The Orchid Keeper: A Sean O'Brien Novel

by Tom Lowe

  “Did Fazio kill Chester Miller?”

  “Yes!”

  “Why?”

  “Because the old man could identify him.”

  “Did Timothy Spencer pay for that one, too.”

  “Yes.”

  “How much.”

  “A quarter million.”

  “Who killed the two sheriff’s deputies and Detective Cory Gilson and severely wounded another detective, Wynona Osceola.”

  “Fazio.”

  “How’d he know about the raid?”

  “The sheriff tipped us off.”

  “Name! I need a name!”

  “Sheriff Dwight Ketcham!

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s in Tim Spencer’s pocket. Dozens and dozens of people are, too. Mostly politicians. It’s just the way it is, man. He buys people like cattle. That’s the system we’ve created. Don’t shoot the messenger!”

  “What was your role in the killings?”

  “I hired Fazio to do the jobs, at least the first two murders. I had nothing do to with the shooting of cops.”

  “Is everything you told me true, and will you tell the same story to the state attorney and Miami-Dade police?”

  “Yes!”

  “Yes what?

  “It’s all true … I swear to God! Come on! Get me out of here!”

  “Where does Timothy Spencer spend most of his time?”

  “He’s got a half-dozen houses that I know of—probably more. He owns one of the biggest houses on Fisher Island.”

  I slipped the phone into my pocket, still recording audio. The two gators and one crocodile were less than fifty feet away, the croc and one of the gators broke out of the pack, forming a half-circle. I pulled my Glock out and fired three quick shots. A round a few feet in front of each reptile. Not to harm them, but to frightened them. They vanished, dropping below the surface. I knew they wouldn’t be gone long.

  I walked into the water, cut the ropes and pulled Santiago out, tears streaming down his unshaven face. His knees were so weak he dropped down, almost unable to walk. He looked up at me and said, “They’ll come for you. There’s nowhere on earth you can hide. You have no idea who you’re messing with.”

  “Let ‘em come. I’ll put out the welcome mat. Now, stand up and start walking to the Jeep.” I made a call to Detective Ron Hamilton. “Ron, we have a full confession from Simon Santiago on tape. I’m emailing it to you now.”

  “Where’s Santiago?”

  “He’s a little wet. I was showing him around the glades. Looks like he lost his balance. I’ll bring him to you. Where do you want to meet?”

  “Someplace where there are no cameras. There’s an abandoned airstrip off forty-one and fifty-seventh street. This will be one of the oddest prisoner exchanges in my career.”

  “Bounty hunters do it all the time, but I’m not doing it for money. It’s justice. Santiago said the man who commissioned the hit on Joe Thaxton is Timothy Spencer. He’s—”

  “I know who he is. He’s a billionaire. Big Sugar—big sugar daddy. Once he hears we have his primo lobbyist in custody, he’ll be on one of his private jets and out of the country. He’ll bring in an army of lawyers to bury this.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Sean, you can’t step over more boundaries and expect this to stick.”

  “What sticks is the truth. There’s no better glue. I stayed behind the boundaries and three members of law enforcement are dead. If Wynona dies, it’ll be four. When you count the baby … as I do … it’s a serial slaughter. It’s time that the guy at the top is held accountable.”

  NINETY-THREE

  The airstrip looked more like a dirt road. When it was in use, most of the planes that came in and out of the area were crop dusters. There were two abandoned hangars, corrugated aluminum tarnished, looking more like elongated barns than places for planes. Ron Hamilton was already there when I arrived. I had retied Santiago’s hands behind his back, using the rope and binding his feet together. He sat in the rear seat and didn’t say a word during the hour drive back toward Miami.

  I pulled closer to the hangar, Ron standing by his unmarked car. He had another person with him, a dark-haired woman dressed in a business jacket and black pants. I could tell she was carrying a handgun. She wore a badge on her belt. Ron said, “Sean O’Brien meet Rita Rodriguez. She started with the department a few months after you left. Rita came up the ranks quickly.”

  She extended her hand. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”

  “You know none of that came from me,” Ron said.

  “I know.” I smiled.

  “I assume that’s Santiago in the back seat?”

  “He’s all yours.”

  Rita said, “We checked in with Parkview Hospital. Detective Osceola is still in guarded condition. My prayers are with her.”

  “Thank you.”

  She glanced at Santiago in the Jeep. “We watched the video a few times. Santiago will try to say he was coerced into a confession. But the information he gave is too compelling.”

  “That’s because it’s true.”

  Ron said, “Your extraction methods are rather unorthodox, but under the circumstances … five people are dead.”

  “Six … six lives taken.”

  He nodded. “You’re right. You know that you’re bleeding from your shoulder?”

  “It’s a bullet graze. Fazio pulled on me. I had no choice. As long as Santiago thinks Fazio is alive and willing to testify against him, you’ll get more from Santiago.”

  Ron looked from my Jeep to me. “Why don’t you go be with Wynona? We’ll take it from here.”

  “One of the houses Timothy Spencer owns is on Fisher Island. I have a feeling he’s there. But he won’t be when the news media break the story that you’ve picked up Spencer’s right-hand pimp.”

  “At this time, all we can do is take Santiago in and interrogate him, using the interview you already did to corroborate and establish facts and timelines. We’ll build the case as quickly as we can. Much of it will probably come from any emails, phone calls, and texts between Santiago and Spencer. We’ll follow the money trail. Spencer paid a hefty price to have Joe Thaxton eliminated, and he had to follow up by agreeing to have the only possible witness, Chester Miller, killed. Maybe we can get Santiago to wear a wire and meet with Spencer. An oral admission of complicity, if it could be obtained, would nail it.”

  “Let’s see if Santiago will cooperate.”

  “Rita and I we’ll take him in, do what we can to convince him that wearing a wire would be in his best interest.”

  • • •

  I went to a CVS pharmacy and bought antiseptic and a three-by-three gauze bandage to cover the bullet scrape on my shoulder. I entered a restroom at a convenience store, locked the door, removed my shirt and applied the medication and bandage, the round had grazed the bone. Later, in the parking lot of a McDonalds, I sipped black coffee and used my small laptop to go online. Checking county records, I quickly found the location and address of the house owned by Timothy Spencer and his wife Delores.

  I looked for other property he owned—companies under his umbrella, any affiliation with corporate and non-profit boards. And I found more. Seven years ago, when Spencer was between wives, he was questioned when a twenty-seven-year-old model was discovered dead in one of his homes. This one was in the Hamptons of New York, the model found dead in one of the nine bedrooms. An autopsy revealed no apparent foul play, but the toxicology report indicated high concentrations of cocaine and oxycodone in her system. Although no criminal charges were filed, the dead woman’s family brought a civil lawsuit. Spencer’s attorneys settled the suit for 1.7 million dollars. I dug deeper, looking for clues into the psychological profile of Timothy Spencer.

  The Hamptons estate was one of four homes I could find owned by Timothy Spencer. The others were in Aspen and Malibu. I downloaded satellite photos of Fisher Island and the house, looking for the best access and exit poin
ts. The home was on the northeast section, with a direct view of the sunrises over the Atlantic.

  There were no bridges to the island. Only a ferry boat that I knew would be too risky to take. There’d have to be pre-arranged security clearances. Surveillance cameras. People who would make TSA screeners look like amateurs.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have to make a midnight run to the island. Maybe Simon Santiago would agree to wear a wire and meet Spencer at some members-only club for a new talk over old scotch. But would he say anything that might later incriminate him?

  I thought about that and Plan B as I drove to a Whole Foods Market and bought a half-dozen colorful orchids. And then I headed to Parkview Hospital. I entered Wynona’s room with the orchids sitting on a tray I carried. Joe Billie stood by her bedside. He looked up at me and nodded. “She’ll make it, Sean. Her will to live is too powerful, and she has a lot to live for.”

  I tried to smile, the pulsating sound of the machines, heartbeats, breathing—made a real smile tough to do. “I’m still worried.” I put the orchids as close to her bed as possible.

  “I know you are afraid for her. Sam Otter wanted to come. He’s a little too frail to make the journey. But he’s doing what he does back at his firepit and chickee to help from a distance.”

  “We can use all the help we can get.”

  “I heard about the three police officers who died in the hail of bullets. Wynona is lucky to be alive. Is the baby okay?”

  “She lost it.”

  A sadness instantly filled Joe’s dark eyes. He stared at one of the orchids then looked up at me. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “There will be retribution.”

  My phone buzzed. I looked at the screen. Ron Hamilton calling. I answered, and he said, “We’ve been working with the state attorney. Santiago doesn’t know Fazio is dead, so Santiago is hedging his bets. After your interrogation, Santiago believes that Fazio holds the trump card against him so he’s willing to talk, and the state’s open to cutting a deal. No death penalty for full disclosure. But Santiago isn’t willing to wear a wire. He says Spencer’s house is set with hidden metal detectors. When we suggested for him to meet Spencer at a club or restaurant, he said Spencer is too leery to let one small detail about the killings slip out of his wealthy mouth.”

  “Then what’s left?”

  “Following the forensics, evidence, and money trails the best we can.”

  “Has Santiago asked for a lawyer?”

  “No, not yet. I think he’s still in such a state of shock after you two went for a swim in the glades, it’s as if he has a mild form of PTSD. He’s rather subdued. Maybe his meds are really kicking in now. Where are you?”

  “At the hospital.”

  “How’s Wynona?”

  “Serious but stable condition.”

  “If there is anything that I can do, don’t hesitate to ask. I was telling Rita that I’d lost count of the times you had my back.”

  “We had each other’s backs. We made a good team, Ron.”

  “Yes, we did. I was stunned to hear about Cory Gilson’s death. I didn’t know him that well when he was with the department. I know you knew him a little better.”

  “Remember that the guy Cory worked for, Sheriff Dwight Ketcham, has to be complicit. Santiago said it was Ketcham who tipped off Fazio.”

  “We have two detectives en route over there to arrest him. This is gonna be one helluva case. The question is …who do we put on trial first?”

  “The guy who first ordered the hit.”

  “We gotta get him on something. He’s the great white shark circling beyond the perimeter. And he uses people like chum bait. Stay with Wynona, Sean. Don’t do anything that might come back to haunt us for years.”

  “If Santiago won’t wear a wire, then I will.”

  “Spencer will never speak with you. Don’t even try.”

  I looked down at Wynona. “I’ll bring you something you can use. Expect a video call around midnight. And please be where you can record live video. Thanks, Ron.”

  “Sean—”

  I disconnected and looked across the room at Joe Billie. “Do you happen to have your canoe in the back of your truck?”

  “No, it’s at home. Why?”

  “Because I need to make a midnight run by water. And it must be quiet like a canoe.”

  “How far do you need to travel by canoe or boat?”

  I found the satellite images of Fisher Island on my phone screen. “About three hundred yards.” I walked around the bed to Joe, held the screen so he could see it. “This is Virginia Key in Biscayne Bay … and right to the immediate northwest is Fisher Island. The eastern tip is where I need to go.”

  “I have an idea. A two-man raft with an electric motor. It’s quiet, and it’ll do well in those protected waters. I know a marine store close by.”

  “Do they sell hunting equipment?”

  “You mean guns?”

  “No, crossbows.”

  “I think so.” Joe glanced down at Wynona, touching her hands. “She’s a special one. In the language of the Seminole, she is called Cho-se.” He looked up from Wynona’s face to mine. “I have an idea what you’re planning, Sean. I suggested a two-man raft. I could be your second man.”

  NINETY-FOUR

  When I used to sail out of Miami, Virginia Key was one of the islands in Biscayne Bay that intrigued me the most. Before the Spanish arrived with galleons and greed, the Tequesta Indians called the island home. It’s close to 900 acres in size, filled with palm trees, a county park, the Miami Sea Aquarium and marine research facilities. But the north end of the island is rustic, remote and undeveloped. It is laced with bike trails that lead up to white sand beaches. Wide bike paths make easy access in a Jeep.

  Joe Billie sat in the front seat, silent, as I drove the trails by the light of the moon, the Jeep’s headlights off. I told him everything I knew about Timothy Spencer, and Spencer’s connection to the murders. He looked over at me and asked, “You think you’ll get him to talk?”

  “It’s worth the gamble. Too many deaths. Too little accountability. There’s too much money to bring this to justice through the conventional method. It needs leverage.”

  He said nothing, watching the moon through the gaps in the palm trees, the sound of the surf coming through the Jeep’s open windows. After a moment, he said, “This island is a spiritual place. When the ships from Europe arrived on these shores, the native people had no idea what was coming across the horizon and descending upon them. They were curious, greeting them with peace but with suspicion. This big island and the others in Biscayne Bay, a place where the natives fished and gathered clams and lobsters for centuries, was decimated in less than fifty years.”

  “And there was no gold to be found in Florida, only a lot of flowers.” I pulled up to the beach on the northeast side of Virginia Key, the moon shimmering over the Atlantic, a massive cruise ship coming around the tip of South Beach in the distance. I looked across the inlet to Fisher Island, lights from expensive condos and multi-million-dollar homes twinkling.

  We unloaded the raft from the Jeep, inflated it with a plug-in pump, attached an electric motor and batteries. We brought two fishing rods and a crossbow with five arrows. I locked the Jeep, and we carried the raft to the surf, both Joe and I were shoeless. We pushed off through the breakers, a small amount of sea water coming over the bow. Billie piloted, and I sat near the bow with a pair of binoculars, watching the island. I propped the rods up against the side of the raft. And then I looked for marine patrol in boats.

  I didn’t have to search long. Through the binoculars, I spotted a private security boat. It looked to be at least twenty feet long. Two men aboard. Both sitting near the stern, one man behind the wheel. The words on the transom read: Bayside Security.

  I turned to Billie. “It’s good they have their tail feathers pointed toward us. I don’t think we’ve been spotted. Regardless, we look like a couple guys doing some night fishing on an
in-coming tide.”

  A smile worked at the side of his mouth. “Maybe we should have bought some bait.”

  “I’m hoping they won’t get close enough to inspect us. From what I was able to gather, nighttime security makes a loop around the island from ten through daybreak. Spencer’s mansion won’t be hard to find. Maybe we can tie up where the patrol can’t spot the raft the next time they circle around the island.”

  Billie studied the shoreline as we approached the center of the inlet, the small electric motor pushing us in silence, a breeze blowing from the east. “I don’t think it’ll be hard to hide our little boat among the mega-yachts.”

  I watched the patrol boat disappear around the tip of the island, the two-man crew heading northwest. We moved within a hundred yards off shore and set a course that looked like we were heading to South Beach. In reality, as soon as we spotted Spencer’s mansion, we’d make a sweeping left and set a path directly toward the house.

  As the moon slipped behind dark clouds, we watched heat lightning reverberate in the distance where the inky sky met the sea. We were about two-hundred yards off shore. There was a mega-yacht docked out front, a dozen or so lights glowing from the yacht. It was sleek and sexy, Italian lines, all 150 feet in white with blackened windows.

  I saw two people in silhouette moving on the long deck. I looked back at Billie. “The mansion will be loaded with surveillance and motion detection cameras and alarms. But maybe not so much for the yacht. Someone is on it. At least two people. If we’re lucky, Spencer will be one of them.”

  He watched the yacht. “One could be Spencer. What will you do with the one who is not?”

  “Nothing. Maybe encourage him or her to remain silent.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that you get me to the stern of the yacht, I’ll jump onto the swim platform and work my way through the decks, hunting for Spencer.”

  “And if you don’t find him on the big boat, what?”

  “I’ll have whomever is on the yacht escort me inside the house.”