Horns of the Devil - Jeff Trask [02] (20 page)

She kissed him as he held the door open for her. “I called you from here after I took the elevator down,” she said. “I figured you just had that brain of yours immersed in some concentration pool.”

“Sorry.”

“Just take me home, handsome.”

He started the car and switched on the radio as they pulled into traffic. A classic rock station was the selection
du jour
.

“Nothing funkier today?” she asked. Lynn’s preferences were for heavier beats that gave her happy feet.

“I prefer music with a melody,” he said. “Not just bad poetry shouted out by somebody who wouldn’t recognize a key signature, backed by a scratcher who can’t play anything more than a turntable.”

“I suppose it’ll do then.”

The radio began to blare disco, the high falsettos of “Stayin’ Alive.”

Trask wasn’t talking as he drove. He made the turn southeast on the Indian Head Highway.

“What are you thinking about, Jeff?” Lynn asked.

“I was thinking that at least one of the Bee Gees’ parents must have been a sheep, and that disco is the direct and proximate cause of gangsta rap. Somebody
had
to bitch about
this
stuff.” He pushed the seek button on the tuner. Led Zeppelin’s “Ramble On” filled the car.

Much better. Long John Bonham kickin’ syncopated accents on the bass drum. Tolkien’s
Ring
set to some great rock music. These guys put the Beatles to shame. They just didn’t have the same
marketing department.

They pulled into the driveway, and Trask walked to the mailbox while Lynn went to get the dogs and their leashes. He was inside the front door and tossing the mail onto a table as she brought them in from the backyard.

“Anything of interest?” she asked.

“Just bills and what looks like an invitation to the next Air Force Academy reunion in Colorado Springs next month.”

“Wanna go?”

“We’ll have to see what this case looks like a little closer to the date.”

“Some folks you want to see again?”

“Several I’d like to see, sure, even if a couple of ’em are raving liberals.”

“Liberals at a service academy?”

“An equal-opportunity institution. I even liked ’em.”

“I never would have guessed that.”

“You go through enough stress with somebody and you respect how they react to it, even if you’re on the other side of a political aisle. Let’s load the pups.”

The White Plains dog park, just south of the Saint Charles subdivision in Waldorf, Maryland, was open seven days a week, 8:00 a.m. until dusk. With the summer season and daylight savings time, that usually meant about 8:30 p.m. Big as their backyard was, Boo could still lope from one side to the other is about six long strides, and the park’s six acres gave her room to run. The Trask family had tried to make trips to the park a part of their regular routine, whenever their routine was at all regular.

Boo and Nikki jumped into the backseat of the jeep on a sling-style blanket that connected to the headrests of the front and rear seats. Five minutes later, the Jeep pulled into the parking lot of the dog park. Trask opened the rear door and endured the usual tow to the gate, straining to hold the big dog back. Once inside, he removed the leashes and watched in awe as both dogs raced happily toward the center of the park.

“Why aren’t you running with them?” Lynn poked him in the side.

“You mean chasing them. No way that I could keep up with Boo at full throttle.”

“You always told me you were pretty quick.”

“Not that quick. Not even twenty pounds and ten years ago.”

Both dogs came running back to them, the initial sprint having momentarily satisfied their need for speed. Trask and Lynn started walking counter-clockwise on the paved path that ran around the edges of the park. Nikki trotted along just in front of them, her tail curved over her back. Boo performed her usual scouting duties, running ahead fifty yards, then running back toward them, letting them know she had cleared the way of any threats and that the trail was safe ahead.

They were a quarter of the way into their first lap when Trask noticed a figure approaching them on the path about a hundred yards away. A tall man, dressed in dark slacks and a black windbreaker, was walking a leashed dog that was every bit as large as Boo. As the distance between them closed, Trask felt the hair on the back of his neck start to bristle. The man was wearing an eye patch.

He started to call Boo back, but she was already off on her recon mission. Trask turned toward Lynn.

“I see him,” she said before he could warn her.

Boo came loping back. She snorted, and then headed off into the grassy infield.

“Boo doesn’t like him either. Should we turn around?” Lynn asked.

“No. Let’s see what’s happening here.”

When they were about ten yards apart, the man with the eye patch seemed to notice them for the first time.

“Mister Trask. A pleasant surprise. And this must be Mrs. Trask?”

“Yes, Señor Rios. My wife, Lynn.”

You speak English after all, Rios—or whoever you are. American English.

“It is an honor to meet you,” Rios-García said, bowing his head slightly.

Lynn nodded back.

“That’s quite a dog you have there,” Trask said, looking the animal over. It was three feet tall at the shoulders, with a thick chest and massive head.

“Yes, Franco is a Spanish mastiff. I brought him back to El Salvador after my last visit to Castille. My grandparents still live in Spain.”

“Franco?” Trask asked. “After the late Generalissimo?”

“Yes. Very astute of you. I was born in Spain. My parents emigrated to El Salvador after the Generalissimo died.”

“Your English is excellent,” Trask said, “but not European in accent.”

“Thank you. You are correct again. I attended college here in the States.”

The conversation was interrupted by a deep growl as the mastiff suddenly lunged toward Nikki. Trask saw the leash slip from Rios’ hand, and he instinctively bent down to protect the smaller dog and Lynn, who was also reaching for Nikki. His concern was unnecessary. A large, dark blur flashed between them and Rios, slamming into the mastiff and knocking Franco off his feet. Boo stood over the other dog growling, her teeth bared in warning.

Trask took Boo by the collar and pulled her back. Rios grabbed the mastiff ’s leash and angrily barked a command in Spanish. Franco returned to his master’s side. The dog heeled and sat, looking vulnerable and confused.

“My sincere apologies,” Rios said. “That’s quite a dog
you
have. What kind is she?”

For a second, Trask considered making up an exotic breed name. He decided against it. “A hundred percent, pure-bred American mutt,” Trask said, patting Boo on her side. We’re a melting pot, in case you hadn’t heard.”

“Of course I’ve heard,” Rios responded. “Much like our
mestizos
in El Salvador.”

Trask detected a hint of contempt in Rios’s voice. “I’ll hold her until you put some distance between us,” he said, his hand still wrapped around Boo’s collar.

“Of course,” Rios said, nodding toward Lynn. “It was very nice to meet you.”

He turned and gave an angry tug on the mastiff ’s leash, walking back toward the parking lot. Trask and Lynn waited until Rios was a good distance away before following. They circled past the exit gate, watching as the mastiff was loaded into a limousine by a very large man who seemed to be taking directions from Rios. Trask made a mental note of the diplomatic license plate.

STL-467. S for staff. TL—the country code for El Salvador.

He watched the limousine pull away while Lynn took the leashes off the fence and hooked them on the dog’s collars. When they were back in the car, she turned to him.

“That was no accident, was it?”

“Only if you think that members of the Salvadoran diplomatic corps like driving thirty miles out of Washington to walk their dogs.”

“Was it another warning? Was he trying to chase us off the case?”

“I don’t know. I just know it was no chance meeting. I also know that there’s something that doesn’t fit about our man Rios being part of the current government of El Salvador or its embassy here.”

“That Spanish connection?” she asked.

“Yeah, the Franco stuff. If eye patch’s family was connected to Franco and his Nazi-backed goons during the thirties, and if he can’t mention the word
mestizo
without sneering, it makes me wonder how he ended up as deputy to an ambassador appointed by the supposedly egalitarian Farabundo Marti National Liberation Front. Mr. Rios, as he currently calls himself, fancies his pedigree to be as pure as the one for that big weenie of a dog he’s hauling around.”

Trask reached behind the seat while he drove, finding Boo’s furry head in its usual place, looking out the front of the car in the gap between the two front bucket seats. He gave her a long series of head-rubs and ear-scratches. “Hell of a body slam, Boo-boo. Nikki owes you one.”

“He said he went to college here,” Lynn said.

“Yep, but didn’t want to tell us where,” Trask said. “Normally that would have been volunteered. He didn’t want us to have that information. What people hold back is often more important than what they say. There’s a lead in there somewhere.”

“Sure,” Lynn scoffed. “All we have to do is guess what his real name is first, then research historical student roles of every university in the country. Some lead.”

Trask felt his cell phone vibrating in its belt holster. He flicked it open. “Hello?”

“You’d better get back here ASAP, Jeff.” It was Barry Doroz’ voice.

Trask pushed the speakerphone key and handed the phone to Lynn, who held it close to his face while he drove. “Why Bear? What’s up?”

“Tim just called. He was listening to the car wash bug when all hell broke loose. Auto-fire gunshots, screaming, the works. Somebody just hit the MS-13 troops again. Patrol units just got to the car wash. Four dead on the scene.”

“Shit!” Trask pounded the steering wheel. “Any witnesses left alive, Bear?”

“Nope. They’re all dead.”

“We’re on our way. We’ll drop our dogs at the house and meet you there in about thirty, traffic permitting.”

The car wash was a bloodbath, with four corpses perforated by multiple, high-velocity rounds. Trask, with Lynn following in his footsteps, was careful not to tromp on anything that might be considered of evidentiary value as he picked his way toward the hallway that ran parallel to the wash track. His right hand began tapping out a bass line on the seam of his jeans.

“Song?” she asked.

“‘Dead Man’s Party.’ Oingo Boingo, 1985. Danny Elfman. Very tight horn line.”

The first body lay inside the door to the hall from the waiting area. One hand stretched toward the other end of the hall, and the smeared trail of blood that ran from the waiting room to the corpse’s feet showed that he’d been able to crawl a few feet after the bullets found their mark. Someone had finished him off with a shot to the base of the skull, the entry wound indicating that a small-caliber handgun hand been used for the kill shot. Trask looked back at the dead man as he made his way down the hall. The empty eyes stared past him, toward the room at the end of the hallway. The mouth was stretched open, as if calling out.

He was trying to get to the office. Trying to warn the others.

Two other victims were sprawled across the floor in the office doorway. The crime scene techs were looking over a fourth corpse slumped over the blood-soaked desk inside the office. The body was half-sitting in a swivel chair, the back of which was turned sideways.

Hello, Mario. Wish we could have met under better circumstances. Maybe you can tell us a
couple of things, anyway.

Barry Doroz was busy retrieving the bug from the desk telephone. He looked up from a notepad when he saw them. “Welcome to Hell 4.0,” he said. “I’m getting tired of these multiple homicide scenes. I called in some of our guys from the drug squad. Puddin’s with ’em upstairs. They’re processing the marijuana operation in the attic.”

“Did the shooters grab anything upstairs?” Trask asked.

“Not that we could tell. There’s packaged product and a lot of maturing plants. Doesn’t look like anyone was interested in it. Of course, the stair steps weren’t dropped down for access. We had to do that.”

Trask looked at Lynn. She shook her head.

She’s thinking the same thing I am. Other gangbangers would’ve looked for the dope, run off
with it.

Frank Wilkes was in a corner of the office, holding a shell casing up to the light. He answered Trask’s question before it could be asked. “Common 7.62 rounds. The cheap stuff again.”

Trask nodded. He leaned over the desk and looked at the wall behind the body. There were two holes in the sheetrock about four inches apart, each about thirty inches above the baseboard. The hole on the left had some small blood splatter marks encircling it. The one on the right did not. “Frank…” Trask called Wilkes over. “Take a look at this.”

Wilkes peered at the wall over Trask’s shoulder for a moment, then looked at the photographer standing behind them. “You get your shots of the body?” Wilkes asked.