The noise faded and light crept across the horizon, dawn breaking over the cobalt sea. O’Brien opened his eyes, the sunrise just blooming beyond the marina and above the sand dunes. He was sore from having slept in a cramped position. He glanced at the shotgun prompted near him, the Glock on the table, Max stretching and yawning at his side. He was tired, only a few hours of sleep. But yet he felt a sense of renewal. He had a new angle to take the investigation.
He thought that he knew what Joe Billie was hiding.
In a few hours, he would try to prove it.
EIGHTY-TWO
The first order of business was to replace the Jeep’s back window shattered by gunfire. O’Brien stood at the rear of his Jeep in the Tiki Bar parking lot, glanced around to see if anyone was looking his way, and then he used a tire iron to knock out the rest of the glass. In the morning light, he spotted a single bullet hole just above a taillight, another in the spare tire.
He‘d left Max with Dave, Nick was still asleep. And now O’Brien waited for the glass installer to arrive. He remembered not too long ago you’d have to take your car to the glass or body shop to replace a window. Today, the techs came to you. O’Brien watched the red and black van enter the lot, the words: Safety Glass Service on the sides of the van. He waved to the driver, the van pulling up next to the Jeep, the driver’s window down. “Mornin’,” he said, shutting off the ignition.
“Good morning. You got here fast.”
He got out of the van. Tall. Rail thin. Brown hair long, coming over his collared shirt, the collar barely covering a tattoo on his neck. “It’s kinda slow. Some of our most busy times are Sunday mornings. People get up to go to church, step outside to their cars, and find someone popped the glass. They’re usually drug users hunting for stuff to steal.” He stepped closer to the Jeep. “Looks like somebody took a baseball bat to your window. What happened?”
“Parked near a bar. Stuff happens.”
He looked up at O’Brien, using one hand to shield the morning sun from his eyes “That’s the damn truth.” He grinned. “Usually a burglar will pop the driver or passenger side windows. A pro hits the bottom corners. Not the center. That pretty much knocks it all out. I don’t see a lot of rear windows busted. Maybe you got a pissed off girlfriend. Somebody who took a Louisville slugger to your Jeep.” He grinned. His eyes narrowed, looking at the broken glass. He pointed to the hole in the Jeep’s body, the hole in the tire. “Or maybe you got an enemy. That looks like bullet holes.”
“How quickly can you fix the window?”
“Less than an hour. That work for you?”
“Yes. I’ll get coffee in the restaurant and make a few calls. Let me know when you’re done. Thanks.”
“You got it, boss.”
O’Brien sat at a corner table, sipping black coffee. Less than a dozen people were in the Tiki Bar. Some looked to be nursing hangovers. Others were tourists waiting to board a charter fishing boat. O’Brien scrolled through his phone, finding attorney Lana Halley’s number. He made the call. “Lana, it’s Sean. Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, you didn’t. I just put on a pot of French coffee.”
“I’m heading to the jail to see Joe. Can you make the visitation arrangements?”
“Absolutely. You’re my investigator, remember?” Lana chuckled. “We’re a team. Have you found anything I can use?”
“I’ve found bodies, mob influence, corruption, possible rape or pedophilia—the list goes on. But none of it can exonerate Joe until I can prove who slipped that feather into his truck.”
“His bond hearing is coming up soon. Anything you can give me might help.”
“After I talk with Joe, maybe I’ll have something to give you.”
“How far away are you?”
“Just leaving Ponce Marina.”
“Let’s meet for coffee at two, maybe a late lunch. That’ll give you time to talk with Joe. There’s a little restaurant called the Euro Café on the courthouse square. It’s close. Will two o’clock work?”
“See you then.”
“Bye, Sean.”
He disconnected. O’Brien thought about the dream he had during the night, the eyes of the dead crow. The glass eyes of the teddy bear. The tearful eyes of Kimi Tiger. Joe Billie wiping away a tear on her cheek. O’Brien called Wynona. After two rings, it went to voice-mail: “Hi, this is Wynona. At the sound of the beep, you know what to do.”
“Wynona, it’s Sean. When you get this, please call me. It’s about Kimi Tiger. Thanks.” He disconnected and looked at his watch. Was Wynona still asleep? Doubtful. Maybe on her way to work. Maybe in a meeting. Maybe in the field, investigating. O’Brien felt a touch of worry. He knew Wynona was more than capable of taking care of herself. But then, again, so was her former FBI partner gunned down while walking his dog.
The glass technician entered the Tiki Bar and walked up to O’Brien’s table. “All done.”
“You’re fast.”
“Well, it’s not rocket science. I didn’t have to take the glass out to add a new one. Somebody’s already done that for me. However, I did scrape bits and pieces of glass from the crevice so I could install and seal the new one—now you’re good to go.”
“Let’s take a look.” O’Brien walked with the tech to the Jeep. “Nice job,” he said, inspecting the work.
“I did everything but patch the bullet holes. I’d say that came from at least a thirty caliber rifle.”
O’Brien reached for his wallet, pulling out two twenties.
“That’s okay. You already paid when you called it in and spoke with Gilda.”
“This is for you, a tip. Forget about the small holes, which may or may not have come from bullets.”
“No problem. It’s forgotten.” He put the money in his shirt pocket. “You have a nice day, boss.”
O’Brien drove west on Highway 44. It was after he passed through the small town of Mt. Dora when his phone buzzed. It was Wynona. “Sean, I got your message. Sorry, I couldn’t take the call. I was meeting with the police chief. What do you have?”
“I keep thinking about the burned teddy bear in the ashes and why Kimi Tiger might want to do that. It’ll take a court order, but maybe you can pay a visit to some clinics ... see what you can find.”
“You mean medical clinics.”
“Yes, I think Kimi had an abortion. Maybe impregnated by her coach, Dakota Stone.”
Wynona blew out a deep breath. “That would explain a lot. What if Joe knew … what if Joe killed Dakota Stone to protect or avenge Kimi? Do you think he’d do that?”
“I think he knows who did it. And that’s why he was set up.”
EIGHTY-THREE
O’Brien took a seat behind a thick glass window at the county jail. He waited less than a half-minute before guards brought Joe Billie into the adjacent room. Billie was wearing an orange jail jumpsuit and flip-flops on his feet. O’Brien thought he looked tired, dark under his eyes, but his posture was still straight. Billie picked up the phone with a metal wire attached.
O’Brien lifted the phone on his side of the glass. “How are you, Joe?”
“I’m okay. Can’t recommend the accommodations, though. Not much in the way of amenities either. Coming from me, that means a lot.”
O’Brien smiled. “At least they can’t lock up your sense of humor. I’ll be in the courtroom for your bond hearing. Lana will stop at nothing to get you out of here.”
“She’s good, but sometimes that isn’t enough. The state attorney appears to want to use my case as leverage to get him another four years in office. If bond is an option, it will be higher than I can afford.”
“Wynona Osceola says the tribal council voted to help you with bond.”
Billie said nothing.
“Take the offer, Joe. It’s not a stipend or payment. It’s purely a guarantee that you’ll show up in court. The tribe gets its money back.”
“Let’s see what the judge does.”
“I know why y
ou’re in here.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re in here, obviously, because you’re being framed for a murder you didn’t commit. But the murder you’re accused of came after two others. Frank Sparrow and Dakota Stone. And some of it is because your niece, Kimi, was raped and impregnated.”
Billie stared through the glass, glanced over his shoulder at the tall guard standing next to the exit door. Billie lowered his voice. “How’d you find out? How’d you know?”
“I didn’t know for sure until right now. You simply confirmed it.”
Billie was silent. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and then opened them.
O’Brien said, “I believe Frank Sparrow was killed. And I think Dakota Stone was taken out. Both most likely victims of a mob hit.” He dropped his voice, looking Billie directly in the eye. “One of those two men raped and impregnated your niece Kimi. And he was killed because of it. You tried going to the police. Sparrow and Dakota were designated as missing persons. No bodies found. Nothing but speculation. But somehow you knew. The question, Joe, is how?”
“You know that everything we say here is subject to recording.”
“And that’s great because we have nothing to hide. How did you know?”
“When I was visiting my sister, I overheard Charlie Tiger making a deal with someone on the phone. I’d heard enough to put the pieces together. Charlie wanted Dakota Stone killed for what he’d done to Kimi. I think the removal of Frank Sparrow, a guy who was the most vocal about keeping outsiders out of the gambling business, was part of a package he called a ‘two-for-one’ deal.”
“What happened?”
“I spoke privately and confidentially with Kimi. It didn’t take but a couple of questions for me to know she’d been the victim of continuous sexual abuse by her coach, Dakota Stone. She wept and told me she’d had a botched abortion and bled profusely, resulting in a trip to the emergency room and three days in the hospital. When I confronted Charlie, at first he denied everything. Then he said, in the ways of the traditional Seminole system of justice, a member of the tribe, an elder, would do what was right—what had to be done. He said since those days were long gone, he knew people who would do the same thing … for a price.”
“And that’s the same people who want a seat at the Seminole gambling table, the mafia.”
“I think so.”
“Did you tell Charlie to take it to the police?”
“Yes, he said that would result in nothing. Then I told him, if he wouldn’t I would. He warned me not to go. But I did.”
“Who’d you talk with in the department?”
“Detective Henry James. Wynona Osceola and Jimmy Stillwater were not there that day. Henry said Charlie or Kimi needed to come in and file charges against Dakota Stone. He said after that he’d bring in Stone, but he said if they couldn’t find him or a body, there was no hard proof a crime had been committed. When I told him Stone and Frank Sparrow could have been taken out by men Charlie was associated with, Henry James rocked back in his chair at his desk, smiled and told me without a body or some evidence of murders, there was not a lot he could do. He also suggested that Kimi could have become pregnant from sex with her boyfriend, a guy that James said had a reputation with some of the girls on the rez. A couple of weeks later, I’m arrested for murder.”
“Who do you think killed Lawrence Barton and left the feather in your truck?”
“I don’t know. Maybe one of Charlie’s associates.”
“What if it was Detective Henry James? I think he’s the breach in the department—the guy taking mob money.”
Billie focused on a slight crack in the center of the window, which looked as if someone had slammed the phone into the Plexiglas. “I need to speak with Charlie. I need to confront Charlie.”
“You can’t go after him. You’d wind up in here forever. We need to get him to confess and take this saddle off of your back. Tiger, probably, personally didn’t kill Lawrence Barton, but he knows who did. It was most likely someone working for a guy named Dino Scarpa.”
“Who’s he?”
“He’s believed to be part of the infamous Genovese family. Probably an underboss. I knew him when I worked homicide with Miami-Dade PD. Part of the joint investigation I was on helped put Scarpa away for a decade. But he’s back with scores to settle and new revenue streams to muscle into ... the biggest being the tribe’s gaming profits if he can manage to pull it off. Your brother-in-law is his meal ticket.” O’Brien glanced over Billie’s shoulder, saw the guard look up at a clock on the wall. “We only have a couple of minutes left. Joe, I know you were trying to protect Kimi and your sister, Nita. But I wish you’d told me.”
“I reported it to the police department and went on with my life. No one could find Dakota Stone or Frank Sparrow. Also, I feared for Kimi. I received a call from someone, a man. There was a blocked, unknown number on my phone screen. He told me to back off or Kimi would be sold into sexual slavery, and we’d never see her again.”
Joe pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes wet. “A couple of weeks later, when I was questioned about the killing of Lawrence Barton, I didn’t think Charlie Tiger was connected to that. I assumed it was an unfortunate irony that a man I stopped from robbing Seminole graves five years earlier died next to the ancient temple mound. After the feather was supposedly found in my truck, I thought that maybe Bobby Hawkins might be involved. I knew he didn’t want me on his family’s land taking palmetto fronds anymore. He was slowly building a business, hiring people to pick berries for the companies that produced saw palmetto herbal supplements. I know that’s big business, but not a large enough income to warrant murder, especially since he still works security at the gambling casino and has an income from there.”
“Maybe Bobby was hired by Charlie Tiger or by the mob.”
The guard shuffled across the room. Billie said, “What are you going to do next?”
“I’m speaking with Lana and then I’m heading back to the Hawkins’ ranch. I want to see if anything is on the camera you mentioned. And I want to see if I can get a reaction from Bobby Hawkins.”
The guard escorted Billie to the metal door leading down a corridor that entered into the general population of the jail. Billie glanced back over his shoulder, made a quick nod to O’Brien as if to say—it’ll all work out.
But O’Brien knew better. Hang tight, Joe. We’re in for a hard ride.
He looked at his watch. He was going to be late for his meeting with Lana Halley. He moved quickly, sending a text to her, letting her know. He walked to his Jeep thinking about the day their relationship ended.
No hard feelings.
Still friends after being lovers.
Friends who hadn’t spoken until O’Brien reached out to ask for her help—to take Joe’s case. He knew that she was a pro—a savvy attorney. And for Joe’s sake, she’d have to be better than savvy. She was going to have to be great to win.
EIGHTY-FOUR
On the way to see Lana Halley, O’Brien placed a call to Wynona Osceola. The call went to voice-mail. “Wynona, it’s Sean. I just spoke with Joe Billie. Call me as soon as you can.” He disconnected and thought about his conversation with Joe. “Charlie wanted Dakota Stone killed for what he’d done to Kimi. I think the removal of Frank Sparrow, a guy who was the most vocal about keeping outsiders out of the gambling business, was part of a package he called a ‘two-for-one’ deal.”
O’Brien thought about Scarpa, smoking the cigar in the restaurant, his eyes cold, dismissive. Maybe he’s one of yours, Dino. Maybe he’s a contract player. Maybe he’s Bobby Hawkins.”
“I got no fuckin’ idea who or what you’re talkin’ about. This conversation is over.”
The Euro Café had a French café look and feel. Colorful umbrellas sprouted above tables in an outdoor café area, blooming red bougainvillea laced through a wrought iron terrace surrounding the area. As O’Brien arrived, he thought about the last goodbye—the last time h
e’d seen Lana Halley.
It was a few days after they had returned from the Caribbean where they’d rented a catamaran out of St. Vincent, sailing to some of the most remote and beautiful harbors in the Grenadines. They’d both needed the time away. It came after Lana prosecuted three men for abusing and killing boys at a former reform school in the Florida panhandle. O’Brien had been led there due to a letter he’d received from a man who’d been abused in the school as a boy.
It was after he and Lana returned from the Caribbean sailing trip when she quit her job and began a new life. She went from working as a prosecutor to becoming a defense attorney. As a prosecutor, she’d seen guilty people hiding behind money and power, ingredients too often able to water down or erode evidence. And she’d seen innocent people caught like cattle in a slaughterhouse inside a system unable to assess good from evil. The trials weren’t as big as the O.J. Simpson circus, but Florida had its share—the Casey Anthony debacle, the George Zimmerman trial, the list goes on.
Before Lana made the transition, before she left the DA’s office in North Florida and settled in her small office in Tampa, she told O’Brien she needed time to think. The sailing trip had been a catalyst to free her, to help her change a perspective on the legal system and her place within it.
She’d needed time away. O’Brien had given her that space. And, after a few months, their time together was becoming few and far between. Lana immersed herself into her new practice with an unbridled sense of purpose—a new life plan. O’Brien would not be part of those new plans. And that was okay.
He got out of his Jeep and looked at the outdoor dining area with its sidewalk café portico. Lana sat at a table in the corner. She smiled as O’Brien approached, standing to greet him. “Hi, Sean.” She reached out and embraced him. Dark hair, a model’s cheekbones, inquisitive hazel eyes. Her perfume was subtle, like a hidden flower.
O’Brien kissed her on the cheek. “Sorry I’m late. I spent more time with Joe than I thought I would. But it was worth it. You’re looking rested. The defense work seems to fit you well.”
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