Speak of the Devil (22 page)

This was one of the few times he’d seen the prosecutor out in public without a cop at her side. He could just walk into the cupcake shop, hold his gun to her head, and pull the trigger. The witnesses would be stunned, and he could simply run away. This had worked for him before. “Go,” he muttered to himself. “Fucking do it.”

Gato walked to the shop and reached for the door. He could see the prosecutor inside, just a few feet away, smiling as she took a bite of another cupcake. Her face glowed with good health and the confidence of someone who mattered in the world.

Halloween decorations hung from the ceiling of the cupcakery. A figure swung on a string just inside the door, moved by an unseen force. Gato glanced at it—and stopped short. It was a skeleton in a robe, holding a scythe. The Grim Reaper—who looked very much like the
Santa Muerte
. His saint stared directly at him.

The man working behind the counter noticed him. The guy walked toward the door, mouthing the words “We’re closed.”

Gato’s fingers remained on the door handle. He could kill this guy, too. The
Santa Muerte
figure swayed, like it was shaking its head. His saint was telling him something. Gato stared at the skull, then shook off his hesitation. He’d make things right with the saints later. Now his best friend was trapped in a windowless shit-stinking jail cell. His fingers closed around the door handle.

The store owner turned the dead bolt. “We open at ten tomorrow,” he said through the glass.

Gato’s chance was gone. The prosecutor and her family hadn’t even glanced at him. Gato turned away from the shop and walked down the block. He sat on the steps of another store and put his head in his hands. He sat there for a long time. When he finally walked back to the cake shop, it was dark and empty.

He got into Buena’s parents’ car and drove back to Maria-Rosa’s house. The lights shone from the living room windows, but Maria-Rosa’s room upstairs was black. He shimmied up the tree he’d climbed so many times, four years ago, and fiddled with the broken window lock. The window slid open, and he climbed into the bedroom.

It was exactly the same. Her parents had tidied it up, but they hadn’t changed the furniture, quilt, or pictures on the walls. He could imagine Maria-Rosa walking through the door any minute.

He could hear the TV downstairs, her parents talking in low voices. This was idiotic; they could come in here at any moment. But he no longer cared. He climbed onto Maria-Rosa’s bed and laid his head on her pillow. He thought he could still smell a hint of her strawberry shampoo. The pillow grew wet beneath his cheek. He lay there for a long time, glad no one could see him crying.

33

Reading the affidavit in support of the arrest warrant made Anna’s head hurt. Samantha sat in the chair next to her desk, her face set in grim determination. The warrant was for the arrest of Hector Ramos. It charged him with Nina Flores’s murder.

Anna tried to organize her thoughts. She sipped her coffee, hoping the caffeine would sharpen her brain enough to make the right decision. “He’s an MPD officer. Ten years on the force, multiple awards.”

“And multiple Use of Force allegations. Including one for the brothel, where he shot another MS-13 member. Wonder what he was trying to hide?”

“Why would he kill Nina Flores?” Anna said.

“Because she was greenlighted by MS-13. And Hector is a member of MS-13.”

“Why did he shoot Bufón, then?”

“Hector didn’t expect to see him there. He was surprised.”

“I don’t know,” Anna said. “Nina was Hector’s friend. I’ve worked with him on a couple cases, and he’s good. You’re telling me he’s a gang assassin infiltrating MPD? Did you get anything from ballistics?”

“Bullet was too compromised to be of value. No prints on the gun, no DNA, either. The gun was sold at a Virginia show to someone without papers. A drop gun. Exactly what an experienced police officer would use to kill someone.”

“Or a drug dealer. You don’t have enough.”

Anna and Sam always had this tension when they worked with each other: Anna was more conservative and deliberate; Sam was aggressive and bold. They balanced each other out, but it wasn’t always an easy dynamic.

“Look,” Sam said. “We’re not going to get a confession before we really confront him. So sign the warrant. I’ll bring him in, question him. We’ll see what he says. Maybe he’ll give us some false exculpatories that show he’s lying.”

“I’m not arresting a police officer for murder just to see what he’ll say. Here’s what you do. You’ve been following him, right? And he’s going around hassling MS-13 members, knocking heads?”

“Basically.”

“The next time you see him go over the line, arrest him for that. He’s off duty—that’s a simple assault. Then you can question him.”

“Okay.” Sam stood. “Bet I can bring him in by tomorrow, latest.”

“Good luck,” Anna said. “Be safe.”

She remembered wishing the same thing to Hector when he went to raid the brothel.

• • •

Pho 14 was a tiny Vietnamese restaurant in Columbia Heights. It specialized in savory beef noodle soup, delicious and cheap. Hector had eaten there before, and liked the brisket soup best. But that wasn’t why he was here this afternoon.

He stood across the street, watching through the window. The tables inside the restaurant were crowded with people slurping long noodles out of giant bowls. They ranged from lobbyists to gangbangers. The latter category interested Hector.

He watched a young man paying for takeout at the cash register. The kid had the gang motto
“Mata - Viola - Controla”
tattooed on the back of his neck. Hector knew his nickname was “Casper.” He waited until Casper came out of the restaurant and walked west on Park Street.

Hector came up behind him, so quietly that Casper didn’t notice until the last moment, and then it was too late. Hector put a hand on the guy’s arm, swung him into an alley, and held up his badge.

“Lawyer!” said Casper.

“Not gonna happen, Casper.” Hector took the picture of Nina out of his pocket. “Why is your clique carrying this around?”

“Fuck you. I said ‘lawyer.’ ”

Casper put his hands on Hector’s chest and tried to push him away; Hector shoved him back against the wall. Casper took a wild swing, which landed with a thud on Hector’s chin. Hector threw a fist into Casper’s stomach. Casper bent over, gasping for breath.

“I’ll ask you nicely one more time,” Hector said. “Why are your homies carrying around Nina’s picture?”

“You know why,” Casper said, straightening up. He hocked up a wad of phlegm and spit it in Hector’s face. They were on each other, brawling up a cloud of fists and elbows and curses. The soup flew out of Casper’s hands and hit the brick wall, spilling broth and noodles onto both men.

“Hey, hey!”

Someone was pulling him and the kid apart. Hector turned around in fury, pulling back his fist to hit whoever it was. A pretty young woman with a mass of curly black hair and a dark suit. A tall man in a dark suit and a neat haircut. The woman pulled back her suit jacket, revealing her badge and Glock.

“Samantha Randazzo, FBI. My partner, Steve Quisenberry.”

Hector nodded, trying to catch his breath as he wiped noodles from his face. Casper was crouched down, arms over his face, hair slick with soup. Hector asked, “You guys here to help me with my interrogation?”

“No, sir. Detective Hector Ramos, you’re under arrest for assaulting this young man. Put your hands where I can see them.”

Hector blinked in disbelief, then turned and put his hands against the brick wall. The male FBI agent frisked him. “Clean.”

The female agent helped Casper to his feet, then spun him around so that he was facing the wall. “You, too.” Casper put up his hands as the male agent frisked him.

“Sir,” the female agent said to Casper, “you’re not under arrest, but I need you to come in and make a statement.”

“I don’t know nothing,” Casper said. “I ain’t never seen this guy before. He didn’t touch me.”

The woman rolled her eyes and steered him by the elbow. “You can come as a witness, or I can arrest you for making a false statement to a law enforcement officer. Let’s go.”

• • •

An hour later, Anna stood in the FBI’s Washington Field Office, watching through the one-way mirror as Sam spoke to Hector. The detective looked like he’d lost twenty pounds since Anna last saw him, three weeks ago. His beard had grown in thick and luxuriant. He wore a flannel shirt and jeans. He looked like an anorexic lumberjack.

“I can’t believe you’re bringing me in for this bullshit,” Hector said.

“Why are you asking these guys about Nina Flores?”

“I’m investigating. Same as you.”

“You’re on administrative leave. You’re not even supposed to have a burger at the FOP.”

“I don’t want a burger. I want a beer.” His mouth formed something resembling a smile.

Sam ignored the joke. “All right, so tell me what you’re investigating. Seriously. This is my case, if you have information or some theory, I’d like to hear it.”

“I’m investigating who killed Nina.”

“Right. And what have you learned?”

“Nothing.”

“You were there when she was killed, right? You
saw
who killed her.”

“Right, but I couldn’t ID him.”

“It’s funny, because I’ve been talking to some other folks who were there. Folks who weren’t in your police reports. They also saw the shooter. Gave a description, lemme see.” Sam feigned looking down at her pad. “Late twenties, tall, Hispanic male, dark hair, goatee. Of course that was four years ago. He’d be in his mid-thirties now, and he might have grown that goatee into a full beard.”

His face grew pale. “What are you getting at?”

“Tell me what you saw the night Nina died.”

“You think I killed Nina Flores?”

“I’m just investigating. Tell me what you saw.”

“I’m taking five.”

On the other side of the glass, Anna nodded. She’d expected Hector to plead the Fifth and stop answering questions much earlier in the interrogation. Sam came out of the room looking frustrated. As Sam slammed the door behind her, Hector stood and paced the interrogation room. His eyes were wild with anger or fear, Anna wasn’t sure which.

“Don’t say it,” Sam said.

“I think you really made a connection there,” Anna said. “You have a way with people.”

“Shut up. Want to get lunch?”

Anna smiled and shook her head. “I’ll order a sandwich for you. You’re gonna be stuck in the basement of Super Court. Papering a misdemeanor assault.”

34

The house on Greenwood Street had been in foreclosure and abandoned for as long as anyone could remember. A scuffed
FOR SALE
sign was staked in the yard, sagging sideways. Gato had never seen anyone remotely interested in buying the place. It was a perfect flophouse for the Langley Park Salvatruchas.

The living room had stained yellow carpeting and brown curtains covering the windows. Although it was unfurnished, the house had an overstuffed feel due to the plump trash bags lining the walls. The plastic bags were full of the clothes and toiletries of homeboys staying here, and were kept packed so their owners could grab them and run at a moment’s notice. At night, the men would make pillows out of their clothes and sleep on the floor.

Homeboys were hanging around the first floor, waiting for the meeting to start. This was the last
misa
, the weekly meeting of their clique, to prepare for next week’s
generale
—a big meeting of all the cliques in the region.

Diablo and Gato stood in the small backyard. It was surrounded by a tall wood-plank privacy fence. In the darkness of night, Diablo’s face looked particularly monstrous. He’d come back to check on things, and was not happy with what he found.

Gato was slightly less scared of Diablo than the other homeboys were. Gato had been in the gang for eight years, since he was thirteen years old. He had known Diablo since Diablo was just another homey visiting from Los Angeles. Over time, he’d seen Diablo transform from a moderately ugly man with many tattoos to the very incarnation of the Devil himself. As Diablo’s face morphed, Gato wondered whether he really might have sold his soul to the Devil.

But what he
actually
knew about Diablo was more frightening than talk of demons. Diablo wanted, above all, to be feared. He enjoyed inflicting pain. And he was just as ruthless to homeboys as he was to
chavalas
, if the homeboys didn’t obey orders.

Diablo had his hands in his pockets; his weight was on one foot as the other tapped the ground, a dangerously casual stance. Gato couldn’t tell what Diablo was thinking, but he knew it wasn’t anything pleasant.

“You knew she was greenlighted,” Diablo said softly in Spanish.

“Yes,” Gato answered.

“In fact, you were the one who was supposed to put in the work.”

“I volunteered.”

“Exactly. You saw the woman.”

“Yes.”

“And you had a gun.”

“Right.”

“So the part I can’t understand is, how is it possible that you are here—and she is not dead?”

Gato looked down at his feet, shuffling around in the dirt. His failure to kill Anna Curtis was a barefaced breach of their code. Sometimes it took a while for a greenlight to happen—but Gato had no excuse. He’d been right there, with a weapon.

Diablo didn’t care whether the prosecutor was guarded by police, or whether killing her would have meant Gato being arrested or killed himself. Those risks came with the territory. As a younger man, Gato had thrilled at those risks.

And Diablo would laugh if Gato tried to explain about the
Santa Muerte
in the cupcake shop. Diablo had grown up during the Salvadoran Civil War. As a child, he’d seen bodies stacked ten high. He had been given a rifle and told to kill anyone who came onto the family farm—and he had done it. After seeing his own family killed, Diablo had survived by preying on others. How could you explain “You can choose to be a good man” to someone who wanted to be the Devil?