Angel Dance (Danny Logan Mystery #1)

by M. D. Grayson

  ~~~~

  At seven o’clock the next morning, I was in the kitchen getting ready to go to work. This means something a little different to someone in my business because I still carry a Model 1911 nearly every day. The good news is that civilian life is not as dangerous as my time overseas was. The bad news is that in my job I still occasionally bump into bad guys that are every bit as dangerous as an Arab insurgent. Thus, the need to “gun up.” In fact, I often carry a little backup strapped to my ankle. I treat guns with respect, and part of that means I follow a careful routine in caring for them.

  This morning, like every other morning, I visually inspected my Les Baer Thunder Ranch Model 1911, .45 caliber. I released the magazine, thumbed off the safety, ejected the round in the chamber and locked the slide open. I confirmed that the gun was unloaded. Next, I exercised the magazine spring by thumbing out all eight cartridges, then reloading them. I did this to my two backup magazines as well. Satisfied that all appeared as it should, I replaced the magazine, released the slide, and thumbed the safety on. The gun was ready for action in “condition one”—cocked and locked. I put the gun into the Bianchi holster on my hip. Now I was ready.

  At precisely that moment, the phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. Dwayne. Good timing.

  “Good morning,” he said, cheerfully. “You up and at ’em yet? Ready to take on the new day?”

  “Of course,” I said. “It’s our turn to man the Winnebago. I have to drive Doc and Kenny out there. I was just getting ready to walk out the door.”

  “I think I’ve got someplace you might rather be,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t doubt it,” I said. “There are lots of places I’d rather be. What did you have in mind?”

  “Camelot Arms Apartments,” he said. “Beacon Avenue near the Jefferson Community Center.”

  That stopped me. “Actually wasn’t thinking of that,” I admitted. “Why do I want to be at the Camelot Arms Apartments?” I was suddenly curious.

  “Because our good friend Javier got a phone call from a friend of his who knew we were looking. Someone saw Eddie Salazar park his silver Mercedes outside one of the apartments there and go on in. There was a pretty, dark-haired woman with him.”

  My adrenalin level started to climb. “No shit,” I said. “When?”

  “Last night, about eight o’clock. The car’s still there—we’ve got the car and the apartment under surveillance. I’m assembling an assault team right now. We’re going in at 8:15 or so to arrest Eddie Salazar. Figured you might want to be there—you know, watch the real police in action.”

  “You figured right,” I said. “That’d be a treat. I appreciate that. Got a time and place for the rally point?”

  “We’re going to assemble in the Jefferson Park parking lot on the south side of the community center right on Beacon Avenue at 0745.”

  “I know where it is,” I said. “I’ll be there—wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll swing past the office and grab Toni. Then we’ll head on over.”

  ~~~~

  Fifteen minutes later, Toni met me in the Logan PI parking lot and we took off. The Wednesday morning traffic wasn’t as bad as it would become in another hour, but it was already starting to build.

  “Maybe this is it,” Toni said.

  “Maybe,” I answered. “I sure hope so. Hopefully, it’s Gina with him and not someone else. I sure hope she’s okay.”

  “They got no ID on the woman?” Toni asked.

  “No, none that I heard. Just a ‘dark-haired woman.’”

  Toni thought for a second. “Well,” she said, “even if it’s not her, at least we’ll still have him.”

  “True. I can’t wait to get this guy in an interrogation room.”

  “My guess is he won’t have anything to say,” Toni said.

  “Could be. But at least he won’t be hunting for Gina anymore.”

  “True enough.”

  Except for the stereo, which was playing “Demons and Lakes” by Ravenna Woods, we drove the rest of the way in silence. We pulled into the north parking lot at the Jefferson Community Center on Beacon Avenue at 7:40 a.m.

  Chapter 14

  THE JEFFERSON PARK Community Center, our rally point, is about three blocks south of the Camelot Arms Apartments, right at the on top of Beacon Hill in Seattle, just east of I-5. Technically, Beacon Hill isn’t a hill at all—it’s a ridge. But when Boston native Harwood Young decided to name the area in 1889, he named it after his hometown landmark Beacon Hill. The name stuck.

  Today, people—mostly joggers and dog walkers—were already active in the park, even at this early hour. They slowed or even stopped to watch the assembly of heavily armed police officers that had gathered for the bust. Two uniformed officers kept them well away from the assembly area.

  Toni and I were waved through—apparently Dwayne had briefed the officers regarding my Jeep. I parked, and we hopped out. We donned our vests and joined the small crowd of police officers. At 7:45 Dwayne called everyone to order.

  “Okay, everyone listen up!” he called out. The police officers stopped talking and turned to pay attention. Dwayne stood before an artist-easel-type tripod to which was attached a flip-over pad. A portable blackboard was situated alongside.

  “We’ve been informed that last night at eight o’clock, this man,” Dwayne said as he pinned a copy of Eddie’s picture to the blackboard, “name of Eduardo ‘Eddie’ Salazar, parked his silver Mercedes at the Camelot Arms Apartments complex and entered unit 109. An unidentified dark-haired woman—no other information on her—accompanied him. It’s possible she might be none other than Gina Fiore. The tip came to us this morning at 6:34 a.m. We placed the apartment unit, and the car under surveillance at 7:20. The car is still there, and there’s been no activity at the apartment since we’ve been watching.”

  “We have an arrest warrant for Eduardo Salazar and a search warrant with a no-knock authorization for the apartment. Salazar is wanted for the assault of a different adult female. Salazar is five feet, ten inches tall, 165 pounds, black hair and dark eyes. In addition, in the event that the woman he’s traveling with is not Gina Fiore, Salazar is a man of prime interest to us regarding her disappearance. Incidentally—and pay attention to this—we also have reason to believe that Salazar is a member of the Tijuana-Mendez Mexican drug cartel. He is to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. Questions so far?” There were none.

  “Good,” he continued. “I want to introduce Captain Gary Radovich of SPD SWAT. In light of this character’s background, Seattle SWAT is going to conduct the entry for us this morning. When the site is formally cleared, they will then turn the site over to us for processing. Captain?”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant Brown,” Radovich said. “First off, we've talked to the apartment manager. He says he doesn't believe that there are any children in the subject unit. He's never seen anyone there other than adults. Because of that, and because this man is considered dangerous, we'll be going in hard—thus, the no-knock. Next, we’ll be using channel four for this op. Go ahead and set your radios now.”

  A minute later, he continued. He turned to the map and flipped to a site plan of the apartment and the surrounding street. He proceeded to lay out a complete plan for the raid of the apartment. Radovich provided both preliminary staging positions near the apartment building as well as final assault positions for each member of the entire ten-man team, along with the responsibilities of each man. It reminded me of some of the briefings we had in Iraq before moving into an insurgent building—same prep, same tension. When he was done, he asked for questions. When he’d answered them all, he broke the group and sent us to our vehicles with instructions to move to our preliminary staging points.

  “Let’s do it,” Gus said.

  ~~~~

  The assembly broke up and the team headed for their vehicles. “You guys ride with us,” Dwayne said. Gus walked to the driver’s side.

  “Good,” I said.

  “And I wan
t you wearing these vests,” he said. He opened his trunk and handed us each a dark blue vest with Seattle Police Dept. stenciled in yellow on the back. “No sense anyone seeing us escorting civilians around an arrest scene,” he said.

  “Also, might keep us from getting shot by SPD,” I said. We stripped off our own vests and donned the SPD vests.

  “True,” he agreed. “And here—Gus, give him your radio, just in case we get separated for some reason. We’ll share.” He looked at the radio and handed it to me. “It’s already set to channel four,” he said. “Make sure to keep the volume way down. Obviously, you guys listen only—no talking.”

  Gus pulled out of the parking lot and turned north. We drove in silence past a large public golf course, the home course of local-boy-made-good Fred Couples. A couple of minutes later, he turned right on Hanford and then immediately north again into an alley behind the apartment building. Two hundred yards up the alley, he stopped behind three other patrol cars already parked there.

  “Game time, boys and girls,” Gus said.

  “Let’s move,” Dwayne said. “We stage right up there alongside the building.”

  ~~~~

  It’s safe to say that the Camelot Arms Apartments complex was no garden spot. Though not what you’d call a ghetto, the Beacon Hill area of central Seattle was in the middle of a regentrification trend that started in the eighties and was further bolstered in 2001 when Amazon.com located its headquarters nearby. Unfortunately, the modernization hadn’t yet reached the Camelot Arms. In fact, the plain, rectangular two-story building existed today pretty much as it had since it was built right after World War II. There was gray-green moss on the peeling white siding that looked as if it had never been repainted. Even the faded lavender trim paint looked original.

  We joined the others at our preliminary staging position behind the east end of the building. The radio was in my pocket, its microphone clipped to my collar. It was turned down very low, but I could hear each unit check in one by one at 8:20. Soon, all units were in place, ready to move in an orderly manner to their final assault position. Radovich had carefully choreographed these movements so as to provide the maximum opportunity for complete surprise.

  I was impressed with the SWAT operation. I hadn’t breached a door for more than three years and technically, I wasn’t going to do so today since we were only invited in after the apartment was cleared by SWAT. Nonetheless, the adrenalin rush of bashing through the door of a known bad guy was something I remembered vividly. You never really knew what you were going to find. In Iraq, our procedure was usually pretty simple. If we needed to clear a building in which we thought there was a chance of nonhostiles present, we’d use what we called the “crash and dash” technique—one guy kicks the door down, and his buddies rush in with M4s ready to hose down any bad guys. If we were completely certain that no nonhostiles were present, we’d occasionally use the “crash and blast” variation—kick the door down, and toss in a grenade. Of course, with CID I learned to refine these techniques for use in a more normal world. Still, we seldom had nine guys to breach a door.

  Bottom line: Seattle SWAT was light years better than we were. I suppose they had to be, with so many civilians around. Still, with their dark Kevlar helmets and their high-tech tactical gear, they looked as though they were ready for World War III. Unless Eddie was sitting on the other side of the door with a weapon drawn, odds were good that he’d be under arrest in the next few minutes, which was all I wanted. On the other hand, if he actually was sitting on the other side of the door with a weapon drawn waiting for us, odds were also good that he’d be dead in another couple of minutes, although in that case, he might take someone with him. Hopefully, he was sleeping soundly and completely unprepared for what was about to hit him.

  ~~~~

  Two minutes later, the radio crackled to life. “We’re all here—everyone’s in position,” Radovich announced. “I’m moving to the CP now.” He turned to the four of us and said, “Follow me. Walk slowly and quietly. We’re going up behind that car over there.”

  We crouched down and followed him. We were all wearing soft-soled shoes and walking on asphalt, so we were able to move silently. There was no one about in the alley or the parking lot. Two minutes later we were crouched down behind a car in the parking lot, one hundred feet from the front door of the apartment.

  “CP is up,” Radovich said over the radio. Except for the actual breach team, he then moved the rest of his people into their final assault positions. When he was satisfied, he conducted his final status checks. “Alley One?” Alley One was one of the two two-man units stationed in the alley, directly behind the apartment. They were responsible for capturing anyone who tried to escape through one of the apartment’s back windows.

  “We’re ready. No lights, curtains drawn, no apparent movement. But we can hear someone singing inside. Mexican, male.”

  “Got it,” Radovich replied. Each of the remaining units checked in, ready to go.

  “Okay, boys. We’re ready. Entry Team, move to your assault position,” Radovich ordered.

  Immediately, the Entry Team emerged from their staging point on the side of the building in single file, one man directly behind the next. They moved quietly into their preassigned assault positions—two men holding shotguns aimed directly at the door locks, one holding a heavy steel battering ram. Two flankers in the rear of the line faced west and one faced east. The four men that would enter first were huddled in single file behind the battering ram.

  Radovich looked at his watch. “It’s 8:23. Entry Team Commander, you now have control.”

  The man in front of the breach line immediately started a silent finger count—one, two, three, and then pointed at the door.

  Immediately, each shotgun fired a breaching slug at the door locks in what appeared to be a single deafening blast. Before the ringing stopped, the battering ram slammed into the door and blew it wide open. The next man in line tossed a flashbang grenade into the apartment. It exploded with a bright flash and a loud but muffled “clap” sound. The four initial entry members yelled “Police!” and burst into the apartment, followed by the two members carrying the shotguns.

  ~~~~

  After the team entered, they started screaming, “Seattle Police!” and “Raise Your Hands!” over and over for several seconds. Then, there was complete silence. During this time, I considered a few possible outcomes. Although I hadn’t heard anything since they blew the door locks, there was still a good possibility of gunshots. I remember registering this thought. Just as likely—maybe more so—was the possibility that they’d catch Eddie sound asleep and be on him before he was fully awake. I remember thinking of this, too. The reality, I believe, was that only fifteen seconds or so passed after the team entered before we heard the radio come to life. “Clear!” followed by “Kitchen clear!” A moment later we heard “Bedroom clear!” then “Bath clear!” Then silence. Another minute passed. What was happening?

  “You hear any shots?” Dwayne asked.

  “Nothing,” Radovich answered.

  “I didn’t hear anything either,” Toni said.

  “There were no shots,” Radovich said. “They're finishing up securing the apartment now.” “Hopefully, they’re putting Eddie in cuffs,” Gus said.

  Finally, two long minutes later, the Entry Team Commander appeared in the doorway and yelled to Radovich, “We're Code 4, Captain!” He beckoned us over. It was eight twenty-seven. A total of four minutes had elapsed since Radovich had given the word to go.

  ~~~~

  “Come on,” Radovich said to us. We popped up and jogged to the front door. When we got there, the Entry Team Commander said, “It’s all secure, boss. Have a look for yourselves. Careful what you touch.”

  We entered the apartment through the living room. The air smelled heavily of cordite and was still smoky from the flashbang. Except for SWAT members and us, no one was there. In fact, the room was completely empty apart from a worn sofa, a So
ny flat-screen TV sitting on a box, and a table that held an ashtray and a couple of empty beer bottles.

  I glanced at the kitchen, where a radio on the table was blaring a Spanish song—apparently the source of the singing Alley One had heard. A chair was missing from the dining room set. “Let’s go ahead and turn that thing down so we can hear ourselves think,” Dwayne said, thinking the same thing I was. One of the SWAT team members in the kitchen unplugged the radio, and the room fell silent.

  Another SWAT member was standing in the doorway to the apartment’s sole bedroom. “In here,” he said, gesturing with his head. I walked over and looked in. Eddie Salazar sat in the missing kitchen chair facing the bedroom doorway. He was quite dead. A single bullet hole was centered in his forehead, right between his eyes. His arms were duct-taped tightly to the arms of the chair. He’d been executed. His eyes were wide open, as if shocked to see what was coming. His mouth was open and his head was thrown backward. The back of his head was basically gone. Blood, bone, and brain matter were spattered all over the wall behind him. I’ve seen more dead bodies than anyone should have to ever see. Still, it had been awhile. I felt a cold sweat come on. I suppressed a gag. I was stunned.

  “Guess he pissed somebody off,” the SWAT officer said.

  I nodded—best I could do for the moment. Toni pushed me aside and looked for herself.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said, equally shocked.

  “There’s another one in the bathroom, too,” the SWAT officer said. “The girl—dark hair.”

  I spun around and looked quickly at him as the blood drained from my face. Oh, no, I said to myself. I felt my feet move to the bathroom door. I looked inside and saw the body of a woman next to the tub, face down and turned away from the door.