The 24th Letter (Sean O'Brien Mystery/Thriller) by Tom Lowe

Author:Tom Lowe
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781475128123
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
Published: 2012-06-07T00:00:00+00:00

FIFTY

As O’Brien started his Jeep, two ambulances and a half dozen police cruisers flew past him screaming like a posse racing to Club Oz. O’Brien pulled onto Washington Avenue, cut over to Ocean Drive, and headed north toward North Shore State Recreation Area. He didn’t know if Russo was dead or alive. And he didn’t know what the state attorney would say about the confession on tape. O’Brien thought it might be tossed out, acquired under duress. But at least it was an admission of guilt. God , he thought, please let it buy Charlie Williams some time.

The prime question, the one Russo hadn’t had time to rehearse answers to, was what happened to Sam Spelling’s letter? Why hadn’t he shown the slightest sign of deception when he was asked about the letter?

Something in O’Brien’s gut was rumbling—something unsettling about Russo. The information Father Callahan left in blood—how did it connect to Russo? Omega, did it refer to the watch Russo was wearing? Doubtful. The image Father Callahan had drawn…was it something from Club Oz? A witch flying across the moon? Or was it something else? The 666? P-A-T? What did it all mean?

Russo would do or say anything to survive. The cockroach in him was indestructible. The psychosis in him was a personality trait that kept his lawyers deep in six figure retainers. Russo’s attorneys would argue that the confession was acquired under physical threat of violence. O’Brien wasn’t an officer of the law. There were no Miranda rights. Nothing but a confession on tape. But it might give the state attorney a card to deal—something to get a federal judge to sign an order for a stay of execution. If the FBI crime lab could find that Sam Spelling left a sufficient handwriting impression, maybe it would point to the location of the murder weapon. And it would give O’Brien time to find physical evidence.

Russo may have left a print somewhere on the knife—an object he was so sure would be buried under tons of garbage in the dump. But he didn’t know that Sam Spelling was watching him that night.

So close, O’Brien thought. But something was coalescing in his gut. Russo, the subhuman that he was, seemed credible under the stress of an intense interrogation and the threat of a crab snapping his appendages. If he didn’t kill Father Callahan, maybe it was someone Russo had sent.

O’Brien parked under a tall royal palm. He could hear the breakers and smell the sea salt. He took his boat shoes off, lifted the lethargic crab out of the purse, and walked toward the surf. He said, “Hold on, pal. You’re almost home.”

He stood in the rolling waves and gently set the crab in the water. The salt water rinsed the exhaustion from the animal. The crab scurried a few inches. Then it was lifted by the pull of a swell, vanishing into the dark sea.

O’Brien stepped back to dry sand, up to the line of royal palms. He sat under one palm tree, drained, resting his back against its trunk.

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