“That will make it damn difficult to explain to a jury,” Jerry said. “Airtight case might not even do it.”
“When you get to that point, I will be happy to be an expert witness. Hans and I discussed it, and we aren’t going to put this in writing. Generally, when we create a profile we want to give local law enforcement the most information possible, so that when you’re in the field you can use what helps and disregard the rest. And considering there are a couple huge factors—such as the gender of the killer—that are still unknown, we don’t want it to leak. Meaning, if we put it in writing, and you arrest a suspect, they could have access to the report in the discovery process. If we get something wrong—which is certainly possible—they may latch onto it and divert a jury’s attention. So we’re calling this an informal consult, and Hans gets to deal with the paperwork on that because BSU hates when we don’t dot i’s and cross t’s.”
“Any questions,” Hans said, “call me. Anytime, day or night. Dillon is going to be unreachable until Monday morning.”
“Oh—I forgot you were meeting up with Kate,” Lucy said. “I hope we didn’t keep you too long.”
“My flight doesn’t leave for ninety minutes, and Hans already agreed to drop me off at the airport.”
“You’ve given us a lot to think about,” Jerry said, “but we still don’t have a suspect, and you’re telling us another body is going to drop.”
“I wish I could say you have time—but you don’t. Tonight, next week? Most likely. There’s a very specific plan and he wants to complete it—is compelled to finish it. The killer thinks he’s smarter than any cop, and if you haven’t interviewed him—such as he’s only indirectly connected to the victims—then he’s watching somehow. Following the news, reading papers, crime blogs. You might consider releasing misinformation to lure him out—but again, be careful how you do it, because this killer will smell a trap. And, like I said before, go deeper into Steven James’s life. There’s no doubt in my mind that he personally knew his killer.”
Lucy thanked Hans and Dillon, logged out of the videoconferencing system, and turned to Jerry.
“You blindsided me,” Jerry said. “You had no right to set all that up without my approval.”
“You had no intention of giving me approval. I get it, Jerry—you were burned by the FBI in the past. I don’t fault you for being skeptical now. But we need all the help we can get, and there are not two more qualified people than my brother and Hans.”
“We had already determined that James knew his killer because he wasn’t attacked from behind—based on evidence. We already determined that the killer was cold, calculating, and planned each murder—that isn’t new information. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to think the killer is arrogant and aloof. Sometimes I think you people throw out words to make you sound better, when we learned nothing new.”
“You’re right—this is all information we’ve been working with, but presented differently, and it makes me look at each interview from a different light. We went through everything last night; I’m going through each crime again, every statement, using the profile that Dillon and Hans just shared. It’s not complete, but it’s solid.”
She didn’t think that Jerry was truly angry with her—he had asked questions, some of them edged with antagonism, but he was paying attention. Thinking. That was one of the key points in getting a good profile, so that when you saw something in an interview or at a crime scene, it took on the appropriate meaning. Helped with the direction of questions.
She spread out her own notes again. “You were trying to reach Steven James’s brother. Did you?”
“We’re working on it. We’ve made contact with his CO and he’s working on a time to set an interview, but they are doing maneuvers in the South Pacific and have been radio silent. He’ll contact me as soon as Trevor James is available.”
Jerry rubbed his eyes. “Okay, I’ll go through all this with you. Again. Because right now we have no one left to interview, no evidence to analyze, nothing but dead ends. But if you’re right and the killer knows his victims—specifically Steven James—then the connection is here and we just have to find it.”
They were deep into the files again when Jerry’s phone vibrated. “It’s Ash.” He answered, put the CSI on speaker. “What do you have?” he asked.
“I found something. Two things.”
“Spill.”
“The killer was in Garcia’s car. I should have figured that out earlier, but because it presented so much like the first two murders, I didn’t spend as much time on his vehicle as I should have. There is evidence that a gas can was placed on the floor of the passenger seat. Trace evidence left from the bottom of the can includes gasoline, dirt, and grass cuttings. Small amounts, but enough to test and compare with other samples.”
“Back up, Ash,” Jerry said. “Garcia could have put a gas can in his car.”
“Yes, and I need to go to the Garcia house and inspect it. I can easily test whether the dirt and grass came from their yard to rule it out. But I don’t think it’s his. First, the samples were relatively fresh. Gas evaporates at a specific rate, and since there was no gas can found at the scene, we can surmise that if it was his gas can, he removed it prior to going to work on Friday. My computer analysis says it would have been completely evaporated over that length of time. But I have another reason—there were several small rocks embedded in the floor mat that I confirmed came from the side of the road leading to the park.”
“What if,” Lucy said, “the killer was allegedly walking back to his car with a gas can and flagged Garcia down? Asked for a ride? The gas station was only a mile away. It would be so realistic that Garcia would believe it.”
“Possible,” Jerry said. “So Ash, you’re saying that you can find out where the dirt and grass came from?”
“I can test it against samples we collect. First thing we do is rule out Garcia. Then find me samples, and I can tell you definitively.”
“That’s great. Thanks.”
“I said there were two things.”
“I thought that was two.”
“The other is even bigger. The duct tape. So duct tape is sticky. It picks up everything, right? And we thought the killer took the tape because it might have his fingerprints or DNA on it. But the sticky also leaves a residue. What was difficult was to extract and differentiate trace because of contamination. I just don’t have the tools here. But I remembered that since the FBI is assisting, I could use the FBI lab. I sent everything I could obtain from the mouth and face of the victims to the FBI lab and asked that they rush it. It helps that I worked with their lab before, they know me, and, well, I kind of name-dropped your name, Lucy. You have a lot of friends over there.”
“Drop my name anytime if it gets results,” Lucy said.
“And I just got their report. It’s amazing what they can do. They separated out grease, dirt, fibers, and specific cleaning chemicals. I pooled together the commonalities from all three crime scenes in order to establish what was left by the duct tape. I have a specific soil—it matches what I collected from the floor of Garcia’s car—and a specific cleaning product that I can use to test against other samples if you get me a suspect. Plus, on the first victim there is a cotton fiber that doesn’t match anything else on the victim. I think it was on the very end of the duct tape—you know how the end kind of rolls up just a bit? It’s likely from a carpet, and the thread count suggests carpet from a motor vehicle. But the soil is unique and easy to identify.”
“I could kiss you,” Jerry said. “Damn good work. I’m going to send a deputy with you to go to the Garcia house—you’re not a cop, you do not do it on your own. We don’t know who’s involved or how much they know of our investigation, so we’re doing safety first, got it?”
“Yes, sir, I’m ready to go.”
Jerry jumped up and ran out of the room. He returned a minute later and said, “This is great. Tangible evidence. I told you, Lucy, we follow th
e evidence, we’ll catch the killer.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Friday Evening
Brad Donnelly didn’t want to work late tonight. Not that he had anything important to do, but he’d been working late every night and he wanted to go home, have a couple of beers, watch the Astros on TV. They had a serious chance at another World Series victory. He didn’t have a serious girlfriend, and the girl he had been seeing wasn’t working out, so he was avoiding her calls. Truth was, he was closer to forty than thirty, and maybe should be thinking about settling down, but there was no one special, no one who came close to giving him that jolt.
He was working near-frantic on paperwork so he could leave at five without guilt. At quarter to five, his personal cell phone rang. It was a blocked number, but that didn’t much matter—he had informants, cops, friends who didn’t have caller ID.
“Donnelly,” he answered.
“I have information on the Saints.” The voice was low and male.
Brad perked up, but was immediately suspicious.
“Who’s this?”
“You remember that the Saints fell apart after Jaime Sanchez was killed. Most of the gang went to prison or were killed.”
“I don’t work gangs.”
“You are DEA, are you not?”
“Point?”
“The Saints are rebuilding. A new, younger crew. Several of the Saints were released from prison recently. A large shipment of drugs arrives this evening and will be repackaged and sent out to the streets. Thirteen Oh Eight East Santiago Street. But if you don’t act fast, they’ll be gone.”
“I need something more than your word.”
“You have acted on less. Your window is seven to nine. Too early, the drugs won’t be there. Too late, and the drugs won’t be there. If you miss them, they’ll move—you know how this works, Donnelly.”
The voice was calm and deep … but it sounded strained. Was this a trap? He didn’t see that—he hadn’t gotten in the face of anyone for a long time. He couldn’t, being the boss. Temporary boss.
“What’s your name and how do I reach you?”
The caller hung up.
Brad stared at the phone. There was something familiar … but more than that, it was the connection between Sanchez and the Saints. Sanchez wasn’t a member of the Saints, but it was absolutely true that they fell apart after he was killed—because of a coalition under the general that Sanchez had put together. Very few people knew that.
The voice wasn’t Kane Rogan, but he was one of those people who understood where Sanchez fit in with the Saints and how they had operated then—and he might know about distribution. But why wouldn’t he call him himself? Why would he give Brad’s private number to someone who refused to identify himself? If he didn’t, he might still know what’s going on.
Brad called Kane and was surprised when he answered the phone. Kane never answered his calls, or anyone else for that matter. Brad had expected to leave a message.
“What,” Rogan answered.
“Rogan?”
“Who else?”
“You never pick up your phone.”
“Then why did you call me?”
“Are you in town?”
“No.”
“Did you give my number to someone with information about the Saints’ new distribution network?”
“If I had that information, I would call you myself.”
“I got this odd call and he said something that made me think of you. It wasn’t anything specific, just a feeling. And the caller understood that Sanchez wasn’t a Saint, but that when he died, the Saints and the coalition he built was crippled. That’s not information most people put together, even after the raids last year. The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it—I think he was trying to disguise it.”
“You think I would disguise my voice.” It almost sounded like Kane was laughing. “What’s the intel?”
“A house on East Santiago. The Saints were divided after all that shit with Nicole and Tobias. They were spread thin. If it’s true that the core is back together, and that they developed a new distribution network, I might have a chance to shut them down before they get a foothold.”
“The core? That was the intel?”
“Yes.”
“Names?”
“No.”
“Sounds like a trap.”
“I’d think so, except I haven’t been working the Saints. That’s all under SAPD now. My unit will come in when asked, but I trust the people running the gang unit with SAPD. Carmine Villiarrosa is in charge.”
“He’s clean.”
Of course Kane would know that, Brad thought wryly.
“You sure it didn’t come from them?”
“No. Carmine doesn’t play games.”
“If I was there, I’d check it out with you, but I’m four hours away.”
“I wasn’t asking for help, just trying to figure out what is so damn familiar about the caller. It’ll come to me.”
“Take backup.”
“I’ll ask Carmine for an assist. The caller made it sound like it was tonight or never.”
“Could be moving. Could be a rival organization. Could be a diversion. Could be a trap. Watch your back.”
“Thanks for picking up.”
“I suppose you could say I’m turning over a new leaf.”
Kane hung up. Brad had never thought that guy would settle down, but he had a girlfriend now, and he was spending more time in Texas than he was in Mexico, which was a good thing—at least in that Kane was less likely to get his head blown off here.
Brad called Carmine. “What have you heard about the core Saints getting back together?”
Silence.
“Can you talk?” Brad asked.
“One of your snitches talking?”
“Not really. But it sounds like you’re on it.”
“Just surprised. It’s been done quietly, and you haven’t been involved in gangs in over a year.”
“I had an anonymous call twenty minutes ago. Tried to track it down because it felt weird to me—core Saints back together, a couple guys out of prison, and a location of their new distribution center. Smack in the middle of the mission district.”
“Mission? My people have said they’re out in the county, cooking meth. We haven’t been able to find their house.”
“I have an address.”
“Have you checked it out?”
“On paper—East Santiago, owned by a management company. Don’t have rental agreements in the system.”
“East Santiago—well I’ll be damned. You think your intel is good?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. After walking into a trap or two, I need more info before I sweep in. But this caller—he got under my skin. Said tonight was a big score, be there between seven and nine or lose everyone.”
“There might be some truth to that. I’ve been tracking two Saints who came back from the border last night. My people couldn’t get shit on them, we had to let them go, but there’s been a lot of movement, a lot of young members.”
“Young? Like teens?”
“Teens, younger. You know the drill—it’s exactly how Jaime Sanchez operated.”
Michael.
The call was from Michael Rodriguez. Now it made sense. He’d sounded like Kane because Michael knew the system nearly as well as Kane. How the hell did he know what was going down with the Saints?
“It’s yours,” Brad said, “if I can come along for the ride.”
“I don’t know how fast I can put together a raid.”
“I can give you four people.”
“I can work with that, pull a small team together. Between the two of us, we’ll have enough. Be here in one hour. I’m going to send a scout now to check it out, get the lay of the land.”
“Do you have list of the Saints you’ve been tracking? Particularly their core and the new parolees. I want to look at it. I have an idea, but need to look at names.”
>
“I’ll shoot it over to you. But don’t be late—if your intel is solid, we can deliver a huge blow to the Saints before they get back to full power.”
Brad waited for the email from Carmine and quickly dealt with the rest of his paperwork. He was about to toss a note when he did a double take.
1976 Chevelle. East Santiago. Lee Sanchez.
The car Lucy had him run because it had been in the neighborhood of St. Catherine’s. Her gut said something was off … and now he gets a call about the house on East Santiago. That the Saints are getting back together, and he thinks it’s Michael.
The kid knows something.
They were going to have a long talk tomorrow about this anonymous caller bullshit.
How the hell is Michael involved? What is that kid up to?
Michael was a tough kid who had been to hell and back, but if it wasn’t for him, Brad would be dead. He wasn’t going to say anything to Carmine—or anyone else for that matter—but he sent Kane a text message.
I’m nearly certain Michael Rodriguez is my anonymous caller. I’m talking to him tomorrow—all is a go for tonight with SAPD.
A moment later Kane responded.
Keep me in the loop.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Saturday Morning
Lucy needed more coffee.
It was five in the morning and she had poured one cup on her way out the door, but that was long since finished and she needed the caffeine. But most coffee shops weren’t even open yet.
Victor King had been found beaten and shot on a remote road overlooking Canyon Lake, in Comal County north of Bexar. King’s neighbor called the park ranger’s office after his dog showed up limping, with an open wound and trailing a leash. The rangers searched the area and found King’s body just after midnight. The rangers called the sheriff’s office. As soon as the deputy from Comal saw the pummeled hands and gunshot to the face, he called his boss, who called Jerry’s boss, who called Jerry, who called Lucy. They were on scene less than eight hours after the murder.
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