Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7)

by Tom Lowe

  Hines opened the door, stepping outside, staring at Jesse approaching, not sure what to say. Hines rested one hand on his holstered pistol. “You again, Jesse? You’d think after spending time here as a kid this would be the last place you’d want to visit. Why you back here?”

  Jesse said nothing. He looked down at the man’s hand on the butt of the pistol. He grinned and said, “What you gonna do, Hines, shoot me for walkin’ across the parking lot?”

  “What’d you want?”

  “From you, nothing. From Hack Johnson, a real sincere apology for being an asshole pedophile.”

  Johnny Hines’ chin jutted out a half inch, his right hand still on the pistol butt. “You look like shit. You been drinkin’ or are you truly insane.”

  “I know you’re tight with the Johnson clan. You told ‘em when I rolled into town.” Jesse reached for the lock in his jean’s pocket. “Found this on your south gate. Looks like you got a breach of a previously secure facility on your hands, Johnny. Could be all kinds of vandals on the property fornicating and writing graffiti on these hallowed buildings.” Jesse held the lock up to his eye, looking through the hole in the center. He stuck his index finger into the hole, handing the lock to Hines. “It’s a souvenir for Hack. Deliver it to him and let him know he’s not secure either.”

  Johnny Hines held the lock in the palm of his hand, staring at it, cutting his eyes up to Jesse. “You did this?”

  “I’m flatly denying it.”

  “You damage state property and there will be consequences.”

  “When the state damages and kills kids, there should be consequences.”

  “I can’t arrest you, but the sheriff can. I’m calling this in.”

  Jesse grinned. “Before you do, Johnny, remember this…I used to have fun with your brother Frank. We’d give each other noogies, horseplay, but then one day Frank and two of his buddies decided they wanted to jump me. I had a job. I worked. Made money. They didn’t. I’d just cashed my check when they jumped me. Frank was in the hospital for two days. His buddies took a lickin’ and barely crawled away.”

  Hines’ eyes narrowed, a vein jumping on the left side of his neck. “You did that to my brother?”

  “And I’ll do it to you. So go on and call the law. It’s my word against yours. Nobody saw me shoot anything. I’m gonna turn around and head back into town. You be a good snitch and deliver that to Hack. Tell him to lock his doors and windows.”

  Jesse turned around, got into his car and drove down the exit toward town. He stopped at the end of the drive, looking into his rearview mirror as Johnny Hines lifted a phone to his ear.

  I sent a text to Carly Brown at the FBI, giving her the delivery address of the motel where I was staying. I hoped she’d have time to make an overnight delivery for the morning. I’d hit the send button when my phone buzzed. It was Dave Collins. “Sean, I’ve been doing some gentle poking and prodding, looking for what Jeff Carson did in the prosecutor’s office while he was in Miami-Dade.”

  “What’d you find?”

  “Probably the reason you didn’t see him in the state attorneys office is because he quit working for the state and went into private practice. He became a defense lawyer for three years before working his way back into the prosecutor’s office up in the Second District.”

  “Who’d he defend?”

  “I thought you might ask that. All very wealthy clients, of course. A couple of high stakes divorces. He did a tax evasion and fraud case. The client was Ronald St. Arnold, a guy who owns a cruise line based out of Miami. Looks like Carson saved him a bundle and possible jail time. One of Carson’s clients was James Winston. Winston’s wife had filed for divorce and hired a big time LA based lawyer to represent her. She was suing him for a substantial share of his assets, a beach house, along with enough alimony money to float a small town’s annual budget. Mrs. Winston and three other people, all well-heeled, were on a ninety-foot Ferretti yacht, en route from Ft. Lauderdale to the Bahamas. About nine miles off the western coast of Bimini there was an explosion and fire. No one survived. They didn’t even have a chance to get off a distress signal. The channel in that part of the Atlantic is very deep. What’s left of the yacht is on the ocean floor, miles beneath the surface.”

  “I remember that. It was investigated by a half dozen law enforcement agencies. They called it an ‘unfortunate mystery,’ if I recall correctly. Another casualty of the Bermuda Triangle.”

  “Jeff Carson, as a defense attorney, is good at maritime law, too. He’s so good, in fact, he sued the yacht manufacturer. Nothing could be proved, of course. But the tactic dimmed the spotlight of suspicion as to a deliberate and intentional cause. It took the heat off Winston, and it quickly evolved into a tragic and freak accident to blame on someone else. James Winston collected two million dollars from his wife’s life insurance. None of the bodies, even so much as a finger, were ever found.”

  “That explains a lot.”

  “So now, fast forward a few years, James Winston and Jeff Carson are reunited. The assurance of a clean bill of sale on the reform school property represents millions to Winston’s company, and Jeff Carson is first in line to get a nice bonus for making it happen and for stopping anything to keep it from happening. That last part, Sean, is up to you.”

  “And now I have a better hand of cards courtesy of my friend, Carly Brown, with the FBI. Her techs completed the electrostatic on the brass head of the shotgun shell. They found a pearl in that oyster. More than fifty years in the making. Nothing matched in their database. I have high hopes my new BFF, Deputy Ivan Parker, can find a match somewhere here in Jackson County.”

  Dave grunted. “Well, that’s better news. Should you and the good deputy be successful—all a prosecutor has to do is prove the perp and the shotgun were at the crime scene the same night when the boy was killed. You’re getting closer, Sean. But you’re still heading into the woods, not coming out.”

  “At least I know where the woods are now. I just have to help a deputy find a print.”

  “Before you left, sitting here at the table with Nick and me, I suggested you’ll have to look under a mountain of hay to find the proverbial needle. You said if the hay’s burned, the needle will be left, a little charred, but there in the ashes somewhere. I hope you don’t have to result to arson to find it. Could be way too much collateral damage.”

  “I also said a magnet is a good way to find it, to draw out the perp. I just have to get the magnet close enough to start the pull, to lure a spider out of a hole. Give Max a hug for me. Looks like I’ll be awhile. And Dave, I’m going to need you to overnight a GPS tracker to my motel.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  I had one minute to make the call. It was 4:59 on Friday afternoon. Maybe someone would answer the phone in the state attorney’s office before the magic hour of five o’clock when all calls were sent to a digital receptionist. I punched the number to Lana Halley’s office. The greeting kicked in and, again, it was the baritone voice of state attorney Jeff Carson telling us his office was closed for the day. He or a representative would be glad to help us the following business day.

  Friday evening. The next business day—Monday. I didn’t have Lana’s cell phone number. At least I didn’t think I did. I drove through Marianna as fast as I could risk it, pulling into the courthouse parking lot a quarter past five. And, on a Friday evening, the lot was almost empty. Three cars. What were the chances one of those cars would be owned by Lana? Slim.

  I parked and waited, taking the opportunity to see if I’d stored her number during or after the Pablo Gonzales trial. Lana wasn’t in my contacts. No indication of a phone number. Did she still have the same phone number? I had no choice but to wait.

  A woman exited the building from one of three doors in the rear of the courthouse closest to the reserved area for employee parking. She was at least fifty, redhead, and making a fast beeline to a minivan. Two cars left and now it was 5:30 p.m. A man came from the same door. He wore a dark
sports coat, jeans, carrying a brief case, a phone held to his ear.

  The last car was a Subaru SUV. I tried to picture Lana driving a Subaru. I had no idea if she enjoyed the outdoors, going places an all-wheel-drive like the one in the lot could take her. As a matter of fact, I knew nothing about Lana with the exception of her courtroom performances. And that’s what they always were. Not a performance unique to Lana, but rather one unique to the profession of law. Some of the greatest actors aren’t trained in drama schools. They’re trained in law schools. A jury is a small audience selected to decide who has the better attorney. If the glove doesn’t fit…

  It was now almost six o’clock, the sun getting lower in the west, the Subaru still where someone had parked it when he or she came to work earlier this morning. The door opened and Lana Halley stepped out, purse over one shoulder, briefcase in the opposite hand. I started my Jeep and drove toward her car. She looked up, probably unable to identify me from the angle the sunset was reflecting off my windshield.

  I pulled closer to her, my driver’s side window down. “I have a feeling you’re the last person out of your office.”

  She stared at me for a moment, shook her head. “Are you stalking me?”

  “I’m only wanting a brief and friendly visit with an assistant state attorney.”

  “Make an appointment.”

  She started to walk around my Jeep to her car. “Lana, wait a second, please. Just listen.” I shut off the engine and got out.

  “Sean, just go take your conspiracy theories someplace else, okay? It’s been a long week. I’m going home.”

  “Your boss is a crook. I don’t know a better way to say it.”

  “I’m not going to justify that asinine comment by responding. So get out of my way before I file a restraining order against you.” She walked around me, pointing her remote key at the Subaru, the locks popping open.

  “Four people were murdered in a boat explosion and Jeff Carson helped cover it up through maritime legal maneuvers. The person who owned the yacht was James Winston, the same guy whose company is bidding on the reform school property. Carson was his attorney in Miami. Winston’s wife and three others died in the explosion. And now Winston wants to turn the reform school property into a posh Florida version of Beverly Hills. He’s paying Carson to make it happen. I have video on my phone of Carson meeting privately with Winston at the Jackson Country Club.”

  She leaned against her car, face flush, eyes searching for nothing that was visible. Her mind seemed to be replaying events of late. She looked at me. “Are you sure? Are you positive?”

  “Yes.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and hit the button to play video. I held the screen so Lana could see it but away from what I thought would be camera angles poised on the buildings. I watched her eyes absorb the moving images, watched the misplaced trust in her boss bleed from the corners of her soul. She moistened her lower lip, a dry swallow, inhaling deeply through her nostrils.

  “I don’t even know what to say.”

  I studied Lana’s eyes, looking for traces of deception, looking for clues of a refined performance. There were none. “Here’s the challenge: Carson will try his best not to leave an electronic trail. He’s either had payments wired into an offshore account, or he’s been paid cash. You need to set a trap for him.”

  “Me? How?”

  “Catch him in lies. To get a grand jury indictment against Carson, to find probable cause, as a prosecutor you can—”

  “Wait! Okay? I know what I can and can’t do in my job. You’re asking me to go behind the state attorney’s back, behind the backs of the other assistant SA’s in the district, and present enough evidence to a grand jury—people from here, with the result to have an arrest warrant issued for Jeff Carson.”

  “The result would be prison time. Lana, it’s not just about a massive development on property that probably has a hidden cemetery and should be sanctified, it’s about murder or murders and the abuse of kids through the years.” I reached in my pocket and pulled out the picture of Andy Cope. “It’s about him and others like him. He never walked out of that school. His sister believes his body is still there. Others, people like Jesse Taylor, believe more kids are buried there. Some children killed by people assigned to their welfare. It’s about doing what’s right, regardless of the time that’s passed.” I told her about both of Curtis Garwood’s letters.

  She reached for Andy’s picture, holding it in her hand. “He looks like my sister’s son. Sean, to present to a grand jury, I will need a lot more than cell phone video of Jeff Carson walking into the country club with James Winston. Even though Jeff may have been Winston’s lawyer before, it shows no wrongdoing. It implies the possibility of improprieties, but that can’t be prosecuted. I need proof. This is overwhelming, to say the least. I didn’t have time for lunch and I’m a little lightheaded. I need time to process this.”

  “We don’t have a lot of time. Maybe you can begin processing over dinner. My treat. It’ll give me a chance to show you more evidence I have, what I have coming, and a further connection I might be able to prove. And then you’ll have something to take to a grand jury.”

  She looked at the photo again. “What was his name?”

  “Andy…Andy Cope.”

  She held the photo closer, her eyes boring into the image. “This is Andy Cope?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is the boy that Jesse Taylor talked about. Even though it’s black and white, I can make out the freckles across his nose and cheeks.”

  She handed the photo back to me. “Lana, this is an opportunity to right a long overdue, horrible wrong and injustice. Will you help? Will you do something no one else has done in decades?”

  She looked beyond the courthouse, beyond the gnarled old live oaks, the last traces of a setting sun warm against her face. “I want to believe this is why I became a prosecutor—to give the dead, the murder victims, a voice. Maybe we can find Andy. In this small town, it’s going to be hard to conduct an investigation from the state attorney’s office. If this is a farce and it doesn’t pan out, if I screw up, I’ll be out of a job. Maybe out of a profession if I’m disbarred for conducting a witch hunt. But if what you say is correct, it’s worth the damn risks.”

  “Did you tell Jeff Carson that Jeremiah Franklin is the only living eyewitness to the shooting of Andy Cope?”

  “I didn’t put it quite like that. In my briefing report, I listed it. So now, much to my chagrin, I told him.”

  “Who did he tell? That person could be responsible for leaving a warning, in the form of a hangman’s noose, in the front yard of an elderly black woman, Jeremiah Franklin’s mother.”

  Lana pointed to one of the largest live oaks. “That tree, the biggest, I’m told it was the tree they used to hang a man in 1934. Was he guilty of murder? Maybe. Was the mob, people who ignored due process of the law, guilty of murder? Yes.” She turned her head toward me, her blue eyes soft in the setting sun. “I’d like to think, to hope, those days are deep in the past. But the longer I’m in this job, the more certain I am that isn’t so. I’ll do what I can to help you find Andy Cope, and maybe we’ll find his killer.”

  FIFTY-SIX

  A full moon punched its way through swirling dark purple clouds, the moon rising in the distance behind the Jackson County water tower. The tower was suspended more than one hundred feet in the air, supported by four steel girders. Jesse Taylor glanced at the tower as he drove slowly through the night, the moonlight casting the massive tank in silhouette. He remembered long nights in the reform school, looking out the bedroom window, watching the moon rising above the old wooden water tower. He remembered the smell of sulfur in the water, the taste gritty, as if tadpoles had been swimming in the well water.

  On the drive back to my motel room, my phone vibrated. I recognized the number. Deputy Parker. I answered and he said, “O’Brien, I just wanted to let you know that I rode out to Jeremiah Franklin’s place. He wasn’t there. I spoke
with his mother. She has no idea who hung the noose in her yard. I found a solid boot imprint next to the tree. Took some close-up photos of it. If we find a suspect, we might get a match.”

  “Good, and speaking of matches, a friend of mind in the FBI used an electrostatic process to lift a print from that shotgun shell I told you about. All we have to do is find a match today and we’ll connect fifty years of a neglected cold case into the moment. I’ll copy you on the print. FBI ran it through all known databases. Got nothing.”

  “That means I have to put some boots on the ground. Start pounding on doors.”

  “Who can you trust in your department?”

  “A few guys.”

  “You might want to ride with a trusted partner when you start pounding on locked doors. I believe this thing is a lot deeper than I originally thought.”

  “Yeah, I’m starting to feel that in my gut.”

  Jesse pulled his car into the Heartland Motel parking lot. He parked a few spaces away from his room, number 29, wrapping the Army blanket around his shotgun and pistol. He pulled the door handle release, about to get out of his car when he noticed someone in the side-view mirror walking across the lot. A woman, bottle blonde, short brown leather skirt, stacked high heels, and a low-cut blouse, ambled down the outside walkway, glancing at the numbers on the doors. She stopped at number 17, looked at something written on a folded cocktail napkin and then knocked.

  An unshaven man opened the door, standing in the threshold. He wore a white T-shirt outside his blue jean shorts. No shoes. Baseball cap on backwards. He gestured for her to come in. She glanced over her right shoulder toward a pickup truck in one corner of the lot, the yellow parking lights on.

  Jesse looked back at the truck, barely making out the profile of a driver—a man, the orange glow of a lit cigarette bending back and forth as the man smoked. Jesse locked his car and walked around some shrubs, avoiding the overhead lights down the strip, quickly entering his room and locking the door.