Enemy in Blue: The Chase (Book #1) (The Cruz Marquez Thrillers)

by Derek Blass

  The two of them met in high school. Martinez was a scrawny sophomore when Williams exploded onto the scene. He was six inches taller than Martinez and already six-foot-five when he got to the school. They were on the high school football team, Williams playing both quarterback and linebacker while Martinez used his speed as a safety.

  They both came from the 'hood, different ones though. Martinez grew up in a house of mothers, the youngest of four children. His father passed away when he was five and that left him, his mom, one aunt, and three older sisters. The overdose of estrogen made him an overly sensitive kid, slightly whiny, and definitely a mama's boy. Despite the lack of a male figure, and despite the fact none of his family played or even enjoyed sports, he always had physical ability.

  Williams rode on the other side of the tracks. He ran with his brothers and male cousins all the time. He was lifting by twelve years old, already on a god-given path to play sports at the collegiate level. That was the 'hood dream—a ticket out for him and whoever else he could fit on the bus. Two games into his junior season, some jack-off rolled into his planted leg and ended the dream. His family had seen it before. Dreams shattered easily in a glass world.

  There wasn't enough room for both of their egos on the team. They constantly butted heads until one day Martinez called Williams out to fight. The fight took place behind an abandoned building adjacent to the high school in a ring of cheering kids. Punches were traded until Williams landed a devastating blow that knocked one of Martinez's teeth out of his mouth. Martinez sat on his rear, stunned and slightly more humble. Williams felt so bad that he leaned down to see Martinez's mouth and that's when Martinez clocked him right back. After a few days of cooling off, the fight left them with a mutual respect. That slowly grew into a strong friendship as the wounds healed. Over time, they rubbed off on each other—Martinez developing more tenacity and Williams more temperance.

  “What do you mean? It’s going into evidence man. You ain't thinkin' about money like that camera guy, are you?” Martinez hoped he wasn't, because he need some affirmation that the right thing to do was turning the drive in. Ten, twenty thousand dollars could do him just fine.

  “Nah man. I’m thinking beyond that shit. What you’ve got there is powerful.”

  “What you talking about?”

  “Man, don’t you remember what they did to Rodney King in L.A.? You think that would have had the same impact if it wasn’t taped? That’s a little ball of power you got there, and if you check it into evidence, it’ll never be seen again.”

  Martinez stared ahead as he drove the SUV they had commandeered from the news station. What Williams said made sense, but he wasn't one to break protocol. The color of his skin dictated that he play by all the rules, all the time.

  “I’m not used to playin’ with fire, Williams.”

  “I know brother. But you know how this game will go.”

  “They’ll suppress it.”

  “You’re damn right they will. One lonely spot on the local news. One follow-up story. Then that old man will be gone forever.”

  Martinez thought about Williams’ pitch. The cautious side of him rebelled against the idea. The other side of him, and he didn’t even have a name for it because it was so foreign, liked the proposition.

  S E V E N

  __________________________________________________

  Cruz and Sandra arrived at the news station and on their way in a single, white cop pushed through them going the other direction.

  “Watch yourselves,” he snarled.

  Cruz turned to Sandra, “Must be something going on.” They went to the front desk receptionist and asked for the cameraman. Perhaps put off because they weren’t cops, or they didn’t know the cameraman’s name, or just the sheer number of callers she had addressed that day for Max, the receptionist was unwilling to help.

  “I'm sorry but it's too busy for me to help you,” she said while typing on her computer. Sandra flashed her own news station badge to no avail. Cruz tried a charismatic smile which was greeted with the same outcome.

  “Well, will you at least tell me where your bathroom is?” Sandra asked. The receptionist pointed Sandra down a hall. Sandra took a leisurely walk toward the bathroom while taking in what she could. She saw a row of cubicles and noticed that the first two were empty, but someone was in the third. As Sandra moved closer, the person wheeled around and let out a nervous, “Hello?”

  “Just looking for the bathroom.” Sandra kept walking toward the cubicle, hoping to engage him. He appeared to be a man in his mid-thirties, with curly black hair and a face of stubble that looked generations old. Sandra stopped behind him and struck her most enticing pose.

  “Hey, who the hell are you? The bathroom is back that way,” the man said pointing behind her.

  Undaunted and certainly hardened by the thousands of similar rebukes she had received as a reporter, Sandra asked, “Hey, do you know the cameraman at this station that shoots for Police?”

  “No, I don’t,” he said quickly. Sandra looked at the man’s cubicle and saw pictures of him with all sorts of cops at different locations. She looked back at the man with a knowing smile.

  “Okay,” Sandra started. She pulled a business card out of her pocket. “If you do see that guy, give him this and let him know that a couple of people want to help.” The man looked relieved that it was going to end there.

  “All right, will do.”

  Sandra turned around and went back to the front desk. “I found him,” she whispered to Cruz.

  * * * *

  Tomko got back to the police station and went straight to Shaver's office. Shaver was sitting behind his desk talking to Lindsey, but stopped and asked, “Get something good?”

  “Max gave the camera's drive to Martinez. I think everything was recorded.”

  “So, it was fucking recorded!”

  “He didn’t say what was on the drive, just that Martinez took it.”

  “We know what's on the drive.”

  “Yeah, Sarge. Did you get a hold of Martinez?”

  “No, for all I know he could be across the border by now—and with that damn drive.”

  “Nah, he wouldn’t do that,” Tomko said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Martinez isn’t like that. Too by the book. If anything, I bet he’s struggling with coming back here or giving it to someone else.”

  “Well, since you've apparently mind-fucked him so much, why don’t you give him a call? And speaking of our colored friends, where the hell is Williams?”

  “I assume with Martinez. Those two are inseparable.”

  “Do this for me,” Shaver started. “I’m pretty sure those two roaches have families. Let them know as delicately as you can that we don’t want to have to get the families involved in the search for this drive.”

  Tomko smiled. “Perfect.”

  * * * *

  Martinez and Williams circled the precinct headquarters for thirty minutes when Williams butted in, “How many times we gonna do this Martinez?”

  “What's that?”

  “Circle the damn station! It's getting boring, not to mention that this ain't the best place for us to be chillin' right now. You know what's inside.”

  Martinez pulled the car over and said, “Made my decision.”

  “Oh yeah? Made the right one?” Williams asked.

  “Yeah man, I’m gonna keep this tape. I think you’re right.”

  “Damn straight. Hold on.” Williams pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.

  “Hello…aww shit—Sarge.”

  “You gotta be freaking kidding me,” Martinez grumbled.

  “Nope, Martinez and I are just cruising around…nope, not planning on coming to the station for a while…we ain’t gonna meet you anywhere, Sarge.”

  “What the fuck is he saying man?” Williams didn’t answer.

  “Nah, we’ll tell you where we are when we're damn well ready. Til then, you and your Nazi posse can chi
ll at the station.” Williams hung up his phone.

  “Shit Williams—now he's completely keyed into us.”

  “Man, you know Sarge was already onto us. He’s no fool. I bet one of his punks visited Max by now.”

  “You coulda seen if he was willing to talk.”

  “You trippin'? That freak is gonna put a bullet through both of our heads if we don’t give him the goods. Shit. Even giving him the drive ain't gonna solve it. We saw what happened, Martinez. It’s on now—drive or not.”

  E I G H T

  __________________________________________________

  Cruz was back at his office watching the day come to a close through the picture window in front of him. He zoned out and while he did, a formative moment of his early life leaped into his consciousness. The murder sucked it out from the recesses of repressed memories.

  Harassment was normal for Cruz and his friends. The cops didn't owe him or his friends anything, but one night the usual harassment crossed well-defined lines. He and two of his friends were sitting on the porch in front of Cruz’s house. It was a typical teen moment. Cruz’s father, the discipline in his life, was gone to God knows where. His mother was at their church attending a community meeting about workplace discrimination. It was only natural for the three teenage boys to seek out a little trouble.

  Eduardo, who had connections that Cruz didn’t even ask about, brought over three bottles of Old English. Cruz remembered thinking the beer tasted like piss, but it was no time to puss out. He was already the lily-white member of their circle. Drinking was a rare event, he didn't smoke—cigarettes or pot—and he refused to bang. Eduardo called him a bookworm, but at school they called him “pendeja” or “maricon.”

  All of a sudden, the boys could hear whistles from about two blocks away. The whistles grew closer and closer.

  “Es la pinche policía, güey,” Eduardo said.

  Sure enough, a slow-moving black police interceptor was taking its time down the middle of the street.

  “Put the beers away,” Cruz warned.

  “Que se chingan,” Eduardo said defiantly.

  “No way man, don't screw with them,” Cruz said. The cop car moved forward onto their block. The windows were tinted, but Cruz could tell the cops' eyes were on them.

  “Look man, we gotta ditch this shit,” Tony, the other member of their trio, said with a slight tremor in his voice.

  “Too late bro,” Eduardo responded. Just as he did, the interceptor slowed to a stop in front of them. The driver's side window rolled down. Cruz saw the cop's face. Young and angry. Burnt red face. Shaved head. A scowl that looked entrenched around his eyes and mouth.

  “What's that you got? Que tienes allí?” The Spanish from a white cop wasn't a surprise where Cruz lived. The department trained them to “know their enemies.”

  “We ain't doing nothin',” Eduardo answered.

  “Did I ask you what you were doing, boy?” The cop started to open his door and Eduardo took off without second thought. Cruz hesitated but when he saw the cop start to run, instincts kicked in. He remembered thinking it made no sense to run—he wasn't really in that big of trouble.

  Nevertheless, he found himself directly behind Eduardo. They ran tightly bunched together, each life sparing stride falling in rhythm. Cruz had no idea where Tony went. He probably kept his cool and walked home.

  Cruz remembered hearing the lumbering footsteps of the cops behind him. Between slow, steady breaths, Eduardo said, “Cruz, we got these pigs.” Just as he did, the two turned a corner into the waiting muzzle of another cop's gun.

  “Get down you motherfuckers!” he screamed. Cruz and Eduardo went down so fast they nearly slid into the cop's feet. The other cop came up behind them. Cruz looked around and noticed that they were in the alley behind the local grocery store.

  “What's up you dumb bangers? Why'd you run, putas?”

  Cruz curled into a fetal position on the ground. Eduardo was face down, sprawled out next to him. Dust blew up from Eduardo's breath.

  “Look man, we give up, we give up,” Eduardo belted out.

  Cruz turned his head slightly to the right and saw the two cops standing over them. One of them was the cop from the interceptor—a burly man of medium height. He sported a thick, orange-blond mustache and looked down at the boys with cobalt blue eyes. He knelt down next to Eduardo and took off a black glove. “The time for giving up is over, holmes. Now, it's time for daddy to teach you a lesson.” The cop stood up and stepped onto the side of Eduardo's head. He laughed as Eduardo started to squirm.

  “Yo, what the hell you doing?” Eduardo screamed. His sentence trailed off as the cop put more of his weight onto Eduardo's face. The cop was lifting himself onto that one foot.

  Eduardo's voice changed from its cool self to the high pitched scream of a teenage boy, “Get off me! You gonna break my face!”

  Cruz watched in terror as he lay there, face to face with Eduardo. Eduardo's face was turning purple-red as tears welled up in his bulging eyes. Then he started to sob uncontrollably.

  “No, no, no…Cruz…help me man...” The cop was standing with all of his weight on Eduardo's face. Cruz heard something snap and Eduardo scream. Cruz closed his eyes and began to yell.

  “Look at these two pussy cholos,” the cop said as he turned his head to look at Cruz. “So fucking tough, you filth of the streets.” He lifted his foot from Eduardo's face. Cruz looked at Eduardo and it seemed like his jaw wasn't attached anymore. Eduardo's cries were guttural, muddled.

  The cop moved to Eduardo's back and started kicking him in the kidneys. Cruz couldn't take anymore of it and he yelled out, “Stop it please! He isn't doing anything!”

  The cop didn't even pause. Between kicks he said, “You spics are here, that's enough.”

  Cruz looked back at Eduardo whose eyes were rolling back into his head. He had vomited all over the ground in front of him. Cruz could smell that Eduardo had shit and pissed his pants.

  “You're killing him!” The tears streamed down Cruz's face. He desperately wanted to get up and rip the cop apart. He sobbed on the ground and started to claw his way over to Eduardo.

  “Get the hell away unless you want to be next, shithead.” Cruz ignored him and threw his body over Eduardo as best as possible. He felt kicks start to rain down on his side. A rib cracked. But he wasn't going to move.

  Cruz heard the voice of the other cop, “Fuck, that's enough.”

  The cop who had been beating the boys stopped. “You think these putas learned their lesson?”

  “Yeah man, enough's enough.”

  Cruz's head dropped on Eduardo's shoulder. Short, strained breaths came from Eduardo's broken mouth. He had stopped crying, and seemed to be unconscious. Cruz closed his eyes again and passed out.

  N I N E

  _________________________________________________

  It was two days since the incident and Max was living like he was the criminal. Every loud noise made him jump. Every cross stare had him questioning what that person may know. He avoided contact with everyone.

  Max went to his living room window and contemplated who he could contact for help, for support. Anyone who could listen really. He was still very close with his father, seemingly more so as he got older and his father's wisdom became apparent. However, this wasn't the situation to drag friends and family into. Max knew they may be in danger even without him voluntarily getting them involved.

  As he absentmindedly perused the mail and other junk on his kitchen table, he flipped over a business card that read:

  Sandra Gutierrez

  Broadcast Journalist, Channel 9 News

  He remembered this woman. She was the striking woman who was supposedly hunting for a bathroom. Max flipped the business card around in his hand while he thought about how he could use her. She could be exactly the help he needed.

  * * * *

  Martinez and Williams pulled up to Martinez's house. He saw his wife standing at the front door.r />
  “Oh shit, what's this about?” Martinez groaned.

  “Looks like you done something wrong ese,” Williams sneered. It always irritated Martinez when Williams used Spanish slang against him.

  Martinez got out of the car and screamed out to his wife, “Que paso mujer?” His wife kept staring him down, hands on hips and eyebrows on fire.

  “What happened? How about that loco racist sergeant of yours calling to ask how I was doing? And his equally racist cabron Tomko called your wife, Williams. What the hell did you two bastards do now?”

  Martinez felt a ball of fury rise from his gut. He turned to look at Williams who seemed unaffected, like he was expecting this.

  “What'd you think man?” Williams asked. “You had to know those punks would pull out all the stops to get that drive back.”

  “Man, they're threatening our families! Screw them! We don't even know what's on the drive.”

  “Doesn't matter what's on there. Perception trumps reality,” Williams said. “They ain't gonna stop until you give them the drive or you do something with it.”

  “Look, let's go check out your house, just to make sure,” Martinez said.

  “All right, man.”

  “Hey mujer, you remember where the gun is and how to use it?” Martinez asked his wife.

  “You know it.”

  * * * *

  Tomko and Lindsey walked up the driveway to Williams' home. The sun was just falling behind the horizon, making them cast long shadows that ran up the side of the house. Lindsey stood on Tomko's right side, pressed up against the house while Tomko rang the doorbell. Tomko heard footsteps coming from the back of the house.

  “Hello?”

  “Alicia? It's Tomko. I got some bad news.”

  “Well, tell me through the door.”

  “Alicia, something's happened to your husband. Let me in, I don't want to tell you this through a door.”