Blood of Cain (Sean O'Brien (Mystery/Thrillers)) (20 page)

“Nick’s been hurt.”

“What? Where?”

“His boat.”

“Be right there.”

Within a half minute, Dave sprinted across the dock from his boat. His T-shirt was on backwards, his face filled with worry. “What the hell happened? How bad is he?”

“No indication of broken bones. Looks like his face took the brunt of the beating. Whoever did it impaled that icepick through Nick’s hand and pinned it to the wall.”

“The bastards … who did this?” Dave knelt down and braced Nick’s face in his hands. “We need to get you to an emergency room, Nicky.”

“No … I’ll survive. I’m a little behind on my health insurance payments.”

I said, “Got you covered. No sweat. Let’s get you checked out.”

He tried to stand. Dave and I grabbed his big arms and steadied him. He said, “Lemme go in. I have one hellava headache.”

“Lean on us,” I said. We led Nick inside
St. Michael’s
salon and eased him down on the couch, Max following quietly.

Dave said, “I’m wrapping your hand in some clean towels, and then I’m coming back with my first-aid kit. We’ll get you fixed up, Nick. We need to flush out that hand and sterilize the area around the cuts and bruises.” Dave walked into the galley and pulled a wad of paper towels off the shelf. He returned and wrapped a few towels around Nick’s bleeding hand. “Hold your hand up, okay? You must keep it elevated above your heart. We need to stop the bleeding. I don’t think it needs a stitch, but it’s a hell of a puncture wound. Through one side, out the other.”

“Tell me about it,” Nick said, leaning his head back on the leather couch, holding his arm up. Dave left and I got a pillow for Nick and brought it to him, gently putting it behind his head.

“Who did this to you?”

“Don’t know his name.” He coughed and closed his eyes.

“Was it Bandini’s guys, the two who jumped us at the carnival?”

“No, a different dude. Workin’ for Bandini. He made the other two look like Mutt and Jeff. This guy was taller than you. Probably six-five, two-hundred-sixty maybe.”

“What happened?”

Dave arrived and pulled up a chair, opening the first-aid kit, applying antiseptic and gauze to Nick’s wounds. He said, “Hang in there, Nick. All of this will burn some. Especially around your eye.”

“Doctor Dave, do your thing.”

I asked, “What happened?”

“I thought I heard ol’ Joe the cat on the transom looking for a grouper had I left for him in the bucket. But I couldn’t remember if I’d taken the top off the bucket. I cover it up to keep the pelicans from stealin’ Joe’s food. I was sleepy, just woke up. I opened the door to step outside and somebody hit me from behind. Bam! The guy had a crowbar in his hand. I fell and he started kickin’ me in the face and ribs. He had on steel-toed boots. I broke a long marine flashlight over his knee before he pulled a pistol and stuck it under my chin and said,
‘This is payback. Don’t ever come lookin’ again.’
Then he said,
‘Tell your asshole friend he’s next. Now it’s your turn to get the point.’
He skewered an icepick through my hand and kicked me in the head. Lights out. When I came to, you were leaning in my face, Sean. For a split second, I thought you were God, and that scared the shit outta me.”

Dave smiled and said, “In the morning I’m taking you to the medic-clinic for a tetanus shot.”

I said, “You were jumped from behind … wonder how your attacker knew this was your boat. Describe him.”

“Like I said, was a big mother, six-five, two-fifty or sixty. Lots of tats. Hoop earring. Wore one of those pirate bandanas around his head. I remember seeing him swingin’ the tire iron, and he wore black leather gloves.”

Dave nodded. “Probably no fingerprints. He’s a professional knee-breaker.”

I took a step back and gave Dave room to work on Nick. He’d mend in time, the hole in his hand would fill leaving a small scar, but the partial act of crucifixion, impaling Nick to his boat, would forever burn in his heart. He was a proud man, a good man, and Bandini’s soldier had nailed a portion of Nick’s spirit to a wall and left him for dead.

I thought about the Harley that pulled out of the lot when I was talking with Kim inside the Tiki Bar. I played back the license plate number and then filed it in a dark place in my mind that I didn’t like to enter, the attic of the aberrant. It was where I stored old case files from my days as a detective, the profiles of killers I’d hunted. Their faces frozen in time, usually the moment a jury returned a guilty-as-charged verdict. Those images are now like glassy-eyed trophies long-since covered in dust and cobwebs, hanging on the dark inside of my skull, relics of the criminal mind. These were faces I didn’t want to remember but couldn’t forget. It was a shadowy mental hard-drive of stored experiences that taught me how good people can live honorable lives, but evil people exist by cannibalizing the soul of human virtue.

It was time to meet Carlos Bandini.

I left
Jupiter
an hour before sunrise just as a TV news satellite truck was rolling into the marina parking lot. Dave, who was keeping an eye on Nick and Max, was going to drive Nick to a medical clinic for a tetanus shot later in the morning. They’d planned to take a motorized rubber zodiac from Dave’s boat, cross the marina to the lot away from the news media, get into Dave’s car and leave. If the reporters hadn’t seen Nick entering the marina with me earlier, he’d remain anonymous.

Somebody in Carlos Bandini’s camp probably saw our faces on the national news and knew where to find us. And I had a good idea where to find Bandini. Maybe I could locate his hired gun first. He might be in the customized million-dollar bus, sleeping soundly after ambushing Nick. He could be just crawling into bed after drinking and celebrating the pounding he gave Nick and the warning he left for me. Maybe he was no longer in the area, shipped out to another Bandini Amusement playground, imposing the will of the family among its extended clan of thieves.

It didn’t matter. It’s hard to hide when you impersonate the hulk. As Kermit sang so eloquently, ‘It’s not easy being green.’ And it wouldn’t be easy for a knuckle-dragger the size of Nick’s attacker to disappear, even in a carnival with hordes of people and the macabre facade of the shows along the midway.

I drove another mile and turned right into the parking lot of a Denny’s Restaurant. As I drove across the lot, a black Ford SUV with tinted windows entered. I made a splint-second decision to park on the left side of the building, near the delivery entrance. I got out, walked toward the front entrance and went inside. The SUV was parking in the front.

I ordered breakfast from a nineteen-year-old college kid who said he was working here to earn money for the fall semester. He took my order and quickly brought back a plate with three scrambled eggs, turkey sausage, rye toast, potatoes, and a quart of black coffee. As I ate, I caught one man sitting at the counter staring at me, trying hard to place my face. He looked the other way.

I didn’t know whether Detective Dan Grant started his day before 7:00 am, so I sent him a text rather than calling:
Dan – can we meet today? Urgent. Something’s come up. I’m at the Denny’s on Palmetto Blvd. - Sean

He responded within seconds:
Five blocks away. Be there soon. Order coffee for me.

I was pouring my second cup of coffee when he walked through the door. He slid onto the bench seat across from me and shook his head. “Morning, Sean. I feel like I just saw you. As a matter of fact, I did. Caught a few minutes of Good Morning America, and I see your face, the face of Senator Logan’s wife, and all the commentators are talking about is this ‘love child,’ a daughter you two supposedly had together. One anonymous source offered a million bucks to anyone who knows her whereabouts, or the money goes to the girl herself if she can prove she’s the daughter.”

“That’s one of the reasons I wanted to see you.”

“What do you mean?” He poured coffee from the plastic thermos pot the server had left on the table.

I pulled out two Ziploc bags and pushed them toward him.

“What the hell’s that?”

“The bag with the cotton swab has my DNA in it. The one with the folded handkerchief has Andrea Logan’s DNA in it.”

“How’d you get something that usually takes a court order to get?”

“She provided it.”

“Provided it?”

“Look, Dan, Andrea is being vilified by the cable news channels. She’s done nothing wrong. She’s not the first mother who’s given a child up for adoption. She shouldn’t be penalized, nor should her husband, for a decision she made two decades ago that she felt was the best thing for the child. I really need your help. Can you test the samples?”

He looked at me a long moment, sipping his coffee, his face filled with contemplation. “You placed two DNA samples on the table. Where’s the trump card, the DNA of Courtney Burke?”

“I don’t have it.”

“Then you have nothing to match these to.”

“I’ll get it.”

“If you get it, Sean, this’ll mean you’ve come in contact with a woman wanted in connection with the deaths of two men, and a suspect in the deaths of two others. If you find her, and only bring back a DNA sample, if she continues running, you could be charged with aiding and abetting a murder suspect.”

“And I’m hoping that you can prove she didn’t kill anyone.”

“The proof is in the physical evidence.”

“Not always. People are set up to take falls, you know that, Dan. And when did self-defense become a prosecutable offense?”

“We don’t know that she shot Tony Bandini in self-defense. That’s what she told the dwarf, but she didn’t want to stick around to tell the police. So what the hell does that tell you?”

“That she’s a scared kid. Someone who trusts no one.”

“Let’s speak hypothetically for a moment. If we’re talking in ‘what ifs,’ what if you do stumble upon a DNA sample for Courtney Burke. And what if that DNA test is a match, a scientific guarantee that she’s the daughter of you and Andrea Logan? And if Courtney’s arrested and charged with multiple murders, what’s that going to do when you’ve connected the Republican presidential nominee’s wife to a serial killer?”

“But if this girl’s innocent, to keep her off death row, I’m willing to make whatever valid connection I have to.”

“This thing has snowballed into a national, no, an international obsession in the last twenty-four hours. Your coffee shop video’s gone through the roof. Who the hell shot that?”

“Must have been the only other customer in the store. I saw his phone on the table when we walked in, I just never saw him pick it up because I was trying hard to comfort Andrea.” I pulled out a pen and wrote across a paper napkin.

Dan stirred sugar into his coffee. “What’s that, lotto numbers?”

“The tag number to the guy who ambushed, beat up, and left an icepick through the hand of a good friend of mine.”

“What?”

I told Dan what happened to Nick, and he shook his head. “How much does this have to do with you and your pal questioning Bandini’s guys after I did?”

“Some. The prime reason we dropped by the carnival was to see if Smitty was still working there. You told me your team couldn’t find him, and Randal Barnes, of course, denied even knowing him. So we went only after you’d been there. We just happened to see Smitty walk into a porta-potty. Figured it was a fairly small place for a conference, so we made it quick.”

Dan fought a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Sometimes I don’t believe you retired from Miami-Dade PD.”

“I didn’t retire. I quit before I turned completely numb to our species.”

“I can relate.”

“I don’t think the real reason Bandini sent his boy to nail Nick to the cross has that much to do with our visit to the carnival. I believe it had more to do with leaving a warning in Nick’s psyche. His message was simple: don’t be a witness or say anything about the conversation you overheard in the bar and we won’t come back.”

“Is Nick going to press charges?”

“I think he will if you find the guy. But because the attacker never actually mentioned Carlo’s Bandini’s name, only implied as much, Nick can’t prove the connection. Since this guy’s so good with icepicks, maybe he’s the one who slammed one into the heart of Lonnie Ebert.”

I slid the napkin with the tag number to Dan. “This is the license plate number on the motorcycle he parked in the marina lot. Harley. New model. Skull and crossbones on the gas tank. He may be walking with a limp. Nick managed to crack a heavy-duty flashlight across the guy’s shin.”

“All right. I’ll see what I can find. And because I’m conducting a murder investigation, I can do DNA tests on the other stuff, too. I just need Courtney Burke’s DNA, which we will get sooner or later. All of this will prove one way or the other whether this girl is the biological daughter of you and Andrea Logan. It won’t prove her innocence. If she is the alleged love child the media keep yammering about, it should make one hell of a presidential election year because I will find her and I will arrest her, Sean. If she’s your kid, too bad you never had a chance to have an influence on her. Thanks for the coffee.”

He got up to leave and walked across the lot. As I watched him get into his unmarked police cruiser, I noticed the same Ford SUV parked in the corner of the lot. The men never got out. I knew I was now being followed, and I was fairly sure it wasn’t Carlos Bandini’s men. If I was right, these guys reported to men who would make Bandini look like a Boy Scout leader.

The college kid asked me if there was anything else he could bring me. I said, “Maybe. What are you studying in college?”

He grinned. “I want to get into film. I took some visual arts and video classes in high school and loved it. Plus, I’ve always like acting, and I think I’d be a good director one day. I even shot a short film on my iPhone this summer. It has the eight millimeter app, shoots great stuff.”

“I bet it does. Here’s a chance for you to practice your acting and earn some money for college, too”

“What do you mean?”

“I have a friend in the black Ford SUV in the lot. He wants a large Coke with lots of ice. I have to make a phone call.” I reached in my wallet and whipped out four twenties. “This is yours if you deliver it to him. Might as well make it two large Cokes because he’s got a friend with him. Your job is to tap on his window and deliver the Cokes. But since you’ll have them on a tray, you’re going to spill one or both in his lap, and you’ll act like it was an accident. Offer to pay for the dry-cleaning, okay? They won’t take your offer because they have their own dry-cleaning service. But here’s an extra twenty if they do.”