by Joseph Badal
The teams punched holes in walls, tore up carpeting, slashed sofas and chairs, and generally made a mess of Orlov’s holdings.
In Richardson, Texas, about twenty miles north of Dallas, Special Agent Daniel Duckworth supervised his squad of police officers as they packed up cash found in a cardboard box hidden behind the drywall of an office, half-a-dozen automatic rifles, and a large crate of prescription opioids. Duckworth performed a cursory sweep of the nightclub he and his squad had been assigned to and was about to order his people to load up and lock up when something caught his eye. At the end of a hallway, at the back end of the building, Duckworth noted that the exterior walls ran in a straight line but the interior walls didn’t match up. At first, he assumed there might be a utility chase between the interior and exterior walls on one side of the hallway. But, after some reflection and banging on the interior wall with his fist, he decided that a little demolition work might be in order.
“Get me a sledge hammer,” Duckworth called to one of his cops. When the man returned with the tool, Duckworth told him, “Make me a hole in the center of that wall.”
He watched the cop slug away at the wall, creating a hole the size of a large medicine ball.
“That’s good,” Duckworth said. “Let me take a look.”
He took a flashlight from the policeman and shone the light beam into the hole. “Well, well,” he said. “What do we have here?” He reached into the hole and grabbed a canvas bag, hefted the bag from the space behind the wall, and placed it on the floor. He pulled open the drawstrings and looked inside. Duckworth snatched the bag off the floor, slung it over a shoulder, and marched to an office on the other side of the club. After he closed the office door, he laid the bag on a desk, and extracted twenty-seven DVDs in plastic containers. He then went through the stacks of DVDs, reading the grease-penciled writing on each disk. There were names on each plastic tray. He went through them one-by-one, but he didn’t recognize any of the names. Until he came to the twenty-first DVD. Written on that tray in bold, black letters was the initial “S” followed by a period, and the name DARZI.
Duckworth opened the plastic tray and removed the DVD. He powered up a television and a DVD player on a credenza and inserted the disk. After five minutes of viewing, Duckworth felt his heart hammering. “Oh, shit,” he exclaimed.”
ONE WEEK LATER
CHAPTER 57
The sun shone bright on Albuquerque’s Old Town Plaza. It felt wonderful on her back.
“Finally warmed up,” she said to Susan.
“About damned time. I can’t remember a February this cold.” Susan looked around and smiled as she watched what appeared to be an extended Hispanic family picnic lunching in the park at the center of the plaza. An elderly couple sat in folding chairs, while three pairs of adults tried to shepherd half-a-dozen children. “I remember when my folks used to bring us down here.”
“How long’s it been since you lost your parents?” Barbara asked.
“Almost five years. Mom died of cancer; Dad followed her six months later. I swear he died of a broken heart.” Then Susan grimaced, but quickly tried to smile at Barbara. “Thank God I have you as a partner,” she said. “Other than cousins who I never see and with whom I have nothing in common, you’re the only family I have.”
Barbara nodded. “Same with me, partner.”
“Don’t you have an aunt who lives in Santa Fe? Married to a cop.”
“My aunt passed away several years ago and I was never close to her anyway. When my parents died there was nothing really left that tied us together.” Barbara scrunched up her face and wagged her head. “Probably should give my cousins a call some time.”
“They’re in Santa Fe?”
“No, they’re here in Albuquerque. Their father still lives in Santa Fe.”
Susan again smiled at Barbara. “You know, we’re pathetic. Got cousins right here in River City and never even call them.”
“Phone calls work both ways. My cousins never call me either.”
Susan suddenly looked serious and said, “I can understand that, with your personality and all.”
“You should talk. I’ll bet—” Barbara stopped when she spotted Sophia Otero-Hansen cross Old Town Plaza from the south. She elbowed Susan seated next to her on the park bench. “Here she comes.”
“Can’t wait to hear her story.”
“Ought to be a doozey.”
Otero-Hansen stopped in front of the bench and looked down at them. “You two look like two kids at Christmas. Full of expectation.”
“Don’t disappoint us,” Barbara said.
Barbara slid to the right to make space for Otero-Hansen.
“Thanks. I don’t think I could tell you what I learned while standing. My legs are a bit shaky.”
Barbara made a go-ahead gesture with her hand as Otero-Hansen sat between them.
The FBI agent took in a big breath and let it out slowly. “Would it be enough to tell you that Sanjay Darzi has been forced to retire from the Bureau, pending possible legal repercussions?”
“No. Not even close,” Susan said.
“I didn’t think so.” She visibly swallowed, then said, “Darzi was using Orlov as a confidential informant. The Bureau and the DEA caught him moving vast amounts of cocaine eight years ago. The Feds worked out a deal with him. In return for immunity from prosecution, Orlov provided intelligence about his former drug connections. But Orlov didn’t change his stripes. Instead of just dealing in narcotics, he got into the business of fencing other things.”
“Like rare coins,” Susan said.
Otero-Hansen nodded. “Bruce Lucas worked the first three home invasion cases. At the time, he reported to a Special Agent in Charge who reported to Darzi. Somehow, Darzi put two and two together and tied the home invasions to Orlov. Darzi realized that his CI had put him in jeopardy. He was high enough up in the FBI that he was able to scrub the NCIC system of any reference to coin collections being stolen. Every time Orlov’s crew stole another collection, Darzi made certain there was no reference to the coin collection in the computer. He knew Orlov was fencing valuable coins and knew that was really the only way anyone could make a connection between Orlov and the Three Ghouls. The only references recorded in the system had to do with torture and murder.”
“Why didn’t Darzi shut Orlov down?” Barbara asked.
Otero-Hansen’s face went red. She gulped and shook her head. “Turns out Orlov had a video library in one of his Dallas nightclubs. He was extorting people who he’d filmed doing nasty things. Last week, Darzi sent teams to Dallas to sanitize every one of Orlov’s clubs, his residence, his office, and a restaurant the Russian owned. One of the teams uncovered a vault of videos. But the team leader, after viewing some of the videos, turned them over to the FBI’s Office of Professional Responsibility. You see, one of them showed Sanjay Darzi in the buff with a man and a woman.”
Barbara turned to look at Otero-Hansen. “You said Darzi retired.”
“That’s right.”
“In other words, your story will never go public.”
Otero-Hansen momentarily looked nauseous and then shrugged. “That’s right. Unless you decide to tell the media. Part of my mission here today is to convince you to keep what I’ve told you between us girls. You will accomplish nothing by disclosing what I’ve told you except to undermine confidence in the Bureau.”
“Maybe that’s exactly what should happen,” Susan said.
The nauseous look came over Otero-Hansen’s face again.
“You said your mission is to try to get us to keep our mouths shut,” Barbara said. “Is that on orders from Washington?”
Otero-Hansen nodded and said, “I’d really appreciate your cooperation. If I fail to get your cooperation, it won’t go well for me.”
“We’ll get back to you on that,” Barbara said.
Otero-Hansen stood, looked from Barbara to Susan, and then walked away. Barbara watched her return to the south side of the p
laza and cross the street to a car. After she entered the sedan and drove away, Barbara turned back to Susan and was surprised at the expression on her partner’s face.
“What’s wrong, Susan?”
Susan pointed to the bandstand in the center of the plaza.
Barbara turned her head to look where Susan pointed. “Sonofa—” she blurted as she recognized Leno Sanchez.
“That bastard must be stalking me. I thought I’d seen his car a few times, but I brushed it off as just my imagination.”
Barbara stood to intercept Sanchez, who wore a stormy look. His face appeared flushed and his eyes were like small black marbles. He moved with apparent purpose. When he tried to move around her, Barbara stepped forward.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.
Sanchez seemed to look through her. He gripped her arms and shoved her backward. She hit the ground with an “oomph” and shouted, “Leno, don’t do anything stupid.”
But Sanchez had already moved toward Susan, who had come off the bench and advanced on him. Sanchez grabbed her by the throat with his huge left hand and swung her around. As Barbara got to her feet, she saw Susan aim a knee at Sanchez’s crotch, but the man must have anticipated the kick and deflected it off his thigh. He balled his right fist and cocked it as though he was about to pummel Susan’s face.
“You cost me my job, you bitch,” he roared. “I thought we had something, and then you embarrass me by being seen in Blacky’s with some joto.”
Barbara rushed at Sanchez and tried to put him in a chokehold. But he tossed her off him as though she was weightless. She heard Susan gasping for breath. She jumped behind him and again tried to put him in a chokehold, but he swung his cocked arm and hit her in the chest with his elbow. The blow sent her flying. She tried to get to her feet, but stumbled and fell to her knees. The center of her chest felt as though she’d been struck with a baseball bat.
Barbara sucked in a breath, got to her feet, and pulled her .38 from her hip holster. She grasped the barrel end of the gun and swung it with full force against the back of Sanchez’s head. The big man shook his head, released Susan, and slowly turned around to face Barbara. His eyes were crossed and his mouth gaped like he was a beached fish. He seemed confused. Then his eyes rolled up into his head, his legs gave way, and he collapsed onto the dirt.
The extended family that had been enjoying the unusually warm weather now gathered around Barbara and Susan and the semi-conscious Leno Sanchez.
“You got him good,” one of the young women announced.
Another one said, “Man, he went down like he was a sack of bricks.”
“Everything’s okay here,” Barbara said to the small crowd that had formed around them. “We’ve got it under control.”
As the people walked away, one of the Hispanic women turned, pointed at Sanchez, and shouted, “Only a pinche joto attacks a woman.”
“You hear that, Leno?” Susan said as she bent down and looked into Sanchez’s glazed eyes. “Who’s the pinche joto now?”
TWO WEEKS LATER
CHAPTER 58
“I saw your Corvette downstairs,” Barbara said. “I can’t believe you finally got it back.”
“Can you believe it? It’s been almost three weeks.”
“What did your crooked mechanic charge you to fix the thing?”
“Anything he charges is cheap. That car is a classic.”
“That car is a classic piece of shit.”
“What’s got your panties twisted this morning?” Susan asked.
“You’re not angry about the Feds taking the case from us?”
“You need to come back down to earth, partner. Did you really believe we’d ever be able to run an international investigation from little old Albuquerque, New Mexico?” Susan banged a riff on her desk with her hands. “At least your friend, Sophia, got a promotion and is heading up the whole kit and caboodle out of D.C.”
“I told you she wasn’t that much of a friend.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s the one who made the decision to ace us out of the investigation team.”
Susan’s big eyes went wide. “You’re kidding?”
“Nope.”
“After all we did for her, including agreeing to keep our mouths shut about Sanjay Darzi?”
“Yep.”
Susan said, “She probably didn’t have a choice. Some big gun at the FBI more than likely told her to dump us. Besides, what could we have added at this point?”
“Eh, you’re probably right. But I had visions of trips to London and Paris. Exotic places across the globe.”
“Look at it this way, Babs. Sophia’s got D.C., London, and Paris. We’ve got Martineztown and Espanola.”
“Oh, that makes me feel so much better.”
Susan wagged a finger at Barbara. “Before you get too morose, I had a thought last night that might elevate your spirits.”
“It would have to be pretty damned spectacular to elevate my spirits.”
“What’s wrong? Is everything all right with you and Henry?”
Barbara frowned. “No. That’s not it. Henry’s taking care of me just fine. But even with his undivided attention to my needs, I’m still pissed and frustrated.” She spread her arms. “You said you had a thought last night.”
“Yep. I did some research early this morning. Called the National Personnel Records Center at the National Archives in St. Louis. Talked to a lady in the Military Records Office. Had a nice conversation with—”
“I assume this is going somewhere,” Barbara interrupted.
“Okay, Miss Panties-All-Twisted-In-A-Knot, do you want to hear my story or are you going to interrupt me again?”
“Go ahead.”
“What’s one of the first things we usually do when a person of interest pops up in the middle of an investigation?”
“We check on his background, his family members, and his associates.”
“Right. And who popped up in the middle of our vigilante killer case who we never checked on?”
Barbara leaned back in her chair and rubbed her temples. Then she recited a list of people they’d encountered during the investigation. “The families of the victims. The Graves, the Puccinis, the—”
“Cold.”
“The guy and his girlfriend at the Bellagio?”
“Colder.”
“One of the victims in the Las Vegas parking lot?”
“Warmer.”
“Just tell me, will ya?”
“Eric Matus.”
“And you called the Military Records Office . . .”
“Yeah. As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, I had a nice conversation with a lady in St. Louis. I asked her a very simple question: What were the names of the men who served with Eric Matus on his Special Forces “A” Team?”
“Sonofagun,” Barbara said. “You’re thinking the vigilante is someone who served with Matus?”
“You remember we considered that Matus might be the killer when it was discovered that his talent agency was nothing but a front for who knows what?”
“Right. But when those two guys, along with Matus, were killed in the parking lot in Las Vegas, we initially wrote off Matus as the killer.”
“But then we figured that wasn’t probable because the Bukowski guy had been shot and there was no weapon found at the scene. Later, we assumed the killer offed Reese McCall in Farmington and Vitaly Orlov in Dallas, which obviously proved that Matus couldn’t be the killer.”
“So, we wrote off Matus as collateral damage and never checked to see if the killer might have been associated with Matus at some point in the past.”
“Exactamundo,” Susan said. “That’s where we screwed up.”
“You found out something from the records office?”
“There were seven guys from Matus’s Special Forces “A” Team the Army shows as still alive. Six of them didn’t ring any bells. But one did.”
“Yo
u’re killing me, Susan. Who?”
“Guy named Robert Thornton.”
“Isn’t that the name of—?”
“Yeah, one of the Three Ghouls’ victims. He lost his wife and two daughters, and was nearly beaten to death himself when those three psychopaths broke into his home over three years ago.”
“Oh shit. And he’s the only one of the Three Ghouls’ victims who survived an attack.”
“That’s right. And he had a valuable coin collection taken in the home invasion.”
“He lived in Amarillo, if I recall correctly.”
“He did. I called the Amarillo P.D. Talked to a Detective Forrester. He told me Thornton left Amarillo after he lost his family. Apparently the guy calls in to Forrester every few months or so to find out if there’s been any progress in the case. Forrester said he got a call from the man about three weeks ago. Thornton claimed to be in Philadelphia on business. Forrester hasn’t heard from him since.”
“Did you do a search for Thornton?”
“I sure did. Remember when you said that the guy’s a ghost. Well, he still is. There’s been literally nothing transacted in his name since he sold his home and computer business in Amarillo three years ago. No credit cards. No driver’s licenses. Absolutely nada. I called the other six members of Thornton and Matus’s SF unit. None of them ever heard from Thornton or Matus after they left the service.
“I Googled the guy and found some really old stuff on him. Handsome guy. College graduate. Baseball player. Awarded a Silver Star and two Purple Hearts for service in Iraq. He was an IT superstar renowned in his industry. He could apparently make a computer sing.”
“All-American all the way.”