The 24th Letter ((Mystery/Thriller))

by Tom Lowe

  The woman watched as Dan got the coat hanger out and handed it to O’Brien. He untwisted the hanger, fashioned a small hook, stuck it into the grate, and carefully lifted

  the shell casing up from the dark. O’Brien stood, the casing winking like gold in the sunlight. “Hand me an evidence bag,” he said. As he dropped the casing into the bag he said, “.303, British Springfield. Sometimes you get lucky at ring toss.”

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  After O’Brien dropped Dan Grant off at the sheriff’s office, he placed a call to Florida State Prison at Starke. He was transferred three times and finally got the deputy assistant warden on the phone.

  “Mr. O’Brien, I understand you’re on the approved call list. But each call has to be accepted by Charlie Williams. It’s not up to us…who he talks to.”

  “I understand that. Can you get him to a phone?”

  “Not a question of getting him to a phone, it’s getting a phone to Williams.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Governor’s signed William’s death warrant. He’s moved from his cell on death row to a deathwatch status. Which means he’s down to extremely limited phone calls.”

  “He still can speak with his attorney, right?”

  “Are you his legal counsel?”

  “I’m on his legal team.”

  Here was an audible sigh. The assistant deputy warden said, “Guess we’re gonna have to install a phone in Williams’ cell. Media types are callin.’ CNN, ABC, CBS, NBC, you name it.”

  “I understand your frustrations. Part of the state system in Florida is due process up until an inmate is in fact executed. No one wants an innocent man to go to his grave.”

  “Gimme your number. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you.”

  O’Brien drove east on I-4 and took it to Highway 46 toward U.S. 1 and Ponce Inlet. His cell rang. It was Detective Ron Hamilton.

  “Tucker Houston’s the right guy for Charlie Williams,” said Hamilton.

  “For Williams’ sake, I hope so. His other attorney sort of resigned after having all his petitions for a new trial denied.”

  “Sean, it might not be anything, but since you mentioned somebody was popping Alexandria full of heroin…something came up in a conversation I had with Joe Torres. Joe’s working drugs and gangs in the area now. Torres was talking with Todd Jefferies, DEA. Jefferies was the lead investigator in the coke bust that sent Russo away. Jefferies worked with the FBI on that, and the one agent who’s chief of the Miami office.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Mike Chambers. I’ve met him. He’s fairly aloof. Typical bureau. Other special agent was Christian Manerou, seems to be a stand-up kinda of guy. Anyway, although Todd Jefferies and the rest of the feds popped Russo on the coke charges, they’d found two kilos of pure uncut heroin in the pallet disguised as swimming pool chemicals. Jefferies told Torres that it was suspected to be the icing on a cake for a deal done between some Miami crime families with the New York mob. The heroin was found hidden at the bottom of the coke pile, all disguised as powdered chlorine. Russo, in a plea bargain, said he suspected the uncut stuff was “hidden” there by an unknown courier as a partial payoff for a mob hit. The trigger man was a lowlife called The Coyote, AKA, Carlos Salazar.”

  “What happened to the heroin?”

  “Jefferies says it came up missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “Somewhere between photographing the stuff, weighing, tagging and bagging…and being tucked away in evidence storage, it was lost, probably stolen. This meant the heroin charges against Russo were dropped.”

  “I don’t see how the DEA can lose evidence, or was it the FBI?”

  “Don’t know that we can blame the feds for this. The heroin was being stored in Dade County SO, locked away in their secure evidence vaults near an area where they keep the confiscated drug planes, cigarette boats and whatnot. Jefferies says he suspects one of the Miami mob families associated with Russo had somebody inside, offered a hundred grand to drop the stuff in a canal out back. Let the gators have a heroin fix. Anyway, don’t know if it can ever be traced to Alexandria Cole, especially now, but I thought I’d mention it.”

  O’Brien was silent.

  “You still there?” asked Hamilton

  “Yeah, I’m still here. Just thinking. Did Jefferies say which FBI agent, Mike Chambers or Christian Manerou, played the bigger role in the investigation?”

  “No, why?”

  “Nothing yet. Would you ask him how things were divvied up during that case?”

  “You mean between Chambers and Manerou, who was running the show.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, speaking of the feds, Lauren Miles had a break-in at her house.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Yeah, she wasn’t home. Somebody walked off with her DVD player and a pearl ring. She’d called me about the Sixth Street Gym. She wants to work a co-op stakeout with Miami P.D. Surveillance cameras, the whole nine yards, to try and catch these freaks in the act of staging one of their kill matches. The Irish guy has a rap sheet that, if you included ‘references,’ would connect him to a few of Florida’s finest hate groups.”

  O’Brien saw an incoming call with a 352 area code. The area code service for Starke and the Florida Sate Prison. He disconnected with Hamilton and answered.

  “Mr. O’Brien?”

  “Yes.”

  “I got Charlie Williams standin’ here. You can have three minutes.”

  O’Brien waited a few seconds and Charlie Williams came on the line, “Hello.”

  “Charlie, it’s Sean O’Brien. I wanted you to know that I’m close—very close to finding out who killed Alexandria. Did you know Alexandria was addicted to heroin?”

  “I suspected she was on something real bad ‘cause her moods changed so much.”

  “But she never admitted it?”

  “Not directly, she just told me to stay the hell away because she said there were people that would take me out quick and they’d never find my body.”

  “But she didn’t say what people or what person?”

  “No. She was scared shitless. That’s why I was tryin’ to get her outta there.”

  “I understand, Charlie.”

  “I’m thankful for what you’re doin’. That lawyer, Mr. Houston, is real helpful. He’s doin’ what he can to throw a wrench into this thing.”

  “He’s the best. I just want you to hang in there, Charlie. Don’t give up hope.”

  “Hope’s all I got left, O’Brien.”

  “You’ve got more than that, Charlie, believe me, okay?”

  “I wish I was as sure as you sound.” Charlie laughed nervously and said, “This death watch thing has its upside. I got a little bigger cell. They moved me out of my nine-by-six cage into a twelve-by-nine box. Had to leave my pictures behind. They wouldn’t let me bring the picture of Mama and Lexie from the other cell to this. I got a cot and a blanket…and...that’s about it…” His voice broke, emotions rising in his throat.

  O’Brien said, “You’ll be out of there soon, Charlie. Then you can go home to see your mother.”

  There was a long pause and Charlie said, “They asked me what I wanted for my last meal. I feel like my life has turned into a movie with no good ending. I got about fourteen hours left. One of the guards told me the first drug they give to knock you out, don’t always completely knock you out. Then, when they give the other drugs, you just lie there. You can’t move. Can’t talk. But you can feel, hear, and think. You feel the pain as your organs begin to shut down…one by one…especially your lungs. I don’t want to go out like that. For God sakes, this is no way for an innocent man to leave this world…help me, O’Brien…”

  EIGHTY-SIX

  It was dusk when O’Brien pulled his jeep into the oyster shell parking lot at Ponce Marina. A fog was building off the estuary, rising low over the boats. Through the old mercury vapor street lamps, the fog became flickering orbs
of diffused light, like Halloween pumpkins glowing above the docks.

  Max heard O’Brien coming before she saw him. She jumped up on an ice chest in the cockpit of Nick Coronus’ boat and barked twice. “Hot dog, who you talkin’ to?” came Nick’s voice as he stepped from the salon.

  O’Brien squatted at the stern and rubbed Max’s head. He could see a television on inside Nick’s boat. He said, “Thanks for keeping an eye on Max.”

  “I’m going to take her out fishing with me. When one gets off the hook, I say go get ‘em hot dog. She jump in the water and bring the fish back to me.”

  “Max might turn into the world’s smallest Labrador retriever, or shark bait.”

  “Wanna beer? You eat yet?”

  “Yes and no. I’d like a beer and I haven’t eaten. But right now, I don’t have time for either. I need to sit on Jupiter in a quiet place and think. There’s something I’m failing to see about the events surrounding this—”

  “Sean, it’s all over the TV. Fox News was just interviewing that Miami lawyer.”

  “Where’s Dave?”

  “Said he was going to the store for spaghetti fixings and wine.”

  O’Brien lifted Max up and set her down on the dock. She darted after a cricket. “Thanks, Nick. Come on, Max.”

  Max trotted down the dock behind O’Brien. He picked her up to lift her over the transom. “No place like home, right Max?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes bright, tail wagging. “We have to get back to our house on the river. The old dock needs a few new boards. Plus, I’ve been missing you—maybe missing our routine, too.”

  She barked once, almost nodding her head. O’Brien opened the salon door, Max following him inside. He poured some dry dog food in Max’s bowl, opened the windows, set up his laptop, and spread the Alexandria Cole case files out on his small table. He looked at arrest and arraignment dates, hearing dates and times. Trial dates. Postponements and reschedules.

  His cell rang. It was Ron Hamilton. “Sean, I spoke with Todd Jefferies, DEA. He told me that Mike Chambers played a big role in the Russo investigation and bust. But agent Christian Manerou worked the case hard, and was damn good at it.”

  “I wonder if Manerou had any speculation as to what happened to the heroin.”

  “Don’t know, but I do know you Sean...and when you get this tone, it’s usually because you’re getting close.”

  “As in dropping the hammer.”

  “What?”

  “Something Christian Manerou said. How difficult would it be for you to remember a dialog from one of your interrogations more than a decade ago?”

  “Depends, the bull shit lines and lies all run together after a while.”

  “I know.”

  “What are you tinkering with, Sean? You got something on Manerou?”

  “Talk with you later. I have a little homework now.” O’Brien disconnected and closed his burning eyes for a moment. Something wasn’t clicking. What was it? He remembered what Judy had said that Alexandria told her shortly before she was killed: “You can put your trust into the wrong people…even those people paid to protect you.”

  O’Brien leaned back in his chair, his eyes locked on the case files, his thoughts focused on Christian Manerou’s face.

  “You son of a bitch…”

  EIGHTY-SEVEN

  O’Brien jerked his cell off the table in front of him and hit Lauren Mile’s number. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a break-in at your place?”

  “What?”

  “Ron Hamilton told me. When was the break-in?”

  “Friday or Friday night.”

  “It was after I’d given you the second page from the notebook that Sam Spelling used to write his letter to Father Callahan.”

  “Yes. That night I left work and joined some of my girlfriends at a watering hole. As I recall, I invited you to join us.”

  “Lauren, has Christian Manerou’s lifestyle changed much since the Russo investigation and bust?”

  “What do you mean? And please be careful with your answer.”

  “I know it’s been a decade, everybody changes, but did you see anything tangible with Christian, not things out of character per se, but maybe a slight lifestyle change…maybe a few vacations to places that a special agent’s salary might not stretch, but yet things or places that wouldn’t raise an eyebrow?”

  “Not at all. And I don’t care for this line of conversation—no, this questioning. What’s this about? Christian is one of the finest, most ethical agents in the bureau.”

  “Did you take the Spelling paper, the file, home with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Christian know it?”

  “I mentioned it to him in passing that afternoon.”

  “Lauren, did he ask you about it, or did you bring it up?”

  “Let me think a second…he mentioned it, why?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Sean! Please, for Christ-sakes, come on! Drop it, okay? I trust Christian with my life! You’re way off base.”

  “You’re right! I was way off base because Christian helped point me there. He pointed me in the direction of Russo, and he did it very well. Maybe because of the deadline in the race to save Charlie Williams, I didn’t see it. Maybe, like you, I had no reason not to trust an FBI agent.”

  “No!”

  “I’ll call you back.” O’Brien hung up and began looking through Alexandria‘s file. He started to glance at his watch to see the number of hours left for Charlie Williams, instead he poured through the files in front of him. Where did he see or hear something that was incongruous with the timelines of Alexandria Cole’s murder and Charlie William’s sentencing? He closed his eyes and let the slate go black in his mind.

  Think.

  Max sat at his feet and looked up at him.

  When O’Brien had originally questioned Russo and Sergio Conti, it was a time when Russo had already been arraigned on a drug charge. And his trial was not even on the radar.

  “As we were about to drop the hammer on a big bust, it looks in retrospect, that he may have killed the girl the same night.”

  The words played back in O’Brien’s mind. He could see Christian Manerou standing in Lauren Miles cubicle, quoting Russo’s alibi: “Ate them from his penthouse balcony and tossed the shells down to the beach below them. Called it ‘raining crabs.’”

  O’Brien leafed through the case files, found the spot and read: Subject, Jonathan Russo stated he had dinner on the terrace of subject Sergio Conti’s condo and said they picked up a jug of chardonnay, a few pounds of stone crabs from the marina, ate them from his penthouse balcony, and tossed the shells down to the beach below them. Called it ‘raining crabs.

  O’Brien looked at the dates. Alexandria Cole’s murder was Friday, June 17th, 1999. He went online, typing fast. In a few seconds the arrest records of Jonathan Russo were on the screen. O’Brien scanned the information and stopped at the dates of Russo’s arrest for possession of contraband—cocaine—more than two kilos with the intent to distribute in the United States of America. The date of the arrest: May 3, 1999.

  Why was the FBI doing a wiretap after Russo was arrested and booked?

  “As we were about to drop the hammer on a big bust, it looks in retrospect, that he may have killed the girl the same night.”

  O’Brien leaned back and his chair and whispered, “You didn’t tie the wiretap alibi to Alexandria Cole’s murder because you never heard it...you read it. You weren’t about to drop the hammer. You didn’t hear Russo’s statement in a wiretap. You read it my report. You bastard!”

  EIGHTY-EIGHT

  O’Brien called Lauren Miles. He said, “Lauren—”

  “Sean,” she was almost breathless. “I hope this isn’t about Christian. He’s gone out of his way to help me on things time and time again. I trust that man. You will, too. I called you because I just heard from Simon Thomas. He had some luck with Spelling’s letter. He managed to make out another li
ne before it faded into oblivion. Spelling wrote: ‘Later I hid the knife in St. Augustine on Tranquility Trail...at my mother’s…’ At that point, Sean, the print was no longer detectible. When Simon called, I conferenced Christian in on the call.”

  “What! Why?”

  “Because he’d offered to help you! I’ll prove to you how far off base you are. Also, in view of your short time window, it was generous of him to offer and for Mike Chambers to authorize. As a matter of fact, Christian’s in Lakeland doing a deposition, and said he’d head over to St. Augustine for you.”

  “He’s here because he just killed a woman! If Sam Spelling’s mother is there, he’ll kill her to get the knife.”

  “Sean! Have you been drinking?”

  “Christian didn’t hear Russo’s alibi with Sergio Conti in a wiretap. He read it in my case report.”

  “What?”

  “Listen to me! Since the cases, the murder of Alexandria and the drug bust of Russo overlapped, Christian, or the DEA, pulled information from my files, probably to add to whatever they had on Russo. But the bust and arrest of Russo happened more than a month before Alexandria’s murder. Christian was investigating Russo close enough to know of Russo’s associates and employees…and Alexandria. She was one of the most beautiful women in the world. He knew she was heavy into coke, threatened to arrest her and ruin her career unless she had sex with him.”

  “Sean, you’re accusing a respected FBI special agent of having an affair with a subject he was investigating. That’s a very serious.”

  “So is murder. Two kilos of heroin, drugs found in the coke bust, were stolen.”

  “What’s that have to do with Christian?”

  “He took it, or he took some of it. Alexandria was addicted to heroin and I think it was because Christian forced the poison into her. Did it enough and she was addicted.”