Horns of the Devil - Jeff Trask [02] (25 page)

She nodded and tried to smile. “You seem to be feeling better. Is your headache gone?”

“Almost.”

“Good,” she said. “I need to be with you tonight.”

7:20 p.m.

Dixon Carter opened the front door and headed for his refrigerator. He hadn’t gotten six feet when the doorbell rang behind him. A process server handed the thick envelope to him when he opened the door. The return address was for a local law firm, one that specialized in domestic relations litigation. Carter merely nodded.
She’s finally done it.

He threw the papers on a table in the foyer, not bothering to open them. He reached for the cell phone on his belt.

“Yes, Massa,” Wisniewski answered the call.

“Knock that crap off, and get your wise Polish ass over here.”

“What’s up?”

“I just received some legal documents from the future former Mrs. Carter. I believe I will require a designated driver this evening.”

“You OK, Dix?”

“I am at the moment. I might not be later. I do not know if I’ll be celebrating or lamenting. I haven’t decided that yet. I
have
decided that I will be drinking.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen. What’s the saying? ‘That which doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger’?”

“They got it wrong, my friend. I’ve been shot, both physically and otherwise. That which doesn’t kill us only leaves us wounded.”

10:45 p.m.

“There’s still a marked unit out front, and the wolf is at the door, which—in our case—is a good thing,” Trask said. “The alarm’s on, too.” He rolled over in the bed and kissed her. “How’s the head?”

“Better. Just a little sore now.”

“Good. That was a helluva break you gave us today, babe,” he said. “What made you think to do that?”

“A couple of leads you gave me without realizing it,” she said.

“Really?” He propped himself up on one arm. “How’d I accomplish that?”

“Work from what we know. College friends who are still friends, even though miles apart politically. I just took your advice and concentrated on the late ambassador. Once I saw the pictures, I thought I saw something familiar about the guys standing next to him.”

“It’s still fantastic work. I won’t take credit for it. Your idea, not mine. Now we only need to make it lead to something conclusive in five days or less.”

She rolled over to face him. “What happens if we can’t?”

He lay back, staring at the ceiling. “If we make a lot of headway, some lord high executioner from Main Justice steps forward to take the credit for solving what we could not. If there’s any real doubt left, they probably just send in the next squad of line prosecutors to save us from our conflict of interest. The politibrats don’t want hard cases; it can wreck their careers when they lose them.”

“What will you do if someone else takes over?”

He was back on his elbow, smiling. “I shall continue to sally forth as a loyal musketeer, true in my sworn duty to the crown. I have Porthos Doroz, Athos Wisniewski, and Aramis Carter to watch the back of their young and reckless friend. You may call me D’Artagnan.”

“So which part do I play in your musketeers movie?”

Trask tucked both arms under a pillow behind his head. “You don’t. Don’t worry about it. Although Dumas did write some dangerous women into the book, they didn’t have female musketeers.”

“Why not?”

“Because—even if sexual equality had been in vogue, and it wasn’t—seventeenth century muskets weighed a ton, and when you got off your single shot, you had to engage in swordplay. Brute strength stuff. Swashbuckling.”

She put her head on his chest. “What does that mean, swashbuckling?”

“I have no idea, but I can’t imagine it would have been a good thing to go around with your swash unbuckled. You’d probably trip over the damned thing and hurt yourself in the middle of a duel.”

She rolled onto her back, laughing.

“I love you,” she said. “You’re nuts. And funny.”

“And I love you,” Trask said. He paused. “There’s not really a character in the book that fits you.”

“How about the girl in the movie?”

“Which version? There’ve been several.”

“The one with Michael York.”

“Oh, you mean the Raquel Welch character?”

“Yeah, her.”

“That would be Constance Bonacieux.” Trask flipped up the blanket and stared for a moment at her bare breasts. “Yes, there’s a certain resemblance there.”

He ducked just in time to avoid being swatted with a pillow.

“You can’t be Constance,” he said.

“Why not?”

“She was already married to somebody else, and she got killed. We can’t have that.” He shuddered for a moment. “I can’t believe I came so close to losing you. No more close calls.”

“No disagreement there. But I’m disappointed.”

“Why?”

“I’m just feeling kind of French tonight after all that silly talk.”

“We could think of
something
French to do,” he said, rolling toward her.

.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Wednesday, September 13, 8:15 a.m.

T
rask ducked under the yellow tape that now encircled the ambassador’s residence. There was no music playing in his head for the moment. It was Lassiter instead, talking to him as if he had his hand on his protege’s shoulder.
Don’t ever pass up an opportunity to visit a crime scene. There’s no substitute for seeing it yourself.
Photographs help, but they don’t really give you scope or distance. Let the sights and the smells,
the walls and the shadows speak to you. They will if you let them, and if you listen long enough.

He re-examined the frame to the front door. The crime scene techs had done their thing, and they were good, but they wouldn’t be carrying the case in court.
Hell, I won’t either,
he thought.
Conflicted out. More likely to end up on the witness
stand than at counsel table.

His cell phone rang.

“Jeff? It’s Doroz. Frank Wilkes is here, says he has some things for us to see. When can you be back?”

“I’m up in Bethesda at the ambassador’s house. Give me thirty minutes.”

“OK. Willie Sivella’s here, too.”

“Really? Anything wrong?”

“Our two favorite cops—my TFOs—almost got arrested at the Fraternal Order of Police last night. Seems they had a little too much to drink and got out of control. Dix would probably be looking at charges in district court for assaulting a federal agent if Willie hadn’t called in some favors.”

“
What!?
”

“Yep. Willie said some guy from ATF made the mistake of asking how many Metro detectives it took to solve a gang murder or screw in a lightbulb or something like that. Dix had just gotten served his divorce papers and wasn’t in the mood for taking any gas. He grabbed the guy, flipped him over, and was holding him upside down by the heels over the balcony from the second floor staircase. Tim was pouring beer down the dude’s pants leg and commenting on his apparent loss of bladder control. They were also inviting other officers to deposit the condiment of their choice in the guy’s shirt while he was upside down. Ketchup, mustard, maple syrup, even some tomato soup, from what I understand. Willie had to spring ’em. He’s here babysitting them for now.”

“That should be a sight,” Trask said, laughing. “See you in thirty.” He smiled.
Congratulations, Dix. Looks like you have a new partner.

He returned the phone to its holster. He paused and took a last look at the entryway before heading back to his car.
No signs of force at all. They either knew the
killers or just weren’t careful enough in opening the door. But this doesn’t tell me who they were.
Scenes are like witnesses, Bob. Some talk, some don’t.

He started the drive back when the phone went off again. He hit the Bluetooth control on the steering wheel.

“Trask.”

“Mr. Trask, it’s Mitchell Clark, on the Vincente Santos matter.”

“What’s up, Mitchell?”

“I think Mr. Santos is close to cooperating on your case, but he wanted me to ask what assurances you could give him that he would not be incarcerated with other MS-13 members. He’s concerned for his safety while serving his time.”

“As he should be. Tell him that in every case I get an email from BOP—the Bureau of Prisons—asking about any separations from other inmates that are required. BOP doesn’t like having to break up gang fights in their facilities, or having to clean up murder sites in their showers or cafeterias. If they have a non-
Mara
facility in general population, we’ll request that for him. If not, we could sponsor him into one of the witness security program pens. Everyone in those facilities has cooperated. They’re more restrictive, however, and most inmates don’t want to be there unless they have to. Less visitation, even from family members. General pop is actually a little easier time.”

“Thanks. I’ll talk with him again and get back to you.”

“One more thing, Mitch. Get your guy to give you some piece of information that will let me know he’s actually willing to do something for us. At this point it’s not for attribution; he tells you and you pass it on to me. His name never gets attached to that information unless we agree to pursue this. I need something to know he’s with us for real and not just wasting my time. I don’t have any to waste right now.

“OK. I’ll see what I can do.”

“No problem. Later.”

Trask checked his watch.
It’s the thirteenth. Five whole days left. Not much time at all.
Stevie Ray’s “Tightrope” started playing in his head.

When he reached the squad room, Trask was surprised to find Willie Sivella in a very upbeat mood, even though he was sitting between detectives Carter and Wisniewski, both of whom were still wearing sunglasses and looked to be in substantial need of headache medication. Doroz, Lynn, and Crawford were also seated at the table, as was Frank Wilkes.

“Commander,” Trask nodded to Sivella. “You’re looking very chipper today.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Sivella grinned and leaned back in his chair, slapping Carter and Wisniewski on the back. The detectives each winced in pain. “My boys here withstood an onslaught from a federal bully last night, taught him a lesson, and between them and another Metropolitan Police Department employee,” he nodded in the direction of Frank Wilkes, “I believe we have some major contributions to make to your federal investigation. Real police officers at work. I might have even brought you some decent evidence myself.”

“Excellent,” Trask said. “We could use some good news, even though we had a major breakthrough yesterday.” He smiled at Lynn. “Who wants to start?”

“That would be me,” Wilkes said, standing as he passed copies of a report around the table. “Two major developments from the shooting of the Barrio 18 gang member in that apartment off Rhode Island Avenue. The first one actually came from Commander Sivella, or more accurately, from Kathy at the medical examiner’s office.”

“I
did
drive it over here,” Sivella noted.

“Anyway,” Wilkes continued, “as you all know, the ME routinely runs a toxicology screen on the blood from any homicide victim. It takes a while for those to come back from the lab. It’s not
CSI
around here.”

Trask and Doroz exchanged glances and grins.

If you want a tirade, just mention CSI to Frank Wilkes,
Trask thought
. The real world
here. No instant lab results with five-minute turnarounds.

“The lab found a pretty high concentration of zolpidem in the blood taken from Armando Lopez-Mendez,” Wilkes continued. “The usual brand name for zolpidem is Ambien. It’s a sleep-aid, but we’ve seen it used as a date-rape drug in the past. Slip it into someone’s drink, and bedtime. Especially if the victim has had a couple of shots of alcohol.”

“Wait a sec, Frank,” Doroz said. “You said that was for the blood from the ambassador’s kid. I thought we were talking about the 18er from Rhode Island Avenue.”

“We are,” Wilkes said. “In my opinion, he’s your killer on Incident One here.” Wilkes pointed to the sheets of paper on the wall summarizing the murder of the ambassador’s son.

“How do you figure that?” Lynn asked.

“Quite a leap, Frank,” Trask nodded, agreeing with the skeptical tone in his wife’s voice.

“I arrive at that conclusion from the fact that blood found in the dead 18er’s room, more specifically, in the grooves of a chair in that room, is a conclusive DNA match for the blood taken from the body of Armando Lopez-Mendez at autopsy.”

“Are you sure about that?” Lynn was still defending her theory.

“Virtually certain,” Wilkes responded. “In addition to the DNA evidence, the autopsy report for Armando indicated that he’d been tied up in a chair, with his hands bound behind him. The vertical bruising on the inside of his arms is almost a perfect match to the chair from your Rhode Island Avenue 18er’s apartment.”

Trask looked at Lynn and shrugged. She tossed her hands up in the air.

“How’d you find the blood on the chair, Frank?” Carter asked quietly. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t speak too loudly.”

“Blacklighted the room after I sprayed the luminol,” Wilkes answered. “It was obvious that someone had wiped the chair down to an extent. It was clean except for the joints where the chair back met the seat. Those joints lit up pretty brightly.”

“If that’s your first bombshell, what’s your second?” Doroz asked.

“I gave you two already,” Wilkes stated flatly. “First, it was Armando’s blood on the chair, and second, the lab found that he had been sedated before he was killed.”

“Sorry. I miscounted,” Doroz said, rolling his eyes.

“There is more, however,” Wilkes said. “The ballistics are back on the projectiles and weapon used to kill the Rhode Island Avenue 18er.”

“I didn’t know we had the weapon,” Trask said, puzzled.

“You’ve had it since Tuesday night, Jeff,” Wilkes said. “I mean you, literally. It was left in your house by whoever it was who tried to kill Lynn. It was also the same gun that was used to kill the defense attorneys. We test-fired it and the slugs from the victims were a match. No question at all.”

Doroz shook his head and started a low, slow whistle. “What the hell?”

“I’m still on Armando,” Lynn protested. “Why would one 18er whack another one? Didn’t Armando have an 18 tattooed on his shoulder?”

“He did,” Wilkes confirmed. “I can’t speak to the motive. I can only say that a chair in the one victim’s room had the blood of the other victim on it.”

“So someone else could have killed Armando in that room, or for that matter, in that chair, and the chair could have been moved into the apartment after Armando’s murder,” she said.

“That is certainly possible,” Wilkes said.

“But not likely, Lynn,” Carter said. “We’re stretching now. Besides, Tim and I have something else to throw on this little fire.”

Wisniewski flipped open the top of a laptop computer, and the forty-inch LED screen on the conference room wall came to life.

“This is from the red-light camera at the intersection on Rhode Island Avenue just east of the apartment building where the 18er took the bullet to his forehead,” Carter said. “You can see the date and time in the lower right-hand corner. August twenty-third, 3:07 p.m. It’s consistent with what the ME found to be an approximate time of death for the victim. Watch.”

The digital video began to run and showed a large, dark sedan running the stoplight and turning left through the intersection.

“Go back and freeze it.” Trask was out of his chair and next to the screen. The screen froze, revealing the red and white and blue license plates on the front of the car. “STL-467. Those plates were on the car that Rios—I mean Moreno—had at the dog park.”

“Watch the rest of this,” Carter said.

They fixed their stares on the screen. The sedan ran the light again, turned left again, and then—after a moment or two—reappeared at the same light, traveling in the same direction as when it first appeared on the screen.

“He made the block,” Wisniewski said. “He’s at the building at about the same time our vic gets shot, and he makes the block around the building.”

“Picking up the shooter?” Trask asked.

Carter nodded. “That’s my guess. And just in case there’s any doubt about whose car it was, we blew up the best still-shot of the driver.”

Wisniewski hit some buttons on the laptop, and the screen showed the photograph. The driver was wearing an eye patch. “The 18er’s neighbor said he was afraid of someone he called the ‘one-eyed shadow.’”

“He’s got a motive, working for the ambassador. Avenging the murder of the ambassador’s kid,” Lynn said.

That’s my girl
, Trask said.
Open mind, no tunnel vision. She knows not to try and cram
every round fact into a square hole, even if her initial theory made all the sense in the world.

“But how did he know that? How’d he find this guy?” Carter asked. “Why suspect that an 18er did it instead of one of the MS-13 punks? Your question there was very valid, Lynn.”

“Great,” she said. “At least my questions are valid even if my answers aren’t.”

“Lynn, if we had all the answers, we’d have all these mopes locked down already,” Doroz said. “Your first shot was a good one.”

“It was.” Trask agreed. “But now we’ve confirmed our other problem. Our friend Moreno is now the acting ambassador. If he didn’t have complete diplomatic immunity before—and he probably did—he’s certainly got it now. We’ve just solved some of our murders and run into a brick wall at the same time.” His cell phone rang again. “Excuse me.” He hit the answer icon on the touch screen.

“Trask.”

“It’s Mitchell Clark again, Mr. Trask. Mr. Santos asked me to pass along what I believe may qualify as your requested indicator of his good faith. He told me that he heard from other members of his gang that the rival gang member whose body was dumped at the FBI office was killed by Esteban Ortega at the car wash. He also said that if we can agree on a plea, he can provide you with the whereabouts of Mr. Ortega. He said you’d know what that meant.”