“What do you think happened to it?” Lauren asked.
“I believe the perp stole it from the priest, or a D.O. C guard did-who may also be dead. He’s reported missing.” O’Brien held up the file folder. “The sheet of paper under the second page is here. Sam Spelling bore down fairly hard when he wrote the confession on the top sheet. I’m hoping your lab can read whatever might be on here. It could reveal the killer’s name.” O’Brien handed the folder to Lauren.
“How much time do you have?” Manerou asked.
“Before the execution?”
“Yes.”
O’Brien looked at his watch. “A little less than fifty-nine hours.”
THIRTY-NINE
Lauren folded her arms across her breasts. She looked at a calendar hanging above her computer. She said, “It happens Tuesday.”
“What can we do to help?” Manerou asked.
“Can you remember anything about Russo, anything at all, that might provide a lead? Something that might indicate he was involved in her death?”
“Except the fact that he was rich, arrogant, narcissistic…all personality traits. I wish I could add something he might have said.” Manerou paused and lowered his voice. “There may be something…we’d tapped his phones. He’d left a message with a guy…believe his name was like Conti-”
“Sergio Conti?” asked O’Brien.
“That’s the name. And Russo’s alibi was so rehearsed I remember a little of it.”
The bureau chief, Mike Chambers walked by and Manerou waved him over. He said, “Mike, remember the time we co-opted with Todd Jefferies at DEA on the Jonathan Russo case, the South Beach club owner busted for trafficking coke?”
“What about him?”
“Remember how well he’d rehearsed that alibi, the one I heard on the phone tap?”
“Wasn’t it something about stone crabs?”
“That’s the one. Russo had coached his pal to say they’d eaten a few pounds of stone crabs because they were in season. Ate them from his penthouse balcony and tossed the shells down to the beach below them. Called it ‘raining crabs.’ It was so bizarre that when I see stone crabs on a restaurant menu today, I remember it.”
O’Brien said, “That would have been very helpful, had we known about it.”
“DEA knew,” Chambers said, folding his arms. “What’s the issue?”
“An innocent man is on the verge of getting a lethal injection at Starke for allegedly killing his girlfriend, Alexandria Cole, eleven years ago. And that now I’m finding out that your agency was running a cocaine investigation on Jonathan Russo, Alexandria’s manager at the time.”
Lauren started to say something when Chambers said, “What are you suggesting, Mr. O’Brien?”
“Why weren’t we informed the feds were in the same ball field?”
Chambers said, “Maybe your department was, but it didn’t trickle down to you.”
O’Brien said nothing, his eyes locked on Chambers.
Manerou shrugged. “Unfortunately when two agencies, or three including the DEA, are investigating the same suspect for two separate things, and neither is aware of the other’s investigation, sometimes a few items can fall between the cracks. We’d assumed Russo was referring to the off-loading of about ten tons of cocaine we were tracking as a container ship was bringing the drugs into the Port of Miami. As we were about to drop the hammer on a big bust, it looks in retrospect, like his alibi may have been a fabrication, so he could have killed the girl the same night.”
Chambers said, “I’d say it puts him deep in your suspect pool.”
O’Brien said, “Right now he’s the only one swimming in that pool.”
Chambers almost smiled, his jaw bone rigid. He tilted forward on his dark wingtip shoes. “Sometimes the best of communications doesn’t work. Sorry we couldn’t have added something about Russo in the original investigation. Good meeting you, O’Brien. I have an online video-conference with the director. Excuse me.” He turned and left.
“Looks like General Mike’s in a rather reflective mood,” Lauren said.
“He has good recall,” Manerou said, before turning to O’Brien and asking. “How’d you know Conti’s name?”
“That was the name-the alibi-Russo had given us.”
“Did you question Conti?”
“I did, and he corroborated Russo’s story.”
“Too bad we didn’t know the wire tap information was related to an alibi for murder. Between the DEA, FBI, FDLE and Miami-Dade PD, I guess we were like silent ships running and passing each other in the dark. It’s very unfortunate.”
“Do you have a tape of that wiretap somewhere?” O’Brien asked.
“Not after the sentencing. We had hours on analog tape. Between this case and hundreds more, it was taking up a lot of space. Now everything is stored digitally.”
“What’s the name of Russo’s South Beach club?”
“It’s called Oz, why?”
“Because, based on what you and Mike just told me, now it’s time I followed the road to the Land of Oz. Let’s see what’s behind the curtain.”
FORTY
O’Brien was leaving the federal building parking garage when his cell phone rang. It was Detective Dan Grant. “A state trooper says he pulled over a truck matching Lyle Johnson’s last night. Says Johnson ran a stop sign at the crossing of Highway 15 and 44. Trooper gave Johnson a warning, and he said Johnson seemed nervous, much more so than anxiety from getting a ticket.”
“Did you question Johnson’s wife again?”
“Sean, that lady’s a sad case.”
“How’s that?”
“Battered.”
“Domestic?”
“I’d say the guy who guards inmates beats his wife…and does or did it regularly.”
“What’d she say?”
“It’s more what she didn’t say. Her nails are chewed to the flesh. She was nervous. Said her husband last spoke to her around ten in the evening Friday. Told her he was meeting some guy, didn’t say who. He said a deal was dropped in his lap and had to come down that night. He told her if he wasn’t home by one in the morning to go on and take their kid to her mother’s house on Saturday and to leave early.”
“Did she have any idea where Johnson was going to meet this guy?”
“No.”
“If he’s smart, it would have been a bar. Someplace public.”
O’Brien looked at looked at his watch. He called information and asked to be connected to Oz.
“Club Oz,” said the sultry woman’s voice.
“Jonathan Russo.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Sergio Conti.”
