Erica grinned. “Joe’s been around long enough to have learned those things. The tribe had doctors before the word was invented. We just never referred to them as doctors.”
“I met Sam Otter.”
Erica cocked her head, searching O’Brien’s eyes. “You met Sam Otter? Sorry, I didn’t mean that as a question … more of astonishment on my part. I’ve only seen him a few times, and I grew up on the rez. He’s a legend here and the Seminole rez in Oklahoma. Joe Billie must have pulled that off.” Erica looked at Wynona. “I have a key to open the gate.”
“Let’s do this.”
Erica leafed through a small ring of keys, found a bronze key and opened the padlock. They walked inside, and she said, “This does feel weird. Pulling a blood DNA sample from our own property.” She glanced over her shoulder, back toward the police building.
Wynona nodded. “Maybe it’s nothing. But if we don’t check, we’ll never know. The airboat is in its usual spot near the utility shed.”
They walked around parked squad cars, off-road vehicles, vans and department four-by-four pickup trucks. The airboat sat on a trailer. There were two cinder blocks next to the stern. Erica stepped up on one and turned to O’Brien. “Wynona said you first spotted the blood. Can you show me where?”
“Sure.” O’Brien was tall enough to see inside the airboat. He pointed to the far left side. “It is … or it was on the inside gunnel wall, left of the operator’s seat. From here, I can’t make out the drops. I’ll show you on my phone.” He brought up the image on his screen.
Erica studied it a moment. “Let’s take a look.” She climbed in with her forensics kit, slipped on gloves and went to work. After half a minute she said, “It’s gone.”
Wynona stood on one of the cinderblocks and looked inside the airboat. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Any signs of removal?”
“The boat’s wet in places. I’ll swab the area anyway. After that I can come back, throw a tarp over it, and use luminol. There’s a technology called steam thermography. I can use a hand-held steamer, and view it though night vision goggles, even in the daylight. But my gut tells me we won’t find anything.”
O’Brien examined the airboat. “It looks like someone hosed down the entire airboat. It has the faint smell of bleach, plus there’s some water in the aft section.”
Wynona studied inside the boat. “Maybe, Eli, the operator, hosed it down because he’d just finished transporting a body to the coroner’s van waiting a half mile down from the hammock in the glades.”
Erica photographed the area, swabbing for blood DNA, placing the material in a plastic bag. She spent time examining all of the internal sidewalls of the airboat, looking for the slightest indication of blood, hair, or fibers. “It’s really clean. This is the way Eli usually keeps the boat or the tools he uses.” Erica climbed out, her eyes darting around the lot and back toward the building. “I’ll run tests on the swabs, hit the area with luminol, but don’t hold your breath.”
Wynona said, “Thanks, Erica.”
“Anytime. Let’s hope something shows up. If not here, maybe somewhere else.”
O’Brien glanced back at the police headquarters. In the rear of the building was mostly a fenced-in area for a large green trash dumpster and a place for air-conditioning units. He noticed someone looking out a second story window. He turned to Erica. “Maybe you’ll get an ID soon on the body.”
“We’re looking at dental records. The bugs and vultures ate away finger skin. Couldn’t get any usable prints. We’ve pulled DNA samples from the leftovers.” She made an animated frown. “Can’t believe I said that. It’s what the job does to you.”
Wynona nodded. “Soon as you hear something, call me if I’m not in my office.”
“Will do.” She looked over to O’Brien. “Good meeting you. I wish the blood you photographed was still there.”
“I do too.”
They left the lot, Erica locking the gate, the sun setting over the flat land of cabbage palms in the vista. “I’ll see how our forensics dentist is doing with the exam. Last I heard is he’s using radiographs to examine the teeth.” She smiled and walked up a sidewalk to a side entrance to the department, carrying her toolbox and samples that O’Brien knew would return negative results.
Wynona turned to O’Brien. “Maybe we’re reading too much into this, at least the tiny drops of blood that you found in the airboat. It makes sense, after transporting a body, that Eli or any of our guys would clean the boat, or a van for that matter.”
“Maybe. Let’s move on.”
“I’m spent. Delivering the news to Malee Sparrow took a lot of my battery life. I need a recharge, as in food.”
O’Brien looked at the dusk, the twilight filling pockets of ligustrum and crepe myrtle in deep purple shadows. Yellow flowers clung to an afterglow in the fading light, the drone of cicadas in the pines. “I’ll call the campground, book a chickee again.”
They walked back across the parking lot to O’Brien’s Jeep as he placed the call. He made the inquiry, unlocking the Jeep. They got inside and he said, “So are you saying you’re completely booked for tonight?” He paused. “Can you recommend the closest hotel?” He waited, listening. “Okay, thank you.” He disconnected and looked across the seat to Wynona. “Looks like I may be staying off the rez tonight. Maybe Clewiston. Seems there’s no room for me in the inn. Or maybe I’m just not welcome.”
“They do book up fast. You’re more than welcome to stay at my place. I have plenty of room—a spare bedroom and bath. I think I’ve washed towels in the last month or so.” She tried to hide her smile. “Besides, why go back to a place that has attack palmetto bugs?” She angled her head. “I make a mean burger and salad.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay. Thanks. We can get an early start in the morning. One of the places I’d like to revisit is Charlie Tiger’s house.”
“We won’t get much, if anything from Charlie.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Then why go there?”
“Because it’s his daughter, Kimi, who I want to speak with.”
FIFTY-NINE
O’Brien noticed it when she was slicing the tomatoes for the salad, and now a second time when she poured the wine. A slight tremble in her left hand as Wynona handed him a glass of wine. She poured some for herself, lifting in a toast, “I can make a cocktail before the wine, if you’d like.”
“No need to. This is fine.”
She smiled and touched her glass to O’Brien’s. “To solving this crime, or crimes, and setting Joe Billie free. Cheers.”
“To Joe.” O’Brien sipped the wine. “This is good.”
“It’s a blend. Inside this lovely bottle is some cab, merlot, and some Napa Valley malbec added for good measure. Goes great with cheeseburgers.” She set her glass down, turned back to the stove, sautéing the burgers with a splash of wine, onions, steak seasoning and Portobello mushrooms.
O’Brien watched her for a moment, the way her hair fell across her shoulders, the way she worked the pan, sampling a mushroom—the moves of a chef. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Just chill. You’ve earned it. The salad’s made. Burgers will be ready in a minute. Placemats are on the table. We’re good to go. I’ll put some music on.” She flipped a switch and soft music, blues guitar and piano, came from Bose speakers in corners of the kitchen and dining room.
O’Brien sipped his wine and looked at the way Wynona had decorated her home. Uncluttered. Simple and neat. Colorful throw rugs. Leather sofa with pillows. Lots of books on shelves and end tables. A photograph of a little girl being held in the arms of a handsome man dressed in Seminole patchwork clothing. There were framed paintings, some of the Native-American Western art, vistas in New Mexico and Arizona.
There was one painting of the Everglades. It depicted white egrets wading in shallow water around swaths of green and golden saw gr
ass, the sky deep blue, tall palms catching the glimmer of sunset in their limbs, a mist at the base of a palm hammock.
Wynona watched O’Brien study the art. “That was painted by Albert Backus. He gave it to my father after he led Backus into the glades to paint. Backus lived in Ft. Pierce. That particular painting is called Everglades Mist. Dad used to say Albert or ‘Beanie,’ as he called him, was the greatest painter ever of the old Florida he remembered growing up on the rez. Dad said no one captured the light, sky and symmetry of nature like Backus.”
“I think your father’s right. Does he live on the rez?”
“No, he died when I was fifteen. Cancer of the liver. It was slow and way too long to suffer. A horrible way to die.” She motioned toward the photo. “That’s him holding me in the picture. I remember the place, the south shore of Lake Okeechobee. He taught me to fish that day. He taught me to shoot and hunt. He never had a son. In a way, I was his son and daughter. I still miss him.” She bit her bottom lip, folding her arms across her breasts. “Dinner’s ready.”
“I see you have a table on your patio. Do you want to eat outside?”
“No. Not tonight. Maybe next time.” She turned and set the plates of food on the table, pouring a second glass of wine. She closed the blinds. “Bon appetit.”
They sat at a small, round table near the kitchen, eating gourmet cheeseburgers and a garden salad. O’Brien said, “This is excellent. Where’d you learn to cook?”
“From my mom. Burgers aren’t much of a challenge. But I can cook a delicious piece of fish.”
“Does you mother live nearby?”
“Closer to Clewiston, still on the rez. She lives in the same house I grew up in, but it’s been remodeled twice since I moved out and went to college. I suggested that she sell it and buy something newer. But that’s her home, and the stipend money from the tribe’s gaming profits keep it in tiptop shape and a new car in her drive. She’s content.”
They ate in silence, the music in the background. Wynona said, “You mentioned that your wife died. Was that when you worked homicide in Miami?”
“Yes.”
“You said you’d made a promise to her—to get out. Did the job change you?”
“Sherrie said the job was leaving a lot of internal scars on me. She said I was at risk, that’s the way she put it with a smile—at risk of losing my joy in life. She wanted it back. Not for her, she was very ill at that point, but for me.”
“I can relate.”
“I think any good homicide investigator can, at least I hope that’s true.”
“What was she like ... your wife?”
O’Brien said nothing for a moment, studying Wynona’s face.
“I’m sorry. I’m prying.”
“No, it’s okay. You asked … I don’t mind. Sherri was warm, very intelligent. She had a playful sense of humor. But most of all, she was loving and very genuine. In her last days, she bought Max for her … but it was really for me. And she tried to hide Max, as a puppy, because she didn’t know if she’d made a mistake.”
“She didn’t.”
“Yeah, Max is the closest to a kid as I’ve ever had. “
“Your wife was a wise woman. She knew what you needed.”
“The thing I needed most was Sherrie. And that was what I was denied by death. Her love was addicting. But, because she was so sick … she’s in a better place. I’m just grateful for the time we had together. How about you? Ever married?”
“Close, once. Only once.” She sipped her wine. “I’ve been so career focused …” She paused, glancing out the window, studying the shadows dancing near the philodendrons. “The time suck has been my career. After the incident in Dearborn, no, I’ll call it what it was. After the slaughter of a young girl in Dearborn, my priorities changed. I was under the illusion that I could make a huge difference.” She laughed. “There’s so damn much evil out there. It’s like a sick game of whack-a-mole. The bad guys are always popping up. The caseloads, especially in a place like you worked, Miami, or when I was with the Bureau in Detroit … I’d sometimes wonder where good went.”
“Wherever it goes, you can bet that the criminal mind will follow because taking from the good is the only way evil can exist.”
Wynona sipped her wine, staring through the sliding-glass doors, a breeze jostling the leaves on a hibiscus plant near the patio. “Did you ever feel evil following you, Sean?”
“How do you mean, following?”
“Like it never goes away. It’s always present in some form, but not always visible. I’m not sure that makes much sense.”
“Yes, it does. ”
“I don’t like feeling this way. I get satisfaction out of what I do, trying to bring justice to victims, but the ripple effect … it creeps up on you. I know it sounds paranoid, but sometimes I feel anxious, as if there’s white noise in my head and I can’t always turn it off. And then, for no apparent reason it fades away, like a lost signal in the dark.”
O’Brien said nothing, letting her speak.
Wynona exhaled and sat a little straighter in her chair. “I have to use the bathroom. The other bathroom is right down the hall past the family room, if you need to go.”
“Thanks.”
She smiled. “When I get back, I’d like to hear why you want to speak with Kimi Tiger again.”
SIXTY
O’Brien felt his phone vibrate. He removed it from his pocket and read the incoming text message. It was from Dave Collins. FYI - tracking the car you tagged. It left the townhouse, going south, connected with Alligator Alley. Looks to be driving into the Everglades or maybe toward you. Heads up.
Wynona returned to the table. She refilled their wineglasses. “How’s your food?”
“Excellent, thanks. I was just reading a message from Dave, the friend I mentioned to you. He says the car Carlos and Tony drove away from the rez, then parked in Boca for a while, is on the road again.”
“Where?”
“Alligator Alley, heading east.”
“Could be coming back. I’m glad you’re not staying in one of the chickees.”
“I doubt they’d return to me so soon. Usually these things settle down and then there’s a hotspot that flares back up when an underboss or the boss gets angry or paranoid. One typically leads to the other.”
Wynona nodded, looking over O’Brien’s shoulder into the patio area.
O’Brien sipped his wine, studying her face. “You mentioned the white noise that comes and goes.”
She cut her eyes back to him. “It’s not playing in my head tonight.” She smiled. “But I do believe, when there are enough layers of trauma, one coming down after the other, it changes you. It has to.”
“How?”
“Most often, maybe, it’ll make you better having gone through it. But you don’t ever see that exit door at the time. Sometimes it makes you worse.”
“In what way?”
“I keep replaying that night in Dearborn when we tried to stop Aswad from murdering his daughter. The first time I heard her screams was through the headsets when we were in the surveillance van. It was terrifying, like a scream coming from the end of a cave. And it only got worse when we ran into the house. I believe he stabbed her in the stomach the first few times because he wanted her to suffer—to frighten her beyond comprehension. To make her pay. Then he came closer and closer to her beating heart.” Wynona paused, sipped her wine. “I hear her screams in my sleep. And today, when Malee Sparrow cried on her doorstep, the screams came back. Just like I was entering the front door of the Aswad family that awful night. I didn’t stop a murderer, and I opened the door to my partner, Michael Levin’s, death.”
“You stopped a psychopath, the girl’s father, from ever killing another child again. Your partner knew the risks. He knew those risks were worth it to prevent people hell-bent on bringing down this nation, people so angry they kill their own children to avenge a delusion of immorality. I’ll bet, to stop someone like that, is one
of the reasons Michael became a federal agent. It’s a profession filled with dangers, risks, and when we get lucky … rewards.” He looked at Wynona, her eyes moist. She ate in silence for a moment, the music through the speakers changed to another song, House of the Rising Sun, recorded by the Animals. “Wynona, are you anxious because you believe these radical extremists are coming for you?”
“I knew the risks, too, when I accepted the job. What I didn’t know was how repeated acts of violence to the innocent would anger me so much. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I kept unloading on Aswad. Sure, I keep a loaded gun next to my bed. I watch shadows move. But I don’t let an alleged threat change the way I live my life. I just didn’t like leaving the Bureau the way I had to, under a cloud of supposition and opinion from the FBI behavioral psychiatrists.”
“What do you mean?”
Wynona refilled their wine glasses. “The Bureau’s team of shrinks, one in particular, wrote his opinion of me in regard to the use of excessive force. He suggested that I was quote, ‘misguided and possibly harbored a resentment to some other cultures.’ At that point, I said if it’s not ‘we the people,’ who and what am I fighting for?”
“Opinion and knowledge aren’t always compatible. Anyone can have an opinion and no real knowledge to support it—only fear, prejudice, or theory. Someone’s opinion requires no accountability, no fact checking. One of the highest forms of wisdom is human compassion, a place where opinions and rumor are replaced by caring and doing. Empathy requires us to check our egos and see things through the eyes of others. Monday morning quarterbacks always have a better strategy, but they’re never out there on the front lines like you were that night. So, in my humble opinion, that shrink was and is full of his own perceived self-importance, better known as bullshit.” O’Brien smiled and finished his salad.
“You’re a good man, Sean. You’ve made me feel a little better about life. Or maybe it’s the wine.” She lauged. “It’s been a while since my spirit felt a breath of clean, fresh air. Thank you.”
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