by Tom Lowe
I put my hand on Dan’s left shoulder, gently squeezing. “Just rest a few minutes. You’re in good hands. I looked at Savannah and smiled, the sound of sirens in the distance, my heart pounding.
SEVENTY-NINE
The news media couldn’t get enough of the story. Solving the “mermaid murders” was headlines around the world. Two days later, after Savannah and I were debriefed by local and state law enforcement agencies, after questioning us separately for at least three hours each, I was looking forward to finally casting the lines off Dragonfly. There would be no flying back to testify in court. Doctor Howard Ward was dead and gone. Detective Dan Grant, broken leg in a cast, collapsed lung repaired, was resting in a local hospital.
The TV networks and cable news carried the story and talk shows used it for fodder. Satellite radio hosts debated the root causes of psychopaths who become serial killers—nature versus nurture, influences from violent video games, movies, TV, and social media. The hosts were taking calls from listeners across the nation. Everyone had an opinion as to why a renowned marine scientist went off the deep end into severe mental illness. Social media was on fire with the tantalizing and often inaccurate information related to the case and the demise of Doctor Howard Ward.
In an effort to keep away from the media, Savannah took a leave of absence from her job. She and Rex left in his boat, Wind Dancer, for a trip through the Intercoastal to the Florida Keys. I kept a low profile, scouting the perimeter of Ponce Marina, making sure TV news crews did not ambush me when I walked Max. I told Wynona everything—not leaving out one detail from the time I entered the marine institute up through Ward’s death. We sat in Dragonfly’s salon, Max on the couch between us. She looked at me and asked, “Do you think he would have lived, survived the spear through his chest had he not fallen into the tank?”
“I don’t know. But considering what he did to his victims, the three heinous murders, the macabre posing of the girl’s bodies, the attempted murder of Dan Grant and Savannah … justice was served in that shark tank.”
She nodded. “The irony is that, in the end, after his aberrant disregard for human life, it was his life’s work—the animals of the sea—nature, that settled the score.”
“What’s most fitting, it that a sea predator caused the demise of a human predator.” I looked out the portside window, the sun almost down, a feather of crimson clouds still in the sky, darkness descending over the marina. “In a few minutes, I’ll take Max for her nightly walk. Do you want me to pick you up some food from the Tiki Bar? It’s Wednesday night. Flo usually has a flounder or a pompano special on Wednesdays.”
“I’m not hungry, but I’d like to go with you. I was only off Dragonfly for a little while this morning when we had coffee with Dave. I could use the exercise.”
“Sounds good.”
“First, I need go to the bathroom … sorry, I just can’t call it the head. Maybe I’ll endear to the word by the time we reach St. Lucia.” When she left, I opened a drawer near the navigation station, picking up my Glock and putting it under my shirt in the small of my back, under the belt.
A few minutes later, we walked down L dock, Max trotting ahead. The marina water was inky and motionless as liquid silk. Lights along the docks and from the tethered boats twinkled in the black water like a star-filled sky framed by the wooden piers. We walked past a 50-foot Fleming trawler, blue light from a TV flickering against the windows, the smell of charcoal and fish coming from a smoky, pot-bellied grill in the cockpit. The boat next to it was a houseboat. No lights and no signs of life. A faded American flag and a skull and crossbones pirate flag hung limp on tarnished steel poles attached to the stern.
Wynona reach for my hand and said, “You’re so quiet. I know you have a lot on your mind. Savannah’s safe. Dan Grant is on the mend. No other young women will ever become victims of Doctor Howard Ward. And we … you, me, and little Max, are about to have the adventure of a lifetime.” She smiled, squeezing my hand.
“Yes, we are,” I said, scanning the boats and dark recesses of the docks and adjacent waterfront condos and businesses. We walked past the Tiki Bar, past red neon signage, past the tropical rock music from a local band, and down an alleyway between the bar and the marina office. The office was closed and dark. Max stopped and growled. Instinctively, I reached toward the back of my shirt. A large, tawny cat sauntered toward us.
“No, Max,” Wynona said, bending down to pick her up.
I said, “There goes our neighborhood watch, Ol’ Joe the marina cat. Nobody knows where he sleeps. Joe’s been living on handouts, fish mostly, from a lot of the folks who are liveaboards.”
“Folks like Dave and Nick.”
“Especially Nick. Joe seems to intuitively know when Nick’s boat is due back from a fishing trip. That cat, his scarred and tattered ears, all twenty pounds of him, will hang out near Nick’s slip. And, when Nick docks his boat and starts cleaning fish, Ol’ Joe is the beneficiary. Nick tells a story about giving Joe a whole fish, a sea trout. The next night Joe caught and brought a rat to give to Nick. Dropped it at Nick’s bare feet, turned and walked back down the dock. Head held high.”
Wynona laughed. “I’d loved to have seen Nick’s face when that happened.”
“He and Joe have been rat-pack pals ever since. Go figure. Nick won’t admit it, but I think he secretly believes Ol’ Joe is his cat.”
We walked through the alley to the parking lot. I estimated there were less than twenty cars in the lot. Most of the cars belonged to customers eating and drinking in the Tiki Bar. I scanned the license plates and looked at my Jeep parked just past the royal palms, in the deep shadows cast by a streetlamp. After we crossed the street, Wynona set Max down. We made our way over a sandy footrail that wound its way through the sea grapes to the beach, the pounding of waves like a drumbeat summoning us.
Max darted down the path, stopping to sniff at the base of the sea oats. The moon was rising in the east, the ocean drenched in the milky shine of moonlight, the curl of the breakers the color of a fresh cut lemon, almost translucent, before crashing and rolling ashore. I could detect the musty smell of driftwood and baitfish in the surf. We held hands, saying nothing, simply enjoying a walk on the beach, most of the people gone, a few moving silhouettes in the distance.
To our right, beyond the foliage, beyond the hunching shoulders of live oaks bent and gnarled by the salt air and the wind, was the lighthouse. I watched its powerful light rotate, fanning the face of the ocean. And, even in a world of satellite navigation, the old lighthouse could do what GPS couldn’t do. It could shine light into the heart of darkness, and with light is hope, the lifeblood and essence of why lighthouses have guided lost mariners and others for centuries.
I put my arm over Wynona’s shoulder. “Let’s cast off tomorrow. It’s time for the lightness of a new adventure.”
She stopped walking and looked up at me, moonlight highlighting her hair. “I’m so ready.”
We kissed, the sound of breakers crashing, the breeze picking up, the sea calling.
EIGHTY
As we walked back toward Ponce Marina, we stopped to cross the road. A car was coming, its lights on high beam, the driver doing nothing to switch to low beam. Wynona used one hand to shield her eyes, bending to pick up Max. She held her close, waiting for the car to pass. Seconds later, the car sped by us, the driver accelerating, the sound of a beer can tossed from the window and hitting the shoulder of the road. Wynona shook her head. “Why do people have to litter?”
“I wish I could answer that. I’ll get it.” I walked fifty feet away, found the empty can and picked it up, returning to cross the road with Wynona and Max. We approached the parking lot, a few less cars in it. Two were there that weren’t when we’d left. One was a late model Chevy SUV. The other was a Lincoln Navigator, black. It was parked not far from my Jeep. As we walked by both vehicles, I glanced at the license plates and looked at the front and back windows for the small barcode decals that rental car com
panies use to quickly check cars in and out of airports.
The Chevy was clean, a child seat in the backseat. Local. The Lincoln had the rental car barcode decal on the front window. Just visible. Wynona set Max down and asked, “What are you doing? In the market for a new car? I kinda like your Jeep a lot.
“So, do I. Just a force of habit.”
“When we’re sailing, all you’ll have to look at is the blue ocean, blue sky and maybe a few sea gulls.”
I smiled. “That’s more than enough. I need to toss this beer can in the trash. I see a dumpster to the far left of the Tiki Bar.”
“I’ll wait here for you.”
“Okay.” Max followed me toward the dumpster, past two Harley-Davidsons parked near one of the backdoors. When we got close to the large garbage canister, a rat darted from underneath it into the landscape of the sago palms and banana trees. Max gave chase. I tossed the can in the dumpster and said, “Don’t go in there, Max. Even Ol’ Joe wouldn’t go in there to chase a rat. C’mon, let’s go back to the boat.”
Max followed me as two bikers came out of the Tiki Bar, got on the Harleys and cranked the engines, puffs of blueish-white smoke billowing across the gravel parking lot. In the glare of the motorcycle headlights, the smoke and shadows, I saw the silhouette of a man. He was coming up quickly behind Wynona. The noise of the Harleys drowning out his approach and my warning yell.
I reached behind my back for my Glock.
It was too late.
The man had a gun to the back of Wynona’s head in a half-second. I ran through the smoke, dust and grit kicked up as the bikers sped out of the lot. I had no idea if they’d seen the hitman or were a part of his ploy. I didn’t care. All I cared about was what was going to happen in the next two seconds. Max followed me, barking, confused.
Wynona froze, the pistol barrel to the back of her head. She looked at me with wide eyes filled with despair and desperation. I was unable to hear whatever it was that the assassin said to her. As I anticipated the worst, her death in front of me, the man turned the gun from her head and pointed it at me.
I saw the white burst of muzzle fire. The round hit me in the right shoulder. I dove, rolling in the dust and smoke, coming up to get a clear shot at the assassin. There was no clear shot. He fired again, the round striking just in front of my left hand, bits of gravel and oyster shell pieces flying into my chest and face. I ducked behind a pickup. I knew he was using a silencer on his weapon.
“O’Brien … move out from behind the truck and your woman lives. If you don’t, I’ll kill her and the pissant dog, too.”
I stepped out into the lot, still holding my Glock, still aiming at him. He stood behind Wynona, the pistol barrel against the side of her neck. He was tall, towering over Wynona. Wide shoulders and body. Difficult for him to use her as a human shield. “Drop the gun. You won’t attempt it with the woman standing here. You and I will end it now. No hard feelings. Just business.”
I said nothing, calculating the half-second it would take me to put a round in his chest or head. Would a possible reflex action from his finger be strong enough to pull the trigger? I didn’t know. I had been forced to take the chance defending a girl from the pedophile, and now I had to take the chance to protect the woman I loved. I knew he’d kill me and then Wynona. He’d shoot Max, too, if she didn’t run away.
In the distance, someone came out of the back of the Tiki Bar, the screened door slamming. It was the half-second I needed. I fired my Glock. The round went a couple of inches by Wynona’s left ear, hitting him in the chest. He fell back, and I rushed him. “Run!” I shouted to Wynona. Max barked, following me.
Wynona darted behind my Jeep. The big man was on his back, bleeding, reaching for his gun. I brought the heel of my shoe down on his wrist. He looked up at me. Even in the shadows, I could see his face was twisted in pain and in disbelief of what just happened. I aimed my Glock between his eyes and said, “You ever wake up and wonder if it’s gonna be a good day or a bad day? You’re about to have an even worse day … your last day on planet Earth.”
He coughed. “You won’t shoot me in the parking lot with witnesses nearby.”
“Is that what you think?” I shoved my Glock back under my belt. He grinned. I reached for the collar of his dark gray hoodie, slamming my fist into his right ribcage, shattering bones. I pulled him up and shoved him against the wide base of a royal palm. “I will kill you. And I will do it with my bare hands. In Florida, it’s called self-defense … stand your ground. If you want to live … here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to tell me, on camera, who sent you and why.”
He grinned through bloody lips. “You can kiss my ass.”
I brought my knee up hard into his groin and then hit him in the left ribcage, bones snapping.
“Sean!” Wynona shouted, penetrating my flurry of fists. “Please, don’t. You’ll kill him.”
I said, “That decision is his.” I looked at the guy, his face contorted in pain, his breathing difficult. “I figure another five or six blows to the head, you’ll never come out of your coma because you’ll have severe swelling on the brain. It’s not a pleasant way to die.” I drew back my right fist. In the distance, I could hear someone on a cell phone calling 9-1-1.
The hitman tried to stand on wobbly legs, holding his open hands in front of his head. He slid down the trunk of the palm tree, in the kneeling position. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll talk … tell you everything you wanna to know.”
Wynona came from behind my jeep and took my gun, holding it on the man.
I pulled out my phone and hit the video record button. “Who sent you to kill me and Wynona Osceola?”
“Dude’s name’s Vincent Rizzo.” He coughed, face pinched. “Some guys call him Ice Pick.”
“Who does Rizzo work for?”
“Lots of people?”
“Somebody connected with him to hire you. Who was that person?”
“I heard the guy’s a rich cat in the joint.”
“His name!”
“Timothy Spencer.”
“How much did Spencer pay to have me killed?”
“I got fifty-grand to start the job. Another fifty due after it was done.”
“Is that for me or for Wynona, too?”
“If I clipped the chick, it was a twenty-five-grand bonus.”
“Is everything you told me true and accurate?”
“Yeah.”
“Will you guarantee the police and prosecutors that you will testify in a court of law against Vincent Rizzo and Timothy Spencer?”
“Yes … if they cut me some slack, I’ll tell ‘em everything they wanna know.”
“Are you volunteering this information and your testimony on your own will, volition … your own choice?”
“Yeah, sure … what the hell else do you want?”
“For you not to even attempt to recount or dismiss what you admitted to here, and for you to tell the truth as hard as that is for you do. Because, if you don’t tell the truth, there’s no rock on the face of the Earth for you to hide under. I will find you.”
I could hear approaching sirens in the distance. Blue and white lights pulsating as a half-dozen sheriffs’ cruisers barreled down Peninsula Road at a high rate of speed. In seconds they were turning into the marina parking lot in a blaze of strobing lights and dust. Wynona handed my gun back and stood beside me as we waited for them, my knuckles ripped and bleeding, my heart pounding so hard my chest ached. I felt as if the top of my head was going to blow off.
Within seconds we were surrounded by deputies with weapons drawn. “Hands high!” commanded one taller deputy. He looked at the hitman’s pistol lying in the parking lot. “Take a picture and bag it,” he ordered another deputy.
I said, “I’m carrying. I have a permit. My Glock is under my shirt in the lower part of my back. The man beneath the tree tried to kill me. I have a bullet wound in my shoulder.”
“Don’t move!” said the chief deputy. He mo
tioned to a muscular deputy who walked over and removed my gun, placing it in a paper bag, then patting me down.
Flo, her cook, and one fishing guide I recognized stood at a distance, watching. After a few seconds, Flo said, “Officers, we saw everything. Sean O’Brien acted in self-defense. That man sitting at the base of the tree tried to kill them, and we heard him admit it on camera, too.”
“What camera?” the chief deputy asked.
“Mr. O’Brien’s phone.”
I looked at the chief deputy and asked, “What she said happened here is true. Can I lower my hands now?”
EIGHTY-ONE
Two weeks later, my wounds had healed good enough to sail. Wynona and I had given statements and depositions to state and local law enforcement agencies and the FBI. The FBI arrested Vincent Rizzo, all 300 pounds of him, in a Miami Beach hotel where he’d hired two prostitutes for the night. When agents and police used one of the hotel’s master keys and burst into his room, he protested, assuming he was getting busted for having sex with underaged girls.
After they told Rizzo that he was being arrested on charges of solicitation of murder, and as an accomplice for attempted murder, they said his jaw dropped, cursing all the way to the back of a police cruiser where he was taken to jail to await arraignment.
Wynona and I met twice with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement and with Florida’s Attorney General, Alice Brockman. Solicitation of murder charges were filed against Timothy Spencer. Both Vincent Rizzo and hired gun, Wayne Mayer, were going to enter plea bargain deals in exchange for their testimony against Spencer. Mayer, I was told, spent nine days in a hospital, two of those days in intensive care.
Savannah and her father, Rex, had returned from their trip to the Keys. They were at L dock, slip 57, with Dave and Nick to see us cast off. We all stood near Dragonfly, Max on patrol eyeing two gulls circling overhead, Dave and Nick with cold beverages in their hands. Savannah, tanned and wearing a yellow sundress, the morning light highlighting the fiery specks in her dark auburn hair, said, “We’re so going to miss you two.”
