Angel Dance (Danny Logan Mystery #1)

by M. D. Grayson

  After Francisco Miranda was cuffed, the Mendez brothers were next. They were stood up and searched, then handcuffed. Did I say they looked like CEOs? I take that back. Not anymore. Now they looked like angry, psychotic killers, the kind that would not have been happy unless everyone responsible for this raid was tortured and executed, along with their families, their acquaintances, their whole towns. They were pissed, but they said nothing. Instead, they glared. They had really nasty glares, like angry rattlesnakes poised to strike. Luis Mendez decided to try out the glare on one of the agents. “A little stink eye? Very cute, fuckface,” the agent said just before he slammed his elbow into Mendez’s gut.

  “Mikey,” Jackson called out to the offending agent, “Play nice. Don’t forget these men are our guests.”

  Unable to manipulate the DEA agents, the Mendez brothers next glared at Francisco Miranda. This worked better, as it had the effect of making Miranda immediately piss himself. The man’s face was sheet–white, and he looked like he expected to be executed sometime within the next seven seconds, which, in Mexico, would probably have been the case.

  “Well, bless my soul if it isn’t Hector and Luis Mendez,” Jackson said, walking around the table to the Mendez brothers after they were cuffed. “You are the Mendez brothers, aren’t you?” he asked. He held up Most Wanted pictures of each against their faces. He made a show of looking at the poster, then at the men, then back at the poster. “Yeah, that’s you alright. Looks just like your photos, guys. Gentlemen, welcome to America! We’ve wanted to make your acquaintance for so very long. And now, here you are, our guests.”

  Luis Mendez muttered something incoherent, still trying to catch his breath after being doubled over by an elbow to the gut.

  “I’m sorry,” Jackson said. “I didn’t get that. What’d you say?”

  “He says, I respectfully request to speak to my lawyer,” Hector Mendez said.

  “Oh, well, since you put it that way,” Jackson said. “Fuck you. You’ll get your chance.”

  ~~~~

  Finally, they stood Gina up. For the first time, I was able to see her, and I was surprised. On many occasions, I’ve seen people who are unaccustomed to trouble with law enforcement get busted their first time. Most of these people are in a complete state of shock—eyes wide open, legs trembling to the point of having trouble standing; sometimes they’ve even vomited. The mind short-circuits when faced with an ultra-stressful situation. People lose control and don’t act rationally, or certainly not in a way they normally would.

  This definitely did not describe Gina. Don’t get me wrong—she didn’t look happy about the situation, but she certainly didn’t look like she was in shock or terror, either. Hers was a look of grim determination, like she had a job to do and, by god, she was going to do it. She didn’t look pissed off like the Mendez brothers did, but she didn’t look the slightest bit afraid either, even after she was searched and cuffed, even after Luis Mendez tried the glare on her. She simply stared right back and shot him a “go fuck yourself” look, which was pretty gutsy considering whom she was staring down.

  Last to go was Uncle Frankie, but before the agents reached him, the hangar door suddenly groaned and made a loud bang! People jumped and ducked, and then turned to look at the door. It was stuck about three-fourths of the way open. Beneath the door, I had a great view of the four Mexican and four Chicago outside-guards all lying on the ground, handcuffed and completely immobilized. Another dozen DEA agents guarded them and the airplanes’ pilots.

  “Great,” Jackson said, “Door’s broke. Let’s see if we can work that cable loose,” he ordered. Several agents jumped to comply, including those on my side of the table who had been guarding Uncle Frankie.

  Frankie noticed right away that everyone was looking at the door and not at him. Knowing he wouldn’t be left untended for more than a moment, he quickly jumped to his feet. Instead of trying to escape, however, he put his hands behind his back as if he were already cuffed. Then he simply stood there. I was the only one who’d noticed.

  I looked at him and tilted my head and tried to arch an eyebrow, as if to ask, What the hell are you doing? He responded by nodding back at me and giving me a glare, indicating that I was to mind my own goddamned business, thank you very much.

  This was going to be interesting. In fact, this was turning into a regular laugh a minute.

  ~~~~

  The moment ended quickly as the agents muscled the door cable back into position. The door then completed its upward swing. Jackson turned back and looked at us. “Now,” he said, “where were we?” He paused for a second, looked us all over, then said, “Oh yeah, we were completing our introductions. We’d just reached Ms. Gina Fiore, the architect of this happy little joint venture.”

  Gina glared at him.

  “And without whose cooperation, this meeting could have never taken place,” cracked one of the agents next to Jackson.

  Whirling quickly, Jackson said, “Shut the hell up, Matthews. What’s wrong with you?”

  Matthews froze and the color drained from his face as he realized what he’d said.

  I was shocked. I looked first at Jackson, and then at Gina. What the hell? What cooperation?

  Gina looked stunned at what the agent had said. Her mouth had dropped open, and her eyes seemed to plead the question, “Why?”

  “Cooperation?” John Calabria said, looking first at Gina, then at Jackson. “What fucking cooperation?” He turned to look at Gina. “Gina, what the fuck is he talking about?”

  She looked at him but didn’t say anything.

  “What cooperation?” he repeated.

  “Shut up,” Jackson ordered.

  “Fuck you,” Calabria said, not taking his eyes of Gina, eyes that were flashing with rage and hatred. “Did you set us up, Gina?”

  Gina shook her head no, but remained speechless.

  “Did you do this?” he screamed.

  “Enough of this,” Jackson said. “Boys, let’s get these assholes out of here. They can settle their internal squabbles on their own time. They’re going to have plenty of it.”

  His men started to grab each prisoner by the shoulder.

  Suddenly, Frankie yelled out, “Gina, you bitch! You rat out your own flesh and blood!” In a flash he pulled his Smith & Wesson .44. Before anyone could react, he fired a single shot that ripped into Gina’s chest.

  Gina’s eyes flew wide open in complete shock for an instant as the force of the bullet’s impact shoved her over backwards. Blood and gore flew from her back and spattered on the floor behind her. She fell onto her back and lay on the white concrete gasping for breath, her hands clutched tightly into fists at her side, her eyes full of terror.

  Almost immediately after the shot, two agents tackled Frankie and threw him to the floor. They cuffed him and left him there. “Son of a bitch!” Jackson yelled.

  Two agents jumped in to try to help Gina, but she was beyond help. She looked at me and weakly gasped, “Danny, tell my parents—” She wasn’t able to complete the words before the muscles in her face and arms went slack, and she died, right there in front of me on the floor of the hangar. Her blood was bright red against the white concrete.

  ~~~~

  My mind went numb. I stared at Gina’s body and felt the blood rushing out of my head. My face tingled and the ringing returned to my ears. I felt the whole world close in. Yesterday, two weeks after she’d gone missing, five years after I’d lost her, I’d found her at last. We’d reunited. We’d talked. We’d even kissed. Today, I’d lost her all over again. She was dead. Gone.

  I looked around. Everyone in the room was in a state of shock. The DEA agents had their guns leveled. Francisco Miranda was frozen, mouth wide open. He’d turned sheet-white and looked as though he were ready to faint. The Calabrias stood wide-eyed, staring at Gina, then at Frankie, then back to Gina. The Mendez brothers had a look of alarm on their faces. I imagine they were thinking, We know that’s how we’d handle things, but w
e didn’t know the Americans handled things the same way.

  I took all this in for a few moments, and then I guess I just snapped. The agents had just finished lifting Frankie to his feet when I turned and looked at him. He stared back. “Motherfucker!” I screamed. I kicked him in the balls with everything I had. He gasped, and when he staggered forward, I kneed him right in the nose. He went down like he was the one who’d been shot. Blood flew everywhere from his shattered nose. I was lucky I didn’t have my gun—Frankie was lucky I didn’t have my gun.

  The DEA agents grabbed me and yanked me away. “Cut it out!” they ordered. “That’s enough of that,” one of the agents said. “This asshole will get taken care of in prison.”

  “Frankie, you fucking asshole!” Jackson yelled. “This idiot over here didn’t mean she knowingly cooperated with us. She didn’t. We were already tracking Eddie Salazar when we stumbled onto Gina and her plans. She had nothing to do with us. Jesus Christ!” He stood frozen in place, transfixed for several moments. He recovered quickly and yelled, “Get these people out of here, now!” He paused for a moment and stared at Gina. “Cover her up,” he said.

  ~~~~

  The agents hustled us out of the hangar and made us stand in a line, facing away from the door. They kept Frankie off to himself, with four men guarding him. My mind was still numb as I tried desperately to come to grips with the events of the morning. I wasn’t worried about my legal predicament. I was essentially an innocent bystander. At least, that’s how I saw it. There was no law against being in the same room as a mobster or a member of the Mexican cartels. Although those guys had discussed a criminal venture, I sure as hell hadn’t. I sat in the back and didn’t say a word. I thought I was on pretty solid legal ground.

  Emotionally, though, I was a wreck. I never liked to see anyone get killed—even bad guys in Iraq and Afghanistan. I accepted it. I recognized the necessity. I was grateful that it was them, and not one of my buddies or me. But I didn’t keep score or keep a PBC—personal body count—like some guys I knew. I didn’t hold anything against these guys—they were normal, everyday American boys trying their best to deal with bizarre life-and-death situations that were so far beyond their normal upbringing and experiences that they defied reconciliation. These boys were doing what they needed to survive, just like all of us over there. But I wouldn’t say I liked it.

  But here—seeing someone that I actually cared for get killed—this was everything bad about Iraq magnified a thousand times. This was way different. I mean, at one point, I thought I loved Gina Fiore, thought I had since the first time I saw her in high school. I certainly was captivated by her—her bewitching smile, her beauty, her engaging personality. Now, she was gone. Watching her get blown away was something I’ll never forget. Maybe never get over, I don’t know.

  The agents searched each of us again, much more carefully this time. They read us our Miranda rights individually. Then we were formally arrested. In my case, they told me I was being arrested for Conspiring to Violate Federal Laws regarding the Trafficking of Marijuana.

  I had no time to think about it, though, because three minutes later, our group was split up and loaded into DEA vehicles. They loaded the guards from the Mexican and Chicago mobs into separate vans with three or four prisoners per van accompanied by the same number of armed agents. The Mendez brothers were split up and each taken alone in a car, along with three agents apiece. The Calabrias and Frankie were handled similarly—one to each vehicle. I was loaded into a car by myself with two agents. We pulled out of the airport for the long drive south through Tacoma, and then back north to Seattle.

  On the way out of the airport, as we passed the entry, I noticed a vehicle entering marked with the words Jefferson County Coroner’s Office. I shuddered. I was worried about being arrested but, much more painful than that, I was devastated about Gina.

  Chapter 27

  THE TWO-AND-A-HALF HOUR automobile ride from Port Townsend to the Seattle headquarters of the DEA went past in a hazy blur. The agents elected not to take the ferry, instead traveling south in a caravan of vehicles on Highway 3, through Tacoma, then north on I-5 to Seattle. Fortunately, the agents had taken my handcuffs off and recuffed me with my hands in front at the start of the ride. Still, the immobility had my joints screaming before we were halfway there.

  But that wasn’t what hurt the most. My mind was numb the entire way. Gina was dead, shot to death right in front of me. Just like that. I could not escape the stark vision of her lying on the shiny white hangar floor, gasping for breath, staring vacantly at the ceiling as the dark red blood slowly spread from beneath her. “Tell my parents . . .” The vision haunted me. I felt a profound sense of loss and dread—I wanted to scream. I felt like I was the one with the hole in my chest. Then I got mad.

  Goddamn that stupid fucking DEA agent. Why had the idiot said what he said? How could that bastard have been so goddamned incompetently stupid?

  And goddamn Frank Rossi! Why? Why kill her? She was family! Was his loyalty to the Calabrias so great that he felt compelled to simply blow Gina away without any proof at all? He hadn’t even known if there was a legit case against the Calabrias. And he sure as hell hadn’t waited to find out. He just pulled that massive .44 Magnum cannon of his and blew her away.

  And goddamn my own stupid self. I could have stopped Frankie by saying something when I saw that he was not cuffed, but the last thing I expected him to do was to shoot Gina. Jesus Christ! I was still so angry at him that it was probably a good thing that we were both incarcerated. That way at least, I couldn’t get to him and get myself into real trouble. As it was, I’d have to satisfy myself with shattering his nose when I’d kneed him. Better than nothing, but nowhere near good enough. I shook my head to try and clear my mind—too many fucking questions. This was going to take awhile.

  We arrived at the federal building on Second Avenue in Seattle just before three in the afternoon. The agents cuffed me behind my back again and led me upstairs through their offices and into an interrogation room. There, they removed the handcuffs and left me to sit by myself for a little over an hour. I suppose they wanted me to sweat it out and get nervous. It’s what I would have done.

  The room was empty except for a metal table and six metal chairs. There were two television cameras mounted in domes in the ceiling, one at either end of the room. The wall opposite the door was completely mirrored. No doubt the other side of the mirror was another room, probably occupied by a half-dozen federal agents who were observing and recording everything that happened on my side.

  Eventually, two new agents—Stephen Boyd and Ken Sawyer—entered and proceeded to spend the next hour trying to persuade me to talk to them without a lawyer present. I tried to be polite. Really. I was almost as pissed at the DEA as I was with Frankie, so it wasn’t easy. After all, if they hadn’t shown up, Gina would still be alive. Still, polite or not, I had no intention of talking to them without my lawyer. No way; no how. So I told them the same thing over and over, “I’ll be happy to tell you everything I know as soon as my lawyer is here. So the sooner you let me call him and get him down here, the sooner I’ll talk. Until then, leave me alone.”

  They tried to bullshit me by saying that if I needed to lawyer up, then I must be guilty of something—that sort of crap. Their argument: only guilty people needed lawyers. What was I trying to hide?

  Unfortunately for them, I knew their lines as well as they did because I’d used them myself many times in the past. It’s complete nonsense, of course, but the police use the tactic all the time and sure enough, people routinely give up their rights to have an attorney present during their questioning. They’re either deluded and think they’re going to outsmart the cops (good luck), or they believe what the cops are telling them and think they’ll look guilty if they ask for an attorney. So they start talking. And then they hang themselves. My experience is that it’s about twenty times more likely that someone acting on their own talks themselves into trouble than i
f they’d had an attorney present. Hell, even people who are completely innocent usually make their lives much more difficult by not waiting for their lawyers. They’d almost always be better off if they waited. But they don’t. People like to talk. And the cops are good listeners. Real good. But I wasn’t talking. Period. Not yet, anyway. I held firm and eventually, they had to relent.

  Almost exactly an hour later, at six, my lawyer, J. David O’Farrell, was led into the interrogation room, red-faced and out of breath. David is an old friend of the family’s. He’s my father’s age but, unlike dad, David continues an active law practice. He’s tall, lean, and has a full head of silver hair. Like his father and his grandfather before him, David is one of the best criminal lawyers in Seattle. I pay him a small monthly retainer, which buys me the privilege of keeping him on permanent standby, just in case I—or someone on my staff—runs into legal trouble. Kind of like now. I’d never had to use his services before, but I felt damn lucky to have him on my side now.

  “Hello, Danny,” he said, as he entered. “I’m so sorry to hear about Gina Fiore. Are you alright?”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Good,” he said. “I apologize that it took so long for me to get here.” We shook hands. He turned to the agents and said, “Gentlemen, I’m David O’Farrell with the firm O’Farrell, Darnell, and Associates.”

  The agents introduced themselves.

  “Agents Boyd and Sawyer, my client will be ready to speak to you in exactly thirty minutes. During this time, he’ll need to speak to me—and only me. Do you have a place he and I can speak privately?”

  They moved us to another room where I filled David in. Thirty minutes later, we reconvened with the agents and David had me repeat the story I’d told him from start to finish—all about being called in by the family to help Gina. The agents had several questions.