The Orchid Keeper: A Sean O'Brien Novel

by Tom Lowe

  “Do you need the Bureau’s help in apprehending the suspect?”

  Wynona, cut her eyes to me. “FBI backup would be great, but since I’m such a persona non grata with the current assistant director, I don’t want to jeopardize your career by having you going to bat for me.”

  “Wynona, it’s not about you. It’s about taking a dangerous perp off the streets.”

  “Somehow, it will become about me … especially if things don’t go well. I don’t want that to haunt you and your career. You have two small children. All I have to worry about is old ghosts, and I can see through them. Besides, the sheriff’s office has my back. We’ll call Miami-Dade PD and see if they can spare a posse.” She smiled. “Thanks, Eric.” She turned to me. “Sean, I think it’s time to call your old friend again with Miami-Dade PD.”

  “I’ll update Ron Hamilton. Before I make the call, how are you feeling?”

  “Fine. The nauseous part went away a few weeks ago—at least in the intensity of it. Now it’s occasional.”

  “You don’t have to make the arrest. You’ve tracked him this far.”

  “I can’t step aside. Not now. I’ll be fine, and the baby will be fine, too.” She smiled.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Stop worrying, okay?

  “It’s not that easy. Not now.”

  Joe grinned. “Baby?”

  Wynona smiled, and I said, “I just found out, too.”

  Joe looked at me and then at Wynona. “Well, congratulations to you both. Do you know if it’s a little girl or a boy?”

  Wynona said, “No, not yet. I’m not sure I want to know … at least not yet.”

  I smiled. “I don’t mind surprises. We can wait and see.”

  Joe touched Wynona’s shoulder. “I’m happy for you. Boy or girl, the child will be loved and very special.

  “Thank you, Joe,” Wynona said.

  “Okay … now, we need to get back to business,” I said. “Wynona, what’s next from your perspective?”

  “I’ll call Cory and let him know what we found. We’ll get the arrest warrant and plan the take-down.” She leaned up against my Jeep and made the call, the wind over the glades blowing her hair. She brought Cory Gilson up to speed. “This guy is beyond armed and dangerous. He’s a hired-gun—a ruthless killing machine. We think he’s working for Simon Santiago. The question is: Who is Santiago working for?”

  Cory sat at his desk in his wide office. Four other detectives shared the office, working phones. He looked across the hall and into a large glassed-in office, the sheriff talking with the chief deputy. “That’s a great question. I checked with FHP and Uber. The Uber record indicates the driver picked up Fazio at a Seven-Eleven store parking lot at 11:17 a.m. The lot is about two blocks from where his BMW was found by FHP six hours after he called it in to them, and that was seven hours after he took the Uber ride from the area to his condo.”

  “Bingo. Great work. Now we know he left the car off the side of the road, took an Uber home and faked the whole stolen car scenario to give him an out if his car was ever connected to his trip in the glades. Can you get the murder warrant?”

  “Yes. Send me a copy of the drone video. We can pick Fazio up in the morning.”

  “Are you bringing backup?”

  “Yes. Two to three deputies. I don’t think we need to bring in SWAT. We have the element of surprise.”

  “Maybe not. After Sean and I paid him a visit, his radar will be on guard. I believe he’s a flight risk, and we need to arrest him as soon as we can get the warrant.”

  “The good thing is that it’s not a hostage or stand-off situation. Fazio doesn’t know we’re going to be there to arrest him.”

  “Considering this guy’s track record and the fact that we believe he just shot and killed two people, I’d feel better with some backup. Let’s plan on arriving there first thing in the morning.”

  “All right. We’ll work out the logistics and form a plan. We can get a no-knock warrant. Break through the door and arrest the guy. I’ll call you back. By the way, I know Sean is aware of this, but it’s worth mentioning. He’s not in law enforcement. The PI thing doesn’t cut the mustard when it comes to arresting people. Bounty hunters operate by a whole different set of loose guidelines. We can’t afford to risk this arrest going south or the case becoming compromised. Sean is a friend of mine, too. It’s just the way it is.”

  “He’s not a bounty hunter. But I understand. And he does as well.”

  • • •

  For Callie Hogan, it was surreal. Her parents speaking on the phone to a funeral director, the medical examiner’s office, the sheriff’s office, and the news media. She overheard the stilted phone conversations with other members of the family scattered across the nation. Everyone talking about her grandfather, but few seemed to know who he really was and what he’d accomplished in his lifetime.

  He was known as the “orchid man,” the eccentric family member who was more of an illusionary figure—an explorer who traveled on expeditions rather than vacations. Few seemed to know or care that he was, first and foremost, a staunch conservationist who looked at the world’s plant life as the first alarm to the health of earth.

  She was in the backseat of the car her parents rented while they were in Naples to make funeral arrangements for her beloved grandfather. Her father, Stan, drove slowly, turning from the Tamiami Trail onto the property. He was in his mid-fifties; narrow-set, hazel eyes; wire-rim glasses; prominent forehead; and pale skin, driving with both of his hands on the wheel.

  Callie’s mother, Barbara, was still attractive for her age, long neck, a few lines around her eyes and at the corner of her full mouth. She said, “I wish I’d come out here more often. Dad turned this place into quite a nature preserve. When I was your age, Callie, he didn’t have so many orchids lining the driveway to the cabin. And, when I was your age, he was often away on some adventure deep in the Congo or Malaysia, searching for the world’s rarest orchids.”

  “He found them,” Callie said.

  “Oh, where?”

  “All over the world.”

  Her father said, “It’s the sacrifice he chose to make. It’s sad and ironic that he spent a lifetime visiting some of the most treacherous places on earth, dealing with hostile tribes, jungles, dangerous animals, and he dies here at his home.”

  “Dad, he didn’t die at his home like he had a heart attack or some other natural cause. He was murdered here. That’s a big difference.”

  “I know. That’s what your mother and I have been talking to the police about almost since we arrived. That’s what I was referring to … the tragedy of circumstances in all this.”

  “Grandpa used to say that we should never be a sum total of our circumstances. He said that a positive attitude will rise above hard times. He told me that it’s okay to make mistakes in situations as long as I tried, I would learn from those circumstances … and that’s never failure.”

  Barbara said, “I’m glad you got to spend so much time with your grandfather.”

  Stan pulled the car up in front of the cabin. They all got out, quietly closing the doors. Callie looked across at the greenhouse, the yellow crime scene tape still there, a piece down and barely moving in the breeze.

  “This is so heartbreaking,” Barbara said, her eyes welling. “I can feel Dad all around here.”

  Callie looked to the left of the cabin, the orchid plant beneath the lowest limb on the cypress tree. She walked over to the ladder, positioning it back against the tree. She picked up a small watering can, used a garden hose to partially fill it. Callie climbed the ladder, like her grandfather had done so many times before. She used her fingertips to test the soil. She poured a small amount of water into the base of the plant, staring at it. “Grandpa didn’t make it to see you bloom. That’s not your fault. But I think where he is now … he can still see you. So, whenever you’re ready, you have his permission to bloom and become … Persephone.”

  She
wiped a single tear from her cheek.

  EIGHTY-EIGHT

  I was the one man out, and it wasn’t a problem. Only Wynona knew I was even there, following not far behind the team that was positioned to knock down a door to evil. But could it be contained? That’s what I was thinking when Detective Cory Gilson, Wynona, and two sheriff’s deputies arrived in the predawn hour at Michael Fazio’s condo. Wynona rode with Cory in an unmarked cruiser. The two deputies drove together in a separate marked car.

  They parked in a back portion of the condo lot, behind a row of other cars. I drove my Jeep, staying out of direct sight around the perimeter of the tall condo, a hint of sunrise changed the skyline over the Atlantic. I parked on the street with a view of the parking lot and the entrance to the condo. But I couldn’t see Fazio’s BMW. I checked my phone and got a strong signal, the pulsating dot appeared to be emanating from the parking lot.

  I scanned the area, finally seeing the black BMW parked on the street between Fazio’s condo and another matching high-rise, this one named Neptune II. But there was no sign of Fazio in or around the car. I looked back at the condo entrance. The two deputies were both large men, wearing uniforms and bullet-proof vests. Wynona and Cory wore body armor, too. Every member of the team had a gun visible. The largest of the two deputies carried an iron battering ram in one hand, his pistol in the other. I watched him holster his pistol. They stood at the door for a few seconds, whispering. Cory nodded, and then the deputy used the ram to knock the door open.

  “Police!” I heard them yell as all four entered the condo. “Police!”

  I got out of my Jeep, instinctively touching my Glock under my belt. I wanted to be with them as they entered, but I was forced to keep the boundaries. I knew all the reasons, but the reasons mean nothing when bullets start flying and officers begin falling. I could just here them yelling, “clear,” as they searched the condo. I couldn’t take my eyes off the doorway, waiting for Wynona and the others to emerge with no shots fired and Michael Fazio in handcuffs.

  It didn’t happen.

  The largest deputy was the first to walk back outside. I watched him holster his gun, bend down and lift the battering ram off the concrete porch. The other deputy came out next, and then Wynona and Cory walked outside, all talking. It was obvious that Fazio wasn’t there.

  I looked at his car and then lifted my eyes to the roof of the adjacent condo. The sunrise was a little brighter. There was a figure in silhouette on the rooftop.

  A man was aiming a rifle.

  The next ten seconds were the longest in my life. The deputy holding the battering ram fell, his head almost blown off. In less than two seconds, the second deputy was shot in the neck. Cory took a bullet and fell to the ground.

  Wynona fell, holding her leg. As she lay on the pavement, a second bullet ricocheted off the sidewalk and went under her vest. I used the hood of my Jeep to support my arms as I stood, aiming at the man on the roof. I shot three times, his body flinching at the third round. He disappeared from the roof. I didn’t know if he was dead, wounded or running away.

  I called 9-1-1, gave the dispatcher the address, and then I ran through the parking lot, keeping the cars between me and the shooter on the roof. I ran toward Wynona and the other downed officers. Both deputies were dead. Most of their heads gone. Cory bled from the neck, his eyes open, staring at the wisp of pink clouds in the sky.

  I knelt down by Wynona, blood squirting from the femoral artery in her left thigh. I held my hand to it, looking back up at the roof. The shooter not visible. “Hold on, Wynona. Help is on the way.”

  “Sean, he knew we were coming. How?”

  “Don’t talk.” My hands were covered in her blood. I could see blood coming from under her vest, the bullet having entered her lower stomach. I took off my belt, ripped the sleeve from my shirt, then folded the cloth and placed it under the belt, tightening. “You’re going to be okay. Just take slow breaths.” I could hear sirens in the distance.

  She coughed, her eyes growing vapid. “I’m cold, Sean. Just hold me.”

  I held her in my arms as a new day rose over the Atlantic. “Stay with me. I won’t let you go.” My eyes welled. Tears spilling onto her cheek. She tried to smile, her lower lip trembling.

  The sirens were closer. Maybe a minute away.

  I heard a noise. Someone running in hard sole shoes. I looked to my far right and saw Fazio running from the building across the street to his parked car. I lifted my Glock off the pavement next to Wynona and aimed. My eyes were too filled with tears to see clearly. He looked at me for a half-second before jumping behind the wheel and speeding off, knocking down a green plastic trash as he swerved over a sidewalk and into the intersection, driving away.

  I cradled Wynona in my arms, her pulse growing weaker, breathing shallow. “Stay with me, I whispered.”

  “Sean … I’m afraid … our baby.”

  EIGHTY-NINE

  I refused to leave the hospital. I knew that Michael Fazio was probably out of the country by now. Didn’t matter. I’d find him. There was no place on earth where he could crawl and hide, at least not for long. Wynona was still in surgery. There was no way I’d leave her. I stood in the hospital waiting room and looked up at a wide-screen TV mounted on the wall between plastic ficus plants and award plaques the hospital had won and displayed on the wall, magazines held vertical in plastic containers.

  There were three other people in the room. All had their eyes on the TV where a female reporter stood on the street with the condo in the background and said, “Again, three people are dead, another critically wounded in Parkview Memorial Hospital now undergoing surgery. We’re told that 38-year-old Wynona Osceola was part of the police raid before dawn at Atlantis Condominium behind me. She and the other officers were serving a warrant for the arrest of Michael Fazio, a man wanted for two recent murders in the Everglades. Detectives say Fazio is believed to have been the shooter this morning, taking shots from the roof of a condo across the street, giving him a clear vantage point to pick off the officers as they came out of his condo. Miami-Dade PD detective, Russ Delgado, said it appears they walked into an ambush.”

  The video cut to a detective in a tan sportscoat. No tie. He had a long face, and eyes filled with fatigue. “The officers were shot after they came out of the condo, not before they entered. We are doing our best to cover the airports in the area and major highway exits. We know the suspect was driving a black BMW X-1. The license plate is registered in Florida.

  The reporter asked, “Do you think Fazio was tipped off about the raid?”

  “We don’t know at this time.”

  The video cut to a split-screen between the reporter live on the scene and the anchorman back at the TV studio. “Carolyn, do you have an update on the condition of the fourth and last person to have been shot, Detective Wynona Osceola?”

  “The last time we checked, she was in surgery and listed in critical condition.”

  I walked out of the waiting room to a glassed atrium overlooking a park-like setting of palms and jacaranda trees budding with purple blossoms. I looked down at my hands. Even though I’d washed them, I spotted some of Wynona’s blood under my thumbnail. I thought about the night when Wynona told me she was pregnant. The child is yours … or ours might be the better word. I just wanted you to know. I love you, Sean … and I always will.

  “Mr. O’Brien?”

  The voice sounded far away. I turned around. A man stood in front of me in green hospital scrubs, a small bloodstain near the chest. He was lean. Dark skin. Maybe originally from India. He wore black-framed glasses, a tiny blood speck on the left lens. “I’m Doctor Patel. Miss Osceola is stable. We’ll be moving her to a room in critical care for the next few hours. She lost a lot of blood, and we had to remove part of her lower intestine. The bullet did a lot of damage. The child she was carrying, unfortunately, did not survive.”

  The statement made me stop breathing for a moment. I felt my heart hammering in my chest, coul
d almost hear the blood rushing through my veins. “Can I see Wynona?”

  “She’s not conscious. Probably won’t be for hours. She’s heavily sedated. You may see her, though. Give us a half-hour, okay?”

  “Yes. Thank you for saving her life.”

  He looked at me, making a dry swallow. “I wish we could have done more.”

  He started to turn. “Doctor …”

  “Yes?”

  “The baby … could you determine if it was a girl or boy.”

  “Yes. A girl. I am very sorry.” He sighed, shook his head as if he was going to say something more, turned and left, walking down the long hallway.

  As I watched him leave, I took my phone out of my pocket, looked at the GPS satellite app. I could see that the BMW was stationary. Still at the last place, the parking garage of the Seacrest Towers, the building where the Carswell Group had its national headquarters. I thought about calling the police, letting them know they might get two birds with one stone by blocking the exits to the building and bursting in Simon Santiago’s office, arresting both of them.

  But they’d have nothing concrete on Santiago unless Michael Fazio would cut a plea deal for life rather than the death penalty. There wouldn’t be much deal room after killing Joe Thaxton, Chester Miller and three members of law enforcement.

  Santiago would lawyer up, deny any criminal association with Fazio and toss him to the wolves. I remembered an old Cherokee proverb, the one about how each of us has two wolves always fighting inside our hearts … one evil and one peaceful. The one that wins, of course, is the one you feed. Today, I wanted to feed both of them equally because I knew I’d need the savage aggression to do what had to be done. Maybe, at the end of the day, the good wolf would prevail. At this point, I didn’t much care.

  Beyond Santiago and Fazio there was someone else. He or she was the one pulling all the puppet strings. That’s the person I would find. Beyond that, even I didn’t know what I’d do after I cut the strings.