The 24th Letter ((Mystery/Thriller)) (21 page)

“No problem.  Got here just a few minutes ago.  I was watching that photo shoot on the beach.  Probably be on the cover on some magazine next month.”  She looked toward the beach where a photographer with long white hair, open white shirt, and white cotton pants, hunched over a camera composing a shot of a model dressed in a pink bikini bottom. She had her arms folded over her bare breasts.

O’Brien sat beside Lauren.  “Here’s the tape.  I’ve cued to his confession—to the question I asked, and to his answer.”  He played the tape.

Lauren said, “The whole thing is less than thirty seconds.  No problem to get a couple of dubs for you.  I just hope it’s something you can post in Rosen’s win column.  It’s obvious to me that Russo sounded stressed.  Maybe his life was threatened.”

“Only his pinkie finger, the one with the diamond ring.  When he made that statement, there was no gun visible.  I had him handcuffed to the door.  He’s an admitted pedophile who didn’t want me squeezing him.  After our chat, he admitted what he did.”

Lauren gazed at O’Brien a moment, she looked at a spot on the bench and said, “What’s wrong, Sean?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not happy with the confession.  You know it.  Might be enough to temporarily stop an execution, but not enough to get a conviction, right?”

“Russo could have called in a pro, a hired gun to kill Spelling and Father Callahan.  The hit man may have taken out a prison guard whom we believe overheard Spelling’s confession.  The guard, Lyle Johnson, could have called Russo, tried to blackmail him, and was eliminated.  Last night I saw a guy who looked like he may be the man who impersonated a priest and killed Sam Spelling.  I saw a black-and-white security camera tape image of the imposter priest who walked into Spelling’s room.  He was the last person to see Spelling alive.  He has a beard, similar build.  If he’s the same guy, he’s working for Russo.  He was in Club Oz.  Tried to draw down on me.  I managed to be a little faster.  Can you run his name through NAIS?  It’s Carlos Salazar.”

 Lauren wrote down the name and O’Brien said, “Put another name on the list.  It’s Judy Neilson.  She was a high-fashion model here in Miami at the time of Alexandria Cole’s murder.  She was Cole’s roommate.”

“Something suspect about her after all these years?”

“No, but in re-reading her interviews, she mentioned that Alexandria was sometimes called out, presumably to have sex with Russo.  But now that I know Alexandria would have been way beyond his age limit.  I want to question Judy again.”

“You have remember all this was eleven years ago, Sean.  People forget.”

“Some things you never forget.  I’d like to know if she’s still here in Miami.” 

“I’ll see if anything turns up.”  Lauren paused, looked out toward the ocean and watched a sailboat. “Didn’t you have a sailboat once?”

“A long time ago.  Sold it.”

“Why’d you get rid of it?”

“It became a ship of ghosts for me.  On my last sail, I emptied my wife’s ashes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks…now I’ve moved from sailing to a powerboat—a stinky, old diesel.  Thirty-eight feet long.  I bought it in an auction for ten cents on the dollar at a county sale of confiscated drug boats.  I’ve been fixing it up with the intent of learning the charter fishing boat business.  I have a great teacher.  He’s Greek and has salt water in his blood.”  O’Brien smiled. 

Lauren pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and turned back toward O’Brien.  “Does the boat have a kitchen?”

“Yes, it’s a galley.”

“When this ends,” said Lauren, searching for the right words.  “When it’s over, maybe we could spend some time on your stinky old boat, as you call it.  Go fishing or something.  I’m pretty good at cooking seafood.”  She smiled and then bit her lower lip.

“I’d like that,” said O’Brien.

Lauren smiled wide and looked above O’Brien’s shoulder to watch three brown pelicans sail over the tops of palm trees.  She said, “I got to know you some during the hunt for Santana, maybe now we can get to know each other a little more.”

“If we can save Charlie Williams, we’ll celebrate together.”  O’Brien handed her the recorder, “Here’s the tape.  How long before we might have something from Spelling’s letter?”

“Give us a couple of hours.”

“Okay, I’ll call your cell in two hours.  One other thing…do you know where the D.A. lives…where’s Stanley Rosen’s house?”

“Are you just going to drop by unannounced, at his home, on a weekend?”

“I am.”

FIFTY-EIGHT

Barbie Beckman heard the phone ringing in her dreams.  Finally, she surrendered to the incessant noise, rolled over in her bed, and picked up the receiver.  “Haalo…”

“Barbie?”

“Yeah...”

“It’s Sue.  Baby, you sound different.  Have you seen the paper?”

“Huh?”

“The newspaper, sweetie, as in Miami Herald?”

“No, why?”

“Because your beautiful face is plastered on the front page and online, too.”

“Ohmygod!”

“And you’re running with some cute guy...looks like the actor Clive Owen.  The paper says his name is Sean O’Brien.”

“So he really isn’t Ken.”

“What?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Barbie, you gonna turn your self in, or grab that guy and run like Bonnie and Clyde?  I like it…Barbie and Clyde.”

“What do you mean…turn myself in?”

“Baby, you’re my favorite first cousin.  I want to see you get famous, okay?  Like in Playboy, or a Miami Heat cheerleader, or something, but sending a man to the hospital, wreckin’ a club.  Wow!”

“What?”

“The TV news said ya’ll run off with a two-thousand dollar bottle of champagne, too.  You know that expensive brand the hip-hop singers drink in the clubs?  Hey, did you and cutie pass the bottle to each other in the back of the cab makin’ your getaway?”

“Sue, look, I just woke up.  I’ll call you back.  Has Mama seen any of this?”

“Don’t know.  Want me to call her for you…sort of ease her into it?”

“No!  No, I’ll talk to her.  Bye.”

Barbie pulled the sheet over her body and sat at the edge of her bed to think.

The phone rang again.

She looked at the caller ID.  Club Paradise.  She picked up the phone. “Hi.”

“Barbie, it’s Jude.  Had two cops in the club and a detective asking me questions about you.  I’ve seen that shit on the news that you pulled in Club Oz with that ex cop.  What the hell were you thinkin’, huh?”

“Jude, look, I didn’t do anything.  The whole thing at Oz was a kinda like a date, that’s all.  I was just there.”

“You and ex cop picked the wrong club to start crashin’ and the wrong guy to be bashin’.  Russo’s got connections.  Lot’s of people owe him lots of favors; you know what I’m sayin’?  Do you, huh, stupid—”

“Okay!  I know.”

“Take a couple of days off to let the heat die down some.  Come back then.”

“I need the money.  I have rent and—”

“But I don’t need this kind of headache, not to mention the unwanted publicity.”

He hung up.

Barbie pulled on a pair of jeans, T-shirt, and flip-flops.  She ran her fingers through her hair and stepped out her apartment door, leaving the door unlocked.  She walked downstairs to the first floor and bought a paper out of the machine.  Looking at her picture with O’Brien made her blush.  She read a few lines and held the paper to her breasts, glancing around her before walking up the steps to her apartment.

Barbie entered, locked the door, and sat on the couch to read the story.  She pulled her feet up under her.  After a few minutes she mumbled, “This is bullshit…that’s not how it happened…”

There was a sound.  The creak of the simulated wood floor.  Barbie stood.  Listening.  She sat the paper on the couch, picked up a knife from her kitchen, and slowly walked down the hall toward her bedroom.  She wished her roommate were home.  But she knew Jan was still at work.  Barbie gently pushed opened Jan’s bedroom door, her heart racing.  Nothing.  Only an unmade bed and a pair of Jan’s jeans draped on a chair.

There was a knock at the door.

Barbie lowered the knife to her side and tiptoed into the living room.  She raised one blind a quarter inch and looked out the front window.

The police.  An officer and a man in a shirt and tie.  Probably a detective.

They knocked again.  Louder.  “Miss Beckman,” said one of them through the door.  “This is Miami Beach Police.  Please open up the door.  We need to talk with you.”

Silence.

Barbie tried to control her breathing.  She thought her heart was going to leap out of her chest.  Her mouth was dry, and she couldn’t swallow.  

“Okay, Miss Beckman, next time we come, it’ll be with a search warrant and a warrant for your arrest.  Rather than talk in your apartment, we’ll take you downtown for questioning.”

She waited a full minute before tiptoeing to the door.  She looked though the peephole.  Gone.  Barbie let out a pent-up chest full of air and turned to enter her bedroom.

She placed the kitchen knife on the bathroom counter, slipped out of her clothes, and got under a hot shower, letting the water run over her head a long while before opening her eyes.  When she did open her eyes, she turned to reach for the soap.

The shower door was open.  Barbie screamed.

A man stood there—watching—holding the butcher knife.  His eyes absorbing her naked body like a cat watches a bird in a cage.  The eyes were primal.  His thin lips bright red and wet from licking them.  His jaw muscles popped, causing his short beard to move like something crawling under a rug.

“Hello, Barbie,” said Carlos Salazar. “My, what a sharp knife you have.”    

FIFTY-NINE

FBI lab technician Eric Weinberg pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose and looked at the computer screen for a few seconds in silence.  He punched the keyboard and enlarged the image.  He turned to Lauren Miles and said, “I can get a reading on some of it.  But the rest is less distinct, like the writer was growing weaker the further along he wrote.”

“Let’s see what you have.”

“I’ll route what I have on the high-def monitor.”  He hit a few of the keys and Sam Spelling’s handwriting appeared on the screen.

To Father John and God -

My name is Sam Spelling.  I am real sorry for my sins.  I wish to ask God for forgiveness...and I know now I done some bad things in my life.  I hope to make amends.  On the night of June 18th, 1999, I was working a deal, trying to score some cocaine at the Mystic Islands condos in Miami.  I was supposed to meet a dealer there.  It was the same night Alexandria Cole was stabbed to death.  I was sitting in a car in the condo lot, waiting for the dealer to show when I seen

a man come out of Miss Cole’s condo.  But before I go any more in this letter, I want to say right now where the knife can be found in case I get too tired to finish this letter.  It’s in the t
o
wn
of St
  

Lauren stared at the screen and said, “Looks like Spelling was writing the ‘town of S - t…something…maybe St. Petersburg?”

“Could be,” said Eric.

“Run a search on all Florida cities and towns beginning with S - t.”

Eric keyed in the information and within seconds.  He read, “Starke, Stuart, St. Augustine, St. Petersburg, St. Cloud, Steinhatchee, and St. George Island.”

“Maybe Spelling has or had family in one of those.  See what you can find.”

Eric nodded.  “Are you going to send the letter to headquarters?”

“Yes, counter-to-counter.”

He handed Lauren the letter.  She carefully placed it in a folder. “Thanks, Eric.  I owe you one for coming in today.”

#

LAUREN CAUGHT THE elevator down to her floor.  She entered the office and saw someone walking into the break room.  She followed.

Christian Manerou poured himself a cup of coffee as Lauren stepped into the break room.  She said, “Oh, Christian, it’s you.  Putting in a little weekend duty?”

“Yeah, forgot the Dade Federal.”  Manerou looked at the file Lauren carried. “What brings you in on a Saturday?”

“Trying to offer some assistance to Sean O’Brien.  You and Mike met him.”

“Yes, according to the Herald, his old employer, MPD, would like to find him.”

“Sean has always operated on the edge, but when he was a detective, his conviction record was unparalleled.  He knows he’s up against the clock in this Charlie Williams execution, which will be a deathwatch soon.  Sean’s squeezing Russo.”

“It wasn’t easy for the DEA to get a drug conviction pinned on Russo.  I imagine O’Brien will have his hands full, especially since it didn’t go so well the first time.  And now, Russo has had a lot of time to separate himself from Alexandria Cole.”

“Could work against him. Too much time and he forgets which lies he told.” 

“Lauren, I know you put a lot of stock in Sean O’Brien.  You’ve worked with him on the Santana murders.  Anyway that I can help, let me know.  My caseload isn’t so heavy now that I can’t offer some assistance if it’s needed.  I’d have to get the ok through Mike.  I remember Russo pretty well.  He’s a first class son-of-a-bitch.  Let me know if I can help.”

“It might be a stretch to get Mike’s permission, he seemed preoccupied.  Maybe even a little territorial about the Russo – Alexandria Cole investigations.  That’s kind of odd for him, but you can ask him.”

“Mike’s under a lot of pressure.  Maybe you’ll get something on that page O’Brien left.”

“Just did, Eric came in on a Saturday for me.”

“What’d he find?”

Lauren’s cell rang.  It was O’Brien.  She answered it quickly.  “We have a little something more.  Where do you want me to meet you?”