Lowe, Tom - Sean O'Brien 08

by A Murder of Crows

  The chief paused, his barrel chest swelling. “Detectives, we’re cooperating because of a reciprocal agreement we have with agencies such as yours. Right now it’s good faith collaboration. You tell us you have physical evidence to arrest Joe Billie. Although I have my doubts about that, we allow you on the rez. You can make your arrest and escort him up there for a hearing. But remember, Joe Billie is a member of the Seminole Tribe. That main road out there has his last name on it. I don’t place a man like him in a jail cell unless I have a damn good reason, and waiting for y’all to arrive is not a damn good reason.”

  Detective Edward nodded. “Understand.”

  Detective Stinson said, “We appreciate your cooperation, Chief.”

  They followed him through the hallways leading to an elevator and up to the second floor, the investigation division. When the elevator doors opened, Chief Takoda led them into the CID offices.

  Joe Billie sat in a folding chair next to Detective Wynona Osceola’s desk. She stood when they arrived. Billie continued sitting. Jimmy Stillwater got up from behind his desk to greet them. Detective Henry James did the same thing. After introductions, Edwards looked at Billie and said, “I told you we’d meet again.”

  Billie said nothing.

  Detective Stinson shifted his weight from one foot to the next. He said, “Joe Billie, you’re under arrest for the murder of Lawrence Barton. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Is this clear?”

  Billie nodded, standing. Stinson said, “Turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

  Billie did as ordered and the detective slapped handcuffs on him. “Okay, we’ll be on our way. Let’s go Mr. Billie.”

  Detective Edwards said, “We appreciate the cooperation. We know that Mr. Billie is a respected member of the tribe, and it’s reassuring to know that justice has no boundaries, too.”

  When they left the room, Wynona Osceola turned to Jimmy Stillwater and Henry James. “There’s no way that Joe killed and scalped the vic. You both know that. This is ludicrous.”

  Stillwater cocked his head, folding his arms. “Wynona, the longer I’ve been in this business, the stranger life seems. I shouldn’t have to tell you that. Shit happens. Even to good people. Joe doesn’t live on the rez. He’s a loner. Joe has a history with the vic. I was the responding officer when Joe called in years ago, and when I got there he was standing over this guy. Joe had made the guy lie down in one of the holes he dug in the cemetery. Joe had taken the guy’s shovel away and threated to bash his head in if he tried to run. I’ll never forget the look on Joe’s face when I lifted the guy out of the hole and cuffed him. He looked like he could have scalped this guy alive.”

  “The fact is that Joe called law enforcement and let you handle it. What you think he was capable of doing means nothing. We’re all capable of violence if pushed.” She came closer to Stillwater, her eyes narrowing. “In your investigation, Jimmy, did you ever ask Joe about the specific graves this pervert was trying to rob?

  “What do you mean, specific grave?”

  “It was the grave of Joe’s grandfather.” Wynona lifted her purse, turned and walked out the door.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  O’Brien called Dave Collins and said, “Joe is about to be arrested for murder.”

  “News media are teasing their upcoming newscasts with the story. One reporter, just outside the Citrus County Sheriff’s Office, doing a live report indicated an arrest is imminent. Makes me wonder whether the sheriff is up for reelection.”

  “Someone planted physical evidence. In this case, it apparently was a crow’s feather, the tip of the plume allegedly dipped in the victim’s blood.”

  “Sounds like somebody is trying to make it look like Joe’s involved in a dark ritual, perhaps satanic. The ruse is to create the appearance that the victim was sacrificed at the burial mound and the perp, in this case, ostensibly Joe, was the guy wielding the bloody knife. Where’s Joe now?”

  “At the tribe’s police headquarters, waiting to be transported to Citrus County to face charges. There will be a first appearance court hearing, probably tomorrow. I just called Lana Halley, and she’s agreed to take the case.”

  “She’s thorough and knows both sides of the courtroom. He’ll need her because Joe can’t rely on the truth to set him free when someone is making an effort to deceive with phony evidence.”

  O’Brien told Dave about his conversation with Jimmy Stillwater, Detective Wynona Osceola, and meeting Charlie Tiger and his business associates.

  Dave exhaled. “After you sent me the license plate number, I tapped into dossiers supplied by one of my contacts within the FBI. Dino Scarpa, is known to have a short fuse. He was arrested two months ago, along with eight others, for running a multi-million dollar bookie operation. Much of it’s linked to a massive sports betting ring using offshore websites. Scarpa, who was released on bond, is said to be an underboss with the Genovese family.”

  “I know him.”

  “How?”

  “I helped send him to prison a decade ago.”

  “It’s indeed a small world when you have to deal with small criminal minds. Scarpa, no doubt, would like to see you out of the way for a lot of reasons.”

  “Two of Scarpa’s soldiers, Carlos Bertoni and Tony Rizzo are driving one of Scarpa’s cars over here in the rez. Scarpa’s calling the shots at this level, no doubt, reporting to the family boss. And the boss is someone who can almost taste a cut of gambling money from the reservations.”

  “As you know, once someone’s in the fold of the mob it’s difficult to get out. The question is what piece of the action do they want and what role, if any, is this fellow Charlie Tiger playing. Is he willing to do a deal with the devil, maybe trade his soul, for the prize? If so, what’s the deal and can it be pulled off? And finally, what does Joe Billie know, or what do they think he knows, that’s placed him in the crosshairs if they’re behind the murder of Lawrence Barton?”

  “Joe says because he’s threatened them or their business interests to protect his sister and niece, that’s the hornet’s nest. I have my theories, but that’s all they are at the moment. The tribe has seemed impenetrable to outsiders, such as the mob. But with one weak link in the right place that could change.”

  “South Florida, as you know, has traditionally been open territory to crime families including Gambino, Bonanno, Lucchese and Colombo. No one family has ever claimed exclusivity to the turf. It’s been that way since Al Capone bought a winter retreat there in the late twenties. But two things have changed recently.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Russian mafia. They’re not as flamboyant as some of the new hired guns connected to the five most notorious La Cosa Nostra families. Many members of the Russian mob frequent Sunny Isles Beach in north Miami-Dade. Lots of Russian expatriates are there. The stores sell Russian goods and foods. Restaurants serve cuisine from the Motherland. Russian is spoken in many places.”

  O’Brien turned off his windshield wipers. “You said two things have changed recently. What’s the second?”

  “You’re in the midst of it. Las Vegas-style gambling casinos. The Seminoles have held the trump card for the last decade. I’ve done some homework. The tribe recently hired additional lawyers and lobbyists to push a bill through the Florida legislature, with the governor’s endorsement, that would have extended their exclusive gaming contract with the state. The contract, known as a compact, failed to pass—even with the Seminole’s proposing to pay the state three billion dollars during the next seven years.”

  “That’s a generous fee for exclusivity.”

  “Billons in profits beget billions in revenue-sharing, if you will. Under the old agreement, the Seminoles paid the state 200-million annually. So what the rejection means is that Florida, with tens of millions of tourists, along with havi
ng the third largest populace in the nation, might become open ground for billionaire casino owners in Vegas to expand here. And with the uncertainty of exclusive gaming rights in the state, the mob, both Italian and Russian, won’t be far behind. Predators circling for a prize, a piece of the action.”

  “The Seminoles could challenge the state legislature in court, and then the whole thing might be hamstrung in legal limbo for years.”

  “That might be the reason the mob is knocking on the door of people like Charlie Tiger. When the camel get’s its nose under the tent, the following night the camel is in bed with you. What are you doing next?”

  “I’m driving to a place called the Gator Café to meet with Detective Wynona Osceola. She wants to talk, and I want to find out why.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  The owners of the Gator Café had gone to great lengths to make a new building look old. O’Brien pulled his Jeep into the gravel parking lot and got out. He could smell Indian fry bread and shrimp cooking. The building had a low-slung facade of a Florida fish camp from the 1960s, wooden, large screened wrap-around porch, and a tin roof. Canary palm trees, banana plants and philodendrons grew thick around much of the restaurant’s exterior.

  A Seminole dugout canoe perched on wooden props near the entrance. One section of the porch was a dining area looking over a lagoon, flaming tiki torches around the shoreline. O’Brien studied the cars in the lot. Mostly rental. A few minivans. He took a mental inventory. There were sixteen vehicles.

  When O’Brien entered, he spotted Detective Wynona Osceola at a table in a far corner. The scent of fry bread and burgers met O’Brien as he approached Wynona. A blue cup and matching saucer sat in front of her, steam rising from the cup. O’Brien did a quick count—at least twenty customers. Two servers. One cook was visible in the kitchen area. The customers were mostly tourists families.

  Wynona looked up and smiled, her back to the wall. He took a seat opposite her. “Sorry I’m running late. I was on the phone securing a lawyer for Joe Billie.”

  “I feel so bad for Joe. If anyone ever followed the Golden Rule, it’s Joe Billie. For those detectives to take a chopper down here, Citrus County must want him real bad. When they handcuffed Joe, I felt my heart in my throat. He doesn’t deserve what’s happening to him. Thank you for helping Joe. The lawyer you found, I hope he’s a good one.”

  “She’s a very good one.” O’Brien smiled.

  Wynona pushed her dark hair behind one of her ears. She wore small hoop earrings. “Isn’t that typical. I assumed the attorney was a guy. No reason, really. It’s sort of how so many people perceive me, Detective Osceola, to be a man until they meet me or we speak over the phone.”

  “In your case, you have a last name that is synonymous with a fighter—a famed Seminole warrior.”

  “What makes you think I’m not a fighter?” She smiled.

  “I don’t think that.”

  She lifted her head somewhat, probing O’Brien’s eyes for a second. “I wonder how many people today know the name O’Malley and it’s connection to the Nine-Year-War between Ireland and England? She was quite a fighter, too.”

  “When you add the name Grace in front of O’Malley, the link is better made.”

  She raised her dark eyebrows. “I’m impressed. Do you know of her because of your Irish surname?”

  “I’d learned more of her when I read an article years go about how the friction first began between the Brits and the Irish. Where’d you first hear of Grace O’Malley?”

  “When I took a course in Irish history at University of Miami. I was impressed with her resolve not to be dictated to by the British. When she traveled to London to meet with Queen Elizabeth, she refused to bow to the Queen because Grace didn’t recognize Elizabeth as the queen of Ireland.”

  A teenage server, a girl with her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, approached. “Would you like to see menus?”

  Wynona looked at O’Brien. “They have excellent gator bites and frog legs here.”

  “Are you eating?”

  “I’m starving. I’d love a salad with chicken strips.”

  O’Brien smiled. “I’ll try the fried mullet and coleslaw. Black coffee. Thanks.”

  The server jotted down the orders and left.

  Wynona sipped her coffee, watching the girl walk toward a screened section of the café porch overlooking a lagoon, the flames from tiki torches reflecting off the dark water. “In a way, that server reminds me of Kimi Tiger.”

  “I can see a resemblance.”

  “I’m glad she was home when you and Joe went to their house. Things there aren’t good. Joe’s worried about them. He does a good job of concealing it, but I can tell.”

  “He’s uneasy about Kimi and his sister, Nita. And, after meeting her husband, Charlie, and two of his associates, I can see why.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mafia. Charlie Tiger is playing host to members of the Genovese family around the campfire in his backyard. They’re not toasting marshmallows and singing Kumbaya. They’re planning something—cutting deals. One of those deals may be why Joe Billie’s being framed for a murder he didn’t commit.”

  “But why? What do they want, and why put Joe in the center of it?”

  “Because Joe knows something. Maybe something about Charlie.”

  “Charlie won’t talk. Joe seems remote. I think he’s protecting Nita and Kimi, but I don’t know why.” She sipped her coffee, her eyes scanning the restaurant. “There’s another thing that’s hard to grasp.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Sam Otter. You may be the first non-Indian that’s experienced his hospitality like you did.”

  “Joe had a lot to do with that.”

  “That tells me how strong the bond is between Joe and Sam. Sam Otter’s the last of the last medicine men. When he goes to his grave, so much knowledge about herbs and healing goes with him. And so much Seminole history will be buried with him, too.”

  O’Brien could see her eyes grow moist. “Joe translated, at least for some of it—telling me what Sam said, or maybe what Joe thought I should hear. I know what happened, but what I don’t know is the meaning of it. Joe explained in brief generalizations.”

  “There are some things that cannot be explained in rational terms.” She looked toward the black lagoon, the light from the tiki torches pirouetting in her dark eyes. “Many Seminoles believe a person has two separate souls. They also believe elders, such as Sam Otter and some of the forefathers, learned ancient skills … skills that allowed them to call one of the souls from someone sleeping.”

  “What was the purpose?”

  “It was very rare and only used when someone evil had violated a sacred trust of the tribe, such as killing someone.”

  “What would happen?”

  “Before I tell you, tell me what happened when you and Joe spent time with Sam Otter.”

  FORTY

  O’Brien’s phone vibrated on the table. He read the incoming text from Lana Halley. I’m en route to the sheriff’s department. I’ll be there when they bring Joe in for interrogation. O’Brien looked up at Wynona. “I’m not sure exactly what happened at Sam Otter’s place. Sam took us to a barnlike chickee with walls and a door. There were hundreds of canning jars filled with a cornucopia of nature. None of the jars were labeled. Sam used some of the stuff in a few jars to make a concoction. He sealed the lid and gave the jar to Joe.”

  “Did Joe drink some of it?”

  “Not then. He did before he was taken in by Stillwater and his team.”

  Wynona looked at her hands then lifted her eyes back to O’Brien. “Oh.”

  “Then Sam filled a large pipe with various root and herbs from a half dozen jars. He led us down a winding trail to an area that looked over the glades. It was beneath the largest bald cypress I’ve ever seen.”

  “I know the place. I went there as a little girl.”

  “Sam lit the pipe, took a few puffs, and said something
to Joe in Seminole. Sam blew a long stream of smoke into Joe’s face. After a minute, Joe turned to me and said ‘Sam wants to do the same thing to you.’ I figured, when in Rome ... why not?”

  “Did Sam mix anything else in the pipe from the jars?”

  “Pieces of something black, like a feather chopped into small bits.”

  She held her arms. “Sean, I’m getting a chill.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you received a rare blessing from the most respected medicine man left alive. For a non-member of the tribe … that’s extremely unusual. Not only does Sam Otter believe in God—the ‘Breathmaker,’ as we call Him, but Sam has a deep understanding of how to use God’s natural medicines on Earth. I’ve heard that concoction, if it’s the same one, is very powerful medicine. It’s a potion, something that will be sort of an invisible shield for you. Also, it will allow you to see things that perhaps you may have otherwise missed.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Shadows in the dark.”

  “There are no shadows in the dark.”

  She smiled. “That isn’t always true. There are different levels of darkness and there are shadows that try to hide, coming out when you least expect it. Maybe what Sam Otter offered you will help you expect it.”

  O’Brien said nothing.

  Wynona uncrossed her arms, leaning forward in her chair. She lowered her voice. “When you worked homicide with Miami-Dade, did you investigate mob hits?”

  “Sometimes. Unless there’s a body, there’s often not a lead. Families of wise guys and assassins rarely, if ever, report them missing. Silence and vengeance seem to go with the territory.”

  The server brought coffee to O’Brien, refilled Wynona’s cup and said, “Food will be up in a minute.” She walked toward the kitchen.

  O’Brien said nothing, letting Wynona tell him why she wanted to meet. She poured cream into her coffee, mixing it with a spoon. “I think that Frank Sparrow is dead. And I think Joe knows it.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Joe Billie could see them from the air. It wasn’t difficult to spot them. Their video cameras where aimed up to the sky as the sheriff’s helicopter hovered five hundred feet above the helipad. The pilot came in closer, slowly descending, the landing skids touching down in the center of a fifty-foot marked circle on a grassy area near the sheriff’s department.