Speak of the Devil (3 page)

Ralph and the others rushed inside behind him. Ralph knelt down and started cuffing the guy Hector had shot. No telling what damage the shots had done—the man still had to be incapacitated.

Hector stepped around Ralph and approached the prone man whose pockets the machete guy had been going through. His hands and feet were bound with duct tape—but his entire head was gone. Where there should have been a face there was just a pool of blood on dirty carpet. Hector swallowed back a wave of bile and kept going.

The hallway deposited him into a dark and musty living room. The main source of light was a boxy old TV with porn playing on it. “Ah, ah, ah!” the woman on TV moaned, her breasts bouncing frantically as she rode the man beneath her. A cheap plastic stopwatch was tacked to the wall, to track the time each john was allowed. A bookshelf was overturned, its stash of condoms, lube, and VHS porn tapes scattered on the floor. A few dingy couches slouched around the TV. Several of the cushions had been sliced open, and bits of the inner fluff floated through the air.

Another man lay on a couch; he was also bound in duct tape, with a piece of tape over his mouth. This man was alive and terrified. He met Hector’s gaze and signaled with his head toward the back rooms.

Hector strode to a bedroom and threw open the door. There were two mattresses separated by a curtain, but otherwise the room was empty. He moved to the next bedroom.

It took him a moment to process the scene. A naked woman curled on a mattress, sobbing. Next to the bed, a grinning man scrambled to pull up his pants, which were tangled around his ankles. A severed human head—presumably from the body in the hallway—was impaled on top of a cheap bedside lamp. It dripped blood onto the lightbulb, which flickered in protest.

Two men in trench coats were fumbling with the lock on the bedroom’s back door, which led outside to the back alley. They held a third man, who wore only a bloody white T-shirt and black socks. Hector recognized him from his mug shot—Ricardo Amaya, the brothel owner, the man Hector had come here to arrest.

One of the two thugs was an average-looking Hispanic male, but the other seemed to be wearing some sort of mask. Hector’s eyes went to their hands, assessing the threat they presented. Both thugs carried machetes, but unlike the fool in the front hallway, they didn’t raise them at Hector. Instead, they opened the back door and stepped outside into the dark alley, dragging the half-naked brothel owner with them.

Hector could see another officer outside in the alley, guarding the rear door. The weird-looking thug hurled Ricardo at the officer. The officer was bowled over; he and the brothel owner fell in a tangled heap to the ground. The two thugs took off running.

Meanwhile, the man with his pants around his ankles was reaching toward a machete on the floor. Hector kicked the machete away and slammed the guy, chest-first, into the wall. Hector cuffed him, then shoved him into Ralph’s arms.

“Call for backup,” Hector said. “Two Hispanic males with machetes, wearing jeans and trench coats, running west toward Fourteenth Street.”

Hector ran through the bedroom’s back door and out into the dark alley. He could see the two thugs rounding the corner, more than a block away. He sprinted after them.

6

An hour later, Detective Tavon McGee knelt down in the brothel’s front yard. The flashing police lights illuminated a little plastic skeleton lying in the dirt. With gloved hands, he pinched the string attached to the plastic skull and held up the figurine. The little skeleton seemed to dance on its cord as the detective examined it with a flashlight.

McGee filled his lungs with the warm night air, momentarily relieved to study the kitschy representation of death as opposed to the real thing. The scene inside the brothel was a bloody mess. Two corpses: one downed by the double-tap of a police Glock, one duct-taped and decapitated. Three injured: the brothel owner with his chest carved up, drifting in and out of consciousness; a second man, duct-taped and confused; and a naked prostitute, bruised and bloody, sobbing nonsensically about
el diablo
. The three survivors were on their way to Howard University Hospital; the two dead were headed to the Medical Examiner’s Office.

The crime-scene techs had their work cut out for them: dozens of used condoms in the garbage can in the bedroom. Blood spattered on the bedroom walls. Broken furniture strewn around the living room.

It was a messy scene, and it was going to be a messy case. Two of the invaders had gotten away. The police involved in the shooting would not be able to work the case. A Use of Force investigation would be launched, to determine whether Hector Ramos’s shooting was justified. All of the officers would be placed on administrative leave pending the decision. Their union attorneys might not let them talk for weeks, if not months. McGee would have to figure much of this out on his own.

He was a homicide detective, had been for over twenty years. He was used to sorting out the relationships between the living and the dead.

A movement in the row house next door caught his eye. A dark-haired kid was cracking open the front door and peering out. The boy was maybe five years old, with knobby knees and wide brown eyes.

“This yours, little man?” McGee called. He held up the plastic skeleton. The kid nodded. McGee walked up the steps to the boy’s porch. The metal railing around the porch was decorated with dozens of identical little skeletons, as well as black rubber bats and pipe-cleaner spiders. Ghosts made of wispy white sheets hung from the ceiling, twirling slowly in the breeze. McGee handed the little skeleton to the boy. “What’s your name?”

“I’m not ’posed to talk to strangers.”

“It’s okay. I’m the police.”

McGee touched the badge hanging from a thin chain around his neck. The kid still looked worried. McGee knelt down so their heads were almost the same height. Then he smiled, revealing the gummy gap where his two front teeth used to be.

Tavon McGee was 6’4”, 290 pounds, with skin the color of espresso beans. He could use his bulk to intimidate witnesses or bureaucrats. But with kids, the key was getting down on their level—and smiling. The gap in McGee’s front teeth made children feel like he was one of them. Folks speculated on why he didn’t get the hole fixed. Fact was, he’d solved more than one homicide because some child felt comfortable talking to him. No one could argue with the highest case-closure rate in D.C.

The boy said, “My name’s Jorge.”

“That must’ve been pretty scary, what you saw next door, Jorge.”

The kid looked down at the little skeleton in his hands.

“But I’m guessing you were brave, right?”

The boy met his eyes and nodded.

“What happened?”

“The Devil told me to shush,” the boy whispered. “Then he went in there with his friends.”

“What do you mean, the Devil?”

The kid held two index fingers to his forehead, simulating horns.

A woman appeared in the doorway. “Jorge!” she cried.
“Venga aqui! Ahora!
”

The kid ran into the house. McGee stood up, his knees creaking in protest. The woman tried to shut the door in his face, but he stuck a foot into the doorjamb.

“Ma’am, I need to talk to your son.”

“No hablo ínglés.”

She pushed on the door, putting pressure on McGee’s foot. He held up his badge and cocked his head. She reluctantly allowed him inside.

Ten minutes later, he walked back out again, with the names and DOBs of everyone in the house—but no further information about the crime next door. Mom refused to allow the kid to talk to him any more. McGee would return tomorrow with a subpoena requiring the boy to testify in the grand jury. But he knew how these things worked. By tomorrow, Jorge’s mother would have convinced him that he hadn’t seen anything. McGee sighed and brushed a ghost out of his way as he went down the steps.

Hector Ramos came out of the brothel’s basement door, leading a young Hispanic man in handcuffs. The handcuffed man grinned at McGee. He’d been smiling all night. It was a strange smile, completely inappropriate for his situation. McGee wondered what the hell was wrong with him. The man wasn’t carrying ID and wasn’t giving his name. McGee glanced at the tattoos covering his neck, at the two teardrop tattoos by his eye. They’d find out his name soon enough; no way this gangbanger hadn’t been arrested and fingerprinted before.

McGee nodded at the Human-Trafficking detective. Hector was known as a solid cop and a dependable teammate. McGee wondered why he hadn’t left MPD for a higher-paying federal job years ago. Putting this mope in the cruiser would be the last official move Hector would make for a while, though. McGee doubted the detective would enjoy his time out on administrative leave. He got the impression that Hector was an action guy.

Hector stopped before putting the thug in the cruiser and spoke to McGee. “Gotta show you something.” Hector pulled out an evidence bag with a small photo inside it. “I found this in his pants pocket when I frisked him. You know who this is, right?”

McGee took the bag and looked at it. The police flashers bounced red and blue light on the photograph of a woman’s face, smiling and beautiful. McGee knew the face, but she was so out of place and unexpected here, it took him a moment to recognize her. He stopped breathing for a moment. Good Lord.

“Mirandized?” he asked Hector.

“Yeah.”

“Why do you have this picture?” McGee held it before the tattooed man.

The guy’s weird smile grew. “She’s my girlfriend, man.”

“The hell she is. Where’d you get this from?”

“Go fuck yourself is where. I want my lawyer.”

McGee shoved the guy into the back of the police cruiser and slammed the door. He paced the curb and considered calling Jack Bailey. Jack had a right to know. But McGee had heard what Jack and Anna were up to tonight. He didn’t want to ruin this night for them.

He put the picture in his pocket. Let Jack and Anna have one night of happiness and celebration. They deserved it. He’d tell them tomorrow.

7

Colorful lights danced across Anna’s eyelids: blue, green, yellow, orange, red. She kept her eyes shut. She was warm and comfortable and exactly where she wanted to be. Jack was spooned against her back, both of them naked. She pushed herself backward, snuggling even closer. His lips brushed her ear and his hand cupped her breast. She murmured happily.

The sound of the doorknob rattling sent a shot of adrenaline coursing through her body. She sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass arch above the picture window, throwing a colorful checkerboard onto the bed and wood floor.

“Daddy, wake up!” called Olivia’s high-pitched voice. The knob rattled again. “Why is the door locked? You’re gonna be late for work!”

“Okay, honey, I’m coming.” Jack sat up, blinking at his alarm clock. “Ask Luisa to make you some breakfast.”

“Duh! I already did.” Little footsteps trotted away from the door.

Anna smiled at him. “Tough crowd.”

“You think so now? Wait till we tell her we’re getting married.”

“I know. I’m scared.”

“Kidding.” He kissed her and climbed out of bed. She let her eyes wander over his long, athletic body. “I think she’s going to be really happy to hear it. She’s been asking about you a lot.”

“Mm. That seems unlikely.”

Back when Anna and Jack were just friends, Olivia seemed to like her. But the little girl cooled when she realized Anna was taking an important place in her father’s heart. Anna tried to win her over, and eventually thought she and Olivia were having a breakthrough. That was right before Anna’s big fight with Jack. She hadn’t seen the little girl since.

Jack and Anna padded to the bathroom. She felt content and pleasantly achy from their exertions the night before. She loved showering with him again, soaping him up, talking about their day as the steam clouded the shower door.
My fiancé
, she thought, watching him run a razor over his scalp.
My future husband. My family.
The words sent a bolt of happiness through her.

She was done showering first. She wrapped one towel around her head and one around her torso and went into the bedroom. Her phone flashed with a new text message.

Jody Curtis: Well?

Anna called her sister. Jody lived in Michigan, and was all the family Anna had.

“What happened?” Jody answered breathlessly.

“He said yes! Actually, he said no, but then he proposed to me.”

“Congratulations! He’s obviously a very wise man.” Jody made Anna describe the entire night in detail.

“He’s amazing,” Anna concluded. “Just—the best man I know.”

“You’re gushing. It’s cracking me up. I love it.”

“I can’t wait for you to meet him. When can you come to D.C.?”

“In three weeks?”

“Great! We can go wedding-dress shopping. You’ll be my maid of honor, right?”

“I better be. But I’m not sure that title works. Can I be your maid of dishonor?”

“Perfect.” Anna laughed, then quieted. It felt unfair that she should be so happy when Jody was going through a rough time. “How are things on your end?”

“Actually,” Jody lowered her voice. “I’m just getting dressed at Brent’s house now.”

“Jo! I thought you decided no more of his booty calls.”

“Oh, Annie. One more walk of shame isn’t gonna make a difference.”

“You deserve better than this.”

“Not everyone finds Prince Charming. Some of us have to settle for the frogs.”

“That is so wrong. No one should settle for a frog. Especially not you.”

Anna could hear a muffled male voice in the background.

“Gotta go,” Jody said. “Love ya.”

“No frogs!”

The line clicked.

Jack stuck his head out of the bathroom door. “You dealing with a plague?”

“Yeah, the plague of my sister’s ex-boyfriend.” Anna sighed and used the towel to dry her hair. She wondered how she could convince Jody to believe in herself enough to stop hooking up with cheating, lying Brent—without coming across as the obnoxious big sister who thought she had the world all figured out.