by Shawn Wilson
Thibodeaux nodded.
“For the record, the whole task force thing—not my idea.”
“I didn’t think so. A little premature, if you ask me.”
“Absolutely. Sometimes I think Blancato’s watched too many reruns of Law and Order. If the case isn’t wrapped up in an hour, he starts to panic.
And then he blabs something he shouldn’t. At least that was the general consensus around here when we watched that train wreck. And he thinks he’s ready for a big-time fancy fed title? I’ve heard he’s got his sights on everything from heading up the Secret Service to Homeland Security.” Thibodeaux munched a couple of potato chips. “Who knows, there might just be another vacancy he hasn’t considered.”
Brick figured the reference related to whatever it was Thibodeaux was working on. “I thought his ambition was a well-kept secret within the department.”
“C’mon, Brick, you know better than that. Secrets in this town are as rare as an honest politician in Louisiana.”
* * *
“Back so soon?” Ron asked as he glanced down at his watch. “That might be a new record. What’d they do, return an indictment before you had a chance to sit down and introduce yourself?”
“The grand jury was postponed.”
“Why?”
Brick shook his head. “Don’t know, but I do know Thibodeaux is working on something big.”
Ron seemed to think about what Brick had just said. “A scandal of some sort?”
“I don’t know, but it does seem like the city is overdue.”
“Yeah, kind of like Florida’s overdue for a hurricane. Wonder what it will be this time, sex, drugs, or rock and roll?”
“We’re way too sophisticated for rock and roll—more like sex, drugs, and the symphony.” Brick took off his suit jacket and draped it over his chair. Time to shift his focus back to the Delgado cases. “Any new developments?”
“The A-Team finally got copies of Jose’s cellphone records. Looks like there hasn’t been any activity since the multiple calls Rory made. Last I heard, the Dynamic Duo were tracking down the other numbers. They left about an hour ago.”
“Good, that should keep them out of here for a while.”
“For the sake of the carpet, I hope that’s true. I’ve noticed Allen has been wearing a path between his cubicle and Blancato’s office.” Ron headed back toward his desk then turned around. “The whole missing cellphone thing bothers me.”
“The A-Team said they scoured the apartment looking for it,” Brick said.
“I know, but it doesn’t make sense. Why would someone leave the money in Jose’s wallet and steal a cheap cellphone?”
Brick was about to say something else but got distracted by a flyer someone had placed in his inbox. He was troubled by what he saw. He picked it up and handed it to Ron. “Have you seen this?”
“No, where’s it from?”
“Arlington County PD.”
“What, did someone swim the moat?”
The Potomac River, separating Arlington County from the District of Columbia, seemed to provide the same protection moats once afforded medieval castles. Arlington usually had fewer homicides in a whole year than D.C. did on a quiet weekend.
“Says she’s missing from Arlington.” Ron studied the flyer closely. “Either I need glasses or Fernanda Lopez looks a lot like Maria Delgado. Long dark hair, brown eyes, slight build—am I right or wrong?”
“Right, as far as I’m concerned.” Brick thought about what he should do with this information. “Let’s go see what Blancato thinks.”
* * *
Blancato studied the flyer before handing it back to Brick. “I’ll take your word for it since you two are the ones who know what the Delgado girl looked like.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But I don’t see what this disappearance has to do with anything.”
Brick weighed his words carefully. “It may be totally unrelated and, frankly, I hope it is, but I think we need to consider the possibility that someone could be targeting young women meeting a specific profile – petite, long dark hair—”
“Stop!” Blancato held up his hand as if he were directing traffic. “I see what you’re doing and we’re not going there. Everything is pointing to this being a gang-related killing and now you’re thinking serial killer.”
Brick struggled to keep his composure. He reminded himself to respect the lieutenant’s rank even though Blancato didn’t deserve to be where he was. Political connections catapulted him to the position, not intelligence or even paying his dues like most detectives. “All I’m saying—”
Blancato didn’t give him a chance to finish. “I’m sure it’s hard for you to accept that this Jose that everyone thought was a great kid was involved in something he shouldn’t have been. Well, you need to get over that. Going off on a wild goose chase is a waste of time and resources.” Blancato ran his fingers around the inside of his shirt collar. “Jesus, that’s all we need right now is for the public to think there’s a crazed serial killer running around.”
Brick saw no reason to remind Blancato that, according to FBI statistics, serial killers were always operating within the United States, mostly under the radar. “I thought since this is now a task force effort, you might want to involve the surrounding jurisdictions.”
“Fairfax County, Loudon, and then in Maryland—Montgomery and Prince Georges—where does it stop, Brick? Where? I’m satisfied that keeping our interaction on a federal level is the appropriate thing to do.” Blancato looked first at Brick, then at Ron. “Is there anything else?” Brick shook his head, as did Ron. “Okay, then—time for you to get to work.”
“As if we weren’t working before?” It was the only comment Ron made as he and Brick headed back to their cubicles.
“I’ve got to get out of here for a while.” Brick snatched his jacket from the back of his chair. “Wanna go for a ride?”
“Got a destination in mind?” Ron asked.
Brick nodded. “One I should have thought of before now.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“LOOKS LIKE OUR timing is good.”
Brick pulled the Crown Vic into a parking space across from the entrance to Our Lady of Sorrows. It appeared noon Mass had recently ended since a small group of parishioners was gathered at the door talking with the priest. Even though he and Ron kept a respectful distance, Brick could see it was an eclectic group. An elderly woman leaning on a three-prong cane stood next to a young woman carrying an infant wrapped in a blue blanket. Behind them was a construction worker in a dusty Carhartt, a hard hat in one hand. Brick watched as he and the priest exchanged a few words. Instead of a handshake, a fist bump marked the end of the conversation.
Father Miguel Sanchez was very different than the priests Brick remembered from his youth. In fact, his altar boy days were something he tried hard to forget. But even as a fallen-away Catholic, he recognized and respected the positive impact Sanchez had on the neighborhood.
“Father Mike,” Brick called out as the priest was about to go back inside the church.
The priest turned slowly and squinted in the sun. Then he smiled broadly. “Brick Kavanagh—official business or would you like me to hear your confession?”
Brick laughed. “How much time do you have?”
“How much do you need?” the priest asked.
“To confess my sins—a lot. But it’s police business; we won’t need much.” Brick introduced Ron who extended his hand in the priest’s direction.
“In that case, let me go hang up my robe, and we can head over to Dunkin’ Donuts. Don’t know about you guys, but I need caffeine.”
The two-block walk was interrupted three times as Father Mike stopped to chat with someone they passed on the street. Whether parishioners or not, it didn’t seem to matter. He made time for everyone, and it was that quality Brick relied on. The priest had been a useful resource in the past, and if anything, he was more active in the community now than ever before.
&nb
sp; With coffee and donuts in hand, the three men settled down at a window table looking out on Calvert Street. Outside, a road crew worked filling several potholes, which had made the intersection resemble a giant slice of Swiss cheese.
“Looks like this winter has left its mark on the streets. Seems every season challenges the city in one way or another.” Father Mike took a sip of coffee. “Although I prefer warm temperatures, I wouldn’t be disappointed if we could skip over summer entirely.”
“You’re not talking humidity, are you, Father?” Brick asked.
“No, but it does seem to be a contributing factor.”
Brick nodded. “Most of the homicides I’ve investigated up here have happened in the four months between June and September.”
“But the past two summers, I’ve noticed a shift.” Father Mike popped a glazed Munchkin into his mouth. “We’re still losing too many, Brick, but it seems to be from different causes. It used to be the gang violence, but now it’s heroin overdoses and PTSD-related suicides among returning vets.” He took another sip of coffee. “What brings you to the ’hood today?”
“The Delgado murders.”
Father Mike set down his cup. He closed his eyes as he shook his head from side to side. He opened them and took a deep breath. “I know I’m supposed to accept God’s will and not question why things happen because there is a plan for each and every one of us, but the death of Jose and his sister …” His voice trailed off, leaving his thoughts incomplete.
“How well did you know them?” Brick asked.
“I can’t say I knew Jose well, but he reminded me of when I was his age—a quiet, hardworking kid hoping to find a better life. That was my goal when I sneaked across the border at El Paso thirty-some years ago.” A fleeting smile crossed the priest’s lips. “My understanding is he had a green card. But it’s not easy being in a new country, even if you’re here legally.”
Brick nodded as the priest continued. “Jose usually attended an early Mass on Sundays. I encouraged him to take advantage of some of our outreach programs. I figured it would improve his language skills and he’d meet others his age, but he seemed to spend most of his waking hours at work. As for his sister, I met her only once when he brought her to Mass. Now that I think of it, that was just a few days before she died.”
“Did you ever sense that he was in some kind of trouble?”
“No.”
“How about gang involvement?”
“Nothing that I’m aware of. And like I said, the gang violence has diminished over the years, mainly because gangs don’t have the stronghold on this area that they once did. They’ve moved on—suburbs like Arlington and Wheaton. Those places are seeing problems they probably thought were confined to the District.”
“Thanks, Father. I think we’re finished unless Ron has any questions for you.”
Ron shook his head.
“Afraid I haven’t been very helpful.” Father Mike pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “I’ll keep my ear to the ground. It’s always possible I may hear something, and provided I’m free to share that information with you, I’ll do so.”
Brick knew the priest had to honor what was told to him in confession, but other things were fair game. “I appreciate that.” Brick handed one of his cards to Father Mike. “It’s been a while; I have a new number.”
The priest slipped the card into his pocket. “One thing just occurred to me. Have the bodies been sent back to Guatemala?”
“Not yet. We’re working with the embassy, but there’s some red tape that’s been holding it up. Plus, there’s the matter of the expense. We’re trying to get some help from the Victims Fund.”
“Perhaps there’s something the parish can do in that regard. I’ll let you know. In the meantime, I’ll pray for Jose and Maria.” Father Mike shook hands with Ron and Brick. “And I’ll pray you find whoever did this.”
* * *
“So much for that idea,” Brick said.
“Hey, it was worth a try. I’m not Catholic, but I’ve spent enough time at the Ebenezer Baptist Church to believe in the power of prayer. I’ve seen it work, man.”
“Well, given how little we really know about the victims, solving this one just might take divine intervention.”
“Could happen,” Ron said with conviction. “And we’ve got an advantage. The Super Bowl and March Madness are over.”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“God doesn’t have to listen to all those crazy fans praying for a win.”
Brick rolled his eyes. “I never would have thought of that.”
“Mark my words, partner, when the Nats make it to the World Series, there’ll be plenty of fans on their knees. You might be lighting a candle or two yourself.”
A quick look in both directions, then Brick and Ron jaywalked across Columbia Road to where the Crown Vic was parked. It was just as they had left it except for the parking ticket slipped under the windshield wiper.
“Are you kidding me? Everybody in town knows this is a cop car except the genius writing tickets.” Brick retrieved the ticket then unlocked the doors. Before starting the car, he checked his phone. A voicemail was waiting. He entered his passcode and listened to a message from the liaison at the Guatemalan Embassy. He listened a second time before disconnecting.
“Apparently, one problem’s been solved.” Brick pulled away from the curb. “An anonymous donor has fronted the money to get Jose and Maria sent back home.”
“Seriously?” Ron looked over in Brick’s direction. “Did someone drop a big chunk of change into the donation jar?”
“Maybe, and I have a pretty good idea who it was.” Brick drove east on Calvert Street then turned north on Connecticut Avenue. “As long as we’re in the neighborhood, let’s check it out.”
Boland’s Mill was a popular spot for Sunday brunch, but during the week the lunch hour was quiet. A couple of regulars sitting at the bar were the only customers at the moment. Brick and Ron walked past them to the end of the bar where Eamonn was reading the Washington Post. He looked up and smiled as he tossed the paper aside.
“Don’t know why I still subscribe—the paper keeps getting thinner and thinner.”
“You can always read it online,” Brick said.
“It’s not the same. What am I supposed to do, carry the computer into the loo? All this technology that’s supposed to make life easier—” Eamonn seemed frustrated. “Ah, I’m sounding like a grumpy old man and that’s probably not what you came to hear, is it now?”
“Actually, I wanted to let you know what I heard from the liaison at the embassy. It looks like there’s progress in getting Jose and Maria flown home. A donor, who wishes to remain anonymous, is paying the cost.”
“That’s grand.” Eamonn seemed genuinely surprised. “It’s important they be buried in their country. God rest their souls.”
Brick noticed a catch in Eamonn’s voice as he said those words. He had often heard him mention that, despite having spent so many good years in America, when his time came, he wanted to be buried in Ireland.
Eamonn cleared his throat. “Can I get you lads something? I’m guessing you’re working, but a Coke or iced tea?”
“I’ll take a Coke,” Ron said.
“Make it two.”
Eamonn filled two glasses with ice and Coke. He set them on the bar.
Brick picked up his and took a sip. “Thanks, Anonymous.”
Eamonn sighed and looked embarrassed. Brick wasn’t surprised. Throughout the years he was aware of several examples of Eamonn’s generosity. All were done quietly so with the exception of the recipients, very few people knew about his largesse.
“For now, let’s just keep it between ourselves. I haven’t told Rory yet.”
That did surprise Brick. “Knowing Rory, I’m sure he won’t object.”
“He may. You see, when I went to the embassy to make the arrangements, I applied for a visa. The processing takes a while, but once it
’s done, I’m going to escort the bodies back to Guatemala.”
“With all due respect, Eamonn, that’s a long trip for you to make, and given some of your health issues—”
Eamonn didn’t let Brick finish. “I’ve always taken care of those who worked for me. It’s a terrible thing that happened to those kids. The least I can do is let the family know people cared. And I intend to give them the money we collected. Last count it was over five hundred dollars.” Eamonn poured a shot of Jameson into his cup of tea. “I’ll be fine … and if I’m not, I won’t be around to worry about it.”
Brick knew better than to try to dissuade Eamonn. Truth be told, he admired the old man’s determination to do what he felt was his responsibility even though there might be a cost far greater than that of a plane ticket. It was a trait that seemed as much an inherent part of Irish DNA as red hair and freckles.
“Brick, are you watching this?”
Ron’s voice interrupted Brick’s thoughts. “What?”
Ron pointed to the TV over the bar. A “Breaking News” banner scrolled across the local midday news broadcast. “Arlington County police confirm their first homicide of the year,” the anchor announced. “The nude body of a woman was discovered this morning by a jogger in the Four Mile Run section of South Arlington. Identification is pending, but a source close to the case indicated it may be that of a young Hispanic woman who went missing earlier this week. We hope to have more details on our broadcast starting at four. In other news …”
“Damn!” Ron talked over the news anchor’s next story. “Wonder if Blancato might sit up and take notice now.”
Brick didn’t respond immediately. He finished the rest of his Coke and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He gave his empty glass to Eamonn. “He might, Ron, but it doesn’t matter. If it turns out the cases are connected, there’s no satisfaction in being right. That only comes from a conviction.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
SLEEPING LATE FOLLOWED by a hearty breakfast had been Brick’s first choice for his Wednesday/Thursday weekend, but that would have to wait for another day. At Metro Center, he dodged commuters as he transferred from the Red Line to the Orange Line. Four stops later, he got off at the Courthouse Station in Arlington. Riding the escalator to street level, he tried to recall the last time he made the trek to northern Virginia.
