by Samson Weld
She had no one to talk it out with. No mentor on the force. No girlfriend at home. No boyfriend. That last thought hit the hardest. Rocco really did it. He returned to New York City and she’d learned he’d moved straight in with that other woman.
To help distract her wandering mind, Bellucci opened the next e-mail. It came from Wylie PD, a Detective Tanner. Her jaw dropped as she read.
“Holy crap.”
Bellucci got on the phone and called him.
“Hello, Detective Tanner? This is Detective Anna Bellucci, Dallas Homicide,” she said. “I got your e-mail from last night. I’m very interested in the Escalade you found with blood in it. Mateo Osorio is the centerpiece of my investigation.”
Pictures were included, both of the interior and exterior. The front end showed considerable damage and the driver’s seat was bloody.
“Good, glad to be of help,” he said. “And I was just about to send you a follow-up. Mr. Osorio called back to claim the vehicle shortly after I sent that e-mail.”
“Did he have a good reason why there was blood inside, or the damaged grill? It looks like someone was in a fender bender.”
“Well, yes and no. He claimed the vehicle was stolen.”
“Yet, he didn’t call it in as stolen,” Bellucci said. “Who does that?”
“No one I know, but he claimed ignorance. Said he didn’t know it was stolen until we called,” Tanner said. “Anyway, he’s out of our jurisdiction, so we alerted Collin County Sheriff while Mr. Osorio sent a tow truck to pick it up.”
“Damn, that’s interesting, but not too terribly helpful,” she said.
“Well, I spoke with the tow truck driver this morning,” Tanner said. “He told me that there were two other Escalades in the driveway, both shot up, flat tires and all. Also at least one of the house’s windows was smashed out. And best of all, there was a gray Dodge Ram sitting halfway through the front door.”
Bellucci froze. That put Wexler at Osorio’s house. Did he go in thinking he was Rambo or something? The fact Osorio was still alive indicated that the vigilante had failed. She had a bad feeling Wexler might be dead.
Cagle would see that as the end of their case. After all, if Wexler died in Collin County, then it was their job to investigate the murder.
Maybe it’s time I had a little meet and greet with Osorio, sans Cagle.
She thanked Detective Tanner and he promised to send everything they had on the case. No one from her shift had arrived to work yet, so she sent Captain Perot an e-mail advising him of her plans to visit Mateo Osorio at his ranch. She promised she’d be back by noon. And then she left before Cagle arrived.
Bellucci collected the keys to the unmarked squad car and found it on the parking lot. It was a remarkably warm day for the middle of January, at least by New York standards. The locals barely acknowledged it. They expected both warm and cold days during winter, but it was in the high sixties. That was a spring day by her reckoning.
The drive up Central Expressway to Plano proved quicker and easier than anticipated. Everyone was coming into the city, not out. She turned east on Plano Parkway, which turned into FM544, driving through Murphy and then Wylie, before reaching the undeveloped country. She arrived to find a crew replacing the damaged front gates with a crane.
“Osorio doesn’t waste time.”
Bellucci drove past them and up the long, winding drive. Three shiny black Cadillac Escalades were parked in front of the side entry garage. They all still had the dealer tags. She tried to imagine having the kind of money where she could replace a vehicle immediately, without blinking an eye.
She found the circular drive empty, and quite clean. There were a few spots that looked a lot cleaner than others. Had they removed blood stains? All the windows looked pristine, but she did notice a few unpainted patches in the stucco.
She dropped to one knee beside one of the clean spots on the driveway. It had definitely been scrubbed clean in the last few hours. There was a faint stench of bleach. Her eyes searched for spent casings, but only found where sod had been freshly replaced. The ground in that area was soaking wet, too.
“It’s good to be rich,” she muttered. She stood to regard the very impressive Mediterranean style house. Really a McMansion, if not a full mansion. Then she considered how he earned the money to pay for it. “Gives a whole new meaning to being filthy rich.”
A man in a dark suit came around the corner from the garage, even as another stepped out from around the opposite corner, pointing pistols at her.
“Hey, wait a minute…” she began.
That’s when two more Latino men rushed out the front door, waving pistols. They grabbed her arms.
Chapter 39
Ash eased the jeep down the overgrown dirt road.
He wore a lightweight camo suit, with hood, camo cap, and hunting boots. A bright orange camo vest went over it all. A long, narrow case rested in back, with spotter scope and binoculars on the passenger side floorboard. The road was rough, but at least no trees had started growing up in it.
He reached the base of the hill, took the time to turn the old CJ7 around to face back the way he’d just come, and then went around back. The case snapped open, and he pulled out a beautiful 30-06 Winchester deer rifle with scope. It fired a 7.62x63mm round that could take down the largest deer—or drug lord.
Ash removed the bright orange vest. That was urban camouflage, meant to make everyone that saw him believe he was a hunter. That color was too bright, designed for human eyes to locate. He stuffed the hunting vest into the rifle case and closed it.
He shouldered the rifle, gathered up the spotter scope and binoculars, and headed up the hill. Ash trudged up three-quarters of the way to the top before circling around to the other side. His prepared spot sat at the top edge of a small clearing, giving him an unobstructed line of sight to his target.
His “foxhole” was just deep enough for him to lie behind and use the log he’d emplaced as a support. It was covered in dead leaves so it couldn’t be seen from any direction, including above.
Pausing, he lifted the binoculars to his eyes. Focused, spotted him. Ash smiled.
“You won’t suffer like I wanted, but at least it’ll be over,” he muttered.
Of course, one other person would still be alive. Unless he got very lucky. Consuelo sat at the poolside table as well.
Bingo. Maybe not two birds with one shot, but close enough. I hope.
Ash couldn’t imagine Consuelo running for cover as long as Osorio was outside. Naturally, once he figured out his lord and master was dead, the filthy rat would try to save himself.
Settling down in his foxhole, Ash set up his spotter scope first. He used it to confirm the distance. The rifle’s scope was already sighted for that range. The spotter scope zoomed in a lot closer, allowing Ash to see exactly what Osorio and Consuelo were up to. There were eating breakfast.
“Perfect. As your executioner, I’m glad to see you got a last meal.”
Unfortunately, it wasn’t all good news. Osorio ate in shirtsleeves, but protected by a dark blue bulletproof vest. He was toward the end of the 30-06’s effective range, so there was no way the bullet would penetrate to the heart.
It’d still knock the hell out of him, that was for sure. And it might truly put the fear of God in the sorry son of a bitch. But that wasn’t Ash’s goal today. It was time for Osorio to die for his many crimes against Ash, his family, and freaking humanity.
“Fine. A headshot it is,” he said.
Ash sprawled out behind the rifle, feet spread wide to give him the steadiest base. He shouldered the rifle, sighted through the scope, and moved the crosshairs over Osorio’s chest. His trigger finger hovered just outside the trigger guard as he slowly lifted the crosshairs up to the center of Osorio’s face.
“Keep stuffing your face,” he whispered. “I’ll help with an ounce of lead.”
He would have to time it perfectly. Osorio’s head bobbed a little as he ate, turning f
requently to speak with Consuelo. Then both men paused and looked back at the house. More men came out to join them. A woman was being held firmly by two of them.
“Detective Bellucci? What the—”
He couldn’t shoot Osorio in front of the detective. Ash tensed up. Osorio was almost finished with breakfast, so would probably go inside as soon as he finished his business with her.
Had he kidnapped her?
Oh, that pissed Ash off. He sighted in on the drug lord again. If they even tried to hurt her…
Chapter 40
“Let me go,” Bellucci spat as Osorio’s thugs held her arms back. Another ran his hands all over her body in a very inappropriate search. He took her weapon and badge. “It’s a felony to assault a police officer.”
The henchman searching her leered, patted her crotch, “I haven’t even begun to assault you, pig.”
Her breath caught. He looked pleased before turning away.
Bellucci struggled, trying to break free as they hurried her into the house. She kicked, twisted, and tried to jerk her arms free to no avail. They knew how to handle a prisoner.
She didn’t really get a chance to look around. Mostly she had a sense of vastness as they rushed her to open French doors in back. The detective spotted Osorio immediately.
He sat by the pool in a white shirt and bulletproof vest. His chief lieutenant, Consuelo Gomez, ate next to him. They glanced back as she was forced out of the house, cursing a blue streak.
“Who is this?” Osorio asked, sounding bored as he returned to eating French toast and sausage.
“Her badge says she is Anna Bellucci,” the leader of the crew said. He placed her badge and pistol on the table. “A Dallas Homicide detective.”
“Cagle’s partner?” Consuelo asked, giving her a dark look. “What’s she doing here?”
“I’m right here, moron,” Bellucci snapped. “I’m here on official business. So I’ll ask the questions.”
“Feisty,” Osorio said. “I like that in women. Not in cops.”
She finally yanked her arms free and the minions all stepped back. Bellucci felt her face heating up. She hadn’t been manhandled like that since high school.
“Too bad,” she said, giving him her best I’m not pleased look. Osorio wasn’t impressed and continued eating. “The wild, wild west ended a century back, so you can’t get away with grabbing police officers.”
“Why are you here? My lawyer will be filing harassment charges today, I assure you.”
“File away,” she said, then took a moment to calm herself down. Bellucci smoothed down her jacket, glanced at her pistol and badge, and turned back to Osorio. “I have some questions about the recent killings of your men.”
“I don’t know anything about any killings,” Osorio said. “You must have mistaken me for someone else. Maybe Mexicans all look the same to you.”
“Don’t even try to play the race card, mister. We know who you are, what you do, and who works for you,” she said. “We just haven’t caught you red-handed. Yet.”
For a second, she considered telling him she knew that Cagle worked for him. But that would probably lead to a bullet in the back of the head and a shallow grave on his ranch.
“Where is your partner in crime?” Consuelo asked.
Bellucci shrugged. “Late for work, as usual. I’m tired of waiting for him,” she said. “But that’s my problem, not yours.”
She looked around. The grounds covered a few acres. She didn’t see any stables or corrals, or any other structure. Beyond the manicured lawn it became rough, with high weeds, but few trees. The trees started up at the base of the hills, a good five hundred yards away.
“Still believe crime doesn’t pay, Detective Bellucci?” Osorio said. He ate the last bite of French toast, placed his silverware on the plate, and leaned back to observe her. His dark eyes raked over her body several times. “I didn’t realize you were so pretty. You could earn a lot more money, doing a much easier job, if you worked for me.”
That reminded her he was into prostitution, as well as human trafficking. She couldn’t stop the look of disgust from spreading across her face. He chuckled. It wasn’t a pleasant sound.
“I’m not a patient man,” Osorio said. “Say what you came to say and leave.”
That statement lifted a weight off her shoulders. For a moment, she feared he had no intention of letting her go. Whether that mean a shallow grave, or sold overseas, she didn’t want to know.
“I’m trying to find the man responsible for the attacks on your men,” she said. “Though we don’t care for you one bit, the police neither want nor need vigilantes running around shooting everyone up. Anything you can tell me would be helpful.”
“Ah yes, Mr. Ashley Wexler,” Osorio said. “I’d really like to meet him, face-to-face.”
“I bet you would,” she said. “But I hear you had some trouble up here yesterday, making me wonder.”
He gave her a speculative look.
“I would be very grateful and generous to anyone, like you, if they were to catch him, and then bring him to me,” he said. “I could really use someone like you.”
Was that confirmation that Wexler had escaped? Or just a really bad attempt to get her on the payroll?
“I don’t think so, Mr. Osorio,” she said through clenched teeth. “And attempting to bribe a police officer is also a felony.”
Osorio and his men found that amusing.
“I must seem quite the felonious fellow to you, Miss Anna,” he taunted. His eyes hardened. “Think about it. A cop’s pension isn’t much and it isn’t really a guarantee. In case no one informed you, the city had made several attempts to cut your retirement benefits in recent years.”
Was that how he got Cagle? It was true, Dallas police officers were still in a struggle with the city about their pension plan. The situation was enough to make her hesitate taking the job. In the end, it had been either Dallas or staying on at the increasingly hostile NYPD. The choice had been easy.
Osorio stood, along with Consuelo. The thugs moved up behind her. Bellucci tensed, eyes darting to her pistol just out of reach. Osorio and Consuelo flanked it, so could close in immediately if she made a play for her weapon. The drug lord noticed where her eyes went and smiled.
“Forgive me, Detective,” he said.
He picked up the Glock 19, and then her clip-on badge and ID. He studied her ID a moment before handing it to her. Bellucci clipped it back onto her belt and held her hand out. Osorio placed the pistol in it while his bodyguards bristled, ready for anything. She holstered the pistol as casually as she could.
Bellucci was quickly escorted back through the house and to her car by the drug lord and his men. He remained a study of politeness, but with a steel edge. He even opened the car door for her.
“Do not come back, unless you wish to strike a deal,” he said. “Think about it. You could enjoy a very nice retirement someday, or... not.”
Chapter 41
Osorio rolled up to Sokolov’s Deep Ellum club in his new Escalade. He scowled at the Russian’s Aston Martin, parked in its usual spot, and at the crowd outside the club. No line to get in at that hour, but Club Wild Child was a popular place for college students.
“This is not a good idea,” Consuelo said for the thousandth time. “Your head is not in a good place. It’s not the time to confront Sokolov.”
Osorio checked the time: 1:36 AM.
“I’m not afraid of those chingados.”
His watch reminded him of Rojas who had given him the gold Rolex for Christmas two years back. That damned Ashley Wexler killed one of his oldest friends. Osorio’s hands curled into tight fists as he seethed, remembering how Wexler claimed to work for Sokolov.
Rojas’ body was already on the way to El Paso. He had to smuggle it back into Mexico for burial. It was the least he could do for his loyal friend. That, and put Wexler in a maggot-filled grave.
Osorio opened his door and got out. Several nearby pret
ty white college girls looked at him covetously. Under different circumstances, he’d gather up a few and play with them.
He looked up and down the street, wondering if Wexler was watching, waiting, eager to pounce. Osorio felt safe, knowing Wexler would never strike when it could endanger innocent bystanders. The club crowd was his shield. At least from Wexler.
Consuelo led the way at his signal. Four bodyguards preceded Osorio as well, with the rest following. The drivers remained behind, engines running and guarding their escape.
The doorman was a seven foot tall African-American. Osorio glanced at the two Russians flanking the door. One of them was on the phone. The Russian nodded so the doorman opened the door for Consuelo, and the rest followed him inside.
The music was Eurodisco, loud and infectious. Osorio didn’t really like it that much, but it did make him want to dance. He had read that this type of rhythm was steeped in science, something about beats per minute and people’s heartrate. Club Wild Child’s DJ came from Germany and knew how to keep the crowd happy.
Tonight, Osorio wasn’t in the mood to be happy.
The Mexicans forced their way through the thick, undulating crowd. Sokolov rarely left his reserved spot in the VIP Lounge. He held court surrounded by local celebrities and multi-millionaires. All the good people of the world wanted to party as close to danger as they could get.
Osorio’s eyes never rested. He looked left and right, locating all of Sokolov’s men. It proved easy, since the Russians all either looked bored or angry. They stood out in that sea of joy. But they kept pace with him and his entourage, keeping a good line of fire at all times.
Club Wild Child’s VIP area was small compared to the one inside Sokolov’s gentlemen’s club. More exclusive. Osorio noticed scantily clad bottle service girls wiggling and giggling all around, pawning overpriced Champagne to men with more money than sense.
Osorio so wanted to start his own Eurodance club, but the state wouldn’t give him another liquor license. He’d tried three times, but they somehow found out his puppets weren’t the real owners. It had to be Sokolov blocking him, afraid of the competition.
