Relentless

by Shawn Wilson

  Brick nodded his head. “I was asking about his work status—you’re sure his papers are in order?”

  “They are, for feck’s sake.” Eamonn closed the cash register drawer with more force than was necessary. “The last thing I need is to get involved in some illegal shite and lose the liquor license I’ve had for thirty years.”

  “Eamonn, I didn’t mean to imply—”

  Eamonn waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “And I didn’t mean to rip you a new one. It’s just that I’m worried about the kid.”

  Brick understood. Rory was Eamonn’s nephew, but Eamonn tended to treat all of his employees like family. “Do you have an address for him?”

  “He lives in an apartment building over on Columbia Road. Rory dropped him off there a couple of times.”

  “Then let’s check it out,” Brick said.

  Eamonn nodded in agreement as he poured himself a shot of Jameson. “Go ahead, I’ll cover the bar.”

  Rory looked sternly at his uncle. “You know what the doctor said; you’re supposed to stay off your foot.”

  “He also told me to give up the gargle.” Eamonn raised his shot glass. “Here’s to the young doctor I have every intention of outliving.” The Jameson disappeared in one swallow.

  Rory opened his mouth as if to say something but laughed instead. He threw his arm around his uncle’s bony shoulder. “I’ve no doubt you will, Eamonn, no doubt at all.”

  “That makes two of us.” Brick chugged the rest of his Guinness. “C’mon, Rory, let’s go.”

  * * *

  “That’s it, the one on the left.”

  Rory pointed to an eight-story building on the corner of Columbia Road and 18th Street. Unlike several buildings in the neighborhood that had been rehabbed and turned into high-end condos, this one had been neglected. But even though plywood covered some broken windowpanes and a couple of air conditioners teetered precariously on crumbling ledges, it was still possible to see the original architectural details. Back in the day, the building had been elegant. It was probably just a matter of time before an investor saw the potential, snatched it up, and sent thirty-day vacate notices displacing the low-income residents who had few housing options left in Northwest Washington.

  The cab driver pulled over to the curb. Brick climbed out as Rory paid the fare. It had been years since he had done a well-being check, but it was a fairly common occurrence when he had been in uniform. Most of his experiences had been uneventful, ending with the concerned relative or friend apologizing for having bothered the police when the missing party showed up safe and sound. But there had been one. To this day, every time he saw a roach, he thought of the hoarder who suffocated after a pile of trash fell on him. The eighty-year-old man was dead, but the walls of the apartment were alive with roaches, hundreds and hundreds of roaches. It never failed; the memory alone made his skin crawl.

  “Here goes.” The sound of Rory’s voice snapped Brick out of his reverie. At the front door, Brick watched as he scrolled through the names on the intercom until he found Jose’s. He entered a three-digit code, stepped back, and waited. Six or seven static-filled rings went unanswered. “Now what?” Rory asked.

  “See if there’s a code for the building manager and enter that. Hopefully, he’s on-site.”

  After three rings, a groggy-sounding voice responded. “Who’s there?”

  Brick spoke into the intercom. “Metropolitan Police—doing a well-being check on one of your tenants.”

  With that the intercom went dead. Brick looked over at Rory. “I think I interrupted his siesta.” He was about to redial when a man who looked to be in his early forties shuffled toward the door. He was dressed in paint-splattered jeans and flip-flops. A wifebeater t-shirt stretched over his protruding belly, and a large cross hung from a chain he wore around his neck. It appeared he hadn’t taken time to comb his hair, maybe in several days.

  Brick held up his badge for inspection. The man nodded his head and yawned as he opened the door.

  “I’m Detective Kavanagh.” Brick extended his hand and the two men shook.

  “Carlos Garcia.”

  “We’re looking for Jose Delgado. I understand he lives here.”

  “Si.” Carlos looked skeptical. “Everything okay?”

  “As far as we know, but he hasn’t shown up for work in a couple of days.” Brick gestured toward Rory. “This is his boss; he’s worried about him.”

  “Si.” Carlos yawned, again exposing a front tooth capped with gold.

  “Have you seen him recently?” Brick asked.

  Carlos scratched the stubble on his cheek. “A week, maybe two. He work a lot so I don’t see him much.” He fumbled with a large key ring before removing one. “He live in 307 with his sister. She just move in.” Carlos shrugged his shoulders. “He said his sister. I don’t know if she really is—I don’t care. He pays rent on time and don’t cause no trouble.”

  “Any neighbors ever complain about noise coming from his apartment?”

  Carlos shook his head. “Like I told you, he don’t cause no trouble. Some living here do. Big-time, like the one across the hall in 306, ay yi yi when he’s drinking.” Another yawn. “Want to take the elevator or stairs?”

  It was a no-brainer. In a building like this, Brick figured the elevator hadn’t been inspected since Jimmy Carter was president. Carlos led the way up the dark, narrow stairwell. They exited to the sound of Ricky Martin’s “Livin’ La Vida Loca.” If ever the Homicide Squad needed a theme song, that would be Brick’s choice. A baby wailed from the next apartment they passed. As the three men made their way down the hall, the aroma of Mexican food competed with the smell of old musty carpet. By the time they reached Jose’s apartment, the carpet was the undisputed winner.

  Brick and Rory stepped aside as Carlos knocked loudly on the door. “Jose, is Carlos.” There was no response and he knocked again before turning toward Brick. “You want I unlock the door?”

  “Yes.”

  He slipped the key into the lock and tried to turn it. He looked surprised. “Is not locked.” He reached toward the doorknob.

  “No, don’t—”

  It was too late. Carlos gripped the knob and turned it to the right before pulling his hand back as if he had touched a hot potato. “What?”

  “It’s okay.” It really wasn’t. The unlocked door concerned Brick. He knew there could be a simple explanation—Jose or his sister could have left and forgotten to lock the door. Or something more sinister could be in play. Someone who didn’t have a key was the last person to leave the apartment. If that was the case, the doorknob might have been a source of useful fingerprints. Even though Brick was off-duty, the detective wheels were beginning to turn in his head, but he knew better than to get ahead of himself.

  “What’s the layout of the apartment?” Brick asked, but Carlos didn’t seem to understand. He tried again. “Is it a one-bedroom?”

  “Si. The bedroom in back across from bathroom.”

  “Okay. Both of you need to wait out here.”

  Neither Carlos nor Rory objected.

  Brick reached in his pocket and retrieved a pair of latex gloves. He slipped them on before pushing the door open. A blast of cold air greeted him. All three windows in the room were wide open. He stepped inside and loudly announced his presence. Silence reigned except for the low hum of the refrigerator in the galley kitchen off to the left. Quickly, he glanced around the room. It was pretty much what Brick expected and not all that different from the kind of apartment he had shared with roommates back in college—mismatched chairs surrounded a card table and a rumpled futon had seen better days. The only extravagance was a small flat-screen TV sitting atop a wooden trunk.

  Nothing struck Brick as unusual until he glanced down at the floor. Little reddish-brown paw prints led from what he guessed was the bathroom into the bedroom. Both doors were ajar. He felt his heart rate accelerate; the refrigerator hum drowned out by the sound of his own pulse pounding in his
ears. Instinctively, Brick reached inside his jacket to where his gun was secured in its holster. It had been over three years since he had shot a suspect; he hoped today wouldn’t be the day to reset the counter.

  Brick took a deep breath. That’s when he smelled it. It was faint, barely discernible, but it was there, like the lingering metallic after-taste from a clotted bloody nose. With his foot, he eased the bathroom door open.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TWELVE YEARS ON the Homicide Squad had prepared Brick for anything and everything, or so he thought. But up until now, with one exception, the dead bodies he had encountered all belonged to strangers. He felt weak in the knees as he glanced down at Jose’s battered body crumpled between the bathtub and toilet. From the blood splatter and what looked to be brain tissue on the wall, it appeared he had taken several blows to the head. Jose was still wearing his shamrock green polo shirt from Boland’s Mill. The front was drenched in blood, but Brick could still see the pub’s logo and Jose’s name embroidered above the breast pocket. An unexpected wave of sadness mixed with anger washed over Brick like a tsunami. There would be time to grieve, but it would have to wait. He paused and listened for any movement but heard nothing. With his gun drawn, Brick headed toward the bedroom following the paw prints that faded before disappearing altogether.

  Brick’s eyes scanned the room before focusing on the closed closet door. He positioned himself so the door would provide a makeshift shield. He jerked it open with his free hand. He held his breath and again listened for any indication of movement. Nothing. He peered around the edge of the door into the small walk-in closet. He could clearly see all the contents—men’s clothes on one side; women’s on the other. Two large suitcases took up most of the floor space. Brick felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He knew from experience a body or body parts could be hidden inside the bags. Without actually touching either suitcase, he looked for suspicious stains but found only normal wear and tear. He nudged one suitcase then the other. Neither seemed heavy enough to cause concern. That wasn’t to say they were empty, but it would be the responsibility of the evidence guys to check out what was inside.

  Brick was relieved not to find another body, but the whereabouts of Jose’s sister needed to be established. Was she capable of inflicting the injuries that had killed Jose or was she a victim, too? Brick glanced down and realized he was still holding his gun. Suddenly it felt heavy and superfluous in his hand. He stuck it back in its holster.

  Rory and Carlos were waiting in the hall, but Brick needed to call this in before delivering the awful news. His hand shook as he punched the numbers into his cellphone.

  “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

  Brick recognized the operator’s two-packs-a-day raspy voice. “Hey, Caroline, it’s Brick Kavanagh.” He proceeded to give her all the pertinent details.

  “Guess you won’t be needing an amb’lance.”

  “Too late …” Brick paused, trying to get the words past the lump in his throat. “Afraid it’s too late for that.”

  “Are you okay, hon?”

  Caroline’s Baltimore roots were showing. Brick found comfort in her voice, and he knew her concern was genuine. It was why she was one of the best 9-1-1 operators the department ever had. An image of Jose cheerfully bussing tables at Boland’s flashed in front of his mind’s eye. “I knew him, Caroline. He was a good kid … a real good kid.”

  “I’m sorry, hon.”

  * * *

  The Grim Reaper’s messenger. That’s how Brick felt every time he had to deliver devastating news to a victim’s family or friends. It was part of the job, and over the years, he had come to realize the best way to deliver the news was as directly as possible. Then be prepared for a reaction that could run the gamut from stunned silence to ear-splitting shrieking. He took a deep breath, stepped out into the hallway, and closed the door behind him.

  “I’m sorry, Rory. Jose’s dead.”

  “Dead? I knew … I knew something was wrong, but dead?” Rory paced in front of Jose’s door. “How … what … I mean, how did it happen?”

  It was obvious to Brick that Rory was having trouble processing what he had heard. Brick wasn’t surprised. It often took hours or days for someone to wrap their head around something so shocking. Brick had no intentions of sharing the specific details, but he owed Rory some information.

  “Rory, this wasn’t an accident or a suicide. Someone killed him.”

  “What about his sister?” Rory asked.

  “I don’t know. All I can tell you is she’s not in the apartment.”

  Carlos clutched the cross he wore around his neck. He started speaking in a mixture of Spanish and English. Brick made out enough words to recognize the prayer. Apparently, Rory did as well. Although only slightly louder than a whisper, he added his voice: “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

  Brick turned toward Carlos. “The police will be here any minute. I need you to go downstairs to let them in.”

  “Si … yes … si … I go now … downstairs.”

  Rory took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Killed—that makes no sense. He was just a hardworking kid.” Rory continued to pace. “Should I call Eamonn?”

  “That’s up to you, but it might be better to tell him in person. The homicide detectives assigned to the case will want to talk to you, but I’m guessing that won’t take very long.”

  “Yeah, what’s another hour or so? It’d be different if it was good news and he could stop worrying.” Rory put his phone back in his pocket. He leaned against the opposite wall for a little while then slid halfway down and rested on his haunches.

  CHAPTER SIX

  BRICK CHECKED HIS watch. It was just after three p.m., which meant the eight-to-four shift was still on duty. As the minutes ticked by, he tried to recall which teams were assigned to work days this week. Then he remembered his brief encounter with Travis Allen. The A-Team. Paul Adkins was the other half. By himself, he was okay, but when paired with Allen, his personality changed; he became the straight man to his partner’s routine while evaluating crime scenes. There was no sense in pretending otherwise—Travis Allen annoyed the hell out of Brick. But he also recognized the A-Team were experienced detectives with an impressive closure rate. That counted for more than their personalities. Still, Brick would have been okay with another team catching the case.

  Two uniformed cops, one male and one female from the Third District, were the first to arrive. For now, their job was to protect the scene. Later, they may be directed to canvass the building to see if anyone heard or saw something that might be useful. Brick introduced himself and together they made small talk while they waited for the detectives and the Mobile Crime officers to arrive.

  Brick’s speculation as to which homicide detectives would respond ended when the elevator doors opened.

  “Brick?” Adkins appeared to be taken aback. “We were up in the rotation. What are you doing here?” Allen seemed less interested. He lagged behind sweet talking into his cellphone.

  “It’s your case, I’m off-duty.” Brick went on to explain his involvement. Halfway through his explanation, he heard Allen wrapping up his conversation with the kind of kissing noises more appropriately exchanged between teenage lovers. Brick would have confidently bet the rent Allen’s wife wasn’t on the receiving end of his lip smacking. Despite being overweight and balding, Travis Allen had a reputation as a ladies’ man. Based solely on looks, Brick could understand if women were attracted to Adkins. The guy ran marathons and bore a resemblance to Steve Carell. But Allen … it didn’t make sense.

  “So, what are you doing here?” Allen asked.

  Brick took the high road and patiently repeated what he had already told Adkins. When he finished, he introduced Rory. To their credit, both detectives expressed their condolences.

  It was obvious to Brick, Adkins was taking the lead. Adkins asked Rory to wait in the hall while he and
Allen went into the apartment indicating one of them would be out shortly to ask him some questions. He then turned in Brick’s direction.

  “Want to show us the way?”

  Brick opened the door and stepped inside. He knew it was his imagination playing tricks, but the smell of dried blood seemed far more pronounced than it had just minutes before. The three detectives paused while scanning the living room, committing it to memory.

  “Nothing to indicate a struggle.” Adkins pointed toward the TV. “And if it were a burglary gone bad, chances are that wouldn’t still be sitting there.”

  Allen added his two cents. “I’m just glad someone opened the windows. Otherwise this place might reek as bad as that one over on Florida Avenue.” His cellphone rang, but he ignored it. “Hey, Paul, remember?”

  “The place where the dead woman had sixty-some cats? Yeah, we needed hazmat suits, but the best we could do was put big garbage bags over our clothes.”

  “That’s the one,” Allen said.

  “I hope to God I never smell anything that bad again.”

  “Me, too. I was shoving Vicks up my nose like it was going out of style. Burned like a motherfucker, but I didn’t care.”

  The conversation was quintessential Travis Allen. Brick felt his blood pressure rising, but he didn’t say anything for now.

  Adkins pointed toward the floor. “Speaking of cats, those look like paw prints. Did Jose have a cat?”

  “Yes.” Brick didn’t elaborate, but for a moment, he thought about the frigid night Jose found the kitten abandoned in the alley behind Boland’s. He was the only one who believed the tiny cat would survive. Somehow Jose nursed it back to health. Elvis. Brick smiled at the memory. Jose had named the cat Elvis before he realized it was female. It didn’t matter, the name stuck.

  “Brick?”

  He turned toward Adkins. “What was your question?”