Blueblood Read online

  “Might’ve already happened,” I said, getting up and filling both our cups.

  “Maybe,” he said. “It would be the smart thing to do, get out from under us. But these guys aren’t the KGB or anything. They like to party, score some dope, make some money before they head back. They’ve probably treated Chillo like a potentate, at least for a couple of weeks. He might hang around and milk it for all its worth.”

  “Potentate?” I said.

  He smiled. “I’m a words guy.”

  “Nice,” I said. “You think Chillo would stick around long enough to get picked up?”

  “I hope so.” He swirled the coffee around in his cup. “What’re you going to do in the meantime?”

  “Run with it. See if I can find something else on Johnson that will help your case with Rodriguez or tie the screw-up with Okonjo to him. Better to have five homicides to pin on his shirt than three.”

  He nodded, then said, “You know what bothers me?”

  I sat back in my chair. “Is it over?”

  “Exactly. If it really is Rodriguez, he obviously doesn’t think twice about killing cops or anyone else who proves to be a minor inconvenience to his plans. Is he stopping at five? Or is there someone else that he’s got a problem with and we’re just in the middle of the run?”

  “Another reason to move fast,” I said. “But careful. We don’t want to rush it and have him walk.”

  “I don’t want another cop to get shot, either,” Bloch said.

  Pierre slunk back into the kitchen, if that word could be used to describe any movement of a twenty-two-pound cat. “Careful, Bloch. There’s a smilodon behind you.”

  “Huh?” Bloch turned around. Pierre tried to meow, but no sound came out, so it just looked like he was opening his mouth wide in an attempt to intimidate Bloch. Bloch stared at him for a minute, impressed, then turned to me. “Smilodon?”

  “The proper name for a saber-toothed tiger,” I said. “You’re a words guy. I’m a history buff.”

  “You’re a strange dude, Singer,” Bloch said. He leaned over and wiggled his fingers. Pierre walked over and rubbed his face against Bloch’s hand. “But you do good work.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Amanda called me not long after Bloch left. I was cleaning up, getting ready to leave and almost missed the innocuous little buzz.

  “Hey, kiddo,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Marty!” she said, her breath fast, excited. “I’ve got news.”

  “Good or bad?”

  “Both. Neither. I don’t know,” she said. “I just got calls from a counseling center in Austin, a women’s shelter in Chicago, a clinic in DC wants to interview me, and the director of a youth group in Baltimore asked me to have coffee with him next week.”

  “That’s…that’s…” I said, trying to catch up. “That’s a lot.”

  “A lot? It’s great! I haven’t had a job offer since I worked at a shoe store in the mall.”

  “Hey, don’t get ahead of yourself,” I said, cautious. “An interview is one thing, a job offer is another.”

  “Oh, Marty. Don’t pee in my Wheaties.”

  I smiled, even though I felt a little tug on my heart. Austin and Chicago were pretty far away. Whatever. The least I could do was be happy for the poor girl. “Amanda, that’s fantastic. It was just a matter of time before someone saw your potential. Is the pay good? Are these the kind of jobs you wanted?”

  “The pay sucks. If I wanted to make money, I’d run a hedge fund.”

  “Good point,” I said.

  “It’s the work that’s important to me and all of these places do great things. I know you wouldn’t be too happy with me moving to Austin or Chicago, but the other two might come through, too.”

  “Anything can happen.”

  “Don’t sound down, Marty,” she said. “Be happy for me. I told you, we’re connected. Being a plane flight away isn’t going to change that.”

  “I know, kid,” I said, forcing a hearty tone into my voice. Maybe now wasn’t the time to tell her that I had to schedule cancer surgery. “I’m happy for you. Tell you what. Keep me in the loop. We’ll go back to Nora’s the minute you get your offer. On me.”

  “That’s sweet, Marty.”

  “One condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You can bring Zenny and Jay, but no existential arguments. Acceptable topics are your job, football, or guns.”

  “They won’t have much to talk about, then.”

  “That was kind of the idea,” I said.

  She laughed. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Marty.”

  I was about to hang up when I heard her call my name again, tinny over the short distance. I put the phone to my ear again. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “You never told me how the doctor’s appointment went,” she said. “How did it go?”

  “Ah,” I said. My mind raced through all the options, the thought that her future was spooling out in front of her, while mine was…unknown. Did she really need to know the details? She’d drop everything to stay and help me through whatever my disease had in store for me, no matter how much I might protest. And it would cost her all the opportunities she’d earned. Make all the obstacles she’d overcome meaningless.

  “Marty?”

  “It’s fine,” I said, a little too quickly, then cleared my throat. “I’m fine. The doc said he’s got some more tests he wants to run, but he always wants to do that, you know? Anything to make another buck off the insurance companies.”

  “That’s great news,” she said. “I was so afraid…well, I’m just really glad. Look, I’ve got to get going on some paperwork the clinic wants before my interview, but I want you to tell me about it later, okay?”

  “Sure,” I said, then we said goodbye.

  I hung up and put the phone in my pocket, then leaned against the counter and stared out the window. Around me, the noises of an empty house filled the silence. A gurgle as sink water settled in the pipes, a ticking sound as a beam or a joist somewhere settled a fraction of an inch. The refrigerator hummed, then went quiet. I hadn’t noticed the sounds as much before. When people enter your life, they expand your world. But when they leave, the void is that much greater. The question is, can you fill it up again? Or does it just stay there? A hole in your heart, empty and waiting.

  . . .

  For the third time in ten days, I pulled up to the curb outside the Garcia home. The Corolla and Bronco were both in the driveway, exactly what I was looking for. I wanted both Paul and Libney to be there when I questioned them. Why I wanted to question them was another thing entirely. Bloch seemed content with my report on the situation and was gearing up for a big bust on Felix Rodriguez and the MLA, but something wasn’t sitting well with me. While Bloch scratched around for warrants and signed requisitions for body armor, I figured I might as well keep poking around until I stopped feeling weird about the situation. Back in the day, that usually meant starting over and talking to everyone I’d talked to once—or twice—again.

  Paul Garcia didn’t seem surprised when he answered the door and saw me standing on his porch.

  “Paul, I’m sorry to bug you again,” I said, “but I was hoping I could talk to you and your mother once more.”

  His eyebrows rose slightly. “I thought we answered all your questions, Mr. Singer.”

  “You did. Thank you,” I said. “But unfortunately I’ve got more. You know that from your Academy training, right? Under every stone are two more stones? This shouldn’t take long.”

  He thought about it for a moment, then opened the screen door and ushered me in. I followed him from the foyer into the living room, which still retained its hushed, closeted feel. He motioned me to take a seat as he walked down the hallway towards the bedrooms. I took a look around as I waited, did a double take when I saw something missing. I got up to take a look at the TV set, but at that moment, I heard some murmuring and then Libney Garcia, wearing a long, cotton sleeping gown
, appeared out of the darkness looking woozy and half-asleep. Paul shuffled behind, a hand out to steady her as she went.

  I stood. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Garcia. I just have a few questions and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  She nodded, though I’m not sure it was in response to anything I’d said. Her head might’ve been bobbing. Paul guided her to the couch. She eased down most of the way, then fell onto the cushion. Paul sat next to her, holding her hand. I frowned when I saw her eyes, then glanced over at Paul.

  “She’s on Xanax,” he said. “She’s having panic attacks at night.”

  I nodded. “I’m sorry. It’s understandable.”

  “What was it you wanted to talk to us about, Mr. Singer? I’d like my mother to rest as much as possible.”

  “Of course,” I said, then paused to gather my thoughts. “What did the two of you know about Danny’s work?”

  “You ask this a’ready,” Libney said.

  “I know, Mrs. Garcia. Can you tell me again?”

  She closed her eyes and swayed in place, then opened them. “He work for the police.”

  I nodded.

  “He work undercover. He arrest many bad men.”

  Libney’s voice trailed off. I glanced at Paul. He shrugged. “That was about it. My father worked undercover, mostly with gangs and drug dealers. He never brought his work home, so we were in the dark most of the time.”

  Libney nodded.

  “Did he ever mention working with other men, other police officers?”

  Paul looked at me blankly. “He didn’t talk about it. If he had, I’m sure he would’ve mentioned working with other police officers, yes.”

  “What about off the record?”

  They seemed confused. “What do you mean?” Paul asked.

  “I know Danny hated drug dealers and gangs of all types, and especially Hispanic gangs. We all know that sometimes the legal system can be slow and a little uneven when it comes to prosecution and punishment. It must’ve made Danny angry to see some of the crooks he crossed paths with never face jail time.”

  “Probably,” Paul said, frowning. “Wouldn’t anyone?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But not everyone had the kind of access and specialized knowledge that Danny did. Or the particular desire to get certain gangs off the street.”

  Paul’s face, normally round, hardened, seeming to become defined along planes and angles as I watched. “What are you saying?”

  I took a deep breath. “Paul, it’s pretty clear your father was moonlighting in his spare time.”

  “Moonlighting?” Libney asked.

  “Chasing and sometimes killing drug dealers,” I said. “We found a small apartment in Southeast where he stashed weapons and planned his hits.”

  “What?” Paul said, looking shocked. “Jesus.”

  “I take it you didn’t know about it?”

  “No,” he said. “How do you know this? It doesn’t seem like my dad to go off on his own.”

  I gave them the abridged version of Danny’s hideout and the ballistics matching that Bloch had been able to do through IBIS. Libney glanced back and forth between us, not comprehending. Paul said some things in Spanish and I watched her face crease as she began to understand what we were talking about. She replied, then turned to me.

  “You say he kill some of these bad men?”

  “Maybe,” I said, hedging. “We don’t know for sure.”

  She shrugged. “What’s the difference?”

  “Mama,” Paul said, then said some more things in Spanish. Explaining the legality of the situation, maybe, and what was wrong with it. Maybe he could explain it to me when he was done.

  “Is he in trouble?” she asked me.

  “Danny?” I said. “No. It’s not something anyone’s really interested in pursuing legally. But if we knew more about what he was doing, obviously we’d have more information that might help us find and build a case against whoever murdered him. And the other officers who’ve been killed.”

  Paul cleared his throat. “Do you think there’s a connection?”

  “No, we know there’s a connection,” I said. “We know who is responsible for most of the deaths, but not all.”

  “Who is it?”

  “The head of a local Salvadoran mara.”

  “What’s his name?”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that. But he was probably involved in at least three of the killings, including Danny’s. There are two others I want to clear up, however. They don’t have the clear connection that the others do.”

  “Could they be accidents?” Paul asked. “I mean, random killings, instead of connected to this mara.”

  “Sure, they could. But I’m not real fond of complete coincidence. Especially when the unconnected murders bear all the physical hallmarks of the other killings.”

  “Then you just haven’t found the thing that connects them,” he said. “Find that and you can pin the other killings on the mara.”

  “Maybe I have,” I said. “See, when we found your father’s apartment, we found signs that indicated that it was more than just Danny doing the freelancing. There might have been up to three or four of them working altogether to take out drug dealers and crooks in their spare time.”

  “So you think one of the murdered police officers was working with my dad on this?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Which one?”

  “We don’t have much pointing to either Terrence Witherspoon or Brady Torres, two of the other officers killed. They stirred up trouble on their own. But it’s the odd man out in this situation, Clay Johnson, who might be the one we’re looking for.”

  Libney raised her head when she heard Johnson’s name. “Who?”

  “Clay Johnson,” I said. “He was a police officer with the Rockville force. Do you happen to remember him?”

  She asked Paul something in Spanish. He shrugged and replied. She turned to me.

  “He’s a big man? Black?”

  “Yes.”

  “He and Danny used to be frien’. Years ago. They met at the academy.”

  “Did they stay in touch afterwards?”

  “A few year,” she said. I was looking at her, but out of the corner of my eye, I could see Paul staring straight down at the floor. “Danny went undercover and then we never have friends over or see anyone.”

  I stood and walked over to the TV stand. “Paul, the last time I spoke with you, there was a picture here, taken years ago. It seemed like your father, Bob Caldwell, and someone like Clay Johnson having a good time at a picnic. But you told me that you didn’t know any of the other victims when I asked.”

  His eyes flicked up to meet mine. He didn’t say anything.

  “The picture isn’t here now,” I said, and paused. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  “No, sir,” he said, staring back at me. A change had come over him as my line of questioning had become obvious. He had straightened up where he sat and his face became impassive. Excessive formality—the unbreakable, millennia-old protection of the foot soldier—now enveloped him like a shield.

  “No one’s going to dishonor your father's memory, or hurt you or your mother, Paul,” I said. “But I can’t say the same about anyone else. For all I know, the killer is planning on murdering another cop, maybe another officer that worked with Danny in this off-hours stunt. If you know anything, son, you have to tell me.”

  “Sir, I don’t know. I was very young when my father knew these people—”

  “You were almost a teenager,” I said.

  “—and I don’t remember the picture you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t remember it?” I said. “Or saying how that had been the last of the good times?”

  He looked at me, his eyes flat. “No, sir.”

  I returned his stare, giving him the chance, willing him to say something. When he didn’t, I nodded. “Well. Maybe we’ll be in luck and no one else wi
ll get hurt. My colleague is planning a raid on the gang’s headquarters. I just hope it’s soon enough to save anyone else who they may have targeted.”

  Libney seemed about to say something, but Paul made a small motion with his hand and she went silent. When he spoke, his expression was tense. “When is this raid supposed to happen, Mr. Singer?”

  “I don’t know, exactly,” I said. “Soon. If everything goes well, I’m sure Detective Bloch will be in touch to get your help with the prosecution. And to ask you some other questions.”

  “Will you make sure to tell us anything you know? We’d like to know when my father’s killer will be apprehended. And punished.”

  “I’ll do my best, Paul,” I said. His gaze held mine for a moment, then he nodded. There wasn’t anything else to say. I thanked them and left, taking my time walking out to my car, giving them every opportunity to stop me and tell me what they were hiding.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I called Bob Caldwell from my office. I hadn’t heard from Bloch, but I knew there wasn’t much time before his raid and, having been blown off by the Garcias, I was hoping maybe Caldwell would be willing to tell me something—anything—about Danny’s after-work hobby of taking out drug dealers on the q.t.

  The phone rang about ten times before his voice mail came on and I hung up. I waited five minutes and tried again. I let it go eight times and hung up. I had done some doodling on a scratch pad while waiting for him to pick up. I had written Danny — moonlighting and then partners? next to it. Below those I’d jotted down Felix Rodriguez and drawn two arrows to each of the other words. In my boredom, I’d traced the words a half-dozen times and put small stars and squiggles radiating outward. So many, in fact, that there was no way I could use the paper to take notes, so I ripped that off and wrote everything down again. I tapped my fingers on my desk. I’d decided to call one last time when it rang in my hand. It was Caldwell.

  “You wanted to get a hold of me?” he asked, his gravel-rock voice coming over the line along with the background noise of the waterfront.