by Marc Rainer
"You giving me the silent treatment?"
Her question brought him back to reality.
"No, sorry, I was just thinking about—"
Before he had to come up with a white lie to finish his answer, he was getting out of the cruiser.
"Sir!" he called after the small man who was walking away from the convenience store's front door.
"Yeah, somethin' wrong?" the man asked, turning to face him.
"Not unless you don't need this anymore," Sam said, picking up an object from the sidewalk. "You dropped your cell phone."
"Oh, thanks a lot," the little guy said nervously.
"Good number, too," Sam said, looking at the digits displayed on the phone's screen.
"Yeah, thanks again. I appreciate it," the man said, almost snatching the phone away.
"No problem. Have a good day," Sam said.
The smaller man spun around, almost bumping into Officer Miranda Rhodes who had assumed a support position toward the rear of the cruiser.
Always where she should be, Sam thought. Good girl. Good cop.
"Good number?" she asked when they both got back inside the cruiser.
"Last four anyway. 1969."
"Pervert."
"Oh hell, Randi. It's the year I was born." Sam pulled out a small notebook and wrote down the entire phone number.
"You think he's wrong, Sam?"
"He was acting pretty squirrelly. Hmm," he said, looking at the number. "He got into that ton-and-a-half. Texas plates. The phone number had a south Texas area code, too. Why don't we follow him for a while?"
"Sure," she said. "Quiet day so far."
"Stay back and play him," he said. "Not too close."
"Yes sir," she said, a little edge to her voice.
"Keep it even. I would have said the same thing to Stew. Just thinking out loud, doing the mental checklists. Reminders never hurt, and are never personal."
"Sorry," she replied. "I'm on him."
They followed the truck until it pulled into the back of a tennis club just south of Capitol Hill.
"The Dome Racquet Club," Sam said as he made more notations in the notebook. "Our truck driver from Texas doesn't look like the athletic type to me, and I can't think of a reason that a DC racquet club would be ordering supplies from down there."
"Any ideas?" she asked.
"Only that it was a shame he was driving so carefully. Any violations and we'd have pulled him over and called a dope dog. The bed on that truck looked awful thick to me—may have had a false bottom underneath all those boxes. Oh well, file for future reference."
He pulled out a zippered binder and stuck the page from the notepad into a pocket of the folio. "Let's get back to it."
She nodded and made two lefts, heading back toward Georgetown.
Waldorf, Maryland
11:35 p.m.
Lynn Trask paused for a moment as she approached the doorway to the den. She stood in the shadow, watching her husband. He was watching television, his eyes fixed to his left. He had his right hand on Boo's head, gently petting the big dog. His left hand was resting on his lap, only it wasn't resting.
Is he drumming again? Keeping time to another one of those songs in his head? No, there's no rhythm to that movement. It's involuntary. It's just quivering.
He noticed her and his left hand slipped out of his lap, behind his left leg.
She smiled. "I'm going to bed, Jeff."
"Be there shortly."
She headed toward the bedroom. He'll tell me when he's ready.
Ciudad Victoria
Tamaulipas, Mexico
November 30, 2010, 10:17 a.m.
Ramón Dominguez ushered Heriberto Lazcano from the main house to what had been a barn in the hacienda's more legitimate days. The barn had been stripped of any stalls, feed, and livestock, and was now buzzing with both Mexican and Thai workers who were rolling fifty-five gallon drums—some empty, others full of chemicals—into their designated places.
"The hacienda came at a higher price than we expected," Dominguez explained. "We lost four men before we were able to kill the old man. In the long run, it will be well worth our trouble."
"It is a good location," Lazcano agreed. "We control the whole process now, from the cultivation in Colombia through the processing here to the distribution in the North. Speaking of that, how is your American connection working out?"
"It is a good location," Lazcano agreed. "We control the whole process now, from the cultivation in Colombia through the processing here to the distribution in the North. Speaking of that, how is your American connection working out?"
"Very well, for now at least. I am having both our broker friend and his driver monitored. So far, no problems."
"Good." Lazcano pointed to a group of the Thai workers in one corner of the barn. "What exactly are your Asians up to?"
"That is where the actual refining lab will be located. The Thais are experts at refining the heroin." Dominguez pointed to the other end of the barn. "The raw product comes in there. We receive the gum here in our trucks from Colombia. Our soldiers and money protect the routes. We first have to convert the opium gum into morphine by boiling it in some of the barrels, filtering it with burlap, and then we press the morphine into bricks. We convert the bricks into heroin by using acetic anhydride and some other chemicals—sodium carbonate, ammonium chloride, some charcoal. The heroin our experts from the East produce is more than 90% pure, but we dilute it with some white additives. It cuts the purity a bit, but looks the same, and the final product still looks and kicks better than most of the tar our competition makes. In addition, by cutting it a little, our profits are better."
Lazcano nodded approvingly. "The location is superb. We have clear fields of fire on all sides. If Guzman's bastards or those damned marines try to attack us, we can cut them down easily; there's nowhere for them to hide, no cover. Well-selected. Well-protected."
"That's why the old man was such a problem for us," Dominguez agreed. He barked an order in the direction of the Thai workmen, which was translated by a Zeta standing near them. The workers began moving the barrels further away from the wooden walls of the barn.
"We don't want the heat too close to the dry wood of these old walls." Dominguez shook his head. "It would burn the building down on top of us. I have some asbestos coming to make sure that doesn't happen."
Lazcano pointed to one of the Asians. "One of your hired hands seems grumpy."
Dominguez turned and saw that one of the Thai men was saying something to the others in his own tongue, apparently complaining about having to move the barrels. Dominguez started to say something, but Lazcano was already in motion, shouting at the Zeta translator.
"Yes, Rios, that one. Bring him here. Now."
The translator ushered the offender toward Lazcano at gunpoint, and forced the man to his knees.
"Now tell them what I'm saying," Lazcano commanded. "Word for word."
The translator ordered the workers to stop and listen. Most, seeing one of their own at Lazcano's feet, had already done so.
"We ask only a few simple things of you," Lazcano began. "One, work hard. Two, keep your mouths shut when you go home at night. Three, do what you are told, and do not question orders. Do these things and you are paid well. Is that not true?"
The translator spoke, and the men—including the one on his knees before Lazcano—nodded.
Lazcano pulled a pistol from the holster at his side and pointed it at the man's head. "You say you understand now?"
The man nodded and bowed. Lazcano fired into the back of the man's head. The body slumped at his feet.
Lazcano faced the Asians, pointing to the dead man with his pistol. "He said he understood, but we have said these things to you before, so either he lied, or he refused to obey. This is a good lesson, because all of you understand even better now, no?"
The terrified workers all nodded their heads in agreement.
"Excellent! Because each of y
ou now gets a raise! A share of this fool's salary. Now back to your assignments." Lazcano turned back to Dominguez. "Excellent work as usual, Ramón. And the facility in Nuevo Laredo?"
"We are removing the small lab there, and bringing the whole refining operation here. The hacienda in Nuevo Laredo will be used for storing and shipping, and will continue to serve as our main armory."
"It is exactly as we had discussed. More money means more soldiers for us, more bullets, and fewer marines and enemies. Soon I hope that we have a new government. It might leave us to solve our own problems, and we can just deal directly with Guzmán and his Federation cowards. We still have a year to go before the elections, however. More skirmishes with the marines."
"We will be ready for them. We even have some anti-aircraft weapons on site here if they try to come in by helicopter."
Lazcano laughed, and patted Dominguez on the back. "You leave no stone unturned, my friend." He motioned to another one of his entourage and headed for the door to the barn. As the man neared, Lazcano pointed back to the body on the floor. "I don't want that cat food to go to waste. Make sure it gets on one of the trucks."
Washington, D.C.
4:05 p.m.
11:20 p.m.
Joseph Adipietro left the gym bag inside the locker on the end of the row, re-locking it as he greeted the customers entering the locker room after their game.
"How's the backhand, Monty?" he asked the taller of the two.
"Much better, Joe. The change in the grip made all the difference. Thanks for the tip."
"No problem. Keep practicing. Muscle memory's the key."
The man nodded. "Will do."
Adipietro headed for his office. He locked the door behind him before making the call. He picked up the desk phone and dialed. When the voice answered, Adipietro was brief. "One in your locker. Usual time." He didn't wait for a response.
He got up from the desk and headed for the courts. There were three couples still playing.
"Wrap it up folks, as soon as you can please. It's getting dark and cold out here. If you want showers inside, remember we close at five."
His members were out on time. Before Adipietro locked the front door to the club, he saw a van pull into the space by his own car in front of the building. A sign on the van read "Metro Maintenance Services." A stocky black man in a janitorial uniform smiled as he passed Adipietro on the way inside. A nametag on the man's jacket read "Roscoe."
"One in the bag," Adipietro said. "How long?"
"About three days, between the track and PG County," Roscoe said. "Lots of hungry people out there."
"Good. Our suppliers are hungry, too. For their money."
"No sweat. I'll have it Friday night."
"Good. Make sure you hit the corners in the guys' showers tonight. Thought I saw a little mold starting to form."
"No sweat. Got my bleach."
"Friday, then."
11:20 p.m.
Detective Gordon Hamilton pulled to the curb. The woman climbed into the car and handed him the phone. He pulled back into traffic, making the block.
"Hiya, Bootsy," he said. "Here's your money. Sixty for your time, a hundred for your info, and another hundred to replace what you paid for the cell. We good?"
"We're v-e-e-r-r-r-y, good, baby." The hooker flashed a wide smile as she tucked the money into her bra. A small diamond gleamed from the center of one of her front teeth.
"Good. Tell me how you know this came from an OD?"
"Her street name was Misty. I never got close enough with her to find out her birth name or nuthin'. One of my girlfriends had done some double dates with her—you know—two girls on one guy? Anyway, my girlfriend said that after one trick, she pulled a needle after the trick left, and shot up right there in the hotel room. China White. Girlfriend had the room for the night, and told Misty to clear out 'fore she came back with another customer. She comes back a little later with another trick, and Misty's dead on the bed."
"What's the girlfriend's name, Bootsy?"
She gave him a look. "I ain't goin' there, Hammer. Like I said, she's a friend. Anyway, girlfriend was pissed 'cause her trick ran off. She kept the phone since she lost money. Know what I'm sayin'? Like I told you, Hammer, I had to pay her a hundred to get it. I told her my phone died and I lost the charger so I needed another one."
Hamilton nodded. "Thanks for the help. You wouldn't know who the trick was that ordered the double date, would you?"
"Naw. I can try and hint around it. Maybe girlfriend wants to do another one with him sometime. I don't usually do those. I just sticks to my safe old boring regulars. I'll keep my ear to the street for you, though."
"Same number and same money if you hear any more." He pulled to the curb and let her out. He looked ahead to the corner of the intersection where most of the girls were working. A commercial van had pulled in at the curb. Hamilton made a mental note. Metro Maintenance Services.
FBI Field Office
Washington, D.C.
December 1, 2010, 10:15 a.m.
"I need a reference for this one," Lynn said, holding the phone up that JLHamilton had just handed her. "Want me to just mark it 'Jane Doe number four,' or did you get a real ID on this one?"
"Kathy said they logged her in as a Jane Doe at the morgue," Trask replied. "Did you get a name for her, Hammer?"
"Just a first name. Misty."
Lynn shot Trask a look before he could react. "If he says her last name was 'Gale,' I'm going to start throwing stuff at both of you."
"She throws stuff?" Wisniewski asked, rolling his chair backward and out of his cubicle.
"Yeah. Accurately." Trask shrugged. "Fortunately, most of what she throws is soft. Pillows, boxes of tissue."
"Who's Misty Gale?" Carter asked.
"I have no idea," Trask said. "Lynn must be having some jealousy dreams again."
"I really am going to start throwing stuff," Lynn warned, grabbing a stapler.
"I just know her street name was Misty, so call her Misty Doe," Hamilton said. "You day cops are crazy. Keep your shit on your desk, Lynn. I'm going home to get some sleep."
"I'll see if Misty here was making common calls with our other Doe-girls, then," Lynn said, still staring suspiciously at Trask and waving the phone like it was a boomerang.
He raised his hands in denial. "I swear. No collusion."
Lynn was still holding the phone in the air when it was snatched from her hand by Barry Doroz, who appeared from behind the wall of the cubicle. Doroz put it in his jacket pocket.
"I'll take this to our computer geeks to do an official, forensic download, and bring it back to you for your analysis," Doroz said. "That way, we don't lose any data when you throw it at your husband."
"That's okay," she said, picking up the stapler again. "I have other ammo."
"So how was the conference in Texas?" Trask asked, changing the subject.
"Informative, and scary," Doroz said. "If we can get all you pirates in the conference room, I've got some notes to share."
They all followed him into the room used by the squad for conferences, lunches, planning, and any other function requiring space outside the cubicle-filled bullpen. Trask grabbed a soda from the fridge in the corner, and tossed another to Wisniewski before sitting down.
"This may actually have been the rare, productive G-fest. It certainly wasn't one of those GSA boondoggles," Doroz began. "We had people there from the El Paso Intelligence Center, DEA, ATF—"
A round of boos interrupted him.
"Yeah, I know. We're all furious about Fast and Furious," Doroz continued, "especially since a lot of those guns ended up in the hands of the Federation Cartel. Like all of our agencies, ATF has their rank-climbers who wish to work in headquarters, and they have worker bees, mostly good guys. I didn't see any F&F planners there.
"Anyway, the cartel wars in Mexico are something I hope we never see on our side of the border. The main conflict now is between Chapo Guzman's Federation
Cartel—we used to call them the Sinaloa Cartel—and with the Zetas, a bunch of former military special ops troops who went bad and took over the old Gulf Cartel from the inside."
"I thought we were done with paramilitary bad guys," Carter said. "Those Salvadoran hit squads we ran into on the MS-13 case were bad enough."
"The Zetas are worse, Dix," Doroz said. "It's like some of our Seals and Green Berets crossed the line and started working for drug lords. In this case, the Zetas now are the drug lords. In fact, they were trained by some of our own special operators—Seals, Rangers—and by the Israelis, too. They kill for show, to control the population in their areas, and the latest intelligence is that they're starting to grow their own heroin poppies in Colombia and process the gum into China White."
"Any indication that they're the source of what we're starting to see here?" Trask asked.
"Not specifically, Jeff, but some of their dope has already showed up in Chicago and Atlanta."
"How's it getting in?" Wisniewski asked.
"Through that joke of a border," Carter snorted. "Same as always."
"To be determined," Doroz said. "But there've been arrests of confirmed Zetas in several cities north of the border. Some tied to the dope, others to homicides."
"It's a possible source, anyway," Trask said. "Maybe even probable. I haven't seen anything in the other intelligence reports about an increase in the traditional China White routes—you know, the Nigerian balloon swallowers gulping down condoms full of the stuff and then flying in from Europe."
"Disgusting." Lynn shook her head.
"Especially when the balloons rupture in their guts," Doroz added. "Then they come off the planes in body bags. You're right, Jeff. This could be our source."
"We're just seven stages separated from any proof of it for now," Trask said. "One step at a time. Connect the dots from the bottom up. Let's keep our eyes and ears open for any linkage, at any level." He looked at Lynn. "Starting with the dots in those phones."
"Working," she replied. "Maybe Misty Doe's phone has some tales to tell. No telling what's on that phone."
