The 24th Letter

FORTY-THREE

The posh, Waverly high-rise condos overlooked Biscayne Bay and twinkling lights from million-dollar yachts tied to births that rented for the price of a monthly mortgage on a luxury home.

O’Brien parked in the Palm Bay Marina next to the Waverly, pulled a Panama hat over his head and walked toward the condo. He maneuvered through the thick canary palms and terraces of bougainvillea, carrying a small toolbox as he walked the length of the building toward the beach. O’Brien glanced up at the power lines feeding the remote left quadrant of the building. He could see where the cable television connection came in and hit a junction box to feed the cable system to each unit. As he walked, he casually removed a folding knife from the toolbox and sliced through the main feed in less time that it would take a good gardener to cut a rose. O’Brien continued moving toward the pool at the rear end of the building closer to the ocean.

Now, he thought, wait. Probably five to ten minutes before the night manger was inundated with calls. O’Brien pulled up a chaise lounge chair near the spa, sat down, looked at his watch, and pulled the brim of his hat down. Ten minutes and he would go through the front door. Ten minutes-a year in Charlie Williams’s remaining life.

O’Brien got up and stepped over to a privacy wall that separated the pool area from people on the beach. He looked though the wrought iron bars on the door that led a few steps down to the sand. The moon was now high over the ocean, its light spilling a soft hue across the white sand. Through the bars he saw two lovers, hand-in-hand, walking by the surf. O’Brien imagined what Charlie Williams saw through his steel bars.

He looked up at the high-rise balconies with the million-dollar views and remembered where he had questioned Sergio Conti. The top left penthouse. The light was on, and O’Brien was coming up.

“Security,” said a voice with a Hispanic accent.

“Miami Cable. Got a call that your system is out.”

“Yeah, even right here in the office. I was watching Brazil beating Mexico and it went to snow. How come you’re not dressed in a cable shirt and stuff?”

“The regular guy on this shift had to go to the hospital with his wife. It’s their first baby. Office called me because I don’t live too far.”

“Cool, man. Just get us a picture quick. Phone’s going nuts.”

“You bet. I’ll look at the connections. Checked the outside already. Couldn’t trace the problem. Could be something on the inside, salt air can corrode the connectors. I can check near the roof where the lines are distributed.” O’Brien glanced at the directory under glass and he read: Conti, S — 1795. He said, “Box feeds from the roof down. You got any vacancies on the seventeenth floor? I’ll check one of those TV’s and then see if it’s coming from outside.”

“Sure, guy. The people in seventeen-two are in Europe. I’ll get you the key.”

O’Brien rode the glass elevator up to the penthouse floor, the elevator opened to a large atrium that looked all the way down to the imported Italian marble floors and fountains in the entrance. He walked down the posh hall decorated with pods of soft lighting revealing imported artwork and small Romanesque statues. He stopped at the door that read 1795, opened the toolbox and removed his Glock. O’Brien pressed the red record button on the tiny tape recorder in his shirt pocket and tapped on the door.

“Who is it?” The man’s voice was gruff.

“Maintenance, sir. Lightning hit the system and fried a lot of cable receptors.”