by Tom Lowe
I held the phone, my pulse hammering, hand shaking, sounds of the traffic on Collins Avenue echoing like military tanks reverberating and coming toward me. I stared at the small screen on the phone not sure whether to toss Lauren to the floor. Shooting wasn’t his style. Too impersonal.
Lauren leaned closer to me. “I’ll start a trace on your phone now! Maybe there’s a chip in this phone. If not, we’ll find the tower closest to wherever he placed the call.”
“He’s watching us now.”
“Oh shit! Is he watching through a rifle scope?”
I stood. “Don’t think so. He likes death up close.” I looked through the bougainvillea. A Ferrari was purring at an intersection, the driver waiting for a traffic light to change. A stretch limo drove slowly by the restaurant, the reflection of neon rolled off the black windows like rainbows.
Across the street were opulent high-rise condos glowing from the polish of money. Outdoor lighting showcased manicured landscaping that was imported from the islands. Canary date palms swayed in the warm sea breeze.
“Lauren, we’re sitting on an outdoor patio enclosed by a six-foot wooden trellis covered with bougainvillea.”
“What are you saying?”
“The only way Santana could see us sitting here is from a high elevation.”
I looked at the highest oceanfront condo across the street, slowly scanning from the palms to the balconies overlooking the dark Atlantic. I could see muted shapes drinking and lounging in the million dollar cages. “We have three high-rise condos all within easy viewing of this restaurant, especially the top half dozen floors of the condos.”
Lauren stood from the table. “You think that Santana is on one of those balconies watching us?”
“Yes. And right now you’d better triangulate the cell call to one of those buildings, because if he’s there…he won’t wait for us to find him. Let’s move!”
SEVENTY-ONE
It took Lauren less than thirty minutes to find out that one of the $2.8 million dollar condos was owned by ShowBiz Productions. We had a search warrant within the same time period and began our approach.
One middle-aged special agent, a guy who looked like he’d been called while he was eating, joined Lauren and me in the condo parking lot. His name was Phil Barfield. Stocky, thick wrists, a small scar over his left eyebrow. The scar was more evident when he concentrated, as he did listening to Lauren. He asked the right questions. I could tell he’d been there and done it, but I’d bet his federal pension that he’d never been in the presence of a psychopath like Santana.
Ten minutes later, Ron rolled up in an unmarked cruiser, followed by four Miami PD patrol cars with two uniforms in each car. Ron had made sure there would be no announcement of their arrival. No sirens and no lights.
I could see the condo manager pacing in the lobby, waiting for us, passkeys clutched in his hand. We huddled in a corner of the lot near the entrance. I said, “We’ll need backup at the rear, in the underground parking lot, on the roof next door, and at the front and back exits.” The officers nodded.
Ron said, “Jim, you and Ralph take the back, Carlos out front, Bob and Tyler in the garage, and Jackson on the roof of the Miami towers.”
I said, “Security is waiting to escort you up. Everybody be careful. This guy’s very smart and very insane. Probably has no fear of death. Let’s go.”
“I got a rush back on the eyelash,” Ron said, almost as an afterthought.
“And…” I said.
“Bingo. It’s a match with the hair on the duct tape from the vic you found. It’s Santana’s DNA. He killed her. And the piece of fingernail found on the couch matches with the hair you discovered on the backhoe, probably from the stripper, Robin Eastman. Santana can run, but he can’t hide anymore.”
“Be careful,” I said. “He didn’t call me to just chat. Could be a trap.”
We got the passkeys from a portly man with thick eyebrows flaking dandruff. He looked over the tops of his brown glasses, a tic pulsating under his left eye. “This can’t get in the news. We’re selling the building.”
I said, “Stay here. Where’s the service elevator?”
“Beyond the alcove, where those plants hang from the second floor.”
It took us two minutes to ride the service elevator to the top floor, forty-six floors above the Atlantic Ocean. We walked down the polished marble hall, though pods of soft light, by ornate original oil paintings of the sea, and around marble columns.
We stopped at condo number 1619. Each person on our team held a pistol. I slid the passkey through the electronic detector. There was a click, like a wooden spoon against a wooden table, subtle.
“Freeze! Police!” Ron yelled as we burst in the condo.
The lights were on. A sea breeze teased at the curtains near the balcony, but the condo seemed vacant. We fanned out into each room. Pistol arms extended.
The place was huge. Professionally decorated. Artwork, collected from around the world, hung on the walls. The face of a sun god in a composite of gold, silver and rubies looked out from one wall. Classical music played softly throughout the penthouse.
“All clear!” Ron yelled.
Nothing. And no sign of anyone. In the master bedroom, I looked in the closet. A bright blue silk shirt was in the center of the expensive clothes. I took it off the rack. It was the same color as the thread Joe Billie found at the crime scene. Sleeve was torn.
“Sean!” Lauren yelled. “Take a look at this.”
We all stepped out onto the large balcony. A candle burned on an end table next to a recliner. On the wet bar was a bottle of champagne half submerged in a bucket of fresh ice. There were four glasses next to the champagne. In the center of the glasses was a piece of paper with my name on it. It read:
O’Brien and company, you’re to be congratulated. Pour yourself some champagne and toast each other…because tonight you almost caught Miguel Santana…
“Who the fuck is this guy?” asked Agent Barfield.
Ron opened the radio microphone. “He’s slipped us! Everyone come back!”
The radio crackled. “This is Jim...”
“Carlos here…”
“Tyler on the roof…”
“Ralph…at the rear emergency exit.”
Ron said, “Bob! Can you read me? Bob!”
Silence.
SEVENTY-TWO
The elevator to the basement couldn’t move fast enough. On the way down, Ron radioed for more backup and an ambulance. He watched the digital lights change as the elevator descended from the penthouse. Forty-six floors to the garage. Ron said, “He’s one of our best. Did a stint in Iraq. Special forces. Volunteered to help stop the anarchy in New Orleans after hurricane Katrina. He’s got three kids, all small.”
Floor twenty. Seventeen. Fourteen.
“Move elevator!” Ron shouted. His jaw-line could crack stones.
Lauren said, “Lots of concrete and steel in the basement. Could block the radio.”
“That’s a possibility,” said Agent Barfield. “Since the hurricanes of ‘04, builders have been sinking the footing for these new condos very deep.”
When the doors opened, we stepped into the parking garage, handguns drawn.
“Oh shit!” Ron said, stopping like an animal frozen in a car’s headlights.
“Try to reach the paramedics!” Lauren ordered. “Tell them where we are!” She ran toward Bob Rawls.
He was slumped against a wall between a Mercedes and a Jaguar. It looked like he was sitting, resting after jogging. The closer I got, the more I knew it wouldn’t make any difference how fast the paramedics arrived. Signs of death were there, face slack, color drained. His head was resting against the concrete block wall. Blood trickled out of the right side of his open mouth, soaking into his uniform. His eyes were open, like a camera shutter that had jammed, exposing the film to the image of horror. Blood settling in the retinas.
Agent Barfield crouched beside the body and did a perf
unctory reading of the pulse. He shook his head. “No sign of a bullet or stab wound. From the position of the body in relation to the head, looks like his neck was broken. Snapped like a tree branch.”
I said, “Let’s search the garage. Stay within sight of each other.”
I could hear the wail of sirens growing louder as we searched for Santana. I knew he had escaped. He was probably in the backseat of a cab en route to the airport, or he might be strolling along Ocean Boulevard, stopping to consider a Versace window display. He’d blend in, like an international tourist. Blasé as the police cavalry roared by in a blur of chrome, red, blue, and white lights enveloping the condos in the moving colors found somewhere between life and death.
SEVENTY-THREE
I sipped the double espresso and checked the headlights in my rearview mirror more than I wanted to as I drove out of Miami, north up I-95. Each time a pair of lights came too close, I found myself touching the Glock between the seats. I didn’t think Santana was following me, but then I wouldn’t have thought he could snap the neck of a Special Forces veteran paratrooper.
I saw a text message flashing on my phone charging in the cradle. I picked up the phone and read the message. It was from Dan Grant. ‘call me when u get this…urgent…slater’s going down…’
It was almost 1:00 A. M. I called Dan. He answered after two rings.
“O’Brien, you okay? I saw the news. They had video of you, FBI types, couple dozen Miami PD, all coming out on a ritzy South Beach condo. An officer killed?”
“Neck broken. A good cop is gone, and we have one hell of a problem walking the streets. Pandora’s box is open and the baddest of the bad is out.”
“So this perp is our bad guy?”
“He’s the serial that’s calling the shots. Slater is, no doubt, on Miguel Santana’s payroll. How he got there, I haven’t figured out yet. We nailed Santana’s connection when we got a DNA match from the hair on the duct tape near the vic I found. A fingernail matched the missing dancer, Robin Eastman. Santana knew we’d made him. After we got that far, he turned the tables. He called me. The psycho in him figured he had nothing to lose. He’d make a game of it.”
“What’d he say?”
“Something about my days on the planet expiring. He wants me to start rehearsing my own epitaph. I think he’s a little pissed that we cut into his business and his perverted world. What do you have on Slater?”
“We searched his place while he was out. Canine found the jogging clothes. Slater had put the stuff in a plastic garbage bag and set it out by the curb with the rest of the trash. It would have gone to the dump, but one of the county’s trucks on that route was broken, so the trash was late in getting picked up. Dog found the scent in a matter of minutes. Grass and water stains matched, and there was a trace of Leslie’s blood on the sweatshirt. Ballistics says the gun used to kill Leslie was the same that killed the club owner Tony Martin. We haven’t found it yet, but we have enough to bury Slater. I got a warrant earlier tonight. We have his place staked out. Pulled his DNA from the skin sample on the sidewalk.”
“Let’s hope he shows. Any results back from the gator processing house?”
“Lab found traces of alligator blood that matched the blood found on the female vic’ hair. Liminol indicated human blood all over the damn place. Like the house of Frankenstein. The liquid in the stainless steel canisters is a combination of human glucose and water.”
SEVENTY-FOUR
Miguel Santana avoided a security camera at the gatepost by slipping under the fence. He blended with the long shadows as he approached the Brennen estate. He remembered the layout of the house. Little had changed. Except now, Josh Brennen had security cameras hidden discreetly inside the home.
Santana tried a side door. Unlocked. A very stupid thing to do. But the old man did stupid things. That was his way. Let the chips fall. Somebody else could sweep them away.
Santana closed the door softly and started toward the center of the house, more hidden cameras recording his movements. He could hear the television playing, the noise sounding like a war movie.
The old man was alone. He slouched in his leather recliner, feet up, a bottle of expensive scotch half gone. He watched a Bruce Willis movie, his eyes barely open.
Santana entered the room and stood there, observing. He could easily walk over and snap the bastard’s neck, look him in the eye, and watch him die. Or he could make it more spectacular. Maybe burn the mansion down. Let the ashes fall where they will.
Santana lifted the empty glass out of Brennen’s hand and stood there as Brennen’s eyes batted a few times before he was fully awake. He looked up. His mouth opened but there were no words, only a gurgling sound coming through vocal cords thick with mucus and sleep. He cleared his throat. “Who the hell are you? This some kind of robbery?”
Brennen started to stand but Santana pushed him hard on the chest. Santana laughed. He lifted the bottle, poured some scotch into the glass, and handed it to Brennen. He then stepped to the bar, got a second glass, and poured scotch into it. He walked back in front of Brennen’s chair.
Santana said, “Shall we toast?”
“Get the fuck outta my house!”
Santana smiled. He lifted his glass and said, “To you…and everything you are…Father.”
SEVENTY-FIVE
Josh Brennen looked like he’d seen a ghost. “Where’s Richard?”
Santana laughed. “Am I my brother’s keeper?”
“What’d you do to him?”
“Father, what makes you think I’d hurt a hair on the favorite son’s head?”
“What’d you want?”
“Nothing from you. I wanted something a long time ago, but you refused to give it. I wanted a name. I wanted a home. I wanted you to take care of my mother. She was one of the many young Latino girls you raped and spit on. You seemed to like her a lot. Made her your favorite. Raped her over and over until she got pregnant. She was seventeen. I know that she came to you for help. Not for her, but for her baby, your son. Me, Papa, me! And where were you when I was raped at age ten, Papa?”
“How much do you want?”
Santana backhanded Brennen across the mouth. Blood spilled down the old man’s face and into his two-day growth of white whiskers.
“You think I came here for money? You stupid old man! I learned how to make money. How to survive. I had no choice. You learn or you die. The streets of Guadalajara are where I got my education in people. Rich tourists. Corrupt police. My mother became a street whore. After you destroyed her spirit, she didn’t care about her body. She’d have sex with anyone for a dollar. Didn’t care if I was in the house or not. She made me hate her! You made me hate her! She died from AIDS, but mostly she died from abuse. Abuse started by you, Papa. When she died, she still had scars on her legs from when your contractors beat her with a fishing rod. I was thirteen when she died in the streets. I rode with the coyote into California. Lived in the barrios of south Los Angeles. Fought gangs. Stole. Learned. Survived. When I got to Florida, I came to find the man my mother had talked about when the drugs were making her crazy. I only wanted to see you…to talk with you. And I saw your true colors through the blood spilled and running into my eyes. Your blood, Papa!”
“Shut up!” Brennen screamed.
“No! You listen to me, old man.” Santana laughed. “I figured out how to get a scholarship and began medical school. Imagine, a doctor in the family! You could brag to your rich friends,‘my son the doctor.’ You must remember when I came to you. It was fifteen years ago. You had one of your men teach me a ‘lesson’ as you called it. He beat me so hard I still have problems in my head. You let him beat me, your own son, almost to death. And you stood there and watched. The last thing I remembered, before he kicked my teeth, was looking up at you, Father. Lying there in the mud and horse shit in one of your pastures, looking up at you and hoping you’d stop the man from hitting me. From hurting me, your flesh and blood! But all you did was stare, thos
e eyes burning though me. Guess what, Papa? We have the same eyes. I see yours are covered in cataracts, but I remember when they had color. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, Father. But what if you have no soul? What do you see through those windows? You see hell. Evil can exist in many forms. When it’s inherited in the spirit, it can be disguised. And that’s the art to true evil. You’ve succeeded at it for years, Papa. Making people believe you’re just a good ol’ rancher. In reality, you’re a man who can slit the throat of a human as easily as lamb.”
“Shut up! Brennen said, throwing the scotch in Santana’s face.
“Oh, I know it’s hard to listen to Father, but it’s time you admitted it. I’m just like you, a man without a soul. That’s what you gave me. Like father…like son.”
“Like fucking hell! Get out!”
“You don’t give the orders old man! Pick up that phone by your side and call your other son up to the big house. We can have a little family reunion.”
“No!”
There was a slight noise in the foyer. Santana looked up to see Grace Brennen in her motorized wheelchair. He grinned, walked over to her and pushed the wheelchair in front of Brennen’s chair. Santana placed both hands on her neck. In a voice above a whisper, he said, “Call him or I’ll snap her neck. It’s a painful way to die. And you can sit there and watch it. Call him now.”
SEVENTY-SIX
Richard Brennen wasn’t sure what to think. The old bastard rarely called him to the house this late, and for no apparent reason. He sounded drunk, but then he always sounded drunk after 10:00 P.M. He entered through the side door that led through the kitchen. He picked a banana out of a fruit bowl.
As he rounded the end of the hall and stepped into the great room, he stopped. “Mother?” he said, dropping the banana at his feet. “Daddy, what happened? Did you fall?” Brennen approached his father just as Santana stepped out from behind an alcove.
