by Larry Enmon
From the direction of the tower, two training instructors marched toward her group, one carrying a rolled up paper target. They’d been scoring them while the second group shot.
“Who the hell’s Wilcox?” he bellowed. He didn’t look happy, and he was the biggest.
Jesse slowly stood, her stomach in knots.
“You Wilcox?”
“Yes, Training Instructor,” she croaked.
He motioned. “Get your butt over here.”
Jesse paced toward the two burly men—afraid to make eye contact. Other recruits gawked in lurid fascination. A hushed murmur rose from the crowd.
“You want to explain this?” He unrolled the target with a silver dollar–sized hole drilled through the “ten” ring.
“Is that mine?”
“Damn right it is.” Beads of sweat rolled down his black face, giving it a shine.
She looked at the T.I. and shrugged. “I did the best I could.”
The older T.I. fought a grin and turned away. The younger one lit into her. He put his face inches from hers and screamed, “Do you expect me to frigging believe you put all the rounds into a hole this size from a hundred yards?”
The older T.I.’s shoulders shook from silent laughter as he faced the opposite direction.
“Yes, Training Instructor.”
“We’ll see about that,” he screamed. “When this group is off the line—you’re up next—get ready.” The T.I.s marched back to the range tower. Laughter sounded again from the older one.
Jesse ambled over to the waiting recruits, who all had a slack-jawed look.
“Did you really put them all in the ten?” one asked.
Fifteen minutes later, Jesse again stood in her firing pit waiting for the range officer’s instructions. This time a T.I. stood on each side of her. She’d slipped her piece of peppermint under her tongue moments before, while in the latrine. One T.I. had a set of binoculars and the other a spotter scope. She was the lone shooter. She willed herself to relax. It’s kinda like a game.
After firing her twenty rounds, the older training instructor with the scope mumbled, “Holy shit!”
They dismissed her to the rest area while they scored the target.
After about fifteen minutes, the range officer, a young female lieutenant, trooped toward her followed by the two male T.I.s. The airmen all jumped to attention.
“Wilcox!” the lieutenant yelled.
Jesse stepped forward and came to attention, chin up, eyes straight. “Yes, ma’am.”
The lieutenant’s expression softened. “At ease, shooters. Gather around.” She addressed the group. “I want you people to see what happens when God bestows a gift.” She unrolled Jesse’s target and held it up for them. Laughter echoed under the shed. Jesse had used her rounds to shoot a happy face in the “ten” ring. The range officer rolled it back up.
“Okay, firing group one: back on the line. Let’s see who can beat Wilcox.” She gave Jesse a quick wink and marched back to the tower.
The memory caused Jesse to smile. She stretched on the lounger and readjusted the shoulder strap on her bathing suit. Until two days ago, she hadn’t returned to Texas after her time at Lackland. Most of her work kept her east of the Mississippi. Staying in one place too long wasn’t the way she rolled. People in her line of work who stayed in one place too long could get tracked by some hot shot cop. This Dallas job would keep her here much longer than she liked, but the money was too good to pass up. New York wanted to send a loud and clear message to this Levern guy. But at fifty grand a pop, even old man Gambizi would tire of that after a while.
The pool gate creaked and Jesse opened an eye. A pasty mid-forties man, looking like he was eight months pregnant, eyed her. Of the dozen other lounges around the pool, he made a beeline for the one closest to her. He spread his towel out and flopped down. The lounge sagged.
Why do I always attract the jerks?
He popped the tab on a can of beer and took a sip while reaching for his pack of cigarettes. Lighting up, smoke drifted past her nose and stunk up the fresh morning air. He eyed her as he opened his book. After a few minutes of ignoring her, Mr. Cool made his pitch.
“Weather’s a lot nicer here than back home.”
Jesse glanced his way. A satisfied smile covered his stupid face. Sort of a “made you look” expression.
She ignored him and turned back to the sun.
“So, you here on business?”
She stared at him again. Okay, you asked for it. Jesse sat up and pushed out her chest. His eyes took in the cleavage.
“Yes, and you?”
“Oh, yeah. Work for Trinity Masonry and Concrete in Duluth—bidding on a project.”
His wide, jerk-like smile almost made her regret what she intended to do. Jesse leaned forward and licked her lips. “Bet it gets lonely on the road, doesn’t it?”
He beamed. “You bet ’cha.”
She batted her eyes. “Like some company?”
His mouth gaped. “Sure.”
She motioned at the beer. “Got another one of those?”
He struggled to free himself from the lounge. “Sure do. Be right back.”
She waited until he was out of sight, then dropped the cigarette into the beer can, tossed his towel into the pool, and picked up his book on the way out of the gate. As she rounded the corner of her building, she dropped it into the garbage can.
Asshole.
* * *
Frank and Rob spent the rest of the morning on the piles of paperwork that littered their desk. Frank couldn’t concentrate. Alma lurked in the shadows of his conscience. He checked his phone for texts—nothing. Usually didn’t take women this long to contact him. Strange.
Rob’s eyebrows drew together as he stared at his monitor. He pinched the skin at his throat, deep in thought, or worry. Hard to tell with Rob. With his wife’s medical problems, worry was a real possibility. A few minutes later he stretched and ran his hands down his face, a signal he would demand food soon.
Frank had been in police work a long time, but still hadn’t figured out the whole eating thing cops held so dear. Frank enjoyed going out once a week for a bite, but most days he preferred to just eat a sandwich or some homemade soup at his desk. Never had much of an appetite. Probably the reason he couldn’t gain any weight. But every cop he knew lived for going out with a colleague for lunch. Something about escaping the office and dining together drove them to find a familiar place and relax for a meal. Probably why Sarge’s bar was so popular.
“Ready for lunch?” Rob asked.
“Sure.”
Rob bounced up with a relieved expression. “Great idea. Sarge’s?”
“Why not.”
They got to Sarge’s early, before all the parking spots were gone. As they approached the entrance, they met Detective Paul Sims, about to go in. He took the last bite of an ice cream sandwich, wadded up the wrapper and tossed it in the garbage can by the door.
“Early desert?” Rob asked.
Sims licked his pudgy fingers. “Appetizer.”
Frank held the door for Sims. “We need to talk,” he said.
Sarge sat a tray of clean glasses behind the bar and spotted them. “You guys grab a seat.”
Frank headed for a rear booth. Something about the familiar beer and bar smells always relaxed Frank when he strolled through the door of Sarge’s.
My own private Cheers.
Rob and Frank settled into one side of the booth and Sims slid into the other. Sarge meandered over. His bushy blond hair was a tangled mess this morning.
“Never thanked you guys for what you did for Vivian,” Sarge said.
Franked eyed the new men’s room door. “Get J.T. to chip in for that?”
“Gave him a choice. Lifetime suspension or new door.”
No one wanted to be suspended from Sarge’s. It was the only sane place left in the city for police to drink and grab a bite of lunch.
Sarge threw the bar towel over hi
s shoulder. “Anyway, I appreciate the help. Lunch is on the house.”
“What about me?” Sims asked.
Sarge snorted. “Didn’t see you do anything but gobble down your food and leave.”
“Two of the usual,” Rob said.
“Me too,” Sims chimed in.
“Only a bowl of soup for me today,” Frank corrected.
At Frank’s urging, Sarge had added a new item to his lunch menu. Since Sarge only used Honey Baked Ham to make his sandwiches, Frank, being a former chef, suggested he take the leftover bones from the hams, add a few pounds of beans and chopped onions then drop everything into a giant slow-cooker overnight and make soup. Soup and sandwiches. Sarge was always looking for a way to save a buck, so he latched onto the idea. Always sold out—no waste.
Frank asked Sims, “Anything new?”
“Nope. But I can tell you this. Whoever popped that banger last night wasn’t another banger.”
Sarge’s wife Jill delivered their drinks.
Frank leaned closer. “So how do you figure?”
Sims gulped half his cherry Coke in one swallow. “That was a professional hit.”
“What makes you think that?” Rob asked.
“Bangers don’t shoot from that distance,” Sims said. “They favor assault rifles and pistols. The closer the better. The two bangers that were behind the building when their boss got whacked didn’t see or hear a thing except the thud of their boss’s head vaporizing.”
Frank didn’t want to tell Sims what the FBI said, so he did the next best thing. “Who would hire someone like that?”
Sims shrugged again, swirling the Coke in his glass. “Someone with money. You do a kill that clean—it costs.”
Sarge delivered the sandwiches and Frank’s soup and then headed back to the bar.
“The guys in Ricardo’s house that night saw a woman,” Frank said.
Sims grinned. “Your mysterious red head?”
“Yeah.”
“Only one of the mopes saw her—didn’t get a very good look. The other was out cold before he knew what hit him.”
“Still got them in jail?” Frank asked.
Sims took a big bite of sandwich and held up a finger. After a few seconds of chewing, he said, “Yeah, both held on warrants in Lew Sterrett.”
“Mind if we talk to the one who saw the woman?” Frank asked.
“Suit yourself, but better take Rob.”
“Why?” Rob asked.
“Cause the guy claims not to habla English too good. Probably a waste of time. Don’t think he knows any more than he told us.”
19
An hour later in CIU, Rob stuck his head over the top of the cubicle to check on Frank. He’d been on his computer since they’d gotten back from lunch, working nonstop. Guy hadn’t said a word.
Rob had been checking the NCIC indices relating to known suspects who used rifles. Whoever this Dallas shooter was had a cool head and a perfect aim. Reminded Rob of a guy in his Marine platoon—Corporal Lee. The guy would sit in a sniper’s hide for days, hardly moving, waiting for the perfect shot. When he pulled the trigger, there was always a dead body found the next day with a hole poked through the head.
Rob stretched and glanced at Frank. He didn’t look up as he used his mouse to fit the last photo into its little square on the lineup sheet.
“Okay, check me on this.” Frank pushed back in the chair and propped his feet on his desk.
“Huh?”
“I’m just thinking out loud,” Frank said. “Correct me if I stray off course.”
“Go ahead.”
“So, Ricardo gets hit and everything points to Levern.”
“With you so far.”
Frank showed his “don’t patronize me face,” and continued, “Anyway, then all hell breaks loose when other gang leaders start getting whacked.”
Rob nodded.
“We get word through a federal wire there’s a contract on Levern—some guy named Jesse—a professional.”
“Yup.”
“And now another gang leader’s been killed by, what Sims describes as, a professional. Time for a come to Jesus meeting, I’d say.”
Rob stood and put on his jacket. “And so you want to interview the gangster from Ricardo’s place again. The one who supposedly saw the woman. But this time see if he can pick her out of a lineup.”
“You know me so well.” Frank hit the print button, grabbed his jacket, and slid the lineup sheet into his notebook. On the way out, he had that old excited look he got when he thought they were at a turning point on a big case.
Rob eyed him. When he got this way, the goofy smile wasn’t far behind.
Yup, there it is.
* * *
Frank and Rob waited in the interview room at Lew Sterrett. The Dallas County Jail had that familiar smell that comes with housing criminals. One part body odor, one part fear, and one part Lysol. Frank hated it. The Spartan furnishing of the small white room, plus the long wait to pull a prisoner from his holding cell, was aggravating. Frank fidgeted with anticipation.
“Guy’s name is David Juan,” Frank read from the arrest report.
Rob did a double take. “You’re making that up.”
“Nope, see for yourself,” he handed the report to Rob.
Just then the door opened and a sheriff’s deputy hauled in Juan. He was early twenties, short, with a shaved head. Tattoos ran the length of each arm, and neck. The spit hood gave his head a honeycombed appearance. Sort of a space-alien look.
The deputy sat him in the chair across the desk from them. “Wanna keep the cuffs on?”
“We’ll try it without them,” Rob said.
“He’ll spit without the hood and cuffs,” the deputy warned.
“Take them off for now—we’ll let you know,” Rob said.
The deputy grinned and removed the handcuffs. Juan jerked the spit hood off and glared at the deputy. He had that hard demeanor you get from hanging around a gang too long.
Juan’s lips formed into a spit pose.
The deputy raised his hand. “You spit—I hit.”
Juan swallowed and sulked back into the chair. He turned to Frank and Rob.
“Be outside if you need anything,” the deputy said, before closing the door.
“Si tu me escupes, te arrepentiras,” Rob told Juan.
Speaking Spanish fluently wasn’t Frank’s forté, but he could follow it well enough. Juan had been warned: if he spit at them, he would come to regret it.
Juan answered with only a nod. His squinty eyes shifted back and forth from Rob to Frank, never blinking.
Frank laid out the photo lineup sheet he’d printed—all redheaded women. He tapped the sheet. “Ask him if any of these are the woman he saw at Ricardo’s house that night.”
Rob rattled off Frank’s question in Spanish, also tapping the lineup sheet.
Juan leaned over as if to examine the photos, but instead, spit on Rob’s lapel. Just as a smile crossed Juan’s lips, Rob slapped it off. Juan crashed onto the floor. The chair fell on top of him.
Frank yawned and didn’t move—no need. Rob would handle it. Guy hated to be disrespected—especially by other Latinos. Rob was a proud man, and a proud Mexican-American. He wanted all Latinos to succeed. When he encountered one who he believed gave the race a bad rap, it really pissed him off. And when one ignored or insulted him, he wasn’t above a good attitude adjustment.
The door busted open and the deputy looked in. Juan slumped on the floor; the red outline of four fingers spread across his left cheek and a drop of blood forming in the corner of his mouth.
The deputy grinned and looked from Rob to Frank. “Everything okay in here?”
Rob smiled and rubbed his hands down the side of his trousers. “Fell off his chair. We’re fine, thanks.”
The deputy nodded and retreated as Rob wiped the spit off his suit. His smile faded as he stood over Juan. In Spanish he spoke in low threatening tones. Rob’s eyes did that thi
ng when he got really angry. They became two black holes drilled into his face. If you looked close enough, you could see your own death.
“Do it again and you’ll be swallowing those front teeth,” Rob said.
The banger’s lips and chin trembled and he lowered his head.
“Okay, let’s try once more.” Rob stuck the photo lineup to the guy’s face. “Do any of these women look like the one you saw at Ricardo’s house?” Rob’s tone was so threatening that Frank almost confessed.
Juan flashed a hateful look and didn’t answer.
“Okay, have it your way,” Rob said. He had an evil expression as he pointed at Juan. “Do you know what’s going to happen when we walk out of here?”
Juan looked back and forth from Frank to Rob, but still said nothing.
“So, let me tell you.” Yeah, the son-of-Satan grin set the right mood. “When we walk out I’m going to put my arm around your shoulder,” Rob said, “and in Spanish say, thanks, that really helped us identify them. We’ll have you out of here in no time.”
Juan’s eyes widened.
“And do you know what’s going to happen after that?” Rob asked. “Sometime tonight, or maybe tomorrow night after the story gets circulated, you’ll receive a visit from some gang members. They’ll have something sharp. So, what do you think they’ll cut off? Your tongue or something more important?”
Juan swallowed hard and his shoulders tightened.
Rob stuck the photo lineup back to his face. “Last chance. See any of these women at the house that night?”
Juan thought a second and nodded. He laid his finger on the fifth photo—the one of Dr. Alma Hawkins.
20
Rob got home that Friday evening a few minutes after six. As usual, the start of the weekend traffic made the drive to Mesquite just a little more challenging. He dropped his keys in the tray on the table and listened. The house was dark and quiet except for muffled voices coming from the family room. He sniffed—no sign of cooking.
Rob followed the sound around the corner and found Carmen lying on the couch watching the evening news. Only the fading light through the blinds outlined her body under a blanket. At first he believed she was sleeping, but the closer he got, the more apparent it became that her dark brown eyes were open. He squatted down in front of her.