Horns of the Devil - Jeff Trask [02] (3 page)

They were home in Waldorf, Maryland, two hours later. When Trask unlocked the front door to the split foyer, he could see the light on the answering machine blinking from the table at the bottom of the stairs. He pushed the message button, and after listening to the recording, complied with the instruction to call Ross Eastman.

“Thanks for getting back to me, Jeff,” the United States Attorney for the District of Columbia said. “Sorry to disturb you at home.”

“Not a problem.”

“You’ve heard about the murder of the ambassador’s kid, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“Commander Sivella called about it this morning, and Bill Patrick and I agreed the case should go to you, at least for now.”

“For now?”

“
For now
. The conclusion at the autopsy was that the killing was probably the result of a feud between Salvadoran street gangs. ‘Eighteen’ versus ‘thirteen,’ Sivella told me. Barrio 18 against MS-13. That being the case, it’s probably a drug-related murder, just with a lot of special interest from Main Justice. If it turns into something else, like a politically motivated hit on the ambassador’s family, you can expect the Office of International Affairs to take the case, or at least assign somebody to it. I spoke to them today, and they’re OK with us keeping it,
for now
.”

Wonderful
, Trask thought.
I bust my hump and some departmental weenie with no idea
of how to walk into a real trial steps in at the last minute for some high-quality TV face time.

“I understand.”

“Just keep me informed so I can keep the Department informed,” Eastman said.

“Will do.”

“Good night, Jeff.”

“That sounded heavy.” Lynn came down the stairs, a glass of Diet Coke in her hand. She handed it to him.

“Yep. I’m afraid things are going to get goofy for a while. Thanks for the drink.”

“Let them get goofy tomorrow,” she said. “You’re going to concentrate on me tonight.”

He downed the glass in three large gulps.

August 9, 11:32 p.m.

The man with the eye patch looked up and nodded as two cases, each still bearing the bright stickers that identified them as diplomatic pouches, were brought into his room at the embassy compound.

“
Gracias,
Hugo.”

He handed Hugo a scrap of paper bearing a telephone number and pointed to one of the cases.

“Tell Marcos to take this one and make contact at this number. Keep one, sell five. Twenty-one thousand dollars each, not subject to negotiation. Bring the cash back to me in the same case.”

“Sí, Señor.”

After Hugo left, the man with the eye patch walked to the mirror above the sink in the bathroom and removed the patch, staring angrily with his good eye at the sunken socket and the scar stretching across it.

I have one eye left. It is all I need for shooting.

He replaced the patch and returned to the bedroom and the other case, a long, narrow one. A key from his pocket opened the lock. He began disassembling and oiling the weapon, a Knight’s Armament Company XM110 sniper rifle. When the weapon was properly reassembled, he mounted the laser scope, loaded the rifle, and returned it to its case.

At least we can thank the Americanos for providing this tool to help deal with the problems
they have created for us. I think I’ll go hunting tonight.

He picked up the phone and pressed the intercom.

“Hugo, get the car ready. We leave after midnight.”

.

Chapter Three

August 10, 1:18 a.m.

T
he man with the eye patch watched the sidewalks carefully as the sedan with diplomatic plates rolled by the streetlights in Langley Park, Maryland. He was alert for the usual telltale signs: the flash of a sky-blue jacket, the sound of a familiar accent, the sight of a number or the letters he hated.

“There. Slow down, Hugo.”

From the backseat he pointed to a group of three young men standing in a parking lot beside an all-night convenience store. One was wearing a jacket bearing the logo and colors of the North Carolina Tarheels. It was three in the morning. No one else was on the street.

The driver stopped the car parallel to the targets, and the rear window rolled down. The man with the eye patch could hear them talking and recognized the speech patterns. He heard one of them mention
soyapango
, one of the neighborhoods in San Salvador that had produced the leftist guerrillas he had fought for so long.

“Get ready, Hugo.”

He leaned the flash suppressor of the rifle against the bottom of the rear window and fired. The wearer of the Carolina jacket was the first to fall, followed by the one who had mentioned
soyapango.
He was unable to get the next shot off before the third man ran to cover around the corner of the building. The sedan turned the corner and sped away. The man with the eye patch returned the rifle to its place in the concealed drawer under the rear seat. Once a few blocks had disappeared in the rearview mirror, the sedan slowed again, appearing to be nothing more than a chauffeur taking his VIP back to the embassy following a party.

August 10, 10:30 a.m.

The status hearing was a nuisance, but part of the job. A crack dealer had been arrested plying his wares in Anacostia, and due process had to duly proceed. The initial appearance was a hearing in which nothing ever happened, but Trask was required to attend. The complaint would be read, the not-guilty plea would be entered for the defendant because he had no attorney appointed yet, bond would be set because this guy was neither violent nor a flight risk. The only purpose of the whole drill was to start the clock for an indictment. Trask would have thirty days to get the case in front of the grand jury, or the complaint would be dismissed.

He was irritated a bit more than usual because the magistrate presiding over the hearing was even later than usual. The Honorable United States Magistrate Judge Kathryn Hightower was known for keeping attorneys waiting thirty minutes or more past the scheduled start of a hearing, but God save the unfortunate lawyer who counted on the usual judicial tardiness and was late himself. There were cameras in the courtroom that fed the images back into the judges’ chambers. An empty counsel chair at the appointed time was an invitation to a contempt hearing, and so Trask waited. While he waited, his mind began to work, as it always did when he was unoccupied. To the others in the courtroom—the court reporter, security officers, the defendant at the table—he appeared to be asleep.

The pictures floated through his head.

I’m outside the principal’s office. Third grade. Teacher doesn’t like me very much. Mom’s inside
talking. I can hear them if I block out the other sounds. Talking about “attention deficits.” Saying
maybe I should be on some kind of meds. Mom’s mad, says that if they knew how to really educate
me, they wouldn’t have any trouble. I haven’t been any trouble. My homework’s always done. I do
it in class, always finish before school is over. I can’t help it if I daydream after that. I hear what
the teacher’s saying, I just look at other stuff, read other books while she’s talking. “Give my son one
of your stupid zombie pills without my permission and I’ll sue you sideways.”

His eyes flickered open for a moment. Courtroom still quiet. No judge yet. He closed his eyes again.

Back at home now. “I know you’re being good, Jeff. Your grades are good, you do the work; they
just don’t understand you like I do. You’re already a grade ahead of the others your age. We don’t
want to move you ahead any faster right now. We just need to make a game of it, OK? Can you
look at the teacher while she’s talking? Pretend to pay attention to her? If she thinks you’re listening
to her
…
” I AM, Mom, but—“Yes,
I
know, but
she
doesn’t. You have to make it a game so she
thinks you’re focusing on her, even if your mind is somewhere else at the time. It’s just a matter of
appearances.” She kisses me on the head. “No pills for you. I promise.”

“All rise.”

Trask appeared to wake from his nap and stood respectfully as the magistrate entered the courtroom. He glanced down at his watch.
She’s thirty-five minutes
late today. Ten minutes late even according to MST, Magistrate Standard Time.

Trask left the federal courthouse following the hearing and decided to cut through Judiciary Square before heading back to the “Triple-nickle,” as most of the prosecutors referred to 555 4th Street, NW, the home of the United States Attorney for the District of Columbia and his more than five hundred assistants. He stopped in front of the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial and quietly stared at two names etched into the marble. Images of both came flooding back into his mind. Robert Lassiter, his mentor and sponsor in the United States Attorney’s office. Detective Juan Ramirez, Dixon Carter’s partner.

“They were good men, Jeff.”

Trask turned to see Barry Doroz standing behind him. He acknowledged Doroz with a nod and turned back toward the Memorial.

“Yes, they were, Bear. I can’t help but think that my name might be on that wall instead of Bob Lassiter’s if he hadn’t signed the indictment on the Reid thing. It was really my case.”

“Yeah, and
my
name would be there if you hadn’t bean-balled that punk who was about to back-shoot me.”

Trask shrugged. The film running through his head changed for a moment to an afternoon over a year ago, a surveillance van screeching to a halt in front of the alleyway where the two armed rapists were dragging their screaming victim. He was with the others, bailing out of the van on the run, Dixon Carter taking a bullet in the thigh and Juan Ramirez kneeling over him, Doroz taking down one of the gunmen with a shoulder shot, but not seeing the other circling behind him. Trask’s lucky throw with a rock had made the shooter pull his shot. Doroz’ return fire had not missed.

“We all do our jobs, Jeff. Some of us get lucky and dodge the bullets; others don’t.”

Trask nodded, stopping the movie and returning it to its place in his mental archive. “Juan would have probably preferred a bullet, given the choice.” Trask looked at the name of Juan Ramirez etched into the wall of the Memorial. Demetrius Reid had ambushed Juan, knocked him unconscious and then killed him. They’d tracked Reid down and charged him with the murder. Reid had charged Trask during the trial and died in a struggle in the courtroom.

“You took care of Reid.” Doroz patted the younger man on the shoulder. “You read your e-mail today?”

“Not yet,” Trask replied. “I had a hearing first thing this morning. Never turned my PC on.”

“If you had, you’d have seen an e-mail from me informing you about a meeting on your new case.”

“OK. When and where?”

“My shop in fifteen. Shall we go?”

The Washington field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was located at 601 4th Street NW, just across the street from the Triple-nickel. Doroz led the way into the gang squad. Eight low-walled cubicles—carpet over gray metal and each with a computer station—occupied the center of the bullpen. They passed the cubicles and entered the squad conference room, bright and well illuminated by several rows of energy-saving fluorescents. Trask made a mental note to alert Hollywood that their portrayals of the Bureau in the
X-Files, Fringe,
and other shows were a bit off. The FBI had lightbulbs, and actually used them.

Trask and Doroz shook hands with Willie Sivella and Dixon Carter. Trask held out his hand to Lynn, who pushed the hand away and kissed him full on the mouth, prompting cleared throats from six other FBI special agents standing around the conference table.

“I knew this would never work,” Doroz quipped.

“It’ll work just fine,” Lynn replied. “We have the best cops, the best agents, and now the best prosecutor working the case.”

“And as soon as she gets up to speed, the best investigative analyst?” Doroz asked.

“Of course,” she said.

“Good.”

Doroz looked toward the door as a very young-looking man in a light-gray suit entered the room.

“Everyone here remember Puddin’?” Doroz asked, using the squad moniker for Special Agent Michael Crawford. An aging secretary had seen the new agent as he arrived for his first day of work and had loudly proclaimed that he looked like a fresh bowl of the dessert. The nickname had stuck.

“I never forget a face,” Sivella said. “Especially one that looks twelve.”

“Thanks, Cap,” Crawford said. “You can help me buy some beer after I give this spiel. I’d just get carded again. It’s such a hassle.”

“Just look at it this way, Mike,” Lynn offered, “when you’re forty, you can still date cheerleaders.”

“Thanks, but they’re pretty high-maintenance,” Crawford said, blushing.

“As if you knew,” Doroz laughed. “Get on it with it, Puddin’.”

Crawford walked to the front of the conference table as the rest of the group took their seats. A button-push on a remote caused the lights to dim and a screen to drop from the ceiling. A projector in the rear switched on, displaying the silhouette of a small country.

“The Republic of El Salvador,” Crawford began. “A small nation on the Pacific side of Central America, about the size of Massachusetts. The capital is the city of San Salvador, one-point-six million people, about one-fourth the population of the entire country. Until recently, the government was controlled by the
Alianza Republicana Nacionalista,
the National Republican Alliance, or ARENA party. Hard-line conservatives and very friendly to the US. The last national election, however, was won by the
Farabundo Marti
para la Liberacion Nacional
, the Farabundo Marti National Liberation Front, or FMLN.”

“Liberation front?” asked Trask. “That doesn’t sound too friendly.”
You’ve
done your research, Puddin.’ Don’t leave out the politics. It could matter here.

“Probably not,” Crawford said, “unless you’re Castro or Hugo Chavez. It’s a fairly new administration, and we have to see how far to the left the country will swing. Anyway, that’s how this all started. In the eighties, there was a helluva civil war going on down there—left versus right—and about one hundred thousand people died, mostly in the rural areas. The country’s agricultural industries got caught in the middle, and with nothing to sell or eat, about two million Salvadorans decided to come to the US. Thousands of them settled in California, and as their kids became teenagers, they faced the same problems any other teenagers face in LA and Oakland.”

“Gangs?” Carter asked.

“Precisely. The black and Mexican street gangs were already established, and originally the Salvadorans banded together in self-defense. They created
Mara Salvatrucha 13. Mara
is short for
marabunta,
a word for gang or for army ants;
salvatrucha
can be translated as ‘shrewd.’ The thirteen comes from the 13th Street area in LA, where a lot of the original members lived. In fact, their chief rival gang is usually just called the 18th Street Gang, Barrio 18, or M-18, another Salvadoran crew originally from LA. The
Maras
originally only admitted Salvadorans, but later they were taking in anyone from Central America. Of course, in the proud history of LA street gangs, self-defense soon took a backseat to every kind of criminal enterprise you can think of.”

“What kind of colors and tats are we looking for?” asked Carter.

“For MS-13, colors are light blue and white. Tattoos include ‘MS,’ ‘
Salvatrucha
,’ the number thirteen or any numbers adding up to thirteen—”