil again. “I doubt that. They have a lot on their plates, and keeping up with police reports isn’t one of them.”
“Each of your reservations has a police department, correct?”
“We have branch offices, yes.”
“Maybe you could do Joe and me a favor. Maybe you could do a background check on one of the employees working security at the Seminole casino near Tampa.”
“Who would that be?”
“Name’s Bobby Hawkins.”
Out of the corner of his eye, O’Brien saw a detective at his desk tapping on a computer keyboard, stopping to listen. O’Brien turned. The nameplate on the man’s desk read: Det. Henry James. He continued tapping the keyboard
Detective Stillwater cleared his throat, using his pencil to jot down the name. “I can check him out … Bobby Hawkins. Why this guy?”
“He and his father own the land where Lawrence Barton was found slaughtered.”
“Gotcha. Sure, I can make a few calls. How do I find you?”
O’Brien reached in his shirt pocket and removed a business card, laying it near the pencil on the desk. Stillwater read the card. “So you’re a PI now.” He handed O’Brien his card and said, “I’ll do whatever I can to help Joe. Although Joe doesn’t have a lot to do with the tribe much anymore, he’s still full-blooded Seminole. That’s good enough.” He stood behind his desk.
O’Brien stood. “If it’s all right with you, Detective, I’d like to look around the reservation some.”
“That’s okay. You’ll find most of the residents are pretty reserved. No offense. That’s just the way it is. Also, remember that even if you were still a badge-carrying cop, you have no jurisdiction on the rez. As a PI, you’re our guest, just like the tourists. Please keep that in mind, and don’t violate private property rights. Stay in public areas. If there’s anything you need, or someone you want to talk with, call me. I’m here to help. I’ll do whatever I can to clear Joe.” He smiled. “Good seeing you, Joe.”
“You too, Jimmy.”
Billie started to walk across the offices towards Detective Osceola’s desk, O’Brien following.
Detective Henry James, glanced up. “How’s it going, Joe?” Henry James smiled and leaned forward in his chair. His dark eyes had a sense of energy in a jowly face. His black hair was gelled and combed back. He wore a neatly pressed Polo shirt and khaki slacks.
Billie paused, looked toward Detective Wynona near the opposite side of the office, before turning to Detective James. “It’s going okay, Henry.”
James folded his arms. “Well, we’re family, and you have a team here ready to help.”
Billie nodded and walked across the room. Wynona Osceola looked up, smiled and said, “Joe, there’s an empty conference room. Let’s talk in there.” She glanced at O’Brien.
Billie said, “Whatever it is Wynona, Sean can hear it. He’s my friend and, like you, he was a detective.”
“Where?”
O’Brien said, “Miami-Dade PD.”
She nodded, her eyes sweeping across the room. “Okay, follow me.” She led them down a long hall, framed photos of the police department heads and members of the tribal council hanging from the wall. Inside the small conference room was
a table and eight leather-cushioned chairs. She quietly closed the door, locked it, turning toward Billie and O’Brien. She looked at Billie and said, “You have to tell me what’s going on. I’m afraid for your niece, Kimi’s, life.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Something caught her eye. Detective Wynona Osceola looked at the window on the far side of the conference room, beyond the visitor parking lot to Josie Billie Boulevard.
O’Brien glanced out the window. He could see a black Mercedes S-Class sedan moving slowly down the road, the driver hidden behind dark glass.
She extended her hand to O’Brien and smiled. “I’m Wynona Osceola.” She handed him a card.
“Sean O’Brien. Since we’re exchanging cards, here’s mine.” He handed her a card, she read it and looked up at him. Her eyes had a depth and strength that O’Brien rarely saw. She had a striking face—a concerned face. “Are you related to Osceola of the Seminole Wars fame?”
“Distant blood, yes. Your card tells me you’re a PI. So you worked with Miami-Dade PD … what division?”
“Homicide.”
“Must be quite a transition into the PI world.”
“I’ve adjusted.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“It was time to go. I moved to Central Florida a few years ago. Joe and I’ve become friends. I’m trying to help him get through a murder investigation that, I believe, has roots here on the reservation. And it began five years ago.”
“Murder? Is that why you’re here, speaking with Jimmy Stillwater?”
“Yes.”
She looked at Billie. “Joe, you need to tell me what’s going on.”
Billie told her what had occurred. She listened without interruption, nodding, her eyes filled with compassion. “And so my friend, Sean, thinks there may be a connection between that time I found Barton digging in our sacred burial grounds and his death at the temple mound in Citrus County. Sean wanted to look around, maybe ask questions. The prime reason we were speaking with Jimmy is because he was an officer on duty that night I called in the digging case.”
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