He studied the receipt for a second. “Lucchese … size ten. And the guy signed his name with a smiley face. I remember that. Saw it after he walked out. Makes no difference, the charge went through. Are you here because it was a stolen credit card?”
O’Brien stepped closer to the counter. The clerk cut his eyes up to him. O’Brien said, “Describe the guy.”
“Sure. He was a big fella. Not as tall as you, but beefy. Black hair that looked like something you’d scrub a pot with. He had a diamond stud in one ear. Wore a gold Rolex. We chatted about lifting weights. He had a New York or Jersey accent. Italian-American dude. Probably wouldn’t know one end of a horse from the other.”
“Did you get his name?” O’Brien asked.
“No, but he was definitely hardcore Italian. I know this ‘cause when he started asking me questions about boots, I told him the story of the Lucchese brand. He thought I meant some family or store in New York. I told him how two Italian brothers got off the boat in Galveston, Texas, in the 1880’s, and used their Italian shoemakin’ skills to start a line of handmade cowboy boots. The rest, as they say, is history. I think the Lucchese boot is the best money can buy. He bought a pair. Funny thing, though.”
“What’s that?” Wynona asked.
“I didn’t think he’d bought the Lucchese’s for him. I remember looking at his shoes. I’ve been doin’ this so long I can damn well spot a shoe size. That big boy would have gone a size twelve at least. Not a ten. So maybe he was buying them for a family member—be a damn nice gift!” The man grinned.
O’Brien looked at the clerk. “You think he comes from a big family?”
“With his accent, his cocky ‘tude, the neat haircut and clothes, I’d say he’s got an extended family. But that would be profiling folks, something I know you guys don’t do.”
“I see you have a camera pointed at this section. Where do you keep the hard drives?”
“You’re gonna have to speak with the store owner for that. He’s out right now.” The clerk looked down at the receipt again. “Ya’ll are outta luck anyhow.”
“Why’s that?” Wynona asked.
“Every ten days the owner deletes the camera’s hard drives. He’s too cheap to buy backups, so he wipes ‘em unless he’s got a theft on camera. The sale I made to the guy ya’ll are asking about would have been deleted. Maybe I gave you enough to go on.” He paused and lowered his voice. “What’s this guy done?”
Wynona said, “Thank you for your time.”
“Sure thing, ma’am. If there’s some kind of a reward on this guy’s head, don’t forget me.”
O’Brien and Wynona walked out of the store toward the Jeep. He said, “The description that guy gave us fits Carlos Bertoni perfectly. So now we know Bertoni bought cowboy boots and he, or someone with him, placed them on the feet of the body we found. Call Nita Tiger … see if she knows where her husband, Charlie, is right now.”
“Okay, what do you have in mind?”
“Just a friendly chat with Charlie. Maybe without his wise guys pals, he’ll have more to say.”
“I wouldn’t bet the ranch on that. Excuse the metaphor, but we just left a western store.” Wynona smiled and made the call. “Nita, it’s Wynona. How’s Kimi?” Wynona paused, listening. “I understand. Do you know where I can find Charlie?” Wynona glanced out the Jeep window, the giant horse growing smaller in the side-view mirror. “Okay, thanks.” She disconnected and looked at O’Brien. “Nita says Charlie drove over to the tribe’s offices in Hollywood. She said he told her he’d be back late … he’s staying for dinner.”
O’Brien’s phoned buzzed. It was a text message from Dave Collins. Movement on the vehicle. Interesting location. A place you’d mentioned one time. Call me ASAP.
SEVENTY-ONE
Wynona Osceola’s phone vibrated in her hand. She sat straighter on the Jeep’s seat, removing her sunglasses to read the caller ID: Unknown caller. She answered, “Detective Osceola.”
A raspy voice said, “Wynona, it’s Dallas. I heard what happened to Joe Billie. I know you two are close. Joe’s sister, Nita Tiger, called me. She is very frightened for her brother, of course. What happened does not sound like the Joe Billie I knew. I spoke with members of the tribal council. We are willing to help Joe with his bail money. Maybe you can get word to him, or I can have the tribe’s legal counsel extend the offer through his attorney.”
“Thank you, Dallas. That’s very generous. I can reach him before his bond hearing. Let’s hope the judge permits bail.”
“And let us hope that Joe would allow us to pick up the tab. I am more than aware of his unwillingness to accept any stipends from the tribe. At this point, with what he is facing, perhaps he will change his mind. You have my number. Oh, any developments on the investigation into the death in the glades?”
“We’re pursuing leads.”
“Have you made an identification?”
“No.”
“Do you think it is Frank Sparrow?”
Wynona paused. “No. He’s been ruled out. We haven’t made a positive ID yet.”
“Let me know if Joe Billie’s interested in our offer. We’ll talk soon.” He disconnected.
Wynona looked over to O’Brien. That was Dallas Buck, chairman of the tribal council. He made an offer to post bond for Joe, assuming the opportunity arises. I hope Joe accepts it. When will you see him?”
“I’m aiming for tomorrow.”
“Please let him know the tribal council is making the offer.”
O’Brien said nothing, driving. Thinking. “Why’d the chairman offer to post what could be a large bond, knowing that Joe’s never accepted money, excluding money he’s earned by working for it?”
“Are you always that suspicious of people?” She smiled, putting her sunglasses back on.
“Only when something is inconsistent with the established flow of known behavior between people.”
“That sounds so damn clinical, Sean. Sorry, but we have to look for the good in people, otherwise why do we do what we do?”
“It’s because of the good in some people that we do what we do. But violence, like a weed coming through a crack in a sidewalk, can root in pure hearts if someone reaches a breaking point. We’re all capable of doing things that frighten us if pushed to the limit. No one is immune. It’s the Achilles’ heel of being human or human beings. It makes redemption sweeter when we’ve crossed the line because we know difference and we’ve ached for it.”
Wynona shook her head. “Sometimes it seems like the suffering never heals completely. Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be … some kind of macabre reminder to tow the line. But for as long as I live, I will never forget the look on Rala’s face as her father was gutting her alive.” Wynona extended her fingers, trembling. “It still physically affects me to this day.”
“Often the broken and scattered parts, welded together in a new form, make a better structure.”
“I can see that. And I can see the potential loss of hopefulness in people, too. Not that I’ve ever been so naive to view the world in rose-colored glasses.”
“What we can try to do is find a balance between contempt and hope. So, I’m happy that the tribe’s chairman is altruistic toward Joe, but it seems out of character.”
“All anyone can do is make an offer to help. It’s up to Joe to decide. I do know that Dallas just spoke with Nita Tiger. He told me how scared she is for Joe. We’re all worried sick.”
“Did he offer to pay for Joe’s legal fees?”
“No, but I’d bet that wouldn’t be an issue. Joe needs to get out of that cage while the state’s legal gears slowly turn.”
“His attorney, Lana Halley, will use every arsenal in her toolbox to get bail for Joe. I need to call Dave.” He hit the key, making the call. “Dave, I got your text. What’s happening?”
“Looks like the car, usually parked at a townhouse, is adding more mileage.”
“Where’s it now?”
“
According to the satellite maps matching the car’s GPS location, I’d guess that the car is in front of a restaurant known as Sardino’s. I only bring this up because I remembered you mentioning it from your days with Miami-Dade.”
“The restaurant was a hangout for B-movie celebrities, an occasional rock star and their entourage, and in the back corner tables you’d find family members breaking bread or talking about breaking knees.”
“So how was the food?”
“Never ate there. But I might make an exception tonight. Thanks, Dave.” He disconnected, put his sunglasses on, driving west into the sun. “Wynona, I need to drop you back to your car or office.”
“Why? What’d your friend say?”
“The car registered to Dino Scarpa just pulled up in front of a high-end restaurant called Sardino’s. The guy who owns it was an accountant for the mob before he became a partner in the restaurant. If Scarpa’s out of his den, this could be a good time that I renew the acquaintance—a guess who’s coming to dinner moment.”
“Maybe I should go with you in case you need backup.”
“I won’t need backup in the restaurant. Although it has happened, they usually don’t kill where they eat. They’ll save that for later. If he’s there, it’s best that I’m alone. No need to put you in their sights, too.”
“It goes with the job. But, because you have a history with this guy, and you think you might get more out of him alone, I can sit this one out. I have plenty to do at the office, beginning with the concentrated hunt for Dakota Stone.” Wynona lowered her voice. “Do you think Charlie Tiger’s going to be there tonight?”
“I don’t know. The tribe’s offices in Hollywood are not too far from the restaurant. But as we talked about, I don’t believe in coincidences when it comes to a parallel universe of crime. There’s no alternate reality, only the bipolar mood swings of evil. I’ve seen it in the eyes of coldblooded mobsters who take their kids to the park after church on Sunday and murder after dark on Monday. The natural laws of nature don’t apply in this world. It’s all about greed, power, hate, and a feature unique to man—vengeance. These people bathe in it.”
Wynona was quiet a moment. “When I worked for the Bureau, when I did covert intel looking for signs and patterns of behavior of radicalized Islamic jihadists here in the homeland, I learned one important thing. I had a few opportunities to debrief some of the people we were investigating. When I listened to them, I learned that to get information I had to find common ground. It sounds almost impossible if you believe you’re dealing with a psychotic Frankenstein monster. But, if you begin to understand their indoctrination, programming—the regime in which they often live from the womb to the tomb, you see why they believe they’re the good guys. They often look at us, the West, in a David and Goliath perspective. So I tried hard to put myself in their shoes to better understand their history and way of thinking.”
“Did it help?”
“Yes, at least for the most part. And then I tried to prevent a father from slaughtering his daughter. How could he really believe he was a good guy and she was so bad that he had the right to murder her? In a way, I suppose, the American mafia is similar. Be careful, Sean. If you find and speak with Scarpa, please call me when you’re safely driving away. If you don’t, I will come looking for you.” Wynona managed a worried smile.
SEVENTY-TWO
The first place O’Brien wanted to look was the valet area. He drove onto the parking lot of Sardino’s at dusk, the two-story art deco restaurant and club awash in soft pastel lights of blue, sea green and light pink. Tall royal palm trees flanked both sides of the restaurant, small white lights coiled up the entire trunks of the palms, from near the ground into the fronds at the top of each tree.
O’Brien drove slowly through the main parking lot. The valet area was filling up, runners—college-aged young men and women, darting from the roped-off area back to the front of the opulent restaurant and club. A red-faced valet captain greeted owners of luxury cars, exchanging parking stubs for keys, the patrons dressed in fine but casual eveningwear. Many of the women wearing short, tight dresses, no tan lines, lots of skin and jewels. Hedonism creates an appetite.
O’Brien checked the lot for surveillance cameras. He wanted to park in an exposed area. Just in case … always leave the next investigator something to go on, he thought. He locked his Jeep and moved toward the confined valet area, walking around dozens of luxury cars—Jaguars, Mercedes, BMW’s, three Ferraris, a Bentley, and two black Mercedes C-Class sedans. One white. One black. Bingo. O’Brien almost smiled. He recognized the SUV parked next to it as Charlie Tiger’s BMW-M-5.
He walked toward the restaurant. The evening beginning to cool, humidity fading, stars popping in the inky sky, the sound of distant traffic on Highway A1A. He stepped around the arriving entourage of cars and people, valet runners hopping, rapid Spanish mixed with English, the smell of perfume and the look of money as customers entered the celebrated Sardino’s.
Inside, beneath chandeliers on the high ceiling and expensive framed nude art on the walls, guests were met by runway models working nights as hostesses. Patrons were escorted through an arched entrance into a luxurious dining room, tables adorned with crystal and white linen, candles flickering, deep green palms in brass bases in every corner. In one corner, a piano player softly played a Gershwin song, Someone To Watch Over Me.
In the center of the dining room stood a marble statue of the Roman goddess Venus holding a vase, the sounds of falling water coming from the vase, spilling into a small pool at her stone feet. To the right was a long mahogany bar, veins of marble inlaid in the dark wood. A twenty-five-foot long saltwater aquarium covered the entire area behind the bar, two white cockatoos in bamboo cages on either side of the aquarium. Bottles of expensive vodkas were backlit and glowing in soft blues.
“Good evening, sir. Are you meeting your party here, or is it a table for one?” O’Brien turned around, a striking blonde, high cheek bones, short black dress, matching choker around her long neck, abundant cleavage, looked up and asked, “Do you have a reservation, sir?”
“Do I need one?” O’Brien smiled.
She returned the smile. “Well, that really depends on your preference of seating. For the main dining area, yes. We have open dining on the back portico. A tapas and full menu is served on our patio overlooking the Intercostal Waterway—that’s the quietest area, and since it’s outside, it’s cigar friendly. We just want to make guests aware of that. Also, we have a paring menu that’s served exclusively in the wine-room downstairs.”
O’Brien smiled. “So many options. I’ll start off with a drink at the bar. I’m not sure if my party has arrived.”
“I can check for you. What name would the reservation be under?”
“I don’t know which of my friends made the reservation. Maybe you sat them. One friend has black hair, about your height. Wears a lot of gold around his neck. Well tanned. Usually dresses in black. And he likes his dark glasses. The other gentleman is Native-American. At least he looks it. I tease him and say he’s from Afghanistan. Sometimes he wears a Stetson hat.”
She smiled wide. “I did seat them. You’re in luck. We have five girls on the hostess team tonight, but I happened to seat those two gentlemen when I came in for my shift. They’re sitting on the back verandah. Shall I take you to them?”
“Not just yet. I’m going to find the men’s room, maybe order a drink from the bar and surprise them. I hear your Filet de Roma is the best in South Florida.”
“It’s to die for. Our chef uses a truffle pecorino and a rich truffle demi glaze, served with our award-winning garden salad, fresh veggies and Italian potatoes. Chef picks the veggies from our garden next to the bocce ball area outside.”
“Good to know. I think, based on your recommendation, I’ll order that meal. Thanks.”
“Have a great evening.” She turned and walked away.
O’Brien stepped across to the far right side of the bar, wad
ing around people holding cold blue martinis and social court all along the bar. O’Brien walked into an alcove just beyond the bar. He stood next to a tall potted palm and called Wynona. When she answered, he said, “I’m at Sardino’s Restaurant. Do you happen to have Charlie Tiger’s cell number?”
“No, but I can get it. Why?”
“He’s here. Text him. Ask him to call you. Say it’s urgent.”
“What? What do I say if he calls me?”
“Tell him forensics indicated the body in the glades isn’t Frank Sparrow. Try to gauge his reaction. Then ask him when was the last time he’d seen Dakota Stone.”
“Okay, but it’s hard to gauge reactions over the phone.”
“You know him. Maybe you’ll hear something in his voice. Right now I just want him away from the table when I talk with Dino Scarpa.”
“How long do you want me to try to keep him on the phone?”
“All I need is five minutes.”
“Give me a couple of minutes to get his number, and I’ll do it.”
SEVENTY-THREE
O’Brien remembered the last time he’d seen the killer. That’s what Dino Scarpa really was, maybe all he’d ever really be. Although he didn’t pull the trigger or wield the blade anymore, he gave the nod to those who did. O’Brien thought back to his final year working homicide with Miami-Dade PD when he first read the FBI dossier on Dino Scarpa.
He often went by the name “Skinny D,” a repeat offender as a juvenile growing up in Newark. Scarpa started out as an associate with the family, running errands, keeping tabs on people—deliveries and pickups. He made soldier within a year, good at carrying out extortion, bashing heads and collecting cash along the Jersey waterfront.
But Scarpa wanted to quickly build a reputation as loyal—a man who could grow the business in new areas, and a man not to double-cross. He accomplished that, primarily because one of the FBI’s informants had tied him directly to the murder of two men, one who had his throat slit before being shot in the gut. Two months later, the informant’s body was found in an isolated section of Jersey’s Meadowlands, a chemical dumping ground, the dead man floating face up in swamp water the color of green antifreeze.
Lowe, Tom - Sean O'Brien 08 Page 26