by Marc Rainer
Trask nodded.
“Now get out of here,” Patrick said. “Take the rest of the day off, and don’t argue about it.”
Same orders Lynn got from Barry this morning. She’ll be home when I get there.
Trask went back to his office to get his sport coat, but sat down at his computer before leaving. He remembered seeing the website for a pet rescue center in southern Maryland. He also remembered the conversations he’d had with Lynn on the dog issue. She’d always had them, loved them, wanted one. Make that two. “Separation anxiety,” she’d called it. “Make sure there are two so they’ll have company while we’re at work. They won’t tear too many things up that way. And no expensive breeds from some puppy mill. Give a couple of pound puppies a good home.”
He found the website and wrote down the phone and address. He made the call and said he’d be there in twenty minutes or so. After fiddling with what seemed like five square yards of Velcro and straps, he got the vest on and headed for the Jeep.
The drive down the Indian Head Highway was wide open since it was the middle of the day and between rush hours. He turned east on 227 and found the farmhouse, which was surrounded by a grassy field with a wire fence to keep in the pack of dogs that followed the Jeep up the gravel road drive. A woman with a weathered face came out of the house and walked toward the gate as he parked and shed the body armor.
He told her that he and his wife had been talking about adopting a couple of dogs for weeks and that he wanted to surprise her.
“I just have mixed breed rescues here,” the woman said. “No purebreds.”
“That’s what we want,” Trask said. “My wife wanted rescues. She said they’re the best dogs she’s had. What do I do, just pick a couple out?”
The woman pointed to a wooden picnic table and benches a few yards away. “Go sit over there a spell. Let them pick you out.”
He did as instructed, and watched as the pack—about twenty-five in all, ranging from a litter of tiny Jack Russell puppies to a couple of very large dogs—milled about in the grass.
Lynn wanted a “cuddle puppy.” The marshal told me to get a big one.
He was admiring a shepherd-mix pup when he noticed that one strange-looking little dog was slowly walking toward him.
She was small—about twenty-five pounds—and reddish blond, with a small white spot on her chest and a face that reminded him of a fox. She seemed to have an excess of long hair about her shoulders, and a long, bushy tail that curved up and over her back. She hopped up on the bench beside him and held up her paw like she was waving at him.
“This is Nikki,” the old woman said. “She’s half Shiba Inu and half Whippet. I knew when you called that she would pick you. She’s been waiting for you.”
Shiba Inu, Trask thought, trying to ignore the supernatural implications of being pre-selected, sight unseen, by an animal. An old Redbone song started playing in his head. “The Witch Queen of New Orleans.” The pages of a book he’d read on dog breeds flashed through his memory. Shiba Inu: a Japanese breed, like a smaller version of an Akita, but a lot smarter.
“There’s a special condition with Nikki, though, if you want her.”
“Is she sick or something?” Trask asked.
“Oh no. Healthy as can be. She’s one of a pair.”
Trask scanned the other dogs and saw none that looked like the little dog that was now sitting beside him on the bench, leaning in so her head was resting on his shoulder. He patted her head, and she licked his face.
Oh yeah, you’ll do fine. Lynn’s going to love you, squirt, even if you do have funny long hairs growing out of your back.
“I don’t see any others like this one,” he said, still stroking Nikki’s head.
“Oh, it’s not another Shiba.” The woman pointed to the edge of the pack where a dark, very large dog with piercing, light blue eyes was sitting and watching Trask and Nikki with keen interest. “Barbie!”
Barbie?
The big dog trotted over to them. Trask felt himself stiffen a little. The dog certainly looked menacing.
“This is Nikki’s little sister. The local police found them tied to two ends of some wire wrapped around a gas meter in a trailer park. No food, no water. The cops brought them here when they were both puppies. She’s a couple of months younger, but as you can see, she kind of outgrew Nikki. They’re inseparable.”
“What kind of dog is she?” Trask asked.
“Not sure. My best guess is a shepherd mix—probably with a Huskie. That’s where she gets those eyes.”
“Is she dangerous at all?”
The woman laughed. “No, she’s really a big creampuff. Follows Nikki around like she’s her mother. Nikki’s the boss.”
“I’ll take ’em.”
“Good. I have a good feeling about you, and so does Nikki. They’re both housebroken and spayed. Except for a registration fee, they’re also free.”
Trask paid the nominal registration fee required by the rescue association and tried to throw in an extra twenty for the woman’s expenses, but she declined it.
“I just want my kids to get good homes,” she said.
Trask loaded the dogs in the back of the Jeep and headed toward Waldorf. Nikki didn’t stay in the backseat for long, climbing precariously onto the center console where she sat and again rested her head on his shoulder. He felt himself giggling.
“Nikki, my girl, your new mama’s going to love you.”
He looked at the rearview mirror and into the back seat, where Barbie was stretched out and sleeping. Trask suddenly smelled an odor so strong it made him want to gag, and he pulled the Jeep to the side of the road, thankful it was a rural area. He coaxed them both out with the leashes and watched in horror as Barbie unloaded a massive pile of foul-smelling waste on the shoulder. He leaned down and glanced at her rump to make sure it had avoided the deluge before putting both dogs back in the car.
Barbie, huh? That name is changing tonight, big dog. I should have asked what they’ve been feeding you. Might want to change it very soon.
He turned the Jeep into the driveway and pulled the dogs out of the back on their leashes. Lynn met him at the door. She smiled when she saw them, and then stopped in mock horror.
“I tell you I want some dogs, and you drag home a hyena and a wolf?”
“Just sit there on the stairs.”
She did, and Nikki obliged by offering her paw, then jumping into Lynn’s lap. Lynn looked at Trask, her eyes moist.
“Her name’s Nikki,” he said.
“She looks a little funny, but she’s home now. What’s the big one’s name?”
“It’s changing. They called her Barbie, believe it or not. The woman I got them from said they’re both housebroken. They better be. Barbie there shits large quantities of nuclear waste.”
“She’s big enough and looks kind of scary. Come here, girl.”
The big dog bounded up to the stairs in one stride and tried to imitate Nikki by sitting in Lynn’s lap. Lynn laughed aloud as the beast licked her face and lay across her legs.
“Look at those blue eyes!” She smiled down at Trask. “Just like her daddy’s.”
“I didn’t father that thing.”
“Don’t listen to him, baby,” she said, rubbing the great black head and ears. “I can tell he already loves you. Put ’em in the backyard for a while, Jeff. We need to go find a pet store.”
Two hours and six hundred dollars later, Trask told himself how lucky he was that the dogs had been “free.” A large plastic doghouse with metal, fabric-covered beds inside now occupied a corner of the patio behind the house. There were food and water dishes inside and out, large pillows in the den and master bedroom, big bags of dog food stacked in the laundry room, and a variety of veterinary meds—heartworm pills and flea repellants—sitting on top of one of his prized Klipsch stereo speakers. He turned in his chair at the computer desk and looked around the rec room. Lynn was on the couch watching TV. Nikki was lying with her h
ead in Lynn’s lap, fast asleep. He smiled.
Where’s that big—
“WOOF!” The deep bass tone came out of nowhere.
“Ow!” Trask yelled as his knees jerked reflexively, cracking into the underside of the desk.
Lynn doubled over on the couch laughing. “She snuck up on you! That big wolf of a dog snuck up on you!”
Trask turned, rubbing his knees. The monster was sitting right behind him, tongue out and tail wagging as if to say, “I got you, bud.”
“Wonderful. A black, blue-eyed wolf with a sense of humor. You just named yourself. Boo it is.”
The big dog lay down and rolled over, the blue eyes still fixed on him.
“I think Boo needs a belly rub,” Lynn said.
In the upstairs bedroom of a row house in Alexandria, Virginia, Special Agent Michael Crawford looked down as the olive-skinned hand of the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen slowly stroked his naked belly, her head resting on his shoulder. He wanted to pinch himself, but didn’t want the dream—if it was one—to end.
She looked up at him and saw the question in his eyes. “What is it, Michael?”
“I just have to ask you, Marissa, why me?”
“Why not you? In my country, a girl looks for stability and safety. A good man. A gentle man. I knew you were a good man when I first saw you. I could tell it in your eyes. Now that we have made love, I know that you are a gentle man, too.” She kissed him. “Now, your turn.”
“My turn for what?”
“You know, silly! Why me?”
“In my country,” he said, “a man doesn’t look for a girl like you.”
She sat up on the bed revealing the most perfect body he could ever imagine. “And why not?”
“Because girls like you don’t exist in this country.”
Chapter Twelve
August 22, 10:40 a.m.
“The good news,” Carter said as the squad sat around the conference table, “is that it wasn’t the MS-13 crew who tried to take you out. That’s also the bad news, since we don’t know who did. Neither of the machete slingers had any tats, and both of them were about ten years too old for the part. Still, to the extent we can tell at this point, they do appear to have been Central American, although that’s a guess, too. The bad guys weren’t carrying any ID, and their prints don’t match anything we have on file.”
Trask shrugged. He looked up at Doroz. “So we have zilch?”
“Just their machetes,” Doroz said, reaching into a box by his chair and sliding an eighteen-inch-long blade down the table to Trask. “The ones used in the attack at your place are in evidence for processing. This is a duplicate. According to one of our weapons geeks at headquarters, they were all made by a company called Imacasa in El Salvador. The problem is that Imacasa now has a major North American market, and you can buy these things anywhere. I got this one at my friendly neighborhood hardware store. They’re supposed to be great for clearing brush.”
“Or tearing up carefully stained doorframes or decapitating unsuspecting prosecutors,” Trask said.
Doroz shrugged. “Yes and yes. The bottom line is that the weapons don’t really give us anything, either.”
“They have been the weapon of choice for the Maras in the past,” Lynn noted.
“And for revolts in Cuba, Mexico, Africa, and the Philippines,” Trask said. He saw that Lynn was giving him a mild glare. “Sorry. I’m as sure as you are that our would-be assassins were probably Salvadorans. After all, we’ve been jacking up MS-13 lately, and even if these guys weren’t full-fledged Mara types, it feels connected. But Bear’s right; evidence-wise, we have nothing.”
“You do have this.” Doroz tossed a newspaper toward Trask. “Front page of the metro section, below the fold.”
Trask opened the morning edition of the Washington Post.
“I hadn’t seen this yet, or yesterday’s for that matter. I was out adopting a hyena and a wolf.” He scanned the page.
Federal Prosecutor and Wife Kill Intruders; AUSA and Spouse Involved In Prior Deaths
Waldorf, Md. An Assistant United States Attorney and his spouse, an employee of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, were apparently the victims of an attempted home invasion robbery three nights ago, according to the Saint Charles County Sheriff ’s Department. Two armed intruders allegedly broke into the home of Jeffrey Trask, a federal prosecutor employed by the Office of the United States Attorney for the District of Columbia. Investigators report that Trask fought off the assailants until his wife, an analyst with the Washington field office of the FBI, was able to reach a handgun kept by the couple for protection. Lynn Trask, a former special agent with the Air Force’s Office of Special Investigations, then shot and killed both intruders. Trask was involved last year in the prosecution of serial killer Demetrius Reid, who died during his trial in a freak courtroom scuffle. Following the trial, Robert Lassiter, Trask’s supervisor, was murdered on the steps of the federal courthouse by an assassin alleged to have been hired by Reid. The gunman was then shot and killed by Lynn Trask and Washington Police Officer Timothy Wisniewski.
Investigators were unable to provide a motive for the break-in and attack. It is unknown whether associates of Reid, the former leader of a local cell of a Jamaican drug cartel, are suspects. Reid was charged with conspiracy to distribute cocaine and with several drug-related homicides at the time of his death. One of his alleged victims was Juan Ramirez, a District of Columbia police detective who was found buried in a shallow grave in Prince George’s County, Maryland.
A spokesman for Ross Eastman, United States Attorney for the District of Columbia, said that Mr. Eastman considers Trask to be a surviving victim of an attempted homicide, and that no actions are contemplated against Trask at this time.
“Wonderful,” Trask said. “At least our friends at the Post don’t have a freakin’ clue that this might be tied to our current investigation. Of course, neither do we.” Trask glanced at the article again, but another, smaller story caught his eye. He slid the paper back toward Doroz. “Look at the story on the left edge.”
“‘Local defense attorney found murdered’?” Doroz asked.
“Yep. Darren Regan. It says he was found in his office, handcuffed, sitting in a chair, and shot in the back of the head.”
“Disgruntled client?” Lynn asked.
“Could be,” Trask said. “Of course, the last client I saw him with in federal court was the driver of the MS-13 van we pulled over.”
“Godammit!” Doroz said, exasperated. “I’d like to get a handle on one part of this thing before three other bricks fall on my head. Dix, can you—”
“Call Commander Sivella and get the reports on the Regan murder?” Carter asked. “Got it. If he’s still talking to me.”
“Thanks. Anybody else got any thoughts?”
“We’re lucky to be ahead of the press on this, for now,” Trask observed. “If they had any inkling that the machete guys at my place or this murder of Regan even might be related to the killing of the ambassador’s kid, some beat writer would be smelling a Pulitzer, and we’d have the press and every worrywart and glory hound in DOJ and FBI headquarters down here. We don’t know they’re related for sure, so there’s no point in speculating about it yet, even to our respective bosses. What I’m saying is we need to keep a very tight lid on this mess for now, please.”
“Hell, yes,” echoed Doroz. “We need to keep the headquarters weenies out of this mess until we know what the mess is. Everybody here is now a clam, got it?”
August 22, 5:50 p.m.
Dixon Carter pulled the green Buick into the driveway of his town home and sat for a moment. The meeting with Sivella had been about what he had expected: cool and very official. Carter had copies of the homicide file Doroz had asked for; that hadn’t taken long. Neither had the follow-on ass-chewing. The initial confrontation at the FBI office had taken place while the commander was merely mad. Sivella had now had two full days to think about it, had g
otten even madder, and had taken plenty of time to prepare his remarks. Carter’s ears were still burning with them.
“I don’t care who you are, how many commendations you’ve earned, how long you’ve been around. You still take orders, goddammit. And don’t try to hide behind your partner, who’s trying to cover for you. This better not happen again, and believe me, I’ll know if it does. Got it?”
“I’ll know if it does.” How is he going to know? Does he think he could have one of those new kids tail me without me knowing about it? Fat chance. He’d have to—WAIT A MINUTE!
Carter got out and walked to the rear of the Buick. He bent down and ran his hand along the underside of the frame in front of the bumper.
Nothing yet…smooth…nothing…nothing…THERE!
He stood up and went inside to change, returning a short time later in sweats. He pulled a creeper out from under his tool bench and grabbed a flashlight before lying down and wheeling alongside the rear of the car. The flashlight’s beam found the device where he had felt it.
Is it hard-wired or a slap-on? No wires. A slap-on. Battery-powered.
Carter pulled the device from the frame and examined it.
One of the Department’s newest and best. A GPS set to ping every five minutes. Enough battery power to last four months at that setting. You wouldn’t have to follow me with this, would you, Cap? Never thought I’d suspect you would waste one of these expensive little gizmo’s checking on your own guy. Pretty clever. Sit at your desk and check on my whereabouts without having to leave the building. Probably have the software to monitor it on your laptop. Check on me from your home after dinner or before you go to bed.
He put the GPS unit on the garage shelf.
Check away, boss. Your little bug will tell you that I’m all tucked in tonight.