Death's White Horses: A Jeff Trask Crime Drama (Jeff Trask crime drama series Book 3)

by Marc Rainer

  The red light was flashing on Trask's phone as he entered his office. It always was. He had another voicemail.

  "Mr. Trask, this is Julia Forrest."

  Trask immediately turned back toward the door to the hall, recognizing the name of the United States Attorney's personal secretary. He paused at the door to make sure he knew the reason for the rest of the voicemail.

  "Mr. Eastman would like to see you as soon as you get in this morning."

  He was out the door before the beep signaled the ending of the message. Eastman was more of a career bureaucrat than a prosecutor. His political connections had landed him the lead job in the office, but he was a manager with integrity, and he was the boss.

  As Trask reached the outer lobby to Eastman's office, he noticed a young man in a suit waiting in a seat against the wall, busily fiddling with an electronic tablet and a smart phone at the same time. Trask hurried by, figuring that Eastman was probably entertaining interviews for a job opening somewhere in the building. There were several hundred Assistant United States Attorneys in the DC office, and turnover was high.

  Julia Forrest smiled. "They're waiting for you. Go right in."

  They, he thought. I wonder what little piece of paradise has been inflicted upon us now, and who’s bringing it to us. I only get the major problems, or the sensitive ones.

  When he cleared the doorway to the large corner office, he saw that Eastman was there, as well as a shorter, plump figure in a five-hundred-dollar suit. The visitor stepped quickly toward Trask, smiling broadly.

  "Jeff, how the hell are you?" asked Senator Sherwin Graves as he grabbed Trask's hand, then hugged him.

  "Not too bad, Digger," Trask said, smiling. "How's Georgia? Or have you seen your state in a while?" Trask looked up to see Ross Eastman shaking his head.

  "I should never be surprised with you, Jeff. How do you know—?"

  "Before I entered politics," Graves answered for Trask, "I was Jeff's assistant trial counsel—that's JAG for prosecutor—when we tried a bunch of dope dealers in some courts-martial at one of the Air Force bases in South Carolina. I learned a lot of law from this guy."

  "What brings you down off the Hill today, Senator?" Trask asked.

  "The senator has asked me," Eastman said, reminding them that he was still present and relevant, "to appoint either my best prosecutor—or you, since he has a high opinion of your abilities—to work an important and sensitive case. I told the senator that since I thought those two attorneys were one and the same, you were perfect for the assignment. Have a seat, please."

  They sat around a coffee table on the side of the office, away from Eastman's desk. The U.S. Attorney's seat of power was not appropriate for use when a political figure outranking him was in the room.

  "Did you see the papers Friday morning, Jeff?" Graves asked. He was assuming control of the meeting.

  "Sure. Anything in particular?"

  "Yes," the senator said. "The obituaries."

  "I don't usually read those," Trask said. "They remind me of my own pending mortality."

  "Had you read them, they would have informed you of the mortality of one Jane Britt Heidelberg, the daughter of one Randall Hugh Heidelberg," Graves said.

  The most powerful man in the Senate, Trask reminded himself. Ant/ a Texas oil baron.

  "What was the cause of death, and where did it happen?" Trask asked.

  Graves smiled, looking at Eastman while nodding in Trask's direction. "Same Jeff I remember and worked for. He's already on the case." The senator turned back toward Trask, a more serious look on his face. "She was found lying on her bed in the Watergate. The cause of death may have been opiate toxicity."

  Trask leaned back and looked pointedly at Graves. "'MAY HAVE BEEN' something as specific as a medical examiner's code for a heroin overdose? Come on, Digger. If you want me to play in this sandbox, you play by my rules, which happen to coincide with the federal rules of evidence and criminal procedure. Don't bullshit me. How do you politicos say it—what do you know and when did you know it?"

  "Fair enough." Graves stood and walked toward the window, then turned back and sat on the corner of Eastman's desk.

  Space and power games, Trask thought. Now HE's assuming the position of authority and speaking from a higher point. What's he up to, and what am I into?

  "The family paid for a private autopsy, hoping to keep this quiet for now," Graves said, "And—"

  "And that's a problem," Trask interrupted. "That's not the way suspicious deaths are supposed to be handled in the District. We have a real medical examiner in this town, and having a corpse whisked away to be handled off the books is not only unusual, it's not legal. There's a protocol to be followed." Graves was direct for once. "Is that a problem for you, Jeff ?" "You're damned right it is." "Now, Jeff—" Eastman began.

  "Sorry, Ross." Trask was shaking his head. "I love this job, but only if it's played straight. If this is my case, we're having the autopsy and toxicology done according to code." Trask looked at Eastman, his thoughts carving the expression on his face. I owe you, boss, but we both get murdered in the press if we take shortcuts on this one and it goes bad.

  "That means a re-examination of the girl's body!" Graves protested.

  "That's exactly what it means," Trask shot back. "Has she been buried yet?"

  "No, but the funeral's Wednesday, just two days away, and—"

  "And I know a very good assistant ME in the District office who can review the family's hand-picked pathologist's work, and the lab's toxicology results. If she can assure me that everything's kosher, she might not have to cut the kid open again. If you want me on this case, Digger, then we don't cut corners. Right now, I don't even know why you're here. If this is a run-of-the-mill overdose death, there's not normally a prosecution."

  "It's Hugh Heidelberg's daughter, Jeff. Nothing 'run-of-the-mill' about it. What about the law—which I helped sponsor a few years back—that provides enhanced penalties for the distribution of drugs that cause death for the user?"

  "You want me to find her pusher, fine. Then you tell your buddy Hugh Heidelberg that he'll get the best investigation I can give him, as long as he lets me do my job without interference and everyone involved plays by the rules, including Senator Heidelberg himself. A case like this is tough enough without having three bosses looking over your shoulder." Trask nodded toward Eastman. "One's all I can handle, and that's with one I trust." He gave Graves a hard glare. "Should I also assume that detectives were not called to her residence when the body was found?"

  Graves' expression answered the question.

  "Wonderful." Trask shook his head. "So instead of trained personnel processing what may have been a crime scene, we have—let me guess—some private investigator whose first instruction was to keep things as quiet as possible, and who may have had a secondary mission of figuring out who did what?"

  Graves nodded.

  "I'll need his name. Or hers. Whatever it is. Then we'll try and see what we can do with this little sow's ear of a case that you've dropped in our laps."

  Graves nodded again. "Okay. We'll do it your way. I've seen you work in person. I told Hugh that if anyone could get to the bottom of this, you could. I'm sure you understand that, as a father, he's crushed. Janie was all he had left after his wife died of cancer last year. What's the name of that medical examiner?"

  Trask shook his head. "No. This is a big favor I'm asking her to pull," Trask said. "I'll call her first. If she agrees to take this on, then I'll have her call the family's doc. Just get me his name."

  "Okay." The smile returned to the Senator's face. "Hey, it was great to see you again."

  Trask shook the extended hand, but did not return the smile. "You too, Digger."

  Graves nodded to Eastman and walked out, collecting the young man in the lobby as he left.

  Staffer, Trask thought. Might have known.

  "I thought you and the senator were friends!" Eastman gasped.

  "We ar
e," Trask replied. "For now."

  Five minutes later he was back in his own office, staring out the window at the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial in Judiciary Square, a tribute to those killed in the line of duty. I know people whose names are carved into that stone. I know others who almost had their names added there, my wife's and mine included.

  The Rolling Stones' "Sympathy for the Devil" started playing in his head. The songs were always there, filling the gaps in his thoughts, quieting the madness. Every case has its own script, like a movie playing out on a really huge stage. The ultimate reality show, and each episode has its own soundtrack.

  He looked down at his left hand, which was shaking involuntarily. He tried to stop the trembling by grabbing it with his other hand, but the shaking resumed with every release. His mind drifted to another Stones tune. Here comes your "Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown." Wonderful. I don't like the way this one's starting.

  Reynosa, Tamaulipas, Mexico

  February 24,2010

  "Another ghost town," Captain Aguilar muttered to himself. Deserted streets, dead bodies lining the streets, lying behind cover that was insufficient to protect them from enemy bullets. I hope most of the dead were deserving of their fates. He saw the lieutenant approaching him with a notebook, and returned the salute.

  "The survivors we could find say it was a firefight between the Zetas and what is left of the Gulf Cartel, Capitán."

  Aguilar mentally recounted the intelligence reports. The Gulf bosses hired the deserters, Los Zetas—our former special forces operators—as muscle for their fight with the Sinaloa Cartel. A few disagreements, and suddenly the muscle is the monster the Gulf could not control. Now Heriberto Lazcano and his Zetas run the drug routes the Gulf used to control, and the Gulf bosses are asking their rivals in the Sinaloa Cartel for asylum. The old bosses now work for their old enemies, the new cartels are more dangerous than the old ones, and even more civilians are caught in the crossfire.

  "Take any wounded you find to the hospital," Aguilar said. "Guard any that you suspect of being involved in the shooting, and we'll transfer them to the jails when they're fit to travel."

  Torres saluted and headed off.

  "You are next on my list, Lazcano," Aguilar said aloud, but to himself. He stood alone in the center of the street. The odors of stale gunpowder and blood mixed with the dust in the breeze.

  Hart Senate Office Building

  Washington, D.C.

  February 25, 2010, 10:35 a.m.

  "It's been over a month. I had hoped you'd have some news for me by now."

  Senator Heidelberg leaned back in the huge leather chair behind the huge mahogany desk. The old man was tall and lanky, his gray hair thinning on top but still thick and swept back along the sides. The blue-gray eyes sweeping the room were still sharp and alert. Trask sat to the right of Ross Eastman in one of three chairs facing the desk. He thought Heidelberg looked like an eagle.

  "We were hoping to have something for you, Senator," Eastman said. "I assure you that we have our best people working every aspect of the case. Jeff here is my best prosecutor, and I let him pick his investigation team on this one. That's why Mr. Doroz is here."

  "Agent Doroz is the chief of the FBI's drug and gang unit in the District," Trask explained, nodding toward the short, stocky figure seated to his right. "We've worked some major cases together, including the Demetrius Reid drug conspiracy, and the Salvadoran gang wars involving the MS-13 and the rogue hit squads that were shooting up the streets a couple of years ago. In my opinion, he's the best in the business."

  "And I can tell you, Senator, that I consider Mr. Trask to be the best in his office, and as good an investigator as he is a prosecutor," Doroz said.

  "I already know all that, and I appreciate that this little mutual admiration society has functioned well in the past," Heidelberg said, slowly measuring his words. "I'm no newcomer to this town, gentlemen, and I asked around a good bit about all of you. I know that Senator Graves—whom I trust completely—shares that high opinion of you, Mr. Trask. So why don't you tell me why you aces and experts have the square root of nothing to tell me about my daughter's death?"

  "We have to have leads to follow, Senator." Trask met the old man's hard glare with a firm one of his own. "The only prints your PI found in her apartment were your daughter's. The only usable ones, anyway. Again—according to your investigator—there were a couple of partial prints that belonged to a male, but they were, as I was saying, partial prints. Not enough to identify anyone. Even if they were traceable, they might have belonged to a friend who was in the apartment for an innocent reason."

  Heidelberg said nothing, but raised an eyebrow. Trask took the cue to continue.

  "There was a little of the heroin remaining in a pill bottle by her bed. It's a type called 'China White.' Very pure, potent, and not the usual variety we've seen in town before now. We're used to seeing dark goo called 'black-tar' and a brown powder we call 'Mexican Brown.' Both the tar and brown come from Mexico. The white stuff usually comes in from Afghanistan or some other part of Asia.

  "The heroin seems to have been self-administered. There was a print on the pill bottle, and a syringe with a print in the trash. Both the prints were your daughter's. The injection site seems to be one she picked as well."

  "I don't dispute that." Heidelberg was leaning forward over the desk now. "I realize that Janie overdosed. I've come to terms with that. I want to know where she got this poison, Mr. Trask. Who gave it to her?"

  "I was hoping you might help us with that, Senator," Trask said, still squarely matching Heidelberg's piercing gaze. "Was she seeing—dating—anyone you were aware of? Or was your PI able to determine that?"

  "You've made your point, Trask. I should have let the authorities handle it from the start." The old man leaned back, shifting his eyes toward the window. "Yes, she was dating someone, but she wouldn't share his name with me. She said she'd tell me when she thought I was ready." The eyes turned back to Trask. "I wasn't having her followed. She was an adult, with her own life. I tried to let her live it."

  Trask nodded. He remained silent, wanting to let the senator continue. Maybe a lead would float out of the old man's reflections.

  "I have her cell phone," Heidelberg said. "She left it in her car in the Watergate parking garage. Could that help?"

  "It certainly could," Trask said. "Do we have your permission to download her contacts and stored information?"

  "Of course. She would raise holy hell about it if she were still alive." The senator's gaze softened and tears appeared in the old man's eyes. "But she's not."

  Heidelberg reached into a drawer on the right side of the desk. He handed the phone to Trask, who then passed it to Doroz.

  "You'll keep me informed?" the senator asked.

  "I'm required to do so by statute," Trask said. "I believe you co-sponsored the bill. The Victim-Witness Protection Act of 1982."

  A slight smile appeared on the senator's face. "I guess I did. Never thought it would apply to me."

  1:42 p.m.

  Adipietro looked at the caller ID window, then picked up the handset of the phone on his desk. "I thought you weren't going to call for a while."

  "How can you be so calm, you son of a bitch? It was your shit that killed her."

  "It was Janie being careless that killed her, Ace. Or maybe you didn't warn her about measuring the dose like I told her. Anyhow, you gave her the shit."

  "What the hell are you talking about? It was your stuff!"

  "Yeah, that you paid for and gave to Janie. That's my story if anyone comes asking, Ace, and you know I can prove it. I suggest you do your best to make sure that doesn't happen. Anybody asking you questions yet?"

  There was an angry pause at the other end. "No."

  "Then my other suggestion is that you man up to your own role in this thing and calm the fuck down. Don't call me again." He slammed the set down in its cradle. White bread, upper crust pussies. That's the las
t time I sell to any of 'em.

  Washington, D.C.

  555 4th Street, N.W.

  February 25, 2010, 5:29 p.m.

  Trask dialed his wife's desk telephone from his own. A former field agent for the Air Force Office of Special Investigations, Lynn was now happily "double dipping," collecting a military retirement check while manning an analyst's desk on the gang squad of the Washington field office of the FBI. Supervisory Special Agent Barry Doroz was her boss.

  "Lynn Trask," she answered.

  "Her dutiful servant," he said.

  "What did you do with my husband, then?" she laughed.

  "I'm sending him home for the day. It's five-thirty, and Willie's grand opening is tonight. Command appearance."

  "I remember. I have to stop for dog food. I'll meet you there. How'd your meeting with the senator go?"

  "Edgy. Didn't Bear fill you in? He should have a cell phone for you to analyze."

  "He hasn't been back since your meeting; said he had to run some errands."

  "The senator had his daughter's phone. He said she'd left it in her car. Know any female twenty-somethings who function for five minutes without missing their cells?"

  "Can't name any. I'll see you at Willie's."

  "Be careful."

  Trask headed for the lobby and his gun locker. He unlocked it with his right hand only, keeping his left in a pants pocket. It was shaking again.

  He left the District heading southeast on the Indian Head Highway, cut north on some back roads, and merged onto Maryland 5 after most of the traffic had already exited into other townships. He would normally have turned into the St. Charles subdivision in Waldorf toward home, but he kept heading southeast until he turned into a crowded parking lot under a bright neon sign that read "The Beverly." He got out of the Jeep and examined his left hand.