The 24th Letter ((Mystery/Thriller))

by Tom Lowe

  the license plate of a new car that wasn’t there when he had left for the store. Ron Hamilton had gone home for the night. He hoped Ron would never have to admit or deny that he knew what was about to happen.

  He unlocked the room door and flipped on the lights. The odor was like opening the trunk of a car with old clothes in it. The smell had the faint trace of bleach. O’Brien locked the door, placed the Glock on a nightstand next to the bed and sat at a small table to eat while he read the case file.

  As he read his own words written eleven years ago, the visuals of Alexandria’s death came back in graphic detail. He remembered the interrogation he had conducted with Judy Neilson, Alexandria’s roommate. He recalled questioning her at the crime scene. The sobbing, blotches of red on her neck and face. The incoherent, disconnected sentences, the shock of finding her best friend dead from knife wounds to the chest.

  It was the second time he questioned Judy Neilson that her demeanor had changed. She was controlled, unwavering in the facts as she knew them surrounding Alexandria’s life and her death. And she had the hard edge of retribution in eyes that could cry no more. The sheer horror of it had deeply affected her. O’Brien read Judy’s words and remembered her sitting in the MPD interview room, her blond hair pulled back, striking face, no make-up, and manicured hands folded in her lap, shoulders straight back. Her tone was resolute, her expression was one of controlled restraint and yet compassion for a friend who was murdered. “Alex was one of the most loving, gracious people I’ve ever known. I think she still loved Charlie, but she felt it wasn’t going to work. His ego was in the dumps. He kept coming around like a cat that finds its

  way back to your doorstep at night. It was because of Alex’s big heart that she always took him in. They’d fight and make up. Eventually, he stopped coming back.

  “After he was gone for most of the summer, when she had time to compare him to some of the creeps that came around, I guess Charlie was looking better. She told me she’d always have a place in her heart for Charlie…she just needed time to figure it all out. That possessive manager of hers, Jonathan Russo, he was over at the condo more than I wanted to see him. Alex swore there was nothing between them, but you could tell, he kept her on a short leash. She hated going to his club, but Alex did have her weaknesses—she was only human. She liked the celebrity scene and all the fame she was getting. Russo got her hooked on cocaine…and that’s when she started depending on him in a sick kind of way. Charlie got wind of it. Came back from North Carolina and had words with Russo. Alex told me Russo threatened to kill Charlie if he ever came in his club again. I know Charlie hated to see Alex spiraling down. Charlie did have a drinking problem, but in my heart-of-hearts, I find it hard to believe he went off the deep end like that. I know Russo had people watching the condo. Sometimes I’d see one of his goons sitting in a car and just watching. Used to give me the creeps.”

  O’Brien bit into his ham sandwich and washed down the stale taste with coffee. He flipped through to the transcript of Jonathan Russo’s interrogation. He remembered Russo’s demeanor well, the slouch in the chair, the peaks of anger tapered by feigned boredom mixed with arrogance. He remembered the tanned face with a spider’s web thin scar etched on the bridge of his nose. Thick lips. Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. A diamond stud winking in his right ear. He wore an thousand dollar olive-green Armani suite and kept a five-hundred-dollar-an-hour legal beagle at his side.

  “Why would I kill Lexie, huh? She was one of my top-billing talents. Besides, I was over at my friend Sergio Conti’s condo when you said the coroner estimated her time of death. We picked up a jug of chardonnay, a few pounds of stone crabs from the marina, ate them and tossed the shells off the balcony onto the sand below, it was raining friggin’ crabs. Threw the shells and a little crab meat down to the beach for the birds to enjoy in the morning. I’ve learned to recycle those natural things best I can. Crabs are always washin’ up on the beach anyway. Scavengers.”

  O’Brien lifted the case folder and turned to a photograph of Alexandria Cole. He remembered the crime scene photographer using a stepladder to get a higher angle over the bed. The image was of a young woman lying on her back with seven stab wounds in her naked chest. Breasts pierced with deep holes. The killer brought the blade down so hard he split her sternum. Blood had soaked into the sheets and dried like dark shadows below her outstretched arms giving the body an illusion of scarlet angel wings.

  O’Brien looked at the photo and said, “I’m sorry, Alexandria. I’m sorry you suffered like this and the man who did it is living his life. Although I’m eleven years late, I’ll do my best to make up for lost time…for you and for Charlie Williams.”

  O’Brien closed the folder, picked up his Glock, wedged it under his belt, and walked out the door into the night.

  FORTY-TWO

  O’Brien drove down Ocean Drive in South Beach, glancing at the moon rising over the Atlantic Ocean. It looked like a big goose egg above the horizon, the reflection casting a long ribbon of light over the water. A small dark cloud moved across the base of the moon, creating a diffused edge around the lower third. He rolled the windows down in the rental Jeep to hear the sound of the breakers.

  O’Brien drove slowly, watching people meandering across the street heading into the trendy restaurants and upscale coffee and wine bars. He spotted a man and a trophy blonde model get out of a red Ferrari in front of a nightclub called the Opium Garden. O’Brien could hear the pulse of music, smell the grilled fish and garlic mix with the salty sent of the ocean. He missed some things about Miami, mainly the food, but not the fast paced, instant gratification, pseudo lifestyle of the seen-and-be-seen on South Beach.

  He stopped at a traffic light and looked through the palm trees to the moon over the water. The cloud was rising like someone sitting up in a bed with a sheet over her head, an armless shadow in the center of the moon. It was a figure morphing in a lava lamp, transforming into a dark image resembling the profile of a person dressed in a shawl. O’Brien smiled. The man in the moon was now the woman in the moon.

  O’Brien’s heart jumped. He had seen it before.

  But where?

  The driver in the car behind him honked his horn. O’Brien drove, craning his neck to see the moon through the tall royal palms that lined South Beach.

  He stared at the image—the figure. Where had he seen it?

  “What are you doing? Dumb ass!” screamed a man riding a bike on the shoulder of the road. O’Brien swerved, just missing the man.

  The likeness. Where did it come from? Think. Book. Magazine. A painting? Where? Maybe a museum. Maybe in an art class in college.

  And on the floor of St. Francis Church!

  An image in blood drawn by Father John Callahan.

  O’Brien pulled onto the sidewalk, his car blocking two teenage skateboarders. He jumped out of his car and snapped a picture of the moon with his cell phone.

  One teenager said, “It’s just the moon, man. Like you’ve never seen it before.”

  O’Brien hit Dave Collin’s number on his cell.

  “Sean, I see it’s you, and I’m not even wearing my glasses.”

  “Go find them. I’m sending you a lunar image.”

  “A what?”

  “An image. Just took it of the moon.”

  “Is there an eclipse tonight?”

  “No, I want you to look at it carefully. Tell me what it looks like.”

  “Where the hell are you?” Collin’s voice was deep, thick with rum and fatigue.

  O’Brien said, “South Beach. How’s Max?”

  “Nick came by a few hours ago and said it was his turn to watch her. He took her down to the tiki bar for dinner. He said her presence helps him pick up women.”

  O’Brien had mental picture of his little dachshund sitting on a barstool next to Nick Cronus. “Dave, try to get her back on your boat before it gets too late. There’s a reason Nick never had kids. He’d forget where he put them.”

/>   “Kim, our lovely bartender, won’t let Max out of her site, believe me on that one. The woman would like so score a few points with you, too. I’ll make sure Max is tucked away tonight. Sean, you’re my dear friend and you’re overdue for some feminine companionship. Since your wife died of cancer and the lady cop…what was her name?”

  “Leslie, listen—”

  “Since she was shot you haven’t begun to live again. I think—”

  “Dave, please!”

  “What?”

  “Please, just listen a moment. I’ll e-mail an image to you. Look at it closely. See if you can figure out who painted something similar. I know I’ve seen it in an art history class or somewhere.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it reminds me of the likeness Father Callahan scrawled on the floor of the sanctuary. Maybe, when he was dying, he saw the moon through one of those big skylights. I don’t know. Could have reminded him of something—something that would get us closer to figuring out his message if we could match that painting or the artist who painted it. Maybe it’s connected to the name Pat. There’s a chance the artist has a direct clue in the painting that will reveal the killer or his location.”

  Collins was silent for a moment. O’Brien could hear him stirring ice in his drink. Finally he said, “Sean, I’ve always liked the way your mind works…but you’re down there in South Beach howling at the moon…everything you just told me is the reason they call lunatics crazy, if one is to believe in the lunar influence. However, if the man in the moon, our celestial companion, second to our sun in brilliance, can affect a woman’s menstrual cycle, what little hope do we mortal men have?”

  “You’ll have a clearer picture in the morning, goodnight, Dave.” As O’Brien hung up, he thought about Max. “Next time, I get Max a real dog sitter,” he mumbled as he got in the Jeep and drove off the sidewalk back to the road.

  O’Brien pulled onto Washington Avenue and headed north. He passed by Club Oz, and saw a line already forming at the door. He knew that later in the night the line would be much longer. Valet runners were hopping as they parked Mercedes, Jags and BMWs. All the beautiful people were converging under a techno cathedral built on a foundation of narcissism. The house the Jonathan Russo built, a man as synthetic as the music. Follow the yellow brick road to Oz and get lost in the poppy fields.

  O’Brien knew that inside Oz it would be so loud that none of the glitzy patrons would even notice the pop of a pistol. And if they did, it would blend into the pop of Dom Perigon and Krug, Flowing like fountains in VIP corners.

  But O’Brien didn’t come here to kill Russo. He came here to convince him to talk, and often a silent pistol barrel pressed to a forehead speaks volumes. Before he entered Oz, he would pay a visit to Sergio Conti. As O’Brien drove north on

  Washington, he passed the legendary restaurant, Joe’s Stone Crab, and an upscale strip club called Club Paradise. And now he had a new plan.

  FORTY-THREE

  The posh, Waverly high-rise condos overlooked Biscayne Bay and twinkling lights from million-dollar yachts tied to births that rented for the price of a monthly mortgage on a luxury home.

  O’Brien parked in the Palm Bay Marina next to the Waverly, pulled a Panama hat over his head and walked toward the condo. He maneuvered through the thick canary palms and terraces of bougainvillea, carrying a small toolbox as he walked the length of the building toward the beach. O’Brien glanced up at the power lines feeding the remote left quadrant of the building. He could see where the cable television connection came in and hit a junction box to feed the cable system to each unit. As he walked, he casually removed a folding knife from the toolbox and sliced through the main feed in less time that it would take a good gardener to cut a rose. O’Brien continued moving toward the pool at the rear end of the building closer to the ocean.

  Now, he thought, wait. Probably five to ten minutes before the night manger was inundated with calls. O’Brien pulled up a chaise lounge chair near the spa, sat down, looked at his watch, and pulled the brim of his hat down. Ten minutes and he would go through the front door. Ten minutes—a year in Charlie Williams’s remaining life.

  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!”