Blueblood

by Matthew Iden

  Bloch thought about it. “Makes sense. But you said Johnson knew whoever killed him, right? That he’d let the killer into the apartment? That doesn’t describe Chillo. I mean, if I’m Johnson and I look through my peephole and see that freakshow on the other side, I’m not opening the door.”

  I nodded, conceding the point was weak. “Second possibility. Maria’s right and Rodriguez didn’t know who they were. He would’ve given his left nut to know, sure. If he had, he would’ve told Chillo to take all three of them out. He wanted them bad. But…he didn’t know.”

  “Which leaves us back at the beginning. Who killed them? Are they even connected to Rodriguez, and the mara and this whole mess?”

  “Right,” I said. “The key is there were two friends. I already know Danny was buds with Johnson from way back. The Garcias don’t want to admit it, but he was.”

  “Friend number one.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And friend number two, assuming Maria is right, is alive. From a crew of cops that made a practice out of busting up drug dealers and gangs on the side. ‘Robbing’ them, as Maria put it.”

  “You think they were jacking these crews and pocketing the money?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe they were just playing Robin Hood. But two out of three are dead, one of whom was set up. Maria never said how they got word out to Danny. Maybe he was set up by his own guy.”

  “Garcia, Johnson…who’s the third?”

  I didn’t get to finish my thought. There was a knock and a short uniformed officer shaped like a rain barrel took a step into the office. “Sorry, sir. You said you wanted the two prisoners taken back to lockup?”

  “Yeah,” Bloch said with a sigh, then stood. “Let’s get some fresh air. We can keep talking this out while we watch our fish go back to the tank.”

  He got up from his desk and I followed him out of the room. I wanted to test my theory on him as we walked, but three different cops ran up needing his signature on this, his okay for that. He motioned me along and we headed down two halls and out double glass doors on the side of the building. The day was clear, but the heat fell on us like a brick. May was leaving and summer was closing in.

  From a short porch we watched as deputies opened another set of doors and led first Rodriguez, then Chillo out. In the neon orange of a prison inmate, handcuffed and leg-shackled, Rodriguez appeared small and unremarkable. He’d been processed enough to have that steady con look about him: taking no shit, but with an indefinable ducking of the shoulders, trying to fly under everyone’s radar. His eyes were a dead brown, like worn leather. A thin mustache gave him a mousy look and he was small, which would probably lead plenty of guys on the inside to underestimate him. It would be their mistake. He’d ordered the deaths of five cops and was probably responsible for dozens of other murders in the last two years.

  Chillo was pushed out in a wheelchair. His wrists were cuffed in front of him, a small concession to his medical situation. His tattooed face was impassive, blank as a standing stone, and his eyes, if possible, were deader than Rodriguez’s. They flicked over the two of us, then to the security van that had been pulled up at the end of the driveway to take them back to the Federal Holding Building in Alexandria. There was almost no one else around. It was a scene lacking in drama or pathos.

  A fat fly moved ponderously through the air and landed on Bloch’s shoulder. The stink of gasoline clouded the air from the prison van, kept idling so as not to waste a minute whisking the prisoners away. Bloch reached up to brush the fly away, his chin tucked to his shoulder like a violinist. I turned from Bloch to look at Chillo.

  We locked eyes.

  I blinked.

  And Chillo’s head erupted in an explosion of red, white, and gray.

  The guard who had been pushing the wheelchair grunted and staggered two steps back, bent over at the waist as though being tugged off-stage by a hook. My mouth opened and I knew without thinking that I was throwing myself to the ground, reaching for a gun I hadn’t brought. Bloch looked up, frowning, as though he’d heard an off-color joke or just learned about a downturn in the stock market. People began to scatter. I heard my first recognizable sound: the sharp, flat report of a big gun. But it was the second shot fired.

  Rodriguez levitated, his feet kicking towards the sky as though he had suddenly decided to throw himself on his back. A pink cloud sprayed the wall behind him and he fell to the ground, convulsed once, then stayed still. The slow motion progress of the scene disappeared and suddenly everyone was released, free to add to the chaos. I scampered to the far side of the concrete porch, trying to make myself flat behind the scant cover. Bloch dashed to the side of the van and crouched behind the engine, his handgun out. About a half-dozen deputies were scattered across the small courtyard, looking lost, as though someone had dropped them here from out of the sky. All had their guns drawn. The guard who had been pushing Chillo’s wheelchair was on his back, writhing, holding his belly. The muscles in his neck stood out like ropes as he kicked his legs, scuffing himself across the concrete sidewalk by his heels.

  A few cops had their radios out, others were yelling at the top of their lungs. Bloch screamed at some of his men—stunned at the sudden violence—to get to cover. An alarm wailed throughout the HIDTA compound. It was a strange tableau, with six or eight of us crouching and looking in the same direction, waiting for the next bullet to rip through the air. I stole a glance at Chillo and then Rodriguez. The spreading pool of blood beneath both of them told me they were gone, even if I hadn’t seen half of Chillo’s skull taken off. His body slumped in the wheelchair where it had been shot, propped in place like a mannequin by the handcuffs and shackles. Rodriguez was a pile of laundry dumped on the sidewalk.

  Things couldn’t stay frozen forever. After a minute, deputies made a break for the glass doors and rushed inside. Two rushed over to the guard on the ground. I stayed where I was, watching Bloch, who had been taking quick looks in the general direction of the shots. I followed his line of sight and didn’t like what I saw. I took a deep breath, then sprinted to Bloch’s side.

  “See what I see?” he asked, wiping the sweat off his face.

  “Yeah. Not good.” There were several apartment buildings and a hotel that could’ve easily hidden the shooter’s location. Worse, though, was that HIDTA HQ was near two major four-lane roads and a group of cloverleaf on-ramps and exits for 495, the major highway loop around DC. A quick glance showed a half-dozen spots next to the highway with head-on views of the courtyard. “The overpass.”

  “Easy in, easy out,” he said. His voice was steady, but he wiped a hand across his mustache and his eyes flicked back and forth, trying to pin down the location of the sniper. If he was still there. “Take the shot from the highway, get in the car, drive away.”

  “Hell of a shot,” I said. My voice was hoarse and my throat felt tight, like I’d been flexing all the muscles in my neck. “Four, five hundred yards?”

  “Two shots,” he said, throwing a glance back at the two bodies. “One per. What the fuck is going on? All of a sudden, we’ve got a world-class sniper involved in this? What a goddamn cluster fuck.”

  Sirens pealed from the far side of the building. Ambulances. A little late for Chillo and Rodriguez, maybe, but hopefully in time to help the guard who had been pushing the wheelchair. Bloch’s radio squawked and he spoke into it.

  “Units are on the way to check the buildings out.”

  “That’s a waste,” I said. “Get someone on the Beltway.”

  “I know, but it’s got to be done. I’ll have a team on the overpass in a minute. Think we’re clear here?”

  “Whoever it is, he’s gone,” I said, casting another glance at the carnage in the courtyard. “He got what he wanted.”

  Still, we sprinted to the glass doors. The skin across my back was tight as a drum and I fought the urge to crawl on my belly. Rationally, I knew whoever had taken the shots was long gone, or should be. But when you see two guys next to you get potted like
plastic ducks at a carnival, your animal brain tends to take over.

  When we got inside, a half-dozen cops ran up to Bloch, looking for answers and orders. He took control of the situation as best he could. All the men he spoke to seemed stable, but shaken up, everyone wondering if the bullets had been misses and they’d been the real targets. Bloch got everyone busy doing something, yelling out orders like a drill sergeant. He finally had time to turn to me as cops ran back and forth, shouting and splitting into teams.

  “You were about to tell me who you thought was Danny’s number three. Whoever put bullets into Chillo and Rodriguez is the same guy. If he thinks Danny spilled the beans to Chillo and Rodriguez before he was killed, then he thinks they know who he is. He didn’t want them to talk. Or take a run at him later.”

  I took a deep breath. The noise and chaos made it hard to concentrate and guesses—even educated ones—seemed out of place next to the battlefield outside. “Three cops, taking dealers out at nights and on weekends. They’re righteous, like the Three Musketeers. But one day, one of them thinks, ‘Why not clean the streets and put some money away, too?’ He starts pocketing the cash they’re finding. Johnson goes for it. Danny doesn’t.”

  “Who do you think, Singer?” Bloch said, impatient.

  “Caldwell,” I said. “He retires this year. He’s got a boat and a plan. I don’t have a clue about his financial situation, but he’s got motive and the connection to Danny.”

  “You think he set him up?”

  “Yes. He and Johnson catch wind of Rodriguez’s honey pot deal so he can catch whoever’s robbing him. They talk Danny into targeting the deal, like they’d done a dozen times before. Then they back out on him when he needs them the most. Rodriguez and Chillo do their dirty work for them and Danny’s out of the picture.”

  “Doesn’t even have to be that complicated,” Bloch said, getting into it. “Maybe it was just one of their regular side jobs. When things got a little hot, Caldwell and Johnson said to each other, this is our chance. They skedaddle and hang Danny out to dry.”

  “That works, too,” I said.

  “Then Johnson gets greedy or starts feeling guilty and Caldwell takes him out, too,” Bloch said.

  “Evidence says Johnson knew whoever killed him,” I said. “Caldwell fits the bill.”

  He jerked a thumb towards the courtyard. “What about this?”

  “Just like you said. I told Caldwell the other day that we had fingered Rodriguez for ordering the killings. He's got to assume Danny talked while he was getting worked over, so it stands to reason Rodriguez knows Caldwell's name. Then Caldwell hears about last night’s raid and knows if you get Rodriguez to talk—”

  “—then we’ll know about Caldwell, too,” Bloch finished.

  “Right. Solution? Take Chillo and Rodriguez out and there’s literally no one left.”

  Bloch glanced towards the direction of the courtyard. “Caldwell strike you as a long-range sniper?”

  I shrugged. “He plays the lame baby boomer with a beer gut, but he could also be a crack shot with a gun. And he’s DEA. For all we know, he got to train with Navy SEALs. We’ll find out when we pick him up.”

  “You bring a gun?”

  “No. Didn’t think I’d need it.”

  “C’mon,” Bloch said, motioning me to follow. We jogged through the building to his office. Bloch had his radio out, giving orders and telling somebody, his number two probably, to take over. When we got to his desk, he yanked open the bottom drawer and pulled out a leather gun case. He slid it across the desk towards me.

  “My Glock. Sorry, no holster. You’ll have to go commando. Grab it and load in the car.”

  We raced back the way we came and out the front entrance of the building to the parking lot. Bloch’s blue Elantra had primo parking near the doors. We hopped in and Bloch punched the gas, racing from the chaos of one scene directly into another.

  iii.

  Two targets, two shots, two kills. Just like they’d taught him.

  It wasn’t something to celebrate or even smile about, but he allowed himself some satisfaction in the perfect accuracy of the shots, the quick and clean exit from the area, the justice that had been dealt. He basked a little in the glow of a successful mission, replaying the scene in his head…until he remembered the cop who had been pushing the wheelchair, staggering backwards, hit by the .380 that had gone through-and-through the piece of shit sitting in the chair. Collateral damage hadn’t occurred to him as a possibility until it was right there, centered in his scope. Panic had stopped his heart for a second; he wasn’t in this to see more cops go down. But the training had taken over, he forgot about the cop, and then he’d put the second bullet right where he wanted. Casualties were bound to happen, he told himself. That was just reality. Though a voice inside his heart reminded him that it wasn’t the first.

  It would be the last, he promised, squeezing the steering wheel until his hands were bloodless. Traffic on the Beltway zipped past him as he chugged along, keeping the needle right on 55 miles per hour to stay inconspicuous. He couldn’t afford to be stopped now. Events were wrapping up. The last act was ready to be played out.

  One more stop and the miserable, fucking tragedy that had started with Detective Danny Garcia’s death was almost over.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Bloch bumped his car up onto the sidewalk at the end of I Street and parked. We got out and headed towards the waterfront. I had Bloch’s gun, a Glock 19 Compact, slipped into a back pocket and had untucked my shirt to cover it. I’d spent the better part of thirty years carrying a gun, but always in a holster, and the unfamiliar weight resting like a metal wallet felt completely wrong.

  We hurried, taking three jogging steps for every two walking, to eat up the ground. We both had a sense of urgency. Caldwell might be casting off right now or heading for an airport. A shared anxiety also pushed us along. A lot of blood had been spilled so far and we knew we were in dangerous territory. That tight feeling between my shoulder blades was back, as though Caldwell had his gun reticle centered on my spine even now.

  The wind was dead calm and the harsh smells of dock life lay heavily in the air. Fish, dirty water, diesel gas. A few people strolled along the wide sidewalk that paralleled the pier, already wiping sweat off their forehead and slowing down into a summer rhythm. Bloch and I eased our pace, trying to hide our nerves, acting like any other two Washingtonians out on an early lunch break.

  “Caldwell’s boat is just past the mid-point of the marina,” I said, pretending I was talking about Senate hearings or the price of corn oil.

  “Remind me of the name?”

  “The Loophole,” I said. “Sail boat. Big forty-footer.”

  We made room for a young mother and her three kids. One had an ice cream cone and the top ball of ice cream fell off onto the ground. The girl’s crying faded as we walked. Bloch said, “Chances that Caldwell is still here?”

  “Slim to none,” I said. “If he’s good enough to plan all this, has been putting drug dealer cash in a Swiss bank account, and is willing to snipe two witnesses to stay clean, then he’s smart enough to get the hell out. Even if he has to leave his boat behind.”

  Bloch made a face. “So we’re just cleaning up.”

  “He can’t be more than twenty minutes ahead of us,” I said. “And he’s bound to have left something on the boat that’ll help us find him. Don’t sweat it.”

  He grimaced and we walked on. Over the masts and bone-white hulls of yachts, I made out the mast of Caldwell’s boat peeking over the others. I reached out a hand and slowed Bloch down, pointed. He nodded and we moved closer cautiously, watching the deck and the cabin windows. After a minute, I tugged Bloch’s sleeve and motioned for him to fall back.

  “What?”

  “The boat’s lashed to the pier pretty tight, but if we’re not careful, he’ll feel us climb aboard.”

  “If he’s there,” Bloch said.

  “If he’s there,” I agreed.
“I’m just saying, do it carefully. Don’t leap aboard like a pirate.”

  He nodded and we headed down the dock once more, guns drawn. Some luck was with us, as The Loophole was moored stern-in, so we approached the back of the boat and its pleasant lack of portholes or windows. I crept forward, heel-to-toe, my eye on the lower cabin door. Nothing jumped out at me, nobody fired a cannon. Gingerly, I grabbed the gunwale and eased myself onboard, thinking weightless thoughts and trying to tell whether I’d set the boat rocking. Bloch followed, pulling himself onboard next to me without a sound. I motioned towards the cabin door. We could see all of the deck and the upper cabin, so it was the only place left. He nodded and moved to the right of it.

  I crept closer and went down the three short steps to the miniature door. It was open a few inches. I stopped and listened. All I heard was the lapping of wake against the hull and the distant, deep-throated rumblings of inboard engines down the line. I swallowed, readjusted my grip and pushed the door open with one hand, gun aimed into space with the other.

  And stopped.

  Bob Caldwell, staring at me with eyes wide and white, was sitting on the bed with his legs splayed out in front of him like a little boy playing jacks. Kneeling on the bed with a thick forearm wrapped around Caldwell’s neck and holding a gun to his head, was Paul Garcia. He was bareheaded and dressed in the tan and sage camouflage BDUs of an infantry soldier. His eyes, small black dots like raisins in his face, drilled into me. The hand holding the gun was steady.

  “Stop right there, Mr. Singer,” Paul said. His voice—calm and flat—sounded loud in the tiny cabin. His face and voice were uncolored by emotion, as though he were talking about tide tables or bus schedules. Small windows ringed the sleeping cabin, backlighting both of them and making it difficult to see details.

  “Paul,” I said, just for something to say. “This isn’t what I was expecting.”