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

by Marc Rainer

  Doroz looked up from the papers on his desk. Trask was taken aback for a moment. The FBI supervisor did not appear to appreciate the suggestion.

  "Shut it please, Jeff." Doroz motioned to the entry to his office.

  "Sure." Trask reached back and gave the door a shove, just hard enough to make the latch close. "What's going on, Bear?"

  "This thing with Heidelberg's daughter is tying up too much money, too many man-hours, and we're getting nothing out of it. Despite the juice the old man has on the Hill and across town, I'm taking some flack from the bosses here about playing at all in that sandbox. Technically, it shouldn't be an FBI matter unless we get some indication of a gang connection. After our missions changed following nine-eleven, we had to basically forfeit all the drug turf to DEA. Hell, you know that already. I just don't think I can justify spending the money for the video feed at the moment, much less detailing somebody to monitor the damned thing. On top of that, the consensus here is that our friend Roscoe Briggs didn't have anything to hide."

  "That's a pretty detailed 'Hell, no,' Bear." Trask said. What do I do now, Willie? My ace is starting to shake me off. He doesn't like the pitches I'm trying to call. "I'm not convinced Briggs was being straight with us. Without something to throw back at him, we're just chalking it up as a dead end."

  "It is a dead end for now, Jeff. The whole investigation may be a dead end. We have other cases to work, you know. Cases with more than one well-heeled victim. I don't care how connected she was or who her daddy is, or what that means for folks in your chain-of-command. There are other real people out there who deserve more than we've been able to give them because of this thing." Doroz shook his head. "I'm sorry, but for now it's a no-go. We're more than willing to ramp back up if we get something to follow. Right now we've got nothing."

  Trask stood and opened the door. He started to say something, but thought better of it. He shook his head and left the office, shutting the door behind him. I know he hates to have it shut. He can open the damned thing himself.

  Waldorf, Maryland

  6:16 p.m.

  Trask took a sip of the Michelob and waited for Sivella to complete his pleasantries with a couple seated a few feet away, down the bar.

  "Somethin' wrong with the beer, Jeff?" Willie asked as he leaned over the counter. "Your face says it's sour."

  "Nothing wrong with the beer. Barry Doroz is shutting down my investigation, Will. He thinks it's a dead end."

  "Wow. Even with all the pressure from the senator's office?"

  "That's the way it looks for now."

  "Did Lynn give you the heads-up?"

  "No, Doroz told me himself. At least he had the decency to tell me face-to-face. I don't even know if Lynn's aware of it yet. She hasn't said anything. She did say she'd be a little late getting home, so I stopped in here."

  "Anything I can do?"

  "Not unless you can put a surveillance cam on The Dome Racquet Club for a while. Got one under your counter there?"

  "Not at the moment, but I know some folks who do. Let's say I get you your video feed on the hush-hush. Would anybody have to ever testify about it?"

  Trask took another sip of the cold beer. It was the best thing that had happened to him all day. "No. I probably shouldn't say that, but I'll personally guarantee it. I'm not looking for actual proof of anything at this point. Just something to put the train back on the rails."

  "Your word's good enough for me. Who's going to be reviewing the video?"

  "If you can put it on a DVD, I will. I'll run it on my office computer. Bear and his squad won't even know I'm end-running 'em unless and until I have a real good hand to throw on the table. If he's right and we're in the back of a blind alley, it'll never come up."

  "Good enough. I'll make some calls for you. This is the little tennis club a couple of blocks off the Hill, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "I'll call you when your movies are ready."

  "Thanks. I owe you."

  "No you don't. You never will."

  Tampico Naval Air Station

  Tamaulipas, Mexico

  January 8, 2011, 7:45 p.m.

  Aguilar sat in his office, staring at the television. The news reports from Acapulco were horrific. Twenty-eight bodies had been found. Fifteen—all young men—had been decapitated, their torsos and heads scattered around the outside of the Plaza Sendero shopping center. The phone rang on Aguilar's desk.

  "Yes?"

  "How unofficial of you, old friend. Just 'Yes.' Not 'Capitán Aguilar' or even 'Company Commander.' You run a very informal unit there."

  "Jorge, it's Saturday night, you maniac." Aguilar recognized the voice of Captain Jorge Lopez, the commander of a marine company on Mexico's Pacific coast. "I'd be at home if I could stand the silence. I'm the only one here at the moment. Linda's still up in the States where it's safe, so I came in and sent the weekend duty officer home to be with his family."

  "Very big of you, Luis. Have you seen the news today?"

  "Watching it now. That's in your sector, isn't it?"

  "I'm afraid so. We found messages signed by Chapo Guzmán among the bodies. The old Sinaloa crew, or the 'Federation'—whoever they think they are for now—is taking control of the coast here; in the north, anyway. There's a cartel based in Michoacan calling themselves the Knights Templar. Rough bunch. Almost as bad as your Zetas. Guzmán hasn't tried to mess with them yet."

  "The news broadcast was carefully ambiguous, as usual. Was it twenty-eight dead?"

  "Yeah, they got that much right. Fifteen kids beheaded. Six more bodies in a taxi behind a grocery, four perforated to hell and back with bullet holes in a residential area, and three more scattered around the rest of town. Guzmán is trying to wipe out the remains of the old South Pacific cartel. The kids were probably nothing but low-level street dealers, if that. Half the time these bastards just kill because they want to, then make up the connections of their victims for the terror value."

  "I know. We've seen the same thing here with the Zetas. Are you hearing anything of Lazcano's crew on your side of the war?"

  "Nothing other than a rumor here or there. He has your coast, Luis. Guzman has mine. I am getting reports of more clashes between them in the center of the country—your Zetas trying to move westward into Federation turf."

  "They're running away from my marines," Aguilar quipped. "Don't I wish that was true." He paused. "It's good to hear your voice again, Jorge. Stay safe, and let's keep each other informed."

  "You too, my friend. Give Linda our best when you speak with her again, and be careful."

  Hart Senate Office Building

  Washington, D.C.

  January 20, 2011, 10:20 a.m.

  "Do you know what the significance of today's date is, gentlemen?"

  Trask nodded. He had anticipated the question, had even anticipated the meeting before he had gotten the call from Eastman. Now they were both in Heidelberg's office again. Senator Graves was also present, sitting to his mentor's right on the side of the huge mahogany desk.

  "It's the anniversary of your daughter's death, Senator." Trask felt like a rabbit about to be shredded by the papa eagle, breakfast for the fledgling. Why are YOU here, Digger? Come to participate in the flogging, or just observe?

  "That is correct, Mr. Trask. At least you have the courtesy to recognize that fact." Heidelberg was drumming a ball-point pen on his desk, peering over the top rim of his glasses. "I've received no updates that I consider to be of any real merit during this full year of your investigation, Mr. Eastman. Why is that? And where is the third member of your club, Agent Doroz?"

  "Mr. Doroz is working other cases, Senator," Trask responded. Stay behind me, Ross. I'll take the fire as long as I can. None of this is your fault. "While we've given your daughter's case a top priority, we have other victims, other grieving families to deal with as well."

  Heidelberg paused. Trask could see that the old man knew he was being challenged. The next answer will be a mild r
etreat—something politic and deferential—before we get back to the grilling.

  "I'm sure that's true, Mr. Trask." Heidelberg said. "And how many updates have you been able to give those grieving families?"

  Remember what Willie said—get him off his own playing field and onto yours. "Those are confidential matters which are restricted by privacy concerns, Senator," Trask said. See if you can put him off-balance. Fudge a little. "I can tell you, however, that I believe there may be some connections between those other cases and your daughter’s, and that we’ve been pushing even harder on these other death investigations because of the fact that they may be related to Janie’s death."

  "Why is today the first time we’re hearing of this, Jeff ?" Graves asked.

  The puppet has a voice box. "In part because of those privacy concerns that I mentioned," Trask replied, "and in part because we’re not sure yet. The leads are promising, but they aren't fully developed yet, and it's not my job to be making promises I can't keep, especially on something as important as this. I'm sorry things haven't progressed as quickly as we all would have liked, but we can't manufacture evidence."

  "What can you tell me about these possible connections?" Heidelberg asked. He was genuinely curious now, his voice less accusatory.

  "I had told Jeff to exhaust every theory he had," Eastman said. "He's been beating his head against a wall reviewing the particulars of your daughter's case, so he came up with the idea of trying to identify some heroin suppliers first—through the other victims if necessary—then trace the drugs back down from the suppliers to your daughter, rather than from your daughter's death upward. It's been productive, even though there are still some significant gaps to be filled."

  "That's correct." Trask took his cue. "China White heroin is pretty rare in these parts, and it's quite probable that if we can identify the source of the dope, we can develop some intelligence that will point to the party who provided it to Janie."

  "You've made some progress in that regard?" Graves asked.

  Is your nose just up Heidelberg's ass as usual, or are you really interested in this investigation, Digger? Trask gave the junior senator a brief glare, then returned his attention to Heidelberg. "Our best evidence so far is that the supply line for this stuff may go all the way to Mexico, to one of the cartels there. If we're able to get enough information to trace the flow into DC, we may be able to solve several overdose deaths, including your daughter's."

  "Does the fact that the source is in Mexico present any special difficulties?" Heidelberg asked.

  Good. He's completely off the attack for now. "Not at the moment, Senator." Trask paused for a brief instant. It was a device he'd used hundreds of times in front of juries, the seconds of silence serving to underline the importance of what was to come.

  "Because we're dealing with international suspects, we may have our hands tied down the road, even if we're able to fully flesh everything out. We have, as you both are very much aware, an extradition treaty with Mexico, but I can tell you from personal experience that the Mexican authorities extradite for American prosecution only those whom they wish to extradite. I have one pending extradition case that's actually been approved by the Mexican government, but the guy's been in jail down there for three years and we haven't seen him up here yet. Sometimes I think it's a matter of political connections and money." Another brief pause. "The bigger problem for us may be the violence going on in that country."

  "I don't follow—" Graves started to say.

  "You wouldn't unless you'd been trying to deal with Mexican defendants for the last five years or so," Trask cut him off. My field, my expertise now, boys. I'll tell you some things you both don't know. "It's not like dealing with a home-grown criminal. If I get a dope dealer from Anacostia, his only concern when it comes time to sing or clam up is time—the time he's going to have to spend in a federal pen. Sure, some of them are worried about threats from others in their own circle, but if we can round all those others up, the threat goes away when we lock them down for years, and we trade our songbird some time for his tunes.

  "It's not like that for Mexican nationals. If we pick up a low-level mule at Union Station carrying a load for his bosses down south, he's telling us nothing, and no offer of a reduction in prison time is going to change that. That's because if any hint reaches his bosses that he's cooperating with us, his mother, his wife, and his kids all get shot or beheaded. He's much more likely to just plead guilty and go do his mandatory sentence, even if it's twenty years or more."

  "If that's the case, how do you follow the trail?" Heidelberg asked. "Whether you try to climb the ladder, or go down it, don't you need someone to talk?"

  "Usually," Trask said. "Not always. If we're able to identify the means they're using to move the dope, sometimes we can put a net over everything with surveillance. That surveillance can be physical—cops with eyes on the prize following the bad guys around—or electronic as in a wiretap. At any rate, once we track the dope to an American suspect, the usual formula works. Time becomes currency, and we can barter. We're hoping we can find a local perpetrator who will be willing to provide the linkage to the supply funnel. That does bring up one other problem, Senator.

  "Assuming we're able to identify the largest local pusher—the one mainly responsible for the overdoses, the one receiving the heroin from the smugglers and spreading it across town—that target may be the only one who can identify his worker bees, and he may be the only one who can point us to the party who gave the dope directly to your daughter. Would you want to give a break to the more culpable target to get to your daughter's direct supplier, even though that bigger target might be responsible for several other deaths?"

  The question caught Heidelberg completely off guard. It called for an answer with both moral and political consequences, especially if that answer ever left the room, and the way Trask had phrased it left no doubt that it might. The old man took his time before answering.

  "No. Of course not." Heidelberg stared hard at him.

  "I hoped you would say that," Trask said. "Like I said, we have other victims and their families to consider, and to consult." Good. We understand each other and where the lines are drawn for now. "We'll continue working the other cases and supply lines, and I promise that if we make the connection to Janie, we'll let you know immediately."

  "That will have to do then," Heidelberg said, standing to signal the end of the meeting. "Just understand me, gentlemen. My patience has reasonable limitations, and I do not want to see another one of these anniversaries without significant progress."

  "I didn't realize you'd tracked the drugs to one of the cartels, Jeff," Eastman said as they left the building and headed for a Metro stop.

  "We haven't." Trask kept walking, but had to look back when his answer froze his boss in his tracks. He walked back to where Eastman was standing. "My exact words were that we may have traced it to a cartel, and that such was our best evidence. Doroz got back from a conference in Texas and heard that one of the gangs down there had figured out how to make China White. I'm sorry, Ross, but we need more time, and that's all I had to feed Heidelberg."

  "How do you plan on following up on that? Does Doroz have any ideas?"

  "Actually, Doroz has closed the case for now on his end. I'm going to have to reach out to some other agencies if something doesn't break soon."

  "Oh my God. I guess I should start looking for other employment after the first of the year."

  "You have my word that I'll do everything I can to prevent that from becoming necessary."

  "You already have, Jeff. I know that. It just might not be enough."

  "The cops have a saying, 'I'd rather be lucky than good.'" Trask said. "I'm starting to hope I get lucky."

  Waldorf, Maryland

  10:45 p.m.

  "I'm sorry about Bear cutting you off," Lynn said, patting his thigh.

  They sat on the couch watching the news. The dogs weren't interested in the commentary. Tasha
was happily sprawled across Lynn's lap. Nikki was asleep on the other end of the couch, and Boo was snoring at their feet.

  "Not your fault," Trask replied. "Not Bear's either. The politics has all our priorities upside down. It always does. Bear's right to put it on the back-burner for now."

  "What's your next move?"

  "Keep my eyes and ears open and if nothing pops, get away from it. I've got to do my two weeks stint for the reserves sometime in the next couple of months. I think I'll schedule it and get out of town for a while. The Air Force circuit guys in San Antonio are having a conference in March. That'll give me some time to clear up some things on my docket. Would you be okay with the pups for a bit?"

  "Sure. The pups, the shotgun, my .45 and the alarm. Since we don't know who the bad guys are this time it's a safe bet that they don't know who we are, either. I'll be fine."

  "Good. Thanks." He looked at the dogs again. Everything's good at Castle Trask for once. At least the home front's secure. His left hand started shaking again. He tucked it under his leg.

  Tampico Naval Air Station

  Tamaulipas, Mexico

  11:52 p.m.

  Aguilar shut the front door and cranked the locks on both the deadbolts. He surveyed the silent house. He'd moved the lamps close to the walls so that there was no danger of his shadow being thrown on a window by walking between a light source and a curtain, even though he kept all the blinds and drapes closed.

  It's like a tomb in here without Linda. Maybe I'll get a dog. No, they'd just poison or shoot it. If I do move to Texas, we'll get one, live a life for a change.

  He checked to make sure that there was a round chambered in the pistol on the headboard, and put his loaded assault rifle on the floor beside the bed. He turned on the television, keeping the volume low enough to hear anything unusual outside the house. He stopped channel surfing at the most mundane program he could find. It still took over half an hour to bore him to sleep.