by Marc Rainer
It was just a few months ago. That mutilated gangbanger's body dumped right there in the middle of the night. In front of an FBI office, for Christ's sake. Salvadoran gang warfare in our capital city. Maybe I should go back for the weapons. He shook his head as if to banish the memory. Your antennae are working overtime today. He looked left and right—not just for traffic, but for anything out of the ordinary—a face, a parked car, someone waiting just a bit too long in one spot. He felt his left hand start to quiver again. He shoved it into his pants pocket and crossed the street.
The Gang Squad conference room of the Washington Field Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was full of familiar faces as Trask walked in. Detectives Dixon Carter and Tim Wisniewski, federally deputized officers of the Metropolitan Police serving as FBI task force officers or "TFOs," had joined Doroz and Lynn at the large table in the center of the room. They had left the chair at the head of the table for him. He bypassed it and sat in a vacant seat beside Lynn, across from Carter.
"So what's the new plan?" Barry Doroz asked. "I think we've about beat this dead horse into dog food. No clues, no evidence. Lynn dumped the phone you got from the senator, and we ran down every contact in the thing. Nothing but air-tight alibis and straight shooters. Dead ends."
"I can't disagree with that," Trask replied.
"Why are we here then, Jeff?" Dixon Carter's deep baritone took Trask back to a night a couple of years earlier, when he'd first heard that voice. Night papering in Superior Court. Dix and Juan Ramirez, rest his soul, bringing in a dope dealer. Another cop had been in line in front of them. A disco tune started playing in his head. "I Love the Nightlife."Alicia Bridges, a former hooker turned diva. He smiled and looked back at Carter.
"Hammer," Trask said.
Carter looked puzzled for only a second, then the light went on, and he nodded. "Just might work. Can't hurt."
"Screwdriver," Lynn said. "What the hell are you two talking about? Some secret guy tool code thing?"
"Hammer is the nickname for Detective Gordon Hamilton, our resident expert in the District's vice trade," Carter explained. "Your husband met him the same night he met me. He knows every hooker in DC, their habits, pimps—"
"And addictions. I get it." Doroz was nodding in agreement. "That includes heroin."
"Exactly," Trask said. "Our dead junkie can't tell us anything, and neither could her very expensive apartment, so let's find some live junkies and see if we might stumble across a mutual supply line."
"L-O-O-O-O-N-G shot, don't you think?" Wisniewski was skeptical. "Senator's daughters and streetwalkers don't normally hang together."
"It certainly is a long shot, Tim," Trask admitted. "But worst-case scenario, we might make some good heroin busts, and if we get lucky, we throw the cuffs on someone who sings. For all we know, little miss senator's princess could have been hitting the hood to get her fixes, and one of the working girls could have been making some money on the side, ordering double doses and selling one at twice the going rate. If Janie Heidelberg was new to the game, she wouldn't have known the difference, and God knows she could pay whatever the asking price was."
"Long shots are our specialty," Doroz said. "Dix, make some calls in your department and see if Detective Hamilton wouldn't mind being deputized for a month or two."
"I'll make the calls," Carter said, "but what happens if he says no? Hammer likes his gig, for some strange reason. He's done it for years, and he might not want to give it up."
"Tell him it should be temporary, Dix," Trask responded. "In the event that your legendary powers of persuasion fail us, I'll make some calls to Senator Heidelberg, and he'll make some calls—"
"And I've got the picture," Carter nodded. "Hammer will be here tomorrow."
Tampico Naval Air Station
Tamaulipas, Mexico
7:15 p.m.
"It's been a hell of a week, my love," Aguilar said, shifting the phone to his left hand as he warmed his dinner in the microwave. "We got Cárdenas Guillen in Matamoros. He was one of the heads of the Gulf Cartel. It was a battle. Fifty of his gunmen joined him in the morgue."
"Oh my God!" Linda's voice was shaking. "Are you alright, Luis? Were you hit?"
"Just a scratch, nothing more." Aguilar looked down at the bandage on his right forearm. "The day before the fight, we found eight beheaded corpses in Ciudad Mante. That was probably Cárdenas Guillen's handiwork. There was a poster nearby claiming credit for the Gulf Cartel and saying the same would happen to anyone supporting Los Zetas. The old Gulf bosses keep trying to reclaim what the Zetas took from them. They don't have the men to do the job, and keep losing ground. At any rate, those Gulf bastards in Matamoros won't be swinging their machetes anymore."
"I worry about you so much, Luis." Her voice was cracking, and she took a moment to steady herself. "Is this the end of the Gulf Cartel, anyway?"
Aguilar paused. He couldn't lie to her. "Not yet. They executed one of the mayors in a town near the border yesterday for supporting Los Zetas. We expect retaliations from Lazcano's traitors now. They'll kill any Gulf survivors that we missed, and then we'll track the Zetas."
"How long, Luis? How long until they kill you, too? Am I going to read a letter from one of your men saying you've been decapitated? Are they going to leave me anything to bury, if I can even find your body? Come across the border and live with me. You've done enough—all you can—and the killing just keeps getting worse. Please, Luis."
"We've been through this, Linda. After the elections we'll weigh the options. Until then, I promise I'll be as careful as I can, but I cannot desert my marines. You be careful, too. Good night. I love you."
He waited for her reply, but heard only a dial tone.
Waldorf, Maryland
November 12, 2010, 3:15 p.m.
Trask took 301 North out of Waldorf toward Brandywine until he reached Surratt's Road. He'd left work early, gone home and changed into his shooting clothes. It was Friday, the day he'd picked to meet the periodic requirement to qualify. If he wanted to keep carrying the weapon, he had to prove he could use it correctly. He made the first left onto Dangerfield Road. At a stop sign he took another right, and another turn took him to the main gate of the Cheltenham Federal Law Enforcement Training Center, FLETC or "fletcee" for short. The US Marshals' firing range was in the back.
He pulled his range satchel from the passenger floor board with his right hand, then froze. His left hand was shaking again. The Cars' "Shake it Up" started playing in his head. Not funny. Knock it off. He waited to see if the tremors were going to pass, then shook his head. No such luck. He grabbed the bag again and headed into the facility. Glad I loaded the magazines before I left. That would be a show with the shakes—rounds falling all over the place as I try to squeeze them into the clips.
He recognized the deputy on duty. Shane Lightsey. Good man. Agreeable sort. Maybe I can pull this off.
"Afternoon, Shane."
"Jeff. That time again?"
"Yeah. Mind if I try something a little different today?"
"What did you have in mind?"
"Some tactical barrier, one hand stuff. I haven't tried that yet. Everything up to now has been Weaver stance, two hands."
"Sure, long as you hit the silhouette. Go for it."
Trask grabbed one of the paper targets—an outline of some thuggy-look-ing character. He hung the target, and started firing with his right hand from the various prescribed distances. He hid his left behind him, securing it by gripping it tightly with his thumb behind the belt. Twenty minutes later he returned the target to Lightsey, who raised his eyebrows at the holes scattered all over the target.
"Not your usual tight pattern, Jeff, but you didn't miss him. You're qualified again."
"You guys are all obsessed with heart shots," Trask said. "I wanted to work on all the organs today."
Lightsey laughed. "I think you got 'em all. Yep. Both lungs, gut, liver, spleen, kidneys. Good shooting, I guess. Want to try the left
hand today?"
"Not today, got an appointment. Maybe next time."
"See you then."
Trask checked his watch when he was back in the Jeep. Just after four. Maybe I can get in before the rush. He headed back toward Waldorf.
The sign at The Beverly still said 'Closed,' but he saw Willie's Honda parked in the back. He knocked, and the door to the bar opened.
"Sign says open at five, sir," Sivella said, straight-faced.
"Sorry, guess I'll come back later." Trask did his own best deadpan.
Sivella grinned. "Always open for you. Get your ass in here."
Trask sat at the bar while Willie poured him a beer in a frosted mug.
"It was a Michelob Ultra, right?"
"You'll do well here, Willie. Spot on, and I only had a couple when I was here last."
"Part of the new gig. Faces, license plates, names, times—I used to file those away pretty well. Now it's customers and drinks. Not that hard." Trask held the mug up in a mock toast. Sivella winked back at him. "What's wrong, Jeff?"
Trask sighed. "You're still on the job, Willie."
"Memory work is one skill that translates to this job from the old one. Amateur shrink is another one, and you know as well as I do that none of us in this business ever want to have to see a real one. The paper trail gets messy for clearances."
"Exactly," Trask said. He held up his left hand above the bar. It was still shaking.
"Um-hmmm." Sivella nodded. "I'm not surprised."
"You're not? Explain that, please."
"Just lie back on that couch, young man, and let Dr. Willie go through this with you. It's not my first contact with this type of case. You're lucky you're right-handed."
"Yeah, I know. I had to shoot today. Just used the right. I told the deputy at Fletcee I wanted to fire tactical."
"How'd that go?"
"I got by," Trask said. "Still licensed to carry."
"All you guys should be," Sivella said. "I think about Bob Lassiter every day. If he'd been armed, it wouldn't have made any difference, of course. Sniper shot. But I think it makes you more aware of your surroundings in general when you're armed, wouldn't you agree?"
"I do, and I am."
"Thought so. Let's get back to your hand there. When did that start?"
"The day Eastman handed the Heidelberg mess to me."
Sivella nodded. "Figures."
"Damn it, Willie, why is that?"
"This session is free, Jeff—and so is that beer, by the way. Think of it as 'very happy hour.' So don't interrupt the therapist. You'll live, I promise."
Trask sighed and rested his arms on the bar.
"Bob Lassiter's gone, and his deputy—was it Bill Patrick? Retired now?"
"Yeah."
"So you're the big dog now. You're your own boss, except for the politibrat?"
Trask smiled. That's what Lassiter and Patrick used to call all the US Attorneys. "Ross Eastman, Willie. You know that."
"I know. And I know he's just a figurehead, and leaves things up to you case-wise, right?"
"I'm not so sure this time."
"Again, it figures. Pressure from big-shot senator to Eastman to you, and you've got no buffer or Buddha like Patrick or Lassiter to screen the shit flowing downhill."
"True, but—"
"But you think you're used to that, and you might be, under more normal conditions." Sivella took the mug sitting in front of Trask. "Let me top that off for you."
"I'm used to pressure, Willie, even the political nonsense."
"You've still always had a shit screen protecting your head, Jeff. Eastman had done that himself a couple of times, as I recall."
"He has."
"How about now?"
"Not so much."
"My point exactly," Sivella said. He reached across the bar and gave Trask a fatherly pat on the shoulder. "What position did you play in baseball?"
"Catcher."
"Football?"
"I was small, started late. Some linebacker later. Mostly safety."
"Other sports?"
"Water polo at the Academy. Intramurals. Goalie."
"See the pattern?"
"Not really."
"Come on, Jeff. You're smarter than this. I'll spell it out for you. You're used to having everything in front of you, being the last line of defense. You play the same role in your job—the last guy between society and the perps in court. I used to tell the guys on your cases that they better have everything fleshed out because if they didn't, you'd embarrass them and do it yourself. You're not comfortable when there are variables you can't see, questions you can't answer, and now the pressure is coming from a higher plane that you sure as hell can't control. You're one of the best prosecutors I've ever seen—maybe the best—but you're not going to be any match for Hugh freakin' Heidelberg if you try to tangle with him on his turf."
"What do you suggest?"
"Get him off his playing field and onto yours."
"As a victim's father? He's not even a witness to anything that I know of."
"Not yet. There's a connection somewhere. You'll find it. Just stay in your game. Don't play his." Sivella paused for a moment. "You were a catcher. What would you tell your pitcher if he was overthrowing and trying to win a game all by himself?"
Trask smiled. "You know the speech: 'You have seven guys behind you who'll be glad to help if you let them; pitch to contact and let 'em play some defense.'"
"Exactly. You have a team of some damn fine ferrets who're trying to help you figure things out here. Doroz, Carter, Wisniewski, that wife of yours. Stop trying to win the game by yourself. Now finish your beer and get out of here. My paying customers will be coming in soon."
Washington, D.C.
9:38 p.m.
Detective Gordon Hamilton slowed his car as he approached the intersection of K Street and 11 Street NW. "The track," as it had always been known to him while working Vice, had migrated a bit from time to time, as the pimps and prostitutes flowed like water toward the points of least resistance through the District. Thomas Circle was usually ripe for an arrest or two. A block to the southeast, the 1100 block of 13th Street had been easy pickings for a while, at least until the Washington Bureau of the Associated Press had gotten the department brass to declare the block a "prostitution-free zone," and had turned up the heat so that the ace investigative reporters from the AP weren't subjected to risqué sights and sounds that were somehow just too much for them.
K Street, unlike the other areas, never seemed to change. When he first hit the force, Hamilton heard old-timers talking about the hookers on K Street in the late seventies. "Two on every meter, knocking each other out of the way anytime a potential 'date' rolled down his car window." He was glad some things were constant, and he was even happier when he spotted her in her usual spot, a little south of the corner, away from the other girls in their ridiculously short skirts barely flashing a hemline out from under their winter coats.
He had arrested her five or six times over the years. She'd been able to provide information for money on several other occasions. She kept her ear to the ground, and knew which pimp was getting too violent, which girls might be spreading AIDS. She was also a seasoned pro, and knew that the separation from the crowd on the corner gave her the best shot at a first approach to a slowing car. He pulled to the curb, and hit the button to drop the passenger side window. He leaned to his left, into the driver's door and away from the curb, knowing that she'd have to stick her head into the vehicle before she could recognize him.
"Hey baby, you need—aw shit, Hammer." Her come-on smile turned to a distressed frown immediately. "Why you got to sneak up on a girl like this?"
"Get in, Bootsy. I'm not arresting you tonight. Just need some info, and I'll pay your going rate. We'll just drive, and I'll bring you back in a bit." He held up three twenties. He knew it was probably more than her usual fee, but flattered her with the offer. She climbed in and shut the door.
"You know I'm worth more than this," she said, stuffing the cash into her bra.
"I'm sure you are, baby, but that's what the G gave me to spend tonight."
"The G? You mean the city?"
"No, I mean the big G—the federal government. I'm working with them for a while."
"What do the feds care about workin' girls?"
"Believe it or not, some of us in law enforcement care about all our citizens, so buckle your seat belt. I was lookin' for you to find out if any of the other girls are having any new problems." He pulled away from the curb, back into the flow of traffic.
She scowled as she buckled the belt. "Hammer, you been workin' Vice for as long as I been on the track. You know our problems. Mean johns, bad pimps, cops like you bustin' us twice a month, and dates who don't pay. Ain't nuthin' new in the oldest profession."
"I'm not exactly askin' about your work, Boots. Anybody gettin' any bad dope? Girls gettin' sick?"
"Gettin' sick, no. Droppin' dead, a few. The ones doin' smack, anyway. There's some new white shit out lately. Strong shit. Some of the new girls hittin' it for the first time hit it too hard, and they don't wake up. Even a couple of the older girls done gone to the morgue. Guess they took their regular dose, and it wasn't really regular."
"Any idea who's been pushin' it out?"
"No. You know me, Hammer. I'm a weed girl. I only hit the crack pipe once or twice, and I didn't like it much. I like my herb. Hate needles. Smack scares me."
"It should, Bootsy."
"Yeah. And it does. I'll keep my eyes on it, though. Call ya at the same number if I hear anything? Same money as this time?"
"Same number, and the same money. I told you. It's the G." He made another right turn and pulled to the curb at the same spot where he'd picked her up. "Short enough date?"
She giggled. "Yeah, anytime you want it for real, you know where to find me, baby."
He held up his left hand and pointed to his wedding ring. "Thanks anyway, Boots. Be careful, now."