Blueblood (25 page)

“You putting her in protection?”

He nodded. “For whatever good that’ll do. These kids are dumb.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighed, scrubbing his face with his hands. “We’ve done it before. They talk to us, give us some intel we can use, so we send them to a safe house in Ohio or Wisconsin or upstate New York to keep them alive. A week goes by, they get bored, and they grab a bus back to DC. They figure their homies will understand they didn’t mean to talk, they didn’t say anything important, right? Next thing you know, we’re fishing them out of the Potomac or some hiker finds what’s left of them on the bike path to Mount Vernon.”

“It wasn’t time wasted,” I said. “You can get her to testify. Maybe she’ll open up a little if you keep working on her.”

He ran his hands through his hair. “I know. This just seemed really airtight, you know? Get either Rodriguez or Chillo to serve up the other guy on a plate and we’re done.”

We were both quiet for a minute. Then I said, “Bloch, I don’t want to upset your apple cart. But we’ve still got a problem—”

“I know, I know,” he said, sour. “Johnson and Okonjo. You know I don’t have any more info than I did two hours ago.”

“Not true,” I said. “Maria said Rodriguez and Chillo knew there were two friends helping Garcia. The moonlighters. We thought there was someone helping Danny, but we didn’t know for sure before.”

He opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it, thinking. After a moment, his fingers started to drum lightly on the desk. I kept going.

“So, we’ve got a few possibilities. First, Maria was kept in the dark. Maybe Felix didn’t tell her everything. Maybe he knew all about Johnson and had Chillo take him out.”

“What about Okonjo?”

“We already know it was probably a mistake,” I said. “Chillo mistook Okonjo for Johnson. He shoots him, realizes he screwed up, and leaves him.”

Bloch thought about it. “Makes sense. But you said Johnson knew whoever killed him, right? That he’d let the killer into the apartment? That doesn’t describe Chillo. I mean, if I’m Johnson and I look through my peephole and see that freakshow on the other side, I’m not opening the door.”

I nodded, conceding the point was weak. “Second possibility. Maria’s right and Rodriguez didn’t know who they were. He would’ve given his left nut to know, sure. If he had, he would’ve told Chillo to take all three of them out. He wanted them bad. But…he didn’t know.”

“Which leaves us back at the beginning. Who killed them? Are they even connected to Rodriguez, and the
mara
and this whole mess?”

“Right,” I said. “The key is there were
two
friends. I already know Danny was buds with Johnson from way back. The Garcias don’t want to admit it, but he was.”

“Friend number one.”

“Yes,” I said. “And friend number two, assuming Maria is right, is alive. From a crew of cops that made a practice out of busting up drug dealers and gangs on the side. ‘Robbing’ them, as Maria put it.”

“You think they were jacking these crews and pocketing the money?”

I shrugged. “Maybe they were just playing Robin Hood. But two out of three are dead, one of whom was set up. Maria never said how they got word out to Danny. Maybe he was set up by his own guy.”

“Garcia, Johnson…who’s the third?”

I didn’t get to finish my thought. There was a knock and a short uniformed officer shaped like a rain barrel took a step into the office. “Sorry, sir. You said you wanted the two prisoners taken back to lockup?”

“Yeah,” Bloch said with a sigh, then stood. “Let’s get some fresh air. We can keep talking this out while we watch our fish go back to the tank.”

He got up from his desk and I followed him out of the room. I wanted to test my theory on him as we walked, but three different cops ran up needing his signature on this, his okay for that. He motioned me along and we headed down two halls and out double glass doors on the side of the building. The day was clear, but the heat fell on us like a brick. May was leaving and summer was closing in.

From a short porch we watched as deputies opened another set of doors and led first Rodriguez, then Chillo out. In the neon orange of a prison inmate, handcuffed and leg-shackled, Rodriguez appeared small and unremarkable. He’d been processed enough to have that steady con look about him: taking no shit, but with an indefinable ducking of the shoulders, trying to fly under everyone’s radar. His eyes were a dead brown, like worn leather. A thin mustache gave him a mousy look and he was small, which would probably lead plenty of guys on the inside to underestimate him. It would be their mistake. He’d ordered the deaths of five cops and was probably responsible for dozens of other murders in the last two years.

Chillo was pushed out in a wheelchair. His wrists were cuffed in front of him, a small concession to his medical situation. His tattooed face was impassive, blank as a standing stone, and his eyes, if possible, were deader than Rodriguez’s. They flicked over the two of us, then to the security van that had been pulled up at the end of the driveway to take them back to the Federal Holding Building in Alexandria. There was almost no one else around. It was a scene lacking in drama or pathos.

A fat fly moved ponderously through the air and landed on Bloch’s shoulder. The stink of gasoline clouded the air from the prison van, kept idling so as not to waste a minute whisking the prisoners away. Bloch reached up to brush the fly away, his chin tucked to his shoulder like a violinist. I turned from Bloch to look at Chillo.

We locked eyes.

I blinked.

And Chillo’s head erupted in an explosion of red, white, and gray.

The guard who had been pushing the wheelchair grunted and staggered two steps back, bent over at the waist as though being tugged off-stage by a hook. My mouth opened and I knew without thinking that I was throwing myself to the ground, reaching for a gun I hadn’t brought. Bloch looked up, frowning, as though he’d heard an off-color joke or just learned about a downturn in the stock market. People began to scatter. I heard my first recognizable sound: the sharp, flat report of a big gun. But it was the second shot fired.

Rodriguez levitated, his feet kicking towards the sky as though he had suddenly decided to throw himself on his back. A pink cloud sprayed the wall behind him and he fell to the ground, convulsed once, then stayed still. The slow motion progress of the scene disappeared and suddenly everyone was released, free to add to the chaos. I scampered to the far side of the concrete porch, trying to make myself flat behind the scant cover. Bloch dashed to the side of the van and crouched behind the engine, his handgun out. About a half-dozen deputies were scattered across the small courtyard, looking lost, as though someone had dropped them here from out of the sky. All had their guns drawn. The guard who had been pushing Chillo’s wheelchair was on his back, writhing, holding his belly. The muscles in his neck stood out like ropes as he kicked his legs, scuffing himself across the concrete sidewalk by his heels.

A few cops had their radios out, others were yelling at the top of their lungs. Bloch screamed at some of his men—stunned at the sudden violence—to get to cover. An alarm wailed throughout the HIDTA compound. It was a strange tableau, with six or eight of us crouching and looking in the same direction, waiting for the next bullet to rip through the air. I stole a glance at Chillo and then Rodriguez. The spreading pool of blood beneath both of them told me they were gone, even if I hadn’t seen half of Chillo’s skull taken off. His body slumped in the wheelchair where it had been shot, propped in place like a mannequin by the handcuffs and shackles. Rodriguez was a pile of laundry dumped on the sidewalk.

Things couldn’t stay frozen forever. After a minute, deputies made a break for the glass doors and rushed inside. Two rushed over to the guard on the ground. I stayed where I was, watching Bloch, who had been taking quick looks in the general direction of the shots. I followed his line of sight and didn’t like what I saw. I took a deep breath, then sprinted to Bloch’s side.

“See what I see?” he asked, wiping the sweat off his face.

“Yeah. Not good.” There were several apartment buildings and a hotel that could’ve easily hidden the shooter’s location. Worse, though, was that HIDTA HQ was near two major four-lane roads and a group of cloverleaf on-ramps and exits for 495, the major highway loop around DC. A quick glance showed a half-dozen spots next to the highway with head-on views of the courtyard. “The overpass.”

“Easy in, easy out,” he said. His voice was steady, but he wiped a hand across his mustache and his eyes flicked back and forth, trying to pin down the location of the sniper. If he was still there. “Take the shot from the highway, get in the car, drive away.”

“Hell of a shot,” I said. My voice was hoarse and my throat felt tight, like I’d been flexing all the muscles in my neck. “Four, five hundred yards?”

“Two shots,” he said, throwing a glance back at the two bodies. “One per. What the fuck is going on? All of a sudden, we’ve got a world-class sniper involved in this? What a goddamn cluster fuck.”

Sirens pealed from the far side of the building. Ambulances. A little late for Chillo and Rodriguez, maybe, but hopefully in time to help the guard who had been pushing the wheelchair. Bloch’s radio squawked and he spoke into it.

“Units are on the way to check the buildings out.”

“That’s a waste,” I said. “Get someone on the Beltway.”

“I know, but it’s got to be done. I’ll have a team on the overpass in a minute. Think we’re clear here?”

“Whoever it is, he’s gone,” I said, casting another glance at the carnage in the courtyard. “He got what he wanted.”

Still, we sprinted to the glass doors. The skin across my back was tight as a drum and I fought the urge to crawl on my belly. Rationally, I knew whoever had taken the shots was long gone, or should be. But when you see two guys next to you get potted like plastic ducks at a carnival, your animal brain tends to take over.

When we got inside, a half-dozen cops ran up to Bloch, looking for answers and orders. He took control of the situation as best he could. All the men he spoke to seemed stable, but shaken up, everyone wondering if the bullets had been misses and they’d been the real targets. Bloch got everyone busy doing something, yelling out orders like a drill sergeant. He finally had time to turn to me as cops ran back and forth, shouting and splitting into teams.

“You were about to tell me who you thought was Danny’s number three. Whoever put bullets into Chillo and Rodriguez is the same guy. If he thinks Danny spilled the beans to Chillo and Rodriguez before he was killed, then he thinks they know who he is. He didn’t want them to talk. Or take a run at him later.”

I took a deep breath. The noise and chaos made it hard to concentrate and guesses—even educated ones—seemed out of place next to the battlefield outside. “Three cops, taking dealers out at nights and on weekends. They’re righteous, like the Three Musketeers. But one day, one of them thinks, ‘Why not clean the streets and put some money away, too?’ He starts pocketing the cash they’re finding. Johnson goes for it. Danny doesn’t.”

“Who do you think, Singer?” Bloch said, impatient.

“Caldwell,” I said. “He retires this year. He’s got a boat and a plan. I don’t have a clue about his financial situation, but he’s got motive and the connection to Danny.”

“You think he set him up?”

“Yes. He and Johnson catch wind of Rodriguez’s honey pot deal so he can catch whoever’s robbing him. They talk Danny into targeting the deal, like they’d done a dozen times before. Then they back out on him when he needs them the most. Rodriguez and Chillo do their dirty work for them and Danny’s out of the picture.”

“Doesn’t even have to be that complicated,” Bloch said, getting into it. “Maybe it was just one of their regular side jobs. When things got a little hot, Caldwell and Johnson said to each other, this is our chance. They skedaddle and hang Danny out to dry.”

“That works, too,” I said.

“Then Johnson gets greedy or starts feeling guilty and Caldwell takes him out, too,” Bloch said.

“Evidence says Johnson knew whoever killed him,” I said. “Caldwell fits the bill.”

He jerked a thumb towards the courtyard. “What about this?”

“Just like you said. I told Caldwell the other day that we had fingered Rodriguez for ordering the killings. He's got to assume Danny talked while he was getting worked over, so it stands to reason Rodriguez knows Caldwell's name. Then Caldwell hears about last night’s raid and knows if you get Rodriguez to talk—”

“—then we’ll know about Caldwell, too,” Bloch finished.

“Right. Solution? Take Chillo and Rodriguez out and there’s literally no one left.”

Bloch glanced towards the direction of the courtyard. “Caldwell strike you as a long-range sniper?”

I shrugged. “He plays the lame baby boomer with a beer gut, but he could also be a crack shot with a gun. And he’s DEA. For all we know, he got to train with Navy SEALs. We’ll find out when we pick him up.”

“You bring a gun?”

“No. Didn’t think I’d need it.”

“C’mon,” Bloch said, motioning me to follow. We jogged through the building to his office. Bloch had his radio out, giving orders and telling somebody, his number two probably, to take over. When we got to his desk, he yanked open the bottom drawer and pulled out a leather gun case. He slid it across the desk towards me.

“My Glock. Sorry, no holster. You’ll have to go commando. Grab it and load in the car.”

We raced back the way we came and out the front entrance of the building to the parking lot. Bloch’s blue Elantra had primo parking near the doors. We hopped in and Bloch punched the gas, racing from the chaos of one scene directly into another.

iii.

Two targets, two shots, two kills. Just like they’d taught him.

It wasn’t something to celebrate or even smile about, but he allowed himself some satisfaction in the perfect accuracy of the shots, the quick and clean exit from the area, the justice that had been dealt. He basked a little in the glow of a successful mission, replaying the scene in his head…until he remembered the cop who had been pushing the wheelchair, staggering backwards, hit by the .380 that had gone through-and-through the piece of shit sitting in the chair. Collateral damage hadn’t occurred to him as a possibility until it was right there, centered in his scope. Panic had stopped his heart for a second; he wasn’t in this to see more cops go down. But the training had taken over, he forgot about the cop, and then he’d put the second bullet right where he wanted. Casualties were bound to happen, he told himself. That was just reality. Though a voice inside his heart reminded him that it wasn’t the first.