Horns of the Devil - Jeff Trask [02] (12 page)

.

“Wonderful,” Trask said. “At least our friends at the
Post
don’t have a freakin’ clue that this might be tied to our current investigation. Of course, neither do
we
.” Trask glanced at the article again, but another, smaller story caught his eye. He slid the paper back toward Doroz. “Look at the story on the left edge.”

“‘Local defense attorney found murdered’?” Doroz asked.

“Yep. Darren Regan. It says he was found in his office, handcuffed, sitting in a chair, and shot in the back of the head.”

“Disgruntled client?” Lynn asked.

“Could be,” Trask said. “Of course, the last client I saw him with in federal court was the driver of the MS-13 van we pulled over.”

“
Godammit!”
Doroz said, exasperated. “I’d like to get a handle on one part of this thing before three other bricks fall on my head. Dix, can you—”

“Call Commander Sivella and get the reports on the Regan murder?” Carter asked. “Got it. If he’s still talking to me.”

“Thanks. Anybody else got any thoughts?”

“We’re lucky to be ahead of the press on this, for now,” Trask observed. “If they had any inkling that the machete guys at my place or this murder of Regan even
might
be related to the killing of the ambassador’s kid, some beat writer would be smelling a Pulitzer, and we’d have the press and every worrywart and glory hound in DOJ
and
FBI headquarters down here. We don’t
know
they’re related for sure, so there’s no point in speculating about it yet, even to our respective bosses. What I’m saying is we need to keep a very tight lid on this mess for now, please.”

“Hell, yes,” echoed Doroz. “We need to keep the headquarters weenies out of this mess until we know what the mess is. Everybody here is now a clam, got it?”

August 22, 5:50 p.m.

Dixon Carter pulled the green Buick into the driveway of his town home and sat for a moment. The meeting with Sivella had been about what he had expected: cool and very official. Carter had copies of the homicide file Doroz had asked for; that hadn’t taken long. Neither had the follow-on ass-chewing. The initial confrontation at the FBI office had taken place while the commander was merely mad. Sivella had now had two full days to think about it, had gotten even madder, and had taken plenty of time to prepare his remarks. Carter’s ears were still burning with them.

“I don’t care who you are, how many commendations you’ve earned, how long you’ve been around. You still take orders, goddammit. And don’t try to hide behind your partner, who’s trying to cover for you. This better not happen again, and believe me, I’ll know if it does. Got it?”

“
I’ll know if it does.” How is he going to know? Does he think he could have one of
those new kids tail me without me knowing about it? Fat chance. He’d have to—WAIT A
MINUTE!

Carter got out and walked to the rear of the Buick. He bent down and ran his hand along the underside of the frame in front of the bumper.

Nothing yet…smooth…nothing…nothing…THERE!

He stood up and went inside to change, returning a short time later in sweats. He pulled a creeper out from under his tool bench and grabbed a flashlight before lying down and wheeling alongside the rear of the car. The flashlight’s beam found the device where he had felt it.

Is it hard-wired or a slap-on? No wires. A slap-on. Battery-powered.

Carter pulled the device from the frame and examined it.

One of the Department’s newest and best. A GPS set to ping every five minutes. Enough
battery power to last four months at that setting. You wouldn’t have to follow me with this, would
you, Cap? Never thought I’d suspect you would waste one of these expensive little gizmo’s checking
on your own guy. Pretty clever. Sit at your desk and check on my whereabouts without having to
leave the building. Probably have the software to monitor it on your laptop. Check on me from your
home after dinner or before you go to bed.

He put the GPS unit on the garage shelf.

Check away, boss. Your little bug will tell you that I’m all tucked in tonight.

Carter went for what appeared to be a jog through the neighborhood, the real purpose of which was to determine if he was under any
human
surveillance sent to double-check the electronic rat he’d found on the car. After circling the blocks in front of and behind his residence and finding nothing out of the ordinary, he returned to the garage, started the Buick, and drove away.

August 22, 9:30 p.m.

Lynn entered the code on the electronic alarm, activating it. The little box chirped three times, indicating that all was now secure at Castle Trask. They’d had one of the control units installed in the den and the other in the bedroom, so that if the power was cut, they’d know from the lack of the monitor lights on the box. She glanced over at the couch across the den, where Boo lay stretched out over the lap of her husband, who was stroking the big dog’s head. Trask saw the amusement on her face.

“Why did this one decide to adopt me?” he asked. “You get the twenty-pound shadow, I get this monster.”

“She loves her daddy, and he loves her.”

“I think my whole lower half ’s asleep. No blood flow. Where’s Nikki?”

“Asleep on the pillow at the foot of our bed.”

“OK. Where’s the gun?”

“Loaded and ready in the headboard. You expecting another attack?”

“We have to be ready for one. I have to admit I don’t know
what
to expect at this point.”

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“That whoever sent those guys was more concerned about having us killed with machetes than having us killed.”

“You lost me on that one.”

“Think about it. If your primary goal is to whack somebody, there are a hundred ways more certain to achieve that purpose than a machete attack. Guns are great, car bombs are, too. Chemical agents, poisons…Don’t get me wrong. I think we were supposed to die that night. I just think that the message was more in the machetes than in the success of the attack.”

“So the fact that it failed doesn’t necessarily mean that they—whoever ‘they’ are—will be back?”

“I don’t know. As long as we’re supposed to think we were attacked by members of one of the
Maras
, then the message has been received, even if we’re still alive and kicking. Or maybe they were trying to either kill us, or if we survived, get us thrown off the case as potential victim witnesses. You know, build in a conflict of interest.”

“You’re saying that someone else wants us to think the
Maras
are after us, but they really aren’t?”

“Look at all your research, Lynn. When MS-13 hits somebody, they leave calling cards all over the damn place. They wrapped the ambassador’s kid in a 76er’s jersey and carved every variety of the number thirteen into his flesh before they cut his head off. You drive into their turf, and they’ve spray-painted their little blue slogans on every wall in the hood. Don’t you think they would have tried to take public credit for this, even though it failed?”

“Maybe they were planning to tag our house after we were killed.”

“And maybe their new pledge class is made up of middle-aged goons who were going to get jumped in after this big assignment—a new cure for a midlife crisis. I don’t buy it. Maybe they
did
intend to graffiti the place up after they killed us. Who knows?” He shook his head. “Maybe I’ll never walk again after I lose the use of both legs because this moose thinks I’m nesting material. Boo, wake up and move.”

The big dog climbed down from the couch, then sprawled at Trask’s feet, gazing up at him with powder blue eyes with a look that questioned why she’d been so cruelly banished.

“You’re so mean,” Lynn said.

“Shit,” he said, reaching down and stroking Boo’s back. “You’re OK, Boo, you just don’t realize that you’re not a puppy anymore.”

“Actually, she still is. She could grow a bit bigger, as young as she is.”

“Great. I’ll have to dig a septic tank in the backyard just for the Boo-poo. Have you seen the size of those mounds she drops?”

“They’re both wonderful dogs, Jeff, and worth every little bit of trouble they bring with them.”

He reached down and scratched the big black head again. “Come on, sentry,” he said. “I’m tired, and it’s time for you to take your post.” He headed for the bedroom, mentally humming a song by Lobo. “Me and You and a Dog Named Boo.”
Way to go, genius. Try getting that one out of your head now.

August 23

At 2:45 a.m., Carter parked the Buick in the garage. He pulled the creeper out and reattached the GPS onto the car’s frame. His stakeout of the car wash had been a waste of time for once.
All quiet on the Eastern Front
, he told himself as he sank into the recliner.

At 3:17 a.m., Esteban Ortega lowered the handgun and sneered at the man writhing in pain on the floor of the car wash before him. Blood was running from the gunshot wound in the man’s left thigh down into the track slots between the brushes on either side of the wash area. Ortega bent down close to the man, whose forehead bore a “666” tattoo. Seven other members of the MS-13 stood by, grinning, insulting the victim, urging their leader on.

“You know you will die tonight, amigo,” Ortega said. “It is your misfortune that you are the only coward from Barrio 18 that we could find on the street. No matter; you are only the first, and there will be more. Two of my soldiers died here last week as the result of your attack. More were arrested and are sitting in jail. I will kill four of you for each one of us that falls.” Ortega pulled his shirt off, revealing a torso covered with the inked insignia of the MS-13. “This is what a
man’s
chest looks like. And I don’t want your worthless blood staining my shirt.

“I do have one offer to make you tonight,” Ortega continued as he pulled a large hunting knife from a scabbard on his belt. He held the knife in his left hand; the gun was still in his right. “You can tell us who ordered the raid that killed my soldiers last week, and where we can find the
putas
who did it. In that case,” he raised the gun, “you can die quickly. If you do not talk,” the hand with the knife went up, “you will scream instead.”