Rules of Crime (2013)

by Sellers, L. J

“Sorry. It used to be called Centennial and us old-timers will always think of it that way.”

  “What’s the address? I’ll meet you there.”

  “I don’t have a street number but my CI says it’s the front building in a big complex between Kinsrow and Chevy Chase. Apartment fifty-eight. We’ll find it.”

  A half hour later, she spotted Fouts parked on a side street, leaning against his car and smoking a cigarette. She thought he’d quit. River made a left turn, pulled into the complex parking lot, and eased into a reserved space. They wouldn’t be here long. She climbed out of her car, zipped her leather jacket, and embraced the cold. She preferred blue-sky cold, but gray-damp cold was good too. Any day that didn’t induce sweat was fine with her.

  As Fouts trotted over, she scanned the building, looking at apartment numbers.

  “I hope this is the right complex,” Fouts said. “I’m going on the word of a CI who’s a couple sandwiches short of a picnic.”

  River smiled. “Not to worry. We’re not going in with flash bang.”

  “Maybe we should.” Fouts scanned the building too. “I see fifty-eight on the second floor near the end.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “I hope we don’t have to shoot his dog.”

  “You can always use pepper spray and hope for the best.”

  Fouts snorted. “I’ll do what I have to.”

  At the top of the stairs, they knocked on the brown door and waited. Pounded again. No answer.

  “What now?” Fouts sounded annoyed. “Do we have an ATL on this guy?”

  “I called it in last night.” River pounded again. “FBI! Open up!”

  The door to the apartment on the right opened instead and a thirty-something woman wearing a bathrobe leaned out. Yawning, she said, “You’re wasting your time. And keeping me from sleeping. Some people work nights, you know.”

  “We’re looking for Bartolo Diaz. Have you seen him?” River stepped back to get a better look at her.

  “Like I said, you’re wasting your time. He packed up and hit the road yesterday afternoon. I saw him stuffing all his crap and that big dog into his little car.”

  River pushed off her disappointment and pressed forward. “What time was that?”

  “About five, I think. I was getting ready for work.”

  Fouts asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Chrissy Stuck.”

  “Did you talk to him? Ask him where he was going?” Fouts’ voice was low but his tone had a surprising menace.

  “I told the prick I wanted the two hundred bucks he owed me.” Chrissy lit the cigarette she was holding. “To my surprise, he paid me. Then Tolo said he was leaving town. Going somewhere for a fresh start.”

  River took back the questioning. “Did he say where he was going?”

  “No. Why are you looking for him? Did he rob a bank?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Cuz he paid me. He owed me that money for months. And I know he doesn’t have a job, so he must have made a score.” Chrissy shivered. “Shit, it’s cold out here. I’m going back in.”

  “Just a few more questions,” River said. “We can go inside if you want.”

  The neighbor shook her head. “You’re not coming in here. Just make it fast. I was at the club until four this morning and I need to go back to bed.”

  “What kind of car does Bartolo drive?”

  “A silver Toyota.”

  “Except for yesterday afternoon, have you seen him over the last four days? Has he been home?” River wanted to know who’d been guarding Renee, if anyone.

  “He had been gone since the weekend. Then I saw him yesterday. That’s all I know.”

  “Any idea where he’d go? Does he have friends or family in other states that you know about?”

  “No clue.” Chrissy shrugged. “We weren’t that chatty. I loaned him rent money once because I felt sorry for him. He looked for work all the time and nobody would hire him because of his record.” She pulled her robe tighter. “I’m going in.” She stepped back inside and closed the door before River could respond.

  “He’s a thug. Law enforcement somewhere will pick him up.” Fouts nodded at Diaz’s door. “Should we go in and take a look?”

  “Let’s get the manager. If we find something, we need to be able to use it in court.”

  “What if Renee Jackson is in there?”

  “I doubt it. This place is too busy, too public. But if we can’t get the manager here promptly, we’ll bust it down.”

  “Your call.” Fouts looked disappointed.

  They found a manager home in the corner apartment on the first floor. He let them into Diaz’s unit, then started swearing. “I knew he had a damn dog in here.”

  “Could you wait outside?” River pushed the door closed after him.

  The apartment was half empty, as if someone hadn’t finished moving in. A couch but no TV. A mattress but no bed frame. A few empty beer cans and a sack of trash in the dining room, but no table.

  And no Renee Jackson.

  Her task force hadn’t found her in any of the construction sites they’d checked either. Unease crept into River’s bones and she couldn’t make peace with it. If all the kidnappers were dead, gone, or in the hospital—who the hell had Renee?

  CHAPTER 36

  Wednesday, January 11, 10:15 a.m.

  Jackson got out of his car, buttoned his overcoat, and wondered when they’d see the sun again. The gray, frigid days wore on him the way a virus did, making him feel sluggish and irritable. He tried to shake it off. They finally had a warrant to search their main suspect’s home, and with any luck, they’d find Renee in a back bedroom. But he couldn’t make himself believe it. He hadn’t believed it yesterday when they’d picked up Renaldi—or he would have gone in without permission. Dogs or not. Doubt nagged at him. Had he left Renee here in captivity overnight because he feared the dogs?

  Gravel crunched behind him and he turned to see Schak pull in. The barking from the kennels started again. God, he hated the noise. Cold fingers of dread squeezed his already tender abdomen. Jackson tried to reassure himself. Several animal control experts would be here soon, and the forensic specialist from Ashland was on his way. He just hoped that only the one dog—a massive creature—was loose in the house. After seeing what it had done to Dakota, he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot it.

  Schak joined him at the edge of the walkway. Thin, wild grass grew on either side of the path and circled around the cedar-siding house. He knew from their last visit that a tall metal fence hid the kennels from view.

  “Ready?” Jackson asked.

  “As a sinner on judgment day.”

  Knowing Schak was also a little nervous didn’t make him feel any better. “I’ll try to pick the lock but we also have Sergeant Bruckner and a few SWAT guys on their way out with the door knocker.” Jackson didn’t care about damaging Renaldi’s front door with a battering ram, but he would save his coworkers the trouble if he could.

  He had no luck with the lock and wasn’t surprised. Someone who bred protection dogs could be expected to have a secure home. Possibly even an alarm. They would deal with that when they came to it. He’d also called Quince, who was at the hospital with Renaldi, and asked him to persuade the suspect to give him the key. That hadn’t worked either.

  “While we wait, let’s go out back and see how many animals we’re dealing with.” Schak stepped off the small porch. “It’ll give the experts a head start.”

  Jackson would have preferred to skip it, but he was a police officer. Show no fear. “What’s your best guess?” Trying to sound casual.

  “From the barking, I think around twenty.”

  “At least.”

  They came to the tall fence. Schak shouldered up against it and held out his interlocked hands for Jackson to step into. Good grief. The last time he’d done anything like this had been at fifteen when he’d helped his brother Derrick over the back fence of his girlfriend’s house. Jac
kson grabbed the top of the fence, pushed off Schak’s boost, and reached over for the latch on the other side. As the gate swung open, he dropped down.

  Schak went through first, Sig Sauer drawn and ready. Jackson kept his weapon at his side but had his taser in his other hand, ready to fire. They passed a small greenhouse and came to the first row of kennels. A carport-like roof covered the row of cages and each dog had six-by-twelve feet of bark dust to move around in. The carport didn’t keep the wind off the dogs and Jackson had a tiny flash of sympathy for any creature spending January outside.

  A similar structure lined the other side of the narrow property. The barking became a raucous roar, but it only came from some of the animals. Other dogs were silent, which was just as creepy.

  He and Schak moved down the middle, each tallying a kennel. Jackson counted fifteen dogs of various breeds and ages: German shepherds, Doberman pinschers, and several mastiff mixed breeds. He turned to look at the dogs on the other side and noted they were all some breed of pit bull.

  “Twelve over here,” Schak said.

  Jackson noticed empty pens at the end. “Fifteen on this side. The animal control guys will have their hands full. This could take all day.”

  They both turned to the back of the property, where they saw outbuildings and two fenced areas, one of which contained an adult-size stuffed dummy.

  “The training ground.”

  “Could Dakota have been killed here?” Schak started toward the large fenced area.

  “It’s possible, but unlikely.” Jackson followed. “Let’s check the buildings. Just in case they’re holding Renee here.”

  The structures were locked, but they pounded and heard no response. Jackson moved to the back of one and found a small window. Without light from the inside and little sunlight, he couldn’t see enough to know. “Renee!”

  No response.

  “We’ll get the door knocker out here too when SWAT shows up,” Schak said.

  “I think I hear a car now.”

  They strode past the barking dogs and through the metal gate. The county’s animal control truck was parked in the gravel lot and two men got out. Jackson had met Sam Larson at the autopsy. The other guy was bigger, younger, and darker skinned. He introduced himself. “David Estes, veterinarian for the county. Another private vet is coming to help with tranquilizing the animals.”

  “Thanks. And good luck.” Jackson glanced down the driveway, hoping to see the SWAT unit. “The first animal we need to process is probably in the house where we left it yesterday. And we can’t get in without a battering ram, but it’s on the way.”

  Schak added, “We’ve got twenty-seven dogs out back, plus the one we know of in the house.”

  “Holy moly. This will take some time.” The vet looked worried.

  A few minutes later, the SWAT unit rolled up in a dark box truck. It wasn’t the oversize purple vehicle they called Barney, but Jackson had only asked for the battering ram. Bruckner didn’t like the equipment to go out without him and he probably got a kick out of using it. SWAT members were the only personnel in the department required to maintain their physical training. There had to be some payoff for all that work and knocking down doors was good clean fun.

  Two men climbed from the truck and Bruckner approached with a grin. “So we just go in? No people inside to warn?”

  “Just a big, and possibly vicious, dog. The animal may have killed a woman recently.”

  “In that case, after we pop the door we’ll let you guys go in.” Bruckner chuckled and headed for the back of the rig.

  Why wasn’t the dog in the house barking? Its silence bothered Jackson.

  Bruckner and his partner hauled out a four-foot-long, heavy metal cylinder and trotted toward the door. Schak drew his weapon, and Jackson turned to the animal control officer. “Do you have a tranquilizer I can shoot at the dog?”

  “Let me do it. I’m experienced.” Sam Larson grabbed something from his truck and returned to the house.

  At the door, Bruckner yelled, “Stand clear. We’re coming in.” On the count of three, he and his partner swung the ram into the door. On impact, a piston fired to maximize the blow.

  The door stood its ground.

  “Damn!” Bruckner tapped two fingers around the door. “It’s solid metal and there must be reinforced locks up and down the frame.”

  “Let’s hit it again. It’ll weaken,” his SWAT partner urged.

  “Here goes.”

  They rammed it again. The door gave a little but didn’t open or fall.

  A vehicle barreled into the driveway and screeched to a halt. They all turned to see Jacob Renaldi jump from the passenger’s side of a truck. A younger man was behind the wheel, but stayed put.

  “What the hell? You can’t break down my door.”

  Schak aimed his taser at him, while Jackson said, “We have a warrant. Give us your keys and we’ll spare the door.”

  “I’m not letting you in. My door is reinforced for a reason.”

  “We are going in,” Jackson countered. “Even if we have to cut a hole in the wall. Just give us the keys. We need access to the kennels too.”

  “No.” Renaldi crossed his arms. “I’m already going to sue you for risking my life. I’ll just add this to my list of grievances.”

  “You’re under arrest for obstruction of justice. Put your hands in the air and get on your knees.” Jackson and Schak both stepped forward.

  For a second, Jackson worried about what an electric current would do to someone with epilepsy. He didn’t want to find out. Just as he started to warn Schak to put the taser away, Renaldi spun, like a person getting ready to run or reach for a weapon. Schak zapped him with the taser prongs, one landing in his back, the other in his right butt cheek. Renaldi jerked and moaned but didn’t go down.

  “No more. I’ve got him,” Jackson called. He rushed in before the suspect could recover, cuffed him, and pushed him to the ground.

  Quince drove up while Jackson retrieved a set of keys from Renaldi’s pockets. The driver watched but didn’t interfere.

  “He left the hospital against medical advice,” Quince said, climbing from his car. “And Lammers said all I could do was follow him here.”

  “It’s fine. We needed his keys anyway.” Jackson stood and started for the house. “Keep an eye on him while we search his place. And call 911 and get a paramedic out here just in case.”

  “Covering my ass?” Schak grinned.

  As he got close, he noticed the door had three locks. But he never got a chance to match the keys to the deadbolts. Bruckner hit the door again with the ram. It sprung loose with a metal-popping screech and hit the floor with a thud. Jackson pulled up his weapon. “Do you see the dog?”

  Larson, the animal control guy, stepped through the open space and stood on the downed door, tranquilizer gun ready.

  The crowd outside the door inched forward and peered inside.

  Out of nowhere, the mastiff-rottweiler charged Larson, leaping from six feet away. Larson fired the tranquilizer dart, hitting the animal in the neck midair. But momentum was still with the dog, and the two-hundred-pound beast knocked Larson down and sunk its teeth into his throat before it blacked out. Jackson’s fingers had itched to pull the trigger, but Larson was right there and no one had a safe shot.

  For a moment they froze, weapons aimed at the interior, watching for signs of movement, of another attack dog.

  The house was silent, the only noise the barking dogs beyond its walls.

  Jackson spun and yelled at Quince in the yard, “Get an ambulance out here ASAP.”

  He turned back to see Schak and Bruckner rolling the dog off the animal-control guy.

  Larson sat up. “I think I’m okay.” His voice was distorted and blood ran from the bite wound.

  “Secure the house,” Jackson commanded. He stepped outside and yelled to the veterinarian who had stayed back. “Get a first-aid kit in here.”

  Jackson pressed Larson’s sh
oulder and forced him to lie back down, then held his hand over the wound. His brain told him Larson would live, but after seeing Dakota’s ravaged face and neck, Jackson couldn’t take it for granted. He stayed with Larson until the vet taped a large piece of gauze over the wound and assured him the bite wasn’t deep or lethal.

  Bruckner and his partner came out of the hallway. “The house is clear. Do you need us to stay and help search?”

  “No. But thanks. Get back to your patrols.” The SWAT guys had been pulled off their regular duties—or day off—to assist him.

  “Start with the back bedroom,” Bruckner said. “I think you’ll find it interesting.” He and his partner left without further explanation.

  Jackson’s first thought was Renee, but they would have brought her out. He hurried across the spacious living room and turned down the hallway. At the end, he stepped through the open door into a good-size room, partially filled with computers, scanners, and a high-end, freestanding printer. The blinds were fastened closed and a sense of secrecy loomed. Schak, who was leaning over a table looking at documents, turned and said, “He creates phony IDs.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Wednesday, January 11, 2:15 p.m.

  River ordered coffee and pastries to be delivered from Full City, then called Agent Torres. “How’s Anderson?”

  “Better. He slept for a while this morning and now he’s sitting in his office staring out the window. I think he’s sober, unless he has a stash I didn’t find last night.”

  “No word from the kidnapper I assume?” She knew there was no point in asking. Torres would have called her.

  “Not unless Anderson is keeping it from me.”

  River had sent the tech people home to Portland the night before. The burner phones were impossible to trace and the kidnapper had gone silent. “The task force is meeting here in a few minutes if you want to join us.”

  “As much as I’d like to get out of here, I hate leaving Anderson alone.”

  “You’re a good man, Torres, but we’re not babysitters. Does he have family you can call?”

  “I left a message with his sister in Los Angeles but I don’t know if she’s coming.”