“What’s that?” she asked.
“Maybe the ID of the perp who just killed a priest and an informant.”
“Talk to me Sean, I see nothing on the paper.”
“This was the sheet directly beneath a written confession an informant was writing out to give to a friend of mine-a priest who’d heard the informant’s confession in an emergency room. I want your lab to see of it can raise the imprint of the handwritten confession. It’s related to the death of supermodel Alexandria Cole.”
Lauren said, “I remember a little about the case. We had agents working it.”
“There wasn’t joint task force working this murder.”
“We didn’t work the murder. We were working a drug connection with DEA before the murder.”
“What connection?”
“Let’s talk in my office.”
“I don’t have time to hike around this building. Who was your connection?”
“His name was Jonathan Russo.”
“Jonathan Russo was Alexandria Cole’s manager. I knew the DEA was watching him, but I didn’t know the FBI was involved.”
“Let’s talk.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Lauren Miles led O’Brien through the maze of halls, passing glass offices and conference rooms. He couldn’t help but compare the difference between his old office in homicide to what federal money bought in furnishings and equipment.
When they got to the offices in her division she said, “Let’s go through here. We can talk at my desk, or I’ll stake out a vacant conference room.”
They walked around a dozen large cubicles, agents working the phones in hushed tones, faces glued to computer screens. She said, “Many of the agents in this immediate area work counter intelligence, fraud, and organized crime.”
A tall man with gray hair and dressed in a dark pinstripe suite approached Lauren. He said, “I need the information on the Dade Federal hit. A second one was in Vero. The MO is similar. Stick ‘em up and then shoot ‘em up.”
“Mike, this is Sean O’Brien. Sean worked Miami PD homicide for a number of years. Sean, this is Mike Chambers. Mike’s our bureau chief.”
“Are you no longer with Miami-Dade?” asked Chambers.
“Retired,” said O’Brien.
Chambers started to ask a question, but said, “Pleasure.” He turned to Lauren and said, “I’ll need that report on my desk first thing in the morning.”
“First thing,” she said, nodding. Chambers walked away, his wingtips loud across the tile floor.
Lauren’s cubical was austere. Everything in place. No pictures of friends or family. O’Brien said, “I guess it’s hard to find your feng shui in a cubicle.”
“Yeah, but I can find everything else. Okay, Sean, I’m all ears.”
He told her the details of the events during the last two days and the history of his investigation into Alexandria’s murder. When O’Brien finished, Lauren sat very still, looked at a spot on her desk, composed her thoughts and said, “I got the picture you e-mailed. The message left behind by the priest is chilling. Six-six-six…the Greek letter Omega, something that looked like a kid trying to draw the man-in-the-moon and the letters P-A-T…we can give it a go. Run it from every angle through some super computers in Quantico. Can’t promise you anything… code breaking isn’t easy.”
“Father Callahan didn’t leave a code, he left a lead.”
“But it might as well be in code because it doesn’t make sense.”
“Makes about as much sense to me right now as hearing the FBI was investigating one of my original suspects at the time Alexandria Cole was murdered. Any reason that information wasn’t passed on to Miami PD?”
“Let me see what I can pull up.” Lauren began punching in passwords on her computer. Her brow furrowed. She pushed a strand of dark hair behind her right ear and said, “Got to go deep in the archives for this. Not a ton of stuff here, but from what I see, the only reason we became involved is because DEA asked for assistance. Todd Jefferies was the Miami DEA chief at the time. They were investigating cocaine trafficking into Miami via a South Beach club allegedly connected to Miami and New York crime families. They believed Russo was responsible for bringing in a lot of product from Colombia. His day job was managing a few B-list celebs, promoting boy bands and Alexandria Cole’s career, and producing bad movies that went straight to DVD. Apparently, we only caught Russo with a fraction of the goods. He did seventeen months in a country club facility. And that’s all I have. Mike Chambers worked on that with Christian Manerou. I haven’t seen Christian all day. His office is farther down the hall. I’ll call him.”
“Maybe I can speak with the guy I just met, Chambers.”
Lauren shook her head as she punched the speakerphone. She said, “Mike’s in one of his ‘General Mike,’ military moods, I call them. You don’t really speak as much as listen.”
“Ok, I’d like to listen after I ask him a question.”
A voice came through the phone speaker. “Manerou.”
“Christian, an old friend of mine from Miami PD is in my office. He’s investigating a case that you and Mike had a circuitous path to us as well. Maybe you can help. Got a minute? Thanks.” She hung up and turned to O’Brien. “Christian has an excellent memory. Very detail oriented.”
O’Brien stood when Christian Manerou approached. He was in good shape for a man in his mid fifties. Dark complexion and eyes. Smooth skin. Full head of salt and pepper colored hair. His sleeves turned up on the inside of his shirt. Lauren made the introductions. O’Brien said, “I appreciate your time.”
“No problem. Lauren said you’re from Miami-Dade. What division?”
“Used to be homicide. Now I’m on my own.”
“Private?”
“By default. A friend of mind was just murdered. I believe it’s tied to a homicide investigation I conducted a little more then ten years ago. At that time, I was looking into the death of Alexandria Cole. She was a supermodel found stabbed to death.”
“I remember the case,” said Manerou.
Lauren said, “I was telling Sean that we were working with DEA, per Todd Jefferies request, at the same time the victim was killed. And we happened to be investigating Jonathan Russo, Alexandria Cole’s manager.”
Manerou nodded. “Absolutely, he’s the kind of person you don’t easily forget. Russo’s day job might have been working as a manager for supermodels, but he made his real money from distribution of cocaine, racketeering, money laundering. We sent in a mule wearing a wire when we nailed Russo. But he didn’t admit enough for us to bury him. He lawyered up with the defense attorneys who fly their own Lear Jets. By the time it came to trial, they’d cut a deal. Russo did seventeen months.”
“Where’s he now?” O’Brien asked.
“Back here in Miami. South Beach. Managed to keep the club. He reopened it under a new name and a million dollars worth of rehab and high-tech gear. We figured he’d stashed enough drug profits in offshore depositories. I’d bet the club is still nothing but a front for money laundering, probably dealing to high rollers, too. I heard he was managing a few local rock bands.”
O’Brien said, “The man arrested and charged with Cole’s murder didn’t do it.”
“What do you mean?” Manerou asked.
“All the forensics pointed to Alexandria’s former boyfriend-a farm kid from North Carolina. And now on the eve of his execution, an inmate who saw the murder or at least saw the killer dump the weapon, confessed to a priest.” O’Brien explained the events and said, “The priest, a close friend of mine, was murdered shortly thereafter. He got a written confession from the inmate. But we can’t find it.”
