Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7) (23 page)

“It isn’t about them. It’s about the sale of all that land. If shit starts hitting the fan, if we find a bunch of bodies…kids buried there…it’s against the law to build on top of a cemetery.”

“You think there are bodies, graves hidden up there.”

“Yeah, yeah I do. And I’m gonna find them.”

“You think all this makes a full circle back to Cooter Johnson’s grandfather?”

“He was there when I was locked up as a kid. The boys called him Preacher. He quoted from the Bible, but he wasn’t preaching from the Bible. He was preaching from a damn dark place. It was complete evil—the look in his eyes when he’d sling the belt. It’s like he loved the smell of blood. Loved to hear kids cry. It made him beat you harder, ‘til there was no crying left,
because at that point you were dying. He was preaching from the devil’s pulpit. I can’t imagine how many lives he destroyed. That kind of psychological abuse gets handed down, father to son, to whoever lights their short fuses.”

“He’s gotten away with it all these years. What’s gonna change that?”

“Because somebody saw him. The witness saw three men who gunned down a boy named Andy Cope.”

“What witness? What’s his name?”

“I’d rather not say right now.”

Ace nodded. “All right then…why didn’t the witness say something?”

“Because he was afraid they’d hang him. He’s still scared. But I think that’s about to change. Ace can you give me a ride back to my car? It’s at the motel where I’m staying.”

“Sure, but let’s take the back roads. I got a strange feeling that we’re being watched.”

FORTY-THREE

T
he man’s profile was like an image from a dream. No identity, but it was there—under the surface of memory. It floated there. Vaporous. Just out of bounds for reach and clarity. With the exception of Caroline Harper and Lana Halley, I didn’t know anyone who lived in Marianna or Jackson County. So why did one of the men in the car next to my Jeep at an intersection look like someone I knew? Maybe the car wasn’t from here. Maybe the guy in the back seat wasn’t. I had just a few seconds before the traffic light changed.
Who was he?
And why did I somehow feel his identity was important?

I could only catch his profile. Sitting in the rear seat on the right side of the black Mercedes S-Class sedan. Silver hair, neatly parted. Custom suit. Designer shirt. I tried to read the monogram on the cuff, near the gold cufflinks. Too far away. He held a phone in his right hand, talking. He was alone in the backseat. A younger man sat on the passenger side, front seat. Dark glasses. Dark suit. The driver looked Hispanic, dressed in a polo shirt.

The light turned green, and I looked again as the Mercedes pulled away. I memorized the tag number. The car was registered in Dade County, Florida, the county seat for Miami, a place I’d spent more than a decade in law enforcement. I drove behind the car for a block, heading toward the Alpine Inn where I’d meet Caroline Harper and Jesse Taylor. My plan was to let Jesse know that Jeremiah Franklin was ready to talk—to probably name the killer, but he was
justifiably afraid of possible repercussions. When Jesse met with Jeremiah, I wanted to be there. Not necessarily physical as in the same location, but somewhere within visual contact. I didn’t want them out of my sight. Maybe I was being overly cautious. I didn’t think so.

I picked up my phone to call Dave. I wanted him to run the numbers on the license plate. I wanted to know who was riding in the back seat of a chauffer-driven Mercedes and why he was in Marianna, Florida. I remembered the photo attachment Dave had sent—the picture of the man Dave said was the head of Vista Properties, whose subsidiary is Horizon Inc., the multinational corporation with plans to build a country club development to be called Chattahoochee Estates.

It’s funny how memory is like a card in a deck. Not always in sequence. But when the luck of the draw puts a picture card in your hand, how will you play it? What risks will you take? Do you fold or stay in the game? I punched up the image on my phone. And there he was, staring at me from the screen. Was the same man in the back seat of the Mercedes?

The way to find out was to come knocking. The driver stopped at the next light. Traffic was picking up, and we were still in a four-lane intersection. I pulled up beside the long black car, windows slightly tinted. I tapped the Jeep’s horn and motioned for the man in the back seat to roll down his window. He ignored me. The guy in the front seat didn’t. He pressed a button and the window slid about half way down.

I smiled and asked, “Excuse me, I’m a little lost. I’m looking for I-10. Do you know if we’re close to the highway?”

The guy behind the dark glasses turned his head and spoke with the driver for a few seconds. It gave me time to look behind him, behind his headrest to catch a partial glimpse of the man in the back seat.
Bingo
. If he wasn’t same face in the picture, then they were twins.
Sunglasses turned his head back toward me. He said, “About a half mile on the right. You’ll see the sign leading to the highway.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded, non-smiling, the window sliding back up, the men returning to the cocoon of tinted glass, cool air, leather seats, imported wood, satellite phones, and thick-carpeted floorboards. The Mercedes moved on, and I stayed back letting the big car gain distance. Was the CEO of Vista Properties in Marianna to close the deal? Had the deal been closed? Who was he meeting with, or whom had he already met?

I drove slowly, staying well behind the Mercedes. I looked at the data Dave had sent, and then I punched the phone number to Vista Properties. A woman with a slight Hispanic accent said, “Horizon International.”

“James Winston, please.”

“My pleasure.” She made the transfer. I listened to soft jazz playing through my phone. Less than thirty seconds later, another woman picked up. “Boardroom, this is Rhonda, may I help you?”

“Yes, hi Rhonda, this is William Brackston, with the Jackson County Planning Committee way up in Marianna. How are you?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“I had a scribbled note, left by my secretary, she was in a hurry to make a doctor’s appointment, it’s her first baby. Anyway, it looks like James Winston may or may not be
meeting with the committee while he’s in Marianna. Is a planning committee meeting on his agenda this time?”

“Hold just a minute, Mr. Brackston, I’ll pull up his schedule.”

“No hurry.” I could hear her fingernails tapping the keyboard.

“It looks like Mr. Winston is meeting with the county manager, some people with a real estate firm, and a one o’clock appointment. His schedule doesn’t indicate all the names of those with whom he’s meeting.”

“Maybe it’s me. Maybe not.” I chuckled.

“I can contact his assistant to find out for you.”

“That’s not necessary. I have a one o’clock at the courthouse. Is that, by chance, his one o’clock too?”

“No, Mr. Winston’s one o’clock is a luncheon at the Jackson Country Club.”

“I’d rather be there than at the courthouse. Maybe next visit. Thank you, Rhonda.” I disconnected, looked at my phone and keyed in driving directions to the Jackson County Club.”

FORTY-FOUR

J
esse Taylor sipped from a cup of coffee, glancing at the front door to the coffee shop, the caffeine entering his bloodstream. He looked across the small wooden table to Caroline Harper and said, “I hope O’Brien shows up.”

Caroline smiled. “He will. He’s like you, Jesse. He’s a good man. Dedicated to doing what’s right.”

Jesse grinned. “I don’t know how good of a man I’ve been. I’m tryin’ to make amends, to make up for time I pissed away, hustling, drifting from job to job. Thanks, again, for makin’ my bail.”

“Sean told me he thinks the charges will be dropped because they didn’t read your rights to you. He’ll testify to that. Plus, you have the witness, the other gentleman who helped keep them off of you.”

“Ace, the guy you’re talking about, has to get through this kangaroo court, too. He refused the prosecutor’s offer to drop charges if he’d testify against me.” Jesse’s phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number. He let it ring.

Caroline said, “You can go on and answer it.”

“Don’t know whose callin’ me. I don’t answer if I don’t know who’s knockin’ on my door. It’ll go to voice-mail, and if it’s important, they’ll leave a message.”

“Maybe it’s Sean calling you.”

“I programmed his number. It’s not him.” There was a soft
bong
. Jesse said, “Let’s see who’s my anonymous caller.” He pressed the message button, the caller’s soft voice on speakerphone. “Jesse…this is Sonia Acker. I met you that day in the sheriff’s office. You were talkin’ to the police, the detective. I’m Jeremiah Franklin’s niece. I was over at my granny’s house last night. Uncle Jeremiah was there, too. Something happened. I need to show you. Call me back, okay. And please hurry.”

Caroline looked up at Jesse. “You’d better call that girl. She doesn’t sound good.”

Jesse nodded and hit the return call button. “Sonia, it’s Jesse.”

“I need to see you.”

“Sure, what’s it about?”

“I’ll show you when I see you. Where you at?”

“Ruby’s Coffee Shop.”

“Is that next door to the flower store?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Is Jeremiah okay?”

“For now he is. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

The Jackson Country Club smelled of old money. I drove through a stately ivy-trimmed, brick entranceway; flickering yellow flames in the center of nineteenth century coach lamps were perched atop the brick pillars. A sprawling golf course was to my left, tennis courts and a massive swimming pool to my right in the distance. The clubhouse beyond the pool and tennis courts was Old World brick, French chateau styling and pitched roofs. Camellias blossomed in fist-sized white blooms. Azaleas popped in flowers of pink and blood red. The scent of the flora mixed with the smells of fresh cut grass and wealth.

The golf pro shop was to the left near the end of the big circular drive. Two men in their fifties, smoking cigars, stood next to a new Cadillac, trunk open, a teenager in shorts and a polo shirt, nametag pinned to his shirt, unloaded golf clubs from the men’s car. Another tall, skinny kid in his late teens, red-faced and perspiring, ran to fetch a golf cart as two other men waited.

Fifty yards to the right was the main clubhouse. Ancient live oaks draped in Spanish moss stood on both ends of the massive structure. The verdant St. Augustine grass, much of it cast in deep shade from the oaks, resembled a thick, green carpet bordered with azaleas and yellow and white impatiens.

I spotted the Mercedes moving through the parking lot, which was peppered with a few dozen luxury cars and upscale SUV’s. The driver in the Mercedes tapped his brakes, lights flashing on as he pulled up near the front entrance. The driver smiled, waving away the valet guy who trotted up to the car. The driver parked close to the grand chateau. I parked between a Jaguar and an Audi, turned the Jeep’s engine off and watched.

James Winston and the man in the front seat of the Mercedes got out, Winston glancing at the gold watch on his wrist. The driver stayed in the car, windows down, and sunglasses on. From somewhere in the cavernous shadows of the Porte-cochere, came a man I recognized. He stepped into the sunlight and grinned, shaking the hands of his newly arrived guests. He wore a light gray suit, deep red tie.

State Attorney, Jeff Carson, slapped James Winston on the back and led his party into the affluent and insular sanctity of the members-only fortress. I remembered what Jesse had told me about one of the reporters at the local newspaper, Cory Wilson. ‘
He said he really wanted to write a story, but didn’t have enough to go on, so he wanted me to let him know if I found something else.’
Maybe I’d just discovered the something else. I called the number to the newspaper and asked to speak with Cory Wilson. When he answered I said, “You told Jesse Taylor you wanted to write a story about the corruption and political graft going on surrounding the sale of the old reform school property, but you didn’t have enough to go on. You might now.”

“Who’s this?”

“That’s not important. What’s important is the CEO of Horizon Properties, James Winston, is having a private meeting with the state attorney, Jeff Carson. They’re at the Jackson Country Club. And, if you leave now, they’ll probably be having dessert when you get here.”

I disconnected.