A False Dawn

TWENTY-NINE

Richard Brennen’s body movements were measured, very controlled. The perfect smile. The perfect host. A wink, squeeze on the shoulder, a sincere promise to look into something, and then off to the next huddled bunch. I could see the simulated listening, his teleprompter dialog, and the feigned warmth of a TV game show host.

Richard Brennen stepped to the microphone. “I think we got us a record crowd for our first barbecue of the year. And I’m predicting this will be a great year.” He paused while his friends applauded. “I want to thank ya’ll for coming out. We couldn’t have asked for a prettier evening.”

An older woman in a wheelchair was rolled from the great room out into the pool area. A nurse pushed the wheelchair, stopping it near where the senior Brennen stood.

Richard Brennen smiled and gestured towards the woman in the wheelchair. “Ya’ll be sure to say hello to mama during the course of the evening.” Brennen held his drink up in the direction of his mother. There was no response. I didn’t know if it was because a stroke had paralyzed her facial muscles, or she found her son appalling, as did Renee Roberts who stood with an empty glass and face.

Brennen beamed a shark’s grin over his apostles. “I’m told the food’s ready. Let’s eat and drink like sailors on shore leave! Maybe the politically correct thing would be to say enjoy yourselves responsibly, but us Brennens, we’ve been known to be politically incorrect when it comes to throwing a great party. Have fun!”

There was a burst of applause as the band kicked in with a rendition of Sweet Home Alabama. I watched Richard Brennen join his father at the bar farther away from the band. I approached them and could tell they were in a near whispered conversation, their backs toward me. The bartender saw me coming.

“What can I get you?” he asked.

Before I answered, I positioned myself on the opposite side of the bar, now facing them, ready for the reaction. “A coke,” I said, loud enough for the Brennens to overhear. “I know that’s not the preferred drink of sailors, but I’m my own designated driver. So I have to deal with that whole issue of responsibility.”

Richard Brennen appraised me like a cat watches a bird just beyond the pane of glass. He cocked his head slightly, eyes unblinking, absorbed in the moment, showing no irritation, no threat. Nothing but a primal curiosity.

His father’s face was reddish and a bit bloated. Tiny black veins could be seen just under the puffy skin on his cheeks. Eyes clouded with cataracts. He finished what remained of his whisky and set his glass on the bar. “Ricardo, two fingers.”

Richard Brennen flashed perfectly straight and whitened predator’s teeth. He said, “Please forgive me, but I’m having a difficult time making the connection.”

“Sean O’Brien.”

Brennen extended his hand. As he shook my hand, I could feel his powerful grip.

“Do you know my father, Josh?” The old man nodded at me.

Josh Brennen said, “Don’t think I’ve had the pleasure. Any relation to the Ralph O’Brien in Sumter County?”

“No relation.”

Richard Brennen’s eyes opened wider, like a great cat following prey on the savanna. “What do you do?” he asked.

“I was brought out of retirement.”

Josh Brennen sipped his Black Jack. A large diamond ring, in the shape of a horseshoe, caught the light. I thought of the bruise on the girl’s cheek. I felt my pulse quicken.

He swallowed the whisky and grinned. “Retired! Son, I’d like to have known how to retire at your age, when I was your age.”

Richard Brennen smiled. “What brought you out of early retirement?”

“Death.”

Josh Brennen made a slight grunt, as if something was caught deep in his throat. He sipped the whisky, the flush in his face darkening, his lower lip the shade of a beet.

But Richard Brennen was good. No involuntary movements. No tightening of the skin. No change in pupils. No visible response.

“Interesting,” Richard mused.

“I’m investigating a murder.” Richard Brennen’s stare changed into something reptilian. It happened within the blink of an eye. A second later, he looked right above my head, holding a distant stare for a few seconds. Maybe both are the killers, sharing some monstrous father-and-son killing game, I thought.

“Please, tell us what happened,” he said

“What murder?” Josh Brennen asked.

“A young woman was killed. Raped, strangled and finally stabbed to death. Her body was found near the St. Johns River.”

“That’s terrible news,” Richard said, with the sincerity of a TV preacher. “What does that have to do with us or our ranch?”

“I think she was one of your employees.”

“We don’t employee any farm workers. We contract with others who do.”

“Who owns the property south of SunState Farms off Highway 60?”

“Lot of land there. It depends. What are you getting at, sir?” Josh asked.

“I’d bet SunState controls that land. And on it you have a migrant camp that makes third-world slums look like the Ritz.”

Richard Brennen said, “We lease a property to a lot of people.”

“I’m not here to make this a campaign issue, Mr. Brennen. I’m here to investigate a murder. Do you know if any of the women are missing?”

“With due respect for the deceased,” Richard said. “We can’t keep up with all of the farm workers. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, in Florida. A girl dying is tragic, but it’s not something we would have a way of inventorying.”

“Inventorying,” I said. “That’s an interesting word for the loss of human life. Sort of like losing a few bushels of tomatoes. It wasn’t one girl. There are others. I happened to find this young woman as she lay dying.”

“Why did you come here?” Josh Brennen asked, knocking back his Black Jack.

“To investigate the murder of an innocent girl. I thought you or someone here might have seen something.”

“What are you drivin’ at, partner?” The elder Brennen’s clouded eyes glistened.

“I believe one of the victims, maybe both, came from this area. Probably one of your migrant camps. The girl was buried in a half-inch plywood box. Her headstone is a county ID number. And she’s lying in a convict cemetery, a place reserved for the kind of man who killed her.”

“Are you a police officer?” Richard Brennen asked

“No.”

“It’s really bad form to come here and impersonate an officer of the law.”

“I’m not impersonating anyone. I told you my name and what I’m doing.”

“You a private investigator?” Josh Brennen asked, his tone louder.

Richard Brennen held up his hand. “Daddy, let’s not upset mama.” He smiled at the attentive nurse. “Maria, take Mrs. Brennen in to watch some TV.”

The nurse smiled and did as ordered. Mrs. Brennen stared straight towards her son. The facial muscles were locked in a cruel vice grip, the mouth curved in a theatrical mask of sadness or horror as she was wheeled around and rolled into the distant catacombs of the estate.

I saw the boy guard enter the great room and whisper something in the ear of the security cowboy. He pushed the Stetson higher on his round head, nodded and marched towards the swimming pool. He came straight toward me.

“Excuse me, Mr. Brennen,” cowboy said. “I believe there is a mistake on the guest list. Mr. Hayes just arrived, he’s a little upset ‘cause he had to show an ID at the gate. Unfortunately, our new gate security didn’t recognize him.” Cowboy puffed up and turned towards me. “Mr. Brennen is this man part of the guest list?”

“No, he’s not.” The voice wasn’t from either of the Brennens. I knew who it was before I turned around and saw him.

Detective Mitchell Slater set a plate of half eaten pork ribs on the bar and used a plastic cocktail toothpick to pry a piece of meat from between his teeth.