Blood of Cain (Sean O'Brien (Mystery/Thrillers)) (16 page)

He nodded, his voice caught in his throat.

“Courtney Burke didn’t kill Lonnie Ebert, right?”

He nodded, his face bright red.

“Who killed Lonnie?

“Don’t know! I swear!”

“Did Bandini order it?”

“That’s what the word on the street is, yeah.”

“Why?”

“I heard it was on account Lonnie was double-dipping.”

“How’d you hear that?”

“From Lonnie. He was my friend. He told me Tony Bandini had actually shorted him two G’s so he was taking it back in installments. I don’t know how Bandini or his guys caught him. But Lonnie knew they were on to him. He was makin’ plans to get out of town with that chick, Courtney. But he waited one night too long.”

I pulled a business card from my shirt pocket and tossed it to Smitty. “The number on that card is to Detective Dan Grant of the Volusia County Sheriff’s Office. Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to pull your pants up, and then you’re going to call the detective and tell him what you told me.”

“You don’t know the Bandini family.”

“And you don’t know me. I won’t let an innocent girl take the fall. If you even think about running, I’ll hunt you down. And guess what?”

“What?”

“I will find you.”

I slammed the door and walked away. Nick followed me and said, “That guy’s balls shrank to the size of two peas. You believe he’s telling the truth?”

“He didn’t have time to lie.”

“You think he’ll call that detective?”

“Don’t know. But I will, and I’ll tell him where he can find Smitty.” I looked across the back parking lot to where the customized Bandini bus sat, diesels purring, Randal Barnes, no doubt, conveying everything I’d asked him. Worse yet, what Nick had told him. I walked to a spot where a large camper blocked the line-of-sight from Nick and me to the bus. “You made a mistake back there.”

“What mistake?”

“Nick, you told Barnes that you overheard the conservation between Smitty and him. They were probably drinking so much they don’t remember exactly what they said about the murder, the hit on Lonnie. But now they know that you know, and that makes you a potential liability to these guys.”

“You think they could come after me?”

“Maybe.”

“They take one step on my boat and I’ll put what’s left of ‘em in my crab traps.”

“Let’s head back to the marina.”

As we walked through the midway, I was now worried for two people, a girl who might be my daughter, and a man who was like my brother.

It was on our walk back to the parking lot when I heard a voice that stopped me in my tracks. “Lemme guess your age and weight,” said the man. “Nobody can beat the Guesser. How about you, young lady? Bet I can guess your weight to within one pound and your age to the exact year.”

I could hear some teenagers laughing, the conversation fun, challenging each other. “Nick, let’s see what’s on the other side of the Shoot-O-Rama, I heard a familiar voice.”

We walked around the arcade and watched as a dwarf sat on a three-legged stool, wireless microphone in one hand, a large weighing scale to the right of his stool. A half dozen high school students stood near him, watching as he sized up a large man and said, “Sir, I bet you are two hundred five pounds, including the weight of those brogan boots you’re wearing, and they haven’t gone out of style since their introduction in the Civil War.”

The man laughed, and looked at his girlfriend next to him. He turned back to the dwarf and said, “You’re good.”

The little man leaned forward in a short bow. “Okay, pilgrim, stand on the great revealer called a scale.”

The man stepped on the scale and the needle swept past the two-hundred mark for a second, and then pointed to 206. The man shook his head and smiled. “All right, how old do you think I am?”

“Old enough to know better.” The dwarf held his hands like he was looking into an invisible window. “I can see back to your birth. You were born thirty-seven years ago.”

The man’s mouth dropped, eyebrows arching. “That’s damn good.”

“Tell the crowd your age?”

“I’m thirty-seven, turning thirty-eight next week.”

“But that doesn’t count right now. Thank you, sir. Next person for the Guesser, step right up here.”

The man grinned and pulled a baseball cap back on his head and walked away with his girlfriend, both laughing. The teenagers drifted off, chasing toward the Toboggan Run ride. The dwarf turned to Nick and me. “Aren’t you a tall one? Bet I can guess your weight, height and age.”

“I bet I can guess your name … Isaac Solminski.”

He looked at me, eyes widening, smile growing. He tilted his head. “That’s impressive.” His falsetto voice rose slightly. “However, I recognize your voice, too, Mr. O’Brien. And your friend is …”

“I’m Nick. You’ll never guess my age ‘cause Greeks age differently than most of the world. I’m a two-thousand-year old optical illusion.”

“I like your friend, Mr. O’Brien. He doesn’t look a day over forty-four.”

Nick grinned. “Something’s wrong here. Nobody ever gets my age on the nose. Either I’ve aged a hellava lot in the last two days, or you’re really good.”

“It’s the latter.”

I watched Solminski click off the switch on the microphone. I said, “Courtney trusted you enough to tell you about my birthmark. Did she tell you how she knew, who told her? Your answer is very important.”

“She told me exactly what I relayed to you on the phone.”

“Where is she?”

“I couldn’t say for sure.”

“You’re a good guesser but a bad liar. I’m the only one looking for her who actually believes she’s not a killer. I need to find her first.”

“I wish I could help you, but to help you would only hurt Courtney. But I can say …” He paused and looked beyond my left shoulder, his eyes cautious, locking on to something behind me. He set the microphone on a corner of his stool. “If I were to venture another guess about you both, I’d say you’re being watched, no you’re being followed.”

I looked up at a slight reflection off the round glass face on the scale. I could see two men standing in the midway, their body language in surveillance mode, standing out in a crowd of moving people. “Is it Carlos Bandini?”

“No. It’s some guys who work for him. Why are they tailing you two?”

“You know a guy named Randal Barnes and one called Smitty?”

“Smitty is Tyler Smith. Barnes works directly for Bandini.”

“Barnes and Smitty were drinking in a bar, someone overheard them saying Lonnie was a drug mule for the Bandini family. I wanted to give Barnes the opportunity to tell me how Courtney wasn’t involved.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because if he wasn’t involved in the Bandini drug enterprise, he might be willing to tell me just enough to take any potential heat off him. But now I know his job description is beyond only working as a ride operator. Smitty was Lonnie’s friend. I strongly encouraged him to call the same detective who spoke with you the day you called me, Detective Grant. Smitty can vouch that Courtney Burke had nothing to do with Lonnie’s murder.”

“But will he? I’ve worked carnivals, circuses, and sideshows when it was politically correct to pay money to point, stare, and laugh at what were called freaks of nature. The real freaks aren’t created by nature. Greed is the mother of most spiritual mutants. Evil is their father. Mr. O’Brien, the Bandinis aren’t freaks of nature, they’re products of gluttony. After you and Nick leave, I will be questioned by them. When this season ends, I’m hanging it up. You’d best be going now.”

“Before I leave, tell me, do you know where I can find Courtney?”

“No.”

I watched him for a moment. “I think you know. And you believe that by not telling me, she will be better for it. She won’t. That’s no guess. It’s a fact. You have my number. If you change your mind, call me. If you hear from Courtney, have her call me.”

Nick and I left and walked toward the midway, the two men following us trying to blend into the crowd. I glanced at the House of Mirrors and caught a quick reflection of the Guesser still sitting on his stool, watching us leave. For an instant, he resembled a character from a Lewis Carroll book, Tweedledee or was it Tweedledum? All I could remember from
Through the Looking Glass
was something about how a large black crow swooped down on the little men.

Even through the noise from the midway, somewhere near the vanishing point of my perception, I thought I heard the mocking cries of a crow.

From the west side of the midway to the lot where I’d parked my Jeep, it happened. The two guys tailing us disappeared. Maybe they thought we’d spotted them. Maybe they’d decided to ask Isaac Solminski what we’d chatted about. He was a savvy carny. A survivor. Smart. He’d tell them what he wanted Bandini to know.

The parking lot was nearly filled. My Jeep was parked between two yellow school buses, almost invisible from any passersby. Nick glanced over his shoulder and said, “Looks like the dudes are gone. You think that guesser guy really doesn’t know where to find Courtney?”

“I believe he knows, but until he trusts us, he’s keeping his cards close to his red vest. In the meantime, the feds and police will tighten the dragnet for her.”

Walking across the lot, my phone rang in my jeans pocket. Dave Collins said, “Sean, you and Nick had better get back here. This thing with Senator Logan’s wife is gaining traction. The video with you and her in the coffee shop has more than two million views on YouTube. Kim Davis told me that a TV news satellite truck drove up a little while ago and parked in front of the Tiki Bar. Looks like something’s going down. The final Republican primary debate is tomorrow night. I have a feeling your former relationship with the senator’s wife might be part of the agenda.”

I listened to Dave as I unlocked the Jeep, Nick walking around to the passenger side. From the reflection on the Jeep’s side window, I noticed a slight movement inside the school bus behind me. Maybe a student. Maybe the driver. Maybe not.

The bus door flew open and Randal Barnes stood on the step with a .357 pointed at me. “Hands up asshole!”

I dropped my phone and lifted my arms as a second man came from behind Barnes. “You too!” he yelled at Nick. Nick’s hands shot straight up. Both men stepped out of the school bus, Barnes first, followed by the guy who wasn’t showing a pistol. He seemed to be the leader. He was tall, hawk faced with dirty blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. He wore a tank top, steroid biceps, Australian bush hat, and an alligator-tooth necklace. A knife protruded from a sheath on his hip. Gatorman looked at Nick, “Move! Stand beside your pal.”

Nick’s jawline popped. His dark eyes narrowed. He rolled his shoulders and walked around the Jeep and stood to my left, closest to the Jeep.

Gatorman said, “We really don’t need the silencer. So much noise at the carnival, nobody would ever hear us pop you dudes. You with the Hawaiian shirt on, turn around and put your hands on the top of the Jeep.”

I complied and he lifted my shirttail, pulling the Glock out of my belt.

He held my Glock and said, “Turn around and stand next to your pal.”

Nick and I stood beside each other. Gatorman slipped my Glock beneath his belt next to his right pants pocket.

Barnes moved to my right, gun pointed at my chest. He said, “You fucked up when you pulled a gun on Smitty.”

I smiled. “Thought you didn’t know anybody called Smitty.”

“Shut up!”

Gatorman stepped next to Barnes and sneered, his predator teeth small, lips thin. “Nobody walks into Mr. Bandini’s sandbox and pulls a pistol on one of his employees. Sends the wrong message.”

“Why doesn’t Carlos tell me that?”

“That’s what he’s doin.’ We’re just delivering the message.”

I watched Gatorman. His first mistake was sliding the Glock under his belt. So the immediate plan was to remove the cocked gun from Barnes’ right hand, the same hand where the tattoo on top of his fingers spelled E-V- I- L.

Gatorman pursed his thin lips, looked away for a second, and then cut his red-rimmed eyes to me. He shook his head like a disapproving parent. I knew he’d say something mild, non-threatening, before he made his move. Keep the prey off-guard. In that moment, I wished I could warn Nick. Gatorman said, “Maybe you boys can promise to never come back to our sandbox and we can all do what we do without gettin’ in each other’s ways. Follow what I’m sayin’?

Nick nodded and glanced at me. That one second was the green light. Gatorman slammed his fist into Nick’s mouth. Barnes aimed the pistol at my head. The tattooed E on his trigger finger less than three feet from my face.
Come a
little closer,
I hoped. As Nick wobbled, holding onto the Jeep’s hood, blood spurting from his mouth, I pressed the emergency button on the key remote in my left hand. Barnes whirled around toward the Jeep. Green light in my lane. I hit him hard as I could on the left jaw. He fell to his knees like he was hit with a Taser. He dropped the pistol on his way to the sawdust. I scooped it up and had the barrel pointed at Gatorman before he could pull the Glock out of his belt.

I nodded. “Nick, get my gun.”

Nick held his left hand to his bleeding mouth and pulled the Glock from Gatorman’s belt. As soon as Nick stepped back, Gatorman said, “You have no fuckin’ idea what you’re doing.”

“You’re wrong. I have more than an idea, I have a plan. Let’s call it a business plan. Here’s bullet point number one.” I fired a shot, the bullet making a thump in the sawdust next to his left foot.

“You’re fuckin’ crazy!” His eyes jutted, a string of saliva hanging from his lower lip.

“You’re probably right about that. Bullet point number two will be through the top of your foot if you think of lying to me. What and how much is Bandini running?”

He glared at me, a vein moving like an earthworm under his right eye. I pointed the pistol at his shoe.

“Okay! Fuck! He’s runnin’ coke, crystal meth, and heroin. Used to sell a lotta weed ‘til they started making the shit legal in some states. And then the medical marijuana crap hurt business real bad.”