The guard on duty paid him no attention. The mindless infomercial playing on the screen at his desk engrossed him. Something about rubber that sprayed out of a can being sold by a guy who didn’t seem to understand what it meant to maintain composure. The guard did not know that the man who just walked in wasn’t the man who had left a few minutes prior. Not that it mattered. He had to call the number on the screen to get the best bang for his buck before the timer reached zero. It was the outcome Micah had seen as the least likely, but fate had other plans for him. He walked over to a nearby elevator and pressed the call button.
Moments later, the elevator deposited him on Cagney’s floor. The décor in the hallway was rather spartan. An emerald green rug ran from the elevator to the only door on this side of the penthouse floor. A beautiful orchid in a plain pot rested on either side of the door. Aside from that, the only other thing of note were nondescript paintings hung at random intervals. Micah walked over to the door and tested the lock. As expected, it didn’t budge. This wasn’t the Midwest. Forgetting to lock your door in Miami was about as good an idea as posting flyers informing people of a garage sale at your home that was full of free items. Even in a building with supposed top-flight security, nothing was off limits. He glanced both ways before picking the lock. It offered little resistance. Without the lock hindering his path, he stepped inside and locked the door behind him.
Cagney was a man of peculiar taste. He couldn’t settle on just one style for his home’s interior design. Instead, he invested in pieces from many different, and sometimes contrasting, styles. To the left of the entrance was a Mediterranean themed kitchen. To the right, a modern living room with only the essentials. Judging by the framed canvas paintings with Kanji at the end of the hallway on the opposite side of the condo, Micah could only assume the bedroom had an Asian motif. Intently aware that more pressing matters were upon him, he glanced down at his watch. The luminescent numbers announced the time: 11:55pm. He took a moment to familiarize himself with the floor plan and hastily stepped inside a coat closet near the front door.
-#-
Cagney felt like he was on top of the world. After months of flirting and inappropriate touching, the beautiful young intern from Florida International University finally returned the sentiment. The cocaine they snorted in the front seat of his Maserati after the evening news had wrapped only helped matters. He told her he could make her a star and, if she were to heed his advice, they’d be delivering the news side by side in no time. He failed, however, to mention that he didn’t have the clout necessary to secure the anchor gig. But he figured what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Besides, with all he put up with each day, and with his status as the leading evening news anchor in South Florida, he deserved a hot, young piece of ass whenever he damn well pleased.
“Bienvenidos mi case, amor,” Cagney said in butchered Spanish as he opened the door to his condo.
“Wow, this place is huge.”
“There’s more where that came from.”
“I bet there is,” she said with a playful giggle. The powder was taking hold. “I’m going to freshen up.”
“Hurry on back, beautiful,” he replied. “I get lonely if I’m out here by myself for too long.”
Cagney looks just as douchey in person as he does on air. Who the hell was the girl, though? He was supposed to be alone. Must be a call girl because there’s no way he could pull that kind of tail legitimately. Money only gets you so far. Micah’s initial plan off the table, he considered alternative ways to approach the situation. In an ideal world, Cagney would have been alone and discovered days later when the stench of his decomposing body seeped through the walls. This was anything but ideal, but it wasn’t impossible. The simple answer was that he had to act quick.
Once the woman left the room, Cagney walked over to a bar to prepare some drinks. Micah slid the closet door open quietly as his target fumbled for the precise accouterments to go with the concoction he planned to put together in the tumblers on the granite in front of him. The silenced pistol in tow, Micah walked over to Cagney and stopped four feet behind him.
“Jimmy sends his best.”
Cagney turned his head at the sound, but his eyes never met Micah’s while a thread of life still existed within them. A single bullet escaped the chamber and struck Cagney in the left temple before exploding out the right side of his head. Blood and brain matter sprayed onto the wall next to where his body once stood. Micah lowered his arm and looked at the corpse with contempt.
Suddenly, a door somewhere down the hall creaked and forced Micah to duck for cover behind a nearby couch. The optimal move would have been to leave before the young woman had discovered his handiwork, but Micah found himself compelled to wait things out. He listened as the woman’s footsteps drew nearer. Hesitant to give away his hiding spot too soon, he peered over the top and saw her walking closer, a body most men dreamed of when left to their own devices, a transparent set of underwear that merely invited impure thoughts was all that covered her.
“Did you fix me that drink yet, sweetie?”
Her eyes met Cagney’s body briefly and her jaw dropped. She let out a scream, but a dull pop from across the room muted the sound. The slug burrowed its way into her brain and her body collapsed to the floor in a sea of crimson. Micah quickly disassembled the silencer and placed it in his pocket. The tube was warm against his thigh. He walked over to the woman and placed the pistol in her hand, forcing her to grip it tightly. He then raised her hand and fired a shot at Cagney, striking him in the gut. An uncomfortable feeling of remorse rushed over him as he placed her firing hand by her side and rushed out the door.
-#-
Once outside, Micah walked over to a nearby phone and dialed emergency. He waited a couple minutes before the line clicked in.
“9-1-1, what is the nature of your call?”
“I, uh, heard some noises. Strange noises.”
“Sir, this is an emergency number,” the dispatcher began.
“Yes, yes, I know. I think this might be an emergency. The noises were coming from inside a condo at 1512 Mangrove Bay.”
“Is that your place of residence, sir?”
“I think someone might be hurt.”
“Sir, are you…?”
He clicked the receiver and left.
Chapter 16
Osteen and Vivian arrived at the scene of the crime, fully aware of the magnitude of the story it held amidst the blood spatter and the unmistakably pungent aroma of death. However, they needed a chance to have some one-on-one time with the victims before anything consequential could be relayed to the press. Osteen found it remarkable that so much of the story was unknown outside of the condo’s walls, considering the penchant for gossip within the community that the heinous act took place.
The bodies had only been devoid of life for a few hours by the time the detectives showed up, but the smell had already permeated throughout the condo. If the front door had been left open, a curious neighbor might have popped their head inside to inspect, and the sight that would have greeted them would have made even the manliest of men more than a tad nauseous.
Unlike some portrayals of death seen in Hollywood, where a shot to the head results in a small circular wound, the reality is considerably more gruesome, like a butcher learning to use a meat grinder for the first time but going a bit overboard with the crank. Blood and guts and brain matter escape the body along with the foreign projectile that disturbed them. Crime scenes of the homicidal variety exist in a world of grotesquerie for a reason.
The interior of Cagney’s condominium was a textbook picture of the damage a bullet can do to the human body. The bar was partially covered in blood, like someone had taken a jar of strawberry jam and thrown it at the mahogany in protest. Osteen picked up the tumbler Cagney had been pouring a drink into and noticed a piece of the deceased’s brain inside. It was much of the same on the wall behind the bar. Blood and brain matter pl
astered across it like the canvas of a twisted splatter painting. A few small bone fragments were even tossed in for effect.
Osteen’s eyes trailed down to the second entry wound, the shot which merely confirmed the inevitable. It had hit Cagney in the gut, roughly an inch above his waist. A pool of blood congealed on the travertine tile in front of his body. Another bodily substance accompanied it. The opposite side of the apartment had much of the same on display. Cagney’s mistress had a single gunshot wound to the head. Her blood sprayed across some nearby furniture and a rug which looked like it must have cost Cagney a small fortune. A few scattered pieces of brain followed the trail marked by her blood, but the shot had hit at a different point in her head, leaving much of the organ intact. Something was off about the whole setup. Of that Osteen was certain.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Vivian announced as she turned to step outside. She was no stranger to death, but there hadn’t yet been a moment where she saw something as sickening as what lay before her now. The corpses she came across most often usually had the decency to be more presentable.
“Take a moment to collect yourself, Viv,” Osteen motioned for his partner to step outside. “I’ll handle things in here.”
Vivian left the room, and Osteen stood still for a moment. He glanced around the room, trying to force himself to believe it was nothing more than a murder-suicide. Like someone had opened a paint-by-numbers book for homicides and recreated their favorite piece. An open and shut case.
Mistress wants something she believes only a man with power can provide. Mister denies her wish, and she makes him pay with his life. Realizing what will follow because of her actions, she turns the gun on herself and leaves the heartache for someone else. Looked at a different way, jealous boyfriend thinks his young plaything is messing around him. He confronts her, pulls a gun and she loses it. They get in a scuffle and the gun goes off, striking him in the gut. Flabbergasted, the jealous boyfriend steps back, realizes the futility of the situation and offs the supposed cheat before turning the gun on himself.
“Son of a bitch,” Osteen muttered. He read the case files on Cagney on the drive over. He’d heard mention of the broadcaster’s recent cooperation with the police in a sting operation to take down a local drug dealer. The op had failed to deliver the desired results, but it wound up with a pusher behind bars. Was that it? Was it about drugs? Osteen knew the motive was there. Revenge for the incarceration of a couple of lackeys was possible.
Though any revenge would likely be for a deeper meaning than the life of someone as replaceable as a street dealer. The men and women who at the top within these organizations cared little for the working folk peddling their goods. That they themselves likely started at a similar level was of no consequence. They had escaped the monotony. Made it out and achieved a better life. Discovered the true meaning of the American Dream. To them, anyone unable to reach their level could fuck right off.
Cagney didn’t have a history of domestic violence. Or anything outside of habitual drug use. Even then, the only thing they had ever found him guilty of didn’t exist any longer. His cooperation with the police had all but assured that. Can’t have a local hotshot news anchor walking around with an asterisk next to his name because he had a fondness for soliciting prostitutes. Doesn’t work all that well when you try to sell said hotshot as a household name.
That left revenge as the most likely motive. Did it have to be, though? Couldn’t it just be the straightforward answer instead? Besides, there were multiple possibilities for the easy option which, Osteen hoped, had to count for something. He played through several scenarios in his head, talking himself into believing things could be just as they seemed, but not making much leeway in convincing his subconscious on the matter.
“Ok, I,” Vivian tried to talk as she stepped back inside, but her mind was operating on sensory overload and her mouth just wouldn’t respond quickly enough. “What are you… thinking… Dan?” The taste of bile was there again, but she fought hard to keep it at bay.
“Huh?” Osteen looked over at Vivian, wondering how she suddenly appeared beside him. “Just thinking. It looks like a simple case. We should be able to walk out of here, talk to the M.E., write our report back at the station and go home.”
“Then let’s do that. The sooner we get out of here, the better. I may have to burn these clothes later because I don’t think I’m ever getting this smell out.”
“We can’t.”
“We sure as hell can. It’s really simple,” Vivian asserted with a newfound confidence. “Cagney was at the bar fixing drinks because that’s the only way he could have been seen with our mystery lady. She surprised him as he turned his back to her and the rest is history.”
“What’s her motive?”
“Maybe she didn’t like his hair,” Vivian replied. “I’ve dumped guys for less.”
“Be serious, Viv.”
“I am being serious, Dan. Everything doesn’t need to be this convoluted mess of a case where we’re chasing our own asses half the time trying to find the answer that was right in front of us from the beginning. Occasionally we’re bound to stumble upon an easy case where the answer is spelled out for us. Why are you trying to make it all so much more lately?”
“Believe me, I’d love nothing more than an answer that required little to no thought, but something’s not right about this one.” It had been a long while since Osteen noticed this sort of fire within his partner. He found it more unnerving than the sight of the decomposing bodies mere feet away.
“Then why are you trying to make something out of nothing?”
“I’m not. Just hear me out. Not taking any potential motive into consideration. Say our mystery lady really killed Cagney,” Osteen suggested. He approached Cagney’s body. “Why the second shot to the gut?”
“Perhaps she wanted to make sure he was dead.”
“It’s possible, but a shot this close, to the head, would have done the job without the need for insurance.”
“That can’t be your only reason.”
“It’s not. However, my other reason is just speculation until we get the report from the Medical Examiner.”
“And that is?” Vivian fought back the temptation to roll her eyes. The road they were on the verge of traveling down was well worn and not one she was fond of.
“Why go back to her final resting spot? Why not get it over with right next to his body? I doubt she was enough of a crack shot to hit a target with that kind of precision, especially not under duress.”
“Maybe she was just in shock. Putting the pieces of the puzzle together, realizing that life was over, and she had fucked it all up,” Vivian said, with a hint of exasperation. She knew the battle she was currently waging was a losing one.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and the person who took care of Cagney wasn’t expecting seconds.”
“That’s a crude way to put it, Dan.”
“Sorry, but it’s a crude predicament. The point is…”
“I know the point, Danny-boy,” Vivian snapped and felt terrible about it almost immediately. “Let’s just head back to the office and wait to form our theories until we receive the M.E.’s report.”
Osteen put his hand on her shoulder, squeezed it lightly, and left the room.
Chapter 17
Micah jolted up in his bed, visibly distraught. He rubbed his eyes profusely to ensure he was awake.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?”
Our minds have a funny way of playing out dreams and memories, coalescing the two in a dance that can sometimes leave you wondering if what you witnessed was a moment in time that has since passed, or if it ever existed at all. Perhaps, Micah sometimes thought, it had existed, or would exist, but not in this world. Or in this lifetime. Or he just really needed to set up a meeting with a shrink. He hadn’t the slightest idea why the dreams had got worse, but he longed for a
sleepless night.
Micah reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the remote for the television set mounted on the wall across the room. He clicked it on and saw that the local news had just returned from a recent commercial break. Seems like they’ve got one of those damn things every five minutes. A reporter stood in front of what looked to be the condominium he had recently visited. The longer he watched the coverage, the more certain he became. He tapped up on the volume and listened in.
-#-
“John, I’m standing outside the building where authorities found Channel 2’s own Dirk Cagney, murdered early this morning,” the reporter said, her voice somewhat cold. “Authorities also discovered the body of a female victim at the scene, but they aren’t releasing any information about her until next of kin can be notified. Details are sparse, but officers found a single gun at the scene, along with three bullet casings. It appears to have been a murder-suicide, though who pulled the trigger is still very much a mystery. Neighbors said they heard odd sounds coming from the condo around midnight last night. We’ll have more on this story as additional information becomes available. For now, we’ll take it back to you, Steve.”
-#-
Medina and Castillo sat stoically on the sofa in the Fisher Island mansion’s living room. They were watching the news story that would set the marbles rolling for the newest member of their organization.
“He continues to impress,” Medina said.
“Yea, I’ve had plenty of people fuck up this kind of thing so bad the cops know it the second they step away,” Castillo said. “Bad enough that they may as well have left a note that said, ‘check it out, I did it! Signed, dumbass.’” Both men laughed. “But this guy, boss, he knows how to cover his tracks. The pigs up in that tower could be thinking something else is at play, like it’s all a little too cut and dry, too safe, but they have nothing to go on.”
Murder in the Magic City Page 7
