by Tom Lowe
• • •
I stood by Wynona’s bedside. I almost didn’t recognize her. Her face was bruised and swollen from falling on the pavement. Tubes and IV’s ran to multiple parts of her body. Heart and vital signs monitoring machines beeped. Screens moved with digital calibration of life. Her wounded left leg was elevated on a pillow. Her arms and hands were folded across her stomach. Although she was unconscious, it was as if she was holding her stomach and her ovaries, feeling for the child inside her. My heart sank.
I leaned down and kissed her forehead. “You get well. When you open your eyes, I will have orchids in your room. They can only add to the beauty that I see now.”
NINETY
I was within three blocks of the Seacrest Tower when I saw an assassin move across the screen of my phone. I sat in my Jeep at a traffic light, almost running the light. “Come on,” I whispered under my breath. I looked at the phone again, the dot now exiting the building. I had a gut feeling that Fazio would head for the airports, but I didn’t know if it would be the closest, Miami International, or the four-hour drive north to Orlando. Both airports have large numbers of international flights. The Miami airport would be under heavy police surveillance.
The dot moved north from downtown, up Brickle Avenue and then on to Biscayne Boulevard. I followed as close as possible. The dot was going the opposite way from the airport, turning instead toward the Port of Miami, a place I knew well. Within a few minutes, I drove over Port Road, gleaming white cruise ships visible to the right and left. Fazio wasn’t driving toward any of the commercial cruise docks. He was driving to the cargo area.
I followed the moving dot to a remote parking lot at the southeast side of the port. I could see three large container ships, each one being loaded and unloaded with container boxes the size of trailers that semi-trucks pulled down the highway. The tall cranes slowly lifted and set the big boxes from ship to shore and then the opposite, from the shore to the ships.
At this point, I assumed Fazio’s escape plan was on a freighter bound for a distant nation. He most likely had a couple of different passports and enough cash in a briefcase to buy his way just about anywhere. The largest ship was called Athena. I could see it was registered in Argentina. I was within five-hundred feet of Fazio’s BMW, watching it moving from the main road onto the parking lot. It was a lot where sea captains, crew members and dock workers parked. The area was where a vehicle could be parked for weeks, even months, without raising suspicion. Fazio parked between a Dodge Ram pickup truck and a Subaru.
I stopped two rows away in a spot where he couldn’t see me in his rearview mirror. I looked around the property for security cameras. There were none close by that I could see. I knew that the closer we got to the docks that would change. He was standing behind the back of the BMW, rear hatch door open when I approached, walking quietly. A sea gull squawked overhead, the long blast of a ship’s horn coming from the Atlantic-side entrance to the port. The morning was hot and humid, a drop of sweat tricking down the center of my back.
Fazio lifted his right foot, moving it under the rear bumper to close the rear door. Any man has a compromised balance standing on one foot. I kicked him in the dead center of his back, his head and face smashing into the closing hatch door. I started to pull my Glock from beneath my belt. But something in his face, his startled yet arrogant look, changed my mind. I hit him hard and fast in his mouth, my knuckles smashing lips and teeth. Blood pouring from his crooked mouth. He charged me, swinging with his right fist. The blow connecting against my shoulder. I countered, delivering my left fist to his jaw. The sound of bone cracking was like an egg dropped on a tile floor. He fell back against his BMW.
I looked at him for a second. “What’d Santiago pay you to kill Joe Thaxton and Chester Miller? Beyond Santiago, who’s calling the shots?”
He said nothing, his chest heaving, blood running out of his mouth. “I’m going to give you the chance to live the rest of your miserable life in prison. Who tipped you off to the raid?”
“Screw you!”
“You make the decision to shoot four police officers. Three are dead. One, the woman, is clinging to life. But you killed her unborn child. My child …”
His expression was of instant fright and hate. He rolled away from the SUV, reaching for his left shoe, pulling a small pistol out of an ankle holster. Before I could draw my Glock, he managed to get off one round, the bullet grazing my left shoulder. I shot him in the chest. He fell on his back, breathing heavy, a flower of blood staining his shirt.” His eyes locked on mine. I stood over him, my heart pounding.
“You won’t kill me. They got cameras out here. And these people are big money people … they’ll come after you.” He grinned.
“This is for Joe Thaxton, Chester Miller, three police officers, a severely wounded woman and her dead child.” His grin faded. I shot him between the eyes, the round leaving a hole in his forehead the size of a nickel. I pulled his phone out of his back pocket, looking at some of the last numbers called and received.
I left the body where it fell, between his SUV and the pickup truck, used a napkin to detach the GPS tracker, then turned and walked to my Jeep. When I got behind the wheel, I scrolled to the last few numbers called on Fazio’s phone. I took a gamble, hoping that one of the numbers was directly to Santiago’s cell phone. I wanted to get him anxious. Frightened. Moving quickly and making mistakes. Getting sloppy. Calling his contacts.
As I started my Jeep, I hit the call back on the last number called on the phone. A man answered. His voice in quick bursts. “What now? I told you not to call me until you’re out of the country. Are you on the ship?”
“It seems like Fazio missed the boat?”
He was silent for a long moment. “Who the hell is this?”
“Someone who is about to become your worst enemy. Here’s why, Simon. You’re an accessory to murder. Not just one, but a whole string of them. Fazio is going to cut a plea, and you’ll wind up on death row. Bribing and buying politicians, maybe a sheriff or two, will get you time in prison, but murder—you hiring a hitman, well—that just sent you to the top of the stupid criminal food chain, and you’re about to be eaten alive.”
“Who is this? Don’t you threaten me!”
“You’re about to meet me. It’ll be rather informal. But, before we have our little chat, you can call the man who paid you to have Thaxton killed, and you can tell us all about it. That way, you are truly the middle man or the man in the middle. So, what are you going to do? If you’re smart, it’ll be Simon says who did it. See you soon.”
NINETY-ONE
People who buy red Ferraris want to be seen, at least they want to be seen behind the wheel of one of the most expensive sports cars in the world. Simon Santiago was no exception. As I drove into the ten-story parking garage next to the Seacrest Towers, I was glad that earlier Wynona and I had seen Santiago get into the red Ferrari parked at the Coconut Grove restaurant. The car would be easy to find in the labyrinth of the parking garage.
I took the ticket from the automated machine and began the slow access from the ground floor all the way to the top floor. I anticipated that by poking Santiago’s psyche on the phone, he would move at a speed of carelessness. Call his lawyer. Call his contacts. Making arrangements for meetings. And, hopefully, be leaving the parking garage soon.
As I ascended through the levels of concrete floors, I looked for cameras. Most were always in the same place on each floor—near the exits, the elevators and stairwells. I was hoping Santiago had not parked his car in a direction that would be easily picked up on a surveillance camera. If so, I’d have to deal with it.
When I finished driving around the ninth floor without seeing his car, I was a little worried. And then I drove to the tenth and final floor. Parked by itself, in a premium spot, was the red Ferrari. It wasn’t next to the elevator or the stairwell. But it was in a choice corner space with a view of the Atlantic. It was the first thing Santiago saw when he parked
in the morning and the last thing he saw in the late afternoon, assuming he worked late.
I parked my Jeep in a spot directly across from the Ferrari, turned off the engine and waited. I looked at my watch. I had just enough daylight left if my plan was to happen the way I wanted. As I waited for Santiago to come running from the elevator or the stairway, I called the intensive care unit at Parkview Memorial. I was quickly put through to the nurses’ desk. “ICU, can I help you?”
“Yes, this is Sean O’Brien. I’m calling to check on the condition of Wynona Osceola.”
“Hold on, please.”
I waited, watching the elevator doors and the entrance to the stairwell. A statuesque woman in a business suit walked to her car, high heels echoing off the concrete walls and floor. She got into a silver Audi and left. The voice came back on the phone. Sir, doctor Patel is in there with the patient now.”
“Is she doing better?”
“She’s still unconscious. Her condition remains the same, critical and guarded.”
I could hear a doctor being paged over the hospital intercom. “Thank you.” I immediately called Detective Ron Hamilton. He answered quickly. “Any update on Detective Osceola?” he asked.
“She’s still listed in guarded condition.”
“Where are you?”
“I’d rather not say, specifically.”
“Listen to me, Sean. I know you’re angry that this happened, but you can’t become a vigilante and hope to have a snowball’s chance in hell of bringing justice to people like Fazio and Santiago.” Hamilton, tie loosened, pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Depends on what you define as justice. Fazio is dead.”
“What? Oh Christ.”
“He pulled his gun on me, and he fired a round. All I did was protect myself. Ron, we’re up against people who believe the rule of law is beneath them. Our serial killer is a billionaire who gave the nod to have people eliminated that could change the way he does business. And you know that kind of money their defense will buy. They’ll lawyer up so hard and fast it almost becomes impenetrable unless you have absolute proof that they’re complicit. Santiago hired Fazio because of direct orders from someone. I don’t think Fazio knew who the lead dog was. We have to get Santiago to tell us. We need proof from him, a direct bread crumb trail to the person or persons calling the lethal shots.”
“Unless you have something on Santiago, he’s not going to sing. He’ll get the best attorneys and wind up suing the city for false arrest.”
“No problem. I don’t have the authority to arrest him. But I can have a man-to-man chat with Santiago. When I’m done, I want to deliver him to you with his confession.”
“Just tells me where you are, and we’ll come get him.”
“I’ll call you in a couple of hours. Trust me on this one, Ron, there is no other way. They’ve killed three officers, two men in the glades, and they murdered an unborn baby. Wynona was carrying my child.”
“Oh, dear God … I had no idea.”
I saw the doors open and Simon Santiago walk from the elevator toward the Ferrari. He had a phone in one ear. Mouth moving.
“Gotta go. Call you soon. When I do, Santiago should be ready to talk to you.”
I slipped off my boat shoes and walked up behind Santiago as he was disconnecting and putting the phone inside his suit jacket pocket. When he unlocked the door to the Ferrari, I said, “Fazio did miss the boat, but he sends his regards.”
Santiago whirled around, and I slammed my right fist into the left side of his jaw. He fell to the floor of the garage. I picked him up, opened the back of my Jeep and then went to work, covering his mouth with a thick piece of masking tape, put his arms behind his back, and wrapped his hands and feet in tape. He was curled in the fetal position as I reached inside his suit pocket and got his phone.
And then I left the parking garage and headed to a scenic and remote spot in the Everglades.
NINETY-TWO
It didn’t take me long to leave the urban jungle of Miami and enter a whole different jungle near an area of Lostman’s River. In some areas of South Florida’s Ten Thousand Islands, there are places that both alligators and crocodiles co-exist. And it happens nowhere else in the world but here. I drove my Jeep through wetlands for a few miles south of the Tamiami Trail. I kept checking my rearview mirror to see if Santiago was moving, lifting his bruised head over the back seat. So far, nothing.
Soon the cypress trees melded into mangroves, their spindly prop roots like claws grasping the dark water. I pulled my Jeep as close as possible to the brackish estuaries and parked, rolling my window down. There was a low tide smell of salt, seaweed and mud. I reached in the console for my Buck knife and rope that I always carry. I cut off two pieces, each about four feet in length. I strapped the knife to my belt along with the rope pieces and stepped outside to open the rear hatch door.
Simon Santiago moaned. His jaw was red and purple, swollen. He opened his eyes and stared at me. I pulled the knife out of the leather sheath on my side. His eyes opened wider, the tape across his mouth preventing him from yelling. I grabbed his feet and used the knife to cut through the duct tape. “Get out!” I pulled one of his legs, dragging him to the end of the floorboard. “Stand up!” I yanked the tape off his mouth.
He sucked in a chest full of air. “You’re a dead man!”
“Not yet.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Watch your language.”
“What do you want?”
“The truth! I know in your line of work, that’s not a prerequisite for the job. But I think that’ll change in a few minutes. Walk toward the water.”
“What!”
“Now!” I shoved him in the back. He stumbled and got up. I grabbed him by his collar and pulled him closer to the estuary. There was no wind, and the water was dark as onyx stone. The surface appeared polished. A hundred feet across the estuary, a snowy egret stood motionless, its white feathers so reflective off the water it looked like two egrets connected at their gangly legs. The ripe scent of oysters rose from a mud flat at low tide.
Santiago looked back at me like a condemned man. “What are you gonna do?”
“That, pal, depends on what Simon says.”
“Let’s go for swim.”
“Come on man!”
“You won’t drown. It’s shallow. Probably not over our waists in most places. But there is something unique about the area. It’s called Lostman’s River. Guess how it got the name?” I smiled. “We’re not here to talk history. We’re here to talk the future—yours specifically. You see, Simon, this is brackish water. It’s one of the few places on the planet where alligators and the fierce crocodiles live and thrive in the same area. Some of the crocs here are almost twenty feet long. Can you imagine the crushing power of those jaws? Walk into the water!”
“You’re crazy!”
“You’re right. Walk!”
I pulled the Glock from my belt, pressing the end of the barrel hard against his forehead. “It doesn’t matter to me if I shoot you here and roll your body into the swamp. They won’t find your big toe after the gators and crocs move in.” I pulled out one of the pieces of rope from under my belt, quickly made a noose and slipped it over his head. I tightened the rope around his neck and led him into the dark water. “You scream, and I’ll crush your larynx.”
I pulled him through hip-deep water to an area of large red mangroves lining the bank. I used the other length of the rope to run around his wrists and tied him to the thick prop roots. He stood there in water up to his waist looking out into the long and winding bay bordered by mangroves and cypress trees.
“It shouldn’t take too long,” I said. “Once the first croc or gator hits you, it’ll be a feeding frenzy. It’s time I step out of the water and let mother nature take over.”
“No! You can’t leave me tied up here.”
“Watch me.” I walked out of the water, about fifty feet, and stood to his left on the e
mbankment.
“You can’t do this! Just shoot me!”
“No, that’s way too quick. As the crocs are feeding on your entrails like eating pasta, you may still be alive. And I want you to think about all the people you’ve killed.”
“I didn’t kill anybody!”
“You didn’t pull the trigger, but you paid the triggerman. Shhhh!” I stopped speaking. A hundred yards out near the opposite bank, a big gator or croc slid into the water with a loud smack. That reptile was followed by another. “Now, all you have to do, Simon, to come out of there is to tell me who sanctioned Joe Thaxton’s death.”
He stared at the water, the knotted eyes and snouts of the animals coming closer, the water behind their big tails rippling. “Please! Don’t let me be eaten alive.”
“I need the information. You don’t have to die here or on death row … I want to know the name of your boss, who he works for, and why he wanted Thaxton, Chester Miller and three police officers killed.” I glanced at the V-shaped ripples coming closer.
“Okay! I’ll tell you! Cut me loose.”
I took my phone out, punched the video record button and stepped back in the water. “Look at me and start talking. You leave anything out … I leave you out here. It’s time to come clean and don’t even think about trying to lie to me. Who ordered the death of Joe Thaxton and why?”
“His name is Timothy Spencer. CEO of Heartland Sugar Corporation. His family has owned the company for decades. And that’s one of many companies they own. Nobody took Joe Thaxton serious as a candidate … and then he did those TV interviews, and they caught on like wildfire. The environmental laws he was talking about pushing through, combined with a threat to reduce or end sugar subsidies, made him public enemy number one.”
“How much did Timothy Spencer pay to have Thaxton killed?”
“A half-million.”
“Who killed Thaxton?”
“Michael Fazio.” He looked at the water, the gators and crocs coming closer, the shrill sound of a limpkin in the bush. “Get me outta here!”
