“Why?”
“Because it reminds me of the likeness Father Callahan scrawled on the floor of the sanctuary. Maybe, when he was dying, he saw the moon through one of those big skylights. I don’t know. Could have reminded him of something-something that would get us closer to figuring out his message if we could match that painting or the artist who painted it. Maybe it’s connected to the name Pat. There’s a chance the artist has a direct clue in the painting that will reveal the killer or his location.”
Collins was silent for a moment. O’Brien could hear him stirring ice in his drink. Finally he said, “Sean, I’ve always liked the way your mind works…but you’re down there in South Beach howling at the moon…everything you just told me is the reason they call lunatics crazy, if one is to believe in the lunar influence. However, if the man in the moon, our celestial companion, second to our sun in brilliance, can affect a woman’s menstrual cycle, what little hope do we mortal men have?”
“You’ll have a clearer picture in the morning, goodnight, Dave.” As O’Brien hung up, he thought about Max. “Next time, I get Max a real dog sitter,” he mumbled as he got in the Jeep and drove off the sidewalk back to the road.
O’Brien pulled onto Washington Avenue and headed north. He passed by Club Oz, and saw a line already forming at the door. He knew that later in the night the line would be much longer. Valet runners were hopping as they parked Mercedes, Jags and BMWs. All the beautiful people were converging under a techno cathedral built on a foundation of narcissism. The house the Jonathan Russo built, a man as synthetic as the music. Follow the yellow brick road to Oz and get lost in the poppy fields.
O’Brien knew that inside Oz it would be so loud that none of the glitzy patrons would even notice the pop of a pistol. And if they did, it would blend into the pop of Dom Perigon and Krug, Flowing like fountains in VIP corners.
But O’Brien didn’t come here to kill Russo. He came here to convince him to talk, and often a silent pistol barrel pressed to a forehead speaks volumes. Before he entered Oz, he would pay a visit to Sergio Conti. As O’Brien drove north on Washington, he passed the legendary restaurant, Joe’s Stone Crab, and an upscale strip club called Club Paradise. And now he had a new plan.
FORTY-THREE
The posh, Waverly high-rise condos overlooked Biscayne Bay and twinkling lights from million-dollar yachts tied to births that rented for the price of a monthly mortgage on a luxury home.
O’Brien parked in the Palm Bay Marina next to the Waverly, pulled a Panama hat over his head and walked toward the condo. He maneuvered through the thick canary palms and terraces of bougainvillea, carrying a small toolbox as he walked the length of the building toward the beach. O’Brien glanced up at the power lines feeding the remote left quadrant of the building. He could see where the cable television connection came in and hit a junction box to feed the cable system to each unit. As he walked, he casually removed a folding knife from the toolbox and sliced through the main feed in less time that it would take a good gardener to cut a rose. O’Brien continued moving toward the pool at the rear end of the building closer to the ocean.
Now, he thought, wait. Probably five to ten minutes before the night manger was inundated with calls. O’Brien pulled up a chaise lounge chair near the spa, sat down, looked at his watch, and pulled the brim of his hat down. Ten minutes and he would go through the front door. Ten minutes-a year in Charlie Williams’s remaining life.
O’Brien got up and stepped over to a privacy wall that separated the pool area from people on the beach. He looked though the wrought iron bars on the door that led a few steps down to the sand. The moon was now high over the ocean, its light spilling a soft hue across the white sand. Through the bars he saw two lovers, hand-in-hand, walking by the surf. O’Brien imagined what Charlie Williams saw through his steel bars.
He looked up at the high-rise balconies with the million-dollar views and remembered where he had questioned Sergio Conti. The top left penthouse. The light was on, and O’Brien was coming up.
“Security,” said a voice with a Hispanic accent.
“Miami Cable. Got a call that your system is out.”
“Yeah, even right here in the office. I was watching Brazil beating Mexico and it went to snow. How come you’re not dressed in a cable shirt and stuff?”
“The regular guy on this shift had to go to the hospital with his wife. It’s their first baby. Office called me because I don’t live too far.”
“Cool, man. Just get us a picture quick. Phone’s going nuts.”
“You bet. I’ll look at the connections. Checked the outside already. Couldn’t trace the problem. Could be something on the inside, salt air can corrode the connectors. I can check near the roof where the lines are distributed.” O’Brien glanced at the directory under glass and he read: Conti, S — 1795. He said, “Box feeds from the roof down. You got any vacancies on the seventeenth floor? I’ll check one of those TV’s and then see if it’s coming from outside.”
“Sure, guy. The people in seventeen-two are in Europe. I’ll get you the key.”
O’Brien rode the glass elevator up to the penthouse floor, the elevator opened to a large atrium that looked all the way down to the imported Italian marble floors and fountains in the entrance. He walked down the posh hall decorated with pods of soft lighting revealing imported artwork and small Romanesque statues. He stopped at the door that read 1795, opened the toolbox and removed his Glock. O’Brien pressed the red record button on the tiny tape recorder in his shirt pocket and tapped on the door.
“Who is it?” The man’s voice was gruff.
“Maintenance, sir. Lightning hit the system and fried a lot of cable receptors.”
FORTY-FOUR
The man unlocked the door and opened it. “Yeah, my fuckin’ set went off right in the middle of them opening an Egyptian tomb on the Discovery Channel.” Sergio Conti stood there. Bald, shirtless, three days growth of white beard on his fat jowls, gut hanging over boxer shorts.
O’Brien pressed the gun barrel into Conti’s wide nose and entered the room. He closed the door. “If you don’t tell me want I want, they’ll be closing your tomb.”
Conti raised both hands and backed up. O’Brien said, “Let me get something straight real fast. Don’t think about lying to me or they’ll find your body seventeen floors below on the sand with crabs chewing your ears. As I remember, you like stone crabs anyway.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I might be the last human you’ll see in this world.”
“I remember you…the fuckin’ detective. I ain’t sayin’ shit ‘till I call my lawyer.”
“Oh, you will say ‘shit’ and a lot more. I’m not a detective. This mission is for someone else. He couldn’t be here personally because he’s locked up.”
“Who sent you? Whatever you’re getting, I’ll double it.”
“It’s a long way down. And they won’t find a bullet because you got so drunk, so damn depressed that you jumped. The good thing is it’ll open up another condo for sale. I hear there’s a still a demand for high-priced cages like this.”
“You’re fuckin’ crazy.”
O’Brien said nothing.
“What do you want?” Blood trickled out of Conti’s left nostril and ran into the corner of his mouth.
“In questioning, you told me that Jonathan Russo had dinner with you, on your balcony, the night Alexandria Cole’s murder.”
“That’s been a long damn time ago, so what?”
“Did he?”
“If I said it, sure.” Conti shrugged his shoulders.
“Russo’s never had dinner on your balcony.”
“What difference does it make, huh? You got the boyfriend. He killed her.”