O’Brien glanced in his mirrors. He drove west on Highway 858, heading toward I-95. In his review mirror, he saw a car pass another car in a stretch of highway with double yellow lines. And he noticed the car had the distinctive headlights of a Cadillac CTS, vertical LEDs that went from the outer edges of the headlamps down to the front bumper. The driver of the car that accelerated was still in back of a pickup truck driving a few car lengths behind O’Brien’s Jeep. He sped up to see if the driver in the car behind the truck would do the same. The Cadillac stayed where it was.
O’Brien reduced his speed back to the legal limit, thinking about his tense conversation with Dino Scarpa. What would Scarpa be willing to give up or to gain to get what he wants—a toehold inside the tribe’s casinos? What might be part of a quid pro quo with the mob? Would Scarpa simply ignore the threat O’Brien had left? Or would he send a killer? And if the man who killed Lawrence Barton was Carlos Bertoni, then Dino Scarpa couldn’t deal that card. Since Bertoni was dead, he couldn’t be arrested for Barton’s death, much less be put or trial for the murder.
And then there was the faint, almost undetectable recognition of the name Bobby Hawkins. O’Brien replayed the conversation: Maybe he’s a contract player. Maybe he’s Bobby Hawkins. Scarpa feigned no connection. But it was there. In the game of horseshoes, a dead ringer counts. Almost counts in the game of detection.
Almost undetectable.
Close enough.
He thought about finding the dead crow not far from the spot where Barton’s body was found. A murder of a crow in a murder of crows … no wonder the crows were pissed at Bobby Hawkins. But because he shot and killed a crow doesn’t mean he shot and scalped a man. Somebody did, and now at least two other people are most likely dead because of circumstances related to it: Frank Sparrow and Dakota Stone. Include Carlos Bertoni in the mix and the body count, assuming the bodies can all be found, rises to four. Before the smoke clears, O’Brien had a feeling there’d be more. He looked up in his rearview mirror. The Cadillac was still at least a half dozen car lengths behind the truck.
O’Brien called Dave Collins. “I’ll be back at the marina around midnight. I just crashed a dinner party between Dino Scarpa and Charlie Tiger, Joe Billie’s brother-in-law.”
“I can’t wait to hear how that went.”
“I’ve ruffled some feathers in the mob family. But to keep Joe out of a murder trial, I have very little options. Scarpa wants a piece of the tribe’s gambling action so bad he’d do anything to get it. I have to find out where the other body is hidden, and when dealing with the mob, that’s not easy to do. I believe an eyewitness to Lawrence Barton’s murder was a crow. I just wish he or she could talk.”
Dave chuckled. “There’s big difference, of course, between talking and mimicking sounds. Some parrots and mynah birds are excellent at repeating sounds. It’s one thing for an animal to imitate human speech. But if any bird might be smart enough to use cognitive association with sounds or words it has learned from people, that would be the crow.”
“Speaking of animals, tell Max I’ll be there tonight. She’ll understand.”
“Nick took her for a walk. He said he felt guilty feeding Max appetizers from the Tiki Bar, so he’s putting her on his Mediterranean diet.”
O’Brien smiled. “See you soon. I’d like to run some things by you.”
“All right. I’ll keep a clear head and semiconscious mind.” Dave disconnected.
O’Brien started to enter the entrance ramp to I-95, but he looked in the mirror to see the pickup truck’s turn signal on, the driver turning onto the freeway. O’Brien kept going, driving beneath the highway overpass.
The Cadillac, with its vertical lights glowing in O’Brien’s review mirror, didn’t take the ramp to the freeway. It followed O’Brien’s Jeep into the darkness.
SEVENTY-SIX
O’Brien knew how the pros worked. There were usually two methods of following an intended victim. The first approach is when they often team in pairs or even groups of vehicles. Some would follow the mark’s car for a few miles, turn off and call for the next member of their criminal entourage to take his place following you. It was hard to spot a tail that way. They’d sometimes do this to find the general route the victim took to or from work.
These stealthy moves were typically part of the planning stage. Planning for a kidnapping. Planning to burglarize your home. Planning when to enter your home to hide audio or video bugs. Or maybe planning your death.
The second method—the stalkers. These were the killers. There was little planning. Only pursuit. Orders had been given. For a drive-by assassination, they sometimes worked in pairs—one guy driving and the other aiming a shotgun or assault rifle out of an open window. Often the target was someone getting in or out of a parked car. If the assassin’s vehicle pulled up alongside the car of the intended victim, and the killer is using a 12-gauge shotgun with buckshot, there’s no place to hide. The firepower is devastating. The carnage often leaves the victim beyond recognition.
O’Brien felt that the people in the car behind him would use method number two, if they were following him. He’d soon find out. But it was dark. And they were moving, not stopped.
He slowed his Jeep, allowing the Cadillac to come closer. He knew that often people would speed up, trying to put some distance between them and a suspicious vehicle. But if you slowed down, the suspect vehicle eithers slows with you, potentially forming a line of traffic with other cars, and that’s a good thing, or the driver passes you.
The Cadillac came closer, less than fifty feet behind O’Brien’s Jeep. He set his Glock in the center of the console next to him, glancing in the mirror. He could see nothing but headlights. O’Brien slowed. The person in the Cadillac did the same thing. Not a good sign because they were on an open stretch of road where passing would be easy.
O’Brien drove another mile, varying his speeds, the pursuer keeping an even distance behind him. The road led farther into the rural countryside, thick with palms and scrub oak. A cloud draped the moonlight. The only light was from the headlamps and an occasional house set back off the highway. He didn’t want to take a quick turn from the main highway because that move could lead a tighter squeeze down a dirt road. He drove faster. The hunter did the same thing.
In the distance, another car approached. The light from that car’s headlights entered the back window of the Cadillac. O’Brien could make out two silhouettes sitting in the front seat. Two men. Probably both armed. He needed an escape route. But miles of country road provided nothing but an opportunity for those pursuing him. He could dial 911, but by the time they got there it would be over.
The car following the Cadillac moved out to pass. O’Brien sped up, opening a gap. The car passed the Cadillac and pulled back into the lane. And so now there was a buffer. A car in the middle—the innocent driver having no clue that he or she was in the center of a deadly conga line on a dark stretch of road.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Wynona Osceola paced the floor in her home. Something was wrong. She could feel it in her bones. She could sense it in her heart. Sean should have called by now, she thought. Did he meet with Dino Scarpa? Was he relatively safe? She wanted to call him, but was hesitant in the event he was still speaking with Scarpa. Was Charlie Tiger sitting with them, and if so, what could Sean have said to him? Maybe she should call Nita Tiger, see if Charlie was home ... or if he’d called her.
Wynona thought about Joe sitting in a county jail cell and his niece, Kimi, existing in some kind of self-imposed prison. She could see the look on Kimi’s face under the chickee when Sean had asked her about Dakota Stone. It was an immediate physical transformation, the revulsion in her eyes, the deflation of her spirit, upright posture changing, recoiling and then shrinking. Before the mention of Dakota Stone, she’d revealed part of a conversation she had with Joe. “Uncle Joe told me they can’t prove anything, and he’ll be fine.”
But he won’t be fine, Kimi, anymore than
you’ll be fine if we don’t locate and stop this guy. Wynona looked out into her backyard. Moths orbited the floodlight. The moon was behind a cloud covering. Wynona thought about Kimi’s demeanor and wondered if Charlie Tiger may be was working some sort of revenge triangle—Frank Sparrow gone. Dakota Stone gone. Lawrence Barton, the man Joe is accused of killing, gone. Why? If Charlie Tiger was complicit, he too was going to be gone. Either in prison or eventually from a bullet to the back of his head. She knew there was no part-time association with the mafia. They would keep pumping until the well ran dry, and then they’d shoot off the brass handle so no one could drink from the financial bucket if the water ever did return.
Wynona closed her eyes and could see the gator drag the remains of Carlos Bertoni into dark water. She inhaled deeply, recalling the odiferous smell of fecal matter and vomit from the vultures around the body they’d found in the glades. She thought about how one vulture was defiant, not fleeing, stripping a piece of atrophied meat from the bones of the corpse as she and Sean approached. That’s what the body was—a damn corpse. Still no positive ID. And still no idea where Frank Sparrow had gone. At least the body found in the glades had enough teeth to perform a dental records comparison.
Wynona paced. She wanted a drink. Needed a drink, but she had to be alert if Sean tried to reach her. She wanted to be there for him. Wanted to be ready for whatever was coming down the pike. She picked up her phone and tapped the numbers to Sean O’Brien’s phone. It went to voice-mail. “Sean, it’s Wynona. I was just calling to see how it went with Scarpa. Maybe you’re still there … I don’t know. I do know I’m worried. So please call me when you can. Bye …”
* * *
O’Brien looked at the incoming call on his phone. It was Wynona. He wanted to answer but needed both hands on the wheel for what he was about to do. A Cadillac is fine for riding down a highway, but its sex appeal ends when the asphalt runs out. And that’s where his Jeep was made to go—off road.
He waited for the right spot. Within a half mile, he found it. The shoulder off the road was smooth. Probably sandy. There was a rough dirt road. Maybe originally used as a logging trail. A place the Cadillac couldn’t go, at least not very far. O’Brien looked in his rearview mirror, the Cadillac still behind the car following him. Without any tap of his brakes, O’Brien swerved off the paved road, across the shoulder, over a slight embankment, and into the neck of a primitive back road.
The driver in the car behind him blew his horn and sped off. The driver in the Cadillac slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop. The driver reversed the car, burning rubber, backing up in the middle of the road.
O’Brien drove down the old logging road, sapling limbs whacking against his Jeep, a startled raccoon caught in his headlights. It quickly darted into the underbrush. O’Brien looked in his mirror. The driver of the Cadillac was following. Maybe it was because of the smaller size of the CST. Maybe the car had all-wheel drive. Or it could be because the driver and guy sitting shotgun, probably holding a shotgun, were hell-bent on a kill.
O’Brien drove hard, the Jeep bouncing over ruts and small logs. He looked in his mirror just as a burst of orange fire came from the passenger side of the Cadillac. The buckshot shattered the glass in O’Brien’s rear window. He could feel shards of glass in his hair and back of the neck. The clouds parted and the moon returned. O’Brien killed the Jeeps lights. He drove by moonlight.
And the Cadillac was coming closer.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
He found what he was looking for. It was a recess, a narrow bottleneck clearing deeper into the woods. A trail he knew the Cadillac could not follow. O’Brien didn’t tap his brakes as he swerved to the left of a large oak tree and snaked further into the tangle of scrub oaks and slash pines. And then he stopped. He grabbed a second clip for his Glock, ratcheted one in the chamber, and turned around—on foot.
Moving quickly in the shadows.
The headlights coming.
He ran back toward the logging trail. He could see the car lights shining through gaps in the trees. Could hear the engine straining. And then forward motion stopped. The driver was trying to find a way to drive around a fallen log. O’Brien stood behind the trunk of a large live oak. Waiting, mosquitoes whining in his ears. He could feel wet blood from the glass in the back of his neck.
Now or never.
He stepped to the left of the tree. In two lightning-quick bursts of fire, he shot out the Cadillac’s headlights. The guy on the passenger side discharged a round from the shotgun, buckshot tearing into the tree. He fired a second round. Higher. Limbs and Spanish moss rained down from the tree across O’Brien’s head and shoulders. He aimed his Glock a little to the right of where the shooter had fired. O’Brien put three quick rounds through the car’s windshield. He heard a painful scream. The driver threw the Cadillac in reverse, backing down the trail. O’Brien braced against the tree, aimed, emptying his clip into the retreating car. He heard glass breaking. Metal chinking. The car’s engine roaring as the driver fled, the Cadillac’s lights gone, much of the car’s front section like Swiss cheese.
O’Brien swatted mosquitoes away from his face and bloody neck. He walked back to his Jeep, his heart racing, adrenaline flowing. Dino Scarpa had sent a strong message. Non-negotiable. Just like a round of high-stakes poker—it’s all about the best hand, or the deception of having the best hand. O’Brien would counter his bluff.
Winner take all. You won’t fix it Dino … so I will.
Nothing left on the table.
* * *
A half hour later, after navigating his Jeep through the cattle trials in the woods and coming out onto Highway 858 at a different place than the area he’d exited, O’Brien was on I-95, heading north. He picked up his phone from the center console, pieces of glass in the cup-holder. He listened to Wynona’s message and hit redial.
“Sean, are you okay?”
“Define okay.”
“What happened with Dino Scarpa?”
“It was what went down after the meeting that made me take an unexpected turn on the way home.” O’Brien told her what happened and what Scarpa said and didn’t say at the restaurant.
“Do you think you killed the person who was shooting at you?”
“I don’t know. One of my rounds definitely hit him, whoever he is or was. If he died, he’d be dumped somewhere out of the way.”
“What did Charlie Tiger have to say?”
“Not much. When I mentioned Frank Sparrow, he shrugged his shoulders, fairly indifferent. I did hit a nerve when I told him that no one would blame a father for protecting his daughter from a pedophile—doing what he had to do. ”
“He doesn’t have to do it with the mob. The mob needs him. The tribal council would never agree to do a deal with any members of these crime families.”
“That’s the problem. It’s all about plausible denial. Shell games through shell companies. Not much different than the offshore illegal sports betting rings they operate. Always just outside of the boundaries. Scarpa could get the word from the family boss to have their crooked attorneys set up any number of dummy companies to make it all look like it’s being done by the books, and all the time they’re cooking the books.”
“So it’s coming back to Joe Billie. He’s the only one in jail, and he’s probably the only one not complicit in any of this. What did Joe see or hear that could sink this rocky ship Charlie Tiger is on with these thugs. Maybe Joe had enough or had seen enough and was going to expose them, thus the murder of Lawrence Barton. But, if that’s the case, why hasn’t he just told you what it is? Or told me? Or Jimmy Stillwater? Or his sister Nita Tiger?”
“Maybe he did.”
“What do you mean?”
“The first time I’d met Jimmy Stillwater I was with Joe. It was the day I met you. In the parking lot, we were talking and Joe mentioned to Stillwater that he’d tried to speak with him a few weeks ago, but Stillwater was going on vacation with his family and about to miss a f
light. He’d told Joe to take it to another detective. The question is ... did Joe report something to someone in your department? And if he did, what did Joe tell that person. And what did that person tell someone else?”
Wynona was quiet a few seconds. “Sean, I hope to God you don’t think it was me.”
O’Brien said nothing, shards of glass in his cup holders jingling when he hit uneven pieces of highway.
Wynona’s voice was direct. “I never spoke to Joe about any of this. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t seen him in months until you two showed up at the department. Do you believe me?”
“Yes, I believe you.”
Wynona sat at her kitchen table, leaned back in the wooden chair, watching the banana plants jostling in the breeze just beyond her patio. “Thank you. I don’t give a shit what most people believe or think about me. But with you … it’s different. I do care. It’s important to me that we have trust.”
“I trust you. I’m going to visit Joe tomorrow. I trust him, and I know he’s incapable of an absolute lie. I want to ask him if he spoke with anyone in the department that day Stillwater passed him to someone else. And if so, who was it?”
“Be careful on the way home. I’m hoping that tomorrow we’ll have the dentals back on the body in the glades. Maybe we can give someone a bit of closure while opening up a more clear investigation in other areas. Give your little dog Max a hug for me, okay?”
“I will.”
“You were lucky tonight with Scarpa’s wolves. He knows you’re tenacious. You have a history with that freak and that can make for a shitty future. Please be careful, Sean. Can I ask a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“When you get back to your home, please text me to let me know you arrived. Okay?”
“Okay. Good night, Wynona.”
“Good night.” She disconnected, set the phone on her kitchen table and sat in the dark.
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