by Marc Rainer
On the return trips, he wrapped the money in the same fashion that he'd wrapped the heroin, and recovered it with fresh meat, as required. The basic plan was, of course, not to get stopped at all. He didn't drive too fast or too slow, opting for the tried and true 'five over' rule to avoid suspicion. So far it had worked. So far.
He passed a Maryland State Trooper hiding in a cut on the median and looked down at his speedometer. Fifty-nine in a fifty-five. Perfect. He checked anyway, just a peek at the side mirror. He's still there. I'm good.
FBI Field Office
Washington, D.C.
July 18, 2011, 9:10 a.m.
"His name is Tommy Harris," Carter said, leaning forward on the table. He pushed out copies of a stack of papers, a booking photo on top of a rap sheet. "Several priors, all related to being what he is—a pimp. Hammer's brought him in at least three times, usually for getting rough with one of his girls. I've had to interview him on a couple of homicides. He wasn't good for either one. One of the dead girls was a victim of our old friend Demetrius Reid, the Jamaican that Jeff took out in the courtroom."
"He took himself out. I just ducked," Trask said. "No drug convictions, Dix?"
"No. Just assaults and pandering."
Trask looked puzzled. "Dix, as you said, it would be bad for business for a pimp to be giving this crud to his own girls, reducing his stable. I think your words were 'bad for cash flow.'"
"I did say that."
"What if Harris isn't giving the dope to his own girls, but to his competition? You know, girls working for the other pimps on the track?" Rhodes asked. She saw the faces turned and staring at her. "Just a thought."
"And a good one," Doroz said. "We need to consider all possibilities."
"Sure was," Trask nodded. "No priors for dope, though? Nuts. That's going to limit our leverage a little. We'll drop from mandatory life under the statute to a twenty-year mandatory and whatever additional time the judge wants to throw at him. Of course, if we can put more than one death on him, we can try stacking the sentences. Still, a good lead and my mistake. Since Hammer had seen Briggs' truck on the track, I'd assumed Briggs was muling the stuff straight from Adipietro's racquet club to the working girls. I didn't stop to think there might be another level in the delivery chain."
"None of us did," Doroz said. "Nice work, Dix."
"I just had a thought," Trask looked down at the table, then reached for his cell phone. He hit an icon and waited for the phone to ring at the other end. "Kathy? Jeff Trask. Do you have the tox results back yet on our latest hooker OD? You do? How do they compare to the other victims? Yeah, that's significant. Do you have a last address for the latest girl? Thanks very much." He ended the call.
"I'm afraid my hunch was right," Trask said. "The first OD cases were all months ago, and while there was a significant amount of dope in the victims' bloodstreams—certainly enough to kill them—those deaths all appear to have been accidental. Those girls were all living in Adipietro's building, too."
Trask looked at Randi. "Your idea is one we need to consider, and it's still a possibility we'll need to follow up on it; we never want to have tunnel vision. The other possibility is this. The new, strong heroin hits town, and lots of working girls like their heroin. The initial deaths are just the result of junkies shooting stronger dope than they were used to using. There's no reason for Tommy Harris to be killing his own hookers, or for Adipietro to be whacking his own tenants."
"The latest one is different?" Carter asked.
"Yeah. She didn't live in the same building, and the amount of dope in her bloodstream was massive. Ten times what Kathy saw in the other dead girls."
"That makes it either a suicide or a hot shot," Wisniewski offered.
"Hot shot?" Randi asked.
"An intentionally fatal dose administered by someone other than the user," Carter explained. "Murder by overdose. I'll call Hammer and put him on that."
"Good idea again, Dix," Doroz said. "Any other thoughts?"
"If the only time Briggs is holding the dope is on the short trip between the racquet club and Harris' place, that's when we have to hit him," Trask said. "If he's actually doing some real work for Adipietro at the club, we can't assume that every time he leaves the joint, he'll be carrying. If we stop him and he's not holding anything, we blow it."
"So wait until he pulls up in front of Harris' house and then call a dope dog?" Wisniewski asked.
"We could do that, Tim, but then we might lose the case on Harris," Doroz said.
"Even if we rolled in after seeing Harris walk outside and take a package from Briggs' hands, we wouldn't be able to link him directly to the overdose deaths," Trask observed. "It's just heroin possession at that point, and no witness is saying that any of the victims got the stuff from Harris. At least not yet."
"We could have Hammer start looking at Harris real hard," Carter said. "He wouldn't have to make it look like anything out of the ordinary, or even tied to the dope. It's what Hammer does every day—I mean night."
"That's worth a shot," Trask said. "Let's try to make that happen yesterday. See if Hamilton can work us up a new source, if necessary. Maybe one of Harris' girls."
"We'll wake him up this afternoon," Doroz said. "Hammer is back on the squad for a while."
Tampico Naval Air Station
Tamaulipas, Mexico
August 4, 2011, 10:00 a.m.
Aguilar and Torres watched the little television monitor in Aguilar's office as the Mexican Secretariat of National Defense in Mexico City announced the continuation of Operación Lince Norté, a national initiative targeting Los Zetas. The speaker at the podium was trumpeting the seizure in recent weeks of more than 500,000 pesos, and the fact that more than thirty Zeta gunmen had been killed.
"Half a million out of a billion, and thirty out of a thousand or more," Aguilar said. "Drops in the bucket. Still, the politicians need to claim our successes, and the people need to have hope."
South of Nuevo Laredo
Tamaulipas, Mexico
Lazcano and Dominguez sat watching the same broadcast on a sixty-inch plasma set in Lazcano's office.
"You would think we were on the ropes and about to surrender." Lazcano rose from his chair and paced around the room. "We need some victories, Ramón. Something significant enough to prevent any doubt in the population that we are invincible. These little setbacks like the one in Zacatecas cannot be allowed to become propaganda tools for Calderón and his marines."
"I understand," Domínguez said. "We are stepping up our training. More rigorous, more structured drills. We have fewer and fewer real Zetas, Lazca. Those like you and me who were trained before we became Zetas are slowly disap-pearing—dead or captured. The new men are not as disciplined, not as brave. We had that bastard Aguilar surrounded in Fresnillo, but our men ran at the first sign of trouble. I had to shoot a couple myself when they would not stand and fight as we ordered."
"It was a good plan, and you are not to blame for its failure, my friend. We need another operation. Hand pick your men this time. Choose those you can trust to behave well in combat." Lazcano nodded toward the television screen. "We will make these stupid politicians eat their words."
Tampico Naval Air Station
Tamaulipas, Mexico
August 8, 2011, 3:49 p.m.
"I have three missing, Major. They were not at roll call this morning and there is still no sign of them."
"Who are they, Torres?" Aguilar looked up from his reports.
"Lozano, Gonzalez and Machado, sir."
Aguilar frowned. "Two of the men are new. I don't know them well enough yet to say that they would have never deserted. Corporal Machado has been with us for three years now. The Zetas killed his brother. He would never join them. Something is wrong, Torres."
A sergeant stood in the doorway, waiting for Aguilar to finish speaking. Aguilar noticed him and raised an eyebrow.
"Sorry to disturb you, sir. I think you should turn on your television. There is a disturb
ing report from Veracruz."
Aguilar grabbed the remote, and the little screen came to life. A pretty little news anchor was introducing a video transmission she claimed had been sent to her station by Los Zetas. There were the usual warnings that what was to be shown on the video that followed could be disturbing. For once, they were accurate.
The video showed the faces of four bound captives sitting on the floor of what appeared to be a warehouse somewhere. Aguilar recognized the faces of his three missing marines. The new men appeared to be terrified; Machado's face was one of defiant rage, and shows signs that he'd been beaten.
There was no sound on the video. After focusing on the captured men's faces for several seconds, the camera panned up to a narcomanta hanging on the wall behind and above them. The sign listed the captives by name and rank. Aguilar's men were all named, and the fourth prisoner was identified as a naval cadet. The sign indicated that the men would be executed unless all property seized from the Zetas during the past thirty days was returned, and all Zetas held in federal prisons were released. The camera left the sign and returned to the captives, panning slowly across their faces from left to right. As the camera left the face of the last man, there was a flash of light from the right of the screen.
"Did you see that, Torres?" Aguilar asked. "The open door to the right at the end? I saw water and a dock. I know that spot in Veracruz. We can be there in hours. Assemble the men and notify the helicopter crews. I will not desert our men as long as they are drawing breath."
Torres ran from the office. Aguilar began changing to his battle uniform. He was interrupted by the chirp of the cell phone he had just unclipped from his belt.
"Yes, my friend? Do you know the place where they are being held? Have they been moved?"
"I am very sorry, Major. You cannot save them."
"Why not? I know that place. We can—"
"You cannot save them, sir. They are already dead. I have seen their bodies. It is a trap. The open door to the water was shown hoping your company would fly down and try to rescue them. The Zetas have hand-held surface-to-air missiles, sir. They are waiting on your helicopters. More marines would die. I have to go, Major."
The phone went dead. Aguilar threw it onto the desk and sank back into his chair, staring at the ceiling.
Torres appeared in the doorway, a confused look on his face. "We can be airborne in twenty minutes, sir."
"Cancel the mission. They are beyond rescue now."
Torres nodded and closed the door.
Aguilar closed his eyes and began mentally drafting the first letter. "Dear Señora Machado, It is with the heaviest of hearts that I must inform you of the death of your husband…"
Washington, D.C.
August 11, 2011, 11:20 p.m.
Detective Gordon Hamilton pulled to the curb. She was waiting at her usual spot on the track. There was no game this time, as she knew the car by now. She opened the passenger door and got in without hesitation, eager to make more than her usual fee for far less than the usual effort.
"Hey, baby," Bootsy said. "You're getting to be my new favorite regular, you know."
"Happy to help," Hamilton said, passing her the money. He pulled away from the curb. "What can you tell me about Tommy Harris, Boots?"
"He's a pimp, Hammer, you know that."
"I know what I know, Boots, and I'm not stupid enough to think that I know more than I know. What I need to know now is what you know about any connection between Tommy and any of the dead girls."
"Okay. Easy enough. At least three of the first four girls that OD'd were workin' for him. I don't know about that Misty girl, but she was livin' in the same apartments as the other three."
"Did you ever find out who that double date john was that Misty saw the night she died? Ever talk to your friend about that? The one who did the double with Misty?"
"No."
"Think she'd be willing to talk about it now if you asked her?"
"No."
Hamilton looked at her and shook his head. "You ain't really earning your money tonight, Boots."
"I can't talk to her anymore, Hammer. She's dead."
Hamilton pulled into a fast food restaurant parking lot and turned the car's engine off. He turned to face her. "What happened to her?"
"I'm not sure, Hammer. I just know they came and carried her body out of her apartment, and she was all sealed up in one of them body bags. I tried to ask some of your cops on the scene what happened to her, but they wouldn't tell me nuthin'."
"When did that happen, Boots?"
"My birthday. June 23rd. Wasn't a very good birthday. She was as good a friend as I got out here."
"What was her name, Boots? Nobody can hurt her anymore."
"You knew her, Hammer. Her street name was Tiffany. She liked to wear her hair red, with extensions. Pretty thing, or at least she used to be before she hit the track. Her real name was Carol Freeman."
"Yeah, I remember her." Hamilton pulled out a notebook from his pocket and flipped the pages. "Was she into any particular kind of dope?"
"She was just into weed, Hammer, like me. That's one of the reasons we was close. A lot of the other girls didn't really trust you if you didn't smoke their shit with 'em, know what I'm sayin'?"
"Yeah, I know." Hamilton found the entry in the notebook. It was the one he thought it would be—the hot shot victim. "Only she died from a heroin overdose, Boots. That's what the blood work said. A helluva shot, too. A lot more than a normal hit."
"That don't make no sense, Hammer. She was like me. She was scared to death of smack. Specially with all them other girls dyin' from it. It just don't make no sense."
South of Nueva Laredo
Tamaulipas, Mexico
August 17, 2011, 10:25 a.m.
"We have another problem, Ramón," Lazcano said. He tossed another steak into the tiger's cage. "I know, Felix, I haven't brought you anything really fresh lately. I was hoping for a certain marine major to entertain you, but he was a coward, and did not want to play with us."
"Some other problem with Aguilar, Lazca?" Domínguez asked as he watched the tiger devour the beef.
"No. Aguilar remains a constant problem. It's the casinos. Grupo Royale. They seem to be reneging on our agreement. We have not been paid for the last three months."
"I was told personally that the money would be paid. The casino manager in Monterrey told me that to my face," Dominguez said.
"He lied. The corporation has apparently also failed to get some government permits for remodeling, and their city closed them down for a while. I got a call from a Grupo accountant who told me their receipts were down, and they'd try to make it up to us later."
"How did you respond, Lazca?"
"How do you think I responded? I told the pig that his problems were not my concern, but that my problems were certainly his. I gave him until midnight on the 25th to make all the payments. 130,000 pesos per week, his license fee for us to allow him to operate. If he does not, we will make an example of his casino."
"Do you wish me to travel to Monterrey?"
"Not this time, Ramón. I need you here. Our old Gulf bosses are hiring soldiers now, trying to reclaim what we took from them. There will be battles to fight here. Send La Rana. I just promoted him to be our third in command, behind you and myself. Let's see if I was correct in promoting him."
FBI Field Office
Washington, D.C.
August 22, 2011, 9:17 a.m.
"Bootsy told me she wasn't aware of any connection between the Freeman girl—our last OD—and Tommy Harris, but the first three overdose cases were all Tommy's girls." Hamilton said. "She also told me that her friend wasn't into using heroin at all."
"That makes the 'hot shot' scenario even more likely," Carter said. "It's not a distribution case, it's a homicide."
"A true 'smack-down'," Wisniewski quipped.
"Jesus, Tim," Lynn said, frowning.
"Sorry, bad joke," he apologized.
; "What do we know about Harris, Dix?" Trask asked. "Aside from the fact that he's a pimp?"
"He lives alone in that brownstone. No family that I know of. He'll give his new girls what he calls 'tryouts' before he signs 'em up to his stable, likes to sample the merchandise himself. Gets 'em hooked on the money at first, then gets 'em hooked on the dope of their choice, and makes his own money off his pimp fees and the dope. Pretty soon, the girls can't afford to leave him because they're on the hook for the drugs. He's a real sweetheart."
"Where do you figure he's making the drops to his girls?" Doroz asked.
"Probably has 'em come to his car on the street," Carter said. "A quick hand-to-hand in the middle of the night. If we just see an exchange in the dark, he's all too ready to admit that he was making contact with them; he'll admit to being a pimp, but deny any knowledge of the dope. If we bust him for pandering, he's out on bond in an hour or two, and the jail at Lorton is so crowded with more serious cases, no judge is going to try and shoehorn him in there for much of a sentence."
"That means he'll have the dope in the car," Trask said. "How about this, Bear? We tail him and see if we can make a productive stop. Have Hammer make the initial arrest so it looks like just another vice stop, then run a drug dog on the car before we tow it in. We can do an inventory search of the vehicle if nothing else."
"That's the plan, then," Doroz said. "Dix, Randi, Tim, why don't you all head home now and rest up. We'll get with Hammer tonight when he gets in for his regular shift."
3:26 p.m.
Clarisse "Bootsy" Yelverton pulled the "rental" next to the curb in front of the brownstone. She had not rented the vehicle in the conventional, commercial sense of the word, but had bought time with the car by passing some of her stash of marijuana to a party driving the car. That party had "rented" it from another party for a quantity of cocaine. The danger of anyone running the plates was slim, given the fact that she wasn't going to be there long, but even if that happened, it would be very difficult to trace the car to her.