Shadow Boys (14 page)

- CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX -

Mason Burnett held the business card the old woman had given him in one hand, tilting the surface so the raised lettering glistened in the sun.

Jonathan Cantrell. The name was familiar. A cop at one time, tainted by some sort of scandal, details long forgotten.

Mason was in his Suburban in the parking lot of the Iris Apartments. He entered Jonathan Cantrell into the laptop mounted on the transmission hump of his SUV.

His DOB and last known address appeared, a townhome in the Oak Lawn section of Dallas. No arrest record.

Mason smiled at that. Somebody had done a little remodeling to Cantrell’s records, if the stories he’d heard were even half true.

Employment history was next.

A Dallas police officer, terminated nearly eight years before. No mention why.

Cantrell’s next position was with a private company, Red Talon Industries, a military contractor that had been swallowed up by a larger competitor.

Cantrell’s position: a contract DEA agent.

Employment at Red Talon ended about two years before.

A gap of a year before his latest job—a non-attorney employee of a DC law firm.

So why was a DC law firm interested in a missing kid in West Dallas?

Mason closed his eyes and tried to think, to visualize the solution, a technique described to him by his dyke of a therapist, Corinne.

But the darkness didn’t bring answers. The only thing he saw was his father, drunk and mad at the world. Then the hitting began and he became afraid and filled with rage.

- CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN -

I called Piper as I drove south on Interstate 35.

No answer, straight to voice mail.

I left her a short message: “New intel. Get off the grid, ASAP.”

She was a child of the streets, foster homes and social workers and running from the system. She could disappear into a crack in a sidewalk and be quite comfortable. One might even say she was more comfortable living on the lam.

Then I called Theo Goldberg’s cell. He answered after a long time.

“What?” he said. “I’m busy.”

“Getting a little hot down here.”

“Isaac,” he said, talking to his kid. He was at home, clearly not a scene of domestic bliss at the moment. “
Isaac.
Seriously. No.” Then, to me, “The mess Clark e-mailed me about?”

“The powers that be aren’t imagining Delgado’s future quite the same way as you.”

A female’s voice, a girl in her teens, in the background, talking about her douchebag of a brother and how come the Internet was so slow today.

“His gerbil,” Theo said—to me, I guessed. “Isaac keeps trying to put it in the microwave.”

I gripped the steering wheel tighter, tried to control my frustration.

“Theo. We’ve got a situation here. Let’s talk about Isaac later.”

“His mother thinks it was that one glass of wine she had before she knew she was pregnant.”

I veered around a slow-moving pickup. The Dallas skyline grew smaller in the rearview mirror.

“I’m gonna track down this missing kid, but I think you need to cut Delgado loose.” I explained briefly about the meeting at Judge Clark’s house a few minutes ago even though he’d heard most of it already from his brief conversation with Clark.

“I told her it couldn’t have anything to do with all the dope she smoked in college when she was on the road with Bon Jovi.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“My wife. She used to be a Bon Jovi groupie. Didn’t I ever tell you that?”

“You’re killing me, Theo.” I slowed down as the exit I needed approached. “I’m dying a little more every second we stay on the phone and talk about your family.”

Neither of us spoke for a moment.

“You want me to die, Theo? Is that what you want?”

He sighed loudly. “You think Delgado is whacking bad guys?”

I didn’t reply.

“You think a high-ranking police officer is out there taking potshots at street scum?”

“No,” I said. “Doesn’t make sense.”

“Never seen a cop who wasn’t on the take in some way.” He paused. “Except for Delgado. Guy’s got his own money. Makes him close to squeaky clean.”

“Any way you can call off the chief then?”

He rustled some papers. “We’re gonna have to put Isaac in a, um, place for a while.”

“I’m not much use to you if the top cop in Dallas has me in his crosshairs.”

Silence.

“What? Oh, the chief.” He chuckled. “You know he’s on the payroll of the largest bookie in North Texas?”

“What an interesting bit of trivia. So can you shut him down?”

“I can try.” Theo’s voice was pensive. “We don’t like to make too many waves in the provinces.”

Theo Goldberg, a Yale and Harvard alum, was like most easterners in positions of power. He had a paternalistic view of the fly-over states. The action was on the East and West Coasts, not in the vast heartland where the majority of the population lived.

“I have faith in you, Jonathan.”

The call ended.

I tried Piper again but there was no answer.

The guidebooks don’t mention DeSoto, Texas, very much. A cookie-cutter suburb on the south of town. Street after street of homes that looked alike, the similarity comforting in one way, maddening in another.

According to the nifty, law-enforcement-only app on my phone that was plugged into the several different databases, Demarcus Harris, a journalist, lived in DeSoto.

His name had been given to me by the woman at the Helping Place.

I exited the interstate and followed the directions from my GPS. A few minutes later, I drove past the front of Demarcus’s one-story brick home, a nice-looking slice of suburbia with a matching mailbox mounted curbside.

It was the middle of the day and there weren’t many people out in the neighborhood.

A gray Chrysler PT was parked in front of Demarcus’s house. On the rear, a single bumper sticker: “I
❤
the Smell of Black Power.”

I kept driving, headed down the alley.

Behind Demarcus’s house, the gate leading to his backyard was open, the only one in that condition on the entire block.

I parked at the end of the alley, snugged up against a backyard fence. Using a disposable cell phone, I called the number associated with Demarcus Harris’s house. No answer. I hung up when voice mail clicked on.

From the rear of the Navigator I retrieved an empty clipboard and a lanyard with a laminated ID badge that indicated I was a supervisor with a nonexistent telecommunications company.

I strode down the alley with the clipboard in hand, ID around my neck, acting like I was examining the rear of each place as I went. In most neighborhoods, a well-dressed, clean-shaven white guy can do just about anything he wants if he walks with purpose and carries a clipboard.

At Demarcus’s house, I entered the backyard. The area had a pool and several pieces of outdoor furniture. The attached garage appeared empty.

The pool was clean and clear, blue as the sky. The only blemish was a piece of newspaper floating in the middle.

One of the patio chairs lay on its side.

Probably innocent reasons for both the debris in the water and the knocked-over chair.

But I’d learned a long time ago to pay attention to my Spidey-sense, that extra layer of perception that people who’ve been in combat develop, the invisible feeling that oftentimes keeps you alive.

I slipped on a pair of latex gloves, tossed the clipboard over the fence into the alley, and pulled the Glock from its holster.

The sliding rear door of the house was open.

I eased inside, stood to one side, let my senses attune to the place.

The kitchen/breakfast room. Scuff marks on the white vinyl-tile floor. Scattered drops of something dark, the color of burgundy wine.

Another chair lay askew.

In the family room, the beige carpet made the maroon discoloration stand out, a large patch of what appeared to be dried blood about the size of a hardback book.

I knelt beside the blood, stared at the carpet, trying to put the pieces together.

Demarcus Harris had been attacked and then dragged out the back. There wasn’t a car in the rear driveway or in the garage. So he probably came in the front and his assailant was waiting for him.

I strode to the front door, peered out the window. The Chrysler PT was parked directly in front of the house.

There was a covered area by the entrance, a small patio partially hidden from the street.

The door was unlocked.

I opened it.

Keys were in the dead bolt.

A black messenger bag was leaning against one wall of the covered area, out of view from the street.

So Demarcus came home, unlocked the front door. Maybe he had something in his hand and needed to put down his bag. The mail or a package of some sort. Groceries.

He opened the door, stepped inside.

Something caused him to leave his keys in the lock and his bag on the porch.

His own Spidey-sense?

I grabbed the messenger bag at the same time as a Hispanic woman in a maid’s uniform began walking up the front sidewalk. We locked eyeballs. She stopped, put her hand to her mouth.

I ran back through the house.

In the distance, I could hear her yelling.

Out the back. I grabbed the clipboard, jogged down the alley, the messenger bag in hand.

I jumped in the Navigator and sped away.

At the first stoplight, I opened the bag.

It was empty.

- CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT -

Mason Burnett wondered what it would feel like to punch Raul Delgado, a quick blow to the larynx. He imagined Delgado struggling for oxygen, hands grasping his throat, trying to clear his airway, life slowly disappearing from his eyes.

The image gave Burnett a quick smile.

That beaner Delgado had everything handed to him on a silver taco platter. Always playing the sympathy card about his brother being killed. A deputy chief while Burnett languished in the ranks as a mere captain.

Burnett was in the sitting area of the chief’s expansive office at Jack Evans Police Headquarters, two sofas on either side of a large coffee table. He was there with Delgado and Hopper, the chief’s bloodless right-hand man.

Instead of punching Delgado, Burnett turned his attention to the guy with a Mohawk haircut.

Mohawk wore skintight white jeans and a sleeveless shirt the color of ripe peaches. He was so flamboyantly gay that he made Liberace look like John Wayne.

Mohawk, a manicurist by trade, was across the room, polishing the chief’s nails.

The head of the Dallas Police Department was leaning back in his leather desk chair, a cucumber emollient compress over his eyes.

Mason and Delgado stared at their boss until Hopper snapped his fingers.

“Let’s get back to the business at hand.”

Both men turned away and gave their attention to Hopper.

On the coffee table sat a stack of files, the recent murders of upper-echelon Dallas lowlifes. The so-called vigilante killings.

Hopper tapped the files. “Where are we on this?”

Mason pointed to the chief. “He gets a manicure every week?”

Hopper rolled his eyes. “What’s it to you?”

“It’s a little weird.” Mason kept his voice low. “You have to admit.”

“The chief has an image to maintain.” Hopper picked up one of the files.

Mason nodded. “So what’s with the vegetables on his eyes thing—”

Hopper cut him off. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be asking questions right now.”

Delgado stared at the floor. After a moment, he stood and walked to the window overlooking Lamar Street.

The police headquarters had been built about fifteen years before, in a neighborhood just south of the central business district, an area devoid of people and buildings except for a few ramshackle industrial structures, end-of-the-line bars, and crack dealers.

Now the street bustled; the DPD headquarters serving as an anchor for new development, an oasis in what was otherwise an urban wasteland.

“How are the counseling sessions going, Captain Burnett?” Hopper grinned.

Mason Burnett felt his face get tight. He rubbed the knuckles of one hand with the fingers of the other.

From across the room the chief chuckled while Mohawk continued to buff his nails.

“The business at hand.” Mason regained his composure. “We’re making progress on finding the vigilante killer.”

“What exactly does that mean?” Hopper said.

Mason didn’t reply. There’d been no progress made. What cop wanted to stop someone who was killing the bad guys?

Hopper looked across the room to Delgado. “Hey, Raul. What’s he talking about?”

“I don’t know.” Delgado spoke without turning around. “I’m not in charge of the investigation.”

A long pause.

Hopper stared at Delgado’s back like he was waiting for a dam to break. After an uncomfortably long stretch of time he said, “You pulled the files, though. Every murder case involving the vigilante.”

Delgado didn’t speak.

“You think we wouldn’t find out?” Hopper asked.

Delgado crossed his arms, continued to stare outside.

Hopper stood, sauntered over to the window. “You trying to rat-fuck your boss, Deputy Chief Delgado?”

Delgado’s shoulders hunched, but he didn’t say anything.

“Maybe you were gonna take the info about the vigilante to the media?” Hopper said. “Try to further your own career?”

No one spoke for a few moments.

Mason broke the silence. “What is it you want, Lieutenant?”

Hopper returned to the sofa, swaggering like a bully, smiling as if he’d won some sort of schoolyard victory.

“I was doing police work.” Delgado returned to the sitting area, too. “That’s why I pulled the files. I was the one who put it together first.”

“Aw, good for you.” Hopper clapped softly. “Let’s give you an affirmative-action gold star.”

Delgado’s face turned red; his breath quickened.

Mason said, “I’ve instructed my men to employ all legal methods to discover the killer.”

“
Legal methods.
That’s a nice term.” Hopper picked up another file. “You want to talk about the banger that fell out of the window in Oak Cliff?”

Silence.

Delgado, eyes filled with loathing, stared at Mason Burnett.

“The banger was dusted, thought he could fly.” Mason shrugged, seething on the inside. He imagined his fingers wrapped around Raul Delgado’s throat.

“Deputy Chief Delgado insisted the hospital rush the blood tests,” Hopper said. “The perp had marijuana and Valium in his system but no angel dust.”

“Guy fessed up to hitting that
botánica,
” Mason said.

“He’s also lawyered up.” Hopper put the file down. “We’re gonna try and make the problem with the window go away since the banger had a record as thick as a phone book.”

Mason nodded.

“That’s the last freebie you’re gonna get, Captain Burnett.” Hopper rearranged the stack of files. “You understand what I’m saying?”

After a moment, Mason nodded.

“Let’s move on to a different topic.” Hopper pulled another file from his briefcase. “There’s a missing kid from West Dallas.”

Mason looked at Delgado, who returned the glance, face blank.

Hopper rattled off the basics of the case and then said, “A reporter was nosing around, a punk from some website.”

“The People’s Blog of Southern Dallas County,” Mason said.

“Right.” Hopper nodded. “He was at the presser for the chief’s new anti-crime initiative.”

“He wore camo,” Mason said. “And a red beret.”

“You’re so observant.” Hopper smiled. “You should consider a career in law enforcement.”

The anger was a white-hot poker in the pit of Mason’s belly. Mother-fucking, smug-ass Raul Delgado and the gray-eyed weasel Hopper, both out to get him. Mason’s gun felt heavy on his belt. The walls of the room seemed to get closer, the air hotter.

Hopper appeared to be enjoying himself.

Mason leaned forward, whispered, “Go fuck yourself, Lieutenant.”

Hopper laughed like a kindergartener watching the
Three Stooges.
Then he dropped the new file on the coffee table.

“Somebody took out the reporter. There’s no body, but the DeSoto police think he’s been killed. Signs of a struggle. Blood at the scene.”

Neither Mason nor Delgado spoke.

Hopper continued. “So the question on the table is, what’s so important about Tremont Washington?”

“You think Tremont and the vigilante killer are related?” Delgado said.

“The string theory of physics—everything’s connected.” Hopper crossed his legs. “I saw that on the Discovery Channel.”

Across the room, the chief and Mohawk held a whispered conversation.

Hopper said, “What’s the name of that fuck-stain who runs West Dallas?”

“Alvarez.” Mason willed the anger away. “Lysol Alvarez.”

“Who the hell names their child Lysol?”

Mason shrugged.

Hopper said, “Take a swing at Alvarez. See what he knows about this Tremont kid.”

Across the room the chief reached into his pocket and pulled out a note card. He gave the slip of paper to Mohawk. The manicurist sashayed over to Lieutenant Hopper. He handed him the card.

Hopper read it. Then he tore the paper into shreds.

“The chief has a lead on the vigilante,” he said. “A person of interest.”

Mason didn’t reply. The chief didn’t come up with leads. To have a lead meant you would have to do police work. The proper way to phrase what was happening was to say the chief had someone he wanted to screw.

“An ex-cop,” Hopper said.

Delgado leaned forward. To Mason he appeared eager to hear what Hopper would say next. Eager or afraid.

“Guy got shit-canned a few years back,” Hopper said. “Worked for the feds for a while.”

“What’s his name?” Mason asked.

“Jonathan Cantrell.” Hopper looked at both men. “That name mean anything to either of you?”

A sharp intake of breath from Delgado.

Mason smiled, remembering the business card he’d gotten from Tremont’s grandmother.

“I’ve never heard of him,” he said. “But I’ll be happy to take the point on tracking him down.”

Hopper nodded.