The 24th Letter

FIFTY-NINE

FBI lab technician Eric Weinberg pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose and looked at the computer screen for a few seconds in silence. He punched the keyboard and enlarged the image. He turned to Lauren Miles and said, “I can get a reading on some of it. But the rest is less distinct, like the writer was growing weaker the further along he wrote.”

“Let’s see what you have.”

“I’ll route what I have on the high-def monitor.” He hit a few of the keys and Sam Spelling’s handwriting appeared on the screen. To Father John and God — My name is Sam Spelling. I am real sorry for my sins. I wish to ask God for forgiveness…and I know now I done some bad things in my life. I hope to make amends. On the night of June 18th, 1999, I was working a deal, trying to score some cocaine at the Mystic Islands condos in Miami. I was supposed to meet a dealer there. It was the same night Alexandria Cole was stabbed to death. I was sitting in a car in the condo lot, waiting for the dealer to show when I seen

Lowe, Tom

The 24th Letter ((Mystery/Thriller)) a man come out of Miss Cole’s condo. But before I go any more in this letter, I want to say right now where the knife can be found in case I get too tired to finish this letter. It’s in the t o wn of St

Lauren stared at the screen and said, “Looks like Spelling was writing the ‘town of S — t…something…maybe St. Petersburg?”

“Could be,” said Eric.

“Run a search on all Florida cities and towns beginning with S — t.”

Eric keyed in the information and within seconds. He read, “Starke, Stuart, St. Augustine, St. Petersburg, St. Cloud, Steinhatchee, and St. George Island.”

“Maybe Spelling has or had family in one of those. See what you can find.”

Eric nodded. “Are you going to send the letter to headquarters?”

“Yes, counter-to-counter.”

He handed Lauren the letter. She carefully placed it in a folder. “Thanks, Eric. I owe you one for coming in today.”

Lauren caught the elevator down to her floor. She entered the office and saw someone walking into the break room. She followed.

Christian Manerou poured himself a cup of coffee as Lauren stepped into the break room. She said, “Oh, Christian, it’s you. Putting in a little weekend duty?”

“Yeah, forgot the Dade Federal.” Manerou looked at the file Lauren carried. “What brings you in on a Saturday?”

“Trying to offer some assistance to Sean O’Brien. You and Mike met him.”

“Yes, according to the Herald, his old employer, MPD, would like to find him.”

“Sean has always operated on the edge, but when he was a detective, his conviction record was unparalleled. He knows he’s up against the clock in this Charlie Williams execution, which will be a deathwatch soon. Sean’s squeezing Russo.”

“It wasn’t easy for the DEA to get a drug conviction pinned on Russo. I imagine O’Brien will have his hands full, especially since it didn’t go so well the first time. And now, Russo has had a lot of time to separate himself from Alexandria Cole.”

“Could work against him. Too much time and he forgets which lies he told.”

“Lauren, I know you put a lot of stock in Sean O’Brien. You’ve worked with him on the Santana murders. Anyway that I can help, let me know. My caseload isn’t so heavy now that I can’t offer some assistance if it’s needed. I’d have to get the ok through Mike. I remember Russo pretty well. He’s a first class son-of-a-bitch. Let me know if I can help.”

“It might be a stretch to get Mike’s permission, he seemed preoccupied. Maybe even a little territorial about the Russo — Alexandria Cole investigations. That’s kind of odd for him, but you can ask him.”

“Mike’s under a lot of pressure. Maybe you’ll get something on that page O’Brien left.”

“Just did, Eric came in on a Saturday for me.”

“What’d he find?”

Lauren’s cell rang. It was O’Brien. She answered it quickly. “We have a little something more. Where do you want me to meet you?”

“Miami Beach Marina, off Alton Road. Thanks, Lauren. Please hurry.”

Fifteen minutes later, Lauren Miles drove slowly through the Miami Beach Marina parking lot. She saw O’Brien approach in a Jeep. He pulled up and lowered the window. “Thanks for coming, what do you have?”

“We managed to read some of Spelling’s letter. The first sentence or two he says he’s sorry for his life, makes amends, and says he was in the condo parking lot that night to score some cocaine. We lost the best imprint as he was identifying where he hid the knife. A Florida city that has the first two letters beginning with an S and a T.”

“St. Petersburg would be the largest.”

“But there are six others, including his old home, Florida State Prison in Starke. I have a list for you.” She handed O’Brien the slip of paper. “Here, too, is your recorder and dubs of the Russo confession. Spelling’s letter is in this package. I’m going to the airport to send it to Quantico. We’ll see if they can get a better read.”

“Lauren, I really appreciate what you’re doing.” He touched her shoulder.

O’Brien’s cell rang. It was Detective Dan Grant. “Dan, do you have anything?”

“One of our deputies found Lyle Johnson’s body. Pretty nasty, Sean. It’s the best intent to make it look like a suicide that I’ve ever seen. There is GSR on Johnson’s hand. The perp nailed Johnson in the right temple. Probably reloaded with a round after he’d killed Johnson. I’m betting he held Johnson’s hand to the pistol grip as he fired a shot into the sky. If it weren’t for the circumstances, Johnson’s connection to Spelling, this would be written off as a suicide, considering Johnson’s martial strife and debt load. How are we going to catch somebody this good in the time Charlie William’s has left?”

“Begin by seeing who Lyle Johnson spoke with before he was killed. See if he placed a call to Jonathan Russo.”