“Yes, counter-to-counter.”
He handed Lauren the letter. She carefully placed it in a folder. “Thanks, Eric. I owe you one for coming in today.”
Lauren caught the elevator down to her floor. She entered the office and saw someone walking into the break room. She followed.
Christian Manerou poured himself a cup of coffee as Lauren stepped into the break room. She said, “Oh, Christian, it’s you. Putting in a little weekend duty?”
“Yeah, forgot the Dade Federal.” Manerou looked at the file Lauren carried. “What brings you in on a Saturday?”
“Trying to offer some assistance to Sean O’Brien. You and Mike met him.”
“Yes, according to the Herald, his old employer, MPD, would like to find him.”
“Sean has always operated on the edge, but when he was a detective, his conviction record was unparalleled. He knows he’s up against the clock in this Charlie Williams execution, which will be a deathwatch soon. Sean’s squeezing Russo.”
“It wasn’t easy for the DEA to get a drug conviction pinned on Russo. I imagine O’Brien will have his hands full, especially since it didn’t go so well the first time. And now, Russo has had a lot of time to separate himself from Alexandria Cole.”
“Could work against him. Too much time and he forgets which lies he told.”
“Lauren, I know you put a lot of stock in Sean O’Brien. You’ve worked with him on the Santana murders. Anyway that I can help, let me know. My caseload isn’t so heavy now that I can’t offer some assistance if it’s needed. I’d have to get the ok through Mike. I remember Russo pretty well. He’s a first class son-of-a-bitch. Let me know if I can help.”
“It might be a stretch to get Mike’s permission, he seemed preoccupied. Maybe even a little territorial about the Russo — Alexandria Cole investigations. That’s kind of odd for him, but you can ask him.”
“Mike’s under a lot of pressure. Maybe you’ll get something on that page O’Brien left.”
“Just did, Eric came in on a Saturday for me.”
“What’d he find?”
Lauren’s cell rang. It was O’Brien. She answered it quickly. “We have a little something more. Where do you want me to meet you?”
“Miami Beach Marina, off Alton Road. Thanks, Lauren. Please hurry.”
Fifteen minutes later, Lauren Miles drove slowly through the Miami Beach Marina parking lot. She saw O’Brien approach in a Jeep. He pulled up and lowered the window. “Thanks for coming, what do you have?”
“We managed to read some of Spelling’s letter. The first sentence or two he says he’s sorry for his life, makes amends, and says he was in the condo parking lot that night to score some cocaine. We lost the best imprint as he was identifying where he hid the knife. A Florida city that has the first two letters beginning with an S and a T.”
“St. Petersburg would be the largest.”
“But there are six others, including his old home, Florida State Prison in Starke. I have a list for you.” She handed O’Brien the slip of paper. “Here, too, is your recorder and dubs of the Russo confession. Spelling’s letter is in this package. I’m going to the airport to send it to Quantico. We’ll see if they can get a better read.”
“Lauren, I really appreciate what you’re doing.” He touched her shoulder.
O’Brien’s cell rang. It was Detective Dan Grant. “Dan, do you have anything?”
“One of our deputies found Lyle Johnson’s body. Pretty nasty, Sean. It’s the best intent to make it look like a suicide that I’ve ever seen. There is GSR on Johnson’s hand. The perp nailed Johnson in the right temple. Probably reloaded with a round after he’d killed Johnson. I’m betting he held Johnson’s hand to the pistol grip as he fired a shot into the sky. If it weren’t for the circumstances, Johnson’s connection to Spelling, this would be written off as a suicide, considering Johnson’s martial strife and debt load. How are we going to catch somebody this good in the time Charlie William’s has left?”
“Begin by seeing who Lyle Johnson spoke with before he was killed. See if he placed a call to Jonathan Russo.”
SIXTY
District attorney Stanley Rosen finished a tenth lap in his backyard pool. He climbed out, toweled off, and stood by his terracotta tile wet bar to mix a vodka and tonic. As he squeezed a fresh lime in the drink, he saw something move to his far left.
“Hello, counselor,” O’Brien said, opening the screened pool door and stepping onto the Mexican-tiled patio.
“What are you doing here, O’Brien?” Rosen sipped his drink.
“I have an audio tape of Jonathan Russo admitting to stabbing Alexandria Cole eleven years ago.”
“Did you have to assault Russo to get it?”
“Those media reports aren’t accurate.”
O’Brien pressed the play button on the small tape recorder. His voice came through the speaker: “ I won’t cheat the state out of its right to lock you away, Russo, so I’ll dial 911, but before I do…tell me, did you kill Alexandria Cole? The truth!”
“All right!” screamed Russo. “All right! I killed the bitch! That what you wanted to hear?”
Rosen said, “What did you mean, ‘right to lock you away?’”
“I wanted Russo to admit his guilt in the Alexandria Cole killing.”
Rosen sipped the drink. “First we have to indict Russo. If he’s found guilty-”
“You can use his admission to request a stay. Buy me some time, Rosen.”
“Why? Doesn’t mean I’d get one. Besides, like I told you in my office, a place where we ought to be having this discussion, I’m not going in front of a jury to reopen the Cole case unless I have solid proof-real evidence-that I feel will result in a conviction. This screaming match between you and Russo won’t stand up.”
“Maybe not, but a stay will give me time to find what you need.”
“Find what?”
“The murder weapon for starters. FBI’s running tests on a piece of paper that was directly beneath the page that Sam Spelling used to write the confession. We couldn’t find Spelling’s letter on Father Callahan’s body, but we believe we can find the knife in a matter of days.”
“Even if you find it, O’Brien, you don’t know if there’s anything on it. Could have been wiped clean.”
“Maybe, but we don’t know until we run tests.”
“You won’t know that until you find it. Until then, I’d appreciate it if you leave my property. And the next time, make an appointment.” Rosen turned and walked over to a chaise lounge and sat down.
O’Brien said, “Alexandria Cole was murdered. In the last two days, three people who knew the ID of the killer are dead. The last one was a prison guard who overheard Spelling’s confession to Father Callahan. They just found his body. Shot in the head. Close range. I think Russo’s hired a pro. And now Charlie Williams has thirty-five hours to live. They’ll remove him from his cell and take him to a death watch cage less
than fifty feet from the death chamber. You have a chance to postpone it for a few days. If I can’t find evidence, at least you tried to save an innocent man’s life.”
“Twelve people agreed Williams killed his girlfriend in a fit of jealous rage. You helped convict him, remember? And nothing you’ve said to me or have shown me changes that. If you aren’t gone in ten seconds, I’ll have you locked up.”
“I can admit my mistake. You won’t even consider the fact you’re making one. But consider this, counselor, you’ll be just as guilty as Russo if Williams dies. If I find the proof after Williams is dead, you can tell the media why you did nothing to stop it.”
O’Brien walked to his car parked on the side of the palm-tree-lined street.
