Two men in trenchcoats were fumbling with the lock on the bedroom’s back door, which led outside to the back alley. They held a third man, who wore only a bloody white T-shirt and black socks. Hector recognized him from his mug shot—Ricardo Amaya, the brothel owner, the man Hector had come here to arrest.
One of the two thugs was an average-looking Hispanic male, but the other seemed to be wearing some sort of mask. Hector’s eyes went to their hands, assessing the threat they presented. Both thugs carried machetes, but unlike the fool in the front hallway, they didn’t raise them at Hector. Instead, they opened the back door and stepped outside into the dark alley, dragging the half-naked brothel owner with them.
Hector could see another officer outside in the alley, guarding the rear door. The weird-looking thug hurled Ricardo at the officer. The officer was bowled over; he and the brothel owner fell in a tangled heap to the ground. The two thugs took off running.
Meanwhile, the man with his pants around his ankles was reaching toward a machete on the floor. Hector kicked the machete away and slammed the guy, chest-first, into the wall. Hector cuffed him, then shoved him into Ralph’s arms.
“Call for backup,” Hector said. “Two Hispanic males with machetes, wearing jeans and trenchcoats, running west toward Fourteenth Street.”
Hector ran through the bedroom’s back door and out into the dark alley. He could see the two thugs rounding the corner, more than a block away. He sprinted after them.
6
An hour later, Detective Tavon McGee knelt down in the brothel’s front yard. The flashing police lights illuminated a little plastic skeleton laying in the dirt. With gloved hands, he pinched the string attached to the plastic skull and held up the figurine. The little skeleton seemed to dance on its cord as the detective examined it with a flashlight.
McGee filled his lungs with the warm night air, momentarily relieved to study the kitschy representation of death as opposed to the real thing. The scene inside the brothel was a bloody mess. Two corpses: one downed by the double-tap of a police Glock, one duct-taped and decapitated. Three injured: the brothel owner with his chest carved up, drifting in and out of consciousness; a second man, duct-taped and confused; and a naked prostitute, bruised and bloody, sobbing nonsensically about el diablo. The three survivors were on their way to Howard University Hospital; the two dead were headed to the Medical Examiner’s Office.
The crime scene techs had their work cut out for them: Dozens of used condoms in the garbage can in the bedroom. Blood spattered on the bedroom walls. Broken furniture strewn around the living room.
It was a messy scene, and it was going to be a messy case. Two of the invaders had gotten away. The police involved in the shooting would not be able to work the case. A Use of Force investigation would be launched, to determine whether Hector Ramos’s shooting was justified. All of the officers would be placed on administrative leave pending the decision. Their union attorneys might not let them talk for weeks, if not months. McGee would have to figure much of this out on his own.
He was a homicide detective, had been for over twenty years. He was used to sorting out the relationships between the living and the dead.
A movement in the row house next door caught his eye. A dark-haired kid was cracking open the front door and peering out. The boy was maybe five years old, with knobby knees and wide brown eyes.
“This yours, little man?” McGee called. He held up the plastic skeleton. The kid nodded. McGee walked up the steps to the boy’s porch. The metal railing around the porch was decorated with dozens of identical little skeletons, as well as black rubber bats and pipe-cleaner spiders. Ghosts made of wispy white sheets hung from the ceiling, twirling slowly in the breeze. McGee handed the little skeleton to the boy. “What’s your name?”
“I’m not ’posed to talk to strangers.”
“It’s okay. I’m the police.”
McGee touched the badge hanging from a thin chain around his neck. The kid still looked worried. McGee knelt down so their heads were almost the same height. Then he smiled, revealing the gummy gap where his two front teeth used to be.
Tavon McGee was 6'4", 290 pounds, with skin the color of espresso beans. He could use his bulk to intimidate witnesses or bureaucrats. But with kids, the key was getting down on their level—and smiling. The gap in McGee’s front teeth made children feel like he was one of them. Folks speculated on why he didn’t get the hole fixed. Fact was, he’d solved more than one homicide because some child felt comfortable talking to him. No one could argue with the highest case-closure rate in D.C.
The boy said, “My name’s Jorge.”
“That must’ve been pretty scary, what you saw next door, Jorge.”
The kid looked down at the little skeleton in his hands.
“But I’m guessing you were brave, right?”
The boy met his eyes and nodded.
“What happened?”
“The Devil told me to shush,” the boy whispered. “Then he went in there with his friends.”
“What do you mean, the Devil?”
The kid held two index fingers to his forehead, simulating horns.
A woman appeared in the doorway. “Jorge!” she cried. “Venga aqui! Ahora!”
The kid ran into the house. McGee stood up, his knees creaking in protest. The woman tried to shut the door in his face, but he stuck a foot into the doorjamb.
“Ma’am, I need to talk to your son.”
“No hablo ínglés.”
She pushed on the door, putting pressure on McGee’s foot. He held up his badge and cocked his head. She reluctantly allowed him inside.
Ten minutes later, he walked back out again, with the names and DOB’s of everyone in the house—but no further information about the crime next door. Mom refused to allow the kid to talk to him any more. McGee would return tomorrow with a subpoena requiring the boy to testify in the grand jury. But he knew how these things worked. By tomorrow, Jorge’s mother would have convinced him that he hadn’t seen anything. McGee sighed and brushed a ghost out of his way as he went down the steps.
Hector Ramos came out of the brothel’s basement door, leading a young Hispanic man in handcuffs. The handcuffed man grinned at McGee. He’d been smiling all night. It was a strange smile, completely inappropriate for his situation. McGee wondered what the hell was wrong with him. The man wasn’t carrying ID and wasn’t giving his name. McGee glanced at the tattoos covering his neck, at the two teardrop tattoos by his eye. They’d find out his name soon enough; no way this gangbanger hadn’t been arrested and fingerprinted before.
McGee nodded at the Human-Trafficking detective. Hector was known as a solid cop and a dependable teammate. McGee wondered why he hadn’t left MPD for a higher-paying federal job years ago. Putting this mope in the cruiser would be the last official move Hector would make for a while, though. McGee doubted the detective would enjoy his time out on administrative leave. He got the impression that Hector was an action guy.
Hector stopped before putting the thug in the cruiser and spoke to McGee. “Gotta show you something.” Hector pulled out an evidence bag with a small photo inside it. “I found this in his pants pocket when I frisked him. You know who this is, right?”
McGee took the bag and looked at it. The police flashers bounced red and blue light on the photograph of a woman’s face, smiling and beautiful. McGee knew the face, but she was so out of place and unexpected here, it took him a moment to recognize her. He stopped breathing for a moment. Good Lord.
“Mirandized?” he asked Hector.
“Yeah.”
“Why do you have this picture?” McGee held it before the tattooed man.
The guy’s weird smile grew. “She’s my girlfriend, man.”
“The hell she is. Where’d you get this from?”
“Go fuck yourself is where. I want my lawyer.”
McGee shoved the guy into the back of the police cruiser and slammed the door. He paced the curb and considered call
ing Jack Bailey. Jack had a right to know. But McGee had heard what Jack and Anna were up to tonight. He didn’t want to ruin this night for them.
He put the picture in his pocket. Let Jack and Anna have one night of happiness and celebration. They deserved it. He’d tell them tomorrow.
We hope you enjoyed this excerpt of Speak of the Devil by Allison Leotta.
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Speak of the Devil
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Copyright © 2010 by Allison Leotta
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or cases or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All views in the book are the author’s alone and may not reflect the views of the U.S. Attorney’s Office for the District of Columbia or the U.S. Department of Justice.
First Touchstone hardcover edition October 2010
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Designed by Renata Di Biase
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Leotta, Allison.
Law of attraction : a novel / Allison Leotta.
p. cm.
1. Public prosecutors—Washington (D.C.)—Fiction. 2. Family violence—Fiction. 3. Victims of family violence—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3612.E59L38 2010
813'.6 dc22
2010025231
ISBN 978-1-4391-9384-6
ISBN 978-1-4391-9533-8 (ebook)
Law of Attraction Page 35
