The Pledge, page 13
Now, looking at Elizabeth breathing softly into her fitted sheet decorated with pastel baby animals, I think there’s not a chance in hell I’m going to let anyone take her away. At least not without a fight.
Chapter 16
Dallas Police Department, North Central Division
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Uh-oh,” Seth says to me as I stride past his desk. “You’re wearing your leather jacket again.”
“Sharpened my canines, too,” I say, walking into my office. “Let the team know I’ll see them in the incident room in twenty minutes?”
He gives me an exaggerated salute. “Do I need to pass out the Kevlar vests?”
“Let’s see what Philbo throws at me first.”
I close the door and make a call to Peg Bartles. She answers after a few rings, and it sounds like I’ve roused her from a deep sleep.
“Did I wake you?” I ask.
“Rocky and I had a late night trawling some clubs. We still got zilch to report, though.”
“I need the name of a good family-court lawyer.”
She yawns loudly into her phone. “How good? Like J.Lo good, or Uncle Billy Bob good?”
“Like Alan Turner good.”
There’s an intake of breath. “He’s made contact?”
“No,” I say. “Not yet. But I want to be prepared. I want to know what my realistic options will be if and when he comes calling. I’m not just going to fold and let him walk all over us.”
“You go, girl,” she says. “But you know it’s going to cost mucho mula, right?”
There are some rustling noises for a few seconds before her voice sounds in my ear again. “Okay, her name is Keri McCall. I’ll text you her number. Give her a ring, tell her I sent you. She’ll be straight with you about your chances.”
I thank her and disconnect. I haven’t even discussed hiring a lawyer with Jackie yet. She came home from the hospital last night exhausted. So I ran her a bath and let her go right to sleep. If nothing else, we can have a consultation with the lawyer and take it from there.
I’m just leaving my office when my personal cell phone rings.
“Detective Sergeant, this is Howard Decker.”
Shit. Alan Turner’s PI.
“I’m busy right now, Decker,” I say impatiently. “What do you want?”
“Mr. Turner would like to meet with you in person.”
“About?”
“Oh, I think you know. He’s well aware that you’ve been taking care of his stepdaughter’s baby. And he’d like to talk to you about future arrangements.”
I’m tempted to tell him that I’ve engaged a lawyer and that we should let independent parties decide what’s best.
“Look, just so you know,” Decker says, “Mr. Turner is a very determined man. But he’s also reasonable. Maybe if you just talk to him first. See what he has to say. He’ll meet you on neutral ground. What do you have to lose?”
I recall the photo of a smiling, handsome Turner. A self-assured man with a winning smile and cold blue eyes.
“I’m sure Mr. Turner is very persuasive. Let me talk to my significant other and I’ll let you know.”
“I’d be happy to pick you and your partner up at your house and drive you to wherever you—”
Of course, being a thorough investigator, he’s already found out where I live.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” I say. “I’ve got to go now. I’ll let you know what we decide.”
Disconnecting the call, I close the office door behind me and make my way to where the team is assembled. I try taking deep breaths to steady my emotions, but I’m agitated and more than a little angry. Leaning against the wall just outside the incident room, I listen to the voices of the men inside. The words are unclear, but their tone is not. They’re frustrated. I need to tear my thoughts away from worrying about Mary Grace’s whereabouts and focus, as a team leader, on the problems at hand. Flaco and Evangeline. They need to be found and apprehended. But so far, we’ve been left holding our asses while they evade us and thumb their noses in the process. What I’ve been doing up to now has not worked. We keep stumbling over Flaco, but it’s only because he’s been setting the stage, dropping the clues, managing to be several steps in front of us. And now his cat-and-mouse games have most likely caused the death of Johnny B.
It’s been purely calculated guesswork on my part, setting the search zone for Flaco in East Dallas. But it’s not a physical barrier like a net. Flaco could be anywhere in Texas right now. I certainly don’t need any reminders that I’m the bait, drawing Evangeline ever closer. What I do need is a lure, something I can control, that will entice either of them to come to me at a prescribed time and place. Some hounds to drive the fox.
From the men’s expressions when I enter the room, I can tell that they see all too clearly that I’ve got nothing new to give them.
Craddock is the first to speak.
“Sorry to hear about your CI being run down. Man, that’s a hard way to go.”
I think of Johnny standing in the road, his arms wide, facing his death head-on.
“I’m Tohono O’odham Nation…We made the desert bloom…”
A sudden swell of emotion tightens my throat. “He didn’t deserve to die like that. Detective Ryan, I’d like you to see if we can get any hits on traffic cameras in that area. Maybe we can trace the SUV’s license plate.”
“So, what’s next?” Esparza asks.
Philbo, sitting next to him, crosses his arms over his chest. The sarcastic expression on his face reads Oh, boy, this is going to be fun.
“We’ve got patrol doubled now in Five Points,” I say. “And we have a gangland UC contact in Vickery Meadow who’ll keep his eyes open for Flaco. Speaking of—Tom, did we get any hits off the prints on the cigar band?”
Craddock grins and hands me a printout of a mug shot. “FBI came back with a hit. Flaco’s real name is Roberto Flores. He was arrested once in 2008 for conspiracy to deal large amounts of cocaine. He made bail, which had been set at ten thousand dollars, and skipped the country. Since then, he’s been absent. Most likely working in Honduras. I’m hoping DEA can give us some more intel on the guy.”
I study the mug shot. It’s the same man I saw in the lavandería.
Turning to Kevin Ryan, I ask, “Have you spoken to Don Haslett’s guy at DEA in the last twenty-four hours?”
He nods. “I called Fred Dunlap first thing this morning. Do we want to make it official and bring him in for increased surveillance?”
“I think we need to,” I say. “We’ve got to find a way to start listening in on the Hondurans who’re taking up shop in Vickery Meadow. DEA can expedite wiretaps when we need them. We have to assume that Flores may be using an alias. If so, we need that name.”
There is a pause; everyone stares down at their notes or off into space, reassessing, reordering priorities. Philbo sighs and stifles a yawn.
“Detective Philbo,” I say. He looks up and squints at me, as though I’ve disturbed his nap time. “You were with Narcotics in Chicago, right?”
He sighs and shifts in his seat. “That’s right.”
“How many drug-related arrests has the DPD made so far this year?”
“I don’t know,” he answers, shrugging. “All sectors? Maybe a thousand. Maybe more.”
“And how many arrests involving drugs were made in Chicago the year you left?”
“In 2012? CPD made over twenty thousand arrests.”
There are some low whistles in the room, and everyone swivels to look at Philbo. “But, uh, Chicago’s got over two and a half million people compared with Dallas with, what, a million or so?”
“Still,” I say, “that’s an epic amount of law enforcement action. How many arrests did you make that year?”
His chin comes up and he sits a little straighter in his chair. “Me and my partner made four hundred and thirty-three.”
“That’s an amazing record, Detective. Tell me, how many gangs are there in Chicago?”
He looks at me cautiously. He’s not sure where all this questioning is leading. “Almost seventy currently active. Vice Lords, Black P Stones, Latin Kings, and on and on.” He looks almost proud of those staggering statistics.
I stand and start pacing. “And how many of those arrested for drugs were gang-related?”
“Most of them. Our drug arrests were almost always made in cooperation with Gangland.”
“DPD’s current policy is to separate engagement and execution into different divisions with occasional overlap,” I say. “Gangland goes after gangs, and when they’re caught with drugs, that possession charge, or charge of intent to sell, is just added on top of the robbery, weapons, or assault charges. Right?”
Now I have Philbo’s attention. He cocks his head to one side—he’s listening.
“I’ve been going at this the wrong way. We’ve been focusing on the drugs, when we need to be targeting the Honduran gangs for something else, anything, that will take them off the streets and lead us to Flaco.
“Detective Esparza, I’d like you to work with Detectives Craddock and Ryan on the DEA angle. Search their databases. See if they can provide any further information about Flores, his activities, his habits, or his intentions. Detective Philbo, you’re going to be working with me and Detective Dutton on some targeted operations with Gangland. I think your experience could be very valuable.”
I have to turn away so as not to smile at the contorted expression on Philbo’s face. He’s puffed up about his Windy City stats. But I’ve managed to remove him from the comfort of his current partner, sandwiching him between the two cops he’s already worked hard to alienate.
I dismiss the team and walk back to my office. Seth pokes his head in, grinning.
“Man, you’re good,” he stage-whispers. “Philbo’s going to get a hernia trying to figure out why that little attaboy you gave him just now feels like a reaming.”
“Divide and conquer, partner. Let’s just hope killing him with kindness was the right move.”
Chapter 17
Stan’s Blue Note
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
I call Manny Ortega from my office to set up a meeting about cooperating with the gang squad to find Flaco. I also give him a heads-up that I’ll be bringing along a new, potentially prickly team member by the name of Detective Dan Philbo.
“Yeah, okay, that’s cool,” Manny says. “I’m sure his experience with gangs in Chicago will be of use. But, uh, we already got a lot of swinging dicks in our squad. We don’t need another hotshot pissing all over everyone to make his mark.”
“I hear you, Manny. But I need him to feel like he’s part of a team. Otherwise he’ll continue to make my life difficult. Can you just stay cool for the hour it’s going to take us to talk strategy and eat our cheese fries?”
“Claro que sí, Sargento. Just call me frosty.”
*
The three of us drive downtown for our meeting on Lower Greenville in near silence—Seth and I seated up front and Philbo uncomfortably perched in the back seat. I check his disposition in the rearview mirror several times. He sits, unmoving, arms crossed, staring out the window. Seth gives up trying to make small talk with our petulant colleague after getting only a few monosyllabic grunts in response to his questions.
We park in front of Stan’s, next to a line of about a dozen gleaming, tricked-out motorcycles. It’s almost five o’clock, and everyone is there for the happy hour and beer-battered mystery meat. A long-standing staple on Greenville, the bar was opened by the blues player E.E. Stanley in the fifties and is an egalitarian mix of college students, football fans, and off-duty cops who, when not glued to the thirty big-screen TVs, can play pool, throw darts, or listen to live music.
The three of us make our way to the outdoor patio in the back. Manny is already holding a table, and we join him. He’s wearing a Harley-Davidson T-shirt, a leather vest, and shades, his scarred, bald head as shiny as a bowling ball. The other customers on the patio have given him a wide berth, no doubt wondering when the rest of his Old Guard Motorcycle Club is going to show up.
He flashes his teeth and gestures for us to sit down.
“Hey, Riot,” he says to my partner, “you grow any prettier, and you’ll have to get the sergeant here to assign bodyguards.”
Seth throws him air kisses, and Manny laughs. He holds out his hand for Philbo to shake. “Welcome to Texas, ese.”
I know that Manny’s got a killer grip, and despite whitening knuckles and popping arm tendons, the two men squeeze hands for the count of five, like two pythons mating in a mud slide.
They finally break contact, and we all order drinks. Philbo almost sprains his optic nerves rolling his eyes at the three of us ordering sodas. He orders a beer and says to the waitress, “Lucky me. I’m not driving.”
While we wait for the drinks, Philbo takes in his surroundings, surreptitiously studying our Gangland friend. He points to Manny’s T-shirt. “You ride?”
Manny smiles good-naturedly. “Does the Pope shit in the woods?”
“Your bike out front with the other ladies?” Philbo asks.
Manny nods, puts his elbows on the table, and leans in. “2012 Street Glide.”
“The pearl-blue one?”
Manny’s chest swells ever so slightly. “You know it.”
Philbo leans in as well, motioning with a “come on” gesture. “Bring it.”
Manny counts off the attributes of his prized possession on his fingers: “One-oh-three Twin Cam, six-speed cruise-drive transmission, IDS, and a Brembo four-piston caliper, front and rear.”
“Dual-front-rotor brake system?” Philbo asks.
Manny looks at me, grinning and nodding with approval. “Okay, Detective from Chiraq, what you got?”
“H-D Fat Bob.”
Manny throws his head back and laughs loudly. “Oh, man, that’s sweet. What year?”
For the first time since I’ve met him, Philbo grins with pure pleasure. “Just picked it up, brand-new off the lot. Had to wait for the custom seat to come in.”
“You want to check out the Glide?” Manny asks Philbo.
They exit out of the patio, talking engine parts and speed ratios, and I look at Seth.
He asks, “Did we just get dumped?”
“First time for everything, partner,” I say.
Seth throws his sunglasses onto the table. “You know, I think I could really grow to dislike that prick.”
I pat Seth on the back. “Easy there. You’re supposed to be the calming voice of reason pulling me back from the edge.”
“I tell you one thing right now, Riz. Philbo either gets with the program, or I’m going to make his life very unpleasant.”
Seth’s idea of making someone’s life unpleasant, especially an obstreperous cop’s, has historically involved a dead rodent in a locker as well as a live serpent in a desk drawer.
As though reading my mind, my partner says, “You think our city boy might scream like a toddler at finding a hairy tarantula in his coffee cup?”
Before I can urge reasonable restraint, the waitress brings everybody’s drinks. Seth and I sip our sodas and wait impatiently for the newly enamored detectives to return. Ten minutes later, they come back to sit at the table again, and I resist the urge to make smart-aleck comments about their dewy complexions.
“Manny,” I say, “you know we’ve not had much luck yet in pinning down this guy Flaco. I’ve been focusing on the drug connection. So far, it’s not been working. Detective Philbo here has had a lot of experience coordinating undercovers and resources with Gangland. I asked to meet with you because I want us all to hear what he has to say about how the cooperation in Chicago is organized and implemented.” I look at Philbo. “The floor’s all yours.”
He takes a long drink of his beer, relishing the attention. “Last few years, I worked O Block on the South Side, sixty-four-hundred block of South Martin Luther King Jr., otherwise known as ‘Murder Drive.’ Lots of low-income housing and ground zero for gangs, particularly the Black Disciples. There were more shootings on that stretch of road in 2011 than in many other parts of the city combined.
“We had our sights on an upstream heroin provider, a Black Disciples leader named Derrell Wayans, nicknamed ‘Young D.’ But the organization was too tight to set up any undercover activity. Every UC we sent in got zilch. His dealers were too afraid of reprisals if they got sloppy. Derrell had only one vice that we knew of. Not drugs, not gambling. The man was a fool for a beautiful woman. He had a constant stream of girls, some of them pros, in and out of one of the apartments he held in Parkway Garden on O Block.”
“Sounds like Vickery Garden in Five Points,” Seth says.
Philbo makes a dismissive noise. “You could make that comparison. If you want to compare a nurse shark to a mako.”
Seth goes very still, which is never a good thing. I quickly say, “Yeah, yeah, we get it, Detective Philbo. Let’s not get sidetracked by ‘mine is bigger than yours.’ How’d you circumvent the bottleneck?”
“We put eyes in the henhouse,” he says.
I recall my thought at the station earlier. Some hounds to drive the fox. “We’re all ears,” I say.
“The problem was getting inside one of Derrell’s controlled units. So we went to the mayor and, with the help of the FBI and some fast-tracked surveillance warrants, got an order to shut down the electricity on the whole block.” He laughs with the memory. “It was winter, and you could hear the outraged shouts all the way to Wrigley Field. We let them freeze for a few hours and then sent in a couple of undercover Feds dressed as utility technicians to set up cameras and listening devices right under their noses. We turned the lights and the heat back on, and then just sat back and listened to the dumbasses talk about the who, what, when, and where of every drug deal that Derrell was involved with. We greased the wheels by sending in one of our snitches, who happened to be the most gorgeous piece of ass you’ve ever seen.” He winks at Manny and takes another few swallows of his beer. He turns to me and leers. “You’d be surprised what a guy will give up when he’s getting his knob polished.”
