by Glenn Trust
Inside, Pointer walked him through the crime scene and what the investigators had pieced together so far. It wasn’t much.
Kneeling beside the body of his partner, Sole pulled the sheet back from his face. It was expressionless. Not at peace, not at rest, not angry. Just dead. The neat, nine-millimeter hole in the side of his forehead was offset by a gaping, half-dollar-sized chunk of skull blown out of the back of his head.
Sole’s fist clenched the sheet. He sucked air in long deep breaths, fighting back the anger. Pointer and Lance and the other investigators in the building waited, letting him process what had happened.
“You say he walked in on the robbery?” Sole raised his eyes to Pointer.
“They walked in on him.” Pointer nodded at the counter. “Looks like he was buying donuts and milk. They came in behind, and … well, you see what happened.”
“I see.” Sole nodded. “The clerk?”
“Behind the counter on the floor. They shot him first … took out Travis as he turned going for his weapon.”
“Empty the till?”
“Everything,” Pointer said. “Took Travis’ wallet too.”
“Take the clerk’s wallet?”
“No. That is strange. Maybe they didn’t have time.” Pointer shook his head slowly. His eyes narrowed in concern. “Travis’ phone is missing too but not the clerk’s. Do you think they targeted Travis and made it look like a robbery to cover their tracks?”
Sole was on his feet, calling to Bill Lance as he ran to the car. “Take me to my house!”
Behind him, Captain Pointer was on the radio, ordering units dispatched to the Sole residence in northeast Atlanta.
Three marked police units lined the curb as Bill Lance pulled into the driveway. A uniform patrol sergeant came from inside to stop Sole in the yard. He put his hands out and tried to prevent him from entering.
“You shouldn’t go inside.”
Sole pushed him aside and ran into the house.
“How bad?” Bill Lance asked running with the sergeant to follow Sole.
“Bad.” The sergeant shook his head. “Bad as I ever saw.”
They caught up with him in the back hallway.
“Noooo!”
It was a howl, primal and agonized. Its unfathomable grief echoed through the house, carrying the terrible pain out into the night.
58.
Promotion
Enough was enough. Esteban Moya drove through the early morning Atlanta traffic with one desire in his heart—to get away from the monster seated beside him.
“Where to now?” he asked, working hard to keep the exasperation out of his voice.
“Ortega’s office,” Garza said.
“He won’t be there this early.”
Garza pulled out his phone and punched a number on speed dial. Someone answered it immediately. “It’s done. Meet us,” Garza said without any other preliminaries.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket, looked at Moya and said, “He’ll be there.”
Yeah, he’ll be there, Moya thought. El Toro was probably shitting himself about now, but he would be there as ordered.
At least the night’s work was done. Garza would deliver whatever final message Bebé Elizondo had for them. Then, they could put him on a plane back to Mexico, and Esteban Moya could try to forget everything he’d seen and done in the last forty-eight hours.
It wouldn’t be easy. Killing Bettis was one thing. He was stupid and arrogant. The death of the cop was rash. Revenge was one thing, but killing cops in America would only lead to more trouble.
As for the regrets he had about the murder of the store clerk, he wisely kept them to himself. The clerk was collateral damage. Wasn’t that what the military called it when innocents got their asses blown away because they were too close to the shit? The clerk’s ass was definitely blown away—collateral damage.
Then there was the house—more collateral damage. The wife and children killed because they were there and for no other reason. Moya watched horrified as Garza slit the throats of the children, first the daughter then the son. He was not squeamish, but murdering children in their sleep had taken him deeper than he had ever been into the darkness of the life he had chosen.
Some small noise must have awakened the wife because she met them in the hallway, a pistol in her hand, but Garza was too quick. She crumpled to the floor the blood pooling around her dark hair, two holes in her pretty head, never knowing the fate of her children. Moya told himself it was kinder for her to go that way.
They went through the house looking for the asshole detective who had caused all the problems with Sillman. He was the one they wanted, the one who should be dead. Moya told himself that If the detective had been there, his wife and kids would be alive, but he knew it wasn’t true. They would all be dead. That was Garza’s plan.
But it hadn’t worked out. High and mighty Alejandro Garza fucked up on that one, although Moya had no intention of saying so. They took the time to rummage through belongings, take a few things to make the murders look like part of a home invasion, but Moya had no belief the ruse would fool anyone.
The police were not stupid, and this was not Mexico. They would piece the puzzle together soon and realize that all the murders were related. Then they would come after the killers with everything they had. He and Ortega would be dodging the police, trying to stay out of jail while Garza drank tequila and ate frijoles, or whatever the hell they ate in Mexico, protected by the Policía Estatal.
The whole thing was bullshit, but there was nothing to do about it now. They had to get Garza on that plane and away from them before he caused more damage.
He pulled into the parking lot at Taqueria Ortega and drove to the rear. As Garza had promised, they found Bautista Ortega’s car by the back door. Inside, El Toro sat in his usual position behind his desk in the tiny office.
“How did it go?” Ortega looked up and smiled, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face. He placed his damp palms down flat on the top of his desk as if to steady himself.
“We’re almost done,” Garza replied, taking a seat in a chair across from the desk.
“Good.” Ortega forced his best smile across his face. It was a poor effort. He glanced at Moya. “And I trust my man, Esteban, has been of good use to you.”
“He has.” Garza nodded.
“Excellent.” A look of relief spread across Ortega’s face, and his shoulders relaxed. “I always want to be of service to Bebé … and you, of course.”
“Of course.” Garza’s eyes glittered with an almost mirthful twinkle that was out of character.
“So, what is next?” Ortega forced the smile wider. “You mentioned the mission is nearly completed. What else remains to make matters satisfactory for Bebé?”
“There is one thing.”
It happened so smoothly, so quickly, it was as if Garza reached for a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. The pistol appeared in his hand, pointing into Ortega’s face from a distance of four feet. It jumped in his hand, barking loudly five times.
Ortega was dead before the first bullet that crashed through his skull had embedded itself in the wall behind. Garza emptied the remaining rounds from the gun into his face, making a point. Ortega was finished. He had failed Bebé Elizondo, and failure has a steep price.
Garza turned to Moya, frozen in the chair beside him, mouth agape eyes wide. His head moved side to side, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, gasping for air. He was next. His words came in a squeak. “No … no …”
“Relax.” Garza lowered the pistol and returned it to his pocket. “Bebé has promoted you.”
“Promo …” Moya blinked, trying to keep from collapsing and falling out of the chair.
“Yes, promoted. You have performed well. Bebé is pleased.”
“I … I’m thankful that …” Moya shook his head to clear away the terror.
“I am leaving today. You will clean up this mess,” Garza conti
nued, jerking his head at the gore that had been El Toro’s face. “Then you have another assignment.”
“Another?” Moya paled.
“Yes. There are two others, but Bebé has instructed me to return to Mexico. You will see to these others.”
“Me? But I am not expert in these things.”
“You will handle them.” Garza’s tone made it final.
“I will do my best,” Moya said. There was no point in arguing. He would handle them or Garza would be back with another assignment that included him.
“After,” Garza continued. “Business will return to normal, and you will be Bebé’s representative here.” He paused and looked into Moya’s eyes. “You want this promotion, do you not?”
“Yes, of course. Absolutely.” Hell no, he did not want the promotion, his mind screamed while his head bobbed up and down emphatically. “Please thank Bebé for me
“Good. Now here is what you must do next.”
59.
There Were No Ghosts
The first funeral was quiet.
In keeping with Jewish tradition, they buried Shaina Ruth Berman Sole and her children within two days after their murders. Captain Pointer stepped in for Sole and had a word with the Medical Examiner to expedite the recovery of evidence from the bodies. Everyone knew how they had died. Prolonging things would not make the hunt for their killers any easier and would only add to the family’s grief.
Saul Berman’s rabbi arranged the service at their synagogue. As with all Jewish funerals, the emphasis was on simplicity. Rich or poor, all Jews are buried in the same way. Wealth and position in life have no influence on the standing of a Jew who leaves this world. In death comes equality.
Sole was invited to stand in the Minyan, the group of males that recite the mourner’s Qaddish and other prayers. He declined, remaining seated during the service, his shoulders shaking in silence as he wept.
Saul Berman stood with the others, supported on either side by two friends. At one point he was about to collapse, and they seated him in a chair while the prayers continued.
The three bodies were interred side by side. There was no marker. Jewish tradition dictated that headstones would be placed on the graves after a year of mourning.
At the Berman home, friends came to pay their respects throughout the afternoon. Saul and Naomi sat nodding, receiving the visitors, numb to what they said.
John Sole remained alone on the back porch. Captain Pointer and other detectives and officers he had known for years attended the service, then came to pay their respects to him on the porch.
Blank-eyed, he stared at each as they spoke their words of condolence. Why were they here? The words meant nothing. They changed nothing. They only reminded him of why they were there, and he wept more.
When the last mourners departed, and they sat alone in the Berman home, Sole came into the house to sit across from them. Face wet with his tears, he spoke.
“It’s my fault.” He forced the words out in a hoarse whisper.
Naomi shook her head. Saul Berman regarded his son-in-law with a puzzled look as if he had spoken in a foreign language.
“Your fault?” Saul said. He shook his head. “No. Don’t say that.”
“If I had been there …” Sole clenched his eyes shut for a moment to stop the tears, then relented and let them pour down his face. “If I had been there …”
“John, no. Don’t do that. Stop blaming …” Saul began.
“No! If I had never been a police officer …” Sole shook his head.
If I had never married Shaye, he thought, or had children. Or better, if I had never come back from Iraq or had just gone to prison for stealing that car, none of this would have happened. They would be alive. The fierce look in his eyes reflected the rage he felt for himself.
“It is my fault, and I am sorry for what I have done to your daughter and grandchildren. I don’t have the words to say how sorry.” He was weeping now, tears falling to the floor. “Forgive me. Please forgive me.”
Saul Berman rose and placed a hand on his shoulder. “There is nothing to forgive. You have been a son to us. This loss, the grief and pain, is something we all share.”
“I don’t understand why this happened,” Naomi said, her eyes looking deep into his. “But I know that you did not do it. There is evil in the world. I’ve seen it. It is real. The person who took them from us is evil.” She shook her head. “You are not evil, John. You are not responsible for what has happened to our family.”
Sole looked into their eyes, wanting to accept their words, but the truth burned in his heart. He was responsible. Someone else may have held the knife and gun, but it was his arrogance, his failure, that had caused their deaths.
He had to be there when they took the cartel’s boatload of cocaine. Why? Because his ego demanded it? It was a game. He even tossed a coin with Travis for the privilege. He played the game with fire and put everyone at risk—everyone except himself. Shaye and the children had paid the price for his foolish arrogance.
“Stay with us tonight,” Saul said.
“No.” Sole shook his head, rising from the chair. “I’ve caused too much pain here.”
Walking out into the night, he took the first steps into his exile.
*****
The second funeral was not quiet.
They buried Detective Charles Randall Travis with full police honors. The family held the services at the Baptist Church he attended as a youth. Every seat was filled. When there was no more space for family and friends, police officers present gave up their seats to stand and line the walls in blue. John Sole sat with Travis’ mother.
After the prayers, the sermon, the eulogies, the final hymn and Amen, they took Travis’ body to the cemetery. More than a hundred police and private vehicles escorted the hearse.
The honor guard waited for them. Men dressed in blue wearing white gloves served as the final pallbearers to accompany the body to the gravesite. After a few more words by the pastor, a three-volley rifle salute echoed off the gravestones. The department bugler played taps. An American flag was folded and handed to Mrs. Travis by Captain Pointer along with the sympathy and thanks of the department and the grateful citizens of Georgia.
It was over. In the space of a week, John Sole had buried his wife and children, and now his partner and friend. Travis had become another victim of his arrogance.
He hugged Mrs. Travis, declining the offer to come by her home for supper that evening. With a final kiss on her forehead, he left, promising to call and knowing he wouldn’t.
*****
The house was quiet. It had never occurred to him before how quiet it was, how quiet death could be.
With his back against the wall, he slumped to the floor in the hallway where Shaye had fallen, attempting to protect their family. He listened, not believing in ghosts, but wanting to believe, desperate to feel their presence, to be haunted by them, to hear the soft whispers of their memories around him. The ghosts remained silent.
No tears fell now. He had cried all of his tears. Only the grief-filled emptiness of life without Shaye and the children remained—a life that extended excruciatingly into the future until it ended one day, or someone ended it for him.
He sat like that for the rest of the night, dozing a few minutes, then waking with a start to stare around, wondering where he was and why. Then he remembered, and the pain pierced again, a flaming sword twisting and turning in his heart.
He listened to the sounds of the house. A small noise there could have been Bobby in his room turning in his bed. A rustle down the hall might be Samantha getting ready for school. The sighing of the wind outside was Shaye, calling to him, waiting in their bed for him to come to her.
They were just noises. There were no ghosts, to visit and bring solace.
The morning broke, and a gray light filtered into the house. He rose and left through the front door for the last time, locking it behind him, taking only his memories.
Lines and Sides
“You can’t hide, you know. They will find you here.”
Luis Acero froze. The gruff voice of the man who seated himself on the stool beside him was unforgettable.
The bartender wandered over and looked at the man without speaking.
“Gimme a beer.”
“What kind?” The bartender threw a bar towel over his shoulder, annoyed that he was forced to speak to the newcomer.
“The kind with alcohol. You pick it.”
The bartender grunted and pulled a longneck from the well with a fat red hand. He thumped a PBR down and shuffled away.
“How ya doin’ Luis?” Sole lifted the bottle, turned it up, and downed half.
“You …” Acero’s mouth hung open.
“Yeah, me.” Sole nodded and turned the bottle up again finished it off and thumped the bottle on the counter to get the bartender’s attention. “Another.”
“How did …”
“How’d I find you?” Sole swiveled on the stool to face Acero. “That’s what I do, Luis … find criminals.” He smiled. “Like you.”
“Fuck you.” Luis picked up the glass in front of him, trying to hide the tremble in his hand. He raised it for the bartender who ambled over, poured a shot of Jack in the glass, put another beer in front of Sole, and returned to the end of the bar where an episode of Oprah blared from the wall-mounted television.
“You some badass detective,” Luis said after taking a large gulp of whiskey. “You so badass, your partner’s dead, and your …” He clamped his mouth shut, afraid he had gone too far with this man.
Sole nodded and absorbed the insult because it was true. It was the same thing he told himself a thousand times a day since the funerals.
“Fair enough,” he said, turning the beer bottle up again. “Thing is, Luis. You have a problem.”
“Yeah? What?”
“They will figure out who the rat is, if they haven’t already, and they will come after you. They will find you. That’s why you’re hiding out isn’t it?”