The moon was high and dusty white, mottled by its features, but still its reflected light put a pale sheen on the acres of Everglades sawgrass that lay out before me.
I was on the berm that formed the northern back of the L-10 canal. I'd come back to my shack and spent my time reading in silence and pretending to fish and paddling my river. I was still grinding the rocks of O'Shea's innocence, Richards's vendetta against him and the possibility of a stalker still working the bars. I was pissed that O'Shea refused to talk about the Faith Hamlin case, even while I was sticking my neck and Billy's out for him. What the hell was he hiding? He didn't owe those other three cops. Was I way off base on the bartender drug theory? Was there really someone stalking the girls, or were they just working the trade and then moving on while a drug pimp recruited his next one? Richards said she'd done backgrounds on all the girls without a sign of drug use or involvement. But if that was all it was, she was going to be kicking herself around worse than her superiors. I was turning the ideas in my head, trying to rub them smooth with logic and the sandpaper of "What if?" But I knew I was waiting for someone else to act, make a mistake, uncover a body, wound instead of kill. The anxious feeling that crawled just under the muscles in my back and shoulders had sent me out in my canoe paddling hard up the river in the middle of the night.
I'd pushed myself all the way to the culvert that the water management district had opened to divert canal water into the river. The natural slough of hundreds of wet acres that spread north and west had been the river's water source for thousands of years before men had started re-plumbing the Glades to fit their needs. Thirsty cities along the coast, a desire-no, a need-to lower the naturally high water table to create dry farmland for the sugarcane and winter vegetables and dry plots for yet more suburban housing. It was homo erectus in control of something as natural as the flow of rainwater.
At the berm I pulled the canoe up into a clump of marsh fern and climbed eight feet to the top. My night vision had returned to me after too long a dose of electric light in the city. In the moonlight I could even pick up the tiny white nodes of snail pods clinging to the razor-sharp strands of sawgrass like short strings of pearls. To the east I could see the false dawn of the city lights, but to the west only the shimmer of moving grass when the wind picked up and blew a pattern over the Glades. That's the direction I was facing when the chattering of my cell phone sounded in such a foreign way out here that it nearly made me duck. My reaction puzzled me and I let the phone ring again and then realized how on edge I had been waiting for someone else to pull the trigger on this case. On the third ring I punched the talk button.
"Yeah."
"Max."
"Billy. You're keeping late hours."
"Your Mr. O'Shea has just awakened me. He has been arrested at his apartment in Fort Lauderdale," Billy said. "As you predicted, Detective Richards has put together a probable cause statement charging him with the aggravated assault of Robert Hix.
"Mr. O'Shea informs that the primary evidence is a DNA match of a blood sample found on the boots that were obtained during the search of his residence."
Billy sounded professional, but not pleased.
"No surprise there," I said.
"He will be in magistrate's court at nine in the morning."
"You're still willing to do this?"
"I made you a promise, Max."
"I'll see you there, Billy," I said.
"Two other matters, Max."
"Yeah?"
"I am presently at the hospital in West Palm."
"What?"
"Rodrigo was beaten early this evening near the Cuban grill where he said you two have met on occasion."
"Jesus, Billy. Is he OK?"
"Cuts and abrasions. But nothing too serious," Billy said. He was using the clean, efficient diction he always fell into when pressed. Don't waste time on emotion or early supposition.
"It appears that the Hix brother you warned him about made a visit. Rodrigo tried to avoid him, but was cornered. The others backed away when Rodrigo was singled out."
"What was the message this time?" I said, trying to swallow back an anger that was souring the back of my throat. I could see David Hix's flat face in front of me. The sneer and the cocky way he'd wielded the bat.
"All he could make out was 'Go home' and an indication that he tell the others the same," Billy said. "He seemed to be blaming Rodrigo for costing him money."
"If Hix is working for cruise worker contractors and his handlers don't see progress, he doesn't get paid," I said.
Billy was silent on the other end of the phone for a moment.
"He may be in for a payday then, Max. Rodrigo is telling me no one will speak to us now. He's contacted his wife. He wants to leave and return to the Philippines."
This brother act was getting old, I thought.
"You said you had two other matters, Billy."
"When O'Shea called he also downloaded a photo of some man that appears to be sitting in a bar somewhere. He said you had asked him to take it."
"Yeah," I said. "Any felon that you recognize? Maybe of the drug distribution species?"
"No. I'll bring a copy with me in the morning," he said, and I could hear the question in his voice.
"It's just a hunch, Billy," I said. "I'll see you outside the courthouse at eight thirty."
I put the cell phone in my pocket and stood staring out over the Glades, the wind still moving the sawgrass, rippling through it like giant snakes below were bending the stalks in long curved patterns. I worked my way back down the berm, digging my heels into the soft dirt to fight against the angle. I was knee deep in the water when I got the canoe floated and then climbed over the gunwale and pushed out onto the river. I would have time to stop at the shack for a change of clothes and then get to the landing to clean up. I might get a nap in my truck if I got to the county jail in Fort Lauderdale early enough. It would be a long night but not as long as O'Shea's. He'd be in with a bunch of drunks and punks and scofflaws and perhaps even a few innocents who got swept up by a justice system that would take its time separating the merely tarnished from true bad boys.
The troubling stones I'd been grinding had, in the span of a phone call, taken on sharp new edges. I stroked the canoe downriver feeling their jagged rub, and the moon followed with me. At eight in the morning I was outside of the jail, sitting on a concrete bench, watching men moving on a construction site across the New River in the morning sun. They were working the kind of miracle that people like me unfamiliar with the building trades always find unfathomable.
Their project was already some thirty stories high. You could watch the damn thing go up day by day as an observer, from poured foundation to concrete columns to prefabricated steel floor stacks and still find yourself stunned at the end of a month to see what men could raise. As I sat sipping a large Styrofoam cup of coffee I'd watched the distant small figure of a tower crane operator climb hand-over-hand like an insect up a ladder enclosed in a tall column of crisscrossed steel. When he got to the glass box at the top, he disappeared inside. I was too far away to hear him start the electric motors that powered the crane, but I saw it begin to move, swinging its balanced, perpendicular arm to the west and silently dropping its hook three hundred feet to pluck yet another load of materials needed at the top. A project manager in Philly had once told me that a good tower crane operator controlled nearly everything that went on at such a site. He had a bird's-eye view of all that was below him and as the building went up he was the one bringing the world up to join him. At thirty bucks an hour he was the master each and every day. Not a bad feeling, I thought, for a working man to hold.
At eight thirty I saw Billy walking up the wide stairway of the jail. He was dressed in a dark business suit. Conservative, not showy. Professional, not overly so.
"M-Max. You l-look tired," he said, shaking my hand.
"Sleep deprivation therapy," I said. "Does wonders for the soul."
"Yes. Those b-bags under your eyes certainly do m-make you look wiser, and older."
"Thanks."
He opened his leather briefcase and took out a photograph and handed it to me. Even though the lighting was dim and the shot too close, the detail was sufficient. The man was handsome. A strong cleft chin. Cheekbones high but perhaps that was from the shadows. The bridge of his nose was as straight as a rule. Never been broken, I thought. He wasn't a close-in fighter. The eyes were dark and even though they were focused off in another direction, one had the feeling that they were very aware of the photographer if not the actual lens of the phone camera. In the background I could make out the front of the jukebox at Kim's and the reflection of mirrors.
"F-From our client," Billy said. "You can explain later w-why you are farming out surveillance. R-Right now, we are due in c- court."
Inside, the lobby of the county jail was done in all government design. The floor was that easy-to-clean polished stone. The walls an institutional bone white. Floor-to-ceiling windows, double pane, made up the wall to the east and, since the entrance was actually two floors above ground level, there was a view of the river and the condo building going up on the other side. The preconstruction prices across the way were starting at $375,000 to $1.2 million for the top floors. The future residents would have a wonderful unobstructed view of the seven-story jailhouse. Real estate in Florida, I thought. Some gang of government officials had approved the building of a house for criminals on waterfront property. Location, location, location.
On the other side of the lobby were three lines queuing up to Plexiglas-covered windows as if they were selling tickets. There were women in work clothes, two toting small children. A man wearing navy, grease-stained pants and a light blue shirt with his name over the pocket was arguing with a young woman whose tear-stained face held a look of worry, heartbreak and befuddlement all at once. Both of them were comparing the content of their wallets, searching, I figured, for some way to make bail for a family member inside.
Down a wide corridor a security checkpoint was set up and beyond it a single wood-veneered door. It was topped with the sign MAGISTRATES COURT. We passed through the metal detectors with all the requisite emptying of pockets, removal of pagers and cell phones. Billy went through with smiles and nods. I had to stop for a wand check of belt buckle, sunglasses and the metal buttons on my canvas shirt.
"Clothes m-make the man, Max," Billy said.
"And the terrorist?" I answered.
He grinned but then went all business when we entered the courtroom.
There was nothing ornate about the place. The judge was already sitting up behind the large raised desk, his reading glasses down on his nose, his hands shuffling paper to a woman clerk standing beside him. There were less than a dozen people in the gallery, which was made up of rows of plastic chairs instead of the usual wooden pews. There was a freestanding half-wall that separated those chairs from another row. Two tables, left and right, that acted as a buffer between those empty seats and the judge.
I sat behind the wall while Billy went around to the table on the left and introduced himself to a harried, middle-aged man in a suit who seemed mildly surprised as he shook Billy's hand. He then sorted quickly through a sheaf of papers and handed Billy two pages. He almost looked relieved. Billy sat at the defense table to read and I watched the judge take a moment to look up over his glasses to access the new presence in his court. At the table on the right, an equally busy and equally suited younger man was going through his own stack of files. He would be some low-on-the- seniority-scale attorney for the prosecutor's office. He too stole a look at Billy.
At exactly nine, a barrel-chested officer who had been standing near the bench, apparently flirting with the judge's clerk, became serious and opened an adjoining door. Twenty men filed in, handcuffed in twos, a left wrist to a right wrist.
They were instructed to sit in the row of chairs in front of the short wall. They came in with the sound of shuffling feet and the soft clinking of loose stainless steel. Some were still wearing the street clothes they had on when they were arrested. Others were dressed in orange jumpsuits. They all had tired eyes and unshaven faces. A few looked tentatively around the room, into the gallery to find a family member or a friend. There were twenty of them and eight of us.
O'Shea was the twelfth man in, attached to a huge black man in a jumpsuit. His face was a stoic mask. He would not have said a word all night. He would have stared at a spot on the wall with the smell of gang sweat and alcohol puke and the single open toilet for ten men in the holding cell without comment or expression. His reaction to any attempt at conversation or query would have been that same hard stare that held his face now. I could not measure the anger or frustration behind his eyes as he came in and looked around the room, finally finding me and raising his stubbled chin in acknowledgment.
There was no formal call to order. When the men were seated the judge simply nodded his head and the clerk began to call out names. Each man would stand with his handcuffed partner, who was forced to rise with him. After the first few calls the named arrestee learned to raise his unshackled hand when the judge repeated, "Which of you is Mr. Whomever."
The charges against the man were then read. He was asked if he was represented by counsel or wanted the judge to appoint the public defender to act on his behalf. Again, it took only a few examples before the next man repeated: "Public defender, sir."
The P.D. would then walk over to his newest client with paperwork and have a quick and far from private discussion, and then return to his table.
"Status, Mr. Marsh?" the judge would repeat.
Marsh would then request bail, in the standard amount that he no doubt had memorized: $10,000 for a DUI or battery charge to $1,000 for loitering. The judge would ask the prosecutor for an opinion, which was a standard: "The state has no objection, your honor," and the rhythm moved on.
They were halfway through the alphabet when I picked up on movement near the entrance to the room and turned to see Detective Richards enter. She too was in a dark suit. Her hair was pulled back. She was with a man who had the look of a supervisor. I looked away for a few moments and by the time I did a double take, she had spotted me, and probably Billy, too. Her eyes met mine and they were as cold as O'Shea's and I wondered why the hell I'd even gotten myself involved in this duel. Richards and her companion sat somewhere behind me and I did not turn around again. Billy continued his reading, though he could have memorized the few pages by now. If it was his protection against nervousness, it was a good one.
The clerk called out "Oglethorpe, Richard," and the black man next to O'Shea stood, bringing his partner the ex-cop up with him.
"Mr. Oglethorpe?" the judge said.
"Yes, sir." The man raised his free hand. He was as tall as O'Shea but outweighed him by a good sixty pounds and I could tell by the way the orange fabric stretched across his back that most of it was muscle. His skin was the dark brown color of a water tupelo trunk and from the back it appeared that the man was not in possession of a neck.
"Mr. Oglethorpe," said the judge, shuffling the papers and rereading for the first time this morning. "Mr. Oglethorpe you have been arrested on charges of two counts of murder in the first degree, two counts of aggravated sexual assault of a minor child under the age of twelve, battery of a law enforcement officer and attempted escape."
Although they had endured the earlier exchanges without reaction, the rest of the arrested men all leaned forward or back to catch a look at Oglethorpe like rubberneckers at a car wreck along the road. O'Shea maintained his stoic composure, though I could see the muscle rippling in his jaw at the effort.
The judge had removed his reading glasses and looked out, no doubt, at the two men.
"Do you understand these charges against you, Mr. Oglethorpe?"
"Yes, sir," the big man said. "Public defender please, sir."
The judge looked over at the left table.
"Have at it, Mr. Marsh."
The lawyer spoke briefly with Oglethorpe while O'Shea stood alongside, looking back to me. He picked up on someone behind me and for the first time he let a look of hatred slip momentarily into his eyes. I did not turn. I knew the target of that look.
The public defender returned to his table and made a monotone and professionally required request of bail for Oglethorpe. The prosecutor stood, shrugged his shoulders and the judge ordered the suspect remanded to jail without bond until a future court date without discussion.
O'Shea and his cuffmate sat for sixty seconds until the clerk called: "O'Shea, Colin."
"The charge, Mr. O'Shea, is aggravated assault," the judge said, looking down at the paperwork.
I watched Billy as he stood and buttoned his suit coat. Professional. Back straight. Chin up. Only I would notice the twitch in his Adam's apple, the flaw that I knew he was fighting, the voice that both he and I knew would fail him.
"William Manchester r-representing M-Mr. O'Shea," Billy said.
The judge again looked up over his glasses at Billy, taking him in.
"Yes, well. Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Manchester. Welcome to magistrate's court," the judge said. "No need to be nervous, son.
Billy did not move his eyes from the judge's face. The twitch in his neck went quiet.
"With all due r-respect, Your Honor," he said, "I am not nervous."
They both paused; something was being said between their eyes. Then Billy continued.
"Your Honor, we are requesting that M-Mr. O'Shea be released on his own recognizance at th-this time.
"Mr. O'Shea is employed, Your Honor, as a s-security officer for the Navarro Group, sir. A steady job he has held for nearly three years. He is n-not a flight risk."
Billy was fighting the stutter, commendably, I thought. But my ear was as a friend.
"Mr. Cornheiser?" the judge said, looking to the prosecutor.
"Your Honor, uh, the suspect's victim, Mr. Robert Hix, sir, was brutally beaten. He is still hospitalized with several broken ribs and as yet undetermined internal injuries. He has identified Mr. O'Shea in a photo array as his attacker. The victim's blood, Your Honor, was found on the suspect's boots, which were confiscated at the defendant's apartment during the execution of a search warrant signed by Judge Lewis, sir."
Both lawyers were playing the game, dropping names in an attempt to influence. Navarro was a respected former sheriff who ran a large security firm. Judge Lewis was probably a golfing partner of the sitting judge.
"The state asks that the suspect be held in remand, Your Honor," the prosecutor said, stealing a glance toward the back of the room.
"Evidence of a capital crime involving Mr. O'Shea is continuing to be collected by detectives, Your Honor, and the state is convinced that he may be an extreme danger to the public."
Billy jumped on the prosecutor's move.
"Your honor, I see n-no reference to another, m-more serious charge in this arrest document. Mr. O'Shea in fact has n-never been arrested. In Florida nor in any other j-jurisdiction," he said. "In addition, the st-state knows that the mere possibility of an additional charge has n-no bearing on this proceeding and has no legal justification in even being raised."
The judge nodded, as if saying "I knew that," and looked over to the prosecutor, who was stalling by shuffling through paper.
"Furthermore, sir," Billy continued, "I have in court this m- morning a witness to the assault charge now in question, a licensed private investigator, Your Honor, whose presence at the time of the alleged c-crime is documented by police reports and who has signed an affidavit stating that both he and Mr. O'Shea were the ones attacked by the alleged victim and his brother and thus forced to defend themselves."
The prosecutor followed the direction of Billy's pointed hand and when he looked at me I could see the flicker of an unexpected twitch in his eyes. This was obviously supposed to have been a slam- dunk lockdown of O'Shea with little objection by the overworked and uninvolved public defender.
"Mr. Cornheiser?" the judge said, maybe even enjoying the elevated banter in his otherwise dull morning.
"I, uh, again, Your Honor," the prosecutor stumbled. "This was, sir, a brutal attack and the hospitalized victim, sir…"
"You're repeating yourself, Mr. Cornheiser. Bail in the amount of ten thousand cash or bond," the judge said, interrupting. He had been around long enough to know that when an attorney only had one leg to stand on, his only resort was to hop up and down on it.
"Thank you, Your Honor," Billy said, gathering his things.
"Thank you, Mr. Manchester," the judge responded. "And I apologize, sir, for my earlier assumption, counselor."
Billy bowed his head gracefully and walked across to where O'Shea was now sitting.
"We sh-shall have you out by noon," he said, and I heard O'Shea thank him. As Billy turned to go the big man cuffed to O'Shea stopped him with his voice.
"You got a card, Mr. Attorney?" he said, holding out a hand the size of a dinner plate.
Billy looked down into the man's face.
"I don't do this kind of work," he said dismissively and walked on. Richards was waiting outside. She'd left after the judge announced bail. Her companion was gone. Her arms were crossed, lips pressed together. She was looking at the floor as we walked up and Billy excused himself before we reached her.
"I'm going to p-post O'Shea's bail," he said, heading for the lines. I went to face Richards alone.
"So, Max," she said when I got within hearing distance. Her eyes were the color of steel.
"I really didn't expect the two of you to double-team me in there. You must have done an exceptional sales job to convince Billy to stand up in front of a judge in person."
She and Billy had been friendly when we were dating. She shared his love of sailing. She respected his genius and had never asked me once about his stutter. She was pissed. Still, I knew that my explanation was weak. How do you tell someone you think they're wrong based on a gut feeling, a half-assed dealer theory and maybe a misplaced loyalty to a fellow cop?
"I hope you two can guarantee that he's not going to put another woman at risk while he's out roaming free," she said.
I looked away from her eyes, then back.
"Look, Sherry. I respect what you're doing," I said. "I just think you're wrong on this one."
"No shit."
I let her anger sit a few silent moments and maybe my own, too.
"Sherry," I tried again. "You've shot and killed two men in the last couple of years, men who were abusing women. You were fully justified in both."
"And saved your ass in one, Freeman," she said, her arms still crossed.
"And saved my ass," I agreed. "You're also a solid investigator and I know you haven't forgotten the rule to keep an open mind and consider all possibilities."
She looked down and I could see she was holding her tongue, taking my words like an unwanted and condescending lecture. I took my chance and pressed on.
"Can you honestly say this mission you're on hasn't gotten in the way of your eye for other suspects?"
I'd meant to appeal to her professionalism and now I was questioning it.
"Freeman, I've been working this for months. I've dealt out the other possibilities. Christ, I even posed as a bartender to run a living, breathing lineup past myself every night. Your friend is the one that sticks out. He fits the profile, and yeah, it's the profile I put together, but he's right there. If he hadn't made me as undercover, I might have gotten him to make a move or give up a piece of evidence. That didn't happen, but I saw him in action."
"OK," I said. "How about someone you never saw in action? Someone who might fit your profile, but who would have bailed at the first sign or recognition of a cop?"
She finally looked me in the eyes.
"What the hell are you talking about, Max?"
"Suppose you've got over-the-counter drug dealing going on in a bar? The supplier is smart, he recruits the girls working as bartenders."
I saw the head tilt start, the draw of exasperated breath.
"Just hear me out. OK?" I said. She relented and chewed on a corner of her lip.
"Suppose the supplier is smart enough to move these girls around, to different cities or states, or just sends them packing when he thinks they might compromise his action?"
I reached into my pocket and took out the photo that O'Shea had taken and offered it to her.
"Ever seen this guy before?"
She looked, brow scrunching, studying longer than necessary.
"I've seen him before," she finally said. "But I've never seen him here. This is Kim's, right?"
She was a good investigator, strong in the details. She probably recognized the jukebox just as I had.
"You have a name?" I said.
"No, I'm not that familiar."
"He snuck out of Kim's the other night as soon as you walked in."
The corner of her mouth turned up.
"Lot of people wouldn't want to be seen sitting at a bar by a detective."
"Yeah, I know," I said and waited.
"Why else did you single him out, Max?"
"He seemed to have some kind of connection to the new bartender, the one who was watching us that day when we were interviewing Laurie."
"Connection?"
"Yeah. When he bolted, she kept looking from us to the spot he left, very nervous."
She was still looking at the photo, her eyes narrowed. There was something else there, I was sure of it. And she was trying to decide whether she was going to share it with me.
"He's a cop. Works patrol. Maybe even in that sector," she said, looking up into my face.
"No shit," I said, mostly to myself.
"Easy, Freeman," she started. "Lots of cops wouldn't want to be caught at a bar by a superior officer, even if they're off hours. Who knows, maybe he doesn't want word getting back to the wife?"
"Can you get a name and run a history, get a look at his record?" I said, my head working the possibilities.
"Jesus, Freeman. You're ballsy," she said. "Trying to blow my case on the main suspect, and asking me to help you line up another officer for the fall guy? A defense attorney would have a field day with that. 'I understand, Detective Richards, you were also investigating another possible suspect? Doesn't that mean you aren't sure who may have done this?'" she said, making her voice deep and smarmy.
Maybe I should have just let it sit. She would think about what she'd said without my holier-than-thou response. But I didn't.
"Come on, Sherry," I said, stepping closer to her. "We're not like them, the lawyers trying to argue through who wins and who loses and to hell with what's right or just. We're cops. We're here to stop it. If there's even an outside chance with this guy, you can't just kick it to the curb."
"I'm a cop, Freeman. You used to be," she said. "Maybe your old cronies up in Philadelphia forgot some of the basics of homicide investigation while they were covering themselves for getting laid on the job." She started to say something else, then held it.
"I've got a suspect who had opportunity, a suspect with a violent past, a suspect who is on the top of another agency's list in the disappearance of another vulnerable woman. I thought you were the one who never believed in coincidences."
Her eyes were still burning when Billy walked up.
"Sh-Sherry."
She put the photograph in the pocket of her slacks and extended her hand to meet his.
"You are l-looking great," Billy said, taking her hand in both of his and meaning, I knew, every word.
"Counselor," she said. "You were quite impressive in there. I'm sure I'll get a call from the prosecutor for not warning him who he'd be up against this morning."
He stepped in and at first I thought he might kiss Richards on the cheek, but instead he whispered: "It's not personal, Sherry." And then louder: "I s-still need a good crew person on my Sunday b-beer can races. Diane is learning, but slowly."
"I'll see if I can get a weekend evening free," she said.
"Wonderful," Billy said and turned to me. "Ready?"
He stepped away and I turned to Richards.
"I'll guarantee it," I said.
"What?"
"I'll guarantee that no one will be in jeopardy while O'Shea is out."
She didn't answer. She just nodded. When I caught up with Billy I looked back and her hand was back in the pocket of her slacks.
We walked over to the county courthouse which was next to the jail. Billy said he needed to visit an acquaintance. As an attorney, he might never show up in court, but the man had more connections than a senator at a lobbyist's convention.
"It w-will take a couple of hours for them to process O'Shea out."
"You paid his bond, cash?"
"A cashier's ch-check," he corrected.
"You just happened to have it in the exact amount?"
"I anticipated."
"Pretty damned sure of yourself, Counselor."
He paused a second.
"It was n-not as unpleasant as I thought it might be, M-Max."
This time I paused, letting Billy consider what he was saying about his lifelong fear that his stutter was an intolerable flaw that society would forever hold against him.
"So if this goes to trial, you'll represent him?"
He stopped at the corner.
"They don't t-take aggravated assault to trial, M-Max. They deal them down and plead them out."
"I meant if they tag him for the disappearances," I said. This time he looked me in the eyes.
"Be careful, M-Max," he said without hesitation. "If they come up with enough evidence to indict O'Shea on homicide charges, w- we both may have made big mistakes."