Tom Lowe - The 24th Letter

O’Brien reached behind his back and pulled out the Glock, pointing it at the trainer’s chest. He said, “Before me time? LaMotta was said to have a granite chin. How about you, asshole?”

“Get this crazy fucker away from me!” shouted the trainer to Hamilton.

“Sorry, he’s an independent contractor. Doesn’t answer to me”

The trainer’s eyes bulged in disbelief. “I’ll sue!”

O’Brien said, “No you won’t! You carried me out of here. Tossed me out with the garbage. You, or one of your grunts, snuffed Salazar and dumped his body near me to make it look like I killed him.”

“You’re crazy!”

“Yes! Yes I am. Wanna see how crazy? Who’re you working for?”

Hamilton’s cell rang, the rings sounding far away in the warehouse. He answered it. Hamilton listened, holding a hand in the air to get O’Brien’s attention. Hamilton cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder and made timeout sign with his hands. He said, “I’ll need that statement in writing. Your attorney can bring an affidavit or contact the state attorney and give it to him in writing. This applies to Sergio Conti, too.” Hamilton grunted and hung up. He said to O’Brien. “Sean, let’s talk.”

O’Brien lowered the Glock. The trainer grinned. O’Brien said, “Stay right there!”

O’Brien and Hamilton walked to the opposite side of the small warehouse. Hamilton said, “You’re not gonna believe who called-”

“Russo.”

“How’d you know?”

“Because with Salazar dead, the last living witness to Russo’s connection with Charlie Williams is gone. I become a moot point.”

“Now we have another murder on our hands. This one is the death of a hit man.”

“And I’d bet you a day’s receipts from Russo’s drug operation that the big leprechaun here in the corner is nothing more than a real con. I’m sure he works for Russo. And probably snapped Salazar’s neck as soon as they tossed me in the trash.”

Something caught O’Brien’s eye. A reflection. A small object lying next to a stack of cardboard boxes. He stepped to the boxes, knelt down, and picked up the item. O’Brien held it to the light.

“What’s that?” asked Hamilton. “Looks like an eye.”

“This is a black onyx earring. Last night our Irish host was wearing it. I saw it fall off his ear when he tossed me over his shoulder.”

“So much for no one in here in weeks. This place is a boxing museum in boxes, for God sakes. Looks like we stepped into a twilight zone time warp, a place where Joe Louis and the Rock are on faded posters. A killer is dead. Somebody snapped his neck. He was breathing when you left the ring. This fight didn’t exist. In the alley, you got rats, roaches and a body found a hundred yards from you. So what?”

“What are you saying, Ron?”

“I’m saying you have two days to save Charlie Williams’ life. You’re off the hook. We’ll see if we can find something tangible to tie steroids over there to Salazar’s slip on the banana peel. You’ll have a better chance to toss Williams a life ring, now that Tucker Houston’s on board. When’s he meeting with Judge Davidson?”

O’Brien looked at his watch. “If church is out at noon, five minutes.”

“In five minutes Charlie Williams may have something to cling to.”

As they walked past the trainer, O’Brien said, “You swept up well. But you missed something.” O’Brien tossed the earring to him and said, “Something always slips through the cracks. I would have thought that earring was onyx. But it’s only polished blarney. Gottcha, mate.”

It was 1:30 in the afternoon and O’Brien had not heard from Tucker Houston. O’Brien put the top down on the T-Bird and pushed the car up to eighty as he crossed the Rickenbacker Causeway on his way back to Tucker’s house. The bay was deep sapphire, the afternoon sun scattering diamond-like reflections from the swells kicked up by boat traffic. O’Brien watched a large sailboat raise the spinnaker as the skipper cut the motor and caught the wind toward the pass to the sea.

Tucker Houston’s car was in the drive. O’Brien parked the T-bird and knocked on the door. When Tucker answered, he was still dressed in his church clothes-pleated slacks, powder blue shirt with a maroon tie loosened to the first open button. He’d kicked off his shoes and was sipping tomato juice from a clear glass mug.

“My God,” said Tucker, “if I had known you were going to look like this, I’d have said a prayer for you before starting the fight.” Tucker motioned for him to come in the house. They sat in the pool patio area.

“Sean, what the hell happened?”

“I managed to survive what amounted to a death match.”

“What?”

“Back room, gym.” O’Brien told Tucker what happened.

Tucker sipped his juice and said, “FBI needs to be made aware of that operation.”

“What did Judge Davidson say?”

“His wife said he was in Seattle, something to do with their oldest son and a business deal he was trying to tie together.”

“When’s he return?”

“Not until Thursday.”

“What are our options?”

“I can file with the Fifth Circuit. Because of the impending ominous hour, the court might move it up the docket. Maybe hear it Tuesday, if we’re lucky.”

“And if they don’t?”

“They could simply refuse to hear it. Period. Our options then fall considerably more narrow…as in the governor or the high court.”

“You mean the Florida Supreme Court?”

“I mean the U.S. Supreme Court.”

O’Brien was silent.

“To get Governor Owens's ear, we’ll need something tangible. A pending DNA test, something like that would legitimately give reason for doubt until the tests were conclusive…one way or the other. The Supreme Court may simply refuse to hear it. We could ask for a stay alleging lethal injection is a cruel and unusually painful way to fulfill the mandate of the lower court. However, in this, all we’re saying is you can go on and kill Williams, you just need to kill him in a kinder, gentler, less painful way.”

“So what are our odds in any of the scenarios?”

“Not good. I’ll launch every legal red flag I can. What can you do next?”

“I’m going to look at a painting.”

“What?”

“A fifteenth century painting.”

“You pick a hell of a time to visit an art museum.”

“Maybe. A painting from the past may be the best thing we have right now to keep an execution for happening in the future.”

“How so?”

“I’m not sure. A friend of mine has spent some time these last few days on the computer, researching and analyzing an image that Father Callahan left in blood.” O’Brien paused, “I know it’s going to sound weird…”

“Trust me, I was a defense attorney, nothing sounds weird.”

“This might. The painting is somehow tied to the Greek letter Omega, the last letter, and the twenty-forth letter in the Greek alphabet. If the painting can reveal the link, the connection between all of this, it might spell out the real killer’s name or something that will give you that tangible evidence to take to somebody’s court.”

Tucker smiled. “You’d mentioned the image, a cloaked figure or something silhouetted against the moon, correct?”

“I know I’d seen it somewhere before. Kind of like a scent you haven’t smelled in years, and you remember a time and place you thought was forgotten a long time ago. I saw an image of clouds against the moon the other night, and I remembered a painting of the Virgin Mary, sort of descending with the moon, or maybe she was rising with the moon. Now I remember she was looking down at a man. I don’t know who he was, but he was looking up at her and taking notes. Can you take me to the airport?”