Blood Orchid (17 page)

“The weapon used on Carlos?”

“I think so. He owned such a gun, and it’s missing.”

“Okay.”

“Which side of the road was the van parked on?”

“The south side.”

“Then search the south side of the bridge first, to a distance that you could throw a semiautomatic pistol. Start at the center of the river and work outward.”

“I’m on it. When will you be back?”

“I’m on the way now; see you later this morning.”

“Right.” Hurd hung up.

Holly continued up I-95. An hour later, her phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Harry.”

“Good morning.”

“We’ve run a check on Pio and his old man, whose name is Ignacio.”

“Isn’t Ignacio a Spanish name?”

“Who knows? Anyway, they’ve both got a clean sheet, federal and state.”

“That doesn’t add up,” Holly said. “How far back did you go?”

“When they’ve got a clean sheet, it’s from childhood.”

“Harry, do a background check on both of them; this needs more than just a records check. Find out how long they’ve been in business, how long they’ve lived where they live, all that stuff.”

“This is looking like a dead end to me, Holly.”

“I don’t think it is, Harry. I mean, I think the trail is meant to end with Pellegrino, if somebody investigates, but I don’t think that’s where the trail ends.”

“All right, I’ll put a couple of men on it.”

“Thanks. My people are on the search for the forty-caliber. I’ll call you if they find something.”

“See you later.”

Holly had lunch at her desk and worked on administrative matters for most of the afternoon. A little after four, Hurd Wallace walked into her office, bearing two plastic-wrapped packages. He held them up for her to see.

“You found the forty-caliber.”

“With the silencer attached. You pegged where it
would be. And there’s this,” Hurd said, setting the larger of the two packages on her desk.

“What is it?”

“Open it.”

Holly put on latex gloves, then unwrapped the plastic cover. Inside was a leather rifle case. Handling it carefully, she unzipped the sodden case, revealing a Winchester .22 rifle with a scope attached. In another zippered pocket was an eight-inch-long silencer. “Bingo,” she said. “Dust them, then collect a specimen bullet and a shell casing from both of them. When you’re finished with them, send a patrolman down to the Miami FBI office with them; deliver to Harry Crisp personally. Also, run ownership checks on both weapons. I know the pistol belonged to Carlos Alvarez; it’ll be interesting to see if we can trace an owner for the rifle.”

“Will do,” Hurd said. He took the weapons away.

Holly called Harry Crisp.

“Hello?”

“Harry, I’ve had a fruitful day. What about you?”

“Did you find the pistol?”

“You first.”

“Okay, neither of the Pellegrinos existed six years ago. I’m going to have them picked up and printed.”

“Harry, don’t do that. Have them photographed and see if you can get a match from your records. You have an optical matching system in Washington, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s a better idea. Now what have you got?”

“A forty-caliber Heckler and Koch and silencer and a twenty-two Winchester rifle with a scope and a silencer.”

“Great.”

“They’ll be messengered down to you tonight.”

“Don’t do that, just overnight them directly to Washington.” He gave her the address and a case number. “I’ll send the bullet and shell casings we have, and they’ll have everything tomorrow morning. We should have the report by the close of business tomorrow.”

“That’s good.”

“Question: who was the connection between Carlos Alvarez and Pio Pellegrino?”

“Oh, I forgot to give you that. I think it was a guy named Trini Rodriguez; you should run a check on him, too. He was seen in the restaurant on one occasion, and he was one of a group of guys, including Carlos, who met weekly at the firing range.”

“You think the range is dirty?”

“No, the owner is ex-army, and he was very helpful. He’s straight.”

“Okay, if you say so. My check on Carlos turned up a clean sheet, too,” Holly said.

“Yeah, he was straight, until he got involved in this.”

“What turned him, money?”

“Yeah, and a lot of it. He bought his girl an expensive diamond ring, for one thing. I think he thought he’d do these jobs, then get out clean. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have used his own pistol in one of the murders. He thought nobody could ever connect him to any of his victims, and he was probably right, except he didn’t count on getting blown away by the people who hired him.”

“They never do, do they?” Harry said.

“Get back to me, Harry.” She hung up as Hurd walked into her office.

“The rifle had no prints on it,” he said. “I guess they were washed away by being underwater for a few
days. But we picked up a pretty good thumbprint on the magazine of the pistol, and it isn’t Carlos’s print. I think the only reason we got it was because the magazine had some oil on it. We’re running it now.”

“That’s great, Hurd. When you’re done with the weapons, send them to the FBI lab in Washington; here’s the address.” She handed him the paper. “I think we might be getting somewhere.”

“I’m glad,” Hurd said. “Holly, I think this is going to be my last day on the job.”

“So soon?” Holly asked. “I’d hoped you’d stay on for at least a couple more weeks, for a smooth transition.”

“It’s done; I’ve broken up my duties and reassigned them. Here’s a list.” He put a file on her desk. “Everybody’s briefed; I’m now superfluous.”

Holly stood up. “Thank you, Hurd, for always doing a superb job. I’m going to miss you.” She shook his hand.

“I’ll miss you, too, Holly,” he said.

For a moment, Holly thought she saw a flash of emotion on Hurd’s usually impassive face.

A few hours later, the phone rang.

“Hello?” Holly answered.

“It’s your turn to cook for me,” Grant said.

She looked at her watch. “I’ll pick up something on the way home. My place at seven-thirty?”

“You’re on.”

Holly hung up, glowing with anticipation.

34

H
olly stopped at the grocery store and picked up the makings for a pasta dish she was particularly good at and a couple of bottles of a Dolcetto, a very nice Italian wine. She got home, fed Daisy and let her out, then started cooking. By the time Grant arrived, the house smelled wonderful.

She threw her arms around him and gave him a big kiss.

“Hey, you’re in a good mood!”

“You bet I am. I’m making real good progress on the floater case, and I’ve even got Harry Crisp onboard.”

“Tell me about it.”

She told him everything, about Marina and the shooting range, about Pio Pellegrino and his father, who didn’t exist a few years back. She told him about recovering both weapons and shipping them to Washington.

“You’ve had a good couple of days, then,” Grant said. “Especially getting Harry onboard. How’d you do that?”

“By coming up with more evidence than his own people were able to find. He’s not happy about being
onboard, believe me, but I think he’s finally learning that he gets further when he trusts me, instead of shouldering me out of the investigation.”

“I hope he’s that smart,” Grant said. “Harry can revert to type at the drop of a hat. He’s a good guy to work for in a lot of ways, but—remember that someone once said that there’s no limit to how far you can go, if you don’t care who gets the credit? Harry has never figured that out. Every time our office makes a big bust, the report has got Harry’s palm prints all over it, and the guys who really did the work are mentioned somewhere down at the bottom of the page.”

“Well, I’m not competing with him for the credit; I just want to know what the hell is going on in my town.”

“Next time I talk to him, I’ll see if I can point that out to him, subtly.”

“If you’re subtle, Harry won’t get it.”

“You have a point.” He sniffed the air. “God, that smells good!”

“Of course it does. You ready to eat?”

“Try me.”

They ate.

An hour later, as Holly was dozing off on Grant’s shoulder, the phone rang.

“Chief?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Sally Worth, down at the station. We got a match on the thumbprint that Hurd asked for.”

“Tell me.”

“It belongs to a Trini Rodriguez. He has a record of arrests, more than a dozen of them, for arson, robbery, car theft, and attempted murder.”

“A jack-of-all-trades, huh? Any convictions?”

“None.”

“Thanks, Sally.” She hung up and turned back to Grant. “We got a match on the thumbprint; one Trini Rodriguez, whom I recently met.”

“You ought to call Harry.”

“Tomorrow morning will be good enough,” she said, kissing him.

“He’d like it if you called him at home; I’ve got the number.”

Holly rolled over and called Harry. “Harry? Sorry to disturb you at home, but I thought you ought to know that we pulled a print off the magazine of Carlos’s forty-caliber, and it belongs to Trini Rodriguez, the guy I told you about earlier today.”

“Good news,” Harry said. “I’m glad you called. I’ll have him picked up.”

“Not yet, Harry, please,” Holly said. “The people he works for might go to ground, and anyway, the evidence isn’t all that good.”

“You think we can’t get him for Carlos’s murder with that evidence?”

“No, I don’t think so. He can claim that he put the print on the gun when Carlos showed it to him at the shooting range. Also, the guy has a long arrest record but no convictions, which means he knows how to keep his mouth shut and lawyer up. Rodriguez is very cool, and I don’t think you’ll be able to get anything out of him that would help us at this stage. Let’s find out more about the Pellegrinos before we grab Trini.”

“Okay, that makes sense.”

“When are we going to have something from Washington about Pio and his daddy?”

“We got photographs of them arriving at the
restaurant earlier this evening, and they’ve been transmitted to D.C. Depends on their case load; if it’s light, we’ll hear something soon.”

“Thank you, Harry.”

“Say hello to Grant,” Harry said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Where else would you get my home number? It’s unlisted.”

“Good night, Harry.” She hung up. “Harry says hello.”

“Why does he think I’m here?”

“He has an unlisted number.”

“Oops.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, he fixed us up, didn’t he? Maybe Harry has a romantic soul after all.”

“Maybe,” Holly said, cuddling up to Grant again.

35

H
olly had been at her desk for only a few minutes the following morning when her telephone rang.

“Miss Barker.”

“Miss Barker?” A woman’s voice.

“Yes.”

“This is Marina Santos. Do you remember me?”

“Of course, Marina. I hope you’re well.”

“I’m all right. You said I should telephone you if I knew anything else.”

“Yes. Is there something you forgot to tell me?”

“Yes, but somebody else didn’t forget.”

“What is it, Marina?”

“Carlos left something here that he didn’t want anyone to see.”

“What is it?”

“A notebook.”

“What kind of notebook?”

“Leather, with a ring binder.”

“What’s in it?”

“I’ve read it but I don’t understand it. It’s just a lot of numbers and letters.”

“You said somebody else didn’t forget?”

“Pedro, Carlos’s cousin. He was here last night asking about the notebook. He couldn’t find it at Carlos’s place.”

“Did you give it to him?”

“No.”

“Do you still have it?”

“I’ve hidden it.”

“In your house?”

“Yes.”

“Marina, I’m going to drive down there and pick it up.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

“Thank you. I want to get rid of it.”

“If anybody else asks about it, you don’t know anything, understand?”

“I understand.”

“My cellphone number is on the card, if you need to get in touch with me before I get there.”

“Thank you.”

Holly hung up. “Come on, Daisy.” She stopped at the front desk and told them where she was going.

This time Holly didn’t bother staying anywhere near the speed limit. She turned on the flashing lights behind the grille on the unmarked car, and as soon as she was on I-95, she put her foot down, moderating her speed only when she hit 120 miles per hour. Names, she wanted names, and she didn’t want Harry Crisp to have them, unless he got them from her. She made the trip in record time, slowing down only when she entered Marina’s street.

She drove slowly down the street, passing a car parked in front of the house, a Hispanic male at the
wheel reading something. She parked on the other side of the street, three or four houses down, put Daisy on a leash, and walked back up the street toward the parked car, allowing Daisy to water the grass on the way, just a woman walking her dog. The man in the car seemed engrossed in his reading.

At Marina’s house she turned up the walk, and as she did, she heard a commotion inside. The front door was wide open, the screen door closed. She put her hand inside her purse, opened the screen with her leash hand, and walked into the house.

The room was in disarray, and there was a man present, wearing a sport shirt, loose at the waist, revealing a bulge, his back to her, his hand drawn back. Holly let the screen door slam.

The man spun around to face her. Holly didn’t know him, but Marina Santos was standing behind him, in tears. He said something in Spanish.

“How’s that again?” Holly asked.

“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, taking a step toward her.

“Daisy,” Holly said quietly, and Daisy bared her teeth and began growling. The man stopped. “Daisy, guard,” Holly said. Then to the man, she said, “I’m a police officer. If you move a muscle, the dog will kill you.” The man didn’t move.