JT [02] Horns of the Devil

by Marc Rainer

  “I may have something!” Lynn shouted from her cubicle out in the bullpen.

  Doroz shook his head. “I can’t believe you brought her in here today, Jeff.”

  Trask looked back at him and smirked. “If your two stalwarts couldn’t stop her, what makes you think I was going to? The docs cleared her, and she called me before six. I couldn’t trust her to stay home, and I wasn’t going to let her drive herself in after last night. Let’s see what she’s got.”

  They walked into the bullpen and looked over her shoulder.

  “Look at this first,” she said, cueing up a photograph of several young men posing on risers. “It’s a photograph of the UCLA Salvadoran Student Association about twenty years back. I pulled it off an online yearbook collection. The club charter said that membership was open to students from El Salvador and any others who wanted to promote good relations between the US and Central America.”

  She highlighted a tall young man standing in the center of the group.

  “The future and now late ambassador from El Salvador and president of this association at the time, Juan Carlos Lopez-Portillo,” Lynn said.

  “Prominent even while a student,” Trask said. “Meaning what?”

  She shot him a familiar glance.

  “Sorry,” he said. “What else do you have?”

  She moved the curser to another tall young man standing to the right of Lopez-Portillo, blowing up the photo to the point where the goateed face of the student filled the screen.

  “Anybody want to take a stab at this one?” she asked.

  “Looks familiar, but I can’t place him,” Doroz said, shaking his head.

  Trask took a moment longer. “Sorry, same here.” He stepped aside for a moment to let Crawford, who had joined them, venture a guess.

  “You got me. No idea,” Crawford said.

  “Watch this.” Lynn pulled the photo of the face onto a second computer monitor on her desk. “First I gave him a shave, using some of this high-tech Bureau Photoshop stuff. Then I aged him twenty years with the facial recognition software. Finally I added a fashion accessory. An eye patch.”

  “Holy shit!” Doroz exclaimed. “It’s Rios-Garcia.”

  “Not exactly,” Lynn said. “His real name is—or was—Luis Moreno-Montillo, according to the caption under the photo.”

  “Amazing work, Lynn.” Trask was massaging both her shoulders. He saw that Crawford was heading for the door. “You OK, Mike?”

  Crawford nodded and waved, but continued toward the exit.

  “Now check this out,” Lynn said. She pulled the face of the man standing on the other side of Lopez-Portillo from the photo to the second monitor. “I’m aging this one too, and since the yearbook shot was a black-and-white, I gave it some color.”

  Trask looked at the red-haired face in the new portrait. “Murphy.” He shook his head. “We have a college reunion here. The ambassador pulls one college bud up as second-in-charge and has a ready-made plant at State with Murphy, another member of the club. Phenomenal.” He turned to Doroz. “Bear, can you get our CIA and DEA boys back in for another sit-down? Give ’em the real name of the new acting ambassador and see if it means anything to them, please.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon all right?” Doroz asked.

  “Sure. That’ll give ’em time to do a file search on Moreno. Maybe they’ll actually have something this time, now that we have his real name.” Trask looked around the room. “What happened to Puddin’? He left looking like he’d seen a banshee or something.”

  9:30 a.m.

  Carter and Wisniewski climbed the stairs to the second floor of the apartment building on Rhode Island Avenue.

  “That was the vic’s apartment,” Carter said as they passed a door with the number 206 on it. “The canvass notes indicate that the patrol guys tried to talk to the lady in 208, but she didn’t speak English.”

  Wisniewski nodded and knocked on the door to 208. A small, Hispanic woman of about sixty opened the door cautiously, but smiled broadly when she saw their badges. She began to explain that she did not understand English, but when Wisniewski answered her in Spanish, she invited them inside.

  “Did you know your neighbor in 206, abuela?” Wisniewski asked her.

  “Yes, a nice young man. His name was Adan Sarmiento. Very troubled.”

  “Troubled? How do you mean?”

  “Something bothered him very much. I never saw him at ease. When I asked him what was wrong, he would only say that he worried for his family back in El Salvador.”

  “Are you from El Salvador?” Wisniewski asked.

  “No. Guatemala,” she said. “But close enough to know the troubles in El Salvador. Our countries seem to share them.”

  “Do you mean the gangs?”

  “Yes.” She nodded, paused, and then nodded some more. “Always the gangs.”

  “Did Adan say why he was worried for his family?”

  “Not specifically. He just said they were not safe, and he had to do something to help them. Then he got worse.”

  “Worse? What do you mean?”

  “He came to me one morning and asked if I could take him to the church. I am one of the few in the building here who has a car. He said he needed to see a priest, and that he had done something very bad to help his family. He was very upset.”

  “Did you take him to the church?”

  “Yes, of course. But the confession did not seem to help him. He was always very serious, but he seemed to be very scared and sad after that.”

  “Do you remember what day it was when you drove him to the church?” Wisniewski asked, pulling a small notepad and pen from his sport coat.

  “It was the ninth of August,” she said. “A Tuesday. I go grocery shopping every Tuesday. Just a habit. I remember telling Adan it was no inconvenience because I was going out anyway. I dropped him at the church, did my shopping, and picked him up on my way back. He was waiting outside, but he was standing in the shadows until I pulled up in front of the church. I did not even see him until he stepped out into the sunlight.”

  “It was August, a hot day,” Wisniewski offered.

  She smiled and patted his hand. “A warm day. We are from what you Norte Americanos call Central America. It is always hot at home. We came back, he helped me carry in my groceries, and he sat in that same chair where you are now. He wanted to talk to me.”

  He smiled. “I understand. You are an easy person to talk to, grandmother. Did he ever tell you any more about these things that bothered him so much?”

  “I asked him what he was so very afraid of. He told me that if anything ever happened to him, it would be because of the sombra tuerto.”

  “Are you sure that’s what he said?” Wisniewski asked her. “ Sombra tuerto?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It was a strange thing to say. It made no sense to me. I asked Adan to explain it, but he would not. He only said that he had said too much already, then he got up and left.”

  “Thank you, grandmother. You have been a very big help.”

  “I hope so,” she said.

  “What was that?” Carter asked as they headed down the stairs. “Sombra tuerto?”

  “Yeah,” Wisniewski said. “The one-eyed shadow.”

  “Really,” Carter said. He started nodding. Trask would have something else to scribble on his jigsaw puzzle pieces. “Really.”

  They got into the car and pulled away from the curb. There was a traffic light at the first intersection, and it was changing to yellow.

  “Don’t run it,” Carter warned him. “Look. It’s got one of those citation-generating eye-in-the-sky cams on it. Cap’n Willie will make you pay it. Department regulations, you know. No special privileges.”

  Wisniewski applied the brakes. He looked at Carter. They were thinking the same thing. “What day was it when our man Adan got shot?”

  “Wednesday the twenty-third. It’s a long shot that we’ll recognize any vehicles, but we’ll pull the images anyway. The Tra
ffic Enforcement Office will still have them on file.”

  5:30 p.m.

  Crawford sat in his car, looking at the rear of the embassy, the exit he knew she’d take leaving for home. He felt like the fabric of his soul had been ripped. Has she been playing me all along? That SOB with the eye patch is her uncle, for Christ’s sake. The guy in the photo in her apartment is the same one in that yearbook Lynn found, and I can’t even tell her I know that because it’ll blow our lead. Have I told her anything that would get back to him? I don’t think so. How do I play this? How the hell do I get her to talk to me about it?

  She saw his car and waved, rushing over with a smile on her tired face. She got in and kissed him hard. “I’ve missed you all day.”

  “I’ve missed you, too,” he said quietly.

  She pulled back a little. “What’s wrong, Michael?”

  “It’s nothing, really. A little headache. Some minor things at work.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “I can’t, Marissa. Classified stuff.”

  “It’s OK.” She leaned forward and kissed him again. “It is the nature of our jobs. I understand. There are things I can’t talk about sometimes.”

  He nodded. “Where would you like to eat?”

  “Wherever you are going. I am going there with you.”

  They opted for a small café in Old Town Alexandria, close to the river. After ordering, he noticed that her smile was gone and that her eyes were starting to fill with tears.

  “Your Tio Juan?” he asked.

  She nodded, unable to speak for a moment. She sipped some water and composed herself.

  “If I hadn’t had to work late, I might have been killed with them,” she sobbed. “The deputy ambassador saved my life.”

  He saw what he thought might be an opening and took it, even though he felt ashamed for doing so. “You told me that Rios-Garcia arrived just after the ambassador’s son was killed. Did he bring anyone with him when he came?” he asked her.

  “Some personal staff,” she said. “Why?”

  “I just wondered if he brought any family with him. He might want to protect them in light of what happened to the ambassador. Did his personal staff include any security personnel?”

  “I think so.” She stood up. “I need to go to the ladies’ room. My makeup is running.” She pushed her chair under the table and patted his shoulder. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m just a secretary. Rios is the ambassador now. He has good bodyguards. He will be safe, and I will, too.”

  He watched her as she walked toward the back of the restaurant. She’s gorgeous. She’s also either very good, or she’s not to blame for any of this. Maybe both. Maybe there’s a legitimate reason for her uncle’s use of an alias. To protect her, for example. If their enemies didn’t know she was the new ambassador’s niece, she’d be less likely to be kidnap bait or worse.

  She was back in five minutes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s been a sad day for us.”

  “I understand. It’s tough to lose people you care about.”

  She nodded and tried to smile. “You seem to be feeling better. Is your headache gone?”

  “Almost.”

  “Good,” she said. “I need to be with you tonight.”

  7:20 p.m.

  Dixon Carter opened the front door and headed for his refrigerator. He hadn’t gotten six feet when the doorbell rang behind him. A process server handed the thick envelope to him when he opened the door. The return address was for a local law firm, one that specialized in domestic relations litigation. Carter merely nodded. She’s finally done it.

  He threw the papers on a table in the foyer, not bothering to open them. He reached for the cell phone on his belt.

  “Yes, Massa,” Wisniewski answered the call.

  “Knock that crap off, and get your wise Polish ass over here.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I just received some legal documents from the future former Mrs. Carter. I believe I will require a designated driver this evening.”

  “You OK, Dix?”

  “I am at the moment. I might not be later. I do not know if I’ll be celebrating or lamenting. I haven’t decided that yet. I have decided that I will be drinking.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen. What’s the saying? ‘That which doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger’?”

  “They got it wrong, my friend. I’ve been shot, both physically and otherwise. That which doesn’t kill us only leaves us wounded.”

  10:45 p.m.

  “There’s still a marked unit out front, and the wolf is at the door, which—in our case—is a good thing,” Trask said. “The alarm’s on, too.” He rolled over in the bed and kissed her. “How’s the head?”

  “Better. Just a little sore now.”

  “Good. That was a helluva break you gave us today, babe,” he said. “What made you think to do that?”

  “A couple of leads you gave me without realizing it,” she said.

  “Really?” He propped himself up on one arm. “How’d I accomplish that?”

  “Work from what we know. College friends who are still friends, even though miles apart politically. I just took your advice and concentrated on the late ambassador. Once I saw the pictures, I thought I saw something familiar about the guys standing next to him.”

  “It’s still fantastic work. I won’t take credit for it. Your idea, not mine. Now we only need to make it lead to something conclusive in five days or less.”

  She rolled over to face him. “What happens if we can’t?”

  He lay back, staring at the ceiling. “If we make a lot of headway, some lord high executioner from Main Justice steps forward to take the credit for solving what we could not. If there’s any real doubt left, they probably just send in the next squad of line prosecutors to save us from our conflict of interest. The politibrats don’t want hard cases; it can wreck their careers when they lose them.”

  “What will you do if someone else takes over?”

  He was back on his elbow, smiling. “I shall continue to sally forth as a loyal musketeer, true in my sworn duty to the crown. I have Porthos Doroz, Athos Wisniewski, and Aramis Carter to watch the back of their young and reckless friend. You may call me D’Artagnan.”

  “So which part do I play in your musketeers movie?”

  Trask tucked both arms under a pillow behind his head. “You don’t. Don’t worry about it. Although Dumas did write some dangerous women into the book, they didn’t have female musketeers.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because—even if sexual equality had been in vogue, and it wasn’t—seventeenth century muskets weighed a ton, and when you got off your single shot, you had to engage in swordplay. Brute strength stuff. Swashbuckling.”

  She put her head on his chest. “What does that mean, swashbuckling?”

  “I have no idea, but I can’t imagine it would have been a good thing to go around with your swash unbuckled. You’d probably trip over the damned thing and hurt yourself in the middle of a duel.”

  She rolled onto her back, laughing.

  “I love you,” she said. “You’re nuts. And funny.”

  “And I love you,” Trask said. He paused. “There’s not really a character in the book that fits you.”

  “How about the girl in the movie?”

  “Which version? There’ve been several.”

  “The one with Michael York.”

  “Oh, you mean the Raquel Welch character?”

  “Yeah, her.”

  “That would be Constance Bonacieux.” Trask flipped up the blanket and stared for a moment at her bare breasts. “Yes, there’s a certain resemblance there.”

  He ducked just in time to avoid being swatted with a pillow.

  “You can’t be Constance,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “She was already married to somebody else, and she got killed. We can’t have that.” He shuddered for a moment. “I
can’t believe I came so close to losing you. No more close calls.”

  “No disagreement there. But I’m disappointed.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m just feeling kind of French tonight after all that silly talk.”

  “We could think of something French to do,” he said, rolling toward her.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Wednesday, September 13, 8:15 a.m.

  Trask ducked under the yellow tape that now encircled the ambassador’s residence. There was no music playing in his head for the moment. It was Lassiter instead, talking to him as if he had his hand on his protege’s shoulder. Don’t ever pass up an opportunity to visit a crime scene. There’s no substitute for seeing it yourself. Photographs help, but they don’t really give you scope or distance. Let the sights and the smells, the walls and the shadows speak to you. They will if you let them, and if you listen long enough.

  He re-examined the frame to the front door. The crime scene techs had done their thing, and they were good, but they wouldn’t be carrying the case in court. Hell, I won’t either, he thought. Conflicted out. More likely to end up on the witness stand than at counsel table.

  His cell phone rang.

  “Jeff? It’s Doroz. Frank Wilkes is here, says he has some things for us to see. When can you be back?”

  “I’m up in Bethesda at the ambassador’s house. Give me thirty minutes.”

  “OK. Willie Sivella’s here, too.”

  “Really? Anything wrong?”

  “Our two favorite cops—my TFOs—almost got arrested at the Fraternal Order of Police last night. Seems they had a little too much to drink and got out of control. Dix would probably be looking at charges in district court for assaulting a federal agent if Willie hadn’t called in some favors.”

  “What!?”

  “Yep. Willie said some guy from ATF made the mistake of asking how many Metro detectives it took to solve a gang murder or screw in a lightbulb or something like that. Dix had just gotten served his divorce papers and wasn’t in the mood for taking any gas. He grabbed the guy, flipped him over, and was holding him upside down by the heels over the balcony from the second floor staircase. Tim was pouring beer down the dude’s pants leg and commenting on his apparent loss of bladder control. They were also inviting other officers to deposit the condiment of their choice in the guy’s shirt while he was upside down. Ketchup, mustard, maple syrup, even some tomato soup, from what I understand. Willie had to spring ’em. He’s here babysitting them for now.”