The 24th Letter

EIGHTY-SIX

It was dusk when O’Brien pulled his jeep into the oyster shell parking lot at Ponce Marina. A fog was building off the estuary, rising low over the boats. Through the old mercury vapor street lamps, the fog became flickering orbs of diffused light, like Halloween pumpkins glowing above the docks.

Max heard O’Brien coming before she saw him. She jumped up on an ice chest in the cockpit of Nick Coronus’ boat and barked twice. “Hot dog, who you talkin’ to?” came Nick’s voice as he stepped from the salon.

O’Brien squatted at the stern and rubbed Max’s head. He could see a television on inside Nick’s boat. He said, “Thanks for keeping an eye on Max.”

“I’m going to take her out fishing with me. When one gets off the hook, I say go get ‘em hot dog. She jump in the water and bring the fish back to me.”

“Max might turn into the world’s smallest Labrador retriever, or shark bait.”

“Wanna beer? You eat yet?”

“Yes and no. I’d like a beer and I haven’t eaten. But right now, I don’t have time for either. I need to sit on Jupiter in a quiet place and think. There’s something I’m failing to see about the events surrounding this-”

“Sean, it’s all over the TV. Fox News was just interviewing that Miami lawyer.”

“Where’s Dave?”

“Said he was going to the store for spaghetti fixings and wine.”

O’Brien lifted Max up and set her down on the dock. She darted after a cricket. “Thanks, Nick. Come on, Max.”

Max trotted down the dock behind O’Brien. He picked her up to lift her over the transom. “No place like home, right Max?”

She looked up at him, her eyes bright, tail wagging. “We have to get back to our house on the river. The old dock needs a few new boards. Plus, I’ve been missing you-maybe missing our routine, too.”

She barked once, almost nodding her head. O’Brien opened the salon door, Max following him inside. He poured some dry dog food in Max’s bowl, opened the windows, set up his laptop, and spread the Alexandria Cole case files out on his small table. He looked at arrest and arraignment dates, hearing dates and times. Trial dates. Postponements and reschedules.

His cell rang. It was Ron Hamilton. “Sean, I spoke with Todd Jefferies, DEA. He told me that Mike Chambers played a big role in the Russo investigation and bust. But agent Christian Manerou worked the case hard, and was damn good at it.”

“I wonder if Manerou had any speculation as to what happened to the heroin.”

“Don’t know, but I do know you Sean…and when you get this tone, it’s usually because you’re getting close.”

“As in dropping the hammer.”

“What?”

“Something Christian Manerou said. How difficult would it be for you to remember a dialog from one of your interrogations more than a decade ago?”

“Depends, the bull shit lines and lies all run together after a while.”

“I know.”

“What are you tinkering with, Sean? You got something on Manerou?”

“Talk with you later. I have a little homework now.” O’Brien disconnected and closed his burning eyes for a moment. Something wasn’t clicking. What was it? He remembered what Judy had said that Alexandria told her shortly before she was killed: “You can put your trust into the wrong people…even those people paid to protect you.”

O’Brien leaned back in his chair, his eyes locked on the case files, his thoughts focused on Christian Manerou’s face.

“You son of a bitch…”