A FALSE DAWN Read online

  Leslie pushed her plate away from her and wiped her hands a long time on a napkin. “Sick. Diabolical, evil bastard. You think these murders might be related?’

  “Now I do.”

  “None of our vics were found with plastic bags over their heads.”

  “What did the pathologist’s report say about the vic’s noses?”

  “Noses? Nothing. Their noses weren’t beaten or broken.”

  “Inside their noses. The nostril cavities.”

  “I don’t recall anything.”

  “Can you check?

  “Sure. I can call Dan, have him take a look.”

  “Do it.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  Leslie flipped open her cell and punched in the numbers. “Dan, are you at your desk?” She nodded. “Good, I need a quick favor. Look at the ME’s report on the two vics and see if he found anything inside their nostrils.”

  She paused and nodded. “Yes, okay. Call me back. Thanks.”

  #

  THE WAITRESS DELIVERED fresh coffee to our table and left as Leslie’s cell rang. She flipped it open. “Whatcha got?” She pulled a pen from her purse and began writing on a napkin. She thanked Dan Grant, closed the phone, and looked across the table at me. Her eyes distressed. “ME’s report for both vic’s says…I’ll read the exact words…‘broken capillaries found inside the nasal cavities consistent with trauma...or pressure.’ Why didn’t I pick up on this before?”

  “Because you weren’t looking for it. With all of the other wounds on the bodies, combined with the rape, strangulation marks, broken neck, et cetera, a few broken vessels inside the nose normally wouldn’t raise a red flag.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  I sipped the coffee and watched a squirrel dart off with a piece of bread. “I’m thinking that the killer held his hand over the vics’ mouths or used duct tape and then held their nostrils. When they passed out, he’d revive them. Then he’d cover their mouths, pinch their nostrils, and continue raping them as they died. In the case of the vic that I found, the duct tape may have been used to cover her mouth. Could have happened with the second vic, too. But the tape, evidence, wasn’t found.”

  “I was hoping for a DNA hit from the duct tape hair from the feds, but nothing.”

  “You wouldn’t because no one was ever charged, let alone convicted in the Miami cases. However, DNA was taken from the perp’s salvia on the last plastic bag. It’s been stored. It wouldn’t have been included in the database because there’s no ID attached to it. I’ll call Ron Hamilton at Miami-Dade PD. The three of us need to collaborate on this. You can send the DNA profile from the hair to him.”

  “And if we get a match…”

  “We have the most prolific serial killer in Florida, maybe the entire nation, four years later. We just don’t have a name.”

  FORTY-SIX

  On the way back to the marina, I got Ron Hamilton on the phone and told him my theory about Bagman resurfacing. “I believe he could be responsible for the fifteen cold case murders of women. He never retired, Ron, he just stopped killing Miami prostitutes and went inland. Made the farm country his killing fields. Or if the perp is Richard Brennen, he stopped going to Miami for weekend killing sprees, and confined his evil closer to home.”

  “Is he leaving plastic bags on their heads?”

  “No. But there are similarities, duct tape instead of bags. Pinching the vic’s nostrils.”

  “It’s a long shot. Sean. Why not let the folks in homicide up there take it from here?”

  “Because I think one of the ‘folks,’ is part of this. I told you about Slater. He ight not be the perp, but if it’s Brennen, senior or junior, Slater is looking the other way. Detective Leslie Moore will be calling you. She’s going to overnight a DNA sample we got at one of the crime scenes. I need a favor. Pull out the profile in storage from those plastic bags, the best we have from the Bagman murders. There is a good sample from the last body, and a fairly good sample on the bag from the vic that lived. Have the lab start the process immediately. I’ll give you Leslie’s cell number. Probably a good idea only to reach her on that number. ”

  “No problem. Oh, almost forgot. Clayton Susskind, the anthropologist MIA, the guy who likes to pilfer through Indian graves—”

  “Did you find a body?” I pictured Joe Bille’s face as he pulled the arrow out of the rattlesnake’s head.

  “Yeah, I found a body…alive. Suskind, who’s unmarried, left Florida abruptly ten months ago for a teaching job at Arizona State University.”

  “Thanks. Ron, have you heard anything on the street as to whether the FBI is looking into these murders?”

  “Haven’t heard anything more. Why?”

  “Someone placed a sophisticated bug on my boat.”

  “Why’d the feds do that?”

  “Good question. Next question is who’s doing the killings?”

  “If the perp’s from Miami, you’ll need help to pick him up, if we can find him.”

  “If it is the same guy, I think he has a connection to the farm labor camps. I’m not sure how or why.”

  “What do you mean by connection to the labor camps?”

  “I know it sounds strange, but if it’s the same killer, the same perp we tracked, how’s he choosing his victims? Is he wandering the back roads, the farm country picking up women randomly? Don’t think so. The odds are he knows some of these people. Somehow, maybe, he’s linked at the high end. The growers. Or he could be associated at the bottom rung, the labor contractors, worker bees who want to please a queen somewhere, or there may be no connection at all, but something is going on.”

  Ron snorted slightly. “For some Miami-based killer to leave his turf, sounds like it’s out of his comfort zone.”

  “His comfort zone lies in the dark. Anywhere he can prey on those weaker. The killings are increasing, so there has to be a strong motive or urge. This kind of killer wants to possess his vics, if only for the time it takes to kill. We need to start with the organized prostitution rings.”

  “Why?”

  “I believe these women are being recruited, human trafficking, actually held as sex slaves and offered to Johns all over the state. If it’s happening, it seems too organized for a few labor contractors. Somebody is calling the shots, and I’m betting they’re not the assholes rousting farm workers at the crack of dawn. They’re probably right in Miami.”

  “You got about two dozen sleazebags, from mob to gangbangers, running prostitution between Miami and Daytona Beach. Where do I start?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe where we left off when we lost the perp’s trail.”

  I heard Ron sigh and then heard him tap the keys on his computer. “If you don’t have anything more to go on, what’ll make this investigation any different? The perp dodged us four years ago. What’s to keep him from doing it again?”

  “Because this time he made a costly mistake.”

  “How so?”

  “He left a young woman to die in my arms.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  I had agreed to meet Leslie at the tiki bar for coffee at 8:00 a.m. By 8:30, I was half way through my second cup, and no Leslie. I tried her cell. After four rings it went to voice-mail. There was no need to leave a message. She knew I was waiting for her, but she didn’t know I was worrying for her.

  I sat at the bar, sipped coffee, and checked my watch every five minutes. A morning newspaper was on the corner of the bar. I shook the bits of toast off it and opened the pages. I stopped reading, folded the paper, and slid it down the bar.

  Kim looked up from slicing lemons. “No good news, eh?”

  “I stopped reading newspapers after I left Miami. I should know better by now.”

  “I get most of my news online. More coffee?”

  “Thanks.”

  “You okay? I don’t mean to pry, but I know there’s been a lot of stuff happening. It’s a small marina. Word gets around. You’re a suspect, or as
the papers have it, ‘person of interest’ in a killing. And you’re trying to find the killer.”

  “Thought you didn’t read the papers?” I drank coffee, glancing at the parking lot.

  “I happened to see your picture in there after they found that poor girl. I’m sorry. I think you’re a hell of a nice guy, and you’re getting the short end of the stick. The lady cop knows it. She likes you, Sean.”

  “It’s her job to like people. To at least care about them and try to help them.”

  “But she likes you beyond that. A woman can see it in another woman.”

  I saw Big John rounding the corner of the restaurant and entering the bar like a cowboy coming off a cattle drive looking for something to wash the dust out of his throat. He said, “Morning, Kimberly…morning Sean. Gonna be a hot one today.”

  Big John was already starting to sweat. He wiped his wide forehead with a bar napkin. Kim took his order and stepped over to the window to give it to Sam.

  A charter boat captain I recognized came in and took a seat at the bar. He ordered a bloody Mary and dry wheat toast. I was glad for the interruption.

  Leslie was getting out of her car. Even from the distance, I could tell she was exhausted. She approached, non-smiling.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said.

  “Want some coffee?” I asked. “Maybe we can sit at a table.”

  “Can we get the coffee to go?”

  Kim overheard and said, “How would you like it?”

  “Black, please.”

  “Make it two,” I said.

  Kim poured the coffee in two large Styrofoam cups. “On the house.”

  “Thanks.” I handed one cup to Leslie.

  She took it and turned to leave. I followed, and at the large open breezeway I asked, “You okay?”

  “We have to go somewhere we can talk.” Her eyes were red and tired. “This is getting much deeper, Sean. And I’m starting to get really scared.”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  I pointed toward the south side of the marina. “Past the charter boats is another pier. It goes pretty far out into the marina and into the bay. There’s a bench at the end of it. We can talk there.”

  Leslie was silent as we walked. A brown pelican sailed over us like a silent glider plane, its thick body casting a shadow across the moored boats.

  Leslie looked out over the Haifax River and sipped the coffee. “Someone definitely has his claws into Mitchell Slater. First I assumed it was well-heeled old money backing him for sheriff. Now I’m not so sure.”

  I said nothing, letting Leslie gather her thoughts.

  “About three months ago, Slater and I were on a drug trafficking stakeout. We were camped across from a strip joint called the Club Platinum. The guy who owned the place, a sleazebag named Tony Martin, was supposedly dealing in a lot more than skin.”

  “Prostitution?”

  “That’s a given. He fenced for the Colombian Cartel. Martin was said to have been one of the main distributors on the east coast of Florida for cocaine. Supplied all the high rollers, lawyer bikers who wore leather during Bike Week and played hard, race fans with private suites at the track. You name it, whatever came into Daytona Beach on chrome wheels or private jets, Martin and his posse were the suppliers.”

  “Is this Tony Martin still the kingpin or is he now dealing behind bars?”

  “Neither. He’s dead.”

  “Double-cross one of his suppliers?”

  “We don’t know. He was found in the front seat of his new convertible Mercedes with half his head blown off. Whoever hit him did it in the very early morning. The ME put time of death at about 4:00 a.m. Martin’s club closed at two in the morning. He’d just gotten in his car. He’d put the top down, and someone stepped up and killed him.”

  “No witnesses and probably no evidence, right?”

  Leslie turned toward me. “It was one of the last cases I worked with Slater. He made the cursory calls. Asked all the whodunit questions from strippers to club deejays to busboys. No one had seen anything out of the ordinary that night.”

  “Then the question is, who wanted Martin dead?”

  “He crossed swords with competition, dealers, you name it, but we had no hard evidence against anyone. When Slater and I were interviewing the club staff, I noticed that one girl was more emotional about Martin’s death than the others. She got teary, admitted she’d been seeing Martin and said he’d treated her very well. I’d pressed Slater about a follow-up with the woman. Back in the office, he told me that stripper’s have, quote, shit for brains, they’re drugged half the time and aren’t credible witnesses.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I went back without Slater. The girl had quit. No one knew where she’d gone. Seemed she’d vanished. Then three days ago I got a call, an anonymous tip. The caller said I could find her at a club called High Moon in Tampa.”

  “Any voice that you even remotely might recognize?”

  “Female, and I didn’t recognize it. Call came from a pay phone. I learned the girl we were trying to locate worked the day shift at the club. Yesterday I went there alone.”

  “What’d she tell you? Why’d she leave the Daytona club?”

  “Afraid for her life.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she heard a murder.”

  “Heard?”

  “The girl’s real name is Robin Eastman. She said she was at her apartment the night of the murder. She told me that Martin had called her to tell her he was on his way. His cell was built into his car, so he wasn’t holding a phone to his ear when the hit went down. She said he was bringing a bottle of her favorite wine, a chardonnay made by Blackstone. Anyway, she said they were saying ‘bye when she heard Martin say, ‘Are you a cop? Show me some fucking ID.’ She said there was a pause and heard the other person, a man say, ‘Get out of the car and come with me.’ She said Martin yelled, ‘Hell no, I’m not going anywhere with you.’ She said the next thing was a gunshot.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “We’d found a bottle of Blackstone chardonnay on the floorboard.” Leslie paused and looked at me. “The stripper said something else.”

  “What?”

  “She said the voice, the cop, sounded like Slater.”

  I looked down at one of the pilings covered with barnacles and thought about what Leslie had told me. I watched the dark water escaping toward the estuary and river. Small crabs scaled the barnacles like old men climbing mountains.

  Leslie said, “I think it’s Slater. I believe he may be a hit man for organized crime. What if he’s the one who killed the two women, our vics?”

  “Is there a connection between the migrant murders and the killing of a strip club owner? What secret is so big a senior police detective would kill to protect it?”

  “I wouldn’t have made a connection before you told me about Bagman and the possible MO link. Connect Slater’s odd behavior to all this and suspicions arise. Phone company records indicate a call was made on Martin’s cell at 4:07 A.M. near the time of death. Over a cell phone, Robin Eastman was a witness to murder. Sean, I did something really stupid.”

  “What?”

  “I wanted to see how Slater would react when I told him I had found Martin’s girlfriend. He was stone-faced until I said she was on the cell phone with Martin at the time of the murder.”

  “How’d he react?”

  “I saw a look in his eyes I’d never seen before. Frightening. He composed himself, said stripers are the least believable witnesses because they’re high on drugs. He said the DA may have a hard time if we tried to use Robin Eastman as a witness.”

  “Why would Slater kill Tony Martin?”

  “I don’t know, but at this point I’m glad the captain let me partner with Dan.”

  Leslie’s cell rang. “Speaking of Dan, it’s him. I’d better take it.”

  I watched a tiny crab scale a wall of barnacles stuck to a piling. The barnacles are anchored for life but teas
ed twice daily by waters that travel the world’s oceans.

  “For the love of God,” I heard Leslie whisper into the phone. “Yes, right away. Is Slater there? Okay, give me a half hour.” She slowly closed the phone. “There’s been another killing.”

  “Female?”

  “Yes, but this time it’s different. Horrible. The victim was found in a wildlife refuge. She was butchered.”

  FORTY-NINE

  Each time I dialed Leslie’s cell I got her voice-mail. On the third call, I left a message telling her to contact me when she could.

  I reached my neighbor to check on Max and to apologize for the delay in getting back home. I was assured that Max was a delight and she had won over the entire family. Great, I thought, maybe she’ll remember me.

  Dave was already one ahead of me when I approached Gibraltar. He grinned and waved me over to his boat. “Care for a libation?”

  Dave listened as I brought him up to date with the latest killing. I told him about my suspicions concerning Slater and about his connection with the Brennens, their money and influence. I told him how an old case of mine, one I failed to solve, could be raising its ugly head again.

  He said, “The latest victim may not be related to the first two killings.”

  “Why?”

  “Completely different MO. The first victims were raped and strangled. We don’t know right now if the third body had been sexually violated. Some of her organs were missing. Could be coincidental that all three were female and Hispanic.”

  “I don’t believe in criminal coincidences.”

  “Sean, somewhere between the Brennens, the migrant labor contractors, Detective Slater, and a Miami murderer with a similar MO is the key. We just need to look at this from different angles.”

  “Right now it’s missing a link.”

  “Money, power and political influence. It all fits into the dynamics between the wealthy growers, the labor contractors, and the lowest rung, the laborers. This leverage the contractors hold over people imported in human trafficking is sad. They use people over and over like a renewable resource. Organized crime wouldn’t cut into its revenue stream nor would these degenerates, the labor contractors. So that leaves either Detective Slater, the Brennens or the Miami connection, or all three.”