Horns of the Devil - Jeff Trask [02] (6 page)

The defendant
du jour
was an ugly little troll who had been shipping ecstasy tablets—the rave party drug of the moment—to the nation’s capital from his home in Phoenix. Trask thought he might actually get out of the proceedings in less than two hours, but then the judge asked the accused whether he was under the influence of any medications that might affect his mental clarity. The laundry list of maladies and medications that came spewing from the defendant marked him to be a hypochondriac of the highest order, and Trask cringed at the answer, since he was familiar with “Richard’s Ritual,” the judge’s tortuous inquiry into the effects of every drug on the list.

While the pointless script was playing out, Trask was present in body only. He glanced from one portrait to another. Dead judges who had ruled the courthouse in the past. His eyes remained open but glazed over—he couldn’t close them for fear of being accused of sleeping through the hearing—as he recalled significant cases decided by each late jurist. Some decisions had withstood the tests of time and appellate review. Several had not.

Back with Mom and the doc again. “You like music, Jeff?” “He loves it,” she said. “We got him
a radio with an earpiece and he listens to the thing all night when he’s supposed to be asleep. Hides
it under his pillow.” How did she know? She always knew. “Pick out a song, then, and play it in
your head when you get bored.” It had worked for him ever since; the order when the chaos started
to crowd in. No more talk of medication. “Music is the Doctor” from The Doobie Brothers started
playing on his mental jukebox.

Two hours later, after finally asking the perp whether the aspirin he took daily for cardiac therapy had any effect on his ability to understand the gravity of the plea he was about to enter, the judge finally got into the actual details of the offense. It was seven-thirty before Trask started the forty-five-minute drive home to Waldorf, Maryland, a bedroom suburb at about five-thirty on the beltway “clock.”

Lynn met him at the door with a kiss and the appropriate amount of spousal sympathy. “Put on something comfortable. I ate already, chicken and dumplings. I’ll heat you a bowl, and then I’ve got some more info for you.”

“About what?”

“Our case, of course. Eat first and give your mind a rest. I know you need a break after that marathon with Judge Gollum.”

Trask smiled at Lynn’s nickname for Judge Scott. The diminutive and bald jurist did bear a strong physical resemblance to the character from
Lord of the
Rings
. He changed, wolfed down the meal while watching the news on the big screen in the living room, and then sat back in his chair. He yawned, and then yawned again.

“No naps yet. Not until I tell you about
my
afternoon,” she said.

“OK. Shoot.” He yawned again.

“You going to stay awake for this?”

“I’ll try to. Five autopsies, two silent rides with Dixon Carter, and then Judge Gollum. No guarantees.”

She sat down on his lap and started to unbutton her blouse.

“That’s not fair.”
It isn’t. I can’t concentrate on anything else, even if I want to, and I
don’t want to. Pick a song—yep, that one’s appropriate.

“Stay awake then. Barry brought back some of the personal papers on the vics from the local shootings. One was a kid named Diego Morales, the one with the new tattoo. I’ll tell you what I think that means in a minute. He had his ID in his wallet, and also a pay stub from a delicatessen in Langley Park.”

“Nice work. We’ll go by and talk to the owner tomorrow after they open up.”

He yawned again. She unbuttoned two more buttons.

“Stop that,” he said. The music in his head started his fingers tapping on the chair arm.

“You really don’t want me to stop, and you really don’t want to go to that deli tomorrow.”

“Why not?”

“I drove by it on the way home after work. It burned down yesterday, and the fire flared again today in the rubble. The firefighters were still hosing down the ashes. I talked to one of the guys on the scene. After I showed him my creds, he told me it was an arson job.”

Trask closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them, her blouse was on the coffee table. He smiled.

She saw his fingers hitting the chair arm.

“Now? What song?” she demanded.

“‘Night Moves.’ Bob Seger. 1976.”

“Why that one?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Something about points sitting way up firm and high.”

“You wish! They used to be.” She shook her head and laughed. “Anyway, I think Diego Morales may be your killer of the ambassador’s kid,” she said, leaning over to kiss him.

“How do you figure that?”

“In addition to the bullet hole, Barry said he had a lot of bruises, about two days old. That means he just got ‘jumped in.’ That’s the term MS-13 uses for an initiation. The new recruit has to carry out some special mission first—like murdering a rival gang member—then he gets the shit kicked out of him for thirteen seconds. It’s only after completing his assignment and getting ‘jumped in’ that he’s allowed to get his tattoos as a full-fledged
Mara
member.”

“Makes sense,” Trask said. “Fresh bruising, new tat. Timing lines up. We’ll need a lot more to make the case, of course, find out who ordered the hit on the ambassador’s kid and why, but those are excellent leads, babe.” He yawned again.

“Thanks. Barry thought so, too. He wants you to go with him to see the ambassador Monday, with a photo spread. See if he can pick out Diego.”

“OK. I’ll need to get some sleep then.”

He leaned back, closed his eyes and tried to keep a straight face. He couldn’t. When he opened his eyes, the bra was gone. She kissed him again.

“Not so fast, hotshot. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m amped up about this case. I need one of those physical sleeping pills you’re so good at, or I’ll be up all night.”

.

Chapter Six

August 15

T
rask reached his office at 8:00. He checked his e-mails and the court docket to make sure no emergency hearings had popped up. His schedule was clear, so he crossed the street to the FBI field office. Barry Doroz was not alone. Michael Crawford was in Doroz’ office, and a man in a well-tailored suit with flaming red hair and a matching moustache stood from his chair and turned when Trask entered the room.

“Morning, Jeff. This is Tom Murphy; he’s with the State Department,” Doroz said.

“Very glad to meet you, Jeff,” Murphy said.

Trask thought that Murphy’s smile was a bit too wide, his manner too friendly.
This guy reminds me of some used car salesmen I’ve met in the past. Must be the State
Department emphasis on diplomacy—a professional glad-hander.

“Jeff Trask, Tom. Nice to meet you, too, I hope. What part of the State Department?”

Murphy smiled at Doroz.

“You’re right, Bear, smart
and
careful. I’m from the Diplomatic Affairs Division, Jeff. We’re responsible for all sorts of things regarding foreign ambassadors to the US. We oversee the accreditation of the ambassadors and their staffs, deal with issues involving diplomatic immunity for the embassy staff and their families, and we handle any problems arising with any of the personnel in any of the foreign missions. El Salvador is one of the nations I monitor. My boss just wanted me to ride along with you guys today to see if there was anything that State could do to facilitate your investigation.”

“To make sure that this is really an FBI case, not a State case, and that some bungling AUSA didn’t start an international incident?”

“Barry’s already assured me that I don’t have to worry about that, but yes, that too, if something should come up.”

“Do you know something that we should be worried about?” Trask asked.

“I’ll give you some background on the way over to the embassy.”

It was a nice day, and it made no sense to drive with the Metro stop as close as it was. They walked through the Law Enforcement Memorial to the Red Line entrance in Judiciary Square and got on the down escalator leading to the subway.

“Barry tells me you’ve been briefed on the civil war in El Salvador, and on the gangs that sprang up in the refugee
barrios
in LA?”

“Yes.” Trask looked around to see if anyone else was within earshot.

“Nothing I’m going to say is classified,” Murphy said. “You could get it all on the web in about fifteen minutes.”

“OK.”

“The pertinent facts for today are these. The war was basically between two political factions. On the conservative, pro-American side, you had the ARENA group, which was backed by the military, the National Civilian Police, and our CIA.”

“Hard-line, right-wing bastards like myself and these agents here?” Trask asked.

“Much harder, I’m afraid,” chuckled Murphy. “Some of us in State believe that they
had
to be hard to survive. Others disagree. At any rate, the opposition was aligned with the FMLN.”

“The Liberation Front?”

“Yes, a more radical group, and in the recent elections, the winners by a narrow margin. The new regime has done and said all the right things publically—that their priorities are to maintain the good relations between El Salvador and the US—I really don’t think there’s much reason to worry about them. The new ambassador comes from that group. It’s the first time the FMLN has been in power, and that’s a matter of concern, especially given the tensions between the new government and some of the other Salvadoran national agencies. The ARENA candidate who lost was, after all, the former director of the national police.”

“And what does this have to do with our murder case?” Trask was looking around again to see if anyone was eavesdropping.

“It has to do with the
Maras
. The ARENA administrations were very tough on the gangs. The Salvadoran cops were known to meet gang members at the airport in San Salvador when they arrived after being deported from this country. If the cops saw a banger with the usual tattoos, they’d haul him straight to one of their infamous prisons just for being a member. Tattoo equals guilt equals jail, or worse. Some of the gang members never made it to prison. It wasn’t unusual for their bodies to be found alongside a country road somewhere. Before 9/11, some
Mara
members were trying to cut their tats off with razor-blades on the flights back to the home country. The airlines were forced to rehab the lavatories to clean up all the blood.”

“What’s the relationship between the gangs and the new administration?” Doroz asked.

“The new president won because he portrayed himself as a moderate,” Murphy continued, “not just another Marxist financed by Hugo Chavez. He held out some olive branches, tried to persuade gang members to leave the
Maras
, and called many of the inmates in his country ‘political prisoners.’ The problem is that he’s now got the same troubles Castro faced before he hit us with that Mariel boat lift in the seventies. Even Communist workers’ paradises and liberation fronts have real thugs and criminals to deal with, psychopaths who don’t give a damn about which side of a political argument you’re on before they rob you and cut your head off. When their gang soldiers weren’t
all
immediately freed, the
Mara
hard-liners—especially those from MS-13—felt like the new ‘moderates’ in the FMLN sold them out, and they declared war on the new regime just like they did with the old one.”

“You think that’s the reason the ambassador’s kid got whacked?” Crawford asked.

That’s what he wants us to think,
Trask thought.
Murphy’s already trying to paint the case
as a politically motivated assassination. If he’s successful, special agents from the State Department
will be calling the shots over Doroz’ head, and the main justice hall-crawlers will be passing notes
to me at the trial table.

“It’s certainly possible,” Murphy said. “I just thought you guys investigating the case needed to hear that side of the story before interviewing the ambassador again. I know you have rules regarding what information can be released and when, but we’d like to be kept in the loop as much as possible. The Secretary is personally interested in the case, and called your US Attorney last night.”

“The Secretary of State?” Trask asked. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in Eastman’s office first thing this morning.”

“Ross called
me
this morning, Jeff,” Doroz said. “I told him that Murph here was briefing us, and that I’d keep you from embarrassing him.”

“Wonderful.”

“Seriously,” Doroz laughed, “he said he had complete confidence in us, but he wanted an update after our meeting with the ambassador. He thinks a lot of you. I think he called me because I’ve been around longer.”

“I think he called
you
because it’s a subtle way of telling
me
that he’s going to be checking on this from every angle possible,” Trask said. “Complete confidence aside, my direct and personal updates aren’t going to be enough where ambassadors and the State Department are concerned.”

Murphy was chuckling again. “I don’t know how long you’ve been in the capital, Jeff, but you’ve certainly learned some of the games.”

The train pulled to a stop at the Dupont Circle Station. They rode the escalator back up into the sunlight.

“Dupont Circle. This is where that Georgian diplomat Makharadze killed that kid during a DWI isn’t it?” Trask thought aloud. “Georgia waived his diplomatic immunity, and we actually got to prosecute him, as I recall.”

“A very rare event,” Murphy said. “I wouldn’t count on seeing that again in your lifetime.”

A very weird thing to say,
Trask thought.
Wonder where that came from? Diplomats all
over this city getting away with everything from serial traffic violations to rape, and he acts like
the waiver was something that shouldn’t have been pursued. He must be concerned about his own
status when he’s overseas.

They walked a few blocks east to the embassy.

Murphy presented his credentials first, which got a knowing nod at the reception desk. They were almost immediately ushered into the waiting room outside the ambassador’s office, where they sat on a couch. A dark-haired secretary smiled at them from her desk. She was twenty-something and stunning, at least a fourteen on the proverbial ten-scale.

“That didn’t take long,” Doroz said, returning the secretary’s smile.

Trask noticed that the girl’s glance lingered on Crawford, who was smiling back at her and blushing.

You may need oven mitts for that one, Puddin’.

“About a quarter of the country’s income comes from money mailed home by Salvadorans still living and working in the US,” Murphy whispered to Trask. “They like to keep us happy, so we won’t be waiting long.”

“Please come in, gentlemen.”

The distinguished figure of Ambassador Juan Carlos Lopez-Portilla stood in an open doorway in front of the couch. After introductions, they followed him into the ambassador’s office, but instead of sitting behind his desk, he joined them around a coffee table in front of it. A steaming pitcher and five cups had already been arranged on the table.

“One of El Salvador’s specialties, of course,” the ambassador said. “I always take my coffee black, but I can have cream and sugar brought in if anyone requires it.”

“Black is fine, Mr. Ambassador,” Trask said. “I wouldn’t want to ruin the flavor of excellent coffee with cream and sugar any more than I’d want to ruin a good Canadian whiskey by mixing it with soda.”

“I’ll accept that, Mr. Trask,” the ambassador said, “with the qualification that the sugar is also excellent, having also been grown in El Salvador.”

“My mistake,” Trask said. “Perhaps I should try a cup sweetened with Salvadoran sugar.”

“You may have a career ahead of you in diplomacy,” the ambassador replied. His smile was brief. “You are here, of course, on much sadder business.”

“I’m afraid so, sir. Mr. Doroz has some photographs for you to look at, if you don’t mind. We’d like to know if you recognize any of these individuals.”

Doroz removed the spread from a manila envelope and handed it to the ambassador. Six photographs of young Hispanic males, three above three, were arranged on an 8x10 sheet of paper. The face of the late Diego Morales appeared in the fourth photograph.

“I’m afraid I do not know these people,” Lopez said after looking hard at the spread. “There is a member of my staff who might, however. Do you mind if I ask him to look at them?”

“Of course not,” Trask replied.

“Excellent. I’ll show the photos to him later, then, and—”

“Mr. Ambassador, our courts have rules of evidence which require that we witness any identification which your staff member might make. We would need him to sign and initial any photograph he recognizes. We can’t just leave this with you.”

“I see.”

The ambassador was silent for a moment. He rose from his chair and opened the door to the waiting room.

“Marissa, please have Señor Rios join us.”

The ambassador returned to his chair. He did not speak, and stared vacantly at the photo spread on the table until the door opened again. A man dressed in a black suit and wearing a black patch over his left eye entered the room.

Trask had always heard cops talking about their antennae, their investigative intuition or sixth sense that let them know when somebody was just “wrong.”
If
I’ve actually managed to grow a pair of the things, they’re about to overheat with this guy.

“Gentlemen, may I present José Rios-García, my deputy chief of mission?” the ambassador said. “I’m afraid he may have been more familiar with my son’s activities than I have been lately, with the pressing duties of my office. Much to my regret, as I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” Trask said.

Rios merely nodded to them, not offering a handshake. The ambassador handed him the photo spread. Rios scanned it and looked at it again. Trask noticed a small hesitation on both passes, at the point where the man’s good eye was focusing on the fourth photo. Rios handed the sheet back to the ambassador.

“No, Señor. Lo siento mucho.” Rios gave a nod to Trask and turned and left without another word. Trask had the feeling he had just been x-rayed.

I need to ask the ambassador the hard question. No sense in sugarcoating it
.

“There was an eighteen tattooed on your son’s right shoulder, Mr. Ambassador,” Trask said. “Was he involved in Barrio 18?”

Lopez-Portilla shook his head. “Not really. Ten years ago, I was working on my master’s degree at UCLA. Armando was eight years old. We didn’t live in the
barrios
, but my son naturally gravitated to others from our home country. His mother and I were not happy with the tattoo, of course, but it was my impression that Armando got it simply out of desire to identify with the other boys. If he was actually involved in any gang activities, I never knew it. Perhaps I was too busy.”

“I’m sure you did your best, sir,” Trask said.

“I am sorry, gentlemen,” the ambassador rose, signaling they were being dismissed. “We do not seem to have been of much assistance.”

“Thanks for trying, Mr. Ambassador,” Trask said. “We’ll keep you posted. Would you have a set of your son’s records from school on hand? There may be something there that gives us some leads.”

“I have some papers at home. I’ll have them brought in today. Leave your contact information with my secretary, and she’ll see that you get them. Let me know if there is anything else you think might be of assistance.”

They left the way they had entered, each leaving a business card with the ambassador’s secretary on the way out. Trask noticed that the lovely Marissa’s smile lingered twice as long on the face of Special Agent Michael Crawford as it did for either Doroz or himself.

“I think old eye patch recognized one of those photos,” Trask said as they walked back toward Dupont Circle.

“How do you figure that?” Murphy asked.