by Matthew Iden
A thin smile danced on his lips, then disappeared. “No, sir. I imagine it isn’t.”
“But,” I said, slowly, piecing things together. “I guess I should’ve.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t figure any of it out, Mr. Singer.”
I nodded. “You knew about the moonlighting your dad was doing?”
“I knew.”
“Everything?”
“Yes,” Paul said. “My father wanted me to know before I went through the Academy.”
“And you figured Caldwell sold your dad out?”
“No sell—” Caldwell said, his words choked off as Paul tightened his arm.
“That’s not how it looks from here, Bob,” I said. It was time to talk about anything to keep Paul from pulling the trigger. I had a bead drawn—ineffectively—on the middle distance between Caldwell’s head and Paul’s. I’d been too surprised to bring my gun all the way onto the small target that was Paul’s head. And if I did it now, I was asking him to pull the trigger. This wasn’t some amateur who’d never fired a gun before. This was a trained soldier that had served time in battle. If he saw my gun start to move, he was going to respond. And probably not in a way that would make me feel good.
“Paul,” I said. “I’m going to lower my gun. Partly because I’m old and can’t hold my arm up anymore. But mostly because this is where we talk it out and keep you from doing anything you’ll regret.”
“Like quadruple homicide, sir?” he said. “I don’t want to sound flippant, but what the hell’s one more?”
“Rodriguez and Chillo make two,” I said, confused. “I guess I should’ve seen the Marine Corps training in the shot placement. But the deputy you shot was wearing a vest. He’ll have a bruise and some broken ribs, but he’s still alive. And you don’t have to shoot Caldwell to prove anything.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Paul said, “you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. It’s not about proving anything. It’s about exacting a price.”
Caldwell tried to speak, but Paul cut it off. The DEA agent blinked slowly, trying to get a breath. My gun was by my side and slowly, intentionally, I relaxed my body, trying to communicate my own calm to the young man.
“I’m working at a deficit, Paul,” I said. “I thought I had this figured out. I know your dad was freelancing, taking out the scum he knew the system would never touch. I’m pretty sure Johnson and Caldwell, here, were his gun buddies. At some point they didn’t want to do the vigilante thing for free and decided to help themselves to all that money that was floating around. And your dad didn’t like where it was going, so Caldwell hopped in bed with the Salvadoran mara to have your dad taken out.”
“It would be nice if it were all that neat and tidy,” Paul said, staring at me. “If it were just greed, you could almost understand it.”
“What else is there?”
“Something so much more basic,” he said. For the first time I saw emotion in his face, a glimpse of despair and anger that made his eyes squint. “Cowardice.”
“Tell me,” I said.
“None of them knew the mara was setting them up. They’d been knocking off drug dealers for years and thought they were too careful, too good, to get caught. They took money, all of them. It was dirty, but you start to question what’s clean after a while. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that the two of them never believed as deeply as my father. And when things got too hot for them, that lack of belief, that lack of loyalty, that cowardice”—he tightened his grip on Caldwell’s head until the man’s face started to purple—“cost my father his life.”
I glanced at Caldwell’s face and back. “They didn’t set him up. They just…”
“Left him,” Paul finished. “As simple as that. They left him.”
The cabin was very close, uncomfortably warm. My mind raced, fitting things together. “You killed Johnson.”
“He invited me over. He wanted to tell me about it, try to get me to understand. How hard it was for him to just drive off, knowing my father was probably being beaten, being tortured. How it killed him, knowing my father was counting on his buddies to bail him out.”
“He didn’t know you’d already taken a run at him,” I said. Paul flinched.
“Okonjo was a mistake,” he said. He blinked rapidly and readjusted his grip on the gun, his fingers opening and closing on the butt. “I didn’t even know what I was doing. Or even if I was going to do it. It was nothing like Iraq, where they told you who the hell to kill. This was all on me. And I screwed up.”
“So don’t screw up again,” I said. I nodded towards Caldwell, who sat inert, looking back at me. “He’s going up the river for all kinds of things. You don’t have to put a bullet in his head to exact justice.”
Paul smiled and his face relaxed. “That’s exactly what they told my dad the first time he watched a gangbanger walk out of the courtroom. And that’s when he vowed that he’d see justice done, no matter what the price. Whatever else I am, I am my father’s son. Esto es para Él.”
Quick, so quick. Caldwell sensed it and his hands started to come up, but there were two loud flacks and Caldwell’s head exploded, red matter striking the cabin wall. I raised my gun, dropping into a kneeling position, but Paul reversed the pistol and put the end of the barrel in his mouth. At the same time he pulled the trigger, the glass from one of the small windows shattered and Bloch’s shot took him high in the left shoulder, knocking him flat onto the bed. I leapt forward, but I was too late for Caldwell, too late for Paul. Bloch’s shot would’ve stopped him, but it had come too late, as well. The two bodies slumped, coming to rest side by side on the cabin bed, like characters from a Greek tragedy. Footsteps pounded on the deck above, then Bloch appeared in the doorway a second later, his face distraught. He looked at the bed, then at me, a question forming.
With the stink of cordite filling my nose, the sound of the shots still ringing in my ears, I shook my head and put the gun away.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Paul’s funeral was held at Quantico National Cemetery. I didn’t know all the intricacies of whether a felony murder compromised an honorable discharge. But Bloch talked to someone who talked to someone else and by the Friday following the shootout at Caldwell’s boat, I was standing a few rows back from a casket with a flag draped across it. I had skipped the church service, not wanting to intrude, but felt compelled to go to the gravesite. Libney Garcia was near the edge of the grave, leaning on the arm of an older woman, as they lowered the casket into the hole. She was a husk of a person, looking stunned and uncomprehending. I could only imagine how inconceivable it must seem that her son should survive four years in Iraq and die at home within a few months of her husband.
Amanda was to my left, Bloch to my right. I caught sight of Chuck Rhee standing towards the back, looking slick and modern in a designer suit and wrap-around shades. I nodded to him, he nodded back. About ten or twelve guys from Paul’s former Marine outfit were there, some in uniform, others dressed as civilians. They were somber, straight-backed, standing close together in solidarity. Besides Bloch and Rhee, there were no police officers, no reps from MPDC. An honor guard stood well off to one side, staring into the distance, their rifles held at their sides.
The service finished quickly. The guns were fired, the tri-corner flag was given to the mother, and a bugler played "Taps" from beyond the honor guard. The small crowd began to break apart. Bloch hurried over to speak to Libney, but her face was blank and she shrugged off his condolences. The elderly woman put an arm around her shoulders and turned her away from Bloch. He returned to where I was standing, his expression pinched.
“I tried,” he said.
“You did. But you can’t really blame her. A husband, a son, two friends. Or former friends. All gone.”
He watched them walk away. “I didn’t predict a happy ending, but this…this has been horrific.”
I grabbed his arm. There was a note in his voice I didn’t like. “
This isn’t on you, okay? You did the best you could when no one else was doing anything. Maybe it ended up in the can, but we didn’t put it there.”
“Yeah,” he said, but sounded unconvinced. He shook his head, then turned to look at us. “You heading back?”
I nodded. “Maybe a stopover for a drink or a coffee. Want to join us?”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I have to think about this some more.”
He shook my hand, nodded to Amanda, and walked toward the entrance to the cemetery. Rhee was already gone. I gave Bloch a head start, then went the same way, Amanda next to me. We picked our path around wilting flowers and headstones.
“I’m sorry about all this, Marty,” she said after a moment.
“Me, too,” I said. “I’d call it a waste, but that wouldn’t even begin to cover it.”
“What happens now? Legally, I mean.”
“Who knows. There’s no one left to prosecute,” I said. “A bunch of cases, old and new, get closed. Arlington PD won’t be too happy to have Torres’s dirty laundry aired in public, but they’ll be able to balance that out with the fact that two members of a notorious gang are off the streets.”
“While avoiding any mention that they were shot and killed in the process.”
“Well, sure,” I said. “It just wasn’t their process.”
“What will happen to Bloch?”
I snorted. “He should be promoted. And he’ll get public claps on the back, but internally he’ll be a black sheep. Independent thinkers make the higher-ups nervous. They like the results, just not the methods."
"Like pulling in former cops to do all the legwork?”
"Something like that."
She nodded and we walked along a little further. The mid-May sun was hidden behind a raft of clouds, limning everything in dull gray. A cool, ugly day for a funeral. It matched my mood.
Amanda cleared her throat and said, “I got a funny phone call the other day.”
“Yeah?”
“I guess your oncologist’s office had kept my number as a backup contact. Someone must’ve mixed up the primary contact with me.”
“Oh,” I said, swallowing.
I could feel her eyes on me. “And they asked me what time they thought they could schedule your surgical procedure.”
We took a few steps. “Yeah, well. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t want you to get worried with everything that’s going on, with your job hunt and all. Plus this thing with Bloch.”
“Uh huh,” she said. “Want to tell me now?”
So I did. It felt good to talk it out and I realized that, if I’d been half as smart as I thought I was, I would’ve told her about the surgery as soon as I’d known. She asked sharp questions and said just the right things. We reached the cemetery parking lot and got in my car.
“When’s the surgery?” she asked.
“As soon as I can schedule it.”
“And who’s going to feed Pierre while you’re in the hospital?”
I opened my mouth, closed it. In typical Marty Singer fashion, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I realized I would’ve asked Amanda, but there was a good chance she wouldn’t be here. “I…don’t know. I guess I’ll have to find someone.”
She smiled. “No, you won’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Austin and Chicago called back with offers, but the money was insanely bad. I mean, I never expected to get rich, but I have to eat. Baltimore was a bust all around.”
“And?”
“And the clinic in DC came through. The money is enough to live on. They do wonderful work. Oh, and I hear there’s a cat that needs to be fed while his owner is recovering from a successful surgery.”
A grin split my face. A tight band across my chest that I didn’t know was there melted away. “I don’t think Pierre really has an owner.”
“We’ll see about that,” she said with a grin of her own, then put her hand out. I reached over, wrapped my hand around hers, and squeezed. We drove out of the cemetery and into the day.
Acknowledgements
I found many sources of inspiration, help, and education along the way to finishing Blueblood.
The continued love and support from my wife Renee makes the whole writing endeavor possible. Blueblood, as does all my writing, owes its existence to her.
Friends and family have been my unflagging cheerleaders and helpers. Sally Iden, Gary Iden, Kris Iden, Frank Gallivan, Carie Rothenbacher, Jeff Ziskind, Amy and Pete Talbot, David Jacobstein, and Eleonora Ibrani were all sounding boards, unstinting supporters, and readers throughout the birth of Blueblood. Karen Cantwell has been a wonderful colleague to work with throughout my nascent self-publishing career, never failing to give advice, pitch in on tough issues, or lend her experience.
Many thanks to Chip Cochran for sharing with me his expertise in law enforcement. His knowledge was critical in finishing the book. Any inaccuracies in a legal or law enforcement context are mine—though sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.
Officer Chuck Gallagher of the Foxboro, Massachusetts Police Department was kind enough to give his permission to use the wonderful photograph of the inaugural MPDC badge that graces the cover of Blueblood. Chuck is also an encyclopedic font of knowledge on all things about the history of the MPDC. Learn more—and view his stunning collection of MPDC memorabilia—at his site, www.dcmetropolicecollector.com.
My editors Alison Dasho (née Janssen) and Michael Mandarano cleaned up what I thought was a brilliant first draft and have been invaluable in the process of making me a better writer. Alison and Michael, thank you.
Ambush Alley: The Most Extraordinary Battle of the Iraq War by Tim Pritchard was of great help in filling out Paul Garcia's battle experience, though the names and places have been altered. Samuel Logan's This Is for the Mara Salvatrucha: Inside the MS-13, America's Most Violent Gang was of enormous aid in dissecting Salvadoran gang violence in the U.S. and the circumstances that lead to it.
Finally, thank you to all the men and women who serve in law enforcement and in our military. In valor there is hope.
Author's Note
DC residents will recognize that I took liberties in describing some of the geography of the Metro area. Marty's oddball discovery of the buried boundary stone marking the border of Washington DC, however, is true--though my description of the Blue Plains impoundment lot is entirely fabricated. Read about the extraordinary journey of the SE8 boundary stone at www.boundarystones.org.
The theories behind Jake Valenti's extemporaneous criminology lecture on the steps of the 7th Street Portrait Gallery in Chapter Twenty-Two are my own creation.
The National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial is a very real place of serenity and power. Located at the center of the 400 block of E Street, NW, Washington, DC, it is well worth your time to visit. Learn more at www.nleomf.org.
Thank you for reading Blueblood.
I hope you've enjoyed what you've read. Please let me know what you think at [email protected], my FaceBook page, or Tweet me @CrimeRighter. I also enjoy connecting with readers and writers at my website at matthew-iden.com.
Independent writers can only survive and flourish with the help of readers. If you like what you've read, please consider reviewing Blueblood at your favorite readers' website.
If crime fiction is your thing, please check out my collection of short stories, one bad twelve (details below). And keep an eye out for the third Marty Singer novel, Signs, coming in Autumn/Winter 2012. An excerpt follows.
I also write fantasy and horror: check out my fantasy shorts Sword of Kings, Assassin, and Seven Into the Bleak (links below). My literary horror novella, Finding Emma, is available in most digital formats.
Signs
Chapter One
The billboard was colossal and would've gotten my attention, if only for a brief second, no matter what had been on it. The rolling hills and horse farms along Route 29 are picturesque and cute enough for a post card,
but they go on and on and on. Anything that breaks up the monotony will catch the eye, and a sign fifty feet wide and twenty feet high—in the middle of nowhere—qualified.
But it was what was on the sign that caused me to look at twice, three times, swear out loud, and unconsciously drift into the lane next to me. The semi to my right laid on his air horn to let me know what he thought of my driving and I twitched the wheel to the left to get out of his way. We zipped past the sign at sixty. It was another mile before I found a good place for a U-turn, which I did cautiously, and raced back to the billboard. A second tentative U-turn got me in front of the sign and I pulled over at the base of the enormous metal pillar it was on. I had to hunch forward in the driver's seat and lean over the steering wheel to see the whole thing.
It was the picture of a white man, slim, forty-something, with dirty blonde hair, a beard, and thick glasses. He had deep crows feet around the eyes and the beard was patchy in places, as though he'd trimmed it in the dark. His eyes were a deep brown. His mouth was open and his eyebrows slightly raised, making him look a tad surprised, as though the picture had been taken just as he'd turned around. Next to the picture was some text. It said:
JD HOPE WAS MURDERED ON MAY 6TH. DO YOU KNOW WHY?
Underneath the small bit of text was a phone number and nothing else. Out of habit, I grabbed a small notebook from the glove compartment and wrote the number down. I scribbled "JD HOPE" beneath it and underlined the name twice. I stared at it, only vaguely aware of the traffic hurtling past me, buffeting my car and making it rock.