by Tom Lowe
I felt like I was driving though the village of the damned.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The toothpick, wet with Davis’ saliva, had hit me between the eyes and bounced onto my lap. I pulled over to the shoulder of the road and took the Jeep out of gear. Reaching in the console, I got one of the half dozen Ziploc bags, found the toothpick, and carefully picked it up with a tissue by the end that wasn’t chewed. I dropped it in the Ziploc and put the bag in the glove box.
The main gate to SunState Farms was open. I pulled in and followed signs to the office. The hard-packed dirt road wound around irrigation ditches, packinghouses, a machine shop, and trailers loaded with oranges.
The exterior of the office looked like the building may have originally been built as a small military base. All one story. Nondescript vanilla buildings and bungalows loosely joined. Citrus trees surrounded the entire fortress. I entered as a woman was picking her purse off the floor near a desk.
“You here to make a run to New Orleans?” she asked.
“No, but it’s one of my favorite cities. Glad it’s make a comeback.”
I got the once-over curiosity look with glasses pushed up on the bridge of her nose. Early fifties. Hair pinned up. Sweatshirt and jeans. “Can I help you,” she uttered, glancing at the digital clock near her desk.
“Is Mr. Brennen here?”
“Senior or junior?”
“Junior.”
“And you are…?”
I could detect that her guard dog training was about to come off the leash. I quickly said, “It’s about the campaign. I’m trying to find the—“
“The fundraiser?”
“Exactly.”
“You’re a little late, honey, but not too late. The barbeque will be goin’ on ‘till about eight or nine, I suspect.”
“That’s what I assumed. Is it here?”
A smile. The guard was down. “Heavens no, it’s the ranch.”
“Unfortunately, I didn’t GPS the exact directions.” I looked at the nameplate on her desk. “Carla, that’s why I wound up lost. As a man, I have no problem asking for directions.”
An eyebrow stencil arched. “Darlin’, you aren’t alone. Been a half dozen people callin’ the office, lost like sheep without a shepherd. You gotta be the last one…Mr. Hayes. Right? I’m glad you finally got here.”
She started drawing a map. “Come here, sweetie, I’ll show you a shortcut.”
#
THE BRENNEN PLACE would have been easy to find without the hand-drawn map. Simply follow the Mercedes, Escalades, and Jaguars in a convoy. At least I’d washed the Jeep. I pulled in behind a dark Lincoln and waited my turn to go through the front gate. A rent-a-guard, starched white shirt, narrow pimply face, serious and unsmiling, held a clipboard and asked for names.
“Hayes,” I said. His eyes scanned the list. He started to ask me something when a white limo pulled in close. The boy guard waved me onto the Brennen estate.
Farming had been good to the Brennens. I figured the winding driveway was a quarter mile long, bordered by freshly painted white fences that held prize cattle to the left and champion horses to the right. The house was the kind found on magazine covers or profiled on the Travel Channel. Its size, and the Old South, antebellum feel, made a statement. Members only.
Cars lined up in the large circular drive to be valet parked. I picked a spot between a Lexus and a Lincoln and backed in the Jeep. The smells of charcoal, burning hickory, mesquite wood, steaks and barbecue ribs, were mixed with the smell of manure and money.
As I stepped out, my cell rang. It was Leslie Moore. “Sean, there’s some evidence missing in the case of the vic you found?”
“What do you mean, ‘missing’?”
“Forensics has everything we initially found on the victim. It was the later evidence that you and the Indian, Joe Bille, found.”
“What about it?”
“We’d already sent in the hair found on the duct tape for DNA analysis, but somehow the thread and shoe have been misplaced?”
“What do you mean misplaced?”
“We had it sealed and kept with everything. We were going to run the DNA tests on it first. But it was either misplaced or stolen.”
“I’m betting on the latter. I can’t imagine evidence being lost.”
“Unfortunately, it happens. I’ve never had it happen on my watch, though.”
“Who has access to the forensics area?”
“The ME and all of her staff. Anyone working on the case, which is only a handful of people.”
“Is Mitchell Slater one of them?”
“Yes. But why would he take it? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Yes it does”
“How?” she whispered.
“It makes sense if he’s protecting someone.”
“What do you mean?”
“What if Slater knows who killed the girl?”
“Why would he cover? Who would have that kind of power over Slater?”
“Powerful people, and I seem to have landed at ground zero.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
I stood next to my Jeep for a moment to watch the money parade. Here were the millionaire migrants, the ones who followed the social seasons, an incestuous pollination crossbred by old money, venture capitol start-ups, bankers, lobbyists, politicians, and lawyers. The nip-tuck of Palm Beach mixed with cattle barons, horse breeders, and growers. They appointed golfing friends to environmental boards, water districts, zoning and public service commissions. Under their watch, Florida had turned into a land of tract houses, strip malls, a vanishing aquifer, a sickly Everglades, and condos lining the beaches like the Great Wall of China.
Maybe I could get a beer at the Brennens.
A wait staff stood smiling on either side of the entrance hall with trays of Champaign and wines. The guests lifted the bubbly, chards and cabs and followed white-gloved attendants towards the rear of the house. To get there, we passed a fifteen-foot-high waterfall cascading down a fieldstone wall. The water gently splashed down the stones in a dozen turrets, all spilling into an indoor koi pond.
We followed the hired catering staff and a cowboy, probably on the payroll, dressed in a denim sports coat, black silk European-cut T-shirt and black pants. The boots were a dark ostrich skin. He looked at me, trying to place my face.
Along with the real guests, I walked down a long corridor of powder blue Italian marble, descending three steps to emerge into what would be called a family room in an average house. The Brennens could have used it to hold conventions. Crown molding. Inlaid cherry wood floors. Expensive artwork with a Western flair.
Music came from the outdoor pool area. Dozens of guests sat or stood around the lushly landscaped gardens, bubbling spa, and resort-sized pool. In a corner, a three-piece band played a mix of modern country and oldies. A platoon of cooks turned thick-cut steaks and ribs on a river-stone grille big enough for a resort.
“I noticed you didn’t partake in wine or champaign when you arrived.” The voice came behind me. The woman sipped from a glass of chardonnay, leaving a lipstick kiss on the edge of the glass. She was blond, shapely, had a Jennifer Anniston smile and a diamond ring that didn’t need a “point-something” to increase the carat count. She extended her hand. “I’m Renee Roberts.”
“Sean O’Brien.”
“Nice to meet you, Sean.” Her fingers slid over the wet glass. “I haven’t seen you at a Brennen function before.”
“Is that what this is, a function?”
“A barbecue, but it’s a fundraiser, sort of in disguise. Junior will say a few words. We’ll all cheer and write checks. Not that the Brennens really need them. But the more contributions, the better it looks on the books, right?”
“Depends on who’s looking.”
She smiled and sipped. “What are you drinking?”
“Think they have beer?”
“This is a barbecue, after all.” She lifted a perfectly manicured hand with a quick Saudi p
rincess-like beckon. She caught the eye of a young male waiter.
“Yes, ma'm,” he said
“Bring my friend a beer, and I’ll take a vodka tonic.”
“My pleasure. What kind of beer, sir?
“Corona, if you have it.”
He nodded and left. Renee Roberts turned to me, her lips wet with wine, her eyes playful. “Sean O’Brien sounds Irish. It doesn’t look like you have a freckle or a red hair on your body. You look more like that actor, the James Bond guy.”
“Sean Connery?”
“No…Pierce Bronsnan, but taller…wider shoulders. I think he’s English.”
The waiter brought the drinks and left. I took a full swallow from the bottle. “My, aren’t we thirsty,” she said, with a smile that had less lipstick.
“Been a long day.”
She sucked a piece of ice from her vodka. “How do you know the Brennens?”
“By reputation.”
“So, you don’t do business with them?”
“Not yet. Maybe you can introduce me to the Brennens.”
“Grace Brennen’s in a wheelchair, you can’t miss her, although I haven’t seen her yet. Stroke. Poor thing. She was always the life of any party, Josh Brennen’s rock. He’s talking with Ron from the Arts Council. Never thought of ol Josh as artsy fartsy.”
Brennen was a large man, late sixties handmade cowboy boots and top-of-the-line Western attire. He drank a dark whisky from a crystal glass with one hand, resting the other on the shoulder of a smaller man about the same age.
I smiled. “You said Josh isn’t the artsy type. How about his son, Richard. Dirt or oil paint under his fingernails?”
She looked around the party and lowered her voice. “Neither. He’s about as non-farmer as his Yale education could make him.”
“How?”
“Pick a category.”
“Let me guess, he can’t drive a tractor, right?”
“Tractor! My dear new friend, Richard Brennen doesn’t know an orange from a grapefruit. He’s some kind of fruit. Handsome in a way that won’t turn a real woman’s head. Never married. Lives here on the estate. Can I be honest with you?”
“Why don’t you lie to me?” I said, smiling
Her laugh was a cackle. She signaled for the waiter, who took her empty glass. “Same thing, please.” He nodded and left. “Where was I?”
“You were offering a psychological profile of our hosts.”
“I like you, Sean O’Brien. What do you do, by the way? And for godsakes, don’t tell me you’re a farmer or a plastic surgeon.”
“I’m a sex therapist,” I said, as straight-faced as I could.
Her laugh was now much louder. “You must come to the Brennen’s barbecues more often. You’re much cuter than Dr. Phil.”
The waiter returned with her drink. She thanked him, waved him away, and again stirred the ice with a manicured fingernail. “Speak of the devil, Junior is making his first appearance.”
As the band ended a song, Richard Brennen stepped from the dark into the light.
TWENTY-NINE
Richard Brennen’s body movements were measured, very controlled. The perfect smile. The perfect host. A wink, squeeze on the shoulder, a sincere promise to look into something, and then off to the next huddled bunch. I could see the simulated listening, his teleprompter dialog, and the feigned warmth of a TV game show host.
Richard Brennen stepped to the microphone. “I think we got us a record crowd for our first barbecue of the year. And I’m predicting this will be a great year.” He paused while his friends applauded. “I want to thank ya’ll for coming out. We couldn’t have asked for a prettier evening.”
An older woman in a wheelchair was rolled from the great room out into the pool area. A nurse pushed the wheelchair, stopping it near where the senior Brennen stood.
Richard Brennen smiled and gestured towards the woman in the wheelchair. “Ya’ll be sure to say hello to mama during the course of the evening.” Brennen held his drink up in the direction of his mother. There was no response. I didn’t know if it was because a stroke had paralyzed her facial muscles, or she found her son appalling, as did Renee Roberts who stood with an empty glass and face.
Brennen beamed a shark’s grin over his apostles. “I’m told the food’s ready. Let’s eat and drink like sailors on shore leave! Maybe the politically correct thing would be to say enjoy yourselves responsibly, but us Brennens, we’ve been known to be politically incorrect when it comes to throwing a great party. Have fun!”
There was a burst of applause as the band kicked in with a rendition of Sweet Home Alabama. I watched Richard Brennen join his father at the bar farther away from the band. I approached them and could tell they were in a near whispered conversation, their backs toward me. The bartender saw me coming.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
Before I answered, I positioned myself on the opposite side of the bar, now facing them, ready for the reaction. “A coke,” I said, loud enough for the Brennens to overhear. “I know that’s not the preferred drink of sailors, but I’m my own designated driver. So I have to deal with that whole issue of responsibility.”
Richard Brennen appraised me like a cat watches a bird just beyond the pane of glass. He cocked his head slightly, eyes unblinking, absorbed in the moment, showing no irritation, no threat. Nothing but a primal curiosity.
His father’s face was reddish and a bit bloated. Tiny black veins could be seen just under the puffy skin on his cheeks. Eyes clouded with cataracts. He finished what remained of his whisky and set his glass on the bar. “Ricardo, two fingers.”
Richard Brennen flashed perfectly straight and whitened predator’s teeth. He said, “Please forgive me, but I’m having a difficult time making the connection.”
“Sean O’Brien.”
Brennen extended his hand. As he shook my hand, I could feel his powerful grip.
“Do you know my father, Josh?” The old man nodded at me.
Josh Brennen said, “Don’t think I’ve had the pleasure. Any relation to the Ralph O’Brien in Sumter County?”
“No relation.”
Richard Brennen’s eyes opened wider, like a great cat following prey on the savanna. “What do you do?” he asked.
“I was brought out of retirement.”
Josh Brennen sipped his Black Jack. A large diamond ring, in the shape of a horseshoe, caught the light. I thought of the bruise on the girl’s cheek. I felt my pulse quicken.
He swallowed the whisky and grinned. “Retired! Son, I’d like to have known how to retire at your age, when I was your age.”
Richard Brennen smiled. “What brought you out of early retirement?”
“Death.”
Josh Brennen made a slight grunt, as if something was caught deep in his throat. He sipped the whisky, the flush in his face darkening, his lower lip the shade of a beet.
But Richard Brennen was good. No involuntary movements. No tightening of the skin. No change in pupils. No visible response.
“Interesting,” Richard mused.
“I’m investigating a murder.” Richard Brennen’s stare changed into something reptilian. It happened within the blink of an eye. A second later, he looked right above my head, holding a distant stare for a few seconds. Maybe both are the killers, sharing some monstrous father-and-son killing game, I thought.
“Please, tell us what happened,” he said
“What murder?” Josh Brennen asked.
“A young woman was killed. Raped, strangled and finally stabbed to death. Her body was found near the St. Johns River.”
“That’s terrible news,” Richard said, with the sincerity of a TV preacher. “What does that have to do with us or our ranch?”
“I think she was one of your employees.”
“We don’t employee any farm workers. We contract with others who do.”
“Who owns the property south of SunState Farms off Highway 60?”
“Lot of land
there. It depends. What are you getting at, sir?” Josh asked.
“I’d bet SunState controls that land. And on it you have a migrant camp that makes third-world slums look like the Ritz.”
Richard Brennen said, “We lease a property to a lot of people.”
“I’m not here to make this a campaign issue, Mr. Brennen. I’m here to investigate a murder. Do you know if any of the women are missing?”
“With due respect for the deceased,” Richard said. “We can’t keep up with all of the farm workers. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, in Florida. A girl dying is tragic, but it’s not something we would have a way of inventorying.”
“Inventorying,” I said. “That’s an interesting word for the loss of human life. Sort of like losing a few bushels of tomatoes. It wasn’t one girl. There are others. I happened to find this young woman as she lay dying.”
“Why did you come here?” Josh Brennen asked, knocking back his Black Jack.
“To investigate the murder of an innocent girl. I thought you or someone here might have seen something.”
“What are you drivin’ at, partner?” The elder Brennen’s clouded eyes glistened.
“I believe one of the victims, maybe both, came from this area. Probably one of your migrant camps. The girl was buried in a half-inch plywood box. Her headstone is a county ID number. And she’s lying in a convict cemetery, a place reserved for the kind of man who killed her.”
“Are you a police officer?” Richard Brennen asked
“No.”
“It’s really bad form to come here and impersonate an officer of the law.”
“I’m not impersonating anyone. I told you my name and what I’m doing.”
“You a private investigator?” Josh Brennen asked, his tone louder.
Richard Brennen held up his hand. “Daddy, let’s not upset mama.” He smiled at the attentive nurse. “Maria, take Mrs. Brennen in to watch some TV.”
