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

yourself one question,” Micah muttered in a half-assed Clint Eastwood impression. “Do I feel lucky?”

He picked up the pace, rolling toward the left side of the building. Away from the major thoroughfare and toward the employee’s entrance. The oval-shaped wall broke apart, an absurdly long tarp-like sign hung across the expanse between the curves. Underneath the fabric were a few stairs, which seemed to lead up to the greater structure. Between them were a large box container, and a storage shed. They were both branded with the Miami Seaquarium logo, but neither appeared to be integral to the overnight goings on within the oceanarium.

Micah stopped in front of the shed, grabbed hold of a padlock securing the door, and prepared to pick the lock. He stopped dead in his tracks when he heard whistling from above. A second tune followed shortly after. The first whistle was feint, and hard to place, coming through like a light breeze on a scorching summer day. The sound that came after had an almost alien quality to it. High pitched, the tone increasing and decreasing in frequency as though it were an attempt to relay information rather than simply recall a song. The clarity also appeared to be a bit off, like it was playing through a speaker.

“What the hell is going on up there?” Micah wondered aloud. He slowly released the padlock and approached the stairs. The whistling continued. It was almost like listening in on a couple of lovebirds amid courting. He crept up the stairs, eyes locked toward the whistles. On the next level, he saw a man standing in front of a large glass window. On the other side was dark blue water, the kind that engulfs you in an overwhelming, somewhat unpleasant sense of dread. It felt to Micah like staring into the abyss. A feeling he knew all too well.

The man before him was balding and had a gut that suggested a proclivity for unhealthy food. He wasn’t young, but a bit of regular exercise could go a long way toward adding years to his life. He stowed a rolling cart against the glass next to him. It had many tubes and beakers scattered across the top. The lower level was a collection of manilla folders and seemingly random documents. It appeared the man was studying something. Micah watched the communication between man and sea mammal for a few more moments before deciding he’d had enough.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything here,” Micah said. He had to try hard not to chuckle.

The man turned around, a look of irritation on his face. “Who the hell are you?”

“Just a concerned citizen, out for a stroll.” Micah took a step forward and picked up a beaker, turning it around slowly in his hands in mock examination. “Are you Christensen?”

“Please, put that down this instant,” the man said, flushed. He removed the beaker from Micah’s hand and stood as a barrier between the cart and his uninvited visitor. “As to your question, that depends on who’s asking.”

“The name’s Ross,” Micah said. The lie rolled off his tongue as though it were second nature, but something about it felt all right. “Ross Sheridan.”

“Well, Mister Sheridan,” Christensen replied snidely, “I don’t see a visitor’s pass on your person, but I trust you have the clearance to be back here in the employee’s only area?”

“Oh, absolutely. If you’d like, I can get that for you right now.”

“I’d rather you just tell me why you’re really here.”

Lolita continued to swim around the large tank that made up most of her enclosure. Periodically she would let out another whistle, seemingly curious why her attempts at interspecies communication had suddenly become one-sided.

“Let’s be honest with each other. I think we both know you’ve got a fairly solid idea about the answer.”

“I could speculate all night, but there’s only so much overtime to go around, I’m afraid.”

“Cut the shit, Oliver,” Micah snarled. Annoyed though he may be, he had to give it to the tub of lard across from him for returning each verbal jab like a champ.

“Wait just a minute, how did you…?”

“Word around town is you owe a bookie quite a bit of money. Thirty grand sound familiar?”

“That’s what all this is about?” Christensen seemed oddly relieved at the revelation. “I told that greaseball that I’d get him the money. It was just going to take longer than expected. Business hasn’t exactly been booming as of late, so the cash hasn’t flowed as well as it does usually.”

“That’s your problem, not ours,” Micah said. Any pity he had for the man vanished the moment he uttered the slur. “Ever think of picking up a second job? It’s a great way to earn some extra cash. Hell, a man with a PhD should at least be able to get a halfway decent meth operation running.”

“A second job is a little tough when you’re working 55 hours a week on the low end. Doesn’t leave much time for other obligations.”

“Are you salaried?”

“Not in the traditional sense, no.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re pulling overtime, yet you still can’t even pay back part of the money you owe?”

“It… it’s not like that.”

“Then tell me, friend,” Micah said, advancing. “What is it like?”

Christensen backed up hastily and knocked over the rolling cart, sending the glass instruments flying. He got up slowly, his hands fumbling with something on the ground. Micah walked closer, aware that something was awry, but not entirely sure what to make of it from where he stood.

“I’m not playing games here. You’ve had more than enough time to pay up, yet you keep holding out. It’s as if you don’t fully grasp the severity of the situation.”

“It’s just… I…,” Christensen waited until Micah was nearly upon him, and then he lunged forward, a shard of glass in his hand. He swiped for Micah’s head, but didn’t expect a dodge. His momentum carried him forward, grazing Micah’s chest.

“Son of a bitch!”

Micah paid no attention to the searing pain coming