Murder in the Magic City, G.P. Sorrells [primary phonics books .TXT] 📗

“That would be?”

“Taking care of the trash.”

“What makes you so confident he can take on any garbage removal we may deem necessary? As you’re aware, my friend, our trash has a certain stench to it.”

“Remember that guy Jennings?”

Medina nodded.

“He’s the one who paid him a final visit,” Castillo said.

“Interesting.” Medina knew the intricacies of that job all too well. As with nearly everything that went on with his flock, he had ordered it. That police were still with no viable leads so long after the hit meant that the man who pulled it off had at least some idea how to do his job effectively. That, or he was a lucky schmuck. “It appears he has some skill.”

“No kidding. I want to have him work one more job for us before I can say for sure that he belongs. We’ll have to pay him this time, though.”

Medina smiled. He always appreciated the respect Castillo had for the traditions in their world. There was a certain way to go about one’s business, and often the young guns thought they could forego it all, that they exist on nothing more than unadulterated machismo. Not Castillo. He could be hotheaded, letting his emotions get the best of him from time to time, but he believed in doing the important things properly. It was hard to argue with his track record. “Who did you have in mind?”

“Dirk Cagney,” Castillo answered, nodding his head toward the television. “Some of my boys had a deal with him on a few kilos and the son of a bitch tried to set them up. He chose the meeting place and, when they showed up to the spot, he had a squad of pigs with him.”

“I see.” Medina was mildly uncomfortable with the idea of revenge killing a man previously in cahoots with local law enforcement, but he kept it to himself. If this new guy were worth his weight, and every sign was that he would be, he wouldn’t leave a trail. Besides, it was apparent that Castillo had devoted some consideration to the job at hand, and a recommendation from him didn’t come lightly. Castillo knew Medina would associate the former’s own reputation with whoever he brought on, so he chose new bodies with the scrutiny often reserved for determining how to divvy up retirement funds. “Speak with your boy about the job. If he can gain your approval, he’s in. If he fucks up, the blame rests on his shoulders.”

“Of course, boss.”

-#-

The shower had been good for Micah. Hot water had a way of soothing even the most aggravating of sore muscles. He stepped out and grabbed a towel but, without even being given the chance to dry off, his phone sprang to life from its perch on the counter.

“What’s up?”

“Nice work last night.” The voice sounded distorted, but it could only have been one person. “I’ve got another job for you. Meet me at the spot at two.”

As was apparently customary when speaking with Castillo on the telephone, the line clicked dead before Micah had so much as a chance to thank him for the kind words.

Chapter 12

Osteen and Vivian sat before a table with a collage of stills from the surveillance video they retrieved as evidence. Each still from the dinky cameras scattered about Crandon Park had a timestamp on it. They could dissect individual moments of the crime as it took place without being forced to rewind countless times. Thanks to the wonder of computers, the photographs had been cleaned up a bit and were noticeably clearer than they had appeared in the recording.

In one still, the pair could see Jennings walking to his car. He had a look that gave the impression he didn’t have a care in the world. He surely didn’t think he was living out his last moments on Earth. The next still showed their perp sitting on a bench. He had done a superb job of passing off as a vagrant, wasting away what few would consider a life, but his actions later that evening weren’t capable of being perpetrated by someone who had so recently been under the influence of alcohol. At least, not in the coordinated effort in which the act took place. The third still showed the perp after he had stood up from the bench. Ready to make a move, the camera had caught him during the tossing of the brown paper bag onto his faux domicile.

Osteen had ordered a tech to retrieve the bag and take it to the crime scene laboratory for further testing after their initial search revealed nothing meaningful. They were still awaiting the results. Frame number four depicted the end of the life of Edgar Jennings. In the photograph, they could see the perp holding Jennings just so as he introduced the deceased’s body to the knife. Jennings’s body appeared tense, perhaps surprised that a foreign object was being forced into it.

“The more I look at this,” Osteen said, motioning toward the photographs, “the more I’m convinced our mystery man premeditated this. If you’re out to steal the guy’s car, why stalk him on the run? Just take the damn thing the moment he leaves its vicinity.”

“Also, why bring that knife? Jennings doesn’t strike me as the type of man who would’ve put up much of a fight,” Vivian said. “Not physically, anyway. He seems like the type to whip out a checkbook and attempt to pay the pain away.”

“It’s reasonable to assume he suspected there were cameras on site. That said, I don’t think it’s nearly as likely he guessed the quality of the tape.”

“Don’t think he would’ve dressed up for the occasion if that were the case,” Vivian chided.

“No, I don’t suppose so,” Osteen agreed, chuckling. “I think it’s safe to say he chose the knife both because of the color and an assumption how it might appear