City of Fear Page 2
The man frowned and stepped to the front. Frank didn’t blame him. Any staircase can be a kill zone—especially in the dark. But the uniforms wore ballistics vest. Frank didn’t.
“Back up your buddy,” Rob said, positioning the younger guy behind his partner. Rob pointed at a specific dark corner of the staircase. “Keep your gun and flashlight to the right.”
All four eased up the stairs, guns at the ready.
Frank gnawed his lip. This felt like one of those no-win academy training scenarios in which a cop always got shot. Frank’s skin prickled.
He touched the back of the senior officer. “Hey, there may be a woman up here. Don’t know if she’s armed.”
With each step Frank’s stomach churned. He took long even breaths. The uniforms reached the top of the stairs and peeked around the corner of the second-floor landing.
“Clear,” the senior officer whispered.
Frank and Rob scooted up closer behind them as the uniforms shined their beams down the dark, empty hall. Everyone stopped and stayed low and flat against a wall. Frank took a knee and his hair bristled. The bedroom door at the end of the hall was shrouded in shadow. An ominous looking thing. The absolute stillness of the place scared him. Something felt very wrong.
Too quiet.
Was this a set up? The sound of someone in their group trying a hall light switch only increased Frank’s anxiety. A bead of sweat trickled down his cheek.
They began their steady advance down the creepy corridor. Before passing each room, the uniforms cleared it while Frank and Rob kept them covered from the hall. The moon shining through the skylight cast eerie cloud shadows that danced over the carpet. They looked like tiny ghosts skimming across the floor. Only the master bedroom remained unchecked. Frank released a breath as sirens died away and the sound of other patrol vehicles skidded to a stop.
The senior uniform pointed at the younger cop. “Get out there and let them know where we are,” he whispered.
Moments later the sound of feet stomping up the stairs caused them turn their heads. A uniform sergeant and two other officers join them in the hall.
“What do we have?” the sergeant asked, catching his breath.
Rob flashed his badge. “The guy who lives here is Ricardo Salazar—a gang leader. May be a woman in there with him. Heard shots earlier. All quiet since then.”
The sergeant nodded and gazed around the hall. “What happened to the damn electricity?”
“No idea,” Rob said.
Frank moved back as the sergeant motioned for the uniform officers with shotguns to come forward. The sergeant banged on the bedroom door. “Police! Come out with your hands up.” Only silence answered his demands. He scanned the faces of the others.
Rob wiped his hand across his mouth. “Okay, let’s do it then.” He crouched, balancing on the balls of his feet.
The sergeant pushed the door open, and stepped back.
As Frank rushed into the dark room, the smell, the feel, and his own anxiety caused him to shiver. The place reminded Frank of a tomb. Something brushed his pants cuff. In the dim light, a terrified tabby bolted out and raced down the hall. It hit the stairs at a dead run. Something about the way the moon shined through the skylight made it look as if a cloud hovered over the animal as it made its getaway.
Frank sucked in a lungful of air and again steadied his nerves. They spread out, guns at the ready. No one was in the pitch black room, but a sliver of light shined from under the closet door. The sergeant, using hand signals, posted the officers in a quarter circle around the door. He motioned at Frank to open it. Frank knelt, braced himself against a wall, and eased his hand to the handle. If he didn’t move quick enough, he could get shot from the crook or the cops. It was a bad position.
He pulled in a breath, jerked the door open, and flattened himself against the bedroom wall, waiting for the shots.
No one fired. The group stared into the closet, slack jawed. After a few seconds they lowered their guns and advanced. Frank edged his head around and peeked through the open door.
Ricardo Salazar, dressed only in a pair of plaid boxers, sat slumped against the back wall. He held a flashlight in his left hand. A cloud of smoke still lingered inside. The stench of gunpowder hung thick in the air. At least a dozen spent shell cases littered the carpet around him. Ricardo held a .45 in his grip, slide locked back—empty. His eyes were fixed and staring straight ahead, his mouth twisted, as if in a scream.
Rob walked in and did a pulse check. “He’s dead.”
On the floor, beside the body, lay a small crudely sewn black cloth doll. Uneven stitches formed the mouth, and tiny red buttons served as eyes. A long silver pin extended through the head.
Rob reached for it, but stopped. He withdrew his hand, glanced at Frank, and then back at the doll. Like a good Mexican Catholic, he crossed himself and mumbled something in Spanish. No one else spoke. There was nothing to say.
An old scene from The X Files resurfaced in Frank’s memory.
Yeah, this was going to make for a screwed-up report.
3
Rob suppressed another yawn. He glanced over the low cubicle wall at Frank typing away. Working with Frank the last few years had been especially good for Rob. Frank’s sharp mind and work ethic had lifted them both to recognition by the highest levels of the command staff. If Rob had not been partnered with him, his career wouldn’t be on the rise. But working with Frank had its challenges. Rob’s wife, Carmen, thought Frank was a little crazy. Rob never considered him exactly crazy. Weird, but not crazy.
Last night the scene supervisor at Ricardo’s house told them to go home, get some rest, and be back at Criminal Intelligence Unit by two in the afternoon to write a supplement to the report. Rob had his one-page supplement done; Frank continued typing. Guy was a stickler for details. He would pause every so often and readjust the Band-Aid on his arm. Frank getting his wrist sliced open on a gate last night was par for the course. He was an injury magnet. That was one of the challenges. Hanging around Frank too long could get you hurt. Carmen couldn’t handle Rob getting hurt now. Not in her condition.
As of late, Rob had started calling Frank, Dark Cloud. This seemed appropriate since he wasn’t the luckiest cop in the world. The name originated in Rob’s old Marine unit while deployed in Iraq. There always seemed to be one guy who just couldn’t get a break. If a grenade was thrown, or a mortar shell exploded, that poor schmuck always caught shrapnel. If a bullet was fired or an IED detonated, that guy got hit. Some guys got patched up and returned to duty, only to get hit again a few weeks later. Other Marines tended to shy away from him—bad luck. They gave the unlucky guy a goofy name, Dark Cloud.
Rob was glad he didn’t have to do any additional investigation on the case from last night. The whole thing creeped him out. All he wanted was to get back to traditional CIU investigations and let someone else handle the dead guy in the closet.
“How’s it hanging, buddy?”
Rob looked up and met eyes with Paul Sims. He and Paul had worked together in Homicide a few years back. Rob transferred to CIU, but Sims liked working murders and stayed with Homicide. He was happy-go-lucky and jolly—fat guys usually are. Rob was stocky and short, Frank was tall and thin. When all three stood side by side, they looked like a carnival sideshow.
Frank looked up from typing. “Hi, Sims.”
Sims downed the last few nuts in the packet. He always seemed to be eating. He held up a wad of papers. “Looks like I’ve got this new homicide case on Ricardo Salazar.” He flipped a few pages and eyed Frank and Rob. “According to the preliminary, you guys are the star witnesses.” Sims tugged at his tie. He never kept his top button buttoned. His neck grew faster than his ability to buy new shirts.
Frank slid into his slouch position, one leg hanging over the arm of the chair. “Star witnesses. Hear that, Rob? At least we’re stars at something.” Frank handed Sims a four-page supplement to the report. “Figured you’d want a copy.”
“Frank’s showing off again,” Rob said.
Sims opened a Baby Ruth candy bar and took a bite. He held a clear evidence bag with something black inside. The doll found at Ricardo’s was visible through the plastic.
“Hey, every report I’ve read mentions this thing.” Sims took another bite and stared at it. “Any particular reason?”
“The doll was right beside Ricardo in the closet,” Rob said. “Spookiest thing in the house, other than the dead body.”
Sims finished the Baby Ruth and dropped the wrapper over the top of Rob’s cubicle, missing the garbage can on the other side. “Any other toys around?”
“Nope, Ricardo lived alone,” Rob said. “As far as we know, no kid ever visited.” Rob looked to his partner for confirmation, but Frank was typing again.
Sims picked something from his tooth with his finger as he turned to leave. “Okay, I’ll look these over and talk to you later.”
Rob gazed at the CIU area, which was one large room with numerous short-sided cubicles. About eighteen desks dominated the middle, and private offices with glass walls circled the open area. These were occupied by the supervisors. Rob and Frank’s sergeant, Terry Andrews, and their lieutenant, Edna Crawford, had been talking in her office for the last half hour with the door closed. Every so often Edna looked out her glass wall toward them. She had this look when she wasn’t happy, something between a frown and grimace. Edna appeared to be doing most of the talking. She reclined in her executive chair, playing with a Rubik’s cube.
“Think they’re rehashing last night?” Rob mumbled.
Frank glanced at the pair as Terry nodded at something Edna said. “Yup. Get ready for the call.” Frank sat back and laced his fingers across his chest.
As if on cue, Rob’s phone rang.
“You and Frank step in here,” Edna said.
Rob turned his head toward her glass office. “Yes, ma’am.” Rob stood and slipped on his jacket. “They want to see us.”
Frank didn’t move. “Big surprise.” He continued lounging while examining the cut he got from the gate last night. The ambulance attendants had sprayed something on it, slapped a couple of butterfly Band-Aids across the top, and advised him to see his doctor about a tetanus shot. Might need a stitch. Of course, Frank ignored them, but then again, Frank ignored most people.
Finally, at the speed of a human sloth, Frank rose and raked his surfer-cut hair back. As usual, he didn’t bother putting on his jacket. Rob led the way to Edna’s office.
When they entered, she dropped the Rubik’s Cube on the edge of the desk. “Have a seat, guys.”
She wore her hair twisted into a tight bun. Her office always smelled of gardenias, one of those plug-in things. Almost every time Rob visited her office there was something bad to discuss, so he’d begun associating the smell of the place with controversy. This led to him hating sitting on his own back porch. Gardenias were planted along the back wall of the house.
Terry sat in the only chair, so they headed toward the sofa, “the lecture couch,” as Frank called it. He picked up the unsolved cube as he passed Edna’s desk.
In Rob’s career he’d had good sergeants and good lieutenants, but never both at the same time—until he got to CIU. Terry was senior in time to everyone and had twice as much experience as Edna. Solid and stoic, he gave her good advice she counted on.
Edna would never be satisfied being the first black female lieutenant to lead CIU. She had her eye on being the second black female chief of police.
Frank slid into his usual place on the right side of the sofa, closest to Edna. Rob flopped down on the other end. Edna got right to the point. She held her favorite pen and slowly clicked it, then pursed her lips for a moment before speaking.
“Had a meeting on the sixth floor this morning,” she said.
Rob tensed. Oh, Christ.
When neither answered, she continued. “Major Higgins wanted to know how four DPD officers allowed Ricardo to get hit while they stood in front of his house bullshitting.”
“We weren’t bullshitting,” Rob answered. “We’d just walked up and identified ourselves to the uniforms when the shooting started.”
Edna turned to Frank, but he didn’t react or agree. He tilted his head side to side as he attempted to solve the cube.
Edna lifted a page of handwritten notes from her desk and reviewed it. Her brow rose. “What happened to the red-haired woman?”
Rob’s stomach tightened and he clasped his hands together. Again he wanted Frank involved in the conversation, but he sat mute.
“She wasn’t in the house when we made entry,” Rob said, “must have split out the back.”
“Did you see her?”
“Not exactly,” Rob said.
Edna turned to Frank and showed a cocky smile. “You appear to be the only person who saw this mysterious lady. Any explanations as to what became of her?”
Rob figured Edna would hone in on that. Just another reason to drop this case and let Homicide figure it out.
Frank leaned forward with a deadpan expression, placed the cube on her desk with all the same colors matching, and said, “No.”
Terry cleared his throat. “Guys, they had an engineer go through the place this morning. Someone tripped the main breaker out back.” He interlaced his fingers over his slim midsection. “See any sign someone had been in the backyard last night?”
Rob shrugged and shook his head.
“Nothing,” Frank mumbled.
Edna picked up the cube and checked each side. Her brow furrowed as she dropped it in her tray. Frank melted a little deeper into the sofa. His long legs stretched out, shoes almost touching her desk. She cut her eyes in his direction and had that expression she probably reserved for her two young daughters.
Edna and lots of other supervisors always gave Frank a pass. That’s the way it was with Medal of Valor holders. Every cop likes to think of themselves as tough and a little dangerous. Frank never thought of himself that way. He was an analytical thinker who enjoyed the problem-solving aspects of law enforcement—never cared for the macho end of it. But Frank was tough and more than just a little dangerous. Killed five people, been shot, stabbed—yeah, he was dangerous. Thing about Frank, he never looked for trouble, but shit-storms always seemed to find him. Dark Cloud.
Edna exhaled. “Nine-one-one got a call to the house a little after two this morning. A voice that sounded like Ricardo’s was screaming about some intruder. That’s why the patrol unit was dispatched.” She glared at Frank. “We need to find the woman. When a drug gang leader gets killed for no apparent reason, it makes people jumpy. Gang wars have started over less.”
Edna looked at Terry, Terry looked at Rob, Rob looked at Frank, and Frank looked at Edna. No one spoke for a few awkward seconds before she said, “That’s it, get to work.”
“Let’s go.” Terry stood.
Rob and Frank followed him into his office. While Edna’s work area reflected a cool professional environment with certificates lining the walls in tight formations, Terry’s felt like a home. Oil-on-canvas vistas of the Texas Hill Country gave the place warmth and a relaxed feel. Terry poured coffee from his private pot and stood beside his desk. His cool blue eyes were hard to read.
“How’s the wrist?” Terry motioned to Frank’s hand.
“Just a scratch,” Frank said.
“He needs a stitch,” Rob chimed in.
“Any ideas about last night?” Terry asked. He leaned back against his desk and blew into the cup before taking a sip.
“Can’t explain it,” Frank said. “She was there one second and gone the next.”
Terry dropped into his chair. “Major Higgins and the Drug Task Force supervisor are meeting later this afternoon. They want a plan to present to the chief. I’m really hoping it doesn’t involve us. This thing sounds like a mess. The less we have to do with it the better.”
<
br /> Rob hated messes. Nothing good ever seemed to happen when a case started off as shitty as this one did. After a few years’ experience, you could always spot the good cases from the shitty ones. This thing stunk up the whole room.
Terry gave them his fatherly smile. “You guys grab some down time, see you tomorrow. We’ll figure out something by then.”
They strolled back to their cubicles, and Rob slipped on his jacket and adjusted the collar. Frank eased into his chair and typed something into Google. Images of dolls similar to the one at Ricardo’s popped up on the monitor.
“You coming?” Rob asked.
Frank must have found one he liked. He clicked on it and waited for it to load. He looked up. “Yeah, I’ll be along in a minute.”
Rob knew better than to wait on him. Frank’s “minute” usually took an hour or more. Rob took one last look at the monitor before leaving. The doll image had a caption below it.
Voodoo.
* * *
Just before five o’clock Edna strolled to Terry’s office. He sat behind his desk, leaning on his forearms as he studied the computer monitor. He had a pinched expression.
She needed his advice again. He’d never let her down. “Busy?” she asked.
He jumped. “Just looking at the gang stats this year.”
She walked through the door and closed it behind her. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk about.”
Terry poured her a cup of coffee as she took a seat. “I think I know what you’re going to say.”
Edna took the cup and nodded, settling back into the chair. “You were here during the gang wars of ’91 and ’92, right?”
“I’d just come on the job. Hadn’t been on the street a month when all hell broke loose.”
“How did it start?”
“Stupid kids just started killing each other and innocent civilians for no apparent reason. The old Family Violence Division that oversaw the Gang Unit had a top-to-bottom shake out. Several demotions and transfers.”
Edna gazed in her coffee cup and didn’t speak for a moment. When she looked up, she said, “Higgins told me this morning he was holding CIU responsible if this thing escalates. Said we were the eyes and ears of the department in the intelligence unit, and should have had our fingers on the pulse of the city.”