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

her crotch, a ball gag in her mouth, on the floor of a crummy apartment with a shrine to her in a nearby closet. The sicko who had stalked her created that same shrine and, eventually, took her life. To say a rich guy in Key Biscayne with a knife protruding from his neck didn’t rank high on Osteen’s list of most shocking murders would be the understatement of the century.

Odds were good that it was nothing more than a mugging gone awry. He expected they would only find the culprit through sheer dumb luck. If the mugger were smart, he would have concealed his identity from the watchful eyes of security cameras in the area. Considering the early morning hour at which his phone rang, Osteen doubted there were any witnesses. Anyone who commits murder without a subconscious desire to end up like their victim or caught typically attempts to do a passable job at stalling any potential progress by the detective in determining whodunit.

Of course, it was even possible the killer would turn themselves in once the guilt became too much to bear for whatever bit of conscience they had left. Regardless of the motive, Osteen’s primary role in the investigation would probably entail extensive authoring of a crime report; something he looked at with the same type of longing he associated with his annual prostate exams. The longer he could pass on that inevitability, the better.

-#-

Vivian Jackson was at the scene of the crime, assessing the situation when Osteen pulled up in his unmarked but still painfully obvious squad car. They had been partners for just two years, Osteen showing her the ropes about what it took to last as a detective in Miami, the Magic City, as those who held it dear affectionately referred to it. Vivian was green at first. Coming to the position after handing out traffic citations for a few years would unsettle just about anyone.

What helped her adjust to the massive shift in expectations was her upbringing. Her father had been a beat cop in Overtown, a rough neighborhood situated just north of Downtown Miami. It had once been the pinnacle of nightlife in the area, but the construction of various highways for the thriving metropolis severely fragmented the neighborhood, sending it spiraling into a serious economic decline it never quite recovered from. During his time on that beat, Vivian’s father witnessed firsthand the lengths people will go to survive when the deck becomes stacked against them. He kept what he had seen from his family until the day his oldest said she wished to follow in his footsteps. It was then that he told her a brief bit about the sort of things she could expect to see if she were to follow his lead even remotely close.

“People are animals,” he had told her, “but it’s almost hard to blame them for it. You take a man’s ability to provide for his family, you can’t expect him to act civilized. All the stamps in the world won’t make up for the fact that the man won’t hire him because he don’t look a certain way. Some men figure out a way around that problem within the confines of the law. For those who the education system failed, however, the result is grimmer. The way they get around it often involves a willing separation from the morals they once knew. They strap themselves every moment they’re awake, they slang dope, whatever it takes to keep the money rolling in. They all meet their maker in the end. Sadly, it don’t seem to matter which choice they made along the way because their last moments on this earth are rarely peaceful.”

That talk, among others, had instilled within Vivian a deep sense of passion for the less fortunate among her. It shaped much about the woman she became and how she approached her job. She was fearless, and demanded respect, but she was always willing to give every perp the benefit of the doubt — even if she didn’t come right out and say it. There’s always more to the story than the page the book is open to when she first arrives. She just had to sift through it all and find the parts worth reading.

-#-

Osteen parked and fished his badge out from the seemingly endless depths of his coat pocket. He reluctantly made his way to the yellow tape, flashed the brass at the officer stationed on crowd control, and ducked underneath. He scanned the area briefly before walking over to where Vivian stood, examining the body.

“What do we have here?” Osteen asked quizzically, in his most official tone.

Vivian turned, smirked, and replied, “Some poor schmuck took a Gerber to the throat last night. Left quite the mess all over the parking lot.”

“Seems like there’d be easier ways to turn a guy down.”

“Some guys just can’t take no for an answer.”

“This is true,” Osteen muttered. “What do we know so far?”

“The victim’s name is Edgar Jennings. He was a real estate lawyer who enjoyed the finer things in life; hence the Armani.”

“Anything more interesting than his fashion sense?”

“Not particularly,” Vivian lamented. Truth be told, the victim’s fashion sensibilities didn’t resonate with her. Fashion was always a passing interest to her, but never something that made her drop what she was doing to experience. “Single knife wound to the neck. Appears to have happened in this spot and, judging by the odd break in the blood on the ground here,” Vivian said as she pointed at an empty spot of asphalt between the main pool of blood and some splatter a few inches away, “we can probably assume he was attempting to enter his car.”

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a vehicle to find,” Osteen said.

“According to the insurance card in his wallet…”

“His wallet… it was still on him?” Osteen could not hope to contain the incredulous look on his face the moment that puzzling information registered in his brain.

“Yes.