around the apartment carefully and quietly, he’d found Torres passed out on the floor with half a case of beer cans lying next to him, on the coffee table, and on top of the TV that was still playing its sports channel wrap-up show. The cop had on camo shorts and an ash-gray tank top that showed off the Superman tattoo high on his shoulder, glowing against the pale skin. Belly down, his face turned to the left. A thin line of drool hung from his lower lip and beaded on the rug, quivering in time with his snores.
Looking down at Torres, he wondered if he should wake him up, let him know what was going to happen and why. No. That wasn’t why he was here. He had a purpose—a mission—and it didn’t require any explanations. The piece of shit could go to his grave wondering why he’d been snuffed. Just then, Torres groaned and rolled onto his side, revealing a short, snub-nosed .38 tucked in his waistband. Decision made. This was no time for talk.
Using a pillow to muffle the sounds, he knelt next to Torres and put two shots in the side of the cop’s head. The body jerked with each one, then was still, lying just like it had ten seconds before. Tossing the pillow aside, he listened intently for five minutes. Ten. Nothing.
He reached into the backpack he’d brought and pulled out rubber gloves and a set of rain gear he’d picked up at a thrift store. He slid on a pair of safety glasses, but just then the sports show started their baseball segment. He liked baseball, so he sat on the couch and watched a few minutes of the coverage.
He swore when they announced the Rangers had beaten the Angels. He didn’t care about the Angels. He just hated the Rangers. Blood from Torres’s head seeped into the carpet as he watched and he moved his foot to keep it from getting on his shoe.
At a commercial break, bored, he got up and prowled around the apartment. A set of high school football trophies took up space on a dresser in the bedroom, sitting beneath framed medals and ribbons from other past glories. The biggest trophy had a marble base. He picked it up and bounced it in his hand a few times. It had a nice heft to it, so he took it and went back to the living room.
He turned the AC down to its lowest setting, then kicked the beer cans out of the way. Torres lay almost exactly as he’d found him. If you ignored the little holes. He planted his feet carefully, like a batter. Tilting his head first to the left, then to the right, he chose his spot carefully, then raised the trophy in both hands. He looked over his shoulder, winked at an imaginary camera, then brought the trophy down as hard as he could.
Chapter Nine
Over the next twenty-four hours, I sat in my office with my phone and let my fingers do the walking. I might not have anyone who’d be my best man if I decided to get married again, God forbid, but thirty-plus years as a homicide cop in the same town gives you contacts. And it was time to use some of them.
I’d thought about my next steps carefully and decided what I needed was an introduction. The delay made me anxious and I once again had the feeling that time was slipping past me but, while meeting with Libney Garcia and Florence Witherspoon had been easy enough to arrange, at some point I was going to have to talk to the cops that these guys worked with. And while I didn’t mind cold-calling the different forces and departments and seeing how it went, I’d waste a lot less time if someone could vouch for me before I got there. So, I opened my little black book and started calling the captains, lieutenants, sergeants, beat cops, and DAs I knew from back in the day. I left hearty voice mail messages reminding them who I was and what great times we had and could they call me back about a very vaguely worded case I was working on, please? I wrapped up with a call to Bloch to let him know what I was doing and that I hadn’t used his name or the words “HIDTA” in any of my
Looking down at Torres, he wondered if he should wake him up, let him know what was going to happen and why. No. That wasn’t why he was here. He had a purpose—a mission—and it didn’t require any explanations. The piece of shit could go to his grave wondering why he’d been snuffed. Just then, Torres groaned and rolled onto his side, revealing a short, snub-nosed .38 tucked in his waistband. Decision made. This was no time for talk.
Using a pillow to muffle the sounds, he knelt next to Torres and put two shots in the side of the cop’s head. The body jerked with each one, then was still, lying just like it had ten seconds before. Tossing the pillow aside, he listened intently for five minutes. Ten. Nothing.
He reached into the backpack he’d brought and pulled out rubber gloves and a set of rain gear he’d picked up at a thrift store. He slid on a pair of safety glasses, but just then the sports show started their baseball segment. He liked baseball, so he sat on the couch and watched a few minutes of the coverage.
He swore when they announced the Rangers had beaten the Angels. He didn’t care about the Angels. He just hated the Rangers. Blood from Torres’s head seeped into the carpet as he watched and he moved his foot to keep it from getting on his shoe.
At a commercial break, bored, he got up and prowled around the apartment. A set of high school football trophies took up space on a dresser in the bedroom, sitting beneath framed medals and ribbons from other past glories. The biggest trophy had a marble base. He picked it up and bounced it in his hand a few times. It had a nice heft to it, so he took it and went back to the living room.
He turned the AC down to its lowest setting, then kicked the beer cans out of the way. Torres lay almost exactly as he’d found him. If you ignored the little holes. He planted his feet carefully, like a batter. Tilting his head first to the left, then to the right, he chose his spot carefully, then raised the trophy in both hands. He looked over his shoulder, winked at an imaginary camera, then brought the trophy down as hard as he could.
Chapter Nine
Over the next twenty-four hours, I sat in my office with my phone and let my fingers do the walking. I might not have anyone who’d be my best man if I decided to get married again, God forbid, but thirty-plus years as a homicide cop in the same town gives you contacts. And it was time to use some of them.
I’d thought about my next steps carefully and decided what I needed was an introduction. The delay made me anxious and I once again had the feeling that time was slipping past me but, while meeting with Libney Garcia and Florence Witherspoon had been easy enough to arrange, at some point I was going to have to talk to the cops that these guys worked with. And while I didn’t mind cold-calling the different forces and departments and seeing how it went, I’d waste a lot less time if someone could vouch for me before I got there. So, I opened my little black book and started calling the captains, lieutenants, sergeants, beat cops, and DAs I knew from back in the day. I left hearty voice mail messages reminding them who I was and what great times we had and could they call me back about a very vaguely worded case I was working on, please? I wrapped up with a call to Bloch to let him know what I was doing and that I hadn’t used his name or the words “HIDTA” in any of my
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