Murder in the Magic City

by G. P. Sorrells

  The thought became clearer the more frequently it announced itself.

  Emma… I’m sorry, Emma. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Micah felt himself choke up, tears threatening to pour out without a moment’s notice. He pinched his brow and squinted hard, hoping to force the terrible feeling deep into the pit of his stomach. All the discomfort dissipated when Micah locked eyes with Citron. She had just finished a set and, after whispering something to an adoring fan with his wallet open wide enough to see the wad of bills within, she walked over to the bar.

  “Hey stranger,” Citron said as Micah approached.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” Micah asked, his tone playful, though his eyes told a far different story.

  “Where I come from, you never say no to something free.” Citron stole a glance at her admirer near the stage, returning with a grimace. “Well, almost never.”

  “Two rum and cokes.” Micah placed a few bills on the bar top and returned his gaze to Citron. “Feel like finishing where we left off?”

  “I’m willing to do just about anything to get the hell away from Mr. Googly Eyes for a while.”

  #

  “So, let me get this straight,” Citron said, a finger raised as she attempted to contain the shock she felt. “Rather than having me all to yourself, you want to set me up with a friend?”

  “Yea, I know it sounds crazy,” Micah said, looking away from her. “I’d love to cut him out of the equation all together.”

  “Then do it.”

  “But the guy has had some horrible luck with women lately. It’s honestly kind of sad watching him just get turned down left and right with no sort of light at the end of the tunnel.” Micah rested his head in his hands. “I just want to help him out. Let him see that there’s still hope. Even if it’s not the real thing, maybe it’ll at least get his mind in the right place.”

  Citron placed a hand on Micah’s thigh, gripping lightly. “That’s sweet of you.”

  “Do you think you can help me out?”

  “On one condition.”

  “That being.”

  Citron moved from her seat into Micah’s lap in one fluid motion, straddling him like a horse. “I think you know.”

  Micah felt himself blush. The offer was tempting, but he cared too much about Valerie to make that sort of move. Nothing wrong with a little insinuation, though. He placed each of his hands onto Citron’s shoulders and stared into her eyes. “Take care of my friend first, and I’ll repay the favor.”

  “You’re no fun,” Citron said, pretending to pout.

  “Yea, I get that a lot.”

  Chapter 53

  Castillo flung his door open without a care in the world. The bombshell on his arm was all his drunken mind had focused on. In his mind, whatever damage the door may have done to the wall it had careened into was a problem for another day. One which promised to be far less intriguing than the present situation had turned out to be. He closed the door with his foot as he followed Citron like a lost puppy through the entryway of his upscale condominium. Castillo watched as she walked over to the middle of the living room.

  Citron looked around in wonder at the walls, adorned with multiple paintings worth more than her car. It was a bit to take in, but hardly the first time she had found herself in such a situation. Maybe this time I can get something lasting out of the arrangement, she pondered as she removed her jacket, dropping it to the floor.

  “You look… beautiful,” Castillo said. He had tried in vain to say the words while looking into Citron’s eyes, but his own gaze betrayed him immediately as it ventured south to admire her figure.

  “Thanks,” she replied. The more time passed, the less it surprised her that this friend of Micah’s had trouble wooing members of the opposite sex. Drunk or not, if that was his idea of a good line, she had her doubts about the value that existed in a bedroom romp with the man. “Your place looks fantastic.”

  “I appreciate that,” Castillo said. He placed a hand on the small of her back and whispered softly in her ear, “this is nothing compared to the other side of that wall.”

  Her eyes drifted toward the direction of where Castillo had motioned. The light was dim, but the contents of the room were unmistakable. Smooth. Citron walked over to the doorway, pretending to be oblivious to what lie in wait within the four walls. She felt an arm reach past as Castillo flipped the light to a brighter setting.

  “You’re right, this side looks a lot better,” Citron said, staring mournfully at the king-sized bed in the middle of the room.

  “Wait until you feel the sheets on the bed. 1000 thread count, satin.”

  “Bet that would feel incredible against my skin,” Citron said. She had to stifle a laugh at the shit-eating grin that manifested itself across Castillo’s face at that moment.

  “You’re welcome to try it out, sweetheart.” Castillo pulled back the comforter. “Now you can get the full experience.” His jaw dropped as Citron removed her clothes and approached the bed. She placed her hands on the edge, palms flat as she took in the soft texture.

  “Join me anytime,” Citron said, climbing up onto the bed. She laid on her back, arching a leg and propping herself up on one arm. Castillo fumbled around with his clothes like a virgin jumping into the fray for the first time. After nearly falling over himself as he tried to remove his pants, he walked over to the edge of the bed and leaned forward.

  “You’re about to…”

  His bedroom window exploded, shrapnel flying out into the room as the force of what had entered launched Castillo’s body off the bed and onto the floor below. Blood and brain matter poured out of the husk that had once been his head. The realization of what had transpired hitting her like a ton of bricks, Citron let out a blood-curdling scream.

  #

  Micah disassembled the sniper rifle he had used sparingly over the years. It was a last resort. A measure to be used when he couldn’t risk getting close to his target or otherwise could not do so without arousing suspicion. Castillo’s murder was such a time. The two were close, but he had sensed their relationship waning over the past few months. Everything that had taken place with Valerie seemed to solidify the notion that irreparable damage had been done to what once existed between the two men.

  It was likely he could have met with Castillo without involving Citron, but the outcome almost certainly wouldn’t have been so smooth. Either Castillo would’ve taken him out while Micah was none the wiser to the move, or the nagging thoughts in the back of his head of a life he hadn’t thought he lived would have led to him freezing up when the time came to take care of business.

  Micah walked down the roof access stairs on his way to the central elevator of the building he had spent the past few hours perched upon, when his cell phone buzzed with life.

  “Hey there,” he said, trying to come across as neutral as he could.

  “Micah, I, I need you,” Citron said. There was a chaos to her voice that filled him with remorse for involving her in the charade. “Something… something happened. With your friend.”

  “It’s ok. Tell me where you are, and I’ll come get you.”

  “We’re at his apartment.” The waterworks were barely being held back. “Please hurry.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  #

  Micah reached Castillo’s condominium in a matter of minutes. The briefcase for the rifle held awkwardly in his arms. He needed to rid himself of the evidence before too many more people had the chance to see him with it. He darted down an alley and tossed it into a dumpster.

  He glanced around to make sure no one was in the vicinity before walking back out onto the street, removing his gloves as he did so and putting them into his back pocket. Moments later, he was knocking on the door of the man whose life he had just ripped away. The slab of wood slowly creaked open and Citron rushed forward, smothering Micah in an embrace that suggested she would likely need to speak with a therapist befo
re she could sleep soundly.

  “Are you okay?”

  “He’s, he’s,” Citron peeked her head out and looked around the hallway, “he’s dead. Your friend is gone.”

  “What? How?”

  “I, I don’t know,” she said, stepping back into the condo. “One minute I’m on the bed, waiting for him to come up and do his thing. The next thing I know, he’s on the floor with his head blown open. Someone’s going to think I did this.”

  “No one’s going to think that,” Micah said, grateful that the scene didn’t seem to be as difficult to deal with as he had expected. “Did anyone even know you were here?”

  “Just you.”

  “Then you’re fine. Did you touch anything besides the bed?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, stay here for a moment. I’m going to look in the room and see if I can clean things up a bit. Once I’m done, we’ll get the hell out of here. It’ll be like this just happened while he was alone.”

  “But he’s naked.”

  “This is the Magic City, Citron. You think homicide hasn’t seen their fair share of weird shit going down around here?” Micah placed a hand on her shoulder. He lightly grabbed her face with the other, a soft smile peeking out to calm down his unwitting accomplice. “It’s going to be okay; I promise.”

  Citron smiled as Micah disappeared into the bedroom. He fumbled around inside the room for some time, but never wiped a print, or attempted to cover Castillo’s body. A few minutes later, he walked out, stuffing an envelope into his back pocket.

  “Let’s get out of here. Get you someplace safe.”

  Chapter 54

  Vivian arrived at the bungalow at the end of the cul-de-sac, rooted to the doorstep with her gaze locked at a door she had walked through hundreds of times before. The thought of going through once more terrified her. Would she feel the presence of the confidant who had been ripped from her life so suddenly? A pulsing reminder of the friendship that was lost simply because a good man had tried to do his job when everything in the world signaled to him that the best course of action was to wait it out on the periphery.

  She placed a hand on the doorknob, its intricate design softly etching a copy into her skin. “You can do this, Vivian. Get your shit together.”

  “You all right over there?” An unfamiliar voice called out from the street, friendly in a passive-aggressive manner which suggested a finger waiting to hit the speed dial for 9-1-1. Vivian turned to see an older woman in her nightgown, pink curlers in her salt-and-pepper hair, and a furry, brown ankle biter attached to the leash held by her uncrossed arm. “If you’re looking for Daniel, he hasn’t been home in some time.”

  Daniel? Who the hell calls him that? Vivian was curious to find out more about the woman, but not nearly as much as she was about what lay on the other side of the oak door blocking her path into Osteen’s home. “He, uh, asked me to check on his place while he’s away,” Vivian said, twirling the key to the front door. She unlocked the door and turned the knob.

  “Oh, well, all right.” A hint of sadness in her voice at not being provided the chance to alert the authorities. “Make sure you flip the light on when you leave. Runs the electric bill up a bit, but it keeps the vagrants away.”

  “Understood,” Vivian smiled. She nearly leaped into the home and shut the door. It took a moment for the weight of the world around her to take hold. The crushing reality that despite her hopes to the contrary, the home was nothing more than an empty shell. Four walls which used to protect a friend from the elements, but now existed as nothing more than a random point on a map, easily missed by anyone not looking for it specifically.

  Decorations were sparse, a few pictures of Osteen in the line of duty. Graduation from the academy, God, he looked young there. Almost didn’t recognize him. Receiving various medals and honors for admirable work in solving a variety of cases. Many people could lay their loved ones to rest because of Dan’s efforts.

  Vivian’s heart dropped when she saw a photo of the two homicide detectives, taken on her first day. They had been working a case Osteen had been working for months. A young girl orphaned and unable to explain who had taken away her parents. She was barely a toddler, only just learning how to form somewhat coherent sentences. Nothing she could say would be admissible in court. They had questioned every conceivable suspect but turned up nothing of note. Family members, close friends, anyone who had been around the girl in the weeks leading up to the disappearance of her parents.

  The girl, Maria, recognized none of them as anything more than what they were to her at their most basic level. Nothing to suggest foul play. Unwilling to just let it all end there, to watch as the helpless child became a cog in a system she deserved no part in, Osteen and Vivian tried a different angle. They took the girl to get ice cream and talked to her like she was just a friend. No badges, no guns, no mention of her parents. Just three friends spending time with one another and shoveling down frozen sugar milk. To put Maria at ease, Vivian suggested the trio take a picture to commemorate the occasion. She told Maria they would make copies and keep in touch as the years passed.

  As they sat at their table enjoying one another’s company, Maria suddenly became irritable, eventually collapsing into uncontrollable tears. Vivian moved to console her, telling her everything would be okay. Osteen followed the toddler’s eyes and locked onto a young woman wiping tables nearby.

  “What’s the matter, Maria? I can get us more ice cream.”

  “Ley-lie,” Maria choked out between tears. She buried her head in Vivian’s embrace. The young woman abruptly stopped wiping tables and walked away, slowly at first, but her pace quickened almost immediately after she glanced their way. Her face was stoic, betraying no emotion, but it was clear she wanted to disappear from their view.

  Osteen glimpsed her nametag: Leslie. He looked over at Maria and put his hand on her shoulder. “Who’s Leslie?”

  “She’s daddy’s friend,” the child said, trying to fight back tears. “She plays with me sometimes, but she is mean.”

  Leslie and Maria’s father had been having an affair. He wanted to try something new but was spooked out of continuing the adulterous act when Leslie brought up the idea of commitment. Not one to be turned down, and especially not keen on sharing things she felt belonged to her, Leslie took matters into her own hands and ended things permanently for both of Maria’s parents.

  Tough result aside, the picture still showed Vivian just how far she had come in a few short years. She was thankful to have had the time she did with Osteen, though she’d have given anything for more.

  She made her way down the hall, peering into silent rooms until she stumbled upon the space she had been most interested in investigating. Osteen’s office. It was a quaint speck of a room at odds with the relative behemoths lurking about throughout the rest of the home. A mahogany desk sat in the center of the room; its heft unaffected by the notion that it may be out of place in the repurposed sunroom.

  Vivian walked past slowly; her eyes drawn to the heap of paperwork sprawled across half of the desk. She sat down in the chair and let out a sigh.

  “It’s been a while, Dan,” she said to his ghost. Whether she was alone in the room hardly mattered. Simply speaking her thoughts out loud from time to time helped calm her mind. Made her see that Osteen had only left the material plane, but he wouldn’t just leave her completely high and dry. Of course, if she were being honest with herself, she often wondered if she may have been going crazy. At least gradually. Osteen had been the first death she’d had to experience of someone close to her. It’s one thing to lose a loved one who you hadn’t seen or spoken to in over a decade. It’s quite another to come to grips with the sudden and unexpected loss of someone who existed as part of your day-to-day life for years.

  “I knew my gut wouldn’t steer me wrong,” Vivian said, skimming through the files on the desk. “You never could leave work behind when you
punched out for the day.” She leaned back in the chair and pinched her brow. “Of course, I feel like I can’t do that much anymore, so who am I to point fingers?”

  A click of the hard-worn mouse at the edge of the desk, and Osteen’s computer chimed its willingness to assist in whatever ventures its new master had in mind. Moments later, Vivian had every file that Osteen had opened in the past year expanded up on the screen. Come Hell or high water, she was going to find the connection between the murders. Or at least gather some insight into what Osteen himself may have stumbled upon.

  It was slow going at first, clicking through files of some of their early cases together. Vivian powered through it until she reached the files about their mystery man in Crandon Park.

  “Somehow, someway, that motherfucker is connected to all of this.” An icy chill rushed down Vivian’s spine. She brushed off the discomfort and pushed forward to a case she hadn’t recognized. Something about an accidental death at a local crematorium. Marco Fedorov, the owner of Our Dearly Departed Funeral Parlor, had been found dead at a crematorium used by his organization.

  Accidental Death = Homicide?

  The words were scrawled out in Osteen’s familiar script. His penmanship was anything but scholarly, though it was certainly memorable. “Wonder if this is one of the other bodies he was talking about.” She opened an internet browser and searched various tags from the report. Random phrases that would look like nothing more than word salad to a casual observer. The hope was that something in those words would produce a result intriguing enough to warrant deeper inspection. From there, she would just need to cross her fingers that whatever the tidbit was, it shared some connection to Jennings and Cagney.