Lowe, Tom - Sean O'Brien 08

by A Murder of Crows

  “It’s a different kind of stress. I often wonder why I didn’t just begin my career as a defense attorney. In law school, I decided I wanted to work as a prosecutor primarily because I was such an advocate for victim’s rights. And then, through the years, I began to see there are victims on both sides of the courtroom, and we ask twelve people to sort it all out.”

  They sat down. O’Brien could smell cheese omelets and buttery quiches coming from a tray of food that a waiter was delivering to a table of three people. Lana looked from the waiter to O’Brien. “What did Joe say?”

  “He’s ready to get out of jail.”

  “I’m hoping to make that happen at Tuesday’s bond hearing. Do you have anything that I can use as leverage in court?”

  “When you worked in the DA’s office, did you ever prosecute any members of the mafia?”

  “Not known members. We did prosecute a few suspected members. Small time criminals who were jockeying to get into the big leagues. Why?”

  “The people I’m dealing with are the big leagues. They’re trying to get a piece of the casino gambling controlled by the Seminoles. Joe Billie, by default, wound up as a fall guy.”

  “How?”

  O’Brien gave her a debriefing. He added, “Today, Joe admitted that he overheard Charlie Tiger essentially work in collusion with the mob to take out the guy that raped and impregnated his daughter, Kimi. The death of Frank Sparrow seems to have been part of the package deal.”

  “All of that is good and, yet, terribly sad at the same time. I feel for the girl and her family and the others killed or missing. And the fact that you’ve reached into the mafia hornet’s nest worries me a lot, Sean. All of that equals motive … but the DA will say what we know is this: Lawrence Barton is dead and scalped. Joe Billie had a hostile history with the victim. Joe is the prime suspect due to a blood DNA match found in his truck and the fact an eyewitness saw him in the general vicinity of the crime. Since we’re talking about eleven thousand acres of remote Florida wilderness … that almost puts him directly at the scene. This comes regardless of how that damn feather got in his truck.”

  “It’s just a matter of time before we can sift through all this to prove Joe had nothing to do with Barton’s death. A bond hearing, giving him freedom and giving us more time, will prove invaluable. We’re close, Lana. I just need to lift up a few more rocks to see what crawls into the daylight.”

  She stirred her coffee, looking up at O’Brien. “Who would have thought, after what we went through in Marianna that we’d be in another courtroom together again. In Marianna it was about righting a series of wrongs that went unpunished for fifty years and longer. And now it’s about keeping Joe off death row and finding out who killed Barton and who’s leaving bodies in the Everglades. Based on what you’ve told me, sounds like it’s all connected. I think we have each of the seven deadly sins covered in this one.”

  “I believe there are more than seven. Maybe we’ll have to count our fingers and toes to list them all.” He smiled.

  Lana laughed, the breeze teasing her hair. She used a finger to pull a strand behind one ear. “I’ve missed you, Sean. I’d much rather be back in that sailboat with you than in another courtroom. But sometimes the wind takes us in different directions. At least we had some time together. I’ll always be grateful for that.”

  “We had some good times. It’s rare to experience the perfect atmospheric conditions to see the Southern Cross from the bowsprit of a sailboat with another person.”

  “You’d told me that you’d only shared it one other time with your wife Sherrie not long before her death.”

  “I mentioned that only because you’d asked me.”

  Lana reached across the table and touched his hand. “I’m glad you could share it with me too, Sean. I’m so happy that you wanted to take me to a place you took her. But, as we sipped wine that night and watched the lonely and remote constellation—the diamond cross in the sky, something was happening. I felt like I was falling in love with you. Maybe I was. It’s not something that I have a lot of experience with in my life. However, as it was happening, I wondered if you could ever stop loving Sherrie. I don’t mean that in a hurtful way. On the contrary, I think that’s the kind of love every woman wants with a man. And I’d hope it’s what a man seeks in a woman.”

  “Sherrie’s gone. Sure, a part of her will always be with me, but she’s gone.”

  “People say time heals. And I think that’s true, to some extent. But in the moment of pain, time is a faraway anesthetic that feels like it’ll never arrive. Those moments seem to be still with you. In comparable situations, I’ve heard people say that he or she will get over it. But I wonder … is that always true? They say you’ll be your old self … you’ll be happy once again. Sean, I don’t think you can ever lose her ... at least the thing—the rare and remarkable thing you had with her. And every time you fall in love, or allow yourself that liberty, I believe it’s because something in that woman reminds you of Sherrie. Was there something in me that reminded you of her?”

  O’Brien leaned in closer. “Lana, the last thing in the world I wanted to do is have you think that I was comparing you to Sherrie in some kind of judgment or assessment. You are your own woman. Brilliant. Beautiful, inside and out. Unique. And that’s what I appreciate.”

  “I believe that … I really do. I also believe that you wouldn’t be able to help yourself with the inevitable comparison. Sherrie was a very lucky woman. And you were a lucky man. If Sherrie could look down from the heavens and say something, I bet she’d say, Sean, live your life. Not for me … but for you.” Lana blinked, her eyes moist. “When you make that decision, Sean, if you’d like try again … give me a call.” She stood to leave. “I have to go. There’s always a deadline to meet. See you in court.” She turned and walked away. O’Brien’s phone vibrated on the table. He looked at the ID. Wynona Osceola was calling.

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  O’Brien answered the call and Wynona said, “Got back the dentals. The dead man is Dakota Stone.”

  “And now we know for sure. But we don’t know where Frank Sparrow is.”

  “We know where he’s not … that he wasn’t the corpse in the glades. That doesn’t mean he’s not out there somewhere. The killer or killers went the extra mile to lead us to believe it was Frank Sparrow. From the college ring down to the ostrich skin cowboy boots, it was all a ruse. There’s something else, Sean.”

  “What?”

  “Although all of the flesh and most of the organs were gone, the autopsy revealed Dakota Stone had been shot in the chest … one round. Not near the heart. Sort of misplaced. Maybe that’s why the shooter put two in the head.”

  O’Brien said nothing.

  “Are you there?”

  “Yes, just thinking about what you said.” O’Brien looked for the waiter. Lana’s car was leaving the parking lot. “It’s rare a pro hit would leave that many rounds in different areas. Did Carlos Bertoni do it? Maybe. We know Bertoni bought the boots at that western store. What’s left of Bertoni is at the bottom of that canal, and we know Dino Scarpa had him killed. So Dakota Stone’s killer, following the trail of the fallen dominoes, is leading back to Dino Scarpa.”

  “Unless Charlie Tiger killed Dakota Stone and Scarpa agreed to dispose of the body. Or maybe Scarpa had Stone and Frank Sparrow both killed the same day and then sent someone to kill Lawrence Barton up in Citrus County.”

  O’Brien glanced across the parking lot and said, “Either he did or Charlie Tiger did. Since they’re business pals, my money would be on Scarpa. I’m sure he’s not too happy to see me resurrected from his past. Not only would Scarpa like to see me dead for reasons stemming from our history and his subsequent stretch in prison, but now, in particular, to keep me from doing something that would jeopardize his move to infiltrate the tribe’s casino gambling. There’s a lot of money at stake here. Roll in the fact that I know he’s behind the murders, he becomes desperate. Desperate men do reck
less things. One of those acts of desperation—causing new evidence to surface, will remove the suspicion over Joe Billie. Charlie Tiger is complicit in all this. He may not have pulled the trigger, but I think he helped point the gun.”

  “Did you speak with Joe?”

  “Yes. I told him I knew that Kimi was or had been pregnant, that she was raped or coerced by her coach.”

  “How’d he react?”

  “He confirmed it. He said he’d overheard Charlie on the phone talking with some of his mob buddies and that Charlie had made arrangements with them—no doubt Scarpa, to do a package deal for murder—Dakota Stone and Frank Sparrow—a ‘two-for-one’ deal.”

  “Why didn’t Joe say anything? I’ve known him a long time.”

  “You weren’t there the day he spoke with Detective Henry James. Joe told James what he knew, what he overheard. And what happened to Kimi. James said Kimi needed to file a report—to press charges before he could go after Dakota Stone, if he could find him. He didn’t give much credence to Joe’s assertion that Charlie Tiger’s alleged mob associates were responsible for the disappearance of Stone and Sparrow.”

  “And now we have at least one body—Dakota Stone. The sad part is that he can’t be tried for pedophilia, underage sexual abuse or even rape. Maybe he deserves to have been turned into vulture shit.” She blew out a breath. “So now that we have an ID, we’ll question Charlie Tiger hard. Maybe he’ll say something that will open a door to Scarpa. I want to speak with Kimi, too. And I’m going to have a chat with Detective Henry James. He should have told me that Joe had come to him with that information.”

  “Watch your back.”

  “I’ve become used to that. Talk to you later, Sean.” She disconnected.

  A college-age waiter, his silver nose-ring winking in the sunlight, approached O’Brien’s table. “What can I get you?”

  O’Brien glanced at the red lipstick left at the edge of Lana’s cup. He looked up at the waiter. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.”

  * * *

  An hour later, O’Brien drove onto the dirt road that led to the Hawkins’ ranch. A quarter mile down the property, past a rusted and bent No Trespassing sign, he slowed coming up to Lloyd Hawkins’ home. He turned into the drive, noticing that the For Sale sign was no longer there. There was no breeze and the Spanish moss hung straight from the limbs of the oaks in the front yard. Chickens pecked at the hard-packed ground, a tawny cat lay in a splash of sunlight on the front steps.

  O’Brien spotted Lloyd Hawkins’ pickup truck parked to the far right of the screened front porch. He assumed Hawkins was home, and he assumed Hawkins already knew he was in his sprawling yard. The motorcycle that had been in front of the adjacent cabin the first time O’Brien came here was now gone. The dog was nowhere to be seen.

  Bobby Hawkins was probably at work—maybe part of the security detail at the casino. Maybe monitoring dozens of surveillance cameras, looking for people trying to cheat or rig the bets. Or maybe Bobby Hawkins was meeting with one of Dino Scarpa’s soldiers planning their next move.

  There were two 4-wheel ATV’s parked under a leafy sycamore tree near the cabin. One of the ATV’s was red. O’Brien didn’t remember seeing it the first time he was on the property. He did remember seeing something like it in his dream aboard Jupiter.

  He shut off the Jeep’s motor and got out, motley sunlight breaking through the oaks, chickens ignoring him. O’Brien started toward the porch just as the front door opened. Lloyd Hawkins stepped onto the porch, the black dog behind him. “Sit, boy.” Hawkins opened the screen door and walked down the three wooden steps to the scraggly yard. The cat opened one eye. Hawkins wore his Stetson, white T-shirt tucked inside his jeans. “You still thinkin’ about buyin’ the ranch?” He grinned.

  “I’d love to. It’s a little beyond my price point. But if you ever decide to sell it in parcels, save me a few acres on the river.”

  He nodded. “I’ll do that.”

  “I see your for sale sign is gone.”

  “Yep. I decided to take it off the market, at least as an active listing. Too many tire kickers. If somebody’s serious, the realtor will make the arrangements. I still hope the state buys it. What’s goin’ on with Joe Billie?”

  “His bond hearing is tomorrow. I’m hoping he’ll make bond, and it’ll be a reasonable.”

  Hawkins glanced toward the road at the end of his drive. “Let’s hope so. And let’s hope they find the crazy as hell killer who did that. This property’s been in the family for three generations and to my knowledge nobody’s ever been killed on it. Now, during the Seminole Wars, that was a different story. Lots of death. Indian and white.” He pushed his wide hands into his jeans pockets. “What brings you back out here, Mr. O’Brien?”

  “You can call me Sean. The mister stuff sounds too formal, like something you’d call a detective. Where’s Bobby?”

  He cut his eyes to the cabin and then looked at O’Brien. “Should be at work. He works shifts sometimes. That casino rarely closes, so it’s hard for me to keep up with his schedule. Sometimes he’s gone all night and sleeps all day. Why do you ask?”

  “I didn’t see his motorcycle. I see his 4-wheelers. Didn’t see the red one the last time I was out. Man, I wish they had those when I was a kid.”

  “You and me both. Hell, I ride ‘em today. But I still ride my horse. Used to take my horse on vacations. Go ridin’ out West and whatnot. That red ATV is the one I ride the most around the property. It’ll damn near go anywhere.”

  O’Brien smiled. “I bet it will. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to go back out to the old mound. Maybe there’s something out there the police overlooked. Something that might help Joe Billie in his bond hearing.”

  Hawkins stepped further out into his yard. An acorn fell from one of the live oaks, plopping on the hard ground, bouncing once. A red rooster trotted over to investigate. Hawkins looked up in the tree and then at O’Brien. “I have no problem with you goin’ back to the mound. It hasn’t rained in a few days, so you ought to be able to go just about anywhere out there in your Jeep.”

  “Thanks. By the way, I really like your hat. Where can I get a Stetson like that?”

  “I ordered it from Blair’s, a store in San Angelo, Texas. Had it sent here.”

  “You wear it riding the 4-wheelers?”

  “Depends where I’m goin’ and how fast I want to get there. I fell off one of ‘em last summer. Hit my head on a cypress stump. If I’m in a hurry, I’ll wear a helmet.”

  “That’s smart.” O’Brien glanced down at his boat shoes and then looked at Hawkins. “I should wear boots out here. Never know when you’ll run up on a rattler. I guess you got the boots from the same place you bought your hat.”

  “Sure do. One stop shopping, and they deliver. Hard to beat that.”

  O’Brien nodded, walked over to his Jeep, pulled away. He looked into his review mirror. Hawkins lifted a phone from his jeans and made a call.

  EIGHTY-SIX

  O’Brien had his doubts. What were the chances of anything, other than an image of a deer or a bobcat, be recorded on the field camera? But even at a thousand to one odds, it was worth the trip back to the Hawkins ranch, if there’s something that might help Joe Billie. O’Brien called Dave Collins. He told him about his conversations with Wynona Osceola, Joe Billie, and Lloyd Hawkins.

  Dave let out a low whistle. “It’s no wonder Joe wasn’t forthcoming about much of this. He’s trying to protect Kimi, not so much from the cruelties that happened to her—unless it’s to avenge them, but he’s trying to shield Kimi from the threat of what may happen to her. Kidnapped and sold into sexual slavery is a slow-death cancer of a woman’s soul. He tried going the route of local police on the reservation. If Kimi didn’t file charges perhaps it’s because she, or her parents, knew the perpetrator—Dakota Stone, was dead. Now you have an ID on the body you and Detective Osceola found, and it’s a whole different story. The question is will this be enough for
Lana Halley to shut down the prosecutor and get a reasonable bond for Joe?”

  “We can’t directly tie the murder of Dakota Stone to the death of Lawrence Barton, at least not with a trail of physical evidence. Not yet, but we will. I need to ask for another favor.”

  “Don’t call them favors, Sean. These ancillary components of your investigation, the ones where I can do some digging for you—and ultimately the victim, keep an old soldier like me from oxidizing, turning to rust. If it weren’t for you, I’d have to resort to working crossword puzzles, playing marathon games of chess with Sam the dock master, and enduring rounds of backgammon with Nick. Not that I don’t enjoy those things, but researching people and dark places for you takes me back to what I used to do.”

  “Just as long as you’re not bored.”

  “Bored? Are you jesting, I have little Max barking at the freeloading pelicans and I can, at least on the periphery, do some investigating with you. What do you need?”

  “When Lloyd Hawkins discovered the body of Lawrence Barton near the mound, according to news reports I read and saw, there were three other people with him. One was a professor and two were graduate students. See if you can find their names, numbers and addresses. Starting with the professor.”

  “That’ll be about fifteen minutes worth of work.”

  “One more thing. Maybe you can check the tax records for the Hawkins property. See if they’re delinquent. Thanks, Dave.” O’Brien disconnected, found the satellite map image on his phone, the image that Joe Billie had pointed out the location of the hunter’s trail camera. O’Brien programmed his phone to follow the coordinates. “Your destination is two-point-two miles,” came the GPS directions from the speaker.

  O’Brien drove down the dirt road from Lloyd Hawkins’ driveway and mailbox, heading northeast on ranch property. He was going in the general direction of the temple mound. O’Brien thought about the history connected to the mound. It was a time capsule of past events, human bones, European beads, Spanish Conquistadors, and one of the last strongholds of the Seminoles who fought to keep off the Trail of Tears.