A False Dawn

SEVENTY-ONE

It took Lauren less than thirty minutes to find out that one of the $2.8 million dollar condos was owned by ShowBiz Productions. We had a search warrant within the same time period and began our approach.

One middle-aged special agent, a guy who looked like he’d been called while he was eating, joined Lauren and me in the condo parking lot. His name was Phil Barfield. Stocky, thick wrists, a small scar over his left eyebrow. The scar was more evident when he concentrated, as he did listening to Lauren. He asked the right questions. I could tell he’d been there and done it, but I’d bet his federal pension that he’d never been in the presence of a psychopath like Santana.

Ten minutes later, Ron rolled up in an unmarked cruiser, followed by four Miami PD patrol cars with two uniforms in each car. Ron had made sure there would be no announcement of their arrival. No sirens and no lights.

I could see the condo manager pacing in the lobby, waiting for us, passkeys clutched in his hand. We huddled in a corner of the lot near the entrance. I said, “We’ll need backup at the rear, in the underground parking lot, on the roof next door, and at the front and back exits.” The officers nodded.

Ron said, “Jim, you and Ralph take the back, Carlos out front, Bob and Tyler in the garage, and Jackson on the roof of the Miami towers.”

I said, “Security is waiting to escort you up. Everybody be careful. This guy’s very smart and very insane. Probably has no fear of death. Let’s go.”

“I got a rush back on the eyelash,” Ron said, almost as an afterthought.

“And…” I said.

“Bingo. It’s a match with the hair on the duct tape from the vic you found. It’s Santana’s DNA. He killed her. And the piece of fingernail found on the couch matches with the hair you discovered on the backhoe, probably from the stripper, Robin Eastman. Santana can run, but he can’t hide anymore.”

“Be careful,” I said. “He didn’t call me to just chat. Could be a trap.”

We got the passkeys from a portly man with thick eyebrows flaking dandruff. He looked over the tops of his brown glasses, a tic pulsating under his left eye. “This can’t get in the news. We’re selling the building.”

I said, “Stay here. Where’s the service elevator?”

“Beyond the alcove, where those plants hang from the second floor.”

It took us two minutes to ride the service elevator to the top floor, forty-six floors above the Atlantic Ocean. We walked down the polished marble hall, though pods of soft light, by ornate original oil paintings of the sea, and around marble columns.

We stopped at condo number 1619. Each person on our team held a pistol. I slid the passkey through the electronic detector. There was a click, like a wooden spoon against a wooden table, subtle.

“Freeze! Police!” Ron yelled as we burst in the condo.

The lights were on. A sea breeze teased at the curtains near the balcony, but the condo seemed vacant. We fanned out into each room. Pistol arms extended.

The place was huge. Professionally decorated. Artwork, collected from around the world, hung on the walls. The face of a sun god in a composite of gold, silver and rubies looked out from one wall. Classical music played softly throughout the penthouse.

“All clear!” Ron yelled.

Nothing. And no sign of anyone. In the master bedroom, I looked in the closet. A bright blue silk shirt was in the center of the expensive clothes. I took it off the rack. It was the same color as the thread Joe Billie found at the crime scene. Sleeve was torn.

“Sean!” Lauren yelled. “Take a look at this.”

We all stepped out onto the large balcony. A candle burned on an end table next to a recliner. On the wet bar was a bottle of champagne half submerged in a bucket of fresh ice. There were four glasses next to the champagne. In the center of the glasses was a piece of paper with my name on it. It read:

O’Brien and company, you’re to be congratulated. Pour yourself some champagne and toast each other…because tonight you almost caught Miguel Santana…

“Who the fuck is this guy?” asked Agent Barfield.

Ron opened the radio microphone. “He’s slipped us! Everyone come back!”

The radio crackled. “This is Jim…”

“Carlos here…”

“Tyler on the roof…”

“Ralph…at the rear emergency exit.”

Ron said, “Bob! Can you read me? Bob!”

Silence.