by Marc Rainer
Dallas, Texas
Tyler Cannon checked the thermostat before leaving. His house was nice and cool. He locked the front door behind him, hopped into the driver’s seat of the pickup, and headed down the long driveway toward the highway. It was a bit later than most of his previous departure times had been. He was timing his arrival on this trip to arrive not in Kansas City, Kansas, but an hour farther north—in Liberty, Missouri—and Dom had told him to come in after 8 p.m.
I’ll just add my motel bill to his fee, since I’ll have to crash for the night. Might hit one of the casinos, grab some bar-be-que. Whatever works.
The unhinged barn door caught his attention again as he passed the side road.
I still gotta fix that damn thing. A few more trips and I’m out of this shit.
Kansas City, Missouri
The week ended in a kind of frenzied routine.
The discovery materials Trask handed out in the initial appearance hearings had the desired effect, and several of the new defendants had already entered guilty pleas before the assigned district court judge, Stephen Brooks. Cam told Trask that they couldn’t have had better luck with that draw from the “wheel,” the case assignment device that named the next judge in line to get a case. The wheel kept the judges’ workloads balanced—at least, to a point—and, more importantly, prevented “forum shopping.” An attorney wanting to file a case had no idea which judge would be assigned the next matter, and so the attorney had no way of picking a favored jurist to preside over his or her case, whether that attorney was a prosecutor filing an indictment or a civil attorney suing somebody.
Magistrate Judge Hamilton was still assigned to their cases, would continue to handle all the preliminary matters, and would be issuing preliminary, advisory rulings on some of the defendant’s pre-trial motions. Her recommendations would then go to Judge Brooks, who would either adopt reports and recommendations, or issue his own. Brooks brought to the table all the experience—a lifetime of working in criminal law— and knowledge that were missing with Heidi Hamilton.
Judge Brooks was not one to waste time, and when he saw a collection of sixty defendants on his plate, he started setting plea hearings the instant that defense attorneys called in with their plea notices. The judge knew how those relationships worked, as well. With sixty defendants on the list, the usual federal defense practitioners got assigned very quickly, and the clerks were soon calling on solo practitioners—defense attorneys working alone and not as part of some big law firm—to handle some of the cases. The solo guys and gals usually worked check-to-check, case-to-case, to pay their bills, and so when the court appointed them to represent a defendant, they knew that the check from the Criminal Justice Act or “CJA” fund—paid by the court—wasn’t going to bounce. Their defendant told the attorney to get it over with, the attorney told the court it was a guilty plea, the court scheduled the hearing, the defendant pleaded out, and his counsel got paid, all sooner rather than later. The quick pleas also had one other important effect: they gave the defendants less time to change their minds.
As Trask also expected, most of the indicted Michoacanos had no interest in cooperating with the prosecution. Their attorneys did ask, because they were legally obligated to do so, and because such cooperation could drastically lower a defendant’s sentence. There was simply too much danger to the defendants’ families from the cartels in Mexico to justify the risk, so most of the defendants kept their mouths shut, and their mothers and wives and sisters kept their heads attached.
The rapid flow of hearings kept Cam and Trask busy, and Sgt. Land of the Career Criminal Unit decided to send them a couple more bodies to help with all the logistics. They split up the investigator assignments along the lines of the four indictments. FBI Special Agent John Foote would be with Trask on the first indictment, which included Papi and his lieutenants; Cam and Detective Billy Graham would take the second indictment and the next highest tier of fifteen defendants; Detective Veronica “Ronnie” Lincoln and Trask would work the fifteen defendants on the third indictment; and Detective John “Bubba” Smith would work with Cam on the fourth indictment and the lowest level of defendants.
Ronnie was a petite blonde with an ever-present smile. She could lighten the mood of the most morose team, and Trask knew that there would undoubtedly be times when that ability would come in handy. Bubba had just come off a two-year assignment working undercover against a local biker gang. He was a very large man with a very thick beard, and still liked to ride his hog and wear leather. As Trask and Cam thinned the herd of defendants through their guilty pleas, they planned to lump the remaining bad guys into one trial. Even with fewer defendants, there would still be plenty of work to go around for all of them on the expanded trial team. There would be witnesses to interview and schedule, lots of intercepted phone calls to transcribe and cue up, and lots of physical evidence to mark as exhibits.
From what Trask had seen, he knew that it was a team that would work well together. There hadn’t been any ego battles, and everything he had asked for had been produced almost immediately.
It was finally Friday, and Trask knocked off a little early to beat the traffic on the way home. He worked his way onto I-70 east and headed for Lee’s Summit. There would be four smiling faces to greet him as he came in the door. Three of them would be covered with fur.
He was ahead of the traffic, so he decided to risk Raytown again. This time, Trask kept the speed at or under the limit.
I can’t just go in there every Tuesday night. That won’t look right, and I might be missing some other opportunities.
Marylou Monaco stood at the rear window in her bedroom, looking out across her back fence into the parking lot of McElhaney’s. The parking lot was still half empty, even on an early Friday evening.
If the place was doing well at all, this would be the night when it would be full. After-work impulses for folks who don’t want to cook tonight, neighborhood meet-and-greets, lonely young solos looking to hook up. That joint is nothing but a cover.
She walked over this time. When she opened the door, she saw three couples and a small family of four at the tables in the dining area. There was one guy sitting at one end of the bar talking to Sharon, who gave her a nod as she walked by. Marylou sat at the other end of the bar.
“By yourself again?” she asked when Sharon came over.
“Oh, no. Not on Friday night.” She nodded toward a table in the center.
Marylou turned and saw a waitress standing at the table, taking an order on a notepad.
“That’s Susie,” Sharon said. “I have a cook in the back, too. Name’s Jay. Dom’s in the office.”
Marylou nodded, mentally recording the information. “What’s good?” she asked, pointing at a folded plastic menu in a slot on the wall behind Sharon.
Sharon leaned over and whispered. “The burgers are just average. The fish and chips are decent.”
“I’ll have that then.” I don’t feel like cooking for one again tonight, anyway.
“Corona Light?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Coming right up.”
Marylou sipped on the beer and waited for the food.
As sparse as the crowd is, this is still the busiest I’ve seen the place in weeks, and still no Dom out front. Guess he’s only out here when there’s really nothing to do. Figures. I may end up having to crash his office. No, he might lock it. Okay. Tuesday it is—if he shows then.
Sharon was right. The fish and chips were acceptable. Marylou finished the fish and ate most of the fries before waving to Sharon and heading for the door. As she pushed it open, a short, thick man with salt-and-pepper hair took the handle and held it open for her.
“Thank you,” she said.
The guy nodded but said nothing.
He looks pissed, Marylou said to herself.
Liberty, Missouri
Tyler Cannon looked up at the underside of his pickup as the two mechanics worked on the gas tank.
Cannon didn’t answer the question. He just looked at Collavito with a scowl. The look spoke for him, telling Collavito that he’d just asked a really stupid question, and that Cannon wasn’t about to answer it.
“Sorry, just trying to make conversation,” Collavito said. He’d gotten the message loud and clear.
“Take two,” Cannon said. “Leave the rest in the tank.”
“Just two, guys,” Collavito relayed the direction to the two men working under the truck.
“We’ll see how this goes, and if it clicks, we can increase the order next time,” Cannon said. “I usually get half up front, but since this is the first order for you, I’ll collect all of it on the return trip. He said you’d be good for it.” Dom told me not to mention his name around your crew, but he’s vouching for you, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.
“We’ll have it all for you when you roll back through,” Collavito assured him. “No worries.”
The tank was off the truck. One of the men pulled two packages out of the dry side and tossed them to the other mechanic, who disappeared through a door that led outside.
“Their other suppliers dried up,” Collavito said to Cannon. “They’ve been in the game a while. They won’t have any trouble moving it. Like I said before, no worries.”
“See you in about four days then,” Cannon said. He waited for the pickup to be lowered, then hopped into the driver’s seat and backed the pickup out of the bay. He pointed the truck southward, back toward I-70.
Kansas City, Missouri
Dominic Silvestri, Sr., walked through the bar and opened the door to the office without knocking. His son looked up from behind the desk. He’d seen this look on his father’s face many times in the past. It wasn’t a pleasant one.
“Hi, Dad.”
The older man didn’t say anything. Instead he just made a motion with his right hand indicating that Dom should come to him.
Dom walked around the desk and stood before his father. His nerves were on fire, but he tried to appear relaxed and calm. He was being called out for something, he just didn’t know what that something was.
“What’s up?”
Once more, the older man didn’t speak. Instead, his right hand flashed from his lower left to upper right, back-handing his son’s face with a blow that was powerful enough to send Dom sprawling. Dom fell against a chair. He brought his right hand up to his lower lip and saw blood on his fingers.
“What the hell?!” Dom protested.
His father walked behind the desk and opened the bottom right drawer. He reached into it and pulled out the Colt.
“New gun?” he asked.
“Yeah. I lost the old one someplace,” Dom said, rubbing his face.
His father crossed the room and hit him again, this time with an open slap to the other side of his face.
Dom shot up, blood in his eyes. He clenched his fists.
“Go ahead, try me,” the older man said. “I’m gonna ask you again. New gun?”
Dom walked back around behind the desk, trying to put something between himself and his father. The old man was still seething with rage.
“I don’t know where the thing went. Honest. I had it one night, and then it was gone. That’s why I had to get the other one. I got it from Frank, so it’s cool.”
“That’s what Frank told me. That’s how I knew you lost the old one. When’s the last time you saw the old gun?”
“I don’t remember.”
The older man moved with a speed that would have surprised Dom if he hadn’t seen it before. Even so, it caught him off guard. A thick and powerful hand grabbed Dom by the throat and pinned him down across the top of the desk.
“Whaddaya know about Big John and Margie?” Dom, Sr., growled, “And don’t even think about bull-shitting me, boy.”
Dom’s mind raced. He knows something. I can’t deny the whole thing. I gotta give him something or he’ll know.
“I was with the Gonzalez brothers at the boat,” Dom said, struggling for breath as his father’s hand remained clamped around his throat. “We followed him out. I told Jimmy and Joey that Big John was a snitch, and that he didn’t deserve to win at blackjack or anything else. I went home, and they came by an hour or so later and told me they wanted to go back to the boat, so I went with ’em.”
He read his father’s eyes as a seed of doubt flickered across the old man’s face.
Whatever he knows, that has him thinking. It’s working for now.
“And you didn’t see your gun that night? The old one?”
Dom measured his response. I still gotta be careful.
“I had it in my car. I think that’s the last time I saw it. Maybe I forgot to lock the car and it got ripped.”
“Did you win at the boat?”
“No. I lost my ass, at least the first time. When I went back, Joey loaned me some dough and I was up a little. I paid Joey back and went home with about four-hundred.”
The old man pulled Dom off the desk by his shirt collar. He stared into Dom’s eyes, his own eyes black and burning.
“You know the rules, the laws of our thing. You know Big John was a made man. You know what’s required before anybody gets to hit a made guy.”
“Yeah, of course I know.”
“Know this, boy. You’re my flesh and blood, but there’s another family that comes before my family. I took an oath, and so did you. You understand me?”
“Completely.”
“Did those little Gonzalez rats tell you anything about what happened to Big John and Margie?”
“Not a thing. We just went back to the boat after they came by my place. They acted like something had gone down, but I figured they’d hit a store or another pharmacy or something, got lucky and found a register that hadn’t been emptied. I dunno. I never got a chance to ask ’em later, ’cause they were dead themselves.”
The fire in the old man’s eyes dulled a little.
“Maybe they did it, then.”
Dom nodded in agreement. “I kind of figured that. I would have told you myself—you know, so you could tell Fat Tony—but before I knew it, Jimmy and Joey got whacked, so I figured somebody else had already solved the problem.”
The old man snorted.
“Just watch yourself,” he said. He wheeled and slammed the office door as he left.
Dom stared at the door.
How the hell did he know whatever it was that he knew?
Lee’s Summit, Missouri
A Saturday morning gave Trask and Lynn an opportunity to resume another custom with the pups. The dogs had loved going to the off-leash park in Maryland, and Lynn had discovered—through a conversation with one of her new neighbors—that there were a couple of good ones in their new town.
They piled Boo and Nikki into the back seat of Lynn’s Rogue. There was a sling hanging from the headrests to keep them secure. Lynn drove. Little Tasha was in Trask’s lap in the front passenger seat, giving him kisses on the chin and full body hugs. They ended up on a side road off Douglas Street, across from a cineplex.
The park was fully fenced, with a sidewalk snaking around the perimeter, a couple of watering stations, and some of those convenient, pole-mounted dispensers for poop bags. Trask saw that it was very large and would give the dogs plenty of room to run and explore. He and Lynn would get a little exercise, too, trying to keep up with them.
The second they got inside the gates and removed the leashes, Trask saw exactly what he had wanted to see. Boo was off like a bolt of lightning, Tasha right behind her, her little legs moving three times for each one of Boo’s running cycles.
“Just like before,” Lynn said, her eyes welling up again with happy tears.
“Yep, she has her eyes back now. She doesn’t have to worry about crashing into something.” Trask gave Lynn a hug. “Great job on picking that vet, babe.”
She just nodded, too choked up to speak.
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br /> Nikki, their grand old lady, wasn’t about to wear herself out like her sisters. She was content to trot easily along a few feet in front of Trask and Lynn while they tried to catch up to the other dogs. Trask whistled, and Boo and Tasha came racing back to them from what looked like a quarter of a mile away, at the other end of the park. They got a pat on the head for their efforts, and then they were off again. Running, panting, happy pups.
Another whistle brought them back again. They slowed down to walk beside Trask and Lynn for a while. They passed another couple walking in the other direction. They were following a yellow lab, and the Labrador stopped to sniff Boo.
Trask looked at Lynn and smiled. They both knew what was coming next, and mentally counted down to the question. They weren’t wrong.
“What kind of dog is that?” the man asked, nodding toward Boo.
“Half-Husky, and half Standard Schnauzer,” Lynn said. “They’re all rescues. Boo is the only one of her litter that lived. She went blind from diabetes, but we found a vet here in town who’s a canine ophthalmologist. She just had the operation last week, and she has her sight back.”
The man bent down to look into Boo’s ice-blue eyes, and she trotted over and licked his face.
“Happy girl,” the man said. “I see the Husky in the eyes and ears.”
Boo decided to participate in the conversation, and issued a string of woos, woofs and purrs.
“And the vocals, too,” the man said, laughing. “There’s no doubt there’s a Husky in there somewhere. Congratulations, folks. She’s special, and she’s lucky to have you for parents.”
No, Trask said to himself, remembering the times their big dog had put herself between them and harm’s way. We’re lucky to have her.
He smiled and walked on, only to repeat the conversation twice more with other dog owners before they completed the walk and headed back to the car.
