by Marc Rainer
"How much time do I serve if I help you?"
"You're forty-one now. Even if you do cooperate fully, you've got so much blood on your hands that no judge in our courthouse is going to sign off on a deal for less than thirty years. Keep your nose clean on the inside and you'll serve about eighty-five percent of that. You'll at least be out by your full social security age, if there's anything left in the fund. Otherwise, you've seen your last free sunrise."
"What do you want to know?"
555 4th Street, N.W.
Washington, D.C.
September 16, 2011, 8:45 a.m.
"I hear you had a late night, Jeff. I wasn't expecting to see you in this early." Ross Eastman offered Trask a cup of coffee from the machine behind his desk. Trask took it.
"Thanks. I'll probably have several of these today."
"What's next?"
"We have a criminal complaint filed charging Adipietro with the heroin conspiracy and also a search warrant for the racquet club. According to Briggs, there are at least two more pounds of heroin in one of the lockers."
"Are we going to offer Adipietro any slack for help with the truck bomb at the convenience store?"
"That's your call. You're the boss. I'd wait and see whether he's even interested in that. He may not be. He's supposed to be old school mob."
"He'll do life if he doesn't cooperate."
"Some of them don't. If he runs something up the flagpole, we'll get the details before we sign up for anything. No promises in advance."
"Good. When do you plan on briefing Senator Heidelberg?"
"After Adipietro's in cuffs. We'll indict him in the next grand jury, we'll forfeit the club property for facilitation of drug trafficking since he used the place to stash the heroin, and I'll hit him with a substitute asset count so that we can recoup any money he made from selling that junk. Whatever amount he made, he'll owe that back to the government."
"That wraps up everything downstream to the prostitutes. What about Heidelberg's daughter and the bombing victims? Let's not forget about them."
A rueful smile crossed Trask's face. "No, let's not."
1:15 p.m.
Trask stood outside The Dome Racquet Club next to Barry Doroz.
"They're bringing him out now, Jeff." Doroz clicked a button on the radio. "I let Dix and Randi handle this one. The heroin was in the locker, right where Briggs said it would be. A full kilo."
Trask saw the side door open. Wisniewski came out first, carrying a small gym bag that Trask figured contained the heroin. Carter and Rhodes followed, flanking a small man dressed entirely in white. White tennis shoes, socks, shorts, and a tennis sweater with red trim. Joe Adipietro hardly looked the part of a heroin dealing mobster. Trask walked over to the transport van that was waiting to take the new defendant to the marshals' lockup. Adipietro looked him over and stopped a few feet away.
"You the DA? Trask?" Adipietro's strong Brooklyn accent and deep baritone sounded like it should have come from a much larger man.
"I'm an Assistant United States Attorney. This is a federal case. Have you been read your rights?"
"Yeah. I heard all that stuff. I just got one question for ya. Who ratted me out? Was it that white bread pussy from the Hill?"
Trask couldn't help but look puzzled for an instant. "You'll get your answer when your attorney gets the discovery in the case."
"I saw your face. It wasn't him. That's funny. I always figured he was the one who'd do it. Whaddaya know."
Hart Senate Office Building
4:45 p.m.
"Anything pointing to Janie's killer in all this mess?" Heidelberg asked.
"No, Senator, not yet." He said Janie's 'killer.'That's the first time I've heard him call her dealer her killer.
"That's disappointing, but you're still to be congratulated for today's events. As you've always reminded me, there have been other victims of this ring. What kind of sentence do you expect this guy to get?"
"I will ask for life imprisonment, and in this case, I expect to get it. We have at least five dead from the heroin alone, and reason to believe that it was his ties to the Zetas that resulted in the truck bomb at the store."
"And none of that includes Janie."
"Not yet, Senator."
"I know, Mr. Trask. You won't forget her. I appreciate that."
Trask nodded. "One question, sir. When we arrested Adipietro at the club, he mentioned someone on 'the Hill.' Are you aware of anyone in the Capitol who's had a heroin problem recently?"
"No," Heidelberg said. "I'll keep on the alert for that, if it might help."
"Thank you, Senator. It might."
Boca del Rio, Veracruz, Mexico
September 20, 2011, 5:00 p.m.
Hundreds of drivers and passengers following two flatbed trucks were forced to stop and watch in horror as the trucks stopped on the Manuel Avila Camacho Boulevard in the middle of rush hour traffic. Gunmen from pickup trucks accompanying the flatbeds jumped out and began pulling bodies from the trucks and spreading them across the road. The gunmen then hung a narcomanta from an overpass. The sign read, "This will happen to all the Zeta shit that stay in Veracruz. The Plaza has a new owner. G.N."
Tampico Naval Air Station
Tamaulipas, Mexico
6:20 p.m.
"What do you make of this, Major?" Torres asked as the two men looked at the television in Aguilar's office.
"Apparently, the Gulf braggarts from Zacatecas may have some bite to go with their bark," Aguilar replied. "The 'G.N.' on the sign refers to the Gente Nueva, a group of thugs who work for Guzmán and the Sinaloa/Federation Cartel."
"That would confirm that some of the old Gulf bosses are now with Chapo."
"Correct." Aguilar nodded. "I just hung up with one of the Army commanders on the scene. They have thirty-five dead. Twenty-three men and twelve women, all linked to Los Zetas. Unfortunately, Lazcano was not among them. The victims had been bound and gagged, most of them tortured, and shot in the head. As my American wife likes to say, sometimes what goes around comes around. We will not mourn these dead, but we should be prepared if the cartel wars are escalating in our sector."
"Any particular instructions, Major?"
"Of course." Aguilar said, shaking his head. "Be prepared for the announcement of another grand government operación in response. The war has come to Veracruz, Torres. That will mean that we will go to Veracruz."
555 4th Street, N.W.
Washington, D.C.
September 23, 2011, 9:57 a.m.
"Trask." The desk phone's caller ID light was out, so Trask was cautious.
"Harold Lewis, Mr. Trask. I've been retained to represent Joseph Adipietro."
"My condolences."
"I'm sorry to hear you feel that way. I've always found Joe to be a rather refreshing change of pace from some of my other clients. He's always been very direct with me."
"I'd appreciate it if you'd do the same, Mr. Lewis. What can I do for you?"
"Of course. Direct it is. Any offers I can convey to my client?"
"I've got five dead from his dope, Mr. Lewis. What kind of offer do you think would be appropriate under those circumstances?"
"There's always a bigger fish to fry."
"Then talk to your client and let me know what—or whom—he wants to put in the frying pan."
"Thanks. I'll do that. Not for attribution?"
"Of course not. He tells you, you tell me, and I can't use it against him. But one thing …"
"Yes?"
"He'd better be talking Hitler's meaner brother or I won't be interested."
"I understand."
Waldorf, Maryland
11:00 p.m.
The phone was answered on the fourth ring.
"Hello, Jeff?"
"Yes, Luis. Glad I caught you. I was about to hang up."
"I just got out of the shower. A cold one. My water heater picked tonight to stop working."
"That always sucks."
; "It certainly does. What's up?"
"I just wanted to let you know that we've been able to cut off your Zetas' cash flow—from Washington, anyway. We weren't able to follow the trail up the coast. Your information helped a great deal. Without it, I might still have a closed investigation and nothing to show for it."
"That's wonderful news, my friend. Wonderful. I'm happy we could be of service to each other. Let's stay in touch."
"Let's do that. Good night, Luis. Please give my best to Linda."
"I will. Good night."
555 4th Street, NW.
Washington, D.C.
September 26, 2011, 10:21 a.m.
The desk phone's ring pulled Trask's eyes off of his paperwork. "Jeff Trask."
"Mr. Trask, Harold Lewis again. I had an opportunity to speak to Mr. Adipietro over the weekend. He is not willing to cooperate against anyone else."
"Can't say I'm surprised, given his history."
"Yes, it's the mob connection thing. He said that he's the one who has to look in the mirror every day, and he can't be staring back at a rat."
"How noble. Then he can stare at whatever he calls himself for the rest of his life."
"You're still not willing to tender any plea offers?"
"None."
"As I told you before, he's direct with me. I do know that he has some significant information on at least one fatality. Would it do me any good to press him on that?"
"Is the person he's not willing to talk about upstream or downstream, Mr. Lewis?"
"I don't follow you."
"Assuming this is a drug-related fatality that we're talking about, did he give the dope to somebody who then caused the death, or does this information concern someone who was supplying your client with drugs?"
"The former; I guess what you called 'downstream.'"
"Then I'm not interested. I'm not putting a bass on the hook to try and catch a minnow, Mr. Lewis. No deals, even if he decides he's willing to give up this downstream guy."
"I see. That may mean a trial, then. It'll cost a lot of money to try this case. He's got nothing to lose."
"Don't bluff me, Lewis." Trask felt his blood rising. "And don't hand me that hooey about it costing a lot to try this case. I won't get paid any extra for it and neither will the judge or most of my witnesses—the cops and agents. We're all on salary and make the same money whether we're in trial or not. The press always blows up these costs, but it's funny money, already spent. The cops get a little overtime and we'll have to pay some juror fees, and that's about it. It'll cost the same to warehouse your client for the rest of his life whether he goes down on a plea or a verdict."
"You're that confident of your case?"
"Absolutely. And one more thing. I know it's another myth around the mob that the mafia isn't in the dope business. They always have been, whether the dope du jour was booze or heroin, but I also know that some of the crime families take their mythology seriously, and they won't be happy to have your client's antics blasted all over the front pages of the papers for weeks in a row. Anyway, it doesn't matter to me. Your call. Just let me know how Little Joe wants to proceed."
"Little Joe?"
"That's what we call him now."
"That's a bit insulting."
"I hope so. Goodbye, Mr. Lewis."
Trask hung up the phone. Sorry, Senator, I'm not getting there that way.
Boca del Rio, Veracruz, Mexico
October 7, 2011, 8:18 a.m.
"We've caught eight of Guzman's men, Major." Captain Torres stood by the passenger door of the car carrying his commander. "They have confessed to being involved in the murders of Los Zetas."
"Good work, Torres. Any more bodies from the feud?"
"Thirty-six in three houses last night, sir. Another ten this morning scattered across the state, according to the reporting units."
"That's more than a hundred the past two weeks. Who's winning, Torres, Guzman's Federation, or Los Zxtas?"
"I'd call it a draw, based upon the tattoos we've seen on the corpses."
"Good. If they fight a war of attrition, and no innocents are caught in the middle, it's good for us all."
E. Barrett Prettyman Federal Courthouse
Washington, D.C.
10:00 a.m.
Just another arraignment, and the news vultures haven't caught on yet that nothing will actually happen. Trask scanned the spectators' section of the courtroom, noting that virtually every seat was filled with the ample backside of some variety of reporter. Rafferty from one paper, Kirby from the other one. I count two radio stations, four TV outlets from D.C., more from Baltimore. Amazing coverage for a non-event.
"Do you understand the charges against you, Mr. Adipietro?" Chief Magistrate Judge Thomas Noble asked.
"Yes." Adipietro spoke softly. Only the microphone in front of him made it possible for his mumbles to be heard.
"And how does your client plead, Mr. Lewis?" Noble asked.
"We're pleading not guilty today, Your Honor, but my client has directed me to schedule a change of that plea before Judge King as soon as possible." Lewis glanced at Trask from the defense table, and gave a slight shrug.
I'll be damned, Trask thought. That's the closest to a guilty plea at an arraignment I'll ever see. I guess the mob bosses got the word to the little jerk that they didn't want the bad press.
"Pleas of not guilty will be entered today, then," Noble said, "and I'll leave it to counsel to schedule the disposition with Judge King's chambers. We're in recess."
Trask left the courthouse through a rear entrance, avoiding the press, and walked back toward his office. No point in telling the reporters that I can't tell 'em anything yet. They can call our public affairs guys.
He made his way through Judiciary Square and stopped at the National Law Enforcement Officers' Memorial to gaze briefly at the names of Juan Ramirez and Robert Lassiter etched in the stone wall. Looks like we won another one today, guys. As always, thanks for the help. Anytime I need a buck-up or some motivation, you're always here.
The light on his phone was flashing again when he entered his office. The recorded message indicated Eastman wanted to see him.
Trask winked at Julia Forrest as he walked by her desk. She gave him a warning nod toward Eastman's office as he passed. When he cleared the doorway, he saw why. Eastman was not alone.
"Hello, Digger."
"Hello, Jeff," Senator Graves was flashing his biggest campaign grin. "I stopped by to congratulate you on the Adipietro arrest. I knew if anyone could clean this up, you could."
"Thanks. We're not done yet."
"Yes, I know, those poor people at the store."
"And Janie Heidelberg."
"Oh, you haven't been able to tie Adipietro to Janie's death?"
"Not yet."
"I see." Graves looked puzzled. "I just assumed you'd cleared that, too. I haven't been to any of your meetings with Senator Heidelberg recently."
"I know, Digger," Trask said. "That was at my request." Trask looked past Graves at Eastman, whose face looked like he was searching for a bomb shelter.
"Why the hell would you do that?" Graves asked angrily.
"Because I haven't been able to clear you as a suspect yet."
"A suspect? Are you accusing me of giving the heroin to that girl, Jeff?"
"Of course not," Trask said calmly. Just like I'm back at the Academy in a hazing session. Always keep calm, and make the upperclassman do the work. "You know how this works, Digger. Everyone who knew the victim remains a suspect until they get cleared. You've seen the drill dozens of times. You never accuse anyone until you're sure, until you're ready to convict. Up until that point, you could be dead wrong, and you never want to falsely accuse anyone. That could have disastrous consequences for everyone concerned. If and when I'm ready to accuse anyone of involvement in Janie's death, I'll bring the cops and some handcuffs."
Graves said nothing, but glared at Trask as he stormed out of the office.
> "That was fun," Eastman said when the senator was gone.
"It really was, for me," Trask said. "I don't think he'll be interfering for a while."
"And what exactly was the purpose of that little exchange? With a United State Senator?"
"An old military ploy," Trask said. "When in doubt, fire for effect. Sometimes it flushes the enemy out."
FBI Field Office
Washington, D.C.
4:39 p.m.
"Anything of note in that safe deposit box at the bank?" Doroz asked. "That was what the key in his desk was for, right?"
"Yep." Wisniewski picked up a cardboard box from the end of the table. "The warrant was good enough for the bank to hand over everything. I'm sorting through and tagging all the evidence now. There are some ledgers. Looks like Little Joe was pretty meticulous about his accounts, whether it was for rent or dope debts. He tried to use some code, but it's not an enigma machine. Easy to crack. Once you know the going price for a gram on the street, everything lines up—numbers and weights—even if he does refer to them as 'tennis lessons.'"
"What about that?" Doroz pointed to a computer disc lying on the table beside the box.
"I just looked at a minute of it, then I turned it off," Wisniewski said. "It looks like a surveillance video of Joe's office at the club. Nobody was in the room for the part I saw. Since our warrant was for cash and financial records I was nervous about watching any more of it."
"Good call," Doroz said. "Just mark it and seal it. You agree, Dix?"
"Sounds good," Carter said as he fed bills into a machine. "Looks like we have something north of $100,000 here, if the counter's accurate. We've paid my salary for the year anyway."