Horns of the Devil - Jeff Trask [02] (9 page)

.

Chapter Ten

August 18

R
oss Eastman was looking out the window of his very large corner office on the fifth floor of the Triple-nickle, his back to Trask, Doroz, and Bill Patrick, the Criminal Division chief and Trask’s immediate superior. Eastman was the epitome of a Washington political appointee. His manner, grooming, dress, and credentials were impeccable. He was average in height, average in weight, and average in actual legal ability, which made him a danger to no one—especially not to those in the halls of Congress where he had formerly been employed as counsel to the House Judiciary Committee. He had, accordingly, been a smashing success there and had been granted his appointment of choice, which turned out to be United States Attorney for the District of Columbia.

Eastman’s strength, however, was actually one of
character
. He was the Washington anomaly, the public servant who actually wished to serve the public, even if it meant that his own interests might not be best served. He had learned he could best serve the nation in his current position by making sure that the most talented assets in his office got the assignments that required the most talent, and he provided those assets with any support at his disposal. Their successes then became his own.

“This isn’t the end of this thing, is it, Jeff?”

“I really doubt it,” Trask said. “Bear and the local guys were only able to pick off the van that had the MS-13 shooting team. Our guys rolled in on them while they were stopped at a light before they crossed the line into Maryland. There was a small Chevy with the van. The Chevy was on the hot sheet; the van wasn’t. Whoever was in the car peeled out and went through the light and around the squad car that blocked the van. The Maryland cops found the Cavalier abandoned about a mile away, nobody in sight.”

“We concentrated on the van because we figured it had the shooters, Ross.”

Doroz was completely comfortable using the US Attorney’s first name. He’d worked cases with Eastman years before, when the latter had been just a line prosecutor. That history and his own reputation in the FBI gave Doroz the freedom to speak his mind. Besides, someone else wrote
his
report card, so he’d decided to deflect the harder issues away from Trask.

“The gangbangers like to roll by and slide the side doors open on those things, then light their targets up with the AKs.”

“I can’t fault your decision there, Barry,” Eastman said. “And it’s good that you got them before they killed somebody. Plus, you got them before they crossed into Maryland, so we get to control the case, for now. We’ve got venue, District of Maryland doesn’t. What charges do you have, Jeff?”

“Illegal possession of machine guns. Four shooters in the back of the van, four fully automatic AKs. We don’t want to charge a conspiracy yet—might give us double-jeopardy issues for what we anticipate will be an overall conspiracy indictment later. The driver gets charged as an aider and abetter, and he’s already on paper: probation for a tax case. They’re all MS-13 troops. Tats and colors, the works. Two from El Salvador and two from Honduras. The driver is a US citizen, born in LA.”

“Did you serve the Vienna Convention notices?”

“Yes, sir. We had the initial appearances this morning, and I put the consul notification forms, in Spanish, in front of each defendant. Not one opted for the notification.”

“That’s a little strange, isn’t it? Not wanting your home government to know you’ve been arrested and locked up?”

“I really don’t think so,” Doroz intervened again. “Our analysis on the
Maras
right now shows that they have nothing but contempt for the new government in El Salvador, and the gangs are
really
at war with the new military regime in Honduras.”

Eastman turned back toward the window again. “I got a call from the White House this morning, guys,” he said when he finally turned back toward them. “Not the Attorney General, the
White House
. The president’s chief of staff told me that he wanted to make sure I had my best team on this. They don’t want an international gang war breaking out in our capital city.”

“Do you have any suggestions other than what we’re already doing, Ross?” Patrick asked. The question was an honest one, not a suck-up. There was no deception in Bill Patrick, a great walrus of a man well over both six feet and three hundred pounds with a large moustache that curled down around the corners of his mouth. He had moved into the criminal division chief ’s office when Robert Lassiter died.

“No, I don’t,” Eastman responded quickly. “I
do
think we have our best people on it, both from our office and the Bureau. I just have a bad feeling about this.”

“If it’s any consolation—and I know it’s not—so do we, Ross.” Doroz was standing and pacing about the room as if it were his own office. “Dix Carter is convinced that the car wash double homicide was just meant to
look
like a gang drive-by, with the purpose of starting a local firefight between the MS-13 and M-18 cliques.”

“I hear that Detective Carter has been a bit off the reservation lately.”

Damn. I thought we had a lid on that,
Trask thought
. Ross has his own sources watching us.

“A bit.” Doroz knew not to try to minimize the problem, which was now exposed. “I think we’ve addressed that, and he’s still the best detective the Metro Police can give us. You did say that’s what you wanted?”

“Of course, and I know he’s a fine detective,” Eastman retreated. “Just as long as you think he’s still contributing to the investigation.”

“He’s contributing a lot,” Doroz said. “Despite the personal problems, he sees things the rest of us miss. His instincts are still flawless.”

“I hope so. If this thing gets out of control, gentlemen, people with agendas that have nothing to do with justice or law enforcement are going to start playing in our little sandbox, and I’ll have no shot at controlling things at that point. Each and every problem with the case will be viewed through the political microscopes, fair or not.”

“We know that, too, Ross,” Doroz responded, “and the last thing
I
want is my own headquarters breathing down the back of my neck while we try to get some real work done.”

“Then we’re all on the same page,” Eastman said. “Bill, this is Jeff ’s only priority for now. I want you to reassign every other case on his calendar to somebody else. Give him whatever extra bodies he needs.”

“Understood,” Patrick said.

“Can I pass on the extra bodies for now?” Trask asked.

Eastman looked surprised. “Why is that?”

“Too many cooks in the kitchen, for one thing,” Trask replied, “and like you said, it will probably come to more if this gets worse. Right now, Ross, this is an investigation, not a prosecution, except for my five new friends and their assault rifles. That’s an easy case and won’t require any legal genius. I think we need to minimize the possibility of any leaks right now, and frankly, I’d like to know how you found out about our problems with Dixon Carter.”

“A point well taken.” Eastman smiled. “My info comes from Willie Sivella. I had lunch with him yesterday.”

“That’s reassuring then, I think,” Trask said. “Anyway, I promise to come running for help if I think I’m getting over my head.”

“Good. Then go fix this thing. I know we’re in a reactive business, but if you guys have ever had luck with crystal balls, now’s the time to pull them out. I need to convince the freaking White House that we’re on top of this.”

The intercom on Eastman’s phone buzzed. “Yes?”

“It’s the Attorney General for you, Mr. Eastman.”

“See?” Eastman said. He waved them out as he reached for the phone.

August 19

It was 2:27 a.m. in the house at the end of Amwich Court in the Saint Charles neighborhood of Waldorf, Maryland. Trask stared at the ceiling, unable to stop his mind from racing.

They’d gone back to the squad room after the meeting with Eastman, and he’d listened to Doroz, Carter, Lynn, Tim, Puddin’, and everyone else thinking out loud for the better part of the afternoon. None of it made sense. Spinning wheels going nowhere. Theory after theory, each one without a firm foundation, crumbling into sand when subjected to any real analysis. A sniper, a gang raid that may not have been a gang raid. A dead ambassador’s son. White House interest.

What the hell was going on?

He drifted off. The dream was not a good one.

Mom’s reading the thermometer. She’s worried. Talking to Dad. A hundred and seven. Doc
Huddleston said to get me to the ER. I’m four, I think. Four or five. Burning up with fever. They
throw me in a tub of ice water. I’m screaming.

He forced himself to wake up again. The sheets on his side of the bed were soaked in his sweat. He sat up.

He looked at Lynn sleeping peacefully beside him, the dry side of the top sheet draped across her bare shoulders. She’d struck out so far in finding out anything at all about José Rios-García, old Mr. Eye Patch. There’d been nothing on the web. A complete blank slate in the information avalanche of the digital age.

That doesn’t make sense. Public figures can’t hide from the web.

He was glad they’d transferred the master bedroom downstairs into the newly finished basement level. They had more room, and it was cooler. Even so, it was still too warm. A ceiling fan for the bedroom might be the next order of business.

You’re still sweating, even down here. Go to the den. There’s a fan in there. Watch a little tube.
Get a drink. Get your mind off of it. Close the files.

He tried to bring the music into his mind, something peaceful to settle the agitation. The jukebox wouldn’t start. He sat up on the bed.

This isn’t good. Every time the music won’t play something is really screwed up. FUBAR,
in fact.

He was reaching for the handle on the bedroom door when he heard it. A faint sound from outside the room like the brush of clothing against the drywall. He pulled his hand back and froze.

Did you really hear something, or is your head working triple-overtime?

He considered waking Lynn, but decided against it after listening and hearing nothing more outside the room.

Be quiet just to make sure. The door hinges! No, they’re OK now. She had me WD-40 ’em
last week. They won’t squeak. Probably nothing to worry about, anyway.

He turned the handle slowly, silently, opening the door a crack.

Your imagination’s running wild, idiot.

His heart was racing anyway. He opened the door slowly and began to stick his head out to look to the left, up the stairs. The adrenaline and the last-second glimpse of a shadow enabled him to duck under the machete as it sliced the air above his head and dug into the doorframe, sticking there.

“LYNN!” Trask screamed her name as he bull-rushed the figure in front of him. He drove his assailant back hard against the edge of the wet bar across the room and pounded his fist into the man’s face as hard as he could. The punch seemed to have no effect, and the guy retaliated with an uppercut that caught Trask square in the gut. He felt the air leave his body and the weakness hit his legs, dropping him to the floor.

Shit! There’s another one behind me!

He rolled instinctively to his left, grabbing the first attacker’s foot with his right hand and pulling it out from under the man, who came down on top of him. The second shadow had to halt his own machete stroke in midair as he waited for an open swing. The first man pushed off Trask, who was still on the floor.

I still can’t breathe!

He looked up as machete number two was rising in preparation for the downswing.

Got to get the left arm up, shield my head and neck!

The first shot from the Smith and Wesson .45 entered the back of the skull of machete-man number two and exited his head just below the left eye, depositing an impressive amount of blood and brain matter on the wall behind the bar. The machete hit the floor just before the lifeless hand that had dropped it.

The second round entered the
front
of the skull of machete-man number one, who had started his own rush toward the shooter, dropping him eight inches from her feet. Since number one had dropped into a crouch before his rush toward Lynn, the blood and brains from
his
exit wound sprayed all over her husband.

Trask caught his breath and scrambled over to her, kicking both corpses as hard as he could. “You killed ’em both, babe. They’re both dead,” he babbled, shaking.

“I had to,” she said, pointing the gun at the corpse lying at her feet. “That one saw me naked.”

Trask stumbled to the light switch across the room. The two bodies lay oozing blood onto the new carpet. He picked up the phone and dialed 911. After alerting the locals, Patrick, Eastman, and Doroz, he sank down in a corner of the rec room, staring vacantly at the corpses.

Lynn came out of the bedroom wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Trask thought he heard a siren screaming from the mouth of the cul-de-sac.