The home was almost hidden. O’Brien got out of the cab in front of a small house tucked away behind old banyan trees and terraces of blooming bougainvillea. The house was built in the late fifties. Mediterranean. Beige stucco exterior veiled behind banana trees. Rose bushes were in need of pruning. Walking up the river stone footpath, O’Brien could smell the fresh-cut grass, roses, sweet bananas, and mimosa flowers.
Knocking on the door, he watched a bumblebee hover above a flowering yellow periwinkle. The door opened and a man in his late sixties looked over the rims of his reading glasses at O’Brien. The man didn’t seem surprised. His eyebrows were wild as his rose bushes, kind blue eyes, uncombed white hair, forearms scarred from the sun. He wore chlorine-faded swimming trunks and a Miami Dolphins T-shirt.
“I recognize you,” said Tucker Houston. “How you been, Sean?”
“Better. It’s been a long time, Tucker. May I speak with you?”
“Come in.”
O’Brien followed Tucker Houston through the house to a screened-in patio by a small pool. “Sit down, Sean. Excuse the look of the place. Everything is sort of under control of the forces of nature. Wherever I leave a magazine or book, it seems gravity won’t release its grasp, hence, I don’t pick up too much since Margaret passed. Want something to drink?”
“No thanks. I’m sorry to hear about Margaret. After Sherri died, I sort of got out of touch.”
“And you got out of Miami. Then, I retired. So, I guess we both clocked out, but reading the Herald, looks like you clocked in, and everybody in the city knows it.”
“I’m here to ask you a favor.” O’Brien stared at the blue pool water before looking at Tucker. “When I was a cop, I used to think about you.”
“Oh, how so?”
“You made me a better cop. Because one of the first things I thought about was how would the defense work the case-how would Tucker Houston work the case. You had grilled me enough times on the witness stand to know you did your homework. And you forced me to do mine.”
Tucker Houston listened without interruption as O’Brien played the audio tape recording, told him the story of Alexandria Cole and the events that had transpired during the last three days.
“I see your dilemma,” Tucker said, sitting back in a deck chair. “I’m not sure I can help you. I’ve been out of the legal loop a while now.”
“While a lot of defense attorneys troll for scum to turn a dollar, the misfits that they plea out and collect a toll from, the junkies they recycle, the snitches they use…you seemed above reproach on that. I wanted to tell you that one time. The scales of justice on the Charlie Williams case are beyond out of balance…eleven years worth of extra weight added to William’s side, plus the execution pending. Can you get a federal judge to issue a stay for at least thirty days?”
Tucker was silent, the circulating blue of pool water reflecting from his eyes “If I could catch old circuit court judge Samuel Davidson after the church service tomorrow, I might have a chance to get his ear.”
O’Brien smiled. “Thank you.” He looked at his watch and stood. “I need to call a cab. I have to make a couple of stops downtown.”
“Tell you what, I’ve got two cars in the driveway-one more than I need. Couldn’t bear to part with Margaret’s black thunderbird after she died. She loved that car. We used to enjoy putting the top down and head to Key Largo on weekends. The car is one of the last Ford made before ending production in oh-three. She only put three thousand miles on it. Car’s in need of driving. Take it. Drop if off when you’re done.”
O’Brien drove across the MacArthur Causeway, keeping the little T-Bird humming just below the speed limit. His cell rang. It was Dave Collins. “I may have come up with a lead on the picture of the moon you emailed me. I compared it with a cropped close-up from the image Father Callahan drew, the one you had Detective Grant email to me. I believe it may date to a fifteenth century painter, a man many people thought was deranged. But, with Father Callahan’s art history background, it makes sense.”
“Why?”
“Because the painter used the Omega sign. A lot of his work was about good and evil, heaven and hell…that might explain the six-six-six.”
O’Brien thought about the night he found Father Callahan dead-open eyes locked on the stained glass.
“Sean, you need to see this.”