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

to the world around her. She didn’t notice a solid black, nearly windowless, van roll to a stop next to her. Its doors slammed open, and two pairs of arms lunged out, grabbing hold of her shoulders and legs. She disappeared into the void without a sound.

Chapter 47

Vivian sat at her desk, gazing at her computer screen. The colors had blended long since blended, her brain descending into mush. A multitude of tabs stared back at her, each full to the brim with copious amounts of information about Carlos Medina, Edgar Jennings, and the type of life each man had led to that point.

A connection existed, albeit tangentially. From what she could tell, Jennings had sold Medina his home on Fisher Island a few years back. Her information was rudimentary at that point, not much more than Jennings’ name listed as the selling agent on a run-of-the-mill real estate website most people used to check the value of their homes.

It could be something, but she didn’t feel great about the odds. Almost as if pursuing the notion any further would equate to nothing more than chasing a red herring. To some, vanity means more than actual accomplishment. Maybe he just enjoys seeing his name all over the place. Vivian could see the sale date as well, but she wanted obvious proof Jennings was the agent responsible for closing on the sale before she pursued a warrant for Medina.

“What could make you want to take out your real estate agent?” Vivian twirled a pen around, hoping the rhythmic spinning would trigger a eureka moment. When that didn’t happen, she called the Miami-Dade County Recorder’s Office.

She angrily clicked through a few automated prompts before finally connecting to an actual person. “Hello, this is Detective Vivian Jackson with the Miami Metro Police Department. Yes, I need some files sent over to my office. No, I don’t have a warrant. Is there, uh, anyway we could consider this a professional courtesy? Yes, yes, that’ll work.”

Vivian hung up the phone and glared at her computer screen, willing the email into existence. She didn’t like to bribe people with their own get-out-of-jail free cards, but the chance to bring down a kingpin like Medina was far more important than what she was or wasn’t comfortable with. After what felt like an eternity, her inbox dinged, and a new message appeared. She ignored the text and opened the PDF.

A quick scan of the document revealed Jennings was the closing agent, but he didn’t act alone. In fact, he wasn’t even around when the closing paperwork for the Fisher Island mansion was signed. He had sent one of his underlings to deal with the fun task of signing off on the copious amounts of paperwork that came along with acquiring property of any sort.

Vivian’s eyes continued to scan the file, jumping from one point to the next like a bulbous fruit fly darting around in search of a juicy, discarded morsel of food. Tucked away in a manner not likely to be noticed by anyone outside of the most studious of underwriters, was the tidbit she had hoped to find. Initially, the commission percentage was a healthy five percent for Jennings’s agency. Higher than the standard rate, but likely agreed upon once all the factors surrounding the sale were first put into perspective.

I assure you, Mr. Medina, this is standard procedure when dealing with a home of this stature. More hands available helps to move the process along at a quick pace. It also all but eliminates the chance for a blunder of any sort.

Vivian found it difficult to reconcile with the ease with which the supposed conversation played out in her mind. It felt scummy, and it seemed all too likely to have existed somewhere near reality. The ballooned percentage implied a notion that it was there simply to cover the efforts of a pair of agents working to close a sale. A sort of monetary nod to their endeavors in ultimately arriving at the desired end.

Below the initial commission percentage listed was a second line. A placeholder normally left empty unless something would have to be added in at the last moment. Here, a most peculiar set of words filled the space.

Closing costs adj. to 10%.

Medina had scrawled his initials on a space below the words, seeming to show his agreement with the absurd increase. According to the PDF, however, the line regarding the increase had been filled in a day after they originally signed the paperwork.

“That crazy sonofabitch actually tried to pull a fast one on a kingpin.” Vivian stood up, shaking her head. She paced around her desk for a moment before sitting back down and backing up the newfound information onto a zip drive. “It’s no wonder Medina wanted him dead. Time to get my hands on that warrant.”

Chapter 48

Micah heard a strange sound as he walked into the apartment. A muffled whimper from off in the distance, like a wounded animal, interspersed with the pedestrian sounds of modern life. The refrigerator gargled as it jostled frozen water into cubed form. A low, steady hum from the air conditioner, constantly overworked by the South Florida humidity. All that was needed to create the auditory trifecta was the television playing a show for the still air.

He set down the grocery bags he had been carrying and tip-toed toward the source of the strange noise. The closer he got, the more he could distinguish it from everything else vying for his attention. Sobbing. A soft, gut-wrenching sound from the other side of the door. It caused him to drop his guard immediately, switching from paranoid homeowner to concerned boyfriend. Micah touched the door, hesitated briefly, and walked inside.

Valerie was on the bed, facing the window on the opposite side of the room. She was lying still, in a sort of fetal position that seemed to shout to the world that she had had enough of its shit for one