Horns of the Devil - Jeff Trask [02] (18 page)

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Chapter Seventeen

Tuesday, August 29

“H
e’s inside.” Carter spoke into the hand-held as he kept his binoculars trained on the rear door to the car wash. The Buick was parked in what had become its customary place. The
Maras
were used to seeing it there, a fixture in the back of the shop a block away, probably owned by a shopkeeper who always worked late or who even lived in the back of his store. Tim Wisniewski sat on the passenger side. He, like Carter, had reclined his bucket seat and had binoculars fixed on the car wash.

Inside the surveillance van, parked behind Carter’s Buick along the wall of the store in the strip mall and out of sight of the car wash, Doroz and Crawford adjusted the volume on their headsets. Doroz checked his watch: 11:36 p.m. He made a note on a pad; the time would be used later for the surveillance report.

“We’ve got him loud and clear, Dix,” Crawford said. “The transmitter’s working fine.”

The voice of Peewee James filled their ears and several bytes of digital memory on the recorder that was running inside the van.

“You boys been busy in here,” Peewee was saying. “Yeah, I like what you done to the place, know what I’m sayin’? Waitin’ room’s all cleaned up, new service desk…Place is lookin’
gooood
.”

“Esteban is in the office,” another voice said. This one had a Spanish accent to it.

“Definitely not Peewee.” Doroz nodded toward Crawford.

The bad guys didn’t suspect anything, and they’d already confirmed where Peewee was heading. Probable cause in progress.

“Whollaa ameeego.” Peewee’s Spanish was atrocious. “Damn, you been remodelin’ in here, too. Office looks like a professional place of biz-ness. New panelin’ and a nice desk. Uptown.”

“What do you want, my friend?” Esteban Ortega asked.

“I wuz wantin’ to get some more of that fine kush that you sold me on Wednesday,” Peewee answered.

“How much did you want?”

“Just enough to get me through to the weekend…maybe a couple a pounds? I got a late order from a new buyer.”

“The ticket for that is twelve thousand, since you are a regular customer.”

Doroz and Crawford heard the crinkling of the paper bag as the money was dumped on the desk. They’d given Peewee the sack of cash prior to sending him in, after recording all the serial numbers. If the
Maras
were foolish enough to hold the cash, and if it was recovered later, the recorded bills would be further evidence of the dope purchase. Crawford and Doroz heard the rustling of plastic.

“Probably a grocery sack,” Doroz observed. Crawford nodded again.

“Two pounds,” Ortega said.

“I’ll probably see you again next week,” Peewee said. The sound of rustling plastic indicated that Peewee was checking to see that the bag was appropriately filled with his merchandise. “Think I could pick up another forty or fifty by then?”

“You know where to find us, and you know the ticket,” Ortega said.

The rustling of the plastic became rhythmic, telling Doroz that their informant was now walking toward the exit.

“He’s outside,” Carter said over the radio. “Carrying two white grocery sacks. He’s in his car, backing out.”

Fifteen minutes later, the van, the Buick, and the Ford Taurus driven by Peewee James were side by side in a parking lot on the grounds of Gallaudet College. Doroz and Carter took the marijuana and put it in an evidence bag while Crawford retrieved the transmitter from Peewee, who seemed to be enjoying his new role.

“How’d I do?” he asked Carter.

“Fine, just fine.”

“Lemme know when you want me to wire up again. Next week, maybe?”

“We’ll see, Peewee,” Carter said, shooting a glance at Doroz, who immediately read the look and smiled. It always seemed to go this way. Junkies were junkies, even for adrenaline. They never wanted to get involved, but once they were, they got a kick out of being
a spy
. The trick was to make sure they didn’t brag about it to their homies or girlfriends. That could blow an investigation, get them shot, or both.

“Did I help myself?”

“Everything you do will go to the judge and be taken into account at your sentencing,” Doroz said. “Yeah, you helped yourself. Just remember: anybody else hears about this, and your cooperation all turns to obstruction. No braggin’ to the ladies or even your momma. If you do, a big positive turns into a big negative and maybe even more charges. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.” Peewee’s voice reflected just enough disappointment to tell Doroz that the warning had been necessary.

They did another search on Peewee’s person and his car, a repeat of the one performed prior to the buy. No unauthorized dope, money, or weapons going into the operation, none coming out. Everything was kosher.

“Nice work, everyone,” Doroz said. “Let’s go home.”

He followed the Buick out of the parking lot, heading back on New York Avenue toward the FBI field office. The Buick made the light a few blocks later, but the van didn’t.

“Shit,” Doroz muttered to himself. It was already another late night, and he still had a report to write. His eyes followed the taillights of the Buick as it headed southwest toward the center of town. Those taillights suddenly swerved violently to the right and off the road.

August 30, 1:47 a.m.

The low, steady growl woke Trask, and he raised his head from the pillow to look at the clock on the dresser. There was no digital display in the dark. He turned toward what should have been the red indicator light on the alarm control panel on the wall. Nothing there, either. There was just enough light from the gas streetlamp outside filtering through the bedroom curtains to keep it from being pitch black in the room, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw that Boo was by the door, teeth bared.

Oh hell, not again!

He shook Lynn awake, putting a finger over her mouth to warn her to stay quiet.

“The power’s out,” he whispered, “and something has Boo stirred up.”

She nodded, and he saw that she had already retrieved the .45 from its place in the headboard. He rolled quietly out of bed and pulled the Glock from the holster on top of the dresser.

A loud knock on the door made Boo start barking, a chorus that Nikki immediately joined.

Lynn had located the flashlight that had become their other headboard accessory. “Assassins don’t usually knock,” she said.

Trask opened the bedroom door slowly.
No machetes this time.
He climbed the six steps to the landing and the front door. The knocking resumed just as he put his eye to the peephole, and Trask’s nerves almost sent him tumbling backward down into the lower level.

“Jeff?” It was the voice of Barry Doroz.

Lynn came up the steps in her robe, holding the flashlight in one hand, the .45 in the other. His own robe was over her left arm. He pulled it on and opened the door. Doroz stepped inside, then lurched backward as Boo made a lunge up the stairs, growling.

Trask dropped, grabbing the big dog by the collar just before she got to Doroz. “It’s OK, girl,” he said.

Boo sniffed at Doroz’ feet for a moment, then relaxed and headed back down the stairs, satisfied that there was no threat.

“Whoa! That’s one big dog there, Jeff,” Doroz said. “Thanks for not letting her eat me. What kind is she?”

“A giant Yorkie,” Trask said. “Very rare and very dangerous. What’s up, Bear, and what time is it?”

“About two. Power’s out all over your neighborhood.”

“I’m glad it’s not just us,” Lynn said.

“Did the buy go south?” Trask asked.

“No, it went down like clockwork. I’ll have a report to you on Monday and you can start writing the application for the bug.”

“Then why—?”

“It’s Dixon Carter, Jeff. He had a heart attack driving back from the buy. Ran off the road and hit a tree. Tim was with him, and he’s OK, but Dix is in rough shape. I thought you’d want to know.”

“Where is he?”

“Medstar, at George Washington. Tim and Crawford are there with him, and Willie Sivella’s on the way. I just thought you’d want to know.”

“Of course. Thanks.”

“You can ride with me if you want.”

“We’re both coming,” Lynn said.

They rushed through the automatic doors from the entrance to the emergency room at George Washington Hospital. Trask saw a doctor speaking to Sivella and Crawford.

“It could have been worse. He only got some bruises in the crash.”

Trask was relieved to hear the words, and was also glad that the ER doctor looked like he was old enough to have attended medical school. The man had some gray around the temples and spoke with the quiet authority of confidence.

“I’d call this a big warning,” the doctor said, now directing his words to the group. “Preliminary tests don’t show much damage, and there doesn’t seem to be any arterial blockage. We see these things sometimes in cases of acute exhaustion. He admitted he hasn’t been getting much sleep.”

“If he’s been where I think he’s been, I’m gonna kill him myself,” Sivella said.

“You’ll have to wait a while,” the doctor said. “I’m keeping him for at least a week. Make him rest, run some more tests to make sure we haven’t missed anything.”

“Keep him as long as you like,” Sivella said, calming down. “Maybe this will be the wake-up call he needs.”

“What he needs is
no
wake-up calls for a few days,” the doc countered. “I’m about to knock him out. He needs sleep more than anything.”

“No visitors for now, then?” Doroz asked.

“Not tonight. He’s already had a mild sedative. He’ll be OK. Just give him a few days.”

The doctor headed back toward the row of ER beds separated by drawn curtains. Trask saw Tim Wisniewski emerging from one. He had a butterfly bandage across his forehead.

“My airbag didn’t work,” Tim said. “Goddamn rundown police car. I gave the windshield a tap with my Polish skull.”

“You OK otherwise?” Trask asked.

“I think so. I just seem to keep needing a ride home every time I go out with Dix.”

Wisniewski rode home with Sivella. Trask and Lynn were transported back to Waldorf by Doroz, who crashed on the couch in their den, his arm resting on the back of a very large dog.

“Boo seems to have found a new friend,” Lynn whispered as she slipped under the covers.

“‘Love the One You’re With.’ Stephen Stills, I believe.”

She swatted him. “Turn off your jukebox and go to sleep.”

.

Chapter Eighteen

Saturday, September 2

T
rask knocked first, but pushed the door open and entered the room without waiting for an invitation. “Been getting some sleep?”

“Chemically induced.” Carter more than filled the hospital bed, and he did not look pleased to be doing so. “They knock me out about two hours after every meal. Give me a while to eat and hit the head, then it’s time for the zombie juice. No telling when it wears off. I wake up in the middle of the night and watch some really bizarre TV. Seems like half the stuff on A&E is based on swamp people in Louisiana doing some really crazy stuff. You grew up down there, didn’t you?”

“Not in the swamps.” Trask laughed. “About ninety miles northwest of New Orleans, not south of there in the bayous. University town in Mississippi. Hattiesburg.”

“Mississippi, huh? That’s why all us black folks love you so much.”

Trask chuckled again. “Northern bias and mythology. Mississippi is two states. It’s actually the northern half that’s still fighting the War of Northern Aggression. The southern half of the state has long had strange things the northern half only recently acquired. Population, education, Catholics, Republicans. Even when the state was dry, we got real booze from Slidell and New Orleans… didn’t have to brew our own and run moonshine.”

“What happened to your accent?”

“It was never that thick. Dad didn’t really have one. When I first met Lynn, she thought I was from the Midwest. My
mom
could give you a real good Scarlett O’Hara when she felt like it.” He cleared his throat. “Jeeahfrree, would youuu go owwt siiide and mow the graissss?”

Carter laughed hard. “I never understood how you could get three syllables out of a one-syllable word.”

“If you ever decide to venture into our primitive little backwoods from this fine mecca of civility with its ever-increasing homicide rate, I’ll be happy to translate for you.”

“Ouch. Point taken. Speaking of the case—”

“I’m not going to speak of the case, Dix. Big as it is, I just came by to see if you were following orders for once and getting some damn shut-eye. We’re making do, and it will still be there when you’re back on your feet. Any idea when they’ll let you out?”

“Not yet. Lots of tests on the ticker. Nothing serious, so I’m told. Dodged the big one. I
am
resting a lot…hell, too much. I walk the halls once in a while to keep from getting bedsores. Have to drag this pole on wheels with me everywhere. I think Willie Sivella hid a GPS in it.”

Trask laughed. Carter finally cracked up at his own joke.

“Tim’s been in and out quite a bit,” Carter said.

Good!
Trask thought.
He actually appreciates that.

“I have to chase him out some nights, make sure that HE gets some rest,” Carter continued. “We watch swamp and duck and gator and catfish shows together until they kick the visitors out. You aren’t a Cajun are you?”

“It’s Trask, Dix. No ‘eaux’ in the name.”

“Good. That makes me feel better, I think.”

“You’d
want
some good Cajun folk with you if you were in the bayous. And a Louisiana cop would want you on his six if he had to look for a perp in Anacostia.”

“I might pay to see that.
Detective Boudreaux Goes to Washington
.”

Trask laughed again. “Glad to see you’re feeling better.”

There was another knock, and Tim Wisniewski walked in carrying what smelled like some very good barbeque in some sort of flat container. “They try hard, but it’s still hospital food,” he said.

Trask nodded and looked over his shoulder at Carter as he headed for the door. “Shift change, Dix. I’ll stop by again.”

Wisniewski waited until the door closed behind him to pull the folder from under the tray. “Here are the other report copies you asked for, Massa Dixon.”

“When I’m out of here—”

“When you get out, I’m driving. This lump on my head still hurts. Where’s my list of assignments?”

“Right here.” Carter rolled to one side and pulled another folder out from under the sheets.

“Wonderful. You’ve been lying on that,” Wisniewski said. “You don’t have a back on that gown yet, do you?”

“No,” Carter smiled. “And I had cabbage for lunch, too.”

It was a Saturday, and Trask was startled when his phone rang at the Triple-nickle.

“Jeff Trask.”

“I hoped you’d be in your office today, Mister Trask. It’s Mitchell Clark. I represent—”

“Santos. I remember, Mitch.”
I have no idea if that’s what your friends call you, but
I think I know why you’re on my phone.

“Yes. As you recall, it’s my first case here, and I wanted to see if there was anything my client could do to help himself out of the hole he’s dug.”

“There could be. Let me first ask you, however, if you’ve spoken to him about this yet?”

“No. I wanted to check with you first, to see if it’s even worth the effort to try and persuade him to cooperate in some manner.”

“Good. My answer is yes, he can help himself, and no, you should not talk to him about it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You couldn’t be expected to on your first case. Let Mr. Santos get used to the idea of spending a significant chunk of the rest of his existence in a federal maximum security facility and hear of the joys of such a life from his current roomies, some of whom have already been to those resorts. Let him come to you with
his
idea that he wants to help himself. That way you don’t have to try and hard-sell him, and more importantly, if he never has this epiphany, you don’t end up on our victim list.”

“I’m glad I called. Thank you, Mr. Trask.”

“It’s Jeff, Mitch. See you around.”