Death's White Horses: A Jeff Trask Crime Drama (Jeff Trask crime drama series Book 3)

by Marc Rainer

"Just promise me that if you see things going the wrong way, you'll get out in time."

  He looked into her eyes and kissed her again. "I love my country and the men who fight with me, but if I ever see that all is lost, or that I cannot do my job anymore, you have my word. I feel like I live in two worlds sometimes. I love them both, you know. You and your country, my own as well."

  "I love them both, too, and I love you. Now you can love me again." She threw a leg over him, and pushed up, her breasts brushing his face.

  Waldorf, Maryland

  December 24, 2010, 4:16 p.m.

  Trask left the mall empty-handed. What in the world am I supposed to get her this year? Some guidelines for shopping! No clothes, no jewelry, no candy, no perfume. Gift cards are so impersonal. She'd hate that, or maybe she wouldn't. Not much time left. Gotta pick up dog food, as usual. Might as well get that out of the way first. Maybe Ill think of something on the way. I shouldn't have waited this long. Too late to do anything online.

  He left the highway and drove to the shopping area in the center of the St. Charles subdivision, heading for a large pet store that carried the super-healthy, super-expensive stuff that Lynn demanded for Nikki and Boo. The parking lot was packed, the result of a pet adoption/foster care group that was taking advantage of the Christmas season to display some of the dogs and cats they'd saved from pounds in the area.

  Good luck, little guys. Trask smiled as he passed several crates containing some medium-size dogs inside the front door of the store. Impulse Christmas pets. Not usually a good idea, but these folks check out prospective new owners first. Hope they all get a home soon. I know ours have been worth the effort. Boo even saved Lynn's life chasing off one goon, and they make us both smile.

  He grabbed a cart and pushed it to the aisles in the back where the food was stocked. Big bag of dry, and a case of the cans of wet stuff. Nikki's picky, doesn't like the chicken. Boo would eat anything I put in her bowl. He sorted the cans into a gourmet dog feast. Wild Boar and rice. Venison and sweet potato. Lamb and brown rice. Duck and potato. I'll ably have hamburger. What a world.

  He pushed the cart back toward the front of the store and the checkout lanes. There was another row of crates, this time containing smaller dogs. He stopped when he saw a dark brown little mutt, sitting stoically by herself in a pen at the end of the row. Her hindquarters had been shaved and were covered with scabs and some kind of medicinal cream. She looked up at him with what he thought had to be the cutest face he'd ever seen.

  Trask caught the attention of a middle-aged woman wearing a T-shirt that identified her as one of the foster service volunteers.

  "What's the story with this little pup?"

  "That's Tasha," the woman said. "I've been fostering her. She's actually six years old, and a full-blooded miniature schnauzer. We rescued her from an owner who just left her outside and threw food in her bowl. She was so flea-infested we had to shave her down and treat her with steroids. Our vet said she wouldn't have lived much longer if we hadn't taken her."

  "How do you do that?" Trask asked. "Take them, I mean."

  The woman smiled. "We inform the owner that they can voluntarily surrender the animal, or we can inform the police. The one's that really don't care about the animals just hand them over. Some, like problem hoarders, force us to go the other way."

  "Mind if I walk her around a little? My wife has made it impossible for me to shop for a Christmas gift, and she might be the answer."

  "Do you have a vet you regularly use?" the woman asked. "The only way I can let you take her tonight is if your vet vouches for you."

  Trask gave her the veterinarian's name and number, and put the little dog on a leash. She pranced alongside him quietly as he walked her around the store. Lynn loves the two we have already, but always wanted a lap dog. This little girl is cute as hell, and would be gone already if her butt wasn't shaved down. Well-behaved and quiet, too, despite her past ordeals. He led the little dog back to the front of the store.

  "Your vet says you're good as gold," the woman said. "He says you and your wife are the ideal puppy parents. You can take her tonight if you want. There's just an adoption fee and some quick paperwork."

  Trask bent down and petted the little dog's head. She instantly stood up on her shaved back legs and licked his face. He looked up at the woman. "Will you take a check?"

  Zapata, Texas

  11:18 p.m.

  Aguilar was almost asleep when the cell on the nightstand rang. He rolled away from Linda, who was sleeping soundly, and picked up the phone.

  "Yes, my friend. Is something wrong?"

  "No, Capitán. I just needed to say Merry Christmas to someone."

  "Merry Christmas to you, my friend. This must be a very lonely time for you."

  "It is, but I'll be all right. Merry Christmas again, Capitán"

  "And to you, amigo. Good night, and stay careful."

  FBI Field Office

  Washington, D.C.

  December 28, 2010, 8:50 a.m.

  Dixon Carter entered the squad room and saw Doroz and Trask leaning over Lynn's shoulder. Both were looking hard at her computer terminal.

  "Major break-through?" Carter asked.

  "Don't I wish," Trask replied. "No, just taking another look at Roscoe Briggs' phone history before you take a shot at him this morning. He's supposed to come in at 9:30, right?"

  "That's the plan. Spot anything we didn't notice before?"

  "Not that I can find," Lynn said. "Calls to the dead girls, calls to a racquet club on the south side of Capitol Hill. I ran the racquet club owner and his property records, and he seems to be the landlord for some of the dead hookers, so both ends of that connection could be legitimately work-related for our Mr. Briggs. Tenant calls owner over a leaky faucet, owner calls Briggs and tells him to fix it, Briggs calls tenant to set up an appointment. Just one thing, though, the owner—a guy named Adipietro—is originally from New York, and has a rap sheet. Extortion, assaults, some car thefts in his younger days. May be mobbed up—a real wise guy."

  "Interesting," Carter said, raising his eyebrows. "Good to know. Jeff, do you think Bear's ATF buddy from Brooklyn would know this guy?"

  "He would and did," Doroz said. "You don't think of everything first, Dix. We just hung up with Joe Picone. He said that our man Adipietro used to be part of the Gotti crew before the Teflon Don took his big fall years back. It's the years back that complicates things a little. All of Adipietro's priors are at least twenty years old."

  "So he's either gone straight—"

  "Or gotten smarter since he left the big town." Trask finished the sentence for Carter. "Anyway, we thought you might find the intel useful in your session this morning."

  "I certainly might. Thanks," Carter said. "Did you two have a good Christmas?"

  "No," Lynn said, wrapping her right arm around Trask and hugging him. "I had a wonderful Christmas. Got the best gift anyone has ever given me."

  "Spill the beans, Jeff," Carter said. "I might find that information more valuable than your intel in the future, assuming I can ever find another lady friend to exchange gifts with."

  "I'm sure you will, Dix." Trask shrugged and threw up his hands. "No clever master plan this year. I went in for dog food Christmas Eve and walked out with a dog."

  "She's a little doll," Lynn said, holding up a picture she'd already framed. "A real cuddle puppy."

  "She is a cute one," Carter agreed. "Is she actually a puppy?"

  "A perma-puppy," Trask said. "Mini-schnauzer. A rescue service had her out at the pet store. She's actually six years old already."

  "Does she get along with your other dogs?" Doroz asked.

  "Already part of the pack," Lynn said. "Boo thinks she's her puppy, too."

  "Looks like you hit a home run this year, Jeff," Carter said.

  "Maybe, but now I'm screwed for Christmas shopping next year. Three's the city limit for dogs, and I'm not sure we could afford another one anyway. My guidance was no jew
elry, no clothes, no perfume, and now I can't bring home any more pets."

  Tim Wisniewski stuck his head in the squad room. "Dix, our interview's waiting downstairs."

  "On my way," Carter said. "Put him in the room and have him wait for a minute or two. I want to watch him through the one-way before we start."

  "He's already in there," Wisniewski said. "I've done this with you before, remember?"

  "Mind if we watch?" Trask asked.

  "Be my guests."

  The interview room was just like the ones Trask had seen in countless cop movies and TV shows. A main room with a table and chairs served as the actual interrogation arena. An adjoining, dimly lit room provided spectators a view of the event through a one-way mirror. The subject could not see the witnesses, one of whom might be called upon from time to time to identify a perpetrator.

  At least the movies got something right, Trask thought as he took one of the folding chairs next to Lynn. Doroz stood behind them.

  Carter stood next to Doroz, eyeing Roscoe Briggs through the one-way. The janitor seemed completely at ease, checking something on his smart phone.

  "Cool customer, at least for starters," Carter observed. "Let's see what he has to offer."

  He left the observation area, and Trask and Lynn watched as Carter and Wisniewski joined Briggs in the other room. Carter was carrying a large envelope. The detectives introduced themselves and shook hands with Briggs before sitting across the table from him.

  "You're not a suspect or anything at this point," Carter began. "But we believe you might be able to help us identify some recent overdose victims, and we'd like to see if you've come across any other information that could lead us to whoever it is that's been dealing to these girls."

  "I'd be happy to try and help," Briggs said in a matter-of-fact tone. "You must be talkin' 'bout some of those poor hookers down off the track."

  He's sure not trying to hide anything, Trask thought.

  "We are talking about them; that's correct," Carter said. "What did you know about those girls?"

  "Not much," Briggs replied. "A name or two, the ones they used on the street, anyway. They was rentin' apartments in a building 'bout a block east of the track. My boss owns the place, and I was the superintendent, so if any of 'em had a problem with the place I'd get called out to go fix it."

  Trask looked at Lynn. She smiled, having anticipated the story perfectly.

  "What are your work hours?" Wisniewski asked.

  Good question, Tim, Trask thought. Let's see if he wants to deny being on the track in the middle of the night—when Hammer saw his truck out there.

  "Whenever somethin' breaks." Briggs shrugged his shoulders. "I'm on call twenty-four-seven. Busted appliances and plumbin' don't keep regular hours, so neither do I."

  "You work any other facilities besides that building?" Carter asked.

  "Just my boss's Racquet Club, down off the Hill."

  Trask looked at Lynn again. He's not trying to hide that, either.

  "I thought you were self-employed," Wisniewski commented.

  "I am—own my own company, but Joe—Joe Adipietro—I call him my boss 'cause he gives me enough business between his club and the apartments to keep me busy and paid. I still do my own taxes. He doesn't withhold for me or nothin' like that."

  "We're not investigating a tax case, Mr. Briggs," Carter said reassuringly.

  "Oh, okay, good." Briggs chuckled a little.

  That looked natural enough, too, Trask told himself.

  "Why do you say that's good?" Wisniewski asked.

  Nice work, Tim. That would have gotten by me. Glad you're alert.

  "Well," Briggs paused. "I get some benefits from the work that I don't exactly know how to declare. Know what I mean?"

  "Not really," Carter said. "What do you mean?"

  "Well," Briggs paused again. "Let's say it's early in the morning on a Saturday—you know, 2:30 a.m. or somethin' like that. One of the girls has a problem with her place, she ain't gonna call Joe at that hour. She calls me direct. Maybe I don't want to get outta bed at that hour if it ain't a real emergency, but them girls don't keep normal hours, either. They be up all night and sleepin' all day long sometimes. They want somethin' fixed at that hour of the night, sometimes we agree on a little surcharge."

  "What kind of surcharge?" Wisniewski asked.

  Oh, God, Tim, I thought you were the fast one in the room. Trask looked at Lynn, who was rolling her eyes upward. He looked back into the interview room. Carter was staring at his partner with his mouth open.

  "They're hookers, my man," Briggs said. " That kind of surcharge. I'm a single dude, you know."

  "Of course," Wisniewski said quickly. "Just making sure I understood."

  "I didn't charge 'em extra or nothing' like that, know what I'm sayin'?" Briggs added.

  "I understand." Wisniewski had his hand up and his head down.

  "No, really, I wouldn't know how to declare them benefits—"

  "We're not asking you about those," Carter said, shooting a disbelieving glance at Wisniewski. "Let me see if you know any of these girls," he said, reaching for the envelope on the table.

  "I'll tell you 'bout 'em even without whatever's in there," Briggs said. "One's named Connie, one called herself Donna, one was Misty, and the other one—from my building anyway—said her name was Sherry. One day they was there, and then all of a sudden, I'd be havin' to clean out their rooms 'cause they were gone. Overdosed, like you said. Real shame. Couple of 'em was real nice to me. Them surcharges I was talkin' about, you know?" He was looking at Wisniewski now.

  "Yes. I do know," Wisniewski said.

  "Let me show you the pictures anyway," Carter said. "It might help us to notify their families if we can establish who they were."

  He laid the photographs, each a facial shot from one of the dead women, in a row on the table.

  "Donna, Connie, Sherry, Misty." Briggs went down the row naming each one in quick succession. "How'd I do? Did that help?"

  "It might," Carter said, making some notes in a pocket tablet. "You didn't get any last names?"

  "Never did," Briggs said, shaking his head.

  "Did you ever see them taking any drugs? See any in their apartments?" Wisniewski asked.

  "Naw, I ain't into any of that." Briggs was shaking his head again.

  "Any of them ever talk about dope?" Carter asked.

  Briggs paused. "Yeah, poor Misty there. She told me she was afraid she was getting' hooked on somethin' and needed to kick it cold, get herself right, know what I'm sayin'?"

  "She didn't say where she might be getting her fixes, maybe during one of those surcharge moments?" Carter asked.

  "Nope."

  Very matter of fact again, Trask told himself. If he's not straight, he's very good at acting straight.

  "Thanks for coming in, Mr. Briggs." Carter announced the end of the session. He and Wisniewski shook the man's hand again, and showed him out.

  Trask and Lynn waited long enough for Briggs to be led out, then went into the hallway. Carter and Wisniewski were coming back from the lobby.

  "Dead end?" Wisniewski asked.

  "Maybe—except for one thing that will never die," Lynn said. " WHAT KIND OF SURCHARGE?"

  Roscoe Briggs pulled away from the parking lot. He cued the Bluetooth telephone connection on his headset.

  "How'd it go?" Adipietro answered the call.

  "Piece of cake. Just like we talked about."

  "You being followed now?"

  "Oh Hell, no. We cool. No worries."

  "Good. See you tomorrow night."

  "Somethin' in my locker?"

  "There will be."

  "Tomorrow night then, boss."

  Tampico Naval Air Station

  Tamaulipas, Mexico

  January 4, 2011, 7:30 a.m.

  "What did I miss, Torres?" Aguilar shuffled the papers on his desk, trying to prioritize ten days' worth of reports. Some required action; others were simply
depressing. "I see there was a cartel takeover of Tierras Coloradas over in Durango. Anything requiring our immediate action?"

  "No, sir. There was a pipeline explosion last month in Puebla. Some Zetas were over there trying to siphon off some oil."

  "Anyone hurt? Besides the Zetas, I mean. I hope some of those traitors went up in their own flames."

  "Twenty-eight dead, fifty-two injured, more than a hundred homes damaged or destroyed. I don't know how many of the dead were identified. I imagine the bodies were in pretty bad shape."

  Aguilar nodded. "Have the national casualty figures for the year come in yet?"

  Torres handed Aguilar a sheet of paper. "I knew you would want them, sir."

  Aguilar looked at the report, scanning for the total at the bottom. "'Drug-related deaths for calendar year 2010: 15,273.' That's without knowing how many more are in mass graves scattered around the country, the ones the cartels don't want us to know about yet." He shook his head. "Lieutenant, you'd think we were at war, wouldn't you?"

  "Yes, sir. Did you at least have a nice holiday, Capitán?"

  "Wonderful, Torres. Thank you for covering for me. I needed the break. I hope you were able to celebrate a little yourself."

  "Yes, sir. Glad to be of service."

  "Your service has been exemplary, Lieutenant. I hope to see your name on the next promotion list. I have recommended it."

  "Thank you, sir. There's one more thing. We are starting to hear rumors of kidnappings in Acapulco."

  "That is troubling. If the cartels start shooting up the resorts, the tourists will stay home. Lots of consequences for our economy. So far, the resorts near the Yucatan have been off limits. Several of the cartel bosses have their own vacation homes there. I'm glad Acapulco's not in our district. Let me know if we hear about any trouble in our own resort areas."

  "Capitán"

  FBI Field Office

  Washington, D.C.

  January 5, 2011, 10:15 a.m.

  "What do you think about putting a surveillance camera of some sort on that racquet club?" Trask asked. "You know, Joe what's his name's place—the guy Briggs called his boss."