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

was an odd pause, as though Castillo hadn’t planned on this option and had to consider how best to pivot. “Okay, no worries. I’ve come across an interesting business opportunity for us. Could be pretty lucrative.”

A multitude of questions swirled about in Micah’s head, but the best he could come up with in that moment wasn’t even remotely close to thought provoking. “Oh, really?”

“Yep. I’ll need your expertise to be sure it goes off without a hitch, but it should be a piece of cake. Meet me at the spot in the morning. Say 10-ish.”

“All right, Micah said. He hung up the phone and walked back into the apartment, lost in even more thoughts than before.

Chapter 38

Vivian sat in front of a rather plain headstone at Flagler Memorial Park, a cemetery in the heart of Miami. A bottle of cheap whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other, it would be easy to dismiss her as just another vagrant out to get some cheap thrills, drunkenly hunting ghosts. The dark night sky and dismal lighting hid the tears that had dried on her face. They buried Osteen months ago, what remained of him anyway. But losing someone close, someone who has changed you for the better, is no simple thing to move past. She still listened to the voicemail he left her.

The last call he had ever made.

To her.

Or anyone.

“Hey, Viv, it’s Dan. (No shit, she always thought, laughing despite the reality.) I’m about to do something stupid. Kinda glad you didn’t pick up. You’d be telling me what a dumbass I am for going through with this. (You’re damn right, she thought, sniffling.) Anywho, Jimmy Castillo called me up. No idea how he got my number specifically, but he wants me to meet with him at Henderson’s. It’s a junkyard over in Hialeah. Says he’s got information to tie up these murders we keep running into. I doubt I can trust the sonofabitch, but what choice do I have?” Another pause. Vivian could hear the engine in his cruiser gradually quieting, almost like it was reaching idle, before cutting out altogether. “Look, I gotta go. I’ll let you know when I’m headed back to the station. We may need to move quick, get a jump on things.” And then the line clicked. For good.

Based on when she had received the call, and the time of death the Crime Scene techs deduced based on when the car crusher had last run, the call likely ended about the time Osteen arrived at the junkyard, less than an hour before he breathed one last time. He had sounded somewhat calm. As if death was the last thing on his mind. He seemed to believe that something good would come from his walking into the proverbial lion’s den.

“You damn fool,” Vivian whispered. She took a final swig from the bottle and threw it off in the distance. “Who am I kidding? I’m the fool too. Walk down to the Evidence Locker and forget my phone on the desk at the worst possible time. If I would’ve had it on me, you might still be here. Hell, just don’t think about going there at all and you’re alive. But that’s not you. No, you had to see something in these cases. Couldn’t just believe they were random. That maybe, just maybe, life is working the way it always does. Shit happens to everyone. We don’t all get to ride off into the sunset because we don’t like the cards life dealt us.”

She fell to her knees, sobbing. Why was this bothering her so much? Why couldn’t she just bottle it up like she did when her grandmother passed? “Just look at you, crushed in a goddamn car. Perfect example that sometimes terrible things just happen. Doesn’t mean they’re connected to another shitty thing that happened to take place in the same city. Especially not when there’s three million of us running around this fucking place!” Angry though she might be, Vivian knew there was something curious about the chain of events that resulted in the death of her partner. The culprit practically stared right back at her in a manner of speaking. It was the motive that seemed to tie back into everything else. It was all so perfectly coincidental otherwise.

But, if she were being honest with herself, she simply wasn’t sure she had it in her to continue pursuing the threads, hoping they would one day come together to form some coherent tapestry. A picture of the inner workings of Osteen’s mind in the past how many months. Something to show that he hadn’t died for nothing. That his sacrifice had meant something for the greater good. For now, all she wanted to do was drink away her sorrows.

Chapter 39

Sheridan reluctantly allowed himself to be strapped down to another gurney and wheeled into the same strange circular room he had been in just a few days prior. Nothing good came from being inside, yet he knew resistance was futile. This must be what destiny feels like, he thought. Or giving up.

“All right, Mr. Sheridan,” came the low monotone voice of an unrecognizable blob of a man. “Let’s get you set up.”

Sheridan wondered what happened to either of the nurses from the other day. And why the odd fellow fumbling with a table full of medical equipment had replaced them. He found it difficult to focus on anything other than what the Blob was attempting at that very moment. Confusion, and a pinch of pity, washed over him as he watched the man struggle to pick up an intravenous line without pricking himself. Sheridan hadn’t the foggiest idea how the Blob had passed through any form of medical school.

Eventually, the Blob hurried over with a medical tray in tow. Laid out on top of it were a pair of intravenous bags with matching lines. Sheridan scrutinized the bags, trying to make sense of the scribble on