The 24th Letter ((Mystery/Thriller)) (16 page)

O’Brien got up and stepped over to a privacy wall that separated the pool area from people on the beach.  He looked though the wrought iron bars on the door that led a few steps down to the sand.  The moon was now high over the ocean, its light spilling a

soft hue across the white sand.  Through the bars he saw two lovers, hand-in-hand, walking by the surf.  O’Brien imagined what Charlie Williams saw through his steel bars.

He looked up at the high-rise balconies with the million-dollar views and remembered where he had questioned Sergio Conti.  The top left penthouse.  The light was on, and O’Brien was coming up.

#

“SECURITY,” SAID A VOICE with a Hispanic accent.

“Miami Cable.  Got a call that your system is out.”

“Yeah, even right here in the office.  I was watching Brazil beating Mexico and it went to snow.  How come you’re not dressed in a cable shirt and stuff?”

“The regular guy on this shift had to go to the hospital with his wife.  It’s their first baby.  Office called me because I don’t live too far.”

“Cool, man.  Just get us a picture quick.  Phone’s going nuts.”

“You bet.  I’ll look at the connections.  Checked the outside already.  Couldn’t trace the problem.  Could be something on the inside, salt air can corrode the connectors.  I can check near the roof where the lines are distributed.”  O’Brien glanced at the directory under glass and he read: 
Conti, S – 1795
.  He said, “Box feeds from the roof down.  You got any vacancies on the seventeenth floor?  I’ll check one of those TV’s and then see if it’s coming from outside.”

“Sure, guy.  The people in seventeen-two are in Europe.  I’ll get you the key.”        

#

   O’BRIEN RODE THE glass elevator up to the penthouse floor, the elevator opened to a large atrium that looked all the way down to the imported Italian marble

floors and fountains in the entrance.  He walked down the posh hall decorated with pods of soft lighting revealing imported artwork and small Romanesque statues.  He stopped at the door that read 1795, opened the toolbox and removed his Glock.  O’Brien pressed the red record button on the tiny tape recorder in his shirt pocket and tapped on the door.

“Who is it?” The man’s voice was gruff.

“Maintenance, sir.  Lightning hit the system and fried a lot of cable receptors.”

FORTY-FOUR

The man unlocked the door and opened it. “Yeah, my fuckin’ set went off right in the middle of them opening an Egyptian tomb on the Discovery Channel.”  Sergio Conti stood there.  Bald, shirtless, three days growth of white beard on his fat jowls, gut hanging over boxer shorts.

O’Brien pressed the gun barrel into Conti’s wide nose and entered the room.  He closed the door. “If you don’t tell me want I want, they’ll be closing your tomb.”

Conti raised both hands and backed up.  O’Brien said, “Let me get something straight real fast.  Don’t think about lying to me or they’ll find your body seventeen floors below on the sand with crabs chewing your ears.  As I remember, you like stone crabs anyway.”

“Who the fuck
are
you?”

“I might be the last human you’ll see in this world.”

“I remember you…the fuckin’ detective.  I ain’t sayin’ shit ‘till I call my lawyer.”

“Oh, you will say ‘shit’ and a lot more.  I’m not a detective.  This mission is for someone else.  He couldn’t be here personally because he’s locked up.”

“Who sent you?  Whatever you’re getting, I’ll double it.”

 “It’s a long way down.  And they won’t find a bullet because you got so drunk, so damn depressed that you jumped.  The good thing is it’ll open up another condo for sale.  I hear there’s a still a demand for high-priced cages like this.”

“You’re fuckin’ crazy.”

O’Brien said nothing.

“What do you want?”  Blood trickled out of Conti’s left nostril and ran into the corner of his mouth.

“In questioning, you told me that Jonathan Russo had dinner with you, on your balcony, the night Alexandria Cole’s murder.”

“That’s been a long damn time ago, so what?”

“Did he?”

“If I said it, sure.”  Conti shrugged his shoulders.

“Russo’s never had dinner on your balcony.”

“What difference does it make, huh?  You got the boyfriend.  He killed her.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Sounds like your beef’s with Russo.  Not me, pal.”

“Where was Russo the night Alexandria was killed?  Was he with her?”

“Why don’t you go ask him?”

“He used you as an alibi, but he didn’t come here.  You lied to me during the initial investigation.  That means you’re an accomplice to murder.” 

“Fuck you!  I’m callin’ my lawyer and then the real cops.”

O’Brien slowly pulled the barrel of the Glock away from Conti’s face.  Conti smiled, wiped the blood with the back of a thick hand.  “Now you’re comin’ to your senses.”

“Walk out to the balcony.”

“What?  I’m not sailing off the fuckin’ balcony!”

“I said walk!”

“What’s this really about, huh, bitch is long dead anyway?”

O’Brien backhanded Conti and shoved the pistol barrel under his blubbery chin. “Did you have dinner with Russo on your balcony the night Alexandria Cole was killed?  Tell me, you sick son of a bitch!”

“No!  He wasn’t here!”

“Where was he that night?”

“I don’t  know!”

“Was he with Alexandria when she was killed?”

“Honest to God, I don’t know.  He liked the younger girls, you know, the ones who wanted to get into the modeling biz—the younger teens.  He paid me to find ‘em for him. Still does.  His wife, ex-wife now, found him with one of them and she threatened to file for divorce.  Russo was scared shitless she’d wipe him out.  So he used me for an alibi...lots of times.”

“Did Russo kill Alexandria?”

“I don’t know!  God as my witness, that’s the fuckin’ truth!”

O’Brien lowered the gun and pulled out his knife.

“What are you gonna do?” asked Conti, trying to crawl backwards.

O’Brien opened the toolbox, cut a piece of rope and pushed a high-back chair toward Conti. “Sit down and put your hands behind your back.  Do it!”  Conti exhaled like a bull and did as ordered.  O’Brien tied Conti’s hands to the back of the chair and

then he cut the phone cord, dropped a cell phone to the marble floor and smashed it with his heel.  

“You’re fuckin’ crazy!” yelled Conti.  “I could die, my ass tied up here before anybody finds me.  The maid doesn’t come until Saturday.”

O’Brien leaned down in front of Conti and said in a voice above a whisper, “If you somehow manage to free yourself, if you call Russo and warn him, I’ll come back here.  If I do, they’ll find you lying on the sand in the morning with the gulls picking food out of your nasty teeth.  Now you stay real quiet, like a good boy, and I’ll call maintenance in the morning and tell them I heard noises coming from 1795.  They’ll run up, find you and cut you loose.  Otherwise it’s waiting for the maid.  You could be stinking by then.”

“I’ll hunt you down for this, motherfucker.  I swear to God I will!”

“No you won’t.”  O’Brien ripped off a piece of duct tape from a roll in the tool box, pressed it to Conti’s mouth and said, “I’ll lock the door on my way out.”

FORTY-FIVE

Driving back down Collins Avenue, O’Brien called Lauren Miles’ cell.  It took her half dozen rings to answer.  There was background noise that O’Brien could tell was coming from a bar or restaurant.  He said, “Thanks again for your time this afternoon.”

“No problem.  Are you calling to meet me for a drink?  That would be nice…maybe for old times sake.   I’m at Friday’s with a few girlfriends.”

“Wish I could.  I’ve got another stop to make.  I’d be really late.”

“No problem, tomorrow’s Saturday—a day for sleeping…sleeping in.  When’s the last time you had a sleep over, Sean?”

O’Brien could hear slur in her voice, the sexual attraction in her delivery.  “Does this mean the lab can’t examine the paper I left you?”

She was quiet a moment and said, “You dropped it off at the end of the day.  Everyone in the lab had left.  I’m getting a tech in tomorrow.  He owes me a favor.”

“Every hour cuts into what’s left Charlie William’s time.”

“What if we can’t pick up enough from the paper to make an ID?”

“Let’s see what the paper reveals.”

She sighed, hiccupped.  “Ok.  Are you doing anything in the meantime?”

“I have to make a few stops.  One is to question Jonathan Russo.”

“You need backup?”  She made another slight hiccup.

“I’m fine, thanks.  Please let me know if you can get someone in the lab tomorrow, bye.”  O’Brien disconnected and called information. “Connect me to Joe’s Stone Crab Restaurant.”

Three rings later a male voice said, “Joe’s Stone Crab.”

“You offer take-out?”

“Yes sir.  What’ll it be?”

“Got any live crabs?”

“They’re all live ‘till they hit the pot.”

“Good.  I want to order the largest one you have.  But don’t cook it.”

“No problem.  But most people want us to cook it for ‘em.”

“Not tonight.”

The man paused. “Okay, you’re in luck.  Got a bunch off the boat earlier today, and I saw one of ‘em as big around as a dinner plate.”

“Good.  Keep that one for me.”

“What’s the name?”

“Ralph Jones.”

O’Brien drove another few blocks and pulled into a Walgreen’s store.  He bought the largest woman’s purse he could find and then drove toward Club Paradise.

#

 THE STRIP CLUB catered to high rollers, sports figures, and celebrities passing through South Beach.  O’Brien took a seat at a table in the corner and watched a nude

dancer on the stage.  She was a statuesque brunette, exceptional body, and high cheekbones that looked sculpted.

A dozen women worked the floor.  A waitress approached his table.  “Hi, I’m Liz.  What can I get for you?”

“Coffee, thanks.  Would you ask the girl on stage to drop by after she finishes?”

“No problem, handsome.”  The waitress smiled and moved on to another table.

O’Brien looked around the room.  There were dozens of businessmen, ties down, alcohol causing them to lose their inhibitions and money.  Two tables away from him a shapely blonde climbed on the lap of an NBA player O’Brien recognized from the Miami Heat.  She gyrated, looking like a toy balancing on his leg, her feet not touching the floor.

“Hi, I hear you requested me.”

The woman who was nude on the stage a few minutes ago now stood next to O’Brien’s table in a cocktail dress.  She had long raven hair, eyes like emeralds, and flawless skin.  He smiled.  “I did.  Thanks for coming over.”

“Liz is right, you’re cute.

“Thanks.”

“I’m Barbie, what’s your name?”

“Ken.”

“Really?  Is your name really Ken?”

“Is yours Barbie?”

“I like my name.  Most people think it’s fake.  Most people think my boobs are fake, too.  But they’re real.”

“I saw that.”

“Want to see some more?”

“No, thanks.”

She looked disappointed.  “I thought you wanted a dance.”

“What I wanted was to see you.  Please, sit down.”  She sat and O’Brien said, “Tell me about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your dreams.  What you want to do with your life.”

“Are you a producer or something?”

“No, just curious.”

“I just started college…Miami-Dade Community College.  I do this job to help pay the expenses.  And I’d eventually like to teach third grade.”

“Why third grade?”

“My favorite teacher, Miss Stafford, taught third grade.  But most importantly, I really love kids.  I think I can make a positive difference in their lives.  That might sound like hot air coming from someone like me, a nobody, a stripper, but it’s true.” 

O’Brien smiled.  “I believe you, and I believe you’ll get there, if you want to bad enough.  Look, Barbie, have you ever been to Club Oz?”

“No, and I hear it’s thirty dollars just to get in the door.”

“How’d you like to go?”

“Are you like for real?”

“It’s a long story.  You can help get me to the front of the line and in the door.”

“I don’t know.  What if—”

“When do you get out of here?”

“My shift ends in an hour?”

“Can you go now?  I’m not some nut.  I need to see a man in Club Oz.”

“Who, the wizard?”  She laughed at her joke.  Perfect smile and teeth.

“I’ll pay you three hundred dollars just to go in the place.  From there, stay if you want, or you can call a cab.”

“Well, as you saw, I do like to dance.  What are you going to do?”

“Visit with and old acquaintance.”

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Trust me—the dress you’re wearing is fine.”

“Okay, I guess.  But I still have an hour on my shift.”

“Tell them you’re sick.”

“I can tell them I started my period early.  That way I can say I’ll take the dress and dry clean it.  But I don’t want them to see me leaving with you.  They’ll think I’m doing free-lance hooking.  That’s where I draw the line.”

“I’ll meet you outside.  I’m driving a Jeep.”

“I’ll be right out, but I’m gonna call my girlfriend, give her a description of you and tell her where I’m going.  I’ll tell her if I don’t call by midnight to call the police.”

“Good idea,” O’Brien said with a smile.

Outside, O’Brien unlocked his Jeep and made sure his Glock was where he’d left it.  He started the engine and pulled to the front entrance to Club Paradise.  Barbie had brushed her long, dark hair, applied lip-gloss and a little make-up.  O’Brien watched her

walk like a runway model.  She was a stunning woman, hourglass figure zipped into the red dress with a slit all the way up the right leg to her brown thigh.  The low-cut dress accentuated her ample cleavage.  Her breasts recoiled as she walked on her platform high heels.  She walked right past him a good forty yards, turned a corner and disappeared.