Detective Kevin Stinson peered through the chopper window. “Looks like a circus out there. Must be two-dozen reporters and camera people. I hate those damn lights.” He looked at Billie. “We’ll just walk you through that media mess and into the back entrance to the department.”
Detective Edwards, sitting in the front of the helicopter next to the pilot, turned toward Billie. “No need to answer any of their questions. All they’re looking for is some salacious sound-bite to run over and over until they get the next one.” He turned to the pilot who was shutting down the rotor engines. “Nice flight, Ron.” Edwards got out of the helicopter and opened the door for Billie. “Just walk between me and Detective Stinson. The deputies will clear a path. We’ll get through ‘em.”
Billie, hands cuffed, slid across the seat and stepped from the helicopter. Two uniformed deputies were there. Detective Stinson exited right behind Billie. Edwards and Stinson gripped Billie’s arms, following the two deputies directly toward the pack of news media.
A tall reporter shoved his microphone near Billie’s face. “What happened out there on the Indian mound? Was Lawrence Barton robbing graves?”
Billie and the detectives kept walking. Another reporter shouted, “Joe, do you have anything to say? Did you do it? There is speculation that it was a sacrifice of some kind? Any truth to that?”
The machinegun firing of questions continued, Billie looking straight-ahead, making eye contact with no one. The deputies and detectives held their hands up, keeping the reporters and camera operators at bay. The entourage entered the sheriff’s department with Billie in tow, closing and locking the back door.
They led Billie through a long hallway into an interrogation room. Detective Edwards said, “Have a seat there at the table. This is the same place we started. Now that we have hard evidence against you, I’m hoping you’ll level with us and tell us exactly what happened out there in the forest.”
A lanky deputy walked up to Detective Edwards and said, “Sir, there’s someone who wants to speak with you.”
“If it’s a reporter, I’m busy.”
A woman stepped through the door. “I’m not a reporter. I’m Mr. Billie’s attorney.” Lana Halley looked over Detective Edward’s shoulder and said, “Hello, Joe. It’s good to see you again.”
FORTY-TWO
Wynona Osceola listened to the thunderous grunt of a large alligator. She finished her salad and looked toward the black water beyond the restaurant’s screened dining area. “That sound, the huge rumble, is coming from a bull gator out there in the lagoon. It’s mating season and Ol’ Samson still has what it takes.” She smiled at O’Brien.
“At my cabin on the St. Johns River, mating season sometimes sounds like a pack of lions growling. Nothing like a growling gator to keep Max awake.”
“Who’s Max?”
“She’s my dachshund. Maybe ten pounds soaking wet.”
“It’s hard to picture a big guy like you with such a small dog.”
“But she has a big heart. More of a fearless heart, too. Max, or Maxine as my wife called her, has been my pal since Sherrie died a few years go.”
“I’m sorry.”
O’Brien said nothing, sipping his coffee.
“I’ve been assigned the investigation into the disappearance of Frank Sparrow. Outside of locating his abandoned car at the airport, there’s been little to go on. Not a trace, and no one I’ve talked with has seen anything. Without a body there’s no known murder. He’s a missing person. And he’s lived on the rez all of his life.”
“Who’d want to kill him?”
“Probably no one living here. Frank did a good job serving on the council for the tribe. He was elected twice. He was always very involved in the community, especially the youth. He championed the non-use of drugs and alcohol. He coached soccer and lacrosse. I think Kimi Tiger was on his soccer team. When it came to the tribe’s involvement in gaming, he wanted the industry to be pure with respect to Seminole ownership.”
“I’m assuming that his business model isn’t fully embraced by others in the tribe.”
“Yes, which means Frank was not well liked by some people who have no qualms about spending tribal money on gambling expansion in places like the islands or Europe and potential partnerships with unsavory types. And I think this is Charlie Tiger.”
“Greed has no geographic or ethnic boundaries.”
She blew out a long breath. “A murder on the rez is extremely rare. In my heart, I hope I’m wrong. We have our share of drug and alcohol problems. Petty stuff, mostly. An occasional missing person, but that’s about it. Right now Frank Sparrow is categorized as a missing person. So is one of the contract teachers at our high school. His name is Dakota Stone. He just failed to show up one morning. Some say he disappeared because his wife was divorcing him, and he wanted to hide assets and maybe hide himself. Dakota also coached the soccer team. The school had a winning record under that guy. Frank Sparrow, though, is another matter. His family is here, and they’re desperate for answers.”
“What’s your gut telling you?”
“If I’m correct, Frank was killed. This would be my first murder case on the rez. I had plenty in my time with the FBI as a field agent. The worst was in Detroit.” She grew silent and made a dry swallow.
“What happened in Detroit?”
“It was actually in Dearborn, near Detroit. We’d been staking out an Iranian-American family. We knew the patriarch was moving money and recruits into Iraq. He ran a bakery and coffee shop. The Bureau wired his house and shop. The chatter against the homeland was building almost daily. They were planning a 911-type hit on the nation. We were watching people coming and going at the family house. We expected covert activity. What we never imagined was the man and his wife would murder their only daughter. The extremist Muslin Islamics call it an honor killing. I call it a slaughter.”
“Do you mind if I ask you what happened?”
She looked across the table, searching his eyes. “No, because I relive it in my sleep.” She blew out a deep breath. “We couldn’t break into the house in time. God we tried. When we broke in and made it into the kitchen where the murder was happening, the father saw us but wouldn’t stop shoving a butcher knife into his teenage daughter’s chest. His wife, the girl’s mother, was holding her own daughter’s arms against the floor.” She paused and folded her arms. “I shot the father. More than once. An internal investigation concluded I’d used ‘excessive force.’ I was put on leave. A few days later I quit. The irony is that the Bureau wanted me to enter a sort of witness protection program for agents. To simply disappear.”
“Why?”
“Because extremists had placed cameras around the house. The cameras weren’t there when our techs hid the audio bugs. My partner, Michael Levin, and I were seen by some of the decision makers in ISIS. They made a decision to kill us. Michael was assassinated a month later while walking his family’s dog in front of his house. That was two years ago. I still keep looking over my shoulder.”
“Why come back here to the rez?”
“I don’t know, really. It’s home, and as Dorothy said following the yellow brick road, ‘there’s no place like home.’ So, after a period of soul searching, I joined the tribe’s police department. The prodigal daughter returns. My reception there has been lukewarm at best. It’s still a good old boys club.” She half smiled. “How long did you work homicide with Miami-Dade PD?”
“More than a decade.”
“Can I ask you why you left?”
“It was because of a promise I made to my wife.”
“Why did she want you to leave?”
“Because to track evil you have to get into the criminal mind. To track a rogue grizzly bear you need to smell like a bear. Sometimes all of the stink didn’t wash off.”
She looked at O’Brien for a few seconds, her thoughts somewhere else. “In the Bureau, a veteran agent told me when you use deadly force to kill someone you never get over it.
But you can get used to it. I didn’t want to get used to it. Did you?”
“No. But sometimes, at least for me, justice and vengeance were the same. And that doesn’t always work within the confines of the law. The first time I felt that way was when I tracked down and caught a homicidal pedophile in the act with a nine-year-old girl.”
“I won’t ask you what happened.”
O’Brien said nothing.
“I hope we can track down whomever is setting up Joe Billie. Maybe, somehow, the disappearance of Frank Sparrow will point us in the right direction. If he is dead, I want to get it right for Frank’s family. And I want to get it right for the tribe, meaning no one comes on the rez, kills a member of the tribe and drives away like they’d just stopped to take a quick airboat ride. I want justice for Frank. And, in my heart, I believe Joe may know something about it. If it’s tied to Charlie Tiger, would Joe stay silent to protect his sister’s family, especially since they’re all Joe has left?”
“Why are you telling me this? Why not Jimmy Stillwater or other people in your department?”
“Including me, there are only four detectives at this rez. One is a senior detective, close to retirement, one is Henry James—you met him. He was the one working with Jimmy when they picked up Joe. And then there’s Jimmy Stillwater. I don’t trust any of them, especially Henry James.”
“Why?”
“My suspicions started about four months ago. I happened to be on the Hollywood rez helping in a joint larceny case. I walked into one of the restaurants and spotted Henry sitting at a back table with one man who looked like he’d eat his children for the right price.”
“Did Henry see you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Maybe he was one of the guys I saw sitting around the campfire out back with Charlie. One guy is Carlos Bertoni. They other is Tony Rizzo. Both soldiers in the Genovese family. I remembered Bertoni when I worked vice with Miami-Dade. And he remembered me. Bertoni was a suspected button man in a car bomb that killed the owner of a fleet of gambling cruise ships that sailed from the port of Miami. Not enough evidence for the DA. Bertoni was nailed a few years later for a half dozen crimes ranging from extortion, racketeering, credit card skimming, to offshore gambling.”
“You said that you and Joe chatted with them. How do you chat with the mob, especially a member who knows you?”
“I poked them.”
“You hit them?”
“Not physically but rather psychologically. I told them I had a good idea why Joe was being set up, and it was only a matter of time before I could prove it.”
“Why put yourself in harms way?”
“Because to get the honey you have to face the bees. The psychological make up of the average wise guy isn’t far from that of the playground bully. They hate a toe-to-toe challenge, especially in front of their pals or business associates. It does something to their testosterone levels connected to their small brains. It floods their limited mental functions with a fight or flight injection of adrenaline. Since they hate having their machismo or turf challenged, I do it to cause a reaction. And because there’s very little time left to help Joe.”
“You’re playing with fire, Sean.”
“No doubt. I just have to anticipate the heat before it steps out. But considering what Joe’s facing, I need to create some kneejerk movements with these guys to follow the dominoes. Most often, just like your investigations, it’s a trail I follow backwards until I come to the original source, the person who ordered the hit. And that’s the queen bee, hidden deep with the hive. That’s who I’m tracking. And it may be an underboss named Dino Scarpa.”
“I remember his name from Bureau files and reports. You’re playing with more than fire … your playing Russian roulette with a psychopath.”
“Maybe.”
She leaned back. “And maybe what happened on Sam Otter’s property will help you see that danger before it steps out. I want to help you. I want to help Joe. I couldn’t rest if they locked Joe away. He’d die in prison, and it wouldn’t take long. His spirit would die first.”
“Wynona, who on the rez can you really trust? Not people you think you can trust, but those you know you can trust.”
She hugged her upper arms. “That’s an ominous sounding question.”
“That’s because the answer could lead to a life or death resolution.”
FORTY-THREE
Joe Billie remembered her. She was an easy woman to remember. Smart. Beautiful. And she had an innate fearless spirit about her that made Lana Halley good at what she did. She sent people to prison—sometimes to their deathbed. The deathbed was a stainless steel gurney equipped with leather straps to hold the condemned person’s feet and arms as a lethal injection, a cocktail of drugs, was pumped into his or her bloodstream. Billie thought about that, remembering her courage in a Florida courtroom when she prosecuted and convicted Mexican drug lord, Pablo Gonzales.
After he was sentenced to life in prison, as the sheriff’s bailiffs and deputies were escorting Gonzales from the courtroom, he turned, pointed at two people and swore revenge. The two people were Lana Halley and Sean O’Brien.
And now Lana was a defense attorney. She entered the small receiving room in the Citrus County Jail where attorneys met with clients. She took a seat across a metal table from Billie. She carried a small briefcase. No purse. “Good to see you, Joe.”
Billie smiled. “It’s good to see you too, Lana. The last time was at Pablo Gonzales’ murder trial. I remember his parting comments to you and Sean.”
“I don’t think about them. It wasn’t the first time I was threatened by a convicted killer.”
Billie looked at her green eyes. They reminded him of the color a new palmetto leaf takes, wet with dew, when the morning sun hits it, the green soft and tinted with a splash of yellow. Her dark hair was pinned up. She wore a blue jacket and white blouse.
She folded her hands on the tabletop and looked Billie straight in the eye. “I vividly remember your testimony in the Gonzales trial. You were to the point, somewhat elusive though, especially when it came to testimony about the shooting in the Ocala National Forest. I don’t think the jury picked up on it. But I did.”
“I just answered the questions.”
“And I appreciated that.”
“After the smoke cleared from the first battle out there, five members of the Gonzales cartel were dead. You and Sean managed to limp away into the forest, and then, as they regrouped, you were pursued by some of the most ruthless men that cartel drug money could buy. Somehow you escaped. Maybe it had to do with the Navy’s night bombing on their range deep in the forest, or because you know the area so well.”
“Maybe it was the luck of the draw.”
“I think it was more than that.”
“How?”
“I really can’t accurately answer that, but I’m intrigued with the possibilities.”
Billie said nothing.
“Sean told me how you saved his life after he was mortally wounded. He was bleeding out, he regains consciousness at that blue spring in the forest, his chest covered in black mud, bleeding stopped ... but alive. And you were gone. Maybe back on the reservation. Maybe back to your home, but certainly not there.”
He nodded. “What we did, what we had to do, was worth it.”
“I don’t debate that. It’s why I prosecuted the case. My point, now, is this—you are in a completely different place. You can’t vanish and go to the reservation or wherever it is that you go when you leave. You’re charged with first-degree murder. This will be a high profile case. Not on the level of Bundy, Wuornos, Zimmerman, or Casey Anthony, but it has the media attention because of the severity of the crime, the place … and quite frankly—you, Joe, the mysterious, pokerfaced Native-American.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“And I believe you. Sean gave me a rundown of what happened. But now I need to hear if from you. Tell me everything; from the time they fir
st questioned you until now.”
“Before I start, may I ask you a question?”
“Certainly.”
“Why did you change?”
“What do you mean?”
“After a successful career of prosecuting people, why did you decide to defend people?”
“Some of it had to do with the case in Marianna, Florida—the boys reform school, the case I worked when Sean brought it to my attention. It had to do with the deaths … no, the murders of children. Although I’ve never had kids, I somehow managed to feel for the women who’d lost their sons in that place, a place where the state was supposed to offer reform and rehabilitation to children. No one defended the victims for fifty years. And that decision, in my opinion, was egregious and a flagrant miscarriage of justice.” She inhaled deeply and smiled. “So, I decided to leave the DA’s office and hang out my defense attorney’s shingle in Sarasota. Besides, it’s a few degrees warmer down here than in Tallahassee. Okay, are you ready to begin? Joe, do you want me on your team?”
“Yes.”
“All right, leave nothing out. I mean everything has to be on the table. It’s the only way I can help you.”
Joe Billie nodded. He told her about his history with rancher Lloyd Hawkins and cutting palmettos on the land. He told her everything the detectives had asked, and he gave her background on the first time he’d met Lawrence Barton five years ago.
She jotted on a legal pad, asking probing questions, sifting through information and possible connections between people and events. “How do you think that feather got in your truck?”
“Somebody placed it there.”
“Who do you think would do that?”
“I don’t know.”
She said nothing, looking deep into Billie’s dark eyes. “Then take a guess.”
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