by Samson Weld
“At least no one robbed the bodies before we got here,” she said, and headed up the stairs. She found Cagle with Jeff in one of the bedrooms. They were squatting on either side of another dead Latino. “What’s so interesting about this one?”
“Manner of death,” Jeff said.
He moved aside so she could take his place. The victim was short and stocky. The pistol next to him was empty, slider locked back. She spotted several life threatening wounds, especially his shot up shoulders. But the gunshot wounds weren’t what stood out.
“Now that looks personal,” she said. The dead man had multiple syringes still stuck in his neck and legs. “Why does this remind me of Charlie Cox’s murder?”
Cagle gave her a sharp look. “You think they’re connected?”
She shrugged. “Worth a look.”
“Did he die of an overdose?” Cagle asked.
“The coroner will have to figure that one out,” Jeff said. “But it looks that way to me.”
“The killer could be someone who’s loved one died of an overdose here,” Bellucci said. “Is this ice cream drug lord, Osorio, associated with this crackhouse?”
Cagle didn’t look happy. He also didn’t look at her, or actually answer her question.
“Could be a turf war,” he said, standing.
The walls, ceiling, and floor were riddled with bullet holes and spattered with blood. Was the killer also wounded? The crime scene boys would analyze all of the blood and determine that, but that didn’t help them now. Bellucci felt her frustration rise.
“Well, it’s starting to look like war, the way the bodies are piling up,” she said. “Captain Perot is going to want answers.”
He nodded, lost in his own thoughts. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s go.”
Bellucci followed him out of the house and onto the porch before she grabbed his arm and stopped him. He gave her a hostile look.
“Talk to me. You know something,” she said. “I can see it in your eyes, in your body language.”
He stiffened, and turned away from her. Cagle remained silent a moment, while looking over the crowd. Then he pointed out a few people, all of whom had the look of young gangbangers.
“I don’t think Dallas is any different than New York. Gangs fighting for territory. Black, Latino, Asian, none of them have any respect for life,” he said, eyes narrowing. “If this and the Charlie Cox murder are connected, then we might have a new player trying to take Osorio out, just like Osorio took out Potter before him. It could get real ugly, real fast.”
She studied the men Cagle pointed out. They stared back at her defiantly. Some, if not all, of them were probably carrying. Even in Texas you couldn’t carry a concealed weapon without a license. Though, open carry was legal. Very disturbing, but it was usually just the Second Amendment types strutting around with rifles to exercise their rights. The bad guys still liked to keep their weapons out of sight.
“You want to grab one or two and question them back at the station?”
“Why? They won’t talk, if they even know anything,” he replied indifferently. “Those dead men inside weren’t gangbangers. They work for someone a lot bigger. Maybe Osorio. Maybe the pretender to the throne.” He waved his hand at the crowd. “No one out there knows crap. And that’s fine with me. Let them all kill each other off, and good riddance.”
“Wow. Who pissed in your coffee?” she asked. “I for one still believe in truth, justice, and the American Way. It gives meaning to my life.” She pointed to a patrol car. “Like it says, we’re here to Serve and Protect.”
“Actually, Bellucci, it doesn’t say that,” he replied.
She looked closer. The line under Police was Serving since 1881.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. We’re here to uphold the law. It would be pure anarchy without us. The law is all that holds our society together,” she said with feeling. “Otherwise, the bad guys win. They rule. And the rest of us serve them slavishly. Now, let’s go find this killer and put a stop to him once and for all.”
Chapter 9
Just the sight of the columbarium brought Ash down. Yet, that’s where three urns holding Milly, Joshua, and Jacob lay at rest. Ash had brought them with him when he’d moved to Texas. He couldn’t bear to be half a continent away from them.
He parked the F-150 and just sat there staring at the very modern structure. The columbarium was three rows of three stone wall-like structures, both sides full of square black marble niches. The names of those inurned were carved on the surface, along with the dates of birth and death. White marble benches sat between them.
Ash’s heart raced. He found no peace visiting his murdered family. Even killing two of their murderers didn’t ease his pain.
He picked up the vase of daffodils and got out of the pickup. Daffodils had been Milly’s favorite. The gravel path crunched under his feet as he approached. He quickly found the three niches holding his family and placed the vase on the ground below them.
“Happy birthday, Milly,” he said, voice cracking. She was thirty-four at the time of her death, so he added the five years since. “Looks like it’s your thirty-ninth. Don’t worry, forty isn’t all that bad. I’m the fittest I’ve ever been.”
Her niche sat between the twins. He thought she’d like that, surrounded by the children she’d loved so much.
“I’m so sorry. I should’ve turned around when you asked,” he said.
Memories of that fateful day came crashing down. The twins shared his lifelong love of the Dodgers, and they were going to the stadium for a double-header. Traffic had been awful up from their home in Anaheim, so he quickly turned off the I-5 when it came to a stop in East LA.
Milly begged him to turn around and go back to I-5. It didn’t matter if they arrived at the game a little late. But he was determined to get there before the game started. They didn’t make it three blocks before gunfire erupted all around them.
His first thought was a gang fight, but later learned it was a drug deal gone bad. It didn’t matter, because countless bullets riddled their car, killing Milly and the twins. He was wounded and would never forgive himself. Or the soulless bastards who slaughtered his family.
Even after five years, their faces were forever etched in his mind. Expressions of fury, wicked glee, and grim determination. His family was collateral damage, but neither side cared. Pushers and gang members didn’t give a shit about innocent bystanders. They put no value in life at all.
Sadness and rage battled within. All seasoned in copious amounts of guilt. He longed for the comfort and joy of his family, yet fury burned constantly below the surface. His every waking moment for the past five years had been spent preparing for his vengeance.
“I know you don’t approve, but it’s begun,” he whispered. “I killed Charlie Cox and Hector Corredor earlier this week. I’m working my way up. I’m going to make Mateo Osorio crazy before…”
There was a certain visceral satisfaction killing Charlie and Hector. Not so much the other three men. It was wrong, and he knew it. Vigilante justice went against everything America stood for. At least his old, idealized vision of America.
But he was the only witness to his family’s murder and the DA said it wasn’t enough to get a conviction. Hell, the authorities wouldn’t even deport Osorio and his goons, despite most of them being illegal aliens.
“Five years of weapons and martial arts training are coming to a head, baby. You and the boys will be avenged. Or I’ll die trying.”
Sometimes he wondered if the die trying part wouldn’t be better. At least he’d be with them again.
After four months in the hospital and rehab, Ash had started an exercise regimen that left his body harder and fitter than he’d ever been. Not even his years as a high school and college baseball player could compare. He slowly transformed himself from a mild-mannered insurance adjuster to a hard-edged vigilante.
The life insurance Milly insisted they get on all four of them helped to finance his
vengeance. He had more than enough to live well without a job, at least in Texas. Not that he wanted anything. His life had only one purpose.
Ash looked around, flipping his collar up against the cold north wind. Milly had never left the state of California. She even thought northern California too cold. He knew she would not like Dallas.
“When this is over, we’ll all move to Florida,” he said. “I can’t go back to LA, or California. Too many memories.”
He’d recently updated his will. If he didn’t survive, then his remains, as well as Milly’s and the boys’, were to be returned to Anaheim, California. The only way he planned to ever return home was in an urn.
“Please forgive me, Milly,” he said. “But vengeance will be mine.”
Chapter 10
Ash stepped up to the sales counter at R&J’s Country Store and Bait Shop. He wore clothes appropriate for fishing in January: jeans, red flannel shirt, and gray coat. An old, beat up Dodgers cap covered his head. Raj smiled at him from behind the counter.
“Hello, Mr. Wexler,” Raj said. “Actually, I heard the crappie are biting after that last cold front passed through.”
He returned the middle-aged Indian man’s smile. Ash had bought bait from that store at least twice a month for the past two years. Fishing really helped to calm his nerves. But today was for an alibi, just in case things went south.
“That’s what I’m hoping, Raj,” Ash said. “Give me two dozen shiners.”
The minnows were for crappie. They also sold blood bait for catfish, worms for bluegill, and casting lures for bass and sandies. Raj and his wife sold just about anything a fisherman could need.
“Wonderful,” the store owner said.
He went into a side room to collect the minnows. Raj returned a few minutes later with a clear plastic bag half full of water and then inflated the rest of the way. The minnows swam around and around, light flashing off their scales, giving them their name shiners.
“Perfect,” Ash said. “I’m going to have a fish fry tonight.”
Ash paid for the shiners with his Visa bank card. If anyone suspected him of anything that happened today, he could point to his alibi. Fishing all alone on Lake Ray Hubbard. He fished alone, because it was a workday.
A few minutes later, he hit the ramp up onto westbound Interstate 30. His 2003 gray Dodge Ram had a Hemi, so accelerated with some authority. He loved driving that battered old gray pickup. The sun sat low on the horizon. It really was his favorite time of day to fish. He wasn’t a morning person, so dawn was out of the question.
The lake lay between the cities of Rockwall to the east, and Garland and Mesquite on the west side. It had been constructed to provide water to North Texas communities. The I-30 bridge bisected it, with the bridge crossing an island in the middle of the lake.
Ash exited I-30 onto that island. He followed the road circling the island, parking as far from the highway as possible. Then he took the bag of minnows to the water and dumped it inside.
“You get to live a little longer,” he muttered, and then glanced at the westering sun. “Not everyone can say that.”
Minutes later, he was back on I-30 West. The eastbound side was packed with rush hour traffic. It was Friday night, everyone eager to get home and begin their weekend. But not Dave Collins. The California transplant always “worked late” on Friday. Or so he told his wife.
Ash’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. The CPA was Osorio’s chief accountant and money man. He’d learned that Collins did Osorio’s taxes back in his drug peddling, East LA days.
Rumor was, Collins introduced Osorio to the Russians and then helped work out the deal that sent Osorio to Dallas and put him on the road to success as a drug lord. He’d followed Osorio here to enjoy the rewards of dirty money.
Traffic increased on the other side of the lake. Mesquite was a working class suburb of Dallas. The wealthy preferred to live in the northern suburbs: Carrolton, Plano, and Frisco.
I-30 continued to downtown Dallas, but Ash turned off in Mesquite, taking I-635. In Dallas, they called it LBJ, after the Vietnam-era president. They also had a toll road called the George Bush, but he wasn’t sure which President Bush it was named after.
Westbound LBJ wasn’t as bad as the eastbound lanes at that time of day, but it was still heavy. Ash drove along at a nice clip. He remained on schedule as he passed by the suburbs of Garland and Richardson. Collins’ CPA business was in Dallas, right off Preston Road and LBJ. So Ash took the Preston Road exit.
The winter sunset painted the sky brilliantly in burnt orange, red, and yellows as Ash pulled into the parking lot across the street. He waited a good twenty minutes before Dave Collins came out with his only employee, Yvette Cortez. He watched the dirty CPA lock up, and then escort Miss Cortez to her car. They must be doing well, because even his employee drove a BMW X5.
“Damn,” Ash said.
It was the first time Ash really got a good look at Collins’ associate and mistress. She was on the short side. Collins was only average height and weight, but she still stood half a head shorter in sky-high stilettos. Her bright blue dress hugged her every curve, and emphasized her large bust and meaty butt. Even Ash was distracted for a moment.
Collins pushed her back against the BMW, claiming her lips in a long, passionate kiss. He ran his hands through her long brown hair, while she clung to him tightly. That was a lot of passion on display. Ash wondered if Collins’ wife suspected anything. What woman wouldn’t when her husband worked with someone who looked that hot?
“Sorry, shitbird,” Ash whispered, squinting. “You have a wife and two young children, and yet you risk it all by working for Osorio and having an affair with her.”
Second thoughts rose again. Collins had to die, but he had a wife and two sons at home. The pain of his loss filled him for a moment. How could he do that to Collins’ family? So wrong. Yet, Collins was clearly going to screw it all up anyway.
Sorry, not sorry.
Ash came out of his dark reverie when Yvette finally slipped out of Collins’ arms, and stepped in behind the wheel. He watched Collins hurry over to his Mercedes Benz AMG GT, while Yvette headed for the LBJ service road.
That was the moment of truth, where Collins’ fate would be decided. Would he follow Yvette home? Or would he head for Preston Road, and north to his family in Frisco?
Collins followed his mistress.
“So be it,” Ash said.
He turned the opposite direction as the two lovers. Ash had followed them to her house in Farmer’s Branch twice before. As best he could tell, they had all their romantic trysts at her house. No motel bills to trip Mr. Collins up and be used by his wife’s divorce lawyers if caught.
Ash took Inwood north, turning west on Alpha. That looped around to Valley View, which he followed westward over to Farmer’s Branch. He turned northward on Josey, taking it up to Yvette’s street. It was an old neighborhood, with lots of large trees. The houses looked like they’d been built in the 1950s, and were on the small size by modern standards. He spotted Collins’ car parked at the curb, with hers in the driveway.
It was getting dark on that tree lined street. The twilight between day and night had faded to full night, giving him a little cover. Ash parked his pickup across the street from Collins’ car. Looking around, he ensured no one was out and about to witness his activities. Then he hurried up to the front door.
He peeked in the front window. The lovers were in the middle of the living room in a passionate embrace. Romantic music filled the crisp air. When she pulled away, giving Collins a sultry look and then headed toward the back, Ash knew it was time. She was obviously going to change into something… more comfortable.
Ash rolled down a black ski mask over his face. He pulled on snug driving gloves, before taking the garrote out of his pocket. It was a homemade thing of steel wire with wooden handles on each end. Ash wanted to take Collins out as quietly as possible.
Testing the knob, he found the fron
t door unlocked.
The door opened quietly and Ash rushed up behind Collins, who was taking off his suit jacket. The garrote went around the accountant’s neck before he realized the danger.
“Ugh!”
Ash jerked it tight, cutting off his air, before Collins could cry out. Then he drove his knee in the back of his victim’s leg, forcing him to fall to his knees between the couch and coffee table. Unfortunately, they banged against the coffee table, knocking a tall glass off. It shattered loudly on the hardwood floor.
Ash whispered in his ear, “This is what you get for helping that murderer, Osorio.”
“Dave?” Yvette called from the back. And then footsteps. “No! Billy, come back!”
Billy? Ash thought. Who the hell is…
A little boy came out into the living room and froze, eyes huge. Ash froze. The child couldn’t be more than five years old. No child should witness anything like that.
No!
He didn’t know Yvette had a kid. Who the hell brought her illicit lover home with a child in the house?
That brief distraction was all Collins’ needed.
The struggling accountant got hold of a long, sharp piece of broken glass and slashed at Ash’s face, slicing through the ski mask over his left cheek. Then he slashed Ash’s left forearm, cutting through the thick coat, shirt, and into his flesh.
Ash’s hand convulsed open, releasing that end of the garrote. It was enough. Collins surged forward, at the same time Yvette started screaming.
Collins scrambled away on all fours, while Yvette picked up her child and raced back to her bedroom. He heard her slam and lock her door.
Ash knew she’d be on the phone to 911 within seconds, so ran out the door and out to his pickup. Ash drove away as quickly and calmly as possible, wounded arm throbbing, and wondering how badly he’d screwed everything up.
Chapter 11
Cursing himself, Ash took the back streets toward Preston Road. From there he could head home. His arm throbbed, but a quick glance in the rearview mirror showed Collins had failed to cut his face. Ruined his ski mask, but he escaped injury there. He could hide the arm wound, but a face wound?