Lowe, Tom - Sean O'Brien 08

by A Murder of Crows

  “There’s nothing to thank me for, but you’re welcome.”

  “I bet you miss your dog.”

  “Yeah, I do. I hope Max misses me.”

  Wynona looked up from her wine glass. “I’m sure she does.” She smiled, tilting her head, the soft light in her eyes. “I really like how you phrased the attraction you had to your wife … addicted to her love. I think that’s rare.

  “Maybe not so much.”

  “I loved Terrence, at least I thought I did. I just couldn’t say yes when he got around to proposing. When I worked crazy hours with the Bureau, I didn’t have a lot of time to meet people. It’s hard to keep a boyfriend when you do overnight surveillance with a male dominant team. It’s not the stuff most guys can deal with.”

  “Well, you’re not with the FBI anymore.”

  She chuckled. “True, but it’s slim pickings here on the rez. Besides, I know most of the guys here. Grew up with them. Majority are married, some a couple of times. Oh well, I didn’t come back here to find a husband.”

  O’Brien, smiled. He said nothing.

  She glanced at the empty wine bottle and stood. “Why do you want to speak with Kimi Tiger again?”

  “Because I believe she’s key to Joe’s silence. And I want to know why.”

  “I doubt she’d tell you, or me, for that matter.”

  “Probably. But often it’s what people don’t say that speaks to me in ways that piqué my curiosity. I’d like to see what she says or how she may react to questions without her Uncle Joe being there. And she needs to know that he potentially faces the death penalty for murder.”

  “Maybe there’s nothing there but a troubled teenage girl with issues but no real knowledge of what her father may or may not be doing with members of the mob.”

  “Possibly.”

  “I don’t have any dessert, but would you like coffee or an after-dinner drink?”

  “I’m good. The meal was excellent. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. It’s been a long time since I cooked for a man, or for anyone other than myself.”

  “Next time, it’s my turn.”

  “Oh, you cook?”

  “Not as good as my Greek pal, Nick. But I know my way around a kitchen.”

  She smiled. “Let me show you around the house. There’s a spare bedroom to the right at the end of the hall. And, as you will see, the bathroom’s right before it but on the left. Plenty of clean towels on the shelf above the hamper.”

  “Let me help you clean up.”

  “Okay. I wash. You dry. And since we ate from paper plates, it won’t take long.”

  * * *

  O’Brien assumed it was around 3:00 a.m. when he heard the first sound. He didn’t look at his watch. He didn’t have to. He came to rely on his internal clock. Having spent time in combat zones, held as a prisoner—watching the changing of the guards day and night, it gave him opportunities and motive to gauge the time of day.

  He opened his eyes. The bedroom was mostly dark, a slight glow of moonlight through the drapes. He stood, dressed only is his boxer shorts, stepping over to the drapes. He looked outside. In the light from the floodlight, O’Brien spotted a raccoon sitting on a hard plastic trash container at the side of the house. The animal pawed at the top, shook its shoulders, climbed down and waddled away into the adjacent woods.

  O’Brien looked at his watch: 3:06. He went back to bed, sleeping less than a half hour when he heard the second sound. This one was indoors—inside the house. It came from the opposite side of his closed door. And then in the dim light he could see the bedroom door slowly open. His Glock was beneath the pillow beside him. He moved his hand quietly under the sheet, finding the pistol.

  The door opened further and Wynona Osceola stepped inside his bedroom.

  SIXTY-ONE

  O’Brien released his hand from the Glock under the pillow. He said nothing, watching Wynona in the low light. She wore a long-sleeve nightshirt that came down to her bare mid-thighs. She quietly stepped further into the room. O’Brien leaned up on his elbows. She smiled. “You’re a light sleeper.”

  “It’s a learned thing.”

  “How’d you learn it?”

  “You probably don’t really want to know.”

  “I do or I wouldn’t ask.”

  “Sleep deprivation at the hands of the enemy. It stays with you.”

  “I’m not the enemy. I come in peace.” She smiled.

  O’Brien said nothing.

  She stepped to the edge of the bed. He could smell lavender soap on her skin. Her long hair was brushed, shirt unbuttoned to her cleavage. She smiled. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “I see.”

  “After tossing and turning and lying there, I was wondering if you were having a sleepless night too. So I thought I’d go exploring, silently come into your room, and if it seemed like you were fast asleep … I’d leave.”

  “And if I wasn’t sleeping?”

  “I’m sort of discovering that part right now.”

  “You mean you’re playing it by ear?”

  Wynona came closer. “Or mouth.” She leaned down and kissed him, her lips soft, lingering, exploring, and sensing his level of desire.

  O’Brien responded, gently kissing her. Her mouth tasted of mint and vodka. After a moment, he said, “Wynona, maybe now’s not the best time.”

  She looked at him in the subdued light, her soft hair cascading over one shoulder. “How do we know when’s the best time, Sean? After the stuff I’ve gone through, and you too, I know one thing … there’s no promise of tomorrow. Not for me. Not for you.”

  “I understand that, but—”

  “But what? But will I regret it in the morning? It’s already morning, a little after three and I regret nothing so far.” She used the tip of her fingers to trace a beaded scar across his chest. “The scars … how were you wounded?” She looked into his eyes.

  “It was long ago. Overseas.”

  “In the military?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Maybe one day.”

  “Why not tonight?”

  “It’s something I don’t talk about. When you’re in that type of an environment, it’s different from being a police officer. In a warzone, you are always on … always on defense when you aren’t on offense. It’s relentless. Months of sensory deprivation. Watching where you step. Watching for shadows tucked away in gloom. The nights in the desert are cold, and they wear on you because the night-stalkers, people who want to cut off your head, are lurking over the ridgeline, the next valley, or partially buried in the sand, like ghosts that rise from graves. But they’re armed, and they’re real.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “Two tours and then I was MIA for three months.”

  “How were you missing in action?”

  “Held captive—a prisoner of war in a place that’s been at war for two thousand years. I was the only survivor in my squad. I was lucky, I suppose. They thought I knew more than I did ... so that kept me alive, barely. And every day at the same time they came into the room where they’d chained me to the floor. They tried to break me. Eventually, I managed to escape.”

  “I am so sorry.” She lifted her finger from the scars across his chest. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through and I feel bad for having asked you—”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Maybe I just came in here because of insomnia and I’m a little lonely … or maybe it’s a biological impulse. Desire.” Wynona unbuttoned the nightshirt, completely nude underneath. “You can tell me to go and I will. Or you can tell me to stay and I will. No conditions. No strings attached now or anytime after.” She bent down to kiss him, her full breasts caressing O’Brien’s bare chest.

  He looked up into her face, her eyes searching his. O’Brien touched her cheek and said, “I want you to stay … but—”

  She gently pressed two fingers to his lips.

&n
bsp; He reached for Wynona, cupping her face in his hands, their kisses deep. She climbed in bed, kissing. After a few minutes, she turned over onto her back, dark hair spreading across the pillow, her lips wet. He held her wrists for a moment, kissing her and then releasing her arms.

  Wynona Osceola pressed her hands against the muscles in his chest, against the old scars, closing her eyes, being in the moment, and for the first time in years … allowing her spirit to breathe again.

  SIXTY-TWO

  O’Brien awoke at dawn, an amber light just peeking above the bedroom curtains. Wynona slept next to him, her hand on his chest, her breathing slow and steady. He watched her sleep in the gentle light, her face serene, any traces of anxiety stripped away—at least for the moment.

  She opened her eyes. “Good morning, Sean … have you been awake long?”

  “No. I heard the birds at sunrise. They sort of prodded me awake.” He smiled.

  “It’s not fair. They go to bed too early and get up way too early. I don’t care if the early bird gets the worm.” Wynona sat up in bed, fastening one button in the center of her nightshirt. “My hair’s a mess.”

  “You look beautiful.”

  “So do you, in a masculine way.” She grinned. “Thank you for last night.”

  “No need to thank me.”

  “Yes, I do. You could have told me to leave. But you didn’t. I’m grateful for that. You’re the rare breed of man who can mix passion with compassion, and top it off with a little tenderness.”

  O’Brien said nothing.

  Wynona touched his chest with her splayed fingertips. “I thought a lot about our conversation, especially the part where you mentioned opinions. In my heart, I always knew that, but you helped put it in perspective for me.”

  “To some extent, I’ve been in your shoes.”

  “You didn’t try to fix it for me, which I appreciate. I’m the only one who can fix it.” She got out of the bed, stretching. “Want some coffee?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I’ll put on a pot, hit the shower, and I’ll join you in the kitchen.”

  * * *

  They ate breakfast on the patio, scrambled eggs, sausage, toast and coffee. Wynona said, “I need to check in at the office. See if I have messages, let them know I’ll be in later.”

  “There’s no need to mention that we’re driving out to Charlie Tiger’s place.”

  “I agree.”

  Wynona stepped inside her home to make the call. O’Brien’s phone vibrated on the glass table. He lifted and looked at the text. Dave Collins wrote: vehicle in question got no further than mile marker sixty-two off Alligator Alley. Whoever’s driving stopped briefly, entered a spur road, stopped, turned around and headed back to someplace in South Beach. O’Brien texted a thanks to Dave just as Wynona returned.

  “Want some more coffee?” she asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  She looked across her backyard, the long limbs of a weeping willow flowing like the tentacles of a green waterfall in the breeze. The barking of a dog came from somewhere in the distance, and then it stopped. Wynona pushed a strand of dark hair behind her left ear. “Hey, I don’t want to sound weird or anything, but I wanted to let you know that I don’t do this.”

  “How do you mean … this?”

  She smiled awkwardly. “I don’t sleep with guys and have breakfast on my patio the next morning. It’s not in my DNA, my gene pool, my heart or my mind.”

  O’Brien said nothing, listening.

  “Sean, maybe it’s the fact that you’re trying so hard to do the right thing by Joe. Maybe it’s because you hung out with the most elusive and legendary member of the tribe that’s still alive, Sam Otter. Or maybe it’s just you. All six-feet-two, wide shoulders, narrow waist and eyes so blue I feel like they can read my mind. Maybe it’s because you can see a fracture in my ego and you aren’t trying to put a splint on it. You aren’t trying to coach me into some kind of redemption for my sins against FBI protocol.” She blew out a breath. “All I’m saying or trying to say, babbling about, is you’re a special man. And, wherever all this goes or doesn’t go, I feel grateful having spent some time with you.” She bit her bottom lip and exhaled with a sigh.

  O’Brien leaned in closer. “Thank you for that. You’re an exceptional woman as well. And I appreciate who you are and where you’ve come from to get where you are right now.” O’Brien smiled. “As far as Sam Otter is concerned, I’m not so sure I was hanging out with him. I was more like Joe’s guest into a strange world. You mentioned that Alice in Wonderland was your favorite story as a little girl. My time with Sam Otter was a ‘through the looking glass’ kind of experience. I don’t know whether it was the smoke he blew in my face, food from his wife’s garden of earthly delights, or maybe when I smelled the vapors from the green stuff he gave Joe to drink, but something’s changed. Or at least my perception is a little more acute.”

  “You mean a higher awareness, as in connecting the vultures with the death of Frank Sparrow?”

  “I don’t know. When Sam told me the carrion birds I saw circling were young ones, birds regulated to finding scraps in bones, I just thought there might be a connection. But when I was awakened by a quarter-pound cockroach … well.”

  Wynona laughed. “You never know.”

  “That’s true. I do know that Dave texted me a few minutes ago. He said the car that Bertoni and Rizzo drove west from Miami, stopped at mile marker sixty-two on Alligator Alley. The car traveled a loop road—maybe a few hundred yards before stopping. Then it turned around and headed back.”

  “That part of the highway is a very remote spot in the glades.”

  “We should ride out to take a look.”

  “What are you thinking, Sean?”

  “I’m thinking they either picked up something out there, or they left something. I’m also thinking we should take my Jeep.”

  SIXTY-THREE

  O’Brien followed Wynona’s direction navigating the back roads through the reservation, eventually merging with Alligator Alley, which is a stretch of I-75. She said, “Go east about six miles. There’s a spur road, dirt or mud depending on the season.”

  “With the recent rains, the wetlands just got wetter.” O’Brien drove faster than the posted speed limit.

  As they came closer, Wynona pointed to the right side out the Jeep window. “That’s it. Up ahead. It’s called the Loop Road. Most of it’s unpaved. There’s a place out here where people from Miami, years ago, called the ‘Lost City.’ It never was a city. It was a Seminole village for a few years. When my ancestors left the village in the mid-twenties, legend has it that Al Capone and his cronies sort of set up shop.”

  “What do you mean by shop?”

  “They had a business going during Prohibition. Capone had his associates making moonshine from the cool, clear waters of the glades. That was before Big Sugar screwed it up. Take a right. This is our stop.”

  O’Brien turned off Alligator Alley onto the unmarked spur road. For the first fifty yards, it was paved with asphalt and littered with potholes the diameter of large pizzas. A canal, water black as coal, ran along the left side of the road. Through the cypress trees laden with Spanish moss, O’Brien could see scrub oak and saw grass in the distance. The humid air smelled of mud after a rain, wet moss, and the pungent odor of sulfur from the tannin in the canal water.

  O’Brien called Dave Collins. “We turned south on a spur road. It’s a very primal area. I’m putting you on speaker. A detective with the Seminole PD, Wynona Osceola, is in the car with me. Wynona, meet Dave Collins.”

  Dave said, “Greetings, Wynona. I am so pleased to make your acquaintance, albeit through the small speakers of hand-held devices, no less.”

  “Nice to meet you, Dave.”

  “You and Sean are close to the spot, I think. Before the vehicle left the scene, it stayed there less than one minute. Sean, head due south for what looks like a quarter inch on my screen. In map legend semantics, it�
��s approximately a tenth of a mile.”

  O’Brien followed the directions, slowing. “Are we close, Dave?”

  “I wish I had an X that marks the spot. However, you’re there, at least as close as I can calculate through GPS. Perhaps no more than a horseshoe toss from where the vehicle stopped. I looked at the satellite images. It appears you’re driving on a dirt road and considering the recent rains, you may see tracks. Possibly where they stopped to turn around.”

  “Thanks, Dave. We’ll take a look from here.” O’Brien disconnected. “Let’s see if we can find out why they drove this far off the main road.”

  “I have a feeling it wasn’t because of an overactive bladder.”

  They got out of the Jeep, O’Brien looking for tire tracks. He pointed to the muddy road. “I’m guessing there’s not a lot of traffic back here. I see one set of tire tracks, and they stopped near that canal. You can see where the driver backed up and tried to make a three-sixty turn. Looks like it took him a couple of tries.”

  “I see that, and I’ve spotted tracks from shoes or boots. We’re off the rez and in Collier County’s jurisdiction. So if we find something out here, we’ll definitely have an interagency investigation going on—that’s assuming a body is dumped here and it’s connected to Frank Sparrow’s murder.” She followed the impressions, warily tiptoeing in an effort to keep from leaving a set of her shoe prints. She used her camera to take photos of the tire and shoe patterns.

  O’Brien touched her on the arm, pointing to the muddy road. “Seems to be one set of prints. And it appears the person was walking backwards, dragging something over to the canal. It looks like whatever he or she was dragging left two long marks as in the heels of shoes.”

  “Which means he was dragging a body.”

  O’Brien nodded. “I’d bet the house, as in casino house, on it.” He walked the trail to the edge of the canal. The black water canal followed the winding road. O’Brien studied the flow of water, the way the shoe prints ended at the edge of the canal. He looked over at Wynona. “I’d say someone dumped a body in that water.”