The cremation of one, Marco Fedorov, was unsanctioned. No paperwork had been filled out or submitted to alert anyone involved of the facilities being used on the night in question. Mr. Fedorov wasn’t even slated to be on the premises.
“According to witness testimony,” Vivian muttered to herself, reading Osteen’s typed report, “an armed man barged into the premises and forced the attendant to persuade Mr. Fedorov to travel to their location. The witness remembers nothing after that–someone knocked him unconscious. When he came to, he discovered the armed man had trapped him in a box. Fearing the armed man had buried him alive, the witness cried out for help. Once out of the box, he discovered his assailant had disappeared. He immediately called the authorities.”
In searching the crematorium, the witness discovered that the cremation chamber had recently ceased functioning. The body which had been inside was long gone, reduced to ashes. In its wake were the remnants of a titanium knee. He reported his findings to the officers on the scene, but nothing about a dead person’s replacement knee was the least bit interesting.
“Can’t say I blame them. Shit, if I were in their shoes, I don’t think I would’ve chalked it up to anything more than negligence by the staff.”
In her search of arbitrary words, Vivian found a connection. Minor, to be fair, but she had to start somewhere. Cracking any case rarely occurs as the result of a Holmesian ability to manifest a clue out of thin air–combining seemingly unrelated factums and arriving at the answer that had eluded all others. Detective work often relied on a snowball effect, linking enough similar clues together until the picture they combined to create could be nothing more than the answer.
The funeral parlor, owned by the deceased, was in Hialeah, Florida, a mere eleven-mile jaunt from Medina’s home on Fisher Island. It didn’t seem likely that he would have use for the services of a funeral home built for the average person, but the same may not hold true for the men he employed.
“Let’s keep digging,” Vivian said, cheerfully, as she moved forward in her quest for answers.
Chapter 55
Micah sat on the couch, gazing at the television as he waited for the news anchor, a reporter, or hell, some random guy off the street even, to share the good news. Valerie handed him a cup of coffee and sat down next to him, snuggling in close. He put an arm around her and kissed lightly on her forehead.
“Anything interesting?”
“Not yet,” Micah said. “Unless you like hearing the same weather report spelled out to you slightly differently every ten minutes. Otherwise, it’s been forgettable.”
“You mean to tell me there’s a channel that can force feed me the same information without the need to press rewind? Sign me up.”
It felt like ages since Micah had seen Valerie like this, willing to joke about something so silly as a poorly formatted news segment. He was happy to see her turning a corner in her recovery. “It’s really something.”
“We have some breaking news for you, ladies and gentlemen,” said the nondescript anchor on the other side of the television screen. “Sources tell us that a man believed to be Jimmy ‘The Clap’ Castillo was found dead in his beachfront apartment last night. Witnesses reported hearing a loud crack, followed shortly afterward by screaming. No cause of death has been announced, but police are investigating this further as they believe it may have some link to organized crime in the area. We will share more information the moment it becomes available. Now, back to Monica in Biscayne Bay for the Shells and Bells 5k Run.”
“Serves that son of a bitch right,” Valerie said.
Micah smiled, but kept quiet. He couldn’t risk incriminating himself in the matter in the off chance anyone came by to speak with Valerie. His phone rang abruptly, breaking an otherwise comfortable quiet. He set down his coffee and stepped outside, his cheerful demeanor disappearing with each step. “Hello?”
“I need you down here. Immediately,” Medina said. The voice that had always seemed stern and domineering was suddenly fragile, as though the slightest breeze would tear it apart.
“Everything okay?” Micah asked despite knowing the answer. He was genuinely curious to hear Medina’s response. The phone clicked before he could pose his question a second time. He glanced at it with a dumbfounded look before returning to his perch on the couch.
Chapter 56
Medina sat with measured angst at his desk. A cigar hung from the corner of his mouth, the free end begging to be lit as the other was gradually chewed down to something resembling a wad of paper. The man who had served so many years as his right hand, the man who would one day take the reins of his entire operation, was now out of the picture. Murdered. No longer did he have the luxury of maintaining such a high level of trust in someone other than himself.
The surrounding walls crumbled slowly, creating a feeling that their destruction would continue in perpetuity. His façade, built up over the years as he ascended the ranks within the seedy underbelly of the civilized world, was cracking. Not since he was a young boy, fresh off the raft, had he felt so weak. He hated it. Wanted nothing more than to eradicate every sliver of pain he felt in that moment. Unfortunately for Medina, there is a stark contrast between that which we want and that which the fates dictates are befitting for our station at any singular point in life. Try as he might to prove the contrary, his will was not worth more than what he was incapable of controlling.
Micah strolled into the room, his casual demeanor immediately at odds with the dour look on Medina’s face. He pocketed his phone and came to an awkward, abrupt halt. “What’s going on, Carlos?”
“I take it you haven’t seen the news?” Medina shook his head and leaned over, rummaging around the drawers of the desk. “Don’t know what it is about your generation. Technology at your fingertips that lets you know everything going on, accessible in an instant, but you’re always far too concerned with inane bullshit. Swiping this way and that as you fawn over the next piece of ass, that’ll forget about you quicker than you can drain your battery.”
Micah rolled his eyes. “You’re a little too young to call me down here for one of those rants.”
The fire that normally lived within Medina flared up for a moment, his eyes locking onto Micah. “Sit.” He retrieved two snifter glasses and a bottle of barrel-aged rum. “It’s Jimmy.”
Micah sat in a chair opposite Medina and watched as the elder man poured the crisp, amber liquor into each glass, eventually sliding one across the table. “What about him?”
“He’s dead.” Medina paused for a moment, as if waiting for a specific one that would tell him if the ordeal had been an inside job. Micah met his gaze with silence. “Someone took him out last night. I don’t know how they got to him, but I’ve got to imagine they’re going to be coming for me next.”
“And what would you like me to do about it?”
“Figure out who did this and take care of the problem before it reaches my doorstep. I pay you to make my problems disappear.”
The ever-present memories rushed forward on the heels of a searing pain across the middle of Micah’s head. He winced as he took a sip of the rum. “Powerful stuff.” He closed his eyes for a moment, trying in vain to clear his mind. When his efforts proved futile, he gulped the remaining liquid and returned the glass to the table.
“Normally, this is a situation where Jimmy would move me to a safe house while he or his men ran interference on whoever was making a move against us. Since that’s no longer possible, you’re my next best option.”
Gunshots rang out in the distance, nearly drowned out by yelling and screaming. The sounds weren’t terribly close, but it was enough to make Medina shift uncomfortably in his seat.
“By the sounds of it, I’m not sure you have enough time to make it to a safe house. Think this place may have to be a stand-in for one.”
“What? What did you do?” The question left Medina’s lips, fear and rage intertwined as the realization that
Micah had betrayed him sank in.
“Let’s be real, Carlito, you brought this on yourself.” Micah said. He pulled an envelope from his pocket and placed it on the table.
“What’s this? Shouldn’t I be the one paying you for fucking me?” Medina stood up, a vein pulsing in his forehead, as he contemplated throwing his glass at Micah. A single, futile effort to give him even the slimmest glimmer of hope that he could make it out with his life. But reality hit him like a ton of bricks almost immediately. He slumped back into the seat and gulped the amber liquid. Chasing it soon after with a swig directly from the bottle.
“You’re delusional if you think anything started once I came into the picture.” Medina opened the envelope and removed a cellphone and a set of keys. “Right now, you’re probably wondering who’s outside. Curious as you may be about the contents of the envelope, that question just keeps nagging at you. The answer is simple. It’s the Good Ole Boys.”
“What the hell do they want? I don’t have any beef with them.”
“Oh, but you do. A little while back, Jimmy had me run a job with him. We met up with some of those guys on a little gun deal.” Medina looked at him, perplexed. “Yea, I had a feeling you didn’t know about that move. It was a bit too quiet to have been a sanctioned gig. Well, things went south while we were conducting our business. A few of their guys ended up dead and we left with all their valuables. Drugs, guns, the whole nine. Jimmy had been doing this for a little while and only brought me in once he knew he could trust me.”
“That turned out to be a mistake,” Medina said. The rum coursed through his veins at rocket speed; its effects bringing a bit of calm to his being. “Still doesn’t explain the purpose of the phone and keys.”
“The keys are for the padlocks on the storage units where we kept everything. Couldn’t exactly take it back to my place without arousing suspicion from the misses, and Jimmy didn’t want to risk having it in a spot so obviously tied to himself. The phone? That’s got GPS tracking for the Good Ole Boys. I texted them the number before I came in here and let them know how to find their stuff. Said the keys were going to be in the same spot as the phone.”
The gunshots were close enough that the two men could hear the accompanying thuds of bodies with an unpleasant clarity.
“You really are a motherfucker, Micah.”
“I’ve been called worse. Truth be told, that’s probably letting me off easy.”
“Just answer me one question.”
Micah looked down at his watch, estimating how much time Medina had left before his rope frayed into nothing but loose strands. “Shoot.”
“Why’d you do it? Why throw this all away to appease some redneck, cousin-fucking idiots that probably can’t even afford to pay you back for the tip?”
“How about I answer your questions with one of my own,” Micah said, standing up and walking around to the backside of the desk. The throbbing headache hadn’t abated, but he was determined to take advantage of the moment. To find answers to a question he only recently searched for answers to. “Did you order Jimmy to boost a lockbox from some poor schmuck’s house? Guy had a daughter. Didn’t make it. From the way things looked, the guy probably wasn’t supposed to make it either.”
Medina sat quietly. At first, Micah assumed he had been deep in thought, racking his brain for a reason he had made the call. Or, possibly, formulating an excuse for why it didn’t happen. A full minute later, he was still silent, and it became glaringly obvious that he wouldn’t willingly share the information. Micah removed his pistol from its holster, pulled back the slide to chamber a round, and aimed it squarely at Medina’s chest.
Medina let out a hearty chuckle. “I’m already dead, pendejo. You saw to that. Only thing that gun is going to do is speed up this process.”
“Tell me what I want to know,” Micah said, his grip tightening. Medina smirked. In an instant, the gun spun around in Micah’s hands, his arm raised up, and then crashed down, the cold steel connecting with the side of Medina’s head. “Why did you do it? Tell me, and I’ll allow you some peace before the hillbillies arrive.”
“Piece of shit,” Medina choked. He placed a hand on his head and glared at Micah. “Why the hell does it matter to you? It wasn’t your kid.”
“There’s a time when I would’ve agreed with you.” Micah raised a leg, rested his foot on the front edge of the chair Medina was sitting in, and kicked it over to a nearby window. “I’m not so sure that’s the case anymore.”
“Unless this is some body snatcher shit, you’ve got zero paternal claim. The kid who died in that shitshow of a job…”
“Murdered. The piece of shit you had Jimmy hire to do the job murdered her in cold blood. Whole life ahead of her, only to have it snatched away so you could sleep easy with a few extra Andrew Jacksons in your mattress.”
“It wasn’t supposed to go down like that. The house was supposed to be empty, so the guy Jimmy hired could get in and out with no witnesses.”
“But you didn’t make sure someone scouted the place beforehand. No, that would’ve made too much goddamn sense.”
“I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with…”
Micah raised the gun and shot Medina in the leg, obliterating his kneecap. “That’s for Madeline.” He holstered the gun and walked toward the back door.
“Just kill me, you piece of shit,” Medina seethed.
“You don’t deserve the satisfaction.”
As Micah stepped out onto the balcony, he heard a loud pounding on the door to Medina’s office. He hurled himself over a nearby hedge and trotted away from the home. Moments later, a barrage of gunshots filled the air.
Chapter 57
Micah casually walked down the street, averting his gaze from passersby, and attempting to appear oblivious to the commotion coming from inside Medina’s home. To curious onlookers, he was just a nondescript guy out for a morning walk. His actions not outside the ordinary for residents of the neighborhood. He pulled out his phone and dialed Valerie’s number.
“Everything’s taken care of, sweetheart. I’ll be there soon,” he said. He didn’t wait for a response. It was in that moment that he noticed a strange, older man staring at him. There was an odd sense of recognition, though it wasn’t entirely mutual. The man shifted his weight as Micah drew closer, extending his hand as though he expected a firm shake in return.
“Mission accomplished, soldier.”
“I think you’ve got the wrong guy,” Micah said. The old man’s attempt to grab hold of Micah’s attention was odd, and not the least bit impactful. Micah tried to ignore him–reaching Valerie was all that mattered to him in that moment. Once he knew she was safe, the two of them would get the hell out of Dodge. Various outcomes played out in his head; his focus locked on surviving long enough to do one good thing with his life. An errant billfold broke his concentration, striking him in the chest as he walked past the old man. “What the hell was that for?”
“Here,” Jacob Hurst said. He picked the billfold off the ground and handed it to Micah. “Look inside.”
Micah reluctantly complied with the request and opened the billfold, revealing the picture of a man he wouldn’t have been able to pick out of a lineup before that moment, but whose name had been inexplicably tied to his own. “Ross Sheridan. Why are you handing me his I.D.?”
“That’s yours, son.”
“I’ve never met him,” Micah said. He averted his gaze, hoping the headaches wouldn’t make a sudden appearance. “Perhaps you should file a missing persons report with the Miami P.D. May stand a better chance of finding him.”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Ross. We both know that’s entirely unnecessary.”
“Buddy, my name is Micah Brantley. I’ll admit, this guy bears some resemblance to me, but we aren’t exactly twins. Shit, if you tried hard enough, I’m sure you could find another schmuck or two who could pass for me.”
Hurst took
a step forward and lowered his voice to a growl. “Do you have any idea how simple it would be for me to erase your identity as Micah Brantley and bring you down on the wealth of charges you’ve accumulated over the past few years? A murder rap carries more than a few years,” Hurst said. Anger welled up inside him, but he forced it to the wayside in favor of more stable emotions. “And that’s assuming they don’t just throw your ass in the electric chair. Think about it, Einstein. Come with me, and you get your old life back. Fight it, and you will go down to a depth you did not know existed.”
Micah felt the familiar tinge of pain in his head. The melding of memories of his own life and the one that felt so real, as though everything happened within the body of another. None of it made any more sense to him now than it had when the sensation had first started happening. He turned to leave, eager to get away from the source of the headache. Hoping in vain that leaving would mean an end to the third-degree questioning. “This is bullshit. I’m out of here.”
Hurst removed his pistol from the holster on his hip and aimed it at Micah. He pulled back the slide and chambered a round. Micah stopped and turned to look back at the barrel. “Consider your options. Is this really the way you want to go out?”
Micah stood rooted in his spot, looking around for something of an exit strategy. The only thing close to fitting the bill was a parked Jaguar.
“Figure it out…?
The moment the first word left Hurst’s mouth; Micah bolted for the other side of the Jag. It wasn’t a strategy without its flaws, but his options were limited. The most important thing at that moment was creating some separation between himself and the lead meant to deliver him to his maker. Hurst fired a shot as Micah shifted his weight and ducked behind the luxury SUV. The bullet grazed Micah’s left arm.
“Poor move, junior,” Hurst yelled out as he ran over for cover behind a retaining wall.
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