Fatal Strike

by DiAnn Mills

  “We started the day with Father Gabriel,” she said. “On to Rachel Mendez, Chief of Police Zachary Everson, Aaron Michaels, and Judge Mendez’s staff.”

  “And the one person who could fill in a lot of the blanks is hiding out.”

  “As in guilty?”

  “Haven’t seen otherwise. Why would an innocent man evade the law?”

  “Or are we headed in the wrong direction? Those closest to Dylan are unwavering in their support.”

  “Maybe he has them fooled,” Jon said. “Somebody in the prison system could have educated him in the art of crime.”

  “Rachel Mendez had nothing derogatory to say.” A question hit the surface of her thoughts. “Do we have the details on Dylan’s original arrest?”

  “I looked it up while you were texting earlier. The arresting officer is familiar: Ian Greer.”

  “Interesting to find out if Trevelle prosecuted.”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  She watched three egrets tiptoe over the sand on spindly legs. They never roamed far from each other. “I agree with what you said earlier. Greer, Trevelle, and the judge were onto something that would bring the Venenos down.” She stopped to wiggle her toes in the sand.

  Leah and Jon spent the next fifteen minutes alongside the shore before heading back to his truck. At the truck, they wiped the sand from their bare feet and slipped into their shoes before climbing inside.

  She grabbed her phone. “I’m calling Elena James again. A young woman sneaking around seeing a bad boy? You betcha she monitored what he was doing.”

  “Schedule an interview before leaving Galveston.”

  She pressed in Elena’s number. The call went to voice mail, and Leah left a message. She checked the young woman’s address while Jon started up the engine. “Elena lives with her parents. Shall we stop by later?”

  “Put it on the list. While you have your phone out, why not talk to Lucinda Serrano? She’s worked a long time for Father Gabriel.”

  Leah found the number for Father Gabriel’s secretary. When the woman answered, Leah explained why she’d called.

  “Oh, I can’t believe the judge is gone. I’ve worked for St. Peter’s for twenty-five years, and nothing this horrible has happened.”

  “How many of those years were for Father Gabriel?”

  “All of them. He’s been there close to thirty-two.”

  “Did you know any of the other victims?”

  “Officer Ian Greer and his family used to live down the street from us. We were acquaintances. Marcia Trevelle was in the news because of being a prosecuting attorney. I never met her. Judge Mendez and his wife played an active role at St. Peter’s.”

  Leah moved ahead. “Is Chief of Police Everson a member of St. Peter’s?”

  “Yes.”

  Father Gabriel claimed he didn’t know Marcia Trevelle, but she and Everson were to be married in October. “What can you tell me about Father Gabriel?”

  “Outstanding man. Cares about people to a fault.” Lucinda hesitated before continuing. “I’ve been on vacation, but my husband is reluctant for me to return to work. He wants me to retire. He knows Father Gabriel will continue his crusade to rehabilitate lawbreakers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you aware his nephew was in a gang and subsequently killed?”

  “Yes. What’s your take?”

  “Father Gabriel thinks he has to bring every criminal into the church.”

  “Are you saying there are criminals at St. Peter’s?”

  “No! Of course not.”

  “What do you know about Dylan Ortega?”

  Lucinda sighed. “I saw his name in the news, but I don’t believe in his guilt. He’s a good young man, despite his prior mistake that landed him in prison.”

  “What about others?”

  “Agent Riesel, I’m done answering questions about the killings. I know nothing, and I’m honoring my husband’s wishes. Talk to Chief of Police Everson or Father Gabriel. Good luck.” The phone clicked.

  Leah wondered why it felt like nearly everyone she and Jon had talked to had something to hide.

  Jon commended the young manager of the Hotel Galvez for his confidence and professionalism. Papers were scattered over a wooden desk stained with coffee rings, but no apology from the young man. Jon liked that—the manager had a job to do and this was his method.

  Jon led out the interview while Leah analyzed the conversation. They were a good team. Odd how two people synced well in such a short time. His previous experiences with partners were more about completing a mission and moving on to the next assignment. With Leah, he hoped they would work together again . . . though he wasn’t ready to explore the reasons why.

  “When was the last day Dylan Ortega reported to work?” Jon said.

  The manager turned his attention to the computer. “Friday.” He tapped his thumb on his desk. “I can’t provide an alibi for him.”

  “What can you tell us about Dylan Ortega?”

  The manager might not be old enough to shave, but no signs of deceit or apprehension crested his features. “He was a solid worker. Always on time until last week. Hated to fire him, but when an employee doesn’t call in, I have no choice. He told me about his previous jail time.”

  “You took a chance on Dylan Ortega despite his record.” Jon studied him. “I assume he gave you other references.”

  The manager opened a file drawer and pulled out what looked like a job application. “I meant to review this before you arrived. But I had a problem in the hotel that needed my attention.” He glanced at the form and nodded. “I remember the interview with Dylan. He was well-mannered and confident in his skills. He listed Father Xavier Gabriel of St. Peter’s church and Judge Nicolás Mendez as references. Both men backed him up. To me, if Judge Mendez had given him a job, I could too.” He peered into Jon’s face. “Now the judge is dead, and the FBI and police can’t find Dylan. Hard for me to believe he’s mixed up in a gang or murder.”

  “We’re not saying he is. Dylan is a person of interest. We only want to talk to him.”

  “Are those FBI words for ‘He’s not guilty until a jury makes a decision, but we plan to arrest him’?”

  “It means questioning.” Jon pointed to the job application. “I’d like a copy of your document.”

  When the manager agreed, Jon snapped a pic. “Thanks. Okay for us to talk to his coworkers?”

  “No problem. I’ll introduce you to those who worked directly with him. Never had any complaints or reasons to question his work ethic.”

  Jon and Leah spent the next hour and a half posing the same questions and receiving the same answers—Dylan Ortega worked hard, no one phoned or visited him, and although quiet, he was friendly. No mention of criminal activity.

  Afterward Jon and Leah talked in the parking lot of the hotel. Palm trees swayed beneath landscaping that mirrored the hotel’s finery.

  “We have two indicators of Dylan being a part of the murder,” Leah said. “He’s missing and Edgar Whitson ID’d him. However, I’m not totally convinced Dylan’s a killer. Yet.”

  “You can play devil’s advocate if you want. Edgar Whitson’s words are enough for me. I saw or heard nothing to doubt his testimony. If Dylan shows up with a solid alibi, I’ll change my tune. In the meantime, I’m not nominating Dylan as the all-American citizen of the year.”

  “I’m glad you’re my partner. If we agreed on everything, we’d miss a detail,” she said.

  “And I’m your fave as long as I bring you coffee.”

  She frowned. “I should have added a hamburger. Right now, I’m hungry. It’s 7:30.”

  23

  JON DROVE TO WILLIE G’S—a popular seafood restaurant on Harborside Drive. Neither had eaten since breakfast, and sharing dinner seemed like the perfect time to talk over more of the day’s findings. Seafood ranked at the top of Leah’s great foods list. Except catfish. She just couldn’t develop a taste for it. Must be a S
outhern thing.

  Jon pulled into a paid parking lot at Pier 21, and they exited his truck. Tourist attractions ranged from boat tours and exhibits about French pirate Jean Lafitte or the Great Storm of Galveston in 1900 to mouthwatering food and nightlife. Looked like fun if her attention hadn’t been on the case.

  By habit, she noted the area and people before she and Jon walked to the restaurant entrance. No one raised her suspicion. Inside, huge handblown glass fixtures in red, blue, yellow, white, and leopard hung from the ceiling like Christmas tree bulbs. The enticing aroma of fish swirled around them, and while her stomach growled, her mind sped with the unsolved case.

  “I’ve been a sniper for too long,” Leah said. “Just when I’m ready to enjoy a tasty meal, a sensation creeps over me like we’re being watched through a rifle scope.”

  He huffed. “I’m right there with you.”

  “I’ll hold a fork in one hand and my Glock in the other.”

  Jon greeted the hostess and requested a table by the windows where they could monitor who entered the restaurant. A young man with pinned-up dreadlocks took their drink and food orders. Leah selected crab-stuffed shrimp, and Jon opted for blackened snapper.

  When they were alone again, she opened the conversation. “Where do we begin?”

  “Zero in on the restaurant’s guests who might be spying on us?”

  “You go first,” she said.

  “Three minutes after we arrived, a couple was seated in the rear. They’re real cozy.”

  “I saw them. They’re completely absorbed in each other, only occasionally observing who’s here.” Oh, to have nothing on her mind but fabulous food and a good-looking guy. “She knows one of the waitstaff, a guy.”

  “I missed it.”

  “She acknowledged him when he escorted the couple to the table, a hint of a smile the guy with her didn’t see. Could be history. A girl thing.” She glanced around. “The others who’ve arrived have kids or are older.” Her own words repeated in her mind. “Of course, members of the Venenos could have families.”

  “We’re a distrustful lot.” He leaned back in his chair.

  Jon and Leah’s waiter placed drinks before them. She took a sip of water, then sneaked a look behind her at the young couple. A bulge in the man’s suit jacket pocket gave her pause. “Do you see indications of a gun?” Her left hand touched the Glock inside her pocket. If she believed in anything, it was her training.

  “I’m watching.” He stared while she studied his face. “We’re good. He isn’t packing. Looks like a rectangular box.”

  Jon had a definite charm about him and a steely determination she admired. But Leah needed to stop gawking at him like a schoolgirl. She grabbed her phone for new messages. Great, another disagreeable topic—snakes.

  She refused to let the subject get in the way of their assignment. “Nothing’s turned up on any rattlesnake farms in Houston, San Antonio, Austin, or Dallas areas. No purchase of rattlers or interest in the venom. Texas doesn’t require a special permit to keep indigenous snakes.”

  “What about Tanitox, the laboratory in Austin?” he said.

  “I assume they’re regulated. Hold on while I check.” She navigated to Tanitox’s website. “Okay, they operate legally under a state wildlife dealer’s license. After the venom is extracted and processed, it’s still a raw material and therefore not regulated by the USDA or the FDA, but the manufacturers who use the venom have guidelines. Only two facilities in Texas extract venom regularly, Tanitox and a branch of A&M University.”

  “Someone’s supplying venom.”

  She googled a video about milking snake venom. Her pulse raced.

  The narrator’s voice must have snatched Jon’s interest. “What are you listening to?”

  Her heart hammered. She swallowed the familiar panic. “Watching a video—how to milk a rattler. Looks like the venom has to be kept frozen or freeze-dried.”

  “I’m familiar with the process. When I was a kid in Oklahoma, I had an uncle who kept a pit of rattlers and milked them for sale. Dangerous job, but he kept the snakes sedated for easier handling. He sank a mint into lab equipment, thinking he’d hit a gold mine.” Jon shook his head. “It’s impossible to get rich from antivenom production. About a year later, he sold the business. It’s worth looking deeper into private snake farms, but with a little guts and know-how, any person can extract venom.”

  Not her—ever. But Jon was right about finding the source of venom. “How can these guys ever hope to pull off a takeover of southwestern states with a few rattlers? Unless we’re right about the gang using their battle cry as a cover for something else.”

  “The rapid spread to other cities likely means massive organization is in place—cells of Venenos recruiting other members. We haven’t seen a rise in illegal drugs, prostitution, illegal weapons, gambling, money laundering, or any of the other violent crime methods of making money, only their mantra and eliminating those who take a position against them.”

  “Judge Mendez was one of those voices speaking strongly against the gang’s illegal activities,” she said. “But did he know his killer?”

  “Another reason to have a list of those the judge sentenced in the last year, active cases on his desk, and the whereabouts of the six people on Rachel Mendez’s list.”

  She wrapped her fingers around the glass of water. “Three people who were connected through law enforcement are dead because of the Venenos.” Her thoughts lingered on Dylan. “How much did Elena know about Dylan?”

  “Or how much did Dylan reveal about himself?”

  Their food was served, and they ate in silence except for an occasional comment. Leah’s phone rang.

  She recognized Silvia’s number and answered. “Ms. Ortega, this is Leah Riesel.”

  “I’ve talked to Dylan.” Her voice quaked. “He’s agreed to turn himself in to you and Agent Colbert.”

  “That is wonderful news. Very wise. Is he with you now?”

  “No.”

  “Where would you like for us to meet?” Leah captured Jon’s attention. “We’re at Willy G’s, but we can meet Dylan anywhere.”

  “I’ll suggest the parking lot there in an hour. It’s a busy spot, and he should be safe.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She described Jon’s truck and where it was parked.

  “Promise me you won’t call the police.”

  “I promise. This will be between your son and us.”

  24

  JON APPRECIATED THE RELATIONSHIP Leah had established with Silvia Ortega. Thanks to his partner’s communication skills, the Veneno killings in Galveston could end tonight. Outside the restaurant, he and Leah walked to the corner and turned right toward the parking lot and his truck. A light flickered across the street between a Jimmy John’s sandwich shop and a Starbucks, but Jon’s gaze settled on the people standing close to him and Leah. He scanned the surroundings and obscure shadows, weighing, analyzing. From the intensity on Leah’s face, she was probably doing the same. Somewhere Dylan waited for them.

  Clusters of people talked and laughed—all ages, all cultures. Live music blared, blending a humid August night with a light Gulf breeze. A perfect evening for most. A light rain began to fall. When the narrow street cleared, they crossed to the busy parking lot.

  Jon spoke in a hushed tone as they headed toward his truck in the third row. “Did Silvia say Dylan would turn state’s evidence?”

  “No, but a plea bargain is in his best interest.”

  The light rain quickly increased to a downpour. A group of teens hastened their pace across the lot toward the live music. Jon’s sixth sense detected an ominous presence. Hanson used to tell him his premonitions were a gift from God.

  Straight ahead, standing near the driver’s side of his truck was a man, alone and concealed in the darkness. A streak of lightning illuminated the area, and Jon recognized it was Dylan.

  A shot rang out from about fifty feet on their right. Dylan ducked. Then another shot. Weap
ons drawn, Jon and Leah raced from the first row of parked vehicles toward Dylan, moving between cars.

  “FBI. Stop! Dylan, take cover.” Jon then shouted for the crowd to stay back.

  Screams rose through the rain. Dylan pulled a firearm and fired repeatedly at two men who made their way his direction. More could be waiting for an opportunity to pull the trigger.

  Jon zigzagged through parked cars with the intent of stopping the shooters. Who were they? Leah bent and moved through another row of vehicles. Their unspoken goal was to approach Dylan from opposite sides and keep him alive. If given a clear shot at whoever was after him, he and Leah would take it. “Stay down,” Jon said to Dylan.

  “So you can kill me?” Dylan crouched low and stepped back. “I’m not a fool.”

  Another round of shots burst into the air.

  Leah kept circling toward Dylan.

  An SUV sped through the parking lot with its lights off.

  Jon called out a warning, and Leah cleared the vehicle’s path within seconds before it passed. Jon shouted again for bystanders to move out of the path of the oncoming SUV. But their presence hindered an immediate takedown of the two shooters.

  Shots fired wildly from the two men and those inside the SUV. Screams erupted from the panic-stricken crowd. Leah raced after two teen girls and shoved them down beside a car.

  The approaching SUV slammed on its brakes several feet past Jon and Leah, as though protecting the two shooters. The men emerged from the darkness and climbed inside. Shots continued to explode from the vehicle. Leah ran across the narrow pavement separating a row of parked vehicles from Jon’s truck and took aim from the driver’s side front tire. She shattered the SUV’s rear window glass.

  Dylan had disappeared in the melee. Jon joined Leah and tossed her his keys. “Start the truck. I’ll cover you.” He fired against a barrage of bullets. The shooters weren’t getting away easily. He pelted the rear and side of the SUV’s frame while it zoomed ahead.