A False Dawn

SEVENTY-SEVEN

The next day, late in the afternoon, I made Cuban sandwiches for Max and me. We walked down to my dock to eat. The river was tranquil, motionless as smoked glass. An anhinga swam less than fifty feet from me, bobbing in the water like a feathered torpedo. I thought about the investigation. The cloud wouldn’t part, I knew, until Santana was caught and prosecuted along with Davis, Ortega and Slater.

I scooted a paper plate over to Max. “Let’s eat.” She gulped down the meat and small piece of Cuban flatbread I’d cut for her.

I sipped a Sam Adams and watched the water bugs dart in circles. The river reflected a sky of cherry red clouds mixed with patches of blue. I heard the two-stroke engine before I saw the boat. In a few seconds, the small fishing boat came around the three-acre island in the center of the river. The boat’s pilot throttled back for about twenty seconds, then accelerated and came in the direction of my dock. Max barked.

“Max, it’s okay. Don’t scare off the locals.”

There was one person in the boat. As he came closer, I could tell he was middle-aged, deeply tanned. He wore black jeans and a black short sleeve shirt that was completely unbuttoned and not tucked in his pants. In the sun, I saw the flash of a gold chain around his neck. There was something else on his chest, but at the distance I couldn’t tell what it was.

Within thirty seconds, the boat was a dot around the bend, and the man dressed in black was gone.

The light on my phone was blinking. I checked the messages. “Sean, this is Lauren. I finally came up with a photo of Santana, at least we think it’s him. He’s got movie star good looks, with the eye of the tiger, so to speak. The Bureau found a picture in the Herald. Santana was with Congressman Lloyd Becker when Becker made the rounds during his campaign last October. Herald ID’d him in the cut-line as ‘Miguel Santana, local business man and philanthropist.’ I’ve e-mailed it to you. Please call me when you get this message. Oh, by the way, we’ve released the photo to the media.”

When I started to open my e-mail, the phone rang. It was Dan Grant. He was almost breathless. “Where the hell have you been?” he asked.

“A walk down by the river and then dinner.”

“A walk?”

“Yep. With Max. It’s quality time. Found a large spearhead in the roots of a willow tree blown over in a storm.”

“Look, O’Brien, here’s what happened in the world while you took your dog on a field trip. Security cameras in the Brennen mansion caught it all. Too bad those camera weren’t monitored by a service. Everything digitally recorded to computer hard drives. Our team is streaming the video to feds right now.”

“What happened?”

“Santana, he slipped in the Brennen house and confronted Josh Brennen. You can see the old man losing his shit when Santana and Richard Brennen had a little discussion about Richard’s apparent sexual persuasion. Photos on the floor of the scene show junior favored young men. The old man went ballistic. After Santana left the room, Brennen shot his son, and then he shot himself in the head. Did it in front of his invalid wife sitting in her wheelchair. He was so close to her when he shot himself, blood splatter hit the woman’s face and she couldn’t wipe it off. He fell dead at her feet.”

“Why would Santana go there? Can she speak at all?”

“Her stroke makes speech difficult. She managed to garble out something that sounded like, ‘Papa.’”

I could feel my chest muscles tighten. I said, “That’s it!”

“What’s it?”

“Josh Brennen is Miguel Santana’s father. The ostracized prodigal son returns. That helps explain Santana. I’m betting he’s the son of one of Brennen’s former workers, probably someone trafficked here, held as a sex slave. Could be a woman he abused, impregnated, and tossed out. In tossing her, he threw away any paternal responsibilities or traces to Miguel Santana.”

“Media will go nuts over this. They’re already swarming in packs from all the major networks, and from England and South America, too. O’Brien, you were right about Slater being connected to Santana. He tried to cop a plea, but finding the stripper’s body in the field with the others pretty much brought this around to Slater and Santana. Slater admitted he got sucked in because he was so over-extended at the casinos and gambling boats, and he was about to have his balls removed by guys with no sense of humor. He says Santana bailed him out and wiped the debt clean as long as he, Slater, was occasionally ‘on call’ for Santana. Of course, one call led to another and another. Soon, Slater was Santana’s enforcer in the rough and tumble world of strip club acquisitions and Internet porn. Slater’s willing to take a life sentence for Leslie’s murder if the DA drops charges in the strip club killing. Prosecutor is going full bore. Slater is looking at the death penalty. By the way, the sheriff is running unopposed.”

I was silent.

“You still there?”

“Now, we find Santana,” I said.

“Got any ideas?”

“He’s not where you think you’ll find him.”

“Between us, FBI and FDLE, we have major airports and bus terminals watched.”

“What about private airports or boat transportation? In an hour, he can be in Bimini off the coast of Miami. If terrorists can get in, Santana can get out. This has to be the biggest dragnet in the state’s history. Keep me posted.”

As I opened Lauren’s e-mail, I clicked on the attached photo. The picture was in color. I could see the yellowish eyes of Miguel Santana staring back at me. My mind flashed to the picture of Sandra Duperee’s cat in Jacksonville. I still hear his voice sometimes, I remembered her saying.

I called Lauren. “Got your e-mail.”

“The picture seems very anticlimactic after watching the video feed Volusia Sheriff’s office sent. Santana’s movements were so cat-and-mouse like with Josh and Richard Brennen.”

“Josh Brennen is Santana’s father.”

“Oh my God!”

“The night I was with you and received the call from Santana, you had a trace put on the call. Did you get a number? And was it different than the one I had? ”

“Yes and yes. But in light of all hell breaking loose right after that, especially since Santana left us that note in the condo, chasing a cell phone number seemed moot.”

“Can you find the number?”

“You know Santana’s either tossed the phone or certainly won’t answer your call, assuming he’s still in the country.”

“Do you have the number?”

“I’ve got it here on my desk.”

She gave me the number. I wrote it on the back of a boating magazine. “Thanks, I’ll call you later.”

“Sean, what are you going to do?”

“Extend an invitation to Santana.”