The Black Bullet

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

There was one outdoor guest parking spot left when O’Brien returned to the Olde Club Condos. He parked and waited. His cell rang. It was Dan Grant. “Bingo,” Dan said. “Joe says the two bullets found in Billy Lawson’s body and the one I shot in the tank were fired from the same pistol: the Luger.”

“Thanks, Dan. Gotta go.”

“Sean, wait a second-”

O’Brien disconnected. He could see the pool behind an ornate fence, the beach at the base of the seawall, the breakers less than fifty yards away. An older woman opened the pool gate and sauntered with a slight limp to her car. She opened the trunk and removed a straw handbag. O’Brien got out of his Jeep, lifted two paper bags of groceries, and headed toward the side-entrance door. He watched the woman out of the corner of his eye, adjusting the speed of his walk with her pace as she approached the same door. O’Brien fumbled with his keys, holding the bags.

“Let me help you,” the woman said, using her key to open the deadbolt.

“Thank you,” O’Brien said smiling.

“I haven’t seen you here before, new owner?”

“Just a weekend guest. But I could be in the market. Is your unit for sale?”

“Oh, no. Harry and I love it over here.” She entered the posh lobby with O’Brien following. “We keep our Orlando home, but it’s just a matter of time before we stay here permanently. I believe the salt air is healthy for you. At least it makes you feel better, and that’s half the battle.” They stopped at the twin elevators. She pressed the button, the doors opening. Then she touched the button to the third floor. “Which floor?”

“Sixth,” O’Brien said. “If I did purchase, I’d like to get on the very top floor, maybe I could see Spain from my balcony. Are any units for sale on the sixth floor?”

“Marge and Gene Jawarski have been talking of selling.” The woman lowered her voice. “Marge, poor thing, since her cancer returned, Gene’s been taking her to Jacksonville’s Mayo Clinic for chemo. They have a corner unit, 6024. It’s beautiful.”

On the third floor, the woman smiled and got out of the elevator. As the doors were closing, she said, “Some friends are meeting for cocktails by the pool in an hour. Come join us.”

“Thank you.” On the top floor, he got out of the elevator and called Dave. “Can you hear me?” O’Brien asked in a whisper.

“Yes.”

“Good. From here it’s all listening and recording on your part.”

“Be careful. Miller probably can still shoot your lights out.”

O’Brien was silent, clipping the phone back to his belt as he walked down the marbled hall to condo unit 6016. He tapped on the door, heard shuffling and sensed someone was looking out the security glass eye.

The voice said, “What do you want?”

“Grocery delivery for the Jawarski’s.”

“Not in this condo. Down the hall, 6024, I think.”

“I tried there. No answer. Their daughter in Orlando called, placed the order, and asked us to deliver these. Said her parents should be here by now. They were returning from the hospital in Jacksonville, and she wanted the groceries to be there for them. I believe Mrs. Jawarski is ill, chemo treatments, according to her daughter. I’d hate to leave the food outside their door. The steaks might spoil. Do you mind taking them? I’ll put a note on their door.”

“Just a minute.”

O’Brien could hear the locks turning then the door opened. Robert Miller didn’t look like a man in his mid-eighties. He was younger in appearance. Thick white hair, neatly combed. Few wrinkles on his tanned face. Trimmed alabaster moustache. Gray-blue eyes that looked like they were carved from ice. He wore a Tommy Bahama silk shirt, khaki shorts, and in his dock shoes he stood at least six-one.

O’Brien smiled. “May I set these in the kitchen?”

“Be quick.” Miller gestured with his head to the left. O’Brien stepped inside as Miller stood by the open door. “It’s to your left, toward the balcony.”

The condo smelled of money. Old World imported furniture. Crystal. French oil paintings that gave the place the intimacy of a private gallery. There were framed photographs of Robert Miller standing next to presidents from Truman to George Bush Senior. Fox News was on a fifty-inch flat screen mounted on the wall.

“Thank you,” O’Brien said. He could tell that Miller was a man used to giving orders. In the stylish kitchen, O’Brien set the groceries down and took his Glock out of one bag. He opened and closed the refrigerator door, then entered the living room and pointed the pistol directly at Miller’s head. “Close the door.”

“You’re making a very stupid mistake,” Miller said, his voice calm, like a man who just said he was taking his dog for a walk.

“You made a mistake in 1945 when you lied about how Billy Lawson died.”