“That would be good.”
O’Brien opened the refrigerator door, got out two bottles of water, and unscrewed the tops. He handed one to Billie.
“Thanks. Speaking of German imports, where’s little Max?”
“At the marina. Dave and Nick are taking turns dog sitting. I’ll run over there and get her. She can keep you company. Max knows where the big bass hide in the river.”
“Where will you go after that?”
“Back on the trail. I need to track down Lawrence Barton’s Range Rover.”
“Sean, let the police find it.”
“The police didn’t even know it was near the crime scene until I sent them the video. Maybe they’ll find it. I hope so. But we need to know who was in the front seat with Barton, forcing him to drive to the mound. When we find that, you’ll be a free man.”
Billie was quiet a moment, walking across the hardwood floors, glancing out a window and then turning back to O’Brien. “I don’t know how to repay you for what you have done.”
“It’s what a friend does for a real friend. It’s never about repaying; it’s about being there when a friend needs you. You’ve always been there for me. And at least one of those times … maybe more, you saved my life. I would have bled out if you weren’t there. That black drink, the stuff Sam Otter gave you, is that the same thing you brewed that night we escaped the drug cartel in the Ocala National Forest, all shot up, finally making it to the spring. That’s where I began to fade, looking at the moonlight off the turquoise blue of the water bubbling up from earth. The liquid I drank that night, the stuff you made out of that spring water and some weeds you boiled, is it the same as what the old medicine man made for you?”
“Similar. Sam Otter’s drink is much more powerful.”
O’Brien smiled. “Considering the hallucinations, that’s hard to believe.”
“Where is the jar?”
“Still in the Jeep. You want it?”
“No. Keep it. You might need it on your journey.”
“I hope not. If I need it, that’ll mean I’ve probably been shot. I’d prefer to use preventive medicine … stay away from surprises rather than trying to take the medicine afterward.”
Billie smiled, lifting his bottle of water in a toast. “To few surprises, Sean.”
“Cheers.” He sipped water and pointed to a gun case in the corner. O’Brien opened it and removed a pistol. “This is a .357. Loaded. Here’s a box of rounds. If you need it, Joe, it’s here. And don’t hesitate to use it if someone is trying to come through the door.”
“You really think the mob’s coming for me?”
“It depends on how far they’ve advanced with Charlie Tiger and what they think you’d be willing to do that would jeopardize their business operations. Maybe you can call your sister to get a reading on what’s happening.”
“Around Charlie, she’s intimidated. Doesn’t say much.”
“She’s a mother, and most likely she’s a good one. A mother’s instinct to protect her child is more powerful than any concoction that Sam Otter can brew. Talk to your sister, Nita. Maybe she’ll offer something. In the meantime, sit tight, Joe. Let me do some deeper checking. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. And what ever you do, answer your phone when I call.”
“I think I’ll walk down by the river.”
O’Brien picked up a third clip for his Glock, extra rounds, standing on the screen porch, Joe walking across the yard toward the slow-moving river. O’Brien got in his Jeep, putting all the windows down, the breeze picking up. He watched Billie sit in a kneeling position at the end of the dock, looking across the river, listening to nature. Billie slowly raised his hands up and then lowered them to his side.
The poignant calls of a mourning dove came from across the river, its echoes skipping over the water like the splashes of a tossed stone before fading to the bottom of the river as Joe Billie looked up to the sky. An eagle called out, its cries seemed to be directed at a solitary man alone at the end of a dock, the whispers of the river and the ghosts of his ancestors flowing beneath him.
NINETY-THREE
The two calls that O’Brien wanted to make couldn’t have been more different. He’d start by calling one of the people who first arrived at the crime scene and saw the bloodied body of Lawrence Barton. The second call would be to Barton’s wife. O’Brien pulled to the shoulder of the back road en route to the marina. He held his phone, scrolling down to find the information. He tapped the number sent by Dave Collins, the call going through to an office in Tallahassee, the office of anthropologist, Dr. Beverly Sanchez.
“Department of Cultural Affairs, Vicki speaking.”
“Hi, Vicki. Beverly, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Sean O’Brien.”
“Please hold.”
There was a fifteen second pause and a woman said, “This is Dr. Sanchez, may I help you.”
“Dr. Sanchez, my name is Sean O’Brien. I admire your work with the Florida Forever project.”
“Thank you. We can never get enough land held in the public trust.”
“I agree. I have some acreage on the St. Johns River I plan to eventually donate to the state.”
“At one time, the St. Johns River basin supported tens of thousands of native people—and these tribes were here at least twelve thousands years ago. It’s very thoughtful of you wanting to donate land. Most people are looking to sell rather than give.”
“I hope the state will purchase the Hawkins ranch down in Citrus County.”
“That’s truly old Florida. We made a tentative offer and then that horrific murder happened. Perhaps when things settle down more the Hawkins will sell, but I’m not sure now.”
“You mean because of the crime?”
“No, I’m not sure the interest is there anymore. Mr. Hawkins turned down the state’s offer, and we’re not in the financial position to counter. Maybe he’ll reconsider. How can I help you today, Mr. O’Brien?”
“I do want to eventually donate my river property to the state, but that’s not the only reason I’m calling. I’m a private investigator.”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve told the police all I know.”
“Did they ask how you were the first one to discover the body?”
“Not in those specific terms. They asked me what I saw when I found it. I’m sorry, but I should be going. Are you recording this call?”
“No, and I have only one question … why wasn’t Lloyd Hawkins with you on the ATV’s when you found the body?”
“Well, as we approached the mound, he suggested that we split up. He would lead my colleague, Eric, to the right or in a northward direction on their ATV’s. I was supposed to go southward, or to the left with another grad student, James, and we’d all meet up somewhere on the far side of the mound. So when Mr. Hawkins and Eric left on their leg of the journey, James and I headed in the opposite direction. We made it about two hundred yards before we could smell something dead. And when we came a little closer … it was awful.”
“Dr. Sanchez, thank you for your time.”
“You did only ask one question.”
“That’s all I needed. Next time I’m in Tallahassee, I’d like to make an appointment to tell you more about my river property and the Timucua Indian mound on it. Bye.” He disconnected, pulled back on the county road, heading for the marina.
He wasn’t looking forward to calling Lawrence Barton’s widow.
But he had no choice.
NINETY-FOUR
After four rings, O’Brien thought his call would go to voice-mail. Then someone was on the phone, but the response was slow, hesitant. The woman said, “Hello.” O’Brien could tell that her voice was hollow, slightly hoarse, as if she’d cried a lot.
“Mrs. Barton?”
“Yes … who’s calling?”
“My name is Sean O’Brien. First, I want to let you know how very sorry I was to hear about your husband’s death.”
&n
bsp; “Did you know Larry?”
“Not personally, no ma’am, but I knew of his work. My deepest condolences.”
“Thank you.” She coughed, a slight hacking sound into the phone. “Are you from the insurance company, if so, I want you to know that we never missed a payment.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. I’m part of the investigation looking into your husband’s death.”
“I don’t know what more I can tell you detectives.”
“I only have two questions.”
“What’s that?”
“Did Larry call you before he was killed, sometime that day?”
“Yes. But I’ve already told the other detective that.”
“Last question—when Larry last called, did you know exactly where he was at the time?”
“Yes, of course. I already said that, too. He was finishing his dialysis at the Chamberlain Dialysis Center on Southside Boulevard in Orlando.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Barton.”
“Larry felt safe there.”
“Where? The clinic?”
“No, at the place where he was killed. He’d gone out there before … twice.”
“Why?”
“He was hunting for something.” She coughed.
“Did he tell you what it was?”
“Larry had an old diary he’d bought in an estate sale. A soldier who’d fought in the Seminole Wars had written it many years ago. The man wrote that Chief Osceola’s knife, the one he used to thrust into a government treaty that was put on the table for him to sign, was hidden in a cave somewhere close to the mound. My husband died trying to locate a historical knife.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Barton. I truly am. We’ll find the person responsible.”
“You already did! The man responsible for Larry’s death is Joe Billie. I can’t believe they let him out of jail on bond. Joe Billie is a killer. What if he leaves the country?”
“He won’t do that, ma’am.”
“How can you know that?”
“Because Joe Billie didn’t kill your husband. We will find out who did, and we’ll find out very soon. Thank you for your time.” O’Brien disconnected. He drove another mile, thinking. He called Dave Collins. “I spoke with Lawrence Barton’s widow.”
“How’d that go over?”
“She told me the last time she talked to her husband, the day of his death, he had just finished a dialysis session at the Chamberlain Clinic on Southside Boulevard in Orlando. Can you look at satellite images and street-view angles to see if there are surveillance cameras pointing toward the clinic’s parking lot?”
“I’ll look for all physical angles of available cameras, across the street, et cetera. And I’ll do one better.” Dave lowered his voice, his tone calculating, evaluating the odds and the potential return.
“What’s that?” O’Brien asked.
“I’ll call the medical clinic, find out if they have a camera that covers the parking lot. I’ll let them know that my investigative partner will come by shortly to look at or retrieve the images.”
“Sometimes I think you really miss your old job.”
“I do. How’s Joe?”
“Introspective. I left him at the cabin. He tells me he’ll stay there.”
“For his sake, I hope he understands that.”
“I spoke with Dr. Beverly Sanchez, the state anthropologist who was one of the ones to first discover the body. She and a couple of grad students were surveying the Hawkins ranch land, with Lloyd Hawkins, when they entered the area of the mound. She told me that Hawkins suggested they split up and circle around the mound, in opposite directions, meeting on the far side. She and one of the grad students had gone a couple hundred yards when they ran up on Barton, dead and scalped.”
“If I can read between the lines you’re painting, the inference I’m getting from you is that Lloyd Hawkins may have known about the body and wanted someone to officially find it first, if you will.”
“Or it could be nothing criminal at all. Or maybe he knew his son Bobby killed Barton. Maybe both could be killers in tandem, like father like son, working for the mob or Charlie Tiger.”
“It’s all speculation, of course. It may have been nothing more than Hawkins giving Dr. Sanchez and her entourage an interesting way to initially explore the mound from ground level.”
“There’s something else the widow said. She told me that her husband had gone to the ranch property twice before. He’d had that diary from a soldier who’d fought in the last Seminole War. One of the entries noted was that Osceola’s famed treaty signing knife was hidden in a cave not far from the mound. So if Barton had been on the land before, chances are he’d been given permission from Lloyd Hawkins or Bobby.”
“Which means they were familiar with him. And if one or both were collaborating with Charlie Tiger, the mob, or even the detective in the tribe’s police department … they may have been told about Barton’s earlier history with Joe.”
“Bingo. And that’s another reason for me to head back to the ranch.”
“Keep this in mind, Sean … it’s more than eleven thousand acres, close to eighteen square miles. If what your gut is telling you about the Hawkins’ is true—and we don’t know that it is, there are plenty of places within eighteen square miles for them to hide a body. If one or both of them participated in the murder of Lawrence Barton, staging a gruesome scene to be falsely linked to Joe Billie, they could certainly hide a body much easier. If they dropped it in the Withlacoochee River, the gators would eat everything … even those tough boat shoes you wear.”
“Thanks for the potential scenario, Dave.”
“How far are you out from the marina.”
“About twenty minutes.”
“That should give me time to see if there are security cameras at or near the dialysis clinic. And, if we’re lucky, maybe one of them captured the last car ride of Lawrence Barton.”
NINETY-FIVE
O’Brien walked fast down L dock, heading for a boat near the end. Max spotted him first. She sat on a canvas deck chair on the cockpit of Nick’s boat, St. Michael, barking twice as O’Brien approached. The smell of smoked fish was in the air. Max jumped off the chair, turning a full circle, eyes bright, pink tongue showing.
“Hot Dog,” Nick said, coming out of the boat’s salon. “It’s either Ol’ Joe the cat, or Sean.” Nick looked up, squinting to keep the sun from his black eyes. “It’s Sean. I might even do a little Greek dance ‘cause we don’t see Papa Sean so much anymore, right Maxie?”
She snorted. Nick laughed, raising a half empty bottle of Corona toward O’Brien. “Sean, you’re just in time for Nick’s semi-famous groupa soupa. I cut up the potatoes, carrots, onions, celery, secret Greek spices and nine pounds of fresh grouper. I throw in two of the fish heads. That gives the soup more flavor and richness. Brain food.” Nick grinned, his moustache rising.
“Thanks, but I’m here for just a few minutes. I need to check something with Dave and head back out.” O’Brien knelt down, closer to Nick, lowering his voice. “Did Dave give you one of my guns?”
“Yeah, man. I’m packin, baby.’ I got the .44 magnum. Sleep with it under my feather pillow.”
“Good. Keep doing it.”
“Do you think these bad boys, the freakin’ mafia are really gonna come in here? To come inside Nick Cronus’ world to start some shit? I use ‘em for shark chum.”
“Just keep your eyes open, Nick, okay? These guys are more coldblooded than you can imagine. And they’re fast. They could be in and out of L dock within a couple of minutes. Trust no one these next few days.”
“That’ll be easy. I don’t trust anyone now. Except for you, Dave, and my gal pal, Hot Dog. But I’m pissed I have to lock up my boat at night. I miss the cross breeze.”
“It’s better than crossfire. And it won’t be this way much longer.”
“No problem, Sean. We always got your back. What you’re tryin’ to do for Joe, is probably the ultimate in watching so
meone’s back. How is he? Dave told me he’s out on bail.”
O’Brien could smell the beer and ouzo on Nick’s breath. “He’s okay. Doing the best he can, considering the circumstances.”
“Yeah man. It’s all over the damn news. Ever’ body at the Tiki Bar’s talkin’ about it. What can you do, Sean? Why the hell is the mafia after Joe?”
“I’m not sure of all the details. But I will be soon. Thanks for keeping an eye on Max. Come on kiddo, let’s go.”
Max climbed up the three steps leading from St. Michael to the dock, scampering around to O’Brien. He picked her up, scratching her behind the ears. “I need to see Dave for a minute.”
Nick lifted his beer in a toast. “I got a new girlfriend that loves lil’ Max. I think the only reason she sees me is ‘cause of Hot Dog. Don’t keep Maxine away too long. My gal pal on two legs might leave me.” He drained the beer, his face flushing, eyes moist.
Dave sat at a small table under a canvas awning on Gibraltar’s cockpit. He wore swim trunks. Shirtless. A mat of cotton white hair across his thick chest. Dave tapped a computer keyboard as O’Brien stepped onto the cockpit. “You got here fast. I see you pried Max away from Nick.”
“It seems to be a reciprocal relationship. She’s amiable for food.” O’Brien glanced down at Dave’s computer. “Any luck?”
“Luck has nothing to do with my professional charm. I spoke with the assistant manager of the Chamberlain Clinic. The gent’s name is Andy Lewis. He’s pulling video footage from up to five days before the murder. I didn’t, of course, mention a murder … only the fact that we’re looking for images of a 2016 white Range Rover.”
“Will I have to show a badge when I meet him?”
“I doubt that will be necessary.”
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