A False Dawn

TWENTY-TWO

I wasn’t sure how long my cell phone had been ringing when I finally rolled over and lifted it from the nightstand. I felt like I was awakening from surgery. My jaw was swollen. I managed to utter a sound into the receiver that was similar to “hello.”

“Sean? Is that you?” questioned Detective Leslie Moore.

“Yeah.”

“Are you still in bed?”

“Not now.”

“It’s almost noon.”

“That means the drugs have worn off, and I don’t have to feed Max breakfast. We can just dive into the mid-day snack.” I sat on the edge of the bed.

“You sound different.”

“I feel different.”

“Did something happen?”

“I don’t do funerals well.” I stood and took the phone into the bathroom. I squinted looking into the mirror. My left jaw was the color of a ripe plum, swollen. I could see a halo coming from the bathroom light.

“Are you okay, Sean?” Leslie’s voice sounded alien and far away.

“Yeah, I’m all right.” I headed toward the kitchen to fix an icepack.

“I have some information from the lab.”

“Shoot.”

“The soil didn’t match any of the surrounding soil where the body was found or where the shoe was found.”

I steadied myself on the bathroom counter and listened. “The soil had traces of three commercial grade fertilizers and a fungicide.”

“What else?” I asked, wishing I had taken more aspirin last night.

“The single cloth thread was silk. Probably came for an expensive shirt. Maybe Italian. If we could find it, we’d match it.”

“And if we could find the bastard that left hair in the duct tape, we’d nail him, too. Trouble is, we have no one.”

“We have more hard evidence than suspects. I’ll get the DNA results on the long black hair, the one from your boat, in a day or two.”

“What big agriculture interests are within a hundred miles of the crime scene?”

“What do you mean by big agriculture?”

“Those using migrant help.”

“Oh, I see where you’re going. Could explain why no one has reported the girl missing, the soil samples you asked for, and why no one claimed the body.”

“The Brevard murder,” I said, starting to feel blood moving through my bruises. “Anyone identify the body?”

“Not yet. Autopsy indicates she was raped and her neck broken. Both vics could have been employed by any of the big farms. Most of those farms are owned by old money, old Florida families. Multinational companies own some of the others.”

“Much trouble on these farms? Any reports of beatings? Human trafficking?”

She was silent for a few seconds. “Our files are full of missing person reports. Hispanics and lots of others tossed in the mix. And with all the lakes, swamps, and hundreds of miles of coastline, it would be easy to dispose of bodies.”

“I did some cross-checking with my old homicide partner, Ron Hamilton, at Miami-Dade PD. In the last five years, there have been nineteen known homicides involving young Hispanic women. All were between the ages of seventeen and twenty-five. Out of that, four men were arrested and charged in four separate killings. Fifteen of the murders remain unsolved, now cold cases. The women died the same way. Rape, necks broken.”

“If it’s the same perp, how has he stayed under the radar so well?”

“Selective kills. Covers his tracks well, if it’s the same perp, but he didn’t finish what he began with the girl I found. I think something caused him to cut and run.”

“No witnesses, of course, have come forth.”

“Leslie, you’d mentioned that Slater has political ambitions, connected to old Florida money. How?”

“Lawyers, developers and agriculture.”

“Any specific farmers?”

“He’s been seen at a few fund-raisers for Richard Brennen, the heir apparent to the family farming business, which is a very big business.”

“Who’s that?”

“He’s running for a state senate seat. Brennen’s family is SunState Farms. Been in the family for generations. They’ve got thousands of acres in three counties.”

“Where’s the headquarters?”

“Polk County.”

“What else do you know about Brennen?”

“What I read and see in the new media. He’s confident, charismatic and rich.”

“Run a check on him all the way back to first grade, if you can.”

“Okay. What are you going to do?” Leslie’s voice was softer.

“I’m going on a field trip.”

“Without a badge, I don’t know how far you can get with these people before they have you arrested, or worse. Be careful, Sean.”

I chased two aspirins with orange juice two weeks beyond its expiration date. As I started for the shower, the phone rang. It was Nick. “You sound like I woke you.”

“Someone else beat you to it.”

“What’s wrong, man?”

“I hate funerals.”

“Know what you mean. Hey, some people were hanging by your boat.”

“Who? You talk with them?”

“Kim saw them.”

“What’d she see?”

“They weren’t messin’ with your boat. They were asking questions about you?”

“They? Who? What kind of questions?”

“Don’t know. Kim told me to tell you if I saw you. Been tryin’ to call you. Thought somebody killed you and tossed you in the river. Almost got on my bike and run out to your place, but I’d had too much Greek wine.”

“How did Kim describe these people? Was one bald?”

“It was a he and a she. Two of ‘em. And they were from the FBI.”

The throb above my left eye became more pronounced. I popped a beer, sipped it on one side of my mouth, and thought about taking another aspirin.