Horns of the Devil - Jeff Trask [02] (23 page)

August 23

18er Shot to Death in Apartment near RI Ave

Single Bullet Wound to Center of Head

Questions:

1. NOT MS-13 MO, so who killed him and why?
   
2. Status of crime scene investigation
   
3. Connected?
   

“Ballistics aren’t back yet on the round Kathy pulled out of his head at the autopsy,” Wisniewski volunteered. “There’s some DNA that Frank Wilkes is waiting on as well.”

“DNA?” Trask asked. “Do we have evidence of more than one victim?”

“Dunno yet,” Wisniewski said. “Frank told me there was some dried blood around the joints of a chair in the room. He swabbed it, because Frank is Frank. He wasn’t real happy with the area canvass the uniforms did on the scene either. Said they were lazy. Apparently there were some other Hispanics living in the building, and the guys who rolled on the call couldn’t speak the language.”

“I know someone who can—” Trask began.

“And that someone has already been assigned that lead by his venerable senior partner,” Wisniewski said. “I’m on it.”

“Ride with him, Dix. You’re out of the hospital now. Nobody rolls alone.” Doroz was looking at Carter again.

“Like I said before, got it.” Carter nodded deferentially. He looked at Trask. “You see any connections on this, Jeff? Might just be a dope rip, or maybe the vic had been sleeping with somebody else’s baby-momma. We haven’t seen this MO anywhere else in this case.” He paused. “Or in these cases, whichever it is.”

“No evident connections other than the victim’s status as an 18er, Dix,” Trask said. “One dead 18er in return for the MS-13’s losses at the car wash probably doesn’t balance the scales the way Ortega’s boys see it. Maybe it just wasn’t the right time or place to carve him like a turkey. Too much noise and too many people around in the other apartments. Could be that they couldn’t manage a snatch on the guy so they just put him down with a quick one to the head. One shot. May have used a silencer, may not have needed to depending on the noise level in the building. We just can’t afford not to check.” He smiled. “Wilkes might think we’re getting lazy, too.”

“Can’t have that.” Carter nodded in agreement. “We’ll finish questioning the neighbors and check on the ballistics and DNA.” He flipped through a copy of the incident reports. “I just noticed one thing. The round from the Regan shooting was a .22. This one was, too. So is the one for the Boydston shootings. Like I said, we’ll check the ballistics. The 18er’s autopsy was done later, so the lab just got that slug.”

“Speaking of Boydston,” Trask said, “he’s next.”

Another summary went up on the wall.

August 23

William Boydston and Lynette Morris murdered

MO matches Regan murder, ARENA death squad methods

Bank’s ATM camera across street blocked to conceal crime scene
QUESTIONS:

1. Motives?
   
2. Ballistics match with Regan shooting, so same MO and weapon
   means same shooter, but who?
   
3. Any ARENA government operatives in country?
   

“We may need to talk to our CIA friend again to answer question three,” Doroz noted. “Other than that, I’ve got zilch. Why would our
Mara
defendants start whacking their own attorneys? Makes no sense. From what we’ve heard, this is an ARENA-era stunt, and one
they’d
probably deny, too.”

“Somebody is just doing anything and everything they can to hit the MS-13 goons and anyone associated with them,” Lynn volunteered. “We identify that somebody, and the picture gets clearer.”

“Any ideas on that, babe?” Trask asked.

“Babe?
Babe
?” Wisniewski parroted.

“Jealous, Tim?” Lynn shot back. “Maybe you need to go home and spend some time with your Tootsie Pops and Trojans.”

“With his what?” Doroz almost screamed.

Wisniewski shook his head at Carter. “There’s been a major breach of partner confidentiality here,” he said.

“An admission if I ever heard one,” Trask added. “You can explain yourself later, Tim.” He tacked one more sheet to the wall.

September 11

MS-13 car wash attacked, four killed

AK/SKS ammo and weapons

??????

“I’ve got nothing but questions on this one,” Trask said. “The arms and ammo used don’t match the prior attacks on the Ortega crew. If I thought our friend with the eye patch was involved, I’d have to disqualify myself from this case because Lynn and I saw him while we were walking our dogs southeast of Waldorf. In other words, Rios-Garcia was thirty miles away when the car wash got hit, and we’d be his alibi witnesses. We’ve all seemed to agree that this was too big an operation for the Barrio 18 boys to take on at this point. Any ideas?”

“You’ve just given me one, BABE,” Lynn said, shooting Wisniewski a warning look that caused him to hold both hands up in mock surrender. “What if that’s exactly what Rios wanted? To DQ you and establish an alibi? It’s all that
does
make sense.”

“Your question is its own answer. I agree.” Carter was nodding.

Before Trask could comment, he felt a double vibration on the cell phone holstered on his belt. He pulled the device out and switched on the screen to see a Google alert for MS-13. After reading the news bulletin, he glanced around the table. “MS-13 and Barrio 18 have declared a worldwide truce,” he said. “The gang leaders are being transferred from Zacatraz to medium security facilities like the one at Quezaltepeque, wherever that is. They get conjugal and family visits in return for dropping the murder rate in El Salvador. It looks like the FMLN government is finally following through on its election promises.”

“If it’s worldwide, we may get some time to connect the dots on your wallpaper before the DOJ and Bureau know-it-alls descend upon us,” Carter offered.

“Let’s hope so,” Trask said. “Let’s get to work.”

In the kitchen of his hotel suite, the man with the eye patch slammed the lid of his laptop closed in disgust. “FOOLS!” he screamed. “
A truce? A fucking truce!?
” He picked up his cell phone and growled after the ring tone stopped. “Hugo, get ready. We pay a visit to some old friends tonight.”

.

Chapter Twenty-One

Tuesday, September 12, 5:40 p.m.

L
ynn Trask drove south on Maryland Highway 5 toward Waldorf. She hadn’t really said anything to Jeff before leaving. She
had
left a short message on his office voicemail, knowing that he’d probably never check it. He’d stay in the task force bullpen or in the conference room until it dawned on him that it was past time to leave. The voicemail would cover her if he bothered to ask. He’d check her cubicle and see that her purse was gone, and then he’d figure it out.

He
IS
a freakin’ genius, after all. That’s why he’s right 99 percent of the time, and why he
was asking questions about Armando’s killer again in front of the squad, even after I’d figured
it out. GOD, he pisses me off sometimes, always analyzing, re-analyzing. Sometimes I think I
married one of those Vulcans from
Star Trek
. Logic, logic, and more logic, with a memory like
a damned computer. When he’s focused on something like this, I can’t break into his hard drive,
even when I’m helping input data. I’m right about Armando’s murder, damn it. It all makes too
much sense to be wrong. “Can’t afford to assume.” DAMMIT. He might as well have been cross-examining
me on the witness stand. It’s not an assumption; it’s a solid inference based on proof.

She stopped at a shopping center when she reached the Saint Charles subdivision. Boo and Nikki were almost out of dog food. She picked up a forty-pound bag of the expensive stuff, and continued the debate with herself as she pushed the cart back to her car.

Calm down. You know he didn’t mean anything personal by asking everyone else about it.
He probably agrees with you and doesn’t want it to look like he’s playing favorites. No, he’s really
weighing other possibilities and letting the chips fall where they may, even with his own wife. It’s
still not personal, though; he’s just doing his job, the one he’s so good at. That concentration will stay
focused until he solves this, then he’ll be human again. GOD, he pisses me off sometimes. He’ll
miss dinner for sure. He can find his own tonight.

She turned into the cul-de-sac marked Amwich Court and pulled into the driveway of the house at the end. Throwing the sack of dog food over her shoulder, she opened the door to the split-foyer entrance and headed downstairs. She filled the bowls and walked to the sliding glass doors, which opened onto the patio in back. She pulled one side open and paused at the screen door, seeing the two happy faces and wagging tails on the other side. She couldn’t help but smile and felt her mood improving.

“Hi, girls. Mama’s home. Ready for dinner?”

The low growl from Boo caught her by surprise.

“What’s the matter, Boo?”

She knew as she asked that she should turn to look behind her, but that realization came too late. A large gloved hand covered her face, and she had time for only one thought before she blacked out.

Chloroform!

“Embassy of El Salvador, Ms. Moreno speaking. How may I help you?”

Crawford opened the door to his car in the parking lot as she answered. He sat down in the driver’s seat but didn’t hit the ignition, not wanting to miss a word of the call. “Marissa, it’s Michael. Sorry I didn’t call earlier. We’ve been swamped and I was stuck in meetings until five minutes ago. Can I see you tonight?”

“Of course, my love. This night and every night. Your place or mine?”

“It should probably be mine tonight, if you don’t mind. I probably have a stack of bills waiting on me, and I’ll get evicted if I don’t pay some of them.”

“Not a problem,” she laughed. “I’ll see you soon.”

Trask slumped into the chair of his office at the Triple-nickle. His hope that the gang truce would buy them some time had not materialized. Patrick had called him in to tell him someone from Main Justice would be in the next Monday to conduct an “assistance visit” to see how things were progressing with the investigation. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

Six days to solve all this mess. Guess I’ll be spending a lot more time in here in the near
future. If they let me stay on, it’ll be as a second fiddle at best. Even more likely, they’ll use the
attack on Lynn and me to disqualify us from the case. Lynn! I didn’t see her when I left. Nuts.
He glanced at his watch.
6:00.
Then he saw the red message light flashing on the desk phone. He picked up the receiver and hit the button.

“Hey, it’s me. I’m heading home to feed the dogs. OK, bye.”

Ugh-oh. Something’s wrong. I only get the curt ‘OK, bye,’ when she’s pissed about something.
Better head out quick.
He was halfway out the door when he saw the vest hanging on a peg on the wall. He’d ignored it lately, too hot and bulky. CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising” started playing in his head. He grabbed the vest and headed for the parking garage.

She woke up slowly, still tasting the chloroform, but when she tried to lick her lips, they were taped shut. She leaned forward, but felt constrained. As she came to, she realized that her feet were bound. Her shoulders were pinned to the back of the chair, and she felt her wrists pinned together by the rope. She tried to feel the cords, hoping to recognize the knot, but she couldn’t move her hands normally.

My thumbs are tied together!

He stepped in front of her then. A huge, Hispanic man, grinning at her.

Not a grin, a fucking leer. What’s up, big boy? Planning to untie me and have your way with
me before you finish me off? Give it a shot. I’ll take all the time I can get, and I’ll fight dirty as
hell. You’re not wearing a mask, so I know you don’t want to leave me here alive.

She looked past him, trying to put a plan together. She saw the window on the far wall and recognized the curtains she’d hung around it.

I never really liked those. Need to replace them.
She shook her head.
Get with it, back
to your senses.
She blinked her eyes and concentrated.
I’m still in the den. He’s got me
facing away from the door. Where’s Jeff? Oh, God, don’t let that voicemail be the last words he
ever hears from me.

The man looked at her, still smiling. His eyes dropped to her breasts. His hands moved to the buttons on her blouse, opening the first two. Then he stopped and stepped back.

Don’t stop there. I hate everything you just did more than you’ll ever know, but I need time
now. What are you thinking about, you bastard? Jeff, where are you?

The man shook his head from side to side as he pulled a small caliber pistol from his belt and began screwing a silencer onto its barrel.

No, no! It can’t end like this. He’s more afraid of whoever it was who sent him to do this than
he is horny. He has his orders, and they were to kill me. I’ve just lost all my time. Jeff, I’m so sorry.

The man stepped behind her, and she felt the silencer touch the back of her head. There was a gunshot; she felt an impact on the back of her head and felt herself falling.

Trask turned onto Maryland 5. He called her cell but got no answer.

I’m probably getting the silent treatment for whatever sin I committed.

The traffic was a little lighter than usual because he’d left the office late. He weaved in and out of traffic, earning more than one dirty look from his fellow commuters.
Most federal employees don’t donate much time to the government; I wonder
how many actually fudged five or ten minutes today. I’m lucky not to be in gridlock tonight.

He glanced down at the speedometer.
I’ll risk ten over. If one of the county boys
pulls me over, I’ll have him escort me home.
He thought about calling the sheriff ’s office to have one of their units check on her, but decided not to waste a call on what was probably just a domestic tiff.
Don’t want to cry wolf in case I really need
’em later.

He couldn’t get the Credence tune out of his head.
Oh, well, at least it’s not
“Proud Mary.” Wish I had a nickel for every time that thing hit my radio. Way overplayed.

When he turned onto Saint Charles Parkway, the music suddenly stopped.
Something’s wrong!
Trask floored the accelerator, passing two cars with his horn blaring. He pulled in behind Lynn’s car, grabbed the Glock from the glove compartment, and bolted to the door. To his horror, it was unlocked and ajar. For a microsecond, he thought about the vest he’d left on the passenger floorboard.

Screw it!
He pulled the Glock and flung the door back. He looked up the stairs toward the living room on the left.
Nothing.
Then he heard a whimper coming from the den down the stairs. He took the six steps in two strides and saw her. She was on the floor, tied to a chair, her back to him. There was a small pool of blood staining the carpet behind her head and spots of blood on the back of her blouse. The dogs were sitting beside her, Boo licking her face. Trask froze and heard himself calling her name. His legs failed him, and he dropped to his knees.