by Mike Lawson
Emma had been pretty sure they would. Four Mile Run, particularly in the summer, wasn’t that deep or that fast moving.
“What do you want us to do with it?” Shandra said.
Emma had been thinking about the answer to that question for the last hour. She said, “Strip it down and dry it off completely.” A couple of ex-soldiers would know how to field-strip a weapon. “But Shandra, make sure you don’t leave your fingerprints on any part of the gun. Do you understand?”
Shandra hesitated. “Yeah.”
“Then bring the gun to me. I’m in my car, near Brayden’s apartment building.”
“Roger that,” Shandra said. Emma noticed that Shandra sounded more subdued than she had at the beginning of the operation.
Half an hour later Shandra drove up, parked behind Emma, and joined Emma in her car. Holding the gun with a cloth, she handed it to Emma. It was a Beretta 92 with a silencer.
“Are your prints on any part of this weapon?” Emma asked.
“No way,” Shandra said.
“Good. Now I want you and Pamela to wait for me at Neil’s place. I don’t know how long I’ll be, probably several hours.”
“Man, I need a drink,” Shandra said.
“No, you don’t,” Emma said. “You’re stronger that, and so is Pamela. You need to be strong for each other.”
Emma really regretted having involved Pamela and Shandra in the operation. But there was nothing to be done about that now—other than make sure that Bill Brayden was arrested for murder.
After Shandra left, Emma waited for five minutes. It was almost three a.m., and she was sure that by now Brayden had done everything he could to destroy any evidence tying him to Lynch’s murder.
Emma removed a small case from her glove compartment. The case contained her lock picks, the ones she’d used to break into John Lynch’s apartment. She verified there were no security cameras near the parking garage entrance and then approached it. The garage had a roll-up metal gate that required a key card to open, but there was also a side door to the garage. Emma picked the side door lock.
She found Brayden’s Lexus, picked the lock on his trunk, lifted the carpet concealing the spare tire, and put the Beretta next to the tire.
As she walked back to her car, she thought: Let’s see how you like being framed, Mr. Brayden.
43
About the time Emma was planting evidence in Bill Brayden’s car, Brian Moore and Steve Chin were watching the little Muslim nurse get off the elevator with her clipboard and begin her rounds. This was the third night they’d seen her; she obviously wasn’t a threat.
Anita Ramirez entered the room of an old man hooked up to all the hospital shit. It seemed he would take a breath about every five minutes, taking so long between breaths that Anita wondered if he was ever going to breathe again. She just hoped the old bastard didn’t croak while she was in the room. That would probably set off some fucking alarm, and a real nurse would hustle down to check on him.
After a few minutes passed, she left the room, closing the door quietly, and went to another room down the hall. She’d been in this room before, too; it contained an old lady balder than a cue ball from cancer treatments. As luck would have it, the old bitch woke up when Anita walked in. She said, “Are you here to give me more medication?”
“No,” Anita said, “I just came to check on you, but I’ll let the nurse know you’re hurting. She’s busy now but will be here soon. You want some water or something?”
Of course the old bitch wanted water, so Anita filled up one of the tiny cups by the sink and held it to her scabby lips as she slurped, the water dribbling down her chin. It was disgusting. “Thank you,” the woman croaked.
“Not a problem,” Anita said. “And like I said, the nurse will be here soon, but don’t be surprised if it takes a few minutes.”
In other words, don’t go pressing the fucking button to call the nurse.
Anita left the old lady’s room and proceeded toward DeMarco’s room.
Tonight was the night.
In the pocket of her nurse’s smock was a syringe filled with 100 percent pure heroin, enough to kill three small junkies or one large horse.
What Anita wasn’t aware of was an event that had started two days earlier and was still ongoing.
44
Mike Leary had told Emma he had an idea for how to keep MS-13 from killing DeMarco, and—Leary being a military man—his plan was aggressive and direct. He was going to persuade the yahoo in charge of the gang to leave DeMarco alone.
Mike could be very persuasive.
He contacted the gang units in several police departments in northern Virginia—Arlington, Alexandria, Fairfax—and asked who ran MS-13 in their jurisdictions. The cops cooperated with Mike because he was in the security business, and some of them did so because they figured his company might hire them after they retired from the force. The answer he got to his question was always the same: the guy he was looking for was a smart, vicious prick named Hector Montoya.
But then Mike couldn’t find Hector. Fairfax and Arlington had two different addresses for him, and the Virginia DMV had a third one, but Hector wasn’t at any of those addresses. He’d been evicted from all three for failing to pay his rent. Mike talked to Hector’s parole officer, who had a fourth address that turned out to be an abandoned building. He called the cops back and asked for the names of former gang members who might talk to him, guys who had turned their lives around and were now working straight jobs. He knew talking to active gang members would not only be a waste of time but that they would warn Hector that he was hunting for him. Most of the former gangsters, however, either wouldn’t talk to him or had no idea where Hector might be, but one of them suggested he go to see Hector’s grandmother. He said Hector sometimes stayed with her when he had no other place else to stay. But the guy didn’t know the grandmother’s name—Hector just called her Grandma—and he didn’t know where she lived, so Mike wasted more time identifying the woman and getting an address for her.
Accompanying Mike in his search for Hector were two of his men, selected for their size and appearance. Mike Leary himself was in good shape, he was strong and quick, and could hike twenty miles carrying a hundred-pound pack, but he was only five foot nine and your first impression—which would be completely wrong—was that he didn’t pose much of a threat. The two guys accompanying him—one black, one white—were both about six foot four and looked strong enough to pick up the back end of a dump trunk. Their size, however, wasn’t their only redeeming quality: they both had the ability to smile at a potential adversary in such a way that the adversary would have no doubt that they would enjoy tearing him limb from limb and eating his heart afterward. The black man could also speak fluent Spanish.
Mike and his guys drove to Grandma’s house in Fairfax. Hector wasn’t there, and when Mike asked Grandma, through his giant interpreter, where her grandson might be, she said, “What’s that fool done now?”
“He hasn’t done anything that I’m aware of,” Mike said. “And we’re not the police. I just need to talk to him.”
“You’re lying,” Grandma said. Before Mike could say that he really wasn’t lying, Grandma added, “He’s an animal. I don’t care what you do to him.”
Mike couldn’t help thinking that when your own grandmother didn’t like you, you had to be one nasty piece of work.
“But I don’t know where he is,” Grandma said. “You should go talk to Rhonda.”
“Who’s Rhonda?” Mike said.
“The mother of his two kids.”
Grandma didn’t know Rhonda’s address, but she knew the street where Rhonda lived and was able to provide a description of her house.
By the time Mike spoke to Rhonda it was ten p.m. on his second day of hunting for Hector.
Mike had no idea he was up against the clock.
Rhonda said, “I don’t let him stay with me no more. The last time he was here, he—. Never mind what he did, but
I told him he came here again, I’d cut his throat while he was sleeping, and he knew I meant it.”
Mike could hardly wait to meet this guy. He thanked Rhonda and turned to leave, having no idea what he was going to do next, when Rhonda said, “This time of night he’s probably at Zanta’s, drinking with his homies.” Then she added, “When you find him, I hope you kill the son of a bitch.”
Around one a.m.—about the time Bill Brayden was shooting John Lynch—Mike and his guys were sitting in Mike’s SUV outside Zanta’s waiting for Hector to leave the bar. Hector was inside with six or seven other MS-13 guys, playing pool and tossing down endless shots of tequila. Mike knew if he tried to take Hector in Zanta’s there’d be a gunfight, for sure, and he didn’t want to shoot anyone.
At two, Hector came out of the bar alone, but instead of going to his car he staggered across the street to an all-night convenience store. Mike parked the SUV directly in front of the store, and he and his large companions followed Hector inside. There were no other customers, just a young Korean man behind the counter. As Hector was ordering a pack of Marlboros, Mike walked up to him and said, “Hector Montoya, you’re under arrest. You’re coming with us.”
Before Hector could say anything, Mike’s guys slammed him against the counter and handcuffed him.
“Hey, I didn’t do anything,” Hector said.
They hauled Hector outside and tossed him into Mike’s SUV, then Mike’s guys joined Hector in the back seat, crushing his body between them. Mike got behind the wheel and took off fast, before any of Hector’s men noticed what was happening and decided to get involved.
Hector said, “What are you arresting me for?”
Mike said, “Shut up. We’ll talk in a minute.”
Hector said, “Hey, I got a right to—”
Mike heard Hector grunt—as if someone had just driven an elbow into his ribs.
Mike drove around until he spotted an elementary school. He said out loud, “This will do,” and drove to the unlit parking lot behind the school.
“Where the hell are you taking me?” Hector said—and another elbow hit his ribs.
It was now two forty-five in the morning, and unbeknownst to Mike, Anita Ramirez, in her Muslim headdress, was walking down the hall toward DeMarco’s hospital room.
Mike parked, and his men pulled Hector from the car.
Mike looked at Hector—the soul patch beneath his lip, the teardrop tattoos near his left eye, the words Mara Salvatrucha inked below his collarbone—and thought: You pathetic punk. You want to belong to a real gang, you should join my old gang, the U.S. Army.
“Pat him down,” Mike said, and one of his guys did. Hector wasn’t armed, not even with a knife.
“Take off the handcuffs,” Mike said.
“Hey, I got rights,” Hector said, still under the impression that Mike was a cop.
Hector was a tough guy, but Mike could tell he was terrified, standing there in a dark parking lot with Mike’s oversize pals looming over him. Cops don’t take you out behind a school at night if they want to question you. They do that when they’ve decided that beating the shit out of you is more sensible than an arrest.
Mike said, “Hector, we’re not cops, and you don’t have any rights. I’ve been told you’re the head of MS-13 in this area.”
“So what? It’s just a social club.”
Mike couldn’t help smiling at that. He said, “Your social club has tried three times to kill a man named Joe DeMarco. You tried twice in the Alexandria jail and once in the hospital where he’s recovering from being poisoned. What I’m here to tell you is that if DeMarco is killed—”
“Hey, I don’t even know who this fuckin’ DeMarco guy is,” Hector said.
Mike sighed. “Like I told you, Hector, we’re not cops. You could say we belong to a gang just like you do, and we look out for the guys in our gang. Well, DeMarco’s one of us. So I’m not bullshitting you, Hector. If DeMarco is killed, nobody is going to arrest you. What’s going to happen is that I’m going to kill you. I’m going to find you—just like I found you tonight—then me and my friends here are going to take you into the woods, and I’m going to put a bullet in your head. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” Hector said. “I understand.”
Mike looked into Hector’s eyes. “I don’t believe you, Hector.”
Mike reached behind his back and pulled out the .357 revolver he carried in a holster on his belt. He placed the muzzle of the gun against Hector’s forehead.
“Hey!” Hector said. “I’m telling you, nobody’s going to bother this DeMarco guy. I swear.”
Mike didn’t say anything. He pulled back the hammer on the .357, and it made an ominous click.
“I swear!” Hector screamed.
Mike kept the .357 pressed hard against Hector’s forehead head for a long five seconds before he finally lowered the gun. “All right,” he said. “But, Hector, I’m a man who always keeps his word, and if anything happens to DeMarco, you’re a dead man.”
Hector swallowed, then nodded his head.
Mike said to his men, “Let’s go. I think Hector got the message.”
Mike hadn’t asked Hector why he was trying to kill DeMarco or who was paying him to do so as Emma had indicated that she already knew the answers to those questions. And knowing Emma, Mike had no doubt she was dealing with the people responsible. His job tonight had only been to make sure Hector didn’t keep trying—and he was certain that he’d succeeded.
Hector’s heart was hammering in his chest. Those sons a bitches, whoever they were, were serious dudes. No way did he want them coming after him.
He looked at his watch.
Oh, shit. It was three a.m.
He hoped like hell that he wasn’t too late.
45
Anita Ramirez was pretty sure she could make it work. The two bodyguards were used to her. She’d smile at them as she’d done the last two nights, go into DeMarco’s room, and pretend to check on things—and in particular she’d check to make sure the IV was still dripping.
The plastic tube that went from the IV bag to a vein in DeMarco’s forearm had a place where a syringe could be inserted if the staff had to inject something extra into DeMarco’s bloodstream—and that’s what Anita was going to do: inject something extra, a syringe full of pure heroin. By the time DeMarco’s body reacted to the heroin and all the monitors went off like fucking fire alarms, she’d be off the floor, sprinting down the stairs, running to her car. She’d lose the Muslim head scarf on the way.
She reached the door to DeMarco’s room and smiled at the guards. One of them said, “How you doin’ tonight?” Anita had never spoken to the guards, afraid if she did they’d notice her Spanish accent. When they talked to her, she just smiled and nodded, the way people do when they can’t speak English well. And that’s what she did when the bodyguard said hello tonight: she nodded and smiled like a grinning monkey and went into DeMarco’s room.
She checked the clipboard at the end of the bed, the one containing the doctors’ orders and the medications DeMarco had been prescribed. As she moved over to look at the IV bag, DeMarco opened his eyes.
Oh, shit! She stood there, unable to move, unsure what she should do. She noticed that his eyes were unfocused, and although he was looking at her, she wondered if he was really seeing her. It was as if he was sleeping with his eyes open. Then, thank God, he shut his eyes and seemed to go back to sleep.
She waited a couple of seconds and moved again toward the IV bag—at that moment one of the damn bodyguards glanced into the room and over at her. She nodded and smiled and pretended to check the catheter bag, as she’d done the previous two nights, and the bodyguard turned away and started bullshitting with his buddy again.
It was time. She had to do it now, and she had to do it fast, before anything else happened.
She pulled the syringe out of the pocket of her nursing smock, removed the protective cap over the needle, and reached for the IV line—and h
er phone rang.
Son of a bitch! The ringing phone made her jump, just scaring the shit out of her, and when it rang the bodyguards looked into the room.
She pulled the phone from her pocket, intending to silence it, then saw it was Hector calling. She turned her back to the guards, hit the ACCEPT button, and whispered into her phone, “What is it?”
“Get the hell out of the hospital. Don’t do anything. Go right now. Now!”
Anita closed the phone and put the syringe back in her pocket, hoping the needle wouldn’t stick her. She took a last look at DeMarco as she was leaving the room, thinking: You are one lucky motherfucker.
46
After Emma hid the gun in the trunk of Bill Brayden’s car, she drove to the nearest twenty-four-hour store for a cup of coffee. She needed the caffeine, as she had hours to go before she’d be able to sleep. Back in her car, sipping the coffee, she called Special Agent Russell Peyton. The fact that it was three in the morning didn’t bother her in the least.
Peyton answered his phone, sounding understandably groggy. “Peyton,” he said. “Who is this?”
“It’s Emma.”
“Why are you calling me at this time of night?”
“Listen carefully, Agent Peyton. Sitting on a bus-stop bench near Barcroft Park in Arlington, at the corner of Columbus and Chesterfield, is a man named John Lynch. John Lynch is—or was—a Capitol policeman. He’s dead.”
“What?” Peyton said, no longer sounding groggy.
“Lynch is the man who murdered Lyle Canton, and I know who murdered John Lynch, because I was a witness.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
Emma forged ahead. “The first thing you need to do is call the Arlington cops. If they haven’t found Lynch’s body yet, tell them where it is and to preserve the crime scene until your people can get there.”