Murder in the Magic City: A Micah Brantley Story by G.P. Sorrells (ebook reader computer TXT) 📗

had a pleasant view of a recently restored lifeguard shack off in the distance. The interested park employees had hoped it was to be the ultimate piece of an elaborate trap to catch the vandals that continued to plague their park. They caught no one spray painting after they put the cameras up, which only produced more questions, but it eventually fell farther down the totem pole of importance.

After several minutes of absolutely nothing outside of a random varmint, the Mercedes appeared on screen. It vanished almost as quickly as it had materialized. Vivian rewound the video and paused at the exact moment the camera saw into the car. They could see what looked to be the man from the bench sitting calmly in the driver’s seat. Sunglasses covered his eyes, but it was still possible to get a rough idea of his facial features since he passed significantly closer to this camera. Brown hair cut short, a precisely trimmed beard, chiseled cheekbones that would make the knees of most women tremble, and an unnervingly distant look of indifference.

“We’re going to need a copy of those recordings,” Osteen informed Wooden.

Chapter 11

The scariest dreams are those that feel so real while you’re in them you would swear they were reality once the light forces your eyes to part, and your brain to focus on the actual world. Some people attempt to clarify this phenomenon by classifying various items or events in the dream as matters of importance. They equate one scene within the dream to something taking place in their life at that point in time. Pure coincidence is impossible in the realm of understanding the tales of one’s slumbers. Therefore, there must exist a reason for every experience.

It’s said that the subconscious mind is trying to tell the person something their waking mind won’t allow them to see. Perhaps the truth is not so complex as all those assertions. Maybe the mind is simply trying to remember a point in its past that exists only as a gray area. A point that may have happened, but for which there is no explanation. Then again, it could be nothing at all.

Micah jolted up from his bed in a cold sweat. His sheets drenched, causing him to wonder momentarily if he had slept soundly enough to not realize the urge to relieve himself before it was too late. “Holy shit,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “What was that?”

The moment that followed was full of confusion as Micah stepped out of bed and walked to the bathroom. He turned the knob on the tub faucet to a setting near the middle. Not too hot, not too cold, just right. Goldilocks would be proud. Warm water flowed from the shower head to the tub as he tossed his boxers into the empty hanger stationed nearby. Micah stepped inside, hoping the water would wash away the strange feeling that had overcome him. This daily ritual usually created within him a sense of calm, but his mind was working overload, trying desperately to come to grips with the dream he had just escaped from.

-#-

The sound of the morning news filled the room as Micah rummaged through the cabinets in his kitchen for something resembling a filling breakfast. He wasn’t having much luck outside of a bowl of Frosted Flakes. A blond reporter was whispering about something that took place the night before in their sunny paradise. Micah grabbed the remote and cranked the volume.

“Dirk, I’m standing in front of what many of our viewers may know to have once been home to Giuseppe’s Pizzeria. According to officers on the scene, there is no foul play suspected in the apparent accident that resulted in the loss of the once successful restaurant. Investigators on the scene have hinted at the possibility of an electrical short as the cause of the fire, but we must wait for the Fire Marshall’s official report before we know for certain.”

-#-

The living room of the Medina household didn’t quite live up to the illustrious standards expected of a home on Fisher Island. It was massive, yet the only furniture inside was an oversized sectional sofa in a vibrant Seafoam green, a couple of scattered leather chairs, and a comically large mahogany coffee table. A seventy-inch flat screen television rested on the wall directly above the sofa. It looked like a piece of modern art, quite at home with the other odds and ends. Large bay windows on the right side of the room allowed the sun’s rays to sneak in and provide warmth to anyone resting nearby.

Carlos Medina was a man who, although in his fifties, still had the physique of someone two decades his junior. Not a gray hair on his head and a stocky build that gave him the ability to intimidate even the largest of men. Rumors of his brutality only reinforced the image that often accompanied his legend.

“This is the guy I was telling you about, boss,” Castillo said as he pointed at the screen. Fire crews were examining the scene of a restaurant fire that had taken place the night before. “I want to bring him aboard. I had Victor check everything he could about this guy, and it all came back clear.”

Medina was silent for a moment. He took a moment to reflect on the request and properly determine its merit. Castillo had been with him for a long time. A good earner, and someone whose judgment he trusted without question. Truth was, he had already decided which move to make, but he loved to drag things on when possible. “He does excellent work. However, before I can offer my approval, tell me this,” Medina said, leaning forward to retrieve a Cohiba from its resting place on a plain gold ashtray. “What is it you see him doing for us? It’s rare we need the services of an arsonist.”

Castillo smirked before responding. “That was just a test.