As a career criminal, Scarpa was cocky with a bad temper, prone to violent rages, and often allowing his ego to overrule common sense. It cost him eleven years in a federal prison. When offered a deal for a lighter sentence, he refused; telling the state that he’d ‘do the time but time wouldn’t ever do him.’
O’Brien thought of that as he walked around the bar, heading to the back of the restaurant, to the verandah. A year after Scarpa was released from prison he “retired” to South Florida. He’d long since made the rank of capo—reported to the underboss, following orders, working everything from sex trafficking, extortion, drug distribution, prostitution, to off-shore sports betting. Three of the five largest Northeast-based crime families operated from Palm Beach to South Beach, and Dino Scarpa was right in the thick of all things illegal. Sweet retirement.
O’Brien remembered questioning Scarpa in the death of a man who owned jai alai, greyhound racing, slots and high stakes bingo operations. An underboss with the family, a man Scarpa reported to, was seen threatening the owner over an acquisition of two tracks, the underboss demanding that late payments be brought out of arrears.
Three days later the owner disintegrated when he turned the key in his car ignition and was blown up—body parts falling like bloody confetti for half a block over Biscayne Boulevard. Scarpa beat the murder rap but was convicted on charges of extortion and sex trafficking. Two of the underage teenage girls were bold enough to testify against him along with three others. After the conviction, the girls and their families entered the FBI’s witness protection program, relocating far away from South Florida.
And now, here was Dino Scarpa, again, crawling like an indestructible, mutated cockroach from a dark, wet place. They never die out, thought O’Brien as he rounded a corner and stopped, peering from the shadows into the verandah. He spotted them at a remote table, flaming tiki torches casting light across the faces of diners. And there was no mistaking the face of Dino Scarpa. Even in the low light, he embodied a predator’s look. Dark, hooded eyes. Unsmiling swarthy face. Black hair with a trace of gray in the temples. Ray Bans pushed to the top of his head. Wide nose. Coal black, thick eyebrows. He wore a white, long-sleeve shirt, partially unbuttoned, displaying a rug of dark chest hair, crisscrossed with gold chains and a large crucifix, more for show than faith. On his hand, a multi-studded, diamond ring bounced the candlelight as he lifted his hand.
Charlie Tiger sat across the table from him, a straight scotch in Tiger’s glass, Scarpa sipping a martini. Tiger glanced down at his phone on the table. O’Brien watched him pick it up, reading the text message. He said something to Scarpa, shrugged his shoulders, got up and walked out to make the call.
O’Brien glanced around the wide verandah, looking for anyone who might be associated with Scarpa, maybe sitting at a nearby table. He spotted no one other than European and Brazilian tourists, an NBA Miami Heat player with a striking brunette clutched to his side, and chic locals, all dining and enjoying the balmy night. A large, white yacht, running lights aglow, churned slowly in the background, the yacht heading north up the Intercostal Waterway.
O’Brien made a half circle walking around the verandah, moving toward the end of the dining area, stopping to look at the boat traffic. His real purpose was to approach Scarpa from behind. Surprise plays tricks on the criminal mind. He calculated that he had about five minutes before Charlie Tiger returned to the table. More than enough time to plant seeds of self-destruction. O’Brien glanced over his shoulder, back under the terrace supporting old growth bougainvillea, the scent of its red blossoms mixing with the smell of the tiki torch fuel on one side and cigar smoke wafting from the other direction, to locate an unsuspecting Scarpa sipping his martini.
Show time.
Guess who’s coming to dinner, Dino?
O’Brien turned and walked to the table where Dino Scarpa sat alone.
SEVENTY-FOUR
“Good to see prison didn’t age you too much,” O’Brien said, taking the chair opposite Dino Scarpa at the table. Even under the subdued light from a flickering candle, O’Brien could tell that Scarpa was at a loss for words, the light wavering off his flat eyes, narrowing with recognition and loathing.
“Sean fuckin’ O’Brien … I guess they’ll let anybody into this place. The bar for admissions just got drastically lowered. I’ll speak to management about that.”
“Good to see you too, Dino.”
“You don’t have permission to sit at my fuckin’ table.”
“I don’t need it.”
Scarpa’s jawline stiffened. He rubbed his wide left thumb across the knuckles on his right hand, glancing around. “You got seconds to get your ass outta here. I heard you’re not a real cop anymore. You got no fuckin’ jurisdiction or right comin’ in here and sittin’ your sorry ass down at my table. Leave.”
“I’ll keep it warm for Charlie Tiger. He’s probably going to be tied up on the call. That’s what happens when he’s complicit in murders.” O’Brien watched Scarpa’s eyes, the repugnance boiling. “Yes, Dino, murders as in plural. Even you can understand more than one. And, in the state of Florida, that qualifies you as a serial killer. Nice to have a title for something you’ve done most of your adult life. Also, in the sunshine state, you whack more than one and you bypass life in Raeford and go straight to death row. After your appeals run out, and they will, because I’ll be there to remind the courts just who you are … you’ll be taken in shackles to the room where they’ll strap you down with Texas leather and shoot a cocktail into your icy veins much stronger than what you’re drinking. Sometimes they get it right. Sometimes they don’t. And if they don’t, you’ll flop around like a catfish left to die on a hot Florida fishing pier ... no one there to kick you back into the deep blue sea.”
Scarpa smiled a robber's grin—a shark’s smile. “I got no fuckin’ idea what you talkin’ about. Leave, asshole.”
“Oh, sure you do. But you won’t talk because you think I’m wearing a wire or the FBI is tapping my phone, people just inches away from sending your ass back to a size six-by-eight cage. And the next time you come out, Dino, it’ll be on a gurney with a white sheet over your face.”
Scarpa picked up a Cuban cigar from his table. He lit it, cheeks puffing like a blowfish, eyeing O’Brien through the smoke, Rhapsody in Blue playing in the background. “When internal affairs at Miami-Dade PD sent you packin,’ why didn’t you just go quietly into the night, O’Brien? What’s this all about, eh? You got something against me? I did my time, now fuck off.”
“I’ll tell you what it’s all about, Dino, as if you didn’t know. I’m not here to listen to your bullshit. I’m here to give you a fair warning and an option.”
Scarpa held the cigar in the left side of his mouth, smoke curling out of the hot ash, his eyes hard as nails. “I’m listening.”
“Joe Billie, a member of the Seminole Tribe and a friend of mine, is taking a fall for a hit that’s gone beyond a hit. It was a butcher. News media are having a field day. The victim was shot, throat slit, and he was scalped. And it’s all because Joe is the brother-in-law of the man who was just sitting here, Charlie Tiger.”
“I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”
O’Brien smiled. “Really? Let me make it easier for you to understand. You’re in bed with Charlie Tiger. You and the syndicate are trying to carve a niche out of the gaming action, especially as the state is considering allowing some of the Vegas billionaires to open up shop here. It could be the first time the Seminoles had some real competition. Maybe they could use your muscle. Maybe they’d say take a hike. I’m betting the latter. But you’ve got a toehold with Charlie Tiger, and I’m also betting it’s because you did him a favor for an offer he could hardly refuse.”
“What’ve you been smokin,’ O’Brien? Charlie’s a friend, and we’re having some dinner. That’s it, okay? Now, get the fuck outta here before I have you thrown out.”
O’Brien smiled, leaning forward. “No, Dino …
it’s not okay. Your boys killed Frank Sparrow, a tribal council member who wouldn’t play in your dirty sand box. Not only did you kill Sparrow, you killed Dakota Stone.”
O’Brien paused, watching Scarpa’s subtle reactions behind the cigar smoke. Scarpa rolled the end of the cigar between his thick, wet lips, the sound of a woman’s laughter coming from across the verandah. O’Brien figured he had a minute left, unless Wynona could keep Charlie Tiger on the line. “You know Dino, it’s always an interesting study of semantics with the criminal mind. I remember convicting a low-level hit man for a murder. After the physical evidence indicted him, he told me he never killed strictly for money because it would be bad money, ‘cursed money,’ he said. He told me he only killed because of principle ... a violation of sacred principle. In other words, justified. Dakota was a pedophile. I guess in your book that’s principle. He’s a man Charlie Tiger wanted dead. And so the deals began. Behind door number one might be a slice of the Seminole gambling pie if you played your cards right. But along came Joe Billie—a straight arrow—the unpredictable wild card on the table. You couldn’t bet the hand or control the game, so you had him set up for a very nasty fall.”
Scarpa reached for a brass ashtray fashioned in the shape of a mermaid’s tail. He tapped the end of his cigar on the ashtray, knocking off a long ash. He cut his eyes up to O’Brien. “Prove it.”
“I will. But before I do, you have the option behind door number two. If you and the Seminoles come to a deal, I don’t give a rat’s ass. That’s between your team and theirs. What I do care about is Joe Billie, a man facing murder charges. Fix it, Dino. Whoever did it needs to do the time for the crime. Maybe he’s one of yours. Maybe he’s a contract player. Maybe he’s Bobby Hawkins.” O’Brien paused, searching Scarpa’s eyes, his facial movements, down to the pores in his skin. Looking for the slightest sign of familiarity in the name. Scarpa’s eyes narrowed. Almost imperceptible. So miniscule it could have been a casual indifference.
But it was involuntary.
And O’Brien caught it.
His response was a direct reaction to a stimulus—a provocation. Something that even a cold-blooded killer couldn’t hide because he didn’t expect it.
Scarpa puffed his cigar, diverting his eyes from O’Brien’s stare for a second. “I got no fuckin’ idea who or what you’re talkin’ about. This conversation is over.”
“Dino, I don’t care if it’s Bobby Hawkins or the man in the moon. You can sort that out. The police can do the rest. I do care about Joe Billie. If you don’t do anything, I’ll make sure the media get wind of your courting the tribe just as the legislature is considering extending the Seminole’s exclusive contract with the state. Bad PR creates scared politicians who can change their vote faster than a slot machine snatches your dollar and offers you nothing in return except for the promise of another dream cycle.”
“You got nothing, O’Brien. Your pal’s in the shitter, where he probably belongs, and you’re looking to me to solve a problem that I didn’t start. I can’t fix somethin’ I didn’t fuck up.” He grinned and blew a smoke ring into the night air.
O’Brien leaned forward. “I can prove this ... the guy you sent to take me out, Carlos Bertoni, is dead.”
Scarpa stared at O’Brien, stone-faced.
“What do you own, Dino—a half dozen cars, yet you have your button man, I’m guessing that was Tony Rizzo, you had him kill Carlos and dump his body in a canal in the glades. But you shouldn’t have had him take the same car that’s outside in the lot. He left the body and tire prints in the swamps … and we found them. Want to see the pictures?”
Scarpa said nothing. His eyes like that of a fish on ice—locked into a death stare, a vein in his next palpitating. “Get the fuck outta here.”
O’Brien smiled. “Maybe Bertoni’s death was all about sacred principle. Omertà, a code of honor among the dishonorable. Lawrence Barton’s death was not about principle. It was about money. Fix it, Dino. If you don’t, you and the good fellas you work for will have a lot to lose … because I have nothing to lose.” O’Brien stood.
Scarpa leaned in and crushed his cigar hard in the mermaid ashtray, almost turning it over. He pointed his broad index finger at O’Brien. “If you were one of us, I’d kiss you on the mouth. It’s the death kiss. And it seals the deal.”
“The thing is this … I’m not one of you, and it means nothing. Joe Billie’s bond hearing is in three days. You have three days to fix it, Dino.” O’Brien turned and walked out of the verandah, through the main dining room and into the reception area. He passed the men’s room just as Charlie Tiger was coming out. He wasn’t wearing his Stetson, his black and gray hair cut short. “Hello, Charlie. Did Wynona Osceola reach you? I heard it was urgent.”
Charlie Tiger looked at O’Brien, Tiger’s mouth turned down. He folded his arms. “How’d you know she was looking for me?”
“We’re working together, trying to find out who is setting up your brother-in-law, Joe Billie.”
Tiger said nothing. He started to walk away.
“Before you go, Charlie, I wanted to let you know I ran into Dino Scarpa. He appears to be suffering a bit of indigestion. Must be the calamari. When I was with Miami-Dade PD, I had the opportunity to get to know Dino. He’s not the type to do a deal with. His, shall we call it … potential association with the tribe, will be a house of cards. And I mean that literally. He’s a psychopath. Your people have worked too hard and too smart to allow the mob into the fold. And you don’t have to. Doing a deal with Scarpa is equivalent to Chief Osceola signing a peace treaty 250 years ago. He refused. You can too. Tell me what happened to Frank Sparrow, and I’ll help you.”
Tiger ran his tongue inside his left cheek. “I have no idea what happen to Frank. Wynona told me it wasn’t his body found out there. So you guys figure it out.”
“We will, but it might be more complicated and too late for you, Charlie. No one can blame a father for protecting his daughter from a pedophile.”
Tiger’s face tightened, nostrils flaring slightly, pupils narrowing. He looked from O’Brien to the entrance to the main dining room. “Excuse me. You’re in my way.”
“Where’s Dakota Stone?”
“I have no idea.”
“I think you do. And I think Joe does, too. That’s why he’s in serious trouble.”
“Leave my family alone.” Charlie Tiger walked around O’Brien, heading back to the verandah, back into a world of no return and a deviate principle of retribution that bullies have carried from the schoolyard to the prison yard. It wasn’t strictly about principle. It was about greed and power. Charlie Tiger was entering door number three, and O’Brien knew there’d be no way out.
He turned and walked toward the hostess stand. Before leaving the restaurant, he paused, looking at different exits—wondering if Scarpa’s soldiers would be hiding in the dark near his Jeep.
SEVENTY-FIVE
“Leaving so soon?” asked the hostess who’d originally greeted O’Brien.
He smiled. “I have to take a call outside.”
“It can be noisy in here.”
“Do you have a cocktail napkin?”
“Of course.” She turned and reached behind the hostess stand, retrieving a white cocktail napkin. “Here’s one.”
“Thanks.” O’Brien took the napkin and walked out the front door. He stood among the frenetic movement of valet runners, eyeing the parking lot, looking for any signs of dark silhouettes sitting in parked cars—the tiny orange glow of cigarettes burning, the indications someone was waiting. Maybe waiting for him to approach his Jeep.
He headed the opposite way, toward the cars parked in the valet area. When he got to Scarpa’s car, O’Brien removed the napkin from his pocket, placed it on the hood, took out a pen and wrote: 3 days. Fix it, Dino. He placed the note beneath one of the windshield wipers, turned and walked though the shadows to his Jeep, stopping to listen for footsteps behind him, looking around the parking lot for mo
vement, wondering how quickly Dino Scarpa was on his phone, trying to keep his temper and voice down in a crowded place.
Would Scarpa take the proposition and offer up the lion for the lamb—a hit man for Joe Billie’s freedom? O’Brien might know in three days or less. Probably less. Maybe before sunrise. He got into his Jeep, reaching for his Glock under the front seat. He started the ignition—remembering a car bombing death linked to Scarpa. O’Brien put the Jeep in gear, driving out of the lot, glancing into his side-view mirrors. He could see a crescent moon over Miami Beach and the silhouette of a sailboat moving up the Intercoastal, the boat’s mast lit like a tall candlestick moving in the dark.
He followed AIA, checking his rearview mirror. If there was a tail issued by Scarpa, O’Brien couldn’t spot it. He knew it’d be hard to detect because the pros aren’t easy to spot. You often don’t see them coming, and they don’t leave clear trails to follow. They do leave exit wounds. But they don’t leave shell casings. O’Brien thought about the 9mm casing that the crow had dropped from a tree limb.
Could one of Scarpa’s soldiers have left it at the Lawrence Barton murder scene? Maybe, but highly doubtful. Unless, after the round was fired, the casing fell into grass or weeds and the shooter couldn’t find it.
But a crow could.
O’Brien thought about Dave’s comments. Who knows if the crows witnessed the victim’s murder, but a flock of crows is really known as a murder of crows … they never forget a face in the crowd. They’ll tell their pals about you, even their youngsters.
O’Brien pinched the bridge of his nose, the throb of a headache building in his temples. Did the crow that dropped the 9mm casing from the tree tell his pals about the shooting? If so, did they all scold Bobby Hawkins because of that … or was it because Hawkins had shot and killed one of the crows?
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