Tom Lowe - The 24th Letter

“Stand up!”

“What?”

“Stand up!” O’Brien stepped closer to Russo.

“I’ll have your ass on a platter for coming in here and-”

“Shut up! If I shoot you, the music is so loud I could set a bomb off and no one would hear it.”

Russo stood. He was breathing hard. His heart beat fast, causing a gold necklace pendant to vibrate on his chest.

O’Brien said, “Put both of your hands by the door handle.”

Russo slowly did as ordered. O’Brien gestured to Barbie with a quick jerk of the head. “Barbie, cuff him to the door handle.”

“What do you want?” asked Russo.

“The truth. And I have very little time to get it or an innocent man dies. ”

Barbie picked up the handcuffs and clamped one on Russo’s left wrist, ran the other through the door handle and secured the cuff to his right wrist.

O’Brien held the Glock less than two feet from Russo’s face. “Since you have a hard time remembering the night you killed Alexandria Cole, let’s start more recently. Where were you the last three days?”

“Out of town…on business.”

“Where!”

“I was in Detroit on Wednesday. Orlando on Thursday, and up until the time I flew back to Miami late this afternoon.”

“Who were you with?”

“Investors.”

“Give me names!”

“Uhh, Robert Kohns and Ted Jacobs in Detroit. They’re with Michigan Enterprises. In Orlando, I met with, uh, Morgan Coldwell and a business attorney, his name is…uh, Rice, Jim Rice.”

“It’s all about the alibis, isn’t it Russo? You’re good with calling favors, having people vouch for you-no-lie for you. Eleven years ago it was Sergio Conti. You told Conti to tell me and the other investigators that you spent the night at his place, eating stone crabs and tossing their shells over the balcony.”

Russo was silent.

“Didn’t anybody ever tell you that your lies can come back to bite you one day?”

Russo squirmed, sweat popping on his forehead. “I didn’t lie.”

“You did! You told me you were dining on stone crabs the night Alexandria Cole was stabbed seven times. That was a lie, Russo. Your pal, Conti admitted that to me earlier tonight. Said you weren’t around. He tells me, right here on tape, that you-you pervert, were banging an underage girl. But I differed with him. I believe you were killing Alexandria Cole because she was firing you. She didn’t need your slime around her anymore. You tried to keep her addicted to pills and coke. But she finally had enough. You couldn’t stand to lose the dollar signs, the connections she represented. You knew she was making up with her boyfriend. He’d even had sex with her the night you killed her in a rage.”

“You’re fuckin’crazy.”

“Not only could you have killed her, you had no alibi, and you did have a motive. You knew enough about her boyfriend to plant Alexandria’s blood in his truck. What did you do, carry some out in a Ziploc bag and spread it on his clothes and car seat when he was passed out drunk?”

Russo was quiet. He licked his dry lips. “You’re making a big mistake.”

“You made a big mistake when you also carried out the murder weapon and tossed it, because someone in the complex saw you. He blackmailed you. He knew a big shot supermodel manager and nightclub mogul was good for the money. All was quiet for years because he was behind bars on drug charges. But the closer he came to getting out, the more he wanted to dip back into your till. And when Sam Spelling was transported from his cell to testify in an unrelated drug trial, you shot him, or you had someone shoot him. You knew if you killed him, the cops would think it was a hit the defendant in the trial had ordered. But all along, it was to silence an old nemesis that caught you in a murder.”

“I never heard of this Sam Spelling.”

“Sure you have. You killed him. And after you killed him, you murdered one of the finest men I’ve ever known, Father John Callahan.”

“I’m fuckin’ Catholic! You think I’d whack a priest, huh?”

“I think you’d kill anyone who got in your way, including a prison guard that his wife reported missing. The same guard that overheard Spelling talking with Father Callahan. I’m betting he got greedy just like Sam Spelling. Called you and you gave him the same payback you gave Spelling.”

Russo tried to pull the door handle off with the handcuffs. His watchband broke, the watch landing on the carpeted floor. O’Brien picked up the watch. “An Omega. I bet you were wearing this the night you shot Father Callahan. I’m going to ask you one last time, why did you kill Alexandria Cole?”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Your alibi is a lie! Sergio Conti admits you weren’t eating stone crabs at his condo the night she was killed. Where were you?”

Russo licked his lips. Sweat soaked his silk shirt around the collar. He said, “Look, man. I was with somebody I shouldn’t been with, okay?”

“Who?”

“A girl.”

“What girl?”

“I don’t even know her name. I bought her from a pimp for a few hours. I have a little problem,” he paused and looked at Barbie. “I find myself drawn to girls…you know, the young ones. Said her name was Lucy, but who the hell knows. They all lie.”

“The tough life of a pedophile,” said O’Brien. “So many kids, so little time.”

“I haven’t ever stalked a girl, I’m surrounded by so many people-women, lots of adult bitches. It’s nice to do it with someone I can teach, somebody that won’t talk back. So, now you know my secret.”

“Where is this girl? Where’s this pimp?”

“I don’t know, man, it’s been eleven years. She’s probably gown with kids. He’s probably dead.”

“She’s probably warped for life after you taught her something, something evil.”

Russo shrugged his shoulders. “This has been goin’ on since Roman times.”

“Shut up! You disgust me. I believe your little story, you sick narcissist bastard. But I don’t believe it happened the night Alexandria was killed. You stabbed her in an emotional rage.”

“You got some fantasy thing happening, Detective.”

O’Brien leaned in closer to Russo, looking for any hint of deception in Russo’s eyes or body language. “Look at me! What did you do with the letter Spelling wrote to Father Callahan?”

Russo smiled. “What fuckin’ letter?”

O’Brien stared at Russo. “Barbie, hand the purse to me.”

“Since we’re being recorded,” she said, “the purse isn’t technically mine.”

“Hand it to me.”

She gave O’Brien the purse. He lifted the stone crab out, holding it by the back of the shell. The two large claws opened wide, snapping, the crab’s eyes dark as small black pearls.

“Hey! C’mon, man! What the fuck you doin’?” Russo’s voice was higher, pleading.

O’Brien said, “A stone crab this size can generate almost two-thousand pounds of pressure in its claw when it clamps down.”

Russo’s eyes darted from the crab to O’Brien. “You’re insane.”

There was a soft knock at the door. O’Brien leaned closer to Russ and whispered. “Tell your people to go away or they’ll mop up what’s left of you.”

Russo’s eyes bulged. He swallowed dryly, heart hammering. He shouted, “It’s okay. Leave us alone.” He looked back at O’Brien. “You gotta believe me; I’m not mixed up in all this shit.”

“This is the kind of crab you told me you ate and tossed their shells over the balcony at Sergio Conti’s. Their claws are amazing-almost too large for their bodies. They use them to crush clams and mollusks. Imagine what this claw could do to your nose.”