by Glenn Trust
“I’ll bet he was. Still working on who is behind this, but it is big. We’re talking major cartel … Pablo Escobar, Medellin Cartel size operation, maybe bigger. Whoever they are, they have the reach to snuff a senator given the time and opportunity.”
“Good thing we showed up before they got to him then.”
“Yeah, but be careful. They are probably still looking for him. I don’t think these people will let it go. They’ll want their pound of flesh.”
“Will do. What’s next on your end?”
“Headed into Brunswick to offload the cocaine and prisoners. DEA is working with local sheriffs to cordon off and pick up whoever was receiving the drugs on this end. It’s a big area along the coast, but only a few roads in. They’re looking for any vans or trucks out on the marsh roads.”
“Sounds like things are winding down. The excitement around here is about over.”
“Yeah. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Sounds good. I’m headed home as soon as I get Sillman booked.”
The call ended. Travis continued his report.
Sole dialed home. It was late, already past midnight, but Shaye would expect him to call.
“Hi, babe,” she said after the first ring.
“Hey. Just wanted to let you know we’re wrapping things up. I’ll be home before the kids are off to school.”
“Good. I miss your cold ass snuggled up here,” she said, yawning.
“I miss your hot ass.
“I’ll bet you do,” she chuckled.
“Love you. Talk to you soon.”
“Love you too,” she said drifting back to sleep.
He ended the call and stepped out onto the deck of the cutter. Tully Sams stood at the bow smoking, one hand cuffed to a railing in case he decided to take his chances overboard.
Sole knew he wasn’t the type. Sams would take the medicine for what he’d done, which in his mind probably was not much and not really wrong. If it meant prison, so be it.
Sole had to respect the old shrimper, even felt sympathy for him. From Tully Sams’ perspective, he had just been doing his job, taking a shrimp trawler out for his boss. If some asshole wanted to load drugs on board so other assholes could fry their brains with them, who was he to object as long as he got to go out on the big water and do what he was best at?
Through all of the scurrying activity surrounding him and armed men boarding his boat, Tully Sams remained apart from it, above it all, a simple man with a simple view of the world.
Unlike Sillman, he would not be caught huddling in a penthouse condo waiting for retribution. He accepted his part. Others might call it a crime. He wouldn’t argue the point. He would meet the punishment for it head-on.
56.
Ground Zero
“Follow them.”
“No disrespect, but are you certain that is wise?”
Garza turned in the seat to look at Esteban Moya and repeated his command. “Follow.”
“Yes.” Moya replied, nodding. “As you say.”
Hijo de puta loca—crazy son of a bitch. This asshole was going to get them killed or arrested, or both.
Moya waited for the motorcade of police vehicles to pull from the parking garage below Sillman’s building then pulled the rental car onto Peachtree Rd. to follow. His eyes darted from the rearview mirror to the cars in line ahead and back to the mirror. It was a fucking parade. He let off the accelerator and let them pull farther ahead.
“Move closer,” Garza said.
“But …” Moya started to object, then thought better of it. “Certainly. As you wish.”
He accelerated until they were only a couple of car lengths behind the rear police vehicle, a marked Atlanta patrol unit. At any moment, he expected the car’s blue lights to light up and swerve to pull them over.
The large number of police vehicles arriving at Sillman’s building after the seizure of the cocaine from the Sara Jane could mean only one thing. James Sillman was under arrest and headed to jail.
The police cars filed into the Criminal Investigations division parking lot. As before, Moya continued past, went around the corner and then came back to park along the curb at the end of the block.
Sleep deprivation was catching up with him. His head bobbed and swayed as he tried to watch the police parking lot through the haze of fatigue.
Alejandro Garza had no such problem. He seemed impervious to human frailties like fatigue. He was a machine.
An hour passed, then another. Moya tried to work up the courage to say something. Perhaps they should come back tomorrow or even the day after, rested and alert. Police might not be expecting us then, and it might be easier.
His mouth opened to speak the words. He eyed Garza, sitting ramrod straight in the seat beside him. His throat constricted.
“There.” Garza nodded at the police parking lot. One of the Crown Victoria’s was pulling out. “Follow that one.”
Moya’s mouth closed, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Gracias a Dios—thank God.
“You sure that’s the right car?” Moya asked starting the engine. He waited for the Crown Victoria to pull from the lot and turn right at the end of the street.
“Get closer.”
“Closer?” Esta mierda de nuevo!—this shit again, Moya mouthed to himself. “You sure?”
“Closer,” Garza said, eyes fixed on the detective car.
“Right, closer.”
Moya eased the rental car up behind the Crown Victoria as the acid flared in his gut. He wanted to shout. What the fuck are we doing!
Garza looked at him and nodded, becoming aware of his anxiety for the first time. “Calm yourself.”
“I’m trying.” Moya said. “It’s just that …”
“That you have never followed the police before?”
“Yes, it seems crazy.” Moya added hastily. “Not that you are crazy, or that I am afraid.” He nodded. “You know I will do as you instruct.”
“Yes, you will.” Garza nodded. “You worry too much. Think of the police as hunters, a coyote after a jackrabbit. They focus on the jackrabbits, the ones they follow. They do not expect to be the jackrabbit, to be followed. If we are careful, we are safe.”
Moya did not feel very safe, but decided it was best to acknowledge Garza’s lesson and let it go. “Thank you for explaining.”
At the next red signal, they rolled up on the detective car’s bumper. Garza looked at his palm and compared the inked numbers there to the license plate and car number. He nodded.
“It’s the car.”
“Okay, it’s the car. Now what?”
“Let him get ahead. Now that we know which car it is, we can follow at a distance.”
“Right.” Moya nodded. At a distance sounded good, the more distance, the better.
The Crown Victoria made its way through the light traffic to the interstate and took I-75 northbound. After several miles, it exited onto a surface street in northwest Atlanta.
The detective car cruised slowly. The driver seemed as fatigued as Moya. After a few blocks, it pulled into the lot of an all-night convenience store. Randy Travis exited the car, stretched and walked inside.
“Evening, Billy,” he said to the short round man behind the counter.
“You mean, morning, don’t you?” Billy the night clerk smiled.
Travis glanced up at the clock over the cash register. It showed just after two in the morning.
He nodded. “Right, morning. I lost track.”
“Big case?” Billy was a police groupie and kept a police scanner on behind the counter at night. He nodded at it now. “Nothing over the net.”
“You won’t hear anything on the police bands.” Travis shook his head. “Not on this one.”
“Big then,” Billy pressed, hoping to get a little more information from Travis, the detective who came in for milk and donuts at the end of every shift, morning or night.
“Time will tell.” Travis smiled.
“Close-lipped a
s always,” Billy grumbled.
“Goes with the job. You should know that by now.” Travis leaned over the counter. “But I’ll give you a hint.”
“Yeah?” Billy leaned forward, excited, looking around to make sure they were alone, and lowering his voice to a whisper. “What is it?”
“Watch the news tomorrow,” Travis said and turned to the back of the store.
“That’s it? Watch the news. How am I supposed to know what case it is from that?”
“Oh, you’ll know,” Travis called over his shoulder.
He walked back to the cooler, yawning all the way, and pulled out a quart of milk, then snagged a bag of powdered doughnuts from a shelf on his way back to the register.
“How do you do it?” Billy shook his head as he rang up the sale. “Eat all that sugar before you go to sleep. I’d be up for two days.”
“Nope.” Travis shook his head. “Hypermetabolism. I burn it up quick … sleep like a baby.”
“Hyper … meta … what?”
“Metabolism. My body works at a higher rate … burns a lot of energy.”
“That doesn’t sound healthy.”
“It’s not. That’s why the doughnuts. Gotta give it something to burn.”
Billy bagged the donuts and milk and slid the paper sack across the counter to Travis. “Here ya go …”
Billy looked up, eyes wide. There was a rushing sound, and the door behind Travis chimed as it was flung open. A gunshot’s sharp crack reverberated in the small space. A small, red hole appeared in Billy’s forehead, freezing the wide-eyed stare on his face as he collapsed to the floor.
Hand at his waist, reaching for his service pistol, Travis whirled to find two men in ski masks pointing guns at his face from a distance of four or five feet.
One, taller than the other shouted. “¡Hazlo!”
Travis didn’t speak Spanish, but the meaning was clear. Do it!
As he brought the Glock up, two nine-millimeter slugs punched through his sternum. One bored through the right atrium of his heart. The other cut the aorta.
The taller man stepped forward, lowered his pistol, and pulled the trigger. The bullet crashed through the detective’s skull, embedding itself in the linoleum floor.
“Get the cash,” Garza said.
Moya pulled his eyes from the body of the detective and climbed over the counter, to empty the cash register till. A video monitor beneath the counter showed images of the store interior and the gas pump outside. The blood pooling around the detective on the floor looked black on the screen.
“Should I find the video recorder?” He looked at Garza.
“No. This was a robbery. Let them see the recording to prove it.” Garza nodded at Travis’ body. “Get his wallet and cell phone.”
Moya came back over the counter and stood over the detective. Killing was one thing, but disturbing the bodies after was something else. It was sacrilegio—sacrilege. Besides, there was blood everywhere, and he didn’t want to ruin his shoes.
He hesitated. Garza stared.
Moya knelt, trying to avoid the blood on the floor. He retrieved the wallet from the detective’s back pocket but had to hunt for the cell phone, rolling the body on its side. He pulled it from the front pants pocket with two fingers and held it up for Garza to see.
“Good.” Garza nodded. “Now we go.”
Outside they ran to the rear of the store where they’d left the rental car. After driving a block, they pulled off the ski masks.
“Where to? Back to Sillman’s building?”
Esteban Moya wanted to get as far from Alejandro Garza as he could. He knew that wasn’t in the cards. They had just murdered a cop. He clung to the wheel to disguise the trembling in his hands.
Fuck! A cop! Dead and he killed him, or at least helped.
Moya was no stranger to murder, but shooting down a police officer was far different from slitting the throat of a rat informant. He stared ahead wondering what else Garza had in store for them. How long it would be before other detectives tracked him down and threw him in prison for the rest of his life, or killed him outright, claiming that he resisted arrest. He decided he would not resist when they came for him, but he was not sure that would matter.
Until they pulled up to the rear of the convenience store, Moya did not understand what plan Garza had devised. He simply told him to put on the ski mask, have his gun in his hand and do exactly as instructed.
The stakeout of the senator’s building had implied one thing. Sillman was their target, but killing a cop exposed them to a new world of dangers. This wasn’t Mexico! Garza had said it himself. The police here did not work with the cartels.
For Moya, the police represented the enemy, but they were also sacred and untouchable. Extreme anger or stupidity might result in the murder of a cop, but the price for such rash action was always high, too high for Moya’s taste.
He realized this was what Garza had talked to Elizondo about on the phone, why he had started to question their assignment. Garza understood the risk as well, but the loss of the shipment enraged Elizondo beyond reason. He ordered them to kill the cop. End of story. Bebé ordered it, and Garza would get it done.
Fuck! Moya’s brain screamed the word. He killed a cop! Fuck!
A ton of shit was about to fall on their heads. Moya knew his head and his dumb ass that would be at ground zero when it fell.
57.
Howl
Captain Clarence Pointer’s number vibrated and popped up on the Sole’s phone. “What’s up, Cap?”
“Where are you, Sole?”
“Just getting on the chopper to head back to Atlanta.”
“Get here quick.” Pointer’s voice sounded strained, the words clipped off and short.
“What’s wrong? Snag with Sillman? I figured he might not go quietly. Doesn’t matter though.” The door swung shut on the State Patrol helicopter, and Sole put a hand to his ear to block out the noise of the engines starting. “Relax. We got him. That boatload of cocaine will trump any legal maneuvering his lawyers might try.”
“It’s not Sillman. It’s your partner.”
“Travis? What’s wrong with Travis?”
Pointer paused before saying the words. “He’s dead.”
“He’s …” Stunned, Sole’s voice trailed off. Several seconds passed before he spoke, his voice hard now. He wanted details without the bullshit. “What happened … exactly as it went down?”
“Looks like bad luck. Stopped at a convenience store on the way home after locking up Sillman. Got caught up in a robbery. Looks like they walked in on him, took him by surprise. It’s all on the store video. Shot Travis and the store clerk. Travis went for his service weapon but not in time. One perp fired twice … hit him in the chest … it was probably fatal but didn’t matter. The second walked over and put one in his head. Travis never had a chance.”
“Any ID on the perps?”
“Negative. Usual … ski masks, dark clothes, gloves. They didn’t want to be recognized.”
“I’ll be there in a couple of hours.” Sole ended the call and looked at the pilot. “Get this bird in the air.”
*****
Esteban Moya cleared his throat and asked, “So … back to the Sillman building, right?”
“Quiet.” Garza studied the phone they’d taken from the dead detective.
He scrolled through the screens for a few minutes then took out his own and typed a number from the recent call list on the detective’s phone into a reverse number search website. A minute later, he entered a credit card number. It took another minute for the report to load onto the screen.
“Go to this address.” He turned the phone for Moya to see the location the reverse number search showed.
“Why? What’s there?”
“Go.”
Moya did not repeat the question. The drive to the northeast suburban neighborhood took twenty minutes.
Lights off, Moya let the rental car to slow to a stop a block away
from the address. Garza was out of the car, moving like a cat through the darkness before Moya had cut the engine. He followed, heart pounding so hard in his chest he thought it might wake the people sleeping behind the closed windows of the homes lining the street.
Garza stopped in front of one house, looked at the number on his phone and nodded. “Here.”
He followed Garza, feet swishing through the dewy front yard grass. It was a bad dream that just kept getting worse, and Moya was trapped in it.
Garza scanned every window they passed. At the back door, he stooped and examined it from top to bottom, trying the knob to make sure it wasn’t unlocked. Then he reached into a pocket and retrieved a key.
“You have a key?” Moya whispered, incredulous.
“A special key.”
It took less than a minute. Garza forced the bump key’s pointed triangular teeth and deep grooves all the way into the lock then dragged it out, bumping it up and down to disengage the locking pins as he turned the lock.
Moya was astounded when the lock turned in the cylinder. Garza eased the door open a half inch, feeling with his fingers and a pocket knife around the edges for entry alarm sensors. Satisfied there were none, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Shit. Moya had hoped that alarm sirens would sound and send them running back to the rental car. Garza motioned him to follow, and he stepped over the threshold knowing that his world was about to change again.
*****
Bill Lance gave Sole a ride from the State Patrol landing pad at the Fulton County Airport. When they arrived at the convenience store, the parking lot and building swarmed with investigators and evidence technicians.
Captain Pointer met them outside. “You might not want to go in,” he warned Sole. “I know how close you and Travis are. It’s not a good idea, John.”
Sole motioned to the store’s interior where a sheet covered a form lying on the floor in front of the counter. “I want to see.”
“Yeah, I figured you would anyway,” Pointer said, resigned. “I’ll show you, but you’re not working this one.”
“Show me.”