A False Dawn

SEVENTY-THREE

I sipped the double espresso and checked the headlights in my rearview mirror more than I wanted to as I drove out of Miami, north up I-95. Each time a pair of lights came too close, I found myself touching the Glock between the seats. I didn’t think Santana was following me, but then I wouldn’t have thought he could snap the neck of a Special Forces veteran paratrooper.

I saw a text message flashing on my phone charging in the cradle. I picked up the phone and read the message. It was from Dan Grant. ‘call me when u get this…urgent…slater’s going down…’

It was almost 1:00 A. M. I called Dan. He answered after two rings.

“O’Brien, you okay? I saw the news. They had video of you, FBI types, couple dozen Miami PD, all coming out on a ritzy South Beach condo. An officer killed?”

“Neck broken. A good cop is gone, and we have one hell of a problem walking the streets. Pandora’s box is open and the baddest of the bad is out.”

“So this perp is our bad guy?”

“He’s the serial that’s calling the shots. Slater is, no doubt, on Miguel Santana’s payroll. How he got there, I haven’t figured out yet. We nailed Santana’s connection when we got a DNA match from the hair on the duct tape near the vic I found. A fingernail matched the missing dancer, Robin Eastman. Santana knew we’d made him. After we got that far, he turned the tables. He called me. The psycho in him figured he had nothing to lose. He’d make a game of it.”

“What’d he say?”

“Something about my days on the planet expiring. He wants me to start rehearsing my own epitaph. I think he’s a little pissed that we cut into his business and his perverted world. What do you have on Slater?”

“We searched his place while he was out. Canine found the jogging clothes. Slater had put the stuff in a plastic garbage bag and set it out by the curb with the rest of the trash. It would have gone to the dump, but one of the county’s trucks on that route was broken, so the trash was late in getting picked up. Dog found the scent in a matter of minutes. Grass and water stains matched, and there was a trace of Leslie’s blood on the sweatshirt. Ballistics says the gun used to kill Leslie was the same that killed the club owner Tony Martin. We haven’t found it yet, but we have enough to bury Slater. I got a warrant earlier tonight. We have his place staked out. Pulled his DNA from the skin sample on the sidewalk.”

“Let’s hope he shows. Any results back from the gator processing house?”

“Lab found traces of alligator blood that matched the blood found on the female vic’ hair. Liminol indicated human blood all over the damn place. Like the house of Frankenstein. The liquid in the stainless steel canisters is a combination of human glucose and water.”