by Shawn Wilson
* * *
“That’s it,” Brick said. “2200 Kalorama Road.” He pointed to a white stucco building with bay windows flanking the front door. It could have easily passed for a high-end single-family home had it not been for the Guatemalan flag flying out front.
“For an embassy, looks kind of plain.” Ron drove around the block looking for a parking space. Just as he spotted one, Brick’s cellphone rang.
Before answering, Brick checked the caller ID. He recognized the number.
“Kavanagh.” Brick listened to Lieutenant Blancato’s secretary deliver a rapid-fire command. She hung up before he could respond. “I don’t know what’s going on, but we need to get back to Headquarters.”
“Lights and siren?” Ron asked.
“No, that’s not necessary.”
Ron maneuvered through midday traffic that was only slightly lighter than morning rush hour. When they finally reached Sixth Street, he turned right onto Indiana Avenue and immediately jammed on the brakes. A jaywalker barely missed the edge of the bumper as she darted across the street.
“Hey, wasn’t that what’s-her-name from Channel Four news?” Ron asked.
“Yeah, it was. She’s lucky she’s not reporting herself getting run over.”
Ron continued down the block then backed into a parking space reserved for police vehicles. He and Brick hesitated before getting out of the Crown Vic. Across the street, the jaywalking reporter had joined a group of her counterparts milling outside of Headquarters. Microphones had been set up in front of the steps and a satellite truck was illegally parked on 5th Street. Ron unhooked his seat belt and reached for the door handle. “You don’t suppose—”
“Only one way to find out.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BRICK AND RON zigzagged their way through the minefield of reporters. Up until now the murders of Jose and Maria Delgado hadn’t gotten any attention, but hearing the questions being shouted in his direction, Brick felt certain that had changed.
“Detective Kavanagh.” A female reporter from WTOP Radio approached Brick and shoved a microphone in his face. “What can you tell us about the girl in the Tidal Basin? Do you know who she is?”
“No comment.” Brick picked up his pace. The reporter did, too, but her high heels were no match for his Cole Haans.
“Is she a tourist? Should people stay away from the—” The reporter’s voice faded as Brick entered the building with Ron following close behind.
“Man, that’s the closest I’ve ever felt to being a rock star. I think I could get used to it.”
“Don’t.” Brick figured his partner was kidding, but just in case, he wanted to make himself clear. A misstep with the press could end a career. “Don’t ever let the attention seduce you—they’re cannibals.”
Even though they knew the security officer on duty and he knew them, Brick and Ron were required to show their credentials. They did so, then headed down the hall past the out-of-order elevator to the stairwell. As they exited on the third floor, Brick almost smacked Blancato’s secretary with the door. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Here.” She thrust the stack of papers she was clutching in Brick’s direction. “Lieutenant Blancato wants to see you two and he needs this stuff right away. I’ve got more copies to make and the freaking copier keeps jamming.”
“Tried kicking it?” Ron asked.
“No.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But if you give me your gun, I’ll shoot the motherfucker.”
Brick swallowed the gum he was chewing and came close to gagging. In all the time the secretary served as the lieutenant’s gatekeeper, he had never heard her utter a swear word. Nor had he ever seen her so frazzled. Before he had a chance to ask what was going on, she headed up the stairs, two at a time.
The short walk to Blancato’s office was long enough for Brick to scan the document he was holding. With each word he read, his blood pressure rose a couple of points. Had the office been any farther, he might have had a stroke right then and there. Brick dropped the stack of press releases on Blancato’s desk.
“A task force?” Brick didn’t try to conceal his disdain. “Isn’t this a bit premature? It’s only been—”
Blancato didn’t let him finish. “The chief believes this is exactly the kind of case that can demonstrate the advantages of multi-agency cooperation.”
Brick didn’t believe that for a second. This wasn’t about the case; it was about publicity for Blancato.
“The Park Police are already involved,” Blancato said. “Given the victims are aliens, including Immigration and Customs Enforcement is a no-brainer.”
“They were here legally. I don’t see what ICE can contribute,” Brick said.
Blancato popped a breath mint into his mouth. “That remains to be seen.” He brushed the shoulders of his uniform jacket with his hand before slipping it on. “Whether you agree with it or not isn’t the point. It’s been decided and that’s what I’m about to announce. We’ve been lucky—the press has ignored this story because they’ve been preoccupied with the murder-suicide in Georgetown, but now they’re all over it.”
Brick refrained from saying anything, but he suspected Blancato had played a major role in creating the media feeding frenzy outside.
“Okay, what I need from you two and from Allen and Adkins is to stand behind me and show that we’re all on the same page in conducting the investigation.” Blancato stepped away from his desk. “Grab those press releases. You can hand them out when the news conference is over.” He walked over to his coat tree and retrieved his hat. Before leaving, he stopped in front of a mirror mounted next to the door. He ran his tongue back and forth over his front teeth, adjusted his hat, and turned in Brick and Ron’s direction. “Let’s go.”
Brick glanced over at Ron. “All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.”
“Will wonders never cease?” Ron stopped in his tracks and broke into a broad smile. “My man is channeling Gloria Swanson.”
* * *
Standing behind Blancato, Brick felt like a prop, every bit as one-dimensional as a life-size cardboard cutout of the President. Like the ones down on Constitution Avenue where the tourists line up to take a selfie. Yes, his presence fell under the other-duties-as-assigned clause in his job description, but he resented the way Blancato was using this case as a launching pad for his next career.
“Can you spell that?” a female reporter shouted at the lieutenant.
Blancato complied, slowly spelling his last name. “First name is A-n-t-h-o-n-y.”
Just as Brick had seen Blancato do on previous occasions, he spoke with authority as he made a brief statement summarizing what was known about the Delgado murders. He went on to praise the Park Police then announced the task force being coordinated with ICE. Brick hoped he would leave it at that, but wasn’t surprised when Blancato opened it up to questions.
The first few questions were benign, but Brick was nervous. Whenever Blancato went off the script, it was like watching a trapeze artist performing without a net. With two or three questions being shouted simultaneously, Blancato could choose which to answer and which to ignore. Brick hoped he would pick wisely, but he wasn’t counting on it. If it had just been microphones, Blancato might have walked away. But he was drawn to the TV cameras like the proverbial moth to the flame.
“No, we do not have a person of interest at this time.” Blancato pointed toward a reporter from WRC-TV.
“Should visitors to the Tidal Basin be concerned for their safety?”
“No. Visitors and residents should always use common sense, but the Tidal Basin area is well patrolled, and we have reason to believe this was not a random act.”
“Are you saying the victims were targeted?”
“Yes.” Blancato pointed to another reporter.
“How can you be so sure?”
If Brick could have telepathically beamed a response to Blancato, it would have been “no comment.” Inste
ad, he held his breath as Blancato seemed to contemplate his answer.
“Jose Delgado was killed in his apartment approximately twenty-four hours before his sister’s body was discovered floating in the Tidal Basin. Evidence found in the bathroom—” Brick couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The gang graffiti found scrawled on the side of the tub was known only to the killer and the police. Brick thought the A-Team intended to keep it that way, but Blancato had just announced it to the world.
Finally, it was over. Blancato stepped back from the microphones. He turned and walked away with the A-Team trailing on his heels. Brick handed half of the stack of press releases to Ron. Several of the reporters didn’t bother to wait around. Even those that did dispersed as soon as they got the press release. Now, it was their job to spread the word that, according to Blancato, Jose and Maria were targeted by a possible gang member.
“Miller time?” Ron asked.
Brick glanced at his watch. “I wish but we’re still on duty for an hour.”
“Starbucks?”
Brick and Ron crossed the street and headed east half a block. They each ordered something to drink then sat at a table where they could talk without being overheard by other caffeine hounds. Not that it seemed to matter; Ron was uncharacteristically quiet. He stared into his coffee cup for a couple of minutes before finally speaking.
“On a scale of one to ten … one being no damage and ten …” Ron hesitated as if searching for the right qualifier. “Ten being … fucked sideways. How much damage did Blancato do?”
“Too soon to tell.” Brick took a swallow of tea. As much as he liked it strong and unsweetened, it left an unfamiliar bitter taste in his mouth. “I can almost guarantee the lead on this story will be ‘gang graffiti found at murder scene.’” Brick shook his head. “Thanks to Blancato, any chance we had to investigate a gang angle without tipping them off is gone.”
“Maybe not,” Ron said with exaggerated optimism. “We can hope the gangbangers are too busy committing crimes to watch the news.”
Brick pondered that possibility for a minute. “Be careful what you wish for.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He’d been surviving on four hours sleep and energy drinks for over a week now and it was taking its toll. All he needed was another hour or so; then he’d turn off the computer. He picked up his can of Red Bull and drained what was left. He thought an energy drink was supposed to give him energy, but nothing was kicking in. Had he built up a tolerance? Maybe, and that could be a problem. He’d have to find something stronger if he had to keep up this kind of schedule.
It was driving him crazy. She was out there somewhere, he knew it. He thought he’d found her, really found her this time, but he was wrong. No, she was wrong and what she did was wrong. Deceitful bitch. Just thinking about how she lured him in looking sweet and innocent made him angry all over again. How could he know she’d have tattoos up and down her arms and angel wings across her back? How ironic was that—angel wings on a whore. That’s what she was, a whore. No different than the ones sitting in front of a camera with their big tits hanging out and legs spread apart.
He pulled up a new website and entered his credit card number. He scrolled through page after page of pictures before it occurred to him. As disgusting as these women were, at least they were being honest. What you see is what you get; wasn’t that the message they were sending? No one could accuse them of pretending to be something they weren’t.
He was calmer now. Finally, he turned off the laptop and set it on his nightstand. A few hours of sleep would do him some good. Then he’d be ready to start searching again. He told himself it was okay if he didn’t find her this very minute. He needed to be patient. Maybe it would happen tomorrow or the next day. She was out there, and all he had to do was keep searching. He would find her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
NORMALLY, A DAY spent in court was a source of frustration for Brick, but on this morning, he was looking forward to it. He was still trying to keep his distance from Blancato, and testifying before the grand jury would take most of the morning. It was easy compared to being grilled on the witness stand by an overzealous defense attorney who liked nothing better than to trip up cops. After entering the H. Carl Moultrie Courthouse, Brick stopped by the cafeteria for a bagel and cup of tea. For the next half hour he refreshed his memory by studying a file from a two-year-old case. The crime scene photos of a partially charred body brought back the grisly details. All that was missing was the smell of burnt flesh. For that, Brick was grateful. Compartmentalizing was a skill he had mastered over the years, and for now, thoughts of Maria and Jose had to be pushed aside, at least for a few hours.
Brick checked his phone before leaving the cafeteria. No messages. He dumped his trash in the recycle bin and headed to the escalator. Unlike the formal atmosphere of the Federal Courthouse less than a block away, Superior Court was a beehive of activity. Adjudicating all local trial matters from small claims to landlord-tenant to civil and criminal cases contributed to a circus-like environment where bizarre things could happen and often did. The morning was particularly frenzied as lawyers, litigants, witnesses, and jurors all rushed to their designated locations. A judge’s threat of contempt was incentive for being punctual.
As he rode the escalator to the third-floor office of the Assistant U.S. Attorney responsible for presenting the case to the grand jury, Brick glanced around. On more than one occasion he had found himself face-to-face with someone he had arrested. It was times like that when his red hair was a liability, but unlike his days undercover, he wasn’t willing to dye it or shave his head. On some men, bald looked good—he wasn’t one of those guys. The encounters were sometimes awkward, but so far none of his arrestees had jeopardized their bond status by doing something stupid. One more look around. With the exception of Lily Nguyen, an attractive attorney known around the squad room as the Dragon Lady, he didn’t recognize anyone else sharing the escalator.
“Excuse me.”
Brick stepped to the left as Nguyen rushed past and hurried toward one of the courtrooms. In her wake, Brick picked up a whiff of perfume, a welcomed contrast to the odors he usually associated with the place. He often thought if a deodorant manufacturer ever wanted to test a new product, this was an ideal proving ground. The stress of being in court would generate enough sweat to challenge its effectiveness.
Brick proceeded past the vacant secretary’s desk to the small corner office occupied by AUSA Kyle Thibodeaux. He was about to knock on the door just as Thibodeaux exited. Given his rolled-up sleeves and missing necktie, it was apparent he wasn’t headed to the Grand Jury Room.
“Aw, geez, Brick. I’ll be back in a minute.” He ran his hand through his thick curly hair. “I’m up to my ass in alligators.”
Coming from anyone else, the expression would have sounded contrived, but Thibodeaux was born and raised on the Louisiana bayou. It was his unconventional background that made him one of Brick’s favorite prosecutors. Unlike so many Ivy League Law Review types with the right political connections who filled the ranks of the office, Thibodeaux had taken a different path. He’d dropped out of school at sixteen, went to work on the oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico, eventually got his GED, graduated with honors from LSU, and went to law school at Tulane when he turned thirty. His work in post-Katrina New Orleans caught the attention of a group of volunteer attorneys from D.C. who encouraged him to make the move north.
Boxes of archived case files made passage into the usually neat office difficult, but Brick managed to make his way to the only chair that wasn’t piled high with stuff. Even Thibodeaux’s desk was cluttered with what appeared to be evidence envelopes. Brick had no idea what was going on, but he was sure that whatever it was, it was big.
“I look like a candidate for one of those hoarder shows, don’t you think?”
Brick glanced up as Thibodeaux reappeared carrying a can of Diet Pepsi and two bags of chips.
“Breakfast of champi
ons?” Brick asked.
“I wish.” Thibodeaux tore open one of the bags and stuffed a couple of chips in his mouth. “Time will tell if that’s how I’m thought of when this is said and done.”
“What is all this stuff?”
“Can’t say.” Thibodeaux took a swig of soda then looked for a clear space on his desk where he could place the can. “But if it is what it seems, you’ll know. Trust me, everyone will know unless they’re living under a rock. In the meantime, I owe you an apology. I had to postpone the grand jury and forgot to call you.”
“No problem.” Brick appreciated his honesty rather than blaming the oversight on a subordinate. “Although if I had known, I would have chosen more appetizing reading material this morning.”
“I hear ya—don’t want to be chowing down on some crispy bacon and looking at pictures of what was left of that poor barbequed bastard. I know he had a rap sheet longer than my arm but he didn’t deserve that. Nobody does.” Thibodeaux took another sip of soda and tried unsuccessfully to keep from belching. “Pardon me. I hate postponing the case, but it’s not my decision.”
“I understand.” Brick reached over and caught a thick file as it was about to topple to the floor. “By any chance, did you see Blancato’s news conference yesterday?”