Murder in the Magic City
By G.P. Sorrells
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 Greg Sorrells
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
To request permissions, contact the publisher at [email protected]
Paperback ISBN: 9798596876949
First edition April 2021
Chapter 1
Micah Brantley sat calmly on a rickety, weathered wooden bench, waiting for his latest victim to stroll by. He had sat in the same spot for over an hour and was growing tired of the wait. It didn’t help that the seat felt just slightly more comfortable than sitting on random 2x4s tossed haphazardly in a pile. In its heyday, Micah imagined the bench existing in a regal state befitting the buttocks of the city’s elite. Though, truth be told, it seemed likely that it was never much more luxurious than its current state. It existed only as a resting point for more active pursuits.
The bench sat along the edge of a running trail in Crandon Park, a massive recreational area in Key Biscayne, Florida. In 1940, the children of an American industrialist named William John Matheson donated the land to Dade County on the condition it was promptly turned into a public park and used only for that purpose. In response to their generosity, Charles H. Crandon, for whom the park gained its namesake, vowed to have a causeway built on behalf of the county which would connect Key Biscayne to the mainland. The nation’s involvement in World War II caused delays in the causeway’s construction, but they eventually completed both projects in 1947 and the park opened to the public.
It was a sprawling facility, stretching out over 800 acres. A plethora of visitors explored the grounds each day, traversing nearly every available inch of the property. This included the expectedly enormous expanse of tarmac designed to hold a few thousand vehicles at any point during the park’s operating hours. At night, however, the park was quieter and offered a way to experience the beauty of the Miami coastline without all the hustle and bustle of the city. That serenity came in handy at moments like these.
Micah had never met Edgar Jennings. Hell, he had known little about the man outside of his chosen profession, but none of that mattered in Micah’s line of work. The hit that came through to Micah made it quite apparent that Jennings had angered the wrong person. The reason was irrelevant. People will go to amazing extremes financially to rid themselves of a problem they could have taken care of for free by utilizing their own two hands.
Most people don’t like to get their hands dirty as much as they may attempt to lead others to believe. That truth was more than fine with Micah. He had lined his pockets plenty over the years with the dirty money that came into his possession because he was willing and capable of doing the unthinkable. One thing he had learned early on, which helped to shape his outlook on his chosen career path, was that dirty money spent just as easily as money gained through more socially acceptable routes.
The life of Mr. Jennings was worth twenty-five thousand dollars to the client who had made use of the services Micah offered. They made certain to stress the importance of completing the job unseen. There was no bravado necessary, no show necessary for when this poor sap had the last bit of life escape his being. Micah simply needed to remain inconspicuous, leading up to the kill, and his actions immediately afterward couldn’t betray the truths of his being at the scene. He was to operate as a ghost. An overgrown poltergeist sent forth by the highest bidder to reign terror upon the world. The world of Mr. Jennings, at least. Since the two men had no prior history, being low key in the presence of his target wasn’t something Micah considered being a problem.
The perfectionist in him, however, saw things in a different light. Micah wanted to be certain he had the right guy before he made his move, which meant he needed to be close enough to see the man’s face and confirm that it was his target. There was no sense in spilling the blood of an otherwise innocent person because they had the same hair color and a similar build as the man looking back at him from the wallet sized photograph he had tucked away in his pants pocket. Not to mention it would be a whole other mess to worry about cleaning up.
Getting close meant Micah had to be careful to come across as unassuming as possible in his wardrobe selection so as not to alert Jennings that something was amiss. The thing about men like Jennings, though, was it typically took blatancy to make them realize the world wasn’t operating under their interpretation of the status quo. It revolved around something far greater than the sum of all they had ever amounted to; they weren’t the center of the universe, though they would prefer to believe the opposite. Loud colors were out of the question. The possibility of a witness in the vicinity was always a variable to consider, regardless of how well thought out a plan may be. Even the emptiest of locales had a funny way of producing a stray person or two at the worst moment possible.
No matter how intelligent one felt, it simply wasn’t possible to account for a variable that thrived on unpredictability. The last thing Micah wanted was a witness suddenly remembering a man fitting his description in the area at the time of the murder. That coupled with the near inevitability of cameras made dull tones a must. A light jogging suit was also out of the question thanks to the abnormally cold temperatures the Miami area had been privy to the last few days because of a cold front that had overstayed its welcome.
Few people north of the state are ever willing to acknowledge, at least until they arrive for what they expect to be a vacation chock full of trips to the beach, that it gets cold every now and again across the state of Florida; even in the tropical climate of Miami. Although there aren’t weeks of blistering colds and heavy blizzards, the area can drop to the low 30s occasionally which, for an environment that typically finds itself at nearly three times that temperature can end up feeling chilly. Not necessarily frigid by the standards of most people used to that sort of weather, although they bundle up just the same, but cold.
As it was, the winds made it feel cooler than the actual temperature would have him believe, and jogging in these conditions is the type of activity that only a madman would consider; or a person too crazy to take their health-conscious ideals with them to a gym. The soft pitter-patter of Nike’s contacting fresh cement gradually rose as the distance between the sound and Micah’s position disappeared. He watched as Jennings suddenly appeared from around the corner of a restroom pavilion, along the trail for those exercise enthusiasts foolhardy enough to go for a jog after a night of heavy drinking. The target didn’t seem bothered much by the weather or the physical exertion. He simply plodded away as though nothing was outside the ordinary.
Jennings watched the path before him straighten out as he passed the restroom pavilion. He noticed a man sitting on a bench up ahead, staring off into the distance, seemingly at nothing. He thought it was odd that anyone would willingly choose to sit out in the open at this time of night, when the wind struck one’s skin like millions of needle-sharp icicles, but he decided it made sense as he came closer and saw the way the man carried himself.
The man wore jeans that had faded to a pale blue following many years of heavy use, a ratty pair of yellow work boots with dried mud caked into the leather, and a ragged looking gray sweater he probably stole from a nearby Wal-Mart. In his right hand was a brown paper bag with the top of a bottle protruding from the opening.
There was no doubting that the man was a transient citizen. However, it may have been a recent development considering his oddly trimmed facial hair. He even had on a pair of sunglasses. It was most peculiar—the sun had set hours before — but Jennings just assumed the man was blind.
At any rate, Jennings was civil and nodded at the burly drunk as he jogged by. The man returned the nod, saluting as he took a swig of his gift-wrapped drink. Jennings continued along the trail, shaking his head in disbelief. He never saw the homeless man stand up and disappear into the shadows.
Once Micah confirmed his target and knew the man was out of earshot, he stood up from the bench and hurried toward the parking lot. There were only three cars parked across the monumental tarmac expanse. Although he hadn’t seen the car Jennings had arrived in, Micah didn’t figure it would be all that difficult to figure out. If the Armani jogging suit that Jennings wore was any sign, the man had money and enjoyed showing it off. A quick survey of the lot’s inventory revealed just one car worth over five grand, a silver Mercedes.
Micah approached the sedan once he was certain no one was near its corner spot. The most vital requirement of the job, outside of the obvious, was a quick discovery. Of everything that went into taking the life of another, the notion of discovery was always an interesting topic of discussion. Some clients wanted the target to face humiliation in death, for their last moments to be something that would torment them for however long it took to reach their own point of no return. Perhaps it was a way of recompense for whatever the target had done to wrong the client. Truth was, Micah didn’t much care about the reason, so long as the money rolled in.
For every client who wished something truly horrendous upon their foe, there were five or ten others for whom expediency was key. The how wasn’t nearly as important as the result. They concerned themselves more with the notion of their problems disappearing and the impact it would have on their own lives. Micah had even dealt with a client or two who had had second thoughts after making their initial payment. That was especially troublesome since he normally collected half up front and half upon completion. One can’t trust a party who gets a bit bothered by the intricacies of ordering a hit, and what it ultimately entails. Micah always got his full payment, but he didn’t always make it out with only the target on their way to the county morgue.
Knowing that a hasty discovery of the body was key to a successful operation, Micah felt at ease with his choice in locale. According to the sticker in the park’s office window, the grounds would open to the public in less than twelve hours. The sheer amount of traffic Crandon Park experienced daily meant someone would inevitably stumble upon his handiwork before long.
His options for completing the task were, however, limited. He could confront Jennings directly, allowing the target a chance to beg for his life before ultimately realizing that its end was out of his control. Micah could take him out with a shot to the head from his pistol or devise some way to catch him off guard when he got close and then go in for the kill. He mulled over his options for a moment, his eyes focused on nothing more than an oddly speckled patch of asphalt before the sound of a twig snapping brought him back to reality. He kneeled behind the middle of the trunk and put on a pair of gloves.
Jennings had slowed to a walk as he reached the end of the trail. He was in cooldown mode and sweat poured from his body as though a minute creature stood atop his shoulders with a bucket, furiously attempting to prevent the man from drowning in his own perspiration. He removed a small towel from his front pocket, opened it up from its neat folds and wiped his brow. The jog had taken more out of him than he expected, given the circumstances. Training for a marathon will do that to even the most experienced runners. He longed for the lukewarm bottle of water in his car and the nourishment that would accompany it.
The footsteps grew louder as Micah unsheathed a four-inch tactical blade. It was completely black, chosen with purpose so that it would appear as nothing more than a crude extension of his arm to the watchful eyes of any cameras in the area. Only one of which could even see the scene unfold. The Mercedes beeped twice, and its hazards flashed, announcing its owner’s presence. Micah peered around the side of the car and saw Jennings reaching for the handle.
In an instant, he was behind Jennings, blade out. Jennings grabbed hold of the handle and opened the door, but never made it further. Micah immediately grabbed the side of Jennings’s head with his left hand while raising his right arm, the blade pointed inward. He thrust his right arm quickly to the opposite side. The blade entered Jennings’s neck, sending a sudden burst of crimson onto the car’s door and the ground below. Micah had plunged the knife with so much force that it nearly went through the Jennings’s neck.
The body of his target tensed upon impact, as though Jennings realized briefly what was taking place, that his hold on life was fading before he fell limp. Micah let the body drop and grabbed the towel that had been in the man’s hand. The gloves wouldn’t leave any fingerprints, but one could never be too careful in his line of work. Looking around, he saw the keys to the Mercedes on the ground next to the body. He grabbed them, stepped over Jennings, sat inside the plush leather seats, and fired up the engine.
Chapter 2
Ross Sheridan arrived home with a Kool-Aid smile on his face, following a successful blind date. One that found him consuming far more alcohol than he had planned on initially. It was his first actual date since his marriage had ended a few months earlier. Their marriage had lasted just three years and, so far as he could tell, things had been going great. Until he walked in on her and a coworker doing the birthday suit shuffle. Sheridan could never hope to clarify how the rage that seethed through every part of his body at that moment didn’t explode into an act that certainly would have helped his chances of landing on America’s Most Wanted.
His lawyer’s theory was that, subconsciously, he had suspected her of doing it all along, and the blatant affirmation of that idea produced no shock since it simply reaffirmed what he knew to be true at a subconscious level. Sheridan didn’t pay his lawyer to talk to him while he lay on a couch, though. He paid him to get positive results in the custody battle. Positive results were the type of line item his lawyer prided himself on being able to gather. He proved his worth by gaining full custody of the couple’s daughter for his client.
Sheridan had hired a babysitter for the night. He hired her to watch his daughter, Madeline, until midnight. He extended that by a couple of hours once the signals his date sent him finally broke through his slightly drunken stupor. After several embarrassingly unsuccessful attempts to awaken the beast while inside the confines of his date’s bedroom, he arranged a second get together with the lovely lady and hailed a ride share to take him home.
It was one thirty in the morning when he strolled up to his house. As expected, no one else in the little cookie cutter neighborhood they lived in was up at such a late hour. He reached the door and noticed that it hadn’t been closed completely. This struck him as odd, but he quickly resigned himself to the notion that they may have had a pizza delivered and forgotten to secure the door before sitting down to enjoy the feast. She should’ve known better. Unless… the fog that had settled over his brain vanished and he reached for the pistol he kept holstered on his back.
The safety released, Sheridan slowly chambered a round and drew the gun up to eye level. With his free hand, he nudged the door open and listened for some reassurance that this was all a big misunderstanding. Nothing. He stepped inside and walked forward two feet before he heard the sound that would haunt him for years to come. Madeline let out a gut-wrenching shriek that would make a banshee sound like it simply whispered its evil. The wail came from above. Adrenaline instantly consumed every particle of Sheridan’s being and he barreled up the stairs.
The floorboards creaked loudly, announcing his presence to even the hardest of hearing individuals in the vicinity as he came closer to the second-floor landing. He felt like he was ru
nning through a river of molasses, but the jaunt only took a couple seconds. He reached the top and froze. There was a man standing five feet in front of him with a tiny ball of white underneath, and a blade on the floor beside it. The man didn’t seem to notice Sheridan’s presence until it was too late.
“You motherfucker!” Sheridan roared as he rushed forward and pummeled the man, lifting the poor sap’s body upward and propelling it, partially, into a nearby wall. The man was scrawny and smelled of a poor strain of cannabis. His body didn’t tense as Sheridan hit him, and the resulting impact was akin to a sack of potatoes slamming into a brick wall courtesy of a Mack truck. The man dropped to the floor and laid motionless as Sheridan hurried over to Madeline. She lay quietly on the mahogany floor, surrounded by a puddle of her own blood. Her right hand clutched a little brown teddy bear wearing a blue shirt. She wasn’t moving, and Sheridan knew there wasn’t much time to make things right with the world. He checked her pulse. Barely there. He leaned down and attempted to resuscitate her.
One… two… three.
Nothing.
One… two… three…
“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured between tears. “Wake up, for Daddy.” But she didn’t move. She just lay there like a discarded toy. He checked her pulse again. More of the same. He grabbed her lifeless body and brought her face to his own. He sobbed for what felt like hours. His little girl was gone, and he hadn’t been there to protect her. If only he hadn’t…
The other man suddenly moved around behind Sheridan, adrenaline momentarily forcing aside the effects of his mild concussion. Sheridan laid Madeline’s body down carefully and stood up with his pistol drawn on the man who had ripped his heart out and tossed it into the proverbial gutter. Madeline was all he had in the world. The only profoundly good thing he had a hand in, and she had drifted off into an eternal slumber without hearing her daddy whisper his love for her one last time. Fear was all she knew in her last moments. Sheridan strafed slowly to the left, away from her body, in case the man tried something stupid. He watched as the man stood up, supporting himself on one knee with his left arm as he used all his energy to maintain balance.
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