by Shawn Wilson
“Are you hearing anything that would be relevant?”
“No, in fact, at the moment things seem to be calmer than they’ve been for a while.”
“Any thoughts as to why?”
“It’s hard to say, but sometimes I think rival gang members help each other to stay one step ahead of ICE.”
“The ‘enemy of my enemy is my friend’ theory?”
“Exactly. It’s not surprising; every ethnic group has always looked out for its own although it’s a different world now. They’re all Hispanic, but even within the culture there are differences that sometimes cause conflict. Some community leaders and I are doing what we can to teach alternative means for handling disputes. We’ve got some counselors donating time for anger management group therapy. Plus, we have a couple of twelve-step programs for alcohol and drug addiction.”
“And the gang bangers are receptive to that?”
Father Mike smiled. “We can’t help them if we can’t get them in the door so we lure them here to watch soccer or play basketball then work in a counseling session.”
Brick smiled. “That’s sneaky, Father.”
“But it’s cheaper than pizza. That’s our backup plan.”
“Whatever works. Are you familiar with Roberto Morales?”
“I am, although it’s only recently that he’s started attending our program. Why do you ask?”
“Jose and Maria lived across the hall from Roberto.”
“Really—that put him on your radar screen, didn’t it.”
Brick nodded. “It did. Especially since I know he abused his pregnant wife.”
“My understanding is he’s cleaned up his act since his son was born,” Father Mike said. “I don’t know if you’re familiar with his sister-in-law, but I’m confident she’ll make him accountable if he steps out of line.”
“I think you’re right about that, but I wonder if Roberto knows more than he’s letting on.”
“It’s possible. Bodegas have always served a purpose beyond selling what’s on the shelves.”
Brick thanked the priest and left the church with a blessing from Father Mike to “go in peace.” He wondered if that would ever be possible.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
BRICK WALKED BY the El Mercado Bodega where Roberto worked and for a moment considered going in before he thought of a better resource. He pulled out his cellphone and scrolled through his contacts list.
It was just after six p.m. when Brick arrived at Boland’s Mill. Most of the seats, even Brick’s favorite, were taken with the happy hour crowd. It was an eclectic mix of suits, business casual, and a couple of dusty Carhartts. Eamonn would be pleased if he were here. Brick waved to Rory before settling in at a table for two in the corner near the fireplace. On this unseasonably chilly spring day, the heat was welcomed. While he waited, Brick checked his email. Had he been so inclined, he could have purchased recommended books from Amazon, a jacket from Territory Ahead, and Viagra from Online Pharmacy. He sent all three messages to trash and checked the sports section of the Washington Post. He scrolled through the National League scores. It was early in the season, but wins in April counted just as much as wins in September.
About fifteen minutes later, Eric arrived. “Fucking Red Line.” The two shook hands before Eric sat down. “Not sure what caused the delay because I couldn’t understand a word the announcer was saying. I’m not even sure it was English. And just to make my day, the escalator was out of service. So I had the privilege of walking up that sucker, which has got to be the longest one in the system.”
Brick was pretty sure the Rosslyn escalator was slightly longer but saw no need to point that out. “Won’t have to do the Stairmaster at the gym, at least for today.”
“Yeah and it’s still better than being stuck in traffic twice a day.” Eric picked up the menu. “How’s the fish and chips?”
“Good, especially if you’re hungry. It’s a big portion.” Brick glanced over to the bar and saw Rory was looking a little frazzled. “Might be better if I place our order at the bar.”
“Okay.” Eric handed Brick the menu. “I’ll take the fish and chips and a Harp.”
Brick went up to the bar and waited until Rory seemed to have things under control.
“Bet you’ll be glad when Eamonn is back.”
“Yeah, but it looks like he’s going to be there for another week or so. Not that many flights and something got hosed … I don’t know.” Rory set a glass under the Harp tap. “And I screwed up the work schedule today so I’m a one-man show.”
“You’re running the kitchen, too?”
Rory managed a laugh. “No, that’s the only feckin’ thing I didn’t mess up.” He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “What can I get ya?”
Brick placed the order and returned to the table, drinks in hand. “Your day might not have been great, but at least it’s over. Rory’s is worse and it won’t end until last call.”
“What happened?”
“Scheduling mix-up. I know he’ll be glad when his uncle is back from Guatemala.”
Eric looked confused. “So the owner here is Rory’s uncle?”
“Yes.”
“So despite messing up, I’m thinking his job is secure.” Eric raised his glass and took a long swallow. “Kind of like working for the government.”
“Something like that, I guess.”
“Well, speaking of working, or not, how’s retirement?” Eric asked.
“Different.” Brick took a sip of Guinness.
“Different good or different bad?” Eric asked.
“A combination of both.” Brick could have elaborated but he chose not to.
“I’ve always heard retired cops, especially homicide detectives, are often haunted by cold cases. Any keeping you awake at night?”
Brick thought for a moment. “No. Over the past couple of years several cold cases were closed through DNA. I’m confident others will be, too. If anything keeps me awake, it’s the Delgado case.”
“Really? A guilty plea … how sweet is that.” Eric picked up his beer and drank. “Why would it bother you?”
“Not sure, maybe because Cruz wasn’t even on our radar so his guilty plea seemed to come out of left field.”
“I get that, but it’s like my grandfather used to say, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” Eric took another swig of beer. “At the time, I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, but as far as I’m concerned now, Cruz could be renamed Seabiscuit. He saved us a lot of work but I’m kind of surprised he didn’t make a run for the border. It would have been easy for him to get out of the country.”
“How so?” Brick asked even though he was sure he knew the answer. Still, it would be interesting to hear Eric’s perspective.
“Money, weapons, vehicles, places to stay—you name it—it’s out there and easy to get. Here in the city and close-in suburbs, there’s a very well-organized network. All too often, the illegals are one step ahead of us.”
Eric confirmed Father Mike’s take on the situation. “Sounds like a modern-day underground railroad,” Brick said.
“Exactly. And I’ll clue you in—the apartment building where Jose and his sister lived, we call that Union Station. You questioned Carlos, right?”
“The building manager?”
“Yeah, that Carlos.” Eric laughed. “Don’t let the ‘I just the caretaker and my English no so good’ routine fool you. Carlos is smart and running a lucrative operation. The guys on my team refer to him as the ticket agent. For the right price, he’ll arrange transportation complete with a fake passport, if needed.” Eric picked up his beer but set it back down without drinking. “I don’t get it,” Eric said. “If Carlos applied his know-how to a legitimate business, good chance he’d be successful. As it is, all his hard work will probably land him in federal prison for a long time.”
What Brick was hearing reminded him of a legendary D.C. drug case he first learned about when he was a rookie
. “Have you ever heard of Slippery Jackson?”
Eric hesitated before answering. “No, can’t say that I have.”
“Back in the late ’70s and early ’80s, Jackson ran an international drug operation that brought heroin to the streets of D.C. and other East Coast cities. Eventually, he got caught; but reading some of his testimony about his complicated dealings was mind-boggling. I think the guy dropped out of school in the eighth grade, but his business savvy would have put a team of Wharton MBAs to shame.”
“Maybe Carlos studied Slippery’s business model.” Eric shook his head. “They’re a pain in the ass but a whole lot more interesting than the average mopes we usually deal with.”
“Yeah, it’s the clever criminals that keeps … kept me in the game.” Brick took another swig of Guinness.
“Hey, I almost flunked Psych 101, but it sounds to me like you miss working Homicide. Probably more than you’re willing to admit to yourself.”
Brick laughed. “Maybe you should have gotten an A. So what’s in store for Carlos … plans to shut him down?”
“We will when he stops being useful. Even though he doesn’t know it, because of Carlos we’ve nabbed several illegals. Surveillance on him and the building is easy since he’s a registered sex offender.” Eric smiled. “Go in front of a judge and say those three magic words and a wiretap or search warrant is as good as signed.”
“Here you go.” Brick looked up as Rory set two orders of fish and chips on the table. “Eric, another Harp?”
“Sure.” He handed his empty glass to Rory.
“Either of you want some malt vinegar?”
Brick shook his head and laughed. “Rory, I ordered shepherd’s pie.”
“Are you feckin’ kidding me?” Rory reached for Brick’s plate, but Brick waved him off.
“It’s okay, I’ll have the fish.”
Rory nodded. “Aw, it’s better for you anyway.”
“Yeah … especially beer-battered and deep-fried.” Brick picked up his fork. “My arteries thank you.”
* * *
Brick waited until he got home before he called Lily. He got her voicemail and felt a twinge of disappointment. He considered hanging up and calling back in an hour or so but instead left a message letting her know Cruz’s leg injury checked out. Brick dropped his phone on the distressed steamer trunk doubling as a coffee table. Before sprawling on the sofa, he grabbed a Coke Zero from the fridge and turned on the radio. The familiar sound of WJFK’s Charlie Slowes filled the room with play-by-play action. Somehow, he felt more engaged in the action by visualizing what was happening so maybe a dead TV wasn’t such a bad thing. The Nats were leading the Braves by two runs, but it was only the bottom of the third. He stretched out, adjusted a pillow behind his head, and closed his eyes. Hopefully, he’d hear Charlie’s signature call of “Going, going, gone, goodbye!” several times before the game was over.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
AT FIRST BRICK thought it was the alarm on his clock radio. He reached across his nightstand fumbling to find the off switch. A couple of books crashed to the floor before he realized his cellphone was ringing. He hit “accept” without checking the caller ID and managed a groggy “hello.”
“Did I wake you?”
He immediately recognized Lily’s voice. “No.” In his not-fully-awake state he felt compelled to lie as if sleeping revealed a character flaw he wanted to hide from Lily.
“Sounds like I did.”
Brick sat up in bed and glanced at his clock. It was just after six. Sleeping was justified, but he struggled to stifle a yawn. “You did.”
“My bad. I assumed you’re a morning person.”
“Too many years of shift work to know if I am or not.”
“Anyway, I got your message and wanted to get back to you before I leave for court. Guess we should confront Cruz?”
“I think it would be better if I talk to him by myself … the sooner, the better.”
“Today?”
“That’s my plan.”
“I should be out of court by eleven, noon at the latest. Let me know how it goes.”
“Will do.”
“Carpe diem.” Lily paused and Brick sensed she was smiling. “Just for the record, I’ve been up since four thirty.”
Before Brick could respond, Lily hung up. He threw back the covers and headed to the bathroom. A hot, steamy shower was his usual morning ritual but with thoughts of Lily, a cold one might be necessary.
* * *
It had been a couple of weeks since Brick turned in his badge and gun, but he still had the feeling he was forgetting something when he left home. As he headed south on Connecticut Avenue, he noticed the air was fragrant with the scent of spring flowers even though the cherry blossoms had come and gone. Too bad the same couldn’t be said about the tourists. Instead of crowding on to the Metro, he decided to walk to Farragut West to catch the train to Stadium/Armory. Walking also gave him a chance to think about his interview with Cruz. Unlike Lily, over the years, he had encountered plenty of false confessors. Most were garden-variety nutjobs, but Cruz didn’t seem to fall into that category. It was possible he was covering for another gang member, but that seemed unlikely. “Honor among thieves” has its limits, especially when it means life without the possibility of parole.
Brick passed the Hilton Hotel where Ronald Reagan was shot. Although it was arguably the most well-known crime scene in the Dupont Circle neighborhood, it was just one of many. For Brick, some of the details had become sketchy over the years, but he could still recall every building where he had worked a scene. The names of the victims were engraved on his psyche like those of distant relatives he hadn’t seen in years. He crossed K Street and walked a half block to the entrance of Farragut West. Before entering the station, he bought a copy of the Washington Post. He still preferred reading the news on paper rather than online, but he wondered how much longer he’d have that option.
* * *
Once again, Brick went through the required security procedures for admission to the jail. He collected his change, keys, and belt and waited to be escorted to Cruz’s unit. At least he could take comfort in knowing that, unlike Cruz, he wouldn’t be subjected to a strip search when their meeting was over.
Brick’s escort arrived and motioned for him to follow. Standing next to the burly guard, Brick noticed he bore a striking resemblance to Dexter Manley. As they made their way down the hall, it occurred to Brick he knew the names of most of the Washington Redskins from the ’80s but would be hard-pressed to name more than a handful from the current roster. They got to the interview fishbowl at the same time as Cruz.
“What the fuck … they said it was my lawyer.”
“Good morning to you, too, Guadalupe.”
“You’re wasting your time. I’m not talking to you.”
The guard directed Cruz to take a seat. Reluctantly, he complied and glared across the table at Brick. The guard left, closing the door to the glass enclosure, but didn’t go far.
“I can understand why you’re pissed,” Brick said. “If I were you, I’d much rather get a visit from Ms. Nguyen.”
Cruz continued to glare. He shifted in his chair as if trying to find a comfortable position that probably didn’t exist.
“I’m going to get right to the point. I was a homicide detective for over ten years, and during that time, lots of guys confessed to crimes they didn’t commit. Most of them were crazy, a few were taking the rap for someone else, and a couple just wanted to make a name for themselves.” Brick paused, giving Cruz a chance to think about what he said before continuing. “The crazies were easy to spot, the others a little more challenging. I’m trying to figure out where you fit in.”
Cruz stared at the floor. “I pled guilty because I’m guilty.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Who gives a shit? The judge believed me.”
“Only because he hasn’t seen the videotape … yet.”
“Vide
otape?” Cruz raised his voice as he looked up but still avoided making eye contact. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Guadalupe, I know for a fact, you didn’t dump Maria’s body in the Tidal Basin. We’ve got the person on tape. He or she is taller than you and doesn’t walk with a limp.”
“What are you, some kind of do-gooder fag, getting off on springing guys from jail?” Cruz slumped against the back of his chair.
The accusation caught Brick off-guard, but he didn’t react. He’d been called plenty of inappropriate names over the years, but to the best of his recollection, this was a first. He continued to force himself to keep a straight face. Brick sensed he was making progress breaking through Cruz’s façade and waited for him to continue.
“Why do you care?” Whether Cruz realized it or not, he had dialed down the attitude.
“I care because I knew Jose. For me, this is about him, not you.” Brick paused and took a deep breath. “He was a good kid, a hard worker just trying to better himself and give his sister a safe place to live. I owe it to him to find the bastard who killed them.” Brick got to his feet. “It’s hard to imagine why you pled to something you didn’t do, but you must have your own reasons. Of course, you’d have been smarter pleading to a federal offense.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cruz asked.
“Much better accommodations. Talk to a couple of your cellmates here, then ask some guy whose done time with the Feds, he’ll know what I’m talking about.” Brick picked up his notebook and headed toward the door. “If you ever decide you have something to say, call your lawyer. She’ll know how to get in touch with me.” Brick was about two steps from the door. He reached for the handle.
“Wait.”
Brick wasn’t sure, but it sounded like Cruz was sniffling. He turned around and saw him using the sleeve of his jumpsuit to wipe his nose and swipe at a tear rolling down the side of his face. This was the reaction Brick had been hoping for. He returned to the table, and once again, sat down opposite Cruz.
