Murder in the Magic City: A Micah Brantley Story G.P. Sorrells (books to get back into reading TXT) 📖

people could be swayed by so simple a sales pitch. Wouldn’t it be better to just have the part delivered without the headache?

The lot was empty, though that was by design. Like many of the forgotten souls across the streets of Miami and its surrounding neighborhoods, the owner of Henderson was willing to do whatever he needed to in order to get by in life. When Castillo offered him a few stacks to close shop for a day, he didn’t hesitate. The guns brandished by the men proposing the shutdown showed just how necessary the move was. Henderson didn’t have the foggiest idea why they needed his lot specifically, but he valued his life too much to ask more than the basics. The stacks of cash didn’t hurt either.

“Where the hell is this guy?” Castillo asked himself as he checked his watch.

As if on cue, he heard an engine in the distance, drawing closer. He stood up and walked over to the front gate, watching as an unmarked police cruiser rolled to a stop on the other side. Castillo scanned the surrounding area, looking for signs of suspicious vehicles. Confident that Osteen had done as he was told and arrived alone, Castillo turned around and motioned something with his hands before pulling the gate open. Its wheels squeaked at a level so shrill it would’ve made a dog whine.

Osteen walked through the gate a moment later, glancing up from his phone as he shoved it into his pocket. “Interesting choice for a meeting spot, Castillo.”

“Please, call me Jimmy.”

“How about we cut the pleasantries and get down to why you called me down here?”

“While I appreciate your desire to get to the important items on the docket, Detective, I must suggest we sit down. There’s quite a lot to discuss, and much of it may not be easy to hear.”

“I’d prefer to stand, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” Castillo said, walking away from the gate. He stopped next to a stripped-down Camaro and turned to face Osteen. “I understand you’ve been looking into a few murders lately. Someone out for a midnight jog. A hotshot local news anchor. Maybe even the Ruskie who crawled into a furnace, or the lab tech down at the Seaquarium. The list goes on and on. They don’t seem connected, yet you find yourself not entirely convinced that they’re just one-off cases.”

Osteen looked at Castillo, stunned. He had long assumed an unseen connection existed between the apparent murders of Dirk Cagney and Edgar Jennings. But the other two homicides? Those hadn’t even been bubbled up to him. From the vague bit of information he had to go on, he wondered if the department had approached them both as accidents. He had to have missed something. It could have been minor, or in front of his face the entire time. Either way, it had eluded him and led him straight into Castillo’s trap. “How could you possibly know that?”

“That’s not the right question. A better question would be, ‘how are these murders connected?’ You were smart to trust your gut. I trust you’ll be equally sensible in acknowledging that you need help in understanding the mystery of how it all ties together. Sometimes it’s more important to accept an olive branch from a foe than to wonder how they came into possession of the knowledge that most piques your curiosity. I’m willing to extend this offer of peace. Are you willing to accept it?”

“That all depends on the validity of the information involved. And the cost of doing business with you.”

“I think you’ll find my rates are more than fair.”

“How about you dispense with the information first? If I determine that it’s worth my time to move forward, we can discuss terms.”

“Personally, I prefer a bit of give and take,” Castillo said. He rubbed his chin between his thumb and index finger, as if in deep thought. “The murders you’ve been most interested in, Ross Sterling, Dirk Cagney and his Mistress, Marco Fedorov, Oliver Christensen, they are all connected. Every single one. They may not seem so as their paths likely never crossed while they walked this earth, but the same person delivered each one of them to their eventual fate.”

Fedorov and Christensen? He hadn’t heard those names outside of the evening news but kept a straight face. “And you know this how?”

“Because I ordered the hits.”

Osteen looked at Castillo, mouth agape. Though this may have been close to his perceived reality of the situation, he couldn’t believe the gall of Castillo to admit it with such a nonchalant attitude. “Come again?”

“Each murder—and they were all murders, Detective, no suicide—each one was carried out by the same person through my direction.”

“I should arrest you right here and now,” Osteen seethed. He reached back for his cuffs, eager to wrap them around the bloodthirsty man in front of him. But something kept him at bay. A tug from his subconscious that he needed to see this through, if only to catch the sonofabitch who decided Death’s sickle was his to wield.

“But you won’t.” Castillo smiled. “Not if you want more specifics. My price doesn’t involve money. Not in the traditional sense, at least. No, all I value is my freedom. I’ll give you everything you want to know in exchange for immunity.”

“That’s not something I can do. Hell, I don’t even know if my supervising officer has the pull for that. Your track record isn’t exactly squeaky clean.”

“Well, I’ll let you think about it. Just go back to your hole and ask yourself how bad you want to put an end to all the senseless violence.”

“This is only an answer to some of it. Giving you immunity won’t result in an end to the bodies flowing through to the morgue.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But these bodies are only indirectly related to me. And they won’t be the last if you cannot hold up your end of the bargain. I can promise you that. In my line of work, there’s always someone gunning