by Frank Zafiro
Val returned his smile. “I have a cousin who works on a janitor crew that cleans at the police station. I will ask him to listen and look. Maybe we can find where Oleg is.”
“Good, good.” Sergey said. He picked up his coffee and took a drink. “And raise the reward.”
“You are too generous,” Val said.
Sergey waved his words away. “It breeds loyalty.”
Val reached for the pastry, but Sergey put his hand over it. Val looked up at him. “You had something more?”
Sergey nodded slowly. “Yes. I am not so sure about your idea when it comes to insulating me.”
“It is for your protection,” Val said. “And Marina’s.”
“Perhaps,” Sergey said. “But life is risk. I still plan to attend the summit you will be arranging soon.”
“I advise against it,” Val told him.
“I know. But sometimes, the soldiers need to see that their general is in charge. That he is brave and will join the battle with them.”
Val didn’t reply right away. By the time he arranged the summit there would be little danger of battle. The men in attendance would already be defeated. The meeting would be more like a Roman triumph parade than a battle. “It is, of course, up to you,” he finally said.
“I know.” Sergey picked up his paper and went back to reading.
Val took the pastry and left the bakery. The anemic dinging sound as he swung the door open irritated him, but he made an effort to conceal it.
Sergey was only making sure Val knew who was in charge. He was only making a point. That’s why he wanted to change Val’s plans. That’s why he had been so dismissive of him. It was classic gangster leadership behavior. He was seeking to assert his dominance over Val. To show him who was the alpha wolf.
A very old Russian saying sprang to Val’s mind, drowning out his injured pride: ’Tis a hard winter when one wolf eats another.
Val smiled and opened the car door. He tossed the bakery bag to Pavel.
“Thanks, Uncle,” Pavel said. He unwrapped it and took a large bite. “Where next?”
“Take me to my coffee shop,” Val told him. “We’ll wait there for things to be finished.”
“Sure,” Pavel said. He took another huge bite, started the car, and headed north.
Val looked out the window and smiled. It might be summer, but Sergey was in for a very hard winter.
1240 hours
Esteban Ruiz walked down Nettleton Street, proudly displaying his brown handkerchief. He wore it as a headband. His closely cropped hair didn’t absorb much sweat, so flying his colors that way had an additional benefit. He also wore a white wife-beater and baggy dark blue denims. Sturdy brown boots and a .25 auto in his pocket rounded out his ensemble. No one would doubt who he was. Not just a gangster, but a Dean Avenue Diablo.
If Esteban smiled much, that thought might have coaxed a grin to his lips. Hell, he wasn’t just a Diablo, he was the Diablos. That was him. Numero uno. El Jefe. El Capitan. The Boss. Call it what you will, in English or Spanish, it meant the same thing.
He ran his crew and he ran West Central.
The sun beat down as he walked along the wide sidewalk. He was headed to the Broadway Food Store to get something cold to drink. Maybe some Gatorade for now and some cerveza for later. He could have sent Pepe or Luis, but he wanted the time alone. And he could have driven the short distance to the store, but he wanted to do the kind of thinking that only seemed to work for him when he was walking.
He’d seen the news. Someone had shot up the local Crips pretty good. He figured it was a rival Crip set, or maybe an internal power struggle. Two things impressed him about the event, though. One was that someone had managed to get hold of fully automatic rifles, and that was some serious shit in these parts. While it was a little easier to get guns in the Pacific Northwest, it had also proved very difficult to get full auto pieces. So the fact that someone was able to pull that off, and with AKs, no less, well, that impressed Esteban quite a bit.
The more important thing that impressed him was the opportunity that it created for him and his crew. Whether this shooting was an internal struggle or a gang versus gang, four dead homies was going to hurt those Crips. On top of that, they’d be keeping their heads down, waiting for the next visit from those AK-47s. They wouldn’t be up for very much in the way of business. The Crips wouldn’t be in any sort of position to supply the demand.
Los Diablos could. But he had to think it through. If he moved in too quick or too hard, they might think he was behind that drive-by. That would result in all-out war between the Crips and Los Diablos. He didn’t want that. But maybe if they just crept in a little at a time. Just nibble and nibble while the others were fighting each other. If they came around eventually and wanted their piece back, Esteban could decide whether it was worth fighting for. Or he could negotiate. Hell, if he had to, he could just give it to them, though he doubted he would. Those mayates might get through whatever fight they were in, but they weren’t going to come out of it stronger.
Esteban crossed Broadway Avenue and turned left. He could feel the sweat running down the small of his back and was looking forward to something cold. Maybe he’d get a Pepsi. A great big cup, chock full of ice. That’d go down real nice.
Out of habit, Esteban cast his eyes left and right as he walked. The Crips shooting probably didn’t mean he was in any greater danger than usual, but it jangled his nerves just a little bit.
He didn’t see any cars that made him suspicious. A pair of kids rode bikes in the empty parking lot across the street. A block away, he could hear the noise of a basketball game at Dutch Jake Park. A short, thin man stood using the payphone near the door to the grocery store.
As Esteban approached the door, it swung open toward him. A kid no older than nine burst out, clutching a Slurpee in both hands. Immediately behind him came a smaller version of the same kid, maybe six or so. He carried the same size cup. The blue ice sloshed as he hurried after his older brother.
“Michael!” he yelled. “Mom said to wait for me!” Michael kept running.
Esteban held the door, waiting until the younger kid cleared the threshold.
“Michael! I’m telling Mom!”
Esteban smiled slightly. He had an older brother. Paco was in Walla Walla, serving six to twelve for a manslaughter charge. It had been at least three months since he’d visited his older brother. He decided to do that soon. Right now, though, he wanted that Pepsi—
A firm hand gripped his left shoulder, then a hard coldness bit into his right kidney. He took in a sharp breath. Before there was even any pain, he felt the blade slide forward, cutting through his abdomen. When the knife tore free somewhere near his belly button, the coldness turned to a harsh fire of intense pain exploding from his middle. He tried to cry out, but only a wet gasp slipped past his lips.
Strong hands guided him to the ground and leaned him against the wall next to the door. Esteban wanted to see who it was. He wanted to take the identity of his killer with him to hell, but he couldn’t muster the strength to turn his head and look. The most he could manage was to stare down at his middle. Bright red blood coursed out, soaking into his white T-shirt and pooling around his knees.
Chinga tu madre, puto, he tried to say, but could only gurgle.
He didn’t want to die this way. He refused to die this way. He would take this coward with him. Esteban wrapped his left arm around his seeping middle to keep his insides from spilling out. He slid his hand into his pocket, fumbling for the .25 auto. The bullets might not be that big, but when he put one in the middle of that maricón’s forehead, it would do the—
The next thing he knew was darkness.
SIX
Wednesday, July 16th
1640 hours
Renee sat in the chief’s office, feeling ignored while Special Agent Maurice Payne orated. The mush-mouthed agent prattled on mostly to the chief, occasionally glancing at Captain Reott and Lieutenant Crawford. Renee
and Detective Browning might as well have been invisible.
“The AK-47, while not exclusively used by former Soviet organized crime, is a heavily favored weapon,” Payne said in the tone of a lecturing professor. “As you may know, that was the standard issue rifle in the former Soviet Union and their satellite eastern bloc nations. The better models are Czech-made, though the Chinese have a—”
“I’m familiar with the weapon, son,” the chief said, cutting him off. “I faced off against soldiers carrying it for my entire military career. But just because someone used an AK-47, it doesn’t make them Russian. Anyone could have gotten hold of some AKs.”
“Perhaps,” Payne conceded, his expression slightly pouty. “But also remember that DeShawn Brown reported hearing a Russian accent.”
“He heard an accent,” Detective Browning corrected. “He didn’t specify it was a Russian accent.”
Payne turned to Browning. “When I spoke to him, I asked if it could have been Russian. He said yes.”
Browning’s eyes widened. “You interviewed one of my witnesses?”
“Of course,” Payne said officiously. He gave Browning a condescending look. “Sometimes you have to know what questions to ask, Detective.”
Browning’s nostrils flared. Renee swore she saw red seep into Browning’s cocoa-colored cheeks. There was a long moment of tension in the room before Browning sputtered, “Know what questions to—”
“I thought the feebs were here to observe and assist,” Lieutenant Crawford interrupted. “Not screw up our investigation.”
The room fell silent and the temperature seemed to drop. Renee resisted the urge to smile at Payne’s expense and sat quietly waiting to see how the situation played out. Payne blushed and pressed his lips together tightly, but didn’t speak right away.
The chief filled the silence. “I don’t think we need to be tossing any more rocks in the pond, Lieutenant,” he said, “just to see the splash.”
Lieutenant Crawford didn’t remove his eyes from Payne. “Sir, I wasn’t tossing any rocks. I just think it’s damned unprofessional of an agency that’s supposed to be assisting us on a case to stomp on the lead investigator’s shoes.”
Payne squirmed under Crawford’s steady gaze. “If this was a shoplifting at the supermarket,” Payne snapped, “I’d be inclined to agree with you, Lieutenant. But this case has major repercussions that could extend well beyond River City. If the Russians are successful in consolidating their position here, they might make similar moves in large cities such as Seattle or Portland.”
“So we’re just the minor leagues,” Crawford commented dryly.
“River City’s always been a small town,” Payne shot back. “A city isn’t always defined by the size of its population. Sometimes it has to do with attitude and professionalism.”
“Well,” Crawford said. “Aren’t we just Mr. Cosmopolitan?”
Payne opened his mouth to reply, but the chief cut him off.
“Enough of this!” he rumbled. “It’s getting us nowhere. Regardless of your thoughts on the matter, it’s clear we have a bit of a problem here in River City.” He glanced at Renee. “In your initial briefing to me, you made some statements about this particular brand of gangster. Would you mind repeating those for everyone else present?”
Renee nodded and cleared her throat. “Basically my point to the chief was that the Russian gangs tend to be more organized and more ruthless than we’ve seen in our gangs of the homegrown variety. Aside from some of the Central American gangs, I don’t think you’ll find a criminal organization more willing to do considerable violence than with the Russians.”
“I already know that,” Payne said. “That’s why I’m here.”
The chief held up his hand. “I just want everyone on the same page, Special Agent.”
Payne shrugged and motioned for Renee to continue.
Renee said, “The problem is that immigrant communities such as the Ukrainian community here in River City tend to be very insular and suspicious of law enforcement. We don’t get much help, if any, from the community members even though the vast majority are hardworking and law-abiding people.”
“So,” the chief said, “what is your recommendation?”
Renee raised an eyebrow. “Sir?”
“Your recommendation,” the chief said. “If you were sitting in my chair, what would you do to solve this problem?”
Renee felt her heart race. She’d been a crime analyst for twelve years. In all that time she was very comfortable with her facts and even her speculation, but she couldn’t remember a time when anyone other than a working detective asked for her opinion on a solution.
“Renee?” the chief said, still looking at her.
“I think you have to strike at the head of the snake just as you would in any other organized crime case,” Renee finally managed. “Since the agent has an asset that can give us that information.”
Payne held up his hand. “Wait a minute. Now we’re getting into confidential material that these gentlemen aren’t cleared to know.”
“Do you mean the protected witness that we’re helping you guard up at the Quality Inn on North Division?” Captain Reott said.
Payne set his jaw and sighed. “That’s the problem,” he said, “with sharing information with the locals. There’s no sense of security.”
“Your information’s safe enough,” Reott said. “And not known to the majority of my troops. I do think it’s fitting that the division commander of patrol should be aware of this. Don’t you?”
“Fine,” Payne conceded. “But I’d appreciate it if you kept the information circle as tight as possible.”
“Certainly,” Reott replied curtly.
Payne turned back to Renee and shrugged. “I guess you can continue.”
Renee imagined clawing out the eyes of the arrogant agent in front of her. Then she said, “If you can get the names of the major players from your asset, then maybe patrol or the detectives can squeeze those leaders. Even if we only get them off the street for a little while, that might stymie this push for dominance.”
“That’s not going to work,” Payne said. “In fact, by arresting them on something weak only to release them a short time later, all we’re doing is emboldening them.”
“I disagree,” Renee said. “They are already contemptuous of our jails and our criminal justice system. It’s not going to get any better or worse, but by taking them off the street—”
“It’s pointless,” Payne said. “We need to build a stronger case and hopefully get them on federal racketeering charges. That way I can build a RICO case—”
“And get all the glory,” Crawford interrupted.
Payne pressed his lips together in exasperation. “It’s not about glory, Lieutenant. It’s about doing a job right and making a case that sticks.” He looked back at Renee. “And they might be contemptuous of your jails, but I don’t think they’d have quite the same cavalier attitude when faced with spending time in a federal penitentiary.”
No one spoke for a few moments. Then Renee looked at the chief and said, “That’s my opinion, sir, and I stand by it.”
The chief nodded. “Thank you, Renee.”
Detective Ray Browning lifted his hand to catch the chief’s attention.
“Yes, Detective?”
“I’d like to lend my support to Renee’s analysis of this situation and perhaps add another wrinkle to it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I had a conversation with Officer Chisolm at the scene of the ambush. He offered an interesting analysis of what occurred. I asked him to come down so that he could explain it to all of you in person.”
“Is he here?” the chief asked.
“I believe so. I could check.”
The chief nodded, and Browning rose from his chair and left the room.
Renee watched the color drain slowly from Payne’s face as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. She wondered what that was all about,
but she couldn’t think of any way to tactfully ask.
A few moments later Browning returned with Thomas Chisolm in tow. Chisolm was dressed in a pair of worn jeans and a black T-shirt. His badge hung from a lanyard in the middle of his chest. As always, Renee’s eyes were drawn to the thin white scar that ran from his temple to his chin. His eyes looked slightly sleepy. Renee realized that this was the middle of the night for him.
Browning sat down and Chisolm took the final empty chair next to Renee.
“Detective Browning said you had a theory,” the chief said. “Go ahead and explain it.”
Chisolm nodded. “I do, but it’s not a theory, sir. It’s pretty much fact. If you recall, the drive-by assault on the Crips gang went like this. There were shots fired from an unknown vehicle through the front window of the house. Inside were a half a dozen gang members, sleeping. The car drove away immediately after firing the shots. This drew the majority of the gangsters out from the protection of the house and into the front yard. At this point at least three gunmen opened up on the assembled group with automatic weapons fire. They used short, controlled bursts that indicated technical proficiency with their weapon. Their positions of cover and concealment set up an almost perfect triangulation of fire.”
The chief nodded slowly. “Go on,” he said.
“Immediately after the initial attack, a van arrived to provide transport to the shooters. As they got into the transport vehicle, one of the remaining gangsters fired at them. The shooters didn’t panic, and returned fire using the van as cover in similar fashion as they would an APC or a tank.”
“So,” the chief said, “your belief is that these men had to have military training.”
“That’s my analysis, sir,” Chisolm said.
“And I take it you are familiar with all of these tactics firsthand?”
“Yes, sir. Two tours in Vietnam.”
The chief nodded slowly, his expression betraying admiration.
“These are very common tactics,” Payne cut in. “I’ve seen them, too.”