The 24th Letter

FORTY-TWO

O’Brien drove down Ocean Drive in South Beach, glancing at the moon rising over the Atlantic Ocean. It looked like a big goose egg above the horizon, the reflection casting a long ribbon of light over the water. A small dark cloud moved across the base of the moon, creating a diffused edge around the lower third. He rolled the windows down in the rental Jeep to hear the sound of the breakers.

O’Brien drove slowly, watching people meandering across the street heading into the trendy restaurants and upscale coffee and wine bars. He spotted a man and a trophy blonde model get out of a red Ferrari in front of a nightclub called the Opium Garden. O’Brien could hear the pulse of music, smell the grilled fish and garlic mix with the salty sent of the ocean. He missed some things about Miami, mainly the food, but not the fast paced, instant gratification, pseudo lifestyle of the seen-and-be-seen on South Beach.

He stopped at a traffic light and looked through the palm trees to the moon over the water. The cloud was rising like someone sitting up in a bed with a sheet over her head, an armless shadow in the center of the moon. It was a figure morphing in a lava lamp, transforming into a dark image resembling the profile of a person dressed in a shawl. O’Brien smiled. The man in the moon was now the woman in the moon.

O’Brien’s heart jumped. He had seen it before.

But where?

The driver in the car behind him honked his horn. O’Brien drove, craning his neck to see the moon through the tall royal palms that lined South Beach.

He stared at the image-the figure. Where had he seen it?

“What are you doing? Dumb ass!” screamed a man riding a bike on the shoulder of the road. O’Brien swerved, just missing the man.

The likeness. Where did it come from? Think. Book. Magazine. A painting? Where? Maybe a museum. Maybe in an art class in college.

And on the floor of St. Francis Church!

An image in blood drawn by Father John Callahan.

O’Brien pulled onto the sidewalk, his car blocking two teenage skateboarders. He jumped out of his car and snapped a picture of the moon with his cell phone.

One teenager said, “It’s just the moon, man. Like you’ve never seen it before.”

O’Brien hit Dave Collin’s number on his cell.

“Sean, I see it’s you, and I’m not even wearing my glasses.”

“Go find them. I’m sending you a lunar image.”

“A what?”

“An image. Just took it of the moon.”

“Is there an eclipse tonight?”

“No, I want you to look at it carefully. Tell me what it looks like.”

“Where the hell are you?” Collin’s voice was deep, thick with rum and fatigue.

O’Brien said, “South Beach. How’s Max?”

“Nick came by a few hours ago and said it was his turn to watch her. He took her down to the tiki bar for dinner. He said her presence helps him pick up women.”

O’Brien had mental picture of his little dachshund sitting on a barstool next to Nick Cronus. “Dave, try to get her back on your boat before it gets too late. There’s a reason Nick never had kids. He’d forget where he put them.”

“Kim, our lovely bartender, won’t let Max out of her site, believe me on that one. The woman would like so score a few points with you, too. I’ll make sure Max is tucked away tonight. Sean, you’re my dear friend and you’re overdue for some feminine companionship. Since your wife died of cancer and the lady cop…what was her name?”

“Leslie, listen-”

“Since she was shot you haven’t begun to live again. I think-”

“Dave, please!”

“What?”

“Please, just listen a moment. I’ll e-mail an image to you. Look at it closely. See if you can figure out who painted something similar. I know I’ve seen it in an art history class or somewhere.”

“Why?”

“Because it reminds me of the likeness Father Callahan scrawled on the floor of the sanctuary. Maybe, when he was dying, he saw the moon through one of those big skylights. I don’t know. Could have reminded him of something-something that would get us closer to figuring out his message if we could match that painting or the artist who painted it. Maybe it’s connected to the name Pat. There’s a chance the artist has a direct clue in the painting that will reveal the killer or his location.”

Collins was silent for a moment. O’Brien could hear him stirring ice in his drink. Finally he said, “Sean, I’ve always liked the way your mind works…but you’re down there in South Beach howling at the moon…everything you just told me is the reason they call lunatics crazy, if one is to believe in the lunar influence. However, if the man in the moon, our celestial companion, second to our sun in brilliance, can affect a woman’s menstrual cycle, what little hope do we mortal men have?”

“You’ll have a clearer picture in the morning, goodnight, Dave.” As O’Brien hung up, he thought about Max. “Next time, I get Max a real dog sitter,” he mumbled as he got in the Jeep and drove off the sidewalk back to the road.

O’Brien pulled onto Washington Avenue and headed north. He passed by Club Oz, and saw a line already forming at the door. He knew that later in the night the line would be much longer. Valet runners were hopping as they parked Mercedes, Jags and BMWs. All the beautiful people were converging under a techno cathedral built on a foundation of narcissism. The house the Jonathan Russo built, a man as synthetic as the music. Follow the yellow brick road to Oz and get lost in the poppy fields.

O’Brien knew that inside Oz it would be so loud that none of the glitzy patrons would even notice the pop of a pistol. And if they did, it would blend into the pop of Dom Perigon and Krug, Flowing like fountains in VIP corners.

But O’Brien didn’t come here to kill Russo. He came here to convince him to talk, and often a silent pistol barrel pressed to a forehead speaks volumes. Before he entered Oz, he would pay a visit to Sergio Conti. As O’Brien drove north on Washington, he passed the legendary restaurant, Joe’s Stone Crab, and an upscale strip club called Club Paradise. And now he had a new plan.