Blood of Cain (Sean O'Brien (Mystery/Thrillers)) (15 page)

“But I don’t know that she’s my daughter. Until a few hours ago, I didn’t know that I had a daughter. Adoption records were sealed. Andrea says she never knew the adoptive parents nor wanted to interfere with their parenting of the child. Right now the only tangible connection, the common familiarity, I have with Courtney is her awareness of my birthmark. How’d she know about it? How’d she know its symmetry to a four-leaf shamrock if Andrea didn’t tell her? If she didn’t, then who did?”

Nick stood from his stool. “The only way to find that out is to track her down and ask her.”

“And that’s what I’ll do.”

“You will?” Nick’s dark eyebrows arched.

“Yes, and I’ll need your help to start. I figure if I go to the carnival before it pulls out, I might find those guys you overheard talking in the bar. If you come with me, you can point them out. Saves time. Makes it simpler.”

Nick grinned, his thick moustache lifting. “Sounds good. I’ll be your back-up.”

“I hope it doesn’t get to that.”

Dave crushed a piece of ice with his back teeth and said, “If it was a simple case of a run-away, and you’re just trying to help someone—no problem. But this case is far from simple. It’s now national. A missing girl wanted in connection with serial murders, a missing girl who may be biologically linked to the wife of a powerful U.S. Senator who is spending millions to occupy the White House, a missing girl who’s killed a member of the Bandini family … and last but certainly not least, a missing girl who might be your daughter. Now, Sean. How the hell are you going to simplify that?”

Dave poured himself a second shot of Jameson.

And I had no answer.

It was a few minutes past 10:30 in the morning when Nick and I arrived at the Volusia County Fairgrounds, Nick nursing a slight hangover and holding his third cup of dark-roast Greek coffee in his hand. He sipped and then said, “You never told me what we’re gonna do if or when we find these dudes.”

“Right now it’s questions only.”

He grunted. “And what if they don’t want to give us any answers? You’re not a detective anymore, so you can’t question them in some police room, strap these guys up to a lie detector.”

“I don’t need a lie detector.”

“How so?”

“A lot of it’s in the way you ask the questions. I’m not looking always for the oral responses. I’ll assume most of that will be lies based on what Detective Dan Grant heard when he interviewed Randal Barnes. I’m looking for the physical responses, or lack of them, the silent signals that most people don’t realize they give when they’re lying. When you catch them there, that’s when the real interrogation begins.”

Nick sat a little straighter on his side of the Jeep, draining the remains of his coffee. He gestured with his hand. “It’s still kinda early. The lot isn’t filled yet. But since this is a Saturday, figured more people would be here in spite of the fact two carnies died. This is the last day, huh?”

“Yeah, I heard that they shortened their contract with the county in view of circumstances, and they’re leaving tomorrow.”

I pulled into the sawdust parking lot next to an empty school bus, paid the fee, and Nick and I entered the fairgrounds. Many of the venues were just opening, carnies extending attached awnings, restocking food and plush animals, the smell of damp sawdust and cotton candy in the warm air. School kids, chaperones, and dozens of teens roamed the midway. Off-duty sheriff’s deputies, in uniform, strolled the grounds, dispatch radios crackling under the music from the rides and outdoor speakers.

“One shot to win your girl a cupie doll. How ‘bout a doll for your doll?” Shouted a carny barker, teasing some of the teenagers, enticing them into games of chance—the
Knock ‘Em Down, Water-gun Horse Races, Balloon Pop, Free-Throw
and dozens more.

I glanced at Nick. “Do any of those men working the venues and the carnival rides look like either of the two guys you saw that night in the Tiki Bar?”

“Nothin’ is jumping out at me.”

“Let’s keep moving. When you see one or both of them, say the word.”

We walked about another fifty yards, past the Tilt-A-Whirl to where the double Ferris-Wheel stood. More than a dozen people were in the queue line to ride the Big Wheel, the smell of funnel cakes in the breeze. Nick lifted his hand and pointed to the ride operator, “There’s one of the guys. He has the tattoo of the mermaid on his right arm.”

I replayed some of what Courtney told me that day on Jupiter.
‘Lonnie was a ride operator. I talked him into letting me take a midnight ride on the Big Wheel.
’

The ride op was at least six feet tall, thick chest, beer belly, a sweat-stained bandana on his head, tanned face, two hoop earrings and wrap-around dark glasses. He worked with a partner, a skinny man with jeans an inch below the crack in his butt, arms covered in ink, unlit cigarette parked behind his left ear. He was lowering the safety bars as each rider took his or her seat on the Big Wheel. “How about the guy locking the riders in, Nick, recognize him?”

“No, different dude.”

I stopped walking and watched. Within a few seconds, the riders were all strapped in, anticipation on their faces. The ride op slapped a button at his stand and the Big Wheel began moving, rock music blasting. “Let’s go, Nick.”

We approached the ride op as he lit an unfiltered cigarette, borrowing a lighter from his helper. I smiled and said, “I used to love this ride.”

He nodded and spit a piece of tobacco from the tip of his tongue. I could see myself in his dark glasses. He said, “Three minutes pal, you and your BFF can catch a ride on the Big Wheel.”

“I imagine this was right about the spot where Lonnie Ebert was standing when he was murdered.”

He said nothing, cupping the cigarette in the palm of his hand, the letters E-V-I-L tattooed on each of the fingers holding the burning cigarette. He blew a slow stream of smoke out of one side of his mouth. He looked away, down the midway.

“Where’s Smitty today?”

He turned back to me. “Don’t know nobody called Smitty. You two cops? You need to check in with the office. I’m just a hired hand.”

“We’re not cops.”

“Then take a hike.” He inhaled a mouthful of cotton-white smoke. His skinny partner, an acne-faced older teenager, stepped over to the control console.

I said, “You know, it’s good that we’re not cops. Cops, detectives, the whole shebang, they ask a lot of questions, poke around, come back, and ask more questions. Then they drag you into court as a witness. I imagine it wouldn’t be fun to testify against the Bandini brothers, seeing how you work for the family.” I raised the palms of my hands. “Now with us, it’s different. No cops. No cuffs. No court.”

“No shit.”

“I’m going to ask you direct questions that I think will result in direct answers and lead us away from you and Smitty. The girl didn’t do it, you and Smitty said as much.”

“Told you, don’t know anybody named Smitty.”

“Why was Lonnie killed?”

“I heard it was that crazy bitch that done it.”

“Is that what you’ve been told to say?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“You and Smitty were overheard saying Lonnie was taken out to send a message. He was dealing for the Bandinis and probably skimming. Now all we want from you is a name. Who did the hit? You damn well know the girl didn’t do it. You tell us who did, and we never see you again. We buy some funnel cake and go far away.”

He grinned, a tooth missing in his lower jaw. “Maybe the music is impacting your hearing. Fuck off.”

Nick looked over at me. He said, “Hey, mermaid man. I overheard you and your BFF Smitty talking, so the denial can end here.”

Randal Barnes took off his sunglasses, his eyes taking in Nick like a picky eater inspecting a meal. He said, “Then you need to get your hearing checked. You didn’t hear shit.”

I nodded. “Is that what you told Detective Dan Grant? He has your credit card receipt from the Tiki Bar. Witnesses saw you with the other guy, let’s call him Smitty because that’s what you were calling him on the night of the twelfth … right before your VISA card receipt was printed and signed by you.”

Randal Barnes turned to his assistant and said, “I gotta take a shit, Bobby. It’s my break anyway. When you unload, tell Carl to help ‘till I get back.” He stepped off the ride operator’s platform, crushed the cigarette under his tennis shoe, brushed by me, and walked through the crowd, vanishing between the Tilt-A-Whirl and the Zipper.

Nick turned to me. “What do we do now?”

“I mentioned the silent signals to you. Randy Barnes is speaking volumes. Now is where the real interrogation begins. Let’s follow him and see where he takes the bait.”

Boots Langley packed a .410 shotgun in his customized golf cart and drove down a gravel path toward Bullfrog Creek. In the small wagon he pulled behind the golf cart, he had secured four bags of groceries. He took his foot off the gas pedal and coasted up to the small Airstream trailer, shotgun cradled in his arms, and tapped on the door, using the tip of the barrel to knock.

Courtney Burke peeked out between the venetian blinds, pulled her bag to her right shoulder, her hand touching the Beretta. She stepped to the door, dust swirling in the sunlight pouring into the dark trailer. Boots read her face and said, “I’ve had this sweet little thing for longer than you’ve been on earth.”

“Why do you carry it?”

“I’ll show you. Follow me.”

Courtney set her bag on a chair, walked outside, and followed the little man as he shuffled to the edge of the wide creek. The surface water was dark and smooth, the shade of a ripe avocado. The creek was more like a river, wide and lined with cypress, bamboo, and weeping willow trees. An osprey cried out skimming over the water. Boots stood near a gnarled cypress tree, his eyes scanning the trunk and branches swathed in Spanish moss. He grinned, flame-blue eyes igniting, a smile working in one corner of his small mouth. He raised the shotgun barrel and fired. A snake dropped from the branches and hit the ground with a thud. At mid-length, the snake’s heavy, olive-green body was as thick a man’s forearm. A piece of meat the size of a billiard ball was blown from the mid-section. The snake pitched and convulsed, its body turning in a half circle, hissing, opening its cotton-white mouth, biting air.

Boots looked at Courtney without moving his head. He snorted. “That’s why I carry this little shotgun. It’s a moccasin killer. That serpent has enough poison in its bite to kill a horse. Imagine the slow death, the pain my poor Eve felt when she was struck in the chest, less than a few inches from her heart, by an even bigger serpent than what you see there.”

“But you didn’t have to shoot it.”

“It’s insurance, Courtney. One less water moccasin means your odds down here on Bullfrog Creek are even better. Ever notice the word sin in moccasin?”

“No.”

“Look around you. Look at all the blooming bougainvillea, the orange and tangerine trees filled with ripe fruit, the wild flowers, and the creek. It’s a little slice of paradise. If the first sin took place in the Garden of Eden, where will the last sin take place?”

“Never thought about it. I don’t know.”

“Nobody does. This is my paradise. Maybe it’s an acre sliced from Heaven, but I’m the caretaker. And I take that responsibility seriously. That serpent lying dead before you will be replaced by a dozen more. It’s an on-going clash.” He gestured to the golf cart. “I brought you some food and a few things you’ll need while you’re here.”

“You didn’t have to do that, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, and yes, I did. Your angel face is all over the news. You’d be spotted in any grocery store you entered. Come, let’s put the provisions away. I need to learn more about your plight, your search, and journey. Isaac could only enlighten me so much, and now the rest falls in your court.”

***

Nick and I followed Randal Barnes as he wormed his way between the carnival attractions, the noise from the rides and the blare of piped-in rock music covering the sounds we made following him. We darted behind the Himalaya Run and the House of Mirrors, keeping Barnes in our sight, yet trying not to send signals to the other carnies working the food-stands, rides, or standing around and smoking in the artificial alleys leading off the midway to the back lots away from the public areas.

Nick pointed. “He’s going inside that tricked out, million dollar bus.”

“That can mean that he’s reporting our presence to Bandini because he’s involved in the illicit activities they operate. The second option might be he’s looking for brownie points and simply telling them that we’re here, and that we’re asking questions about Lonnie Ebert’s murder, not about the drug connection to the Bandini family.”

“What the hell do we do now?”

“Play it by ear.”

“Sean, I never was a cop. I don’t know how to play this shit by ear.”

I watched a man wearing a Yankees cap and an Orlando Magic jersey stop to open a door to a free-standing toilet. “Speaking of shit … didn’t you say the guy named Smitty was wearing a Yankees cap and a blue Magic jersey the night you saw him?”

“Yeah, why?”

“See those porta-potties over there?” I pointed to a half dozen free-standing portable toilets about one hundred feet beyond the trailers and parked campers.

“Yeah, I see them.”

“A guy just went in the one to the far right. And you know what Nick? He matched your description of Smitty to a T. You’d think these guys would take some time to hit the laundromats. Let’s see what Smitty has to say.”

“How the hell do you notice stuff like that from a distance?”

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t notice. Let’s go.”

As we approached the porta-potty, I whispered to Nick. “Stand back some. I don’t know if the guy has a weapon.”

“You don’t have one.”

I reached behind under my shirt to the small of my back and pulled out my Glock, keeping the gun out of sight from the campers and trailers behind us.

Nick’s eyes went wide. “Oh shit. I didn’t know you’d brought your pistol.”

“Stand to the right, Nick. This interrogation will be real quick.” I could read the United Rental sign on the light blue door to the John. Also, I could see that the occupant failed to lock the door. Bad mistake. I held the Glock in my right hand. With my left hand, I jerked the door open. There was Smitty, pants down around his ankles, sitting on the seat, best friend in his hand, looking down the barrel of the Glock. His face melted. I said, “Didn’t your daddy tell you to lock the bathroom door? Don’t even think of lying to me! If you do, they’ll find you dead on the shitter. Understand?”