Through a side window in the Corner Cafe, O’Brien watched a police cruiser pull across the restaurant parking lot and stop in front of a Waffle House next door.
“Grand theft?” asked O’Brien.
Russo says you stole a bottle of Champaign worth fifteen hundred. He says you pulled a gun and assaulted him with a deadly weapon.”
“A crab?”
“A what? You threatened him with a crab?”
“Not just any crab. A stone crab.”
“Sean, you’re in some serious shit. The assault charges include battery on three of his employees and destruction of property. Says you did five grand in damages, knocked apart a private VIP soundproof booth. Russo’s in Jackson Memorial’s coronary care unit.”
“He’s trying to cover his ass because he knows I have him on tape admitting to killing Alexandria Cole.”
“He swears he was coerced, and he only offered the admission under threat of physical violence.”
“I had a witness?”
“Who?”
“A woman.”
“Who?”
“Girl’s name is Barbie. Works at Club Paradise.”
“How’d a stripper become your witness? Maybe I don’t want to know.”
“I took her there because I knew she could get us in the club without waiting three hours. Charlie Williams can’t spare three hours. Russo came to the VIP booth because he thought his pimp, Sergio Conti, had delivered an underage girl to share with him.”
“So where’d the damn crab come in?”
“Remember his alibi about eating stone crab claws with his over-fifty-something pedophile buddy the night Alexandria was murdered?”
“I read it, but I didn’t remember it from when you originally worked the case.”
O’Brien said nothing.
“Sean, you there?”
“Yeah, Ron, I’m here. You were my partner, and you don’t remember that when it was brought up during the investigation.”
“You know how many homicides I’ve worked? You think I can re-”
“Of course not. When I drove by Joe’s Stone Crab, I had the idea for the crab. Figured it’d scare Russo so much he couldn’t remember how to lie, and I’d get it straight. Look, I got it on tape. I asked him if he killed Alexandria Cole and he responds, quote, ‘I killed the bitch.’ Ron, take the tape to the D.A. Maybe Stanley Rosen can get a court order for a stay to give us time to get an innocent man off.”
Hamilton sighed. “The fifty-something pedophile, as you call him, Sergio Conti, is filing charges, too”
“Conti says you assaulted him with a deadly weapon.”
“The back of my hand. Ron, these freaks lied to the FBI, the DEA, and me.”
“It’s not what I think. It’ll be messy, going to Stan Rosen, because of how you got the admission. And now there’s half dozen felony charges filed against you.”
“You know better than anyone, there is no time to go though the system and keep Charlie Williams alive.”
“I’m on your side, but you have to get the state attorney to hear the tape.”
O’Brien was silent.
Hamilton said, “If I get the recording from you, the D.A. will know where it came from and want to know why I didn’t take you into custody. I don’t want you to think I’m abandoning you, but there’s not much I can do. I’m sorry, Sean.”
“A man’s life is at stake.”
“I have to go by the book. Get me something I can sink a big physical hook into, and I’ll reel it in. But right now, you’re fishing with dull hooks, and you’re the one getting caught.”
“If I hold a news conference, somebody will hear the assholes confession.”
“You already got more exposure than one man needs.”
O’Brien looked up at the bar as the Today show broke for local stations to insert their newsbreaks.
A young, petite news anchor said, “Miami Beach Police are combing the area for a man and a woman who allegedly tried to kill one of the owners of Club Oz, a nightclub on South Beach.
Security cameras caught the couple on tape and they’ve been identified as Sean O’Brien, a former Miami homicide detective, and Elizabeth “Barbie” Beckman, a stripper employed by Club Paradise. The pair made their getaway after allegedly pulling a gun on owner, Jonathan Russo, and destroying thousands of dollars in club property. Russo was admitted to Jackson Memorial were he’s listed in fair condition.”
O’Brien stood and looked around the restaurant at the few customers buried in newspaper or conversation. He saw his picture with Barbie on the front of the Miami Herald, the man reading the paper making his way through the sports section.
O’Brien walked toward the door as the news anchor continued, “Police believe an earlier incident break-in was related to the shooting in Club Oz. O’Brien allegedly broke into the posh condo owned by film and music producer Sergio Conti, threatened Conti and tied him up. Conti and Russo were known business associates. Sean O’Brien is said to have abruptly quit a thirteen-year career with the Miami-Dade Police Department less than two years ago.”
As O’Brien walked by the bar, the only customer sitting was an older man wearing a Jim Beam baseball cap and nursing a sweating bottle of Budweiser at 9:00 a.m. He glanced up as O’Brien stepped down the length of the bar and exited. The man said, “I’ll be damned. That feller on TV just walked out the door. Call the law, Jesse.”
The waitress who’d served O’Brien approached. She watched O’Brien get in his car. “He’s a good tipper. Don’t call the po’lese. But, maybe there’s a big reward.”
O’Brien’s car pulled away from the lot and she said, “Hand me the portable, Jesse.”