Speak of the Devil (12 page)

“A few men came by. The ones they called Gato and Psycho. They told me that if I didn’t start paying again, the Devil would punish me.”

“What did you understand that to mean?”

“I didn’t believe that crap. Just stories, a demon from hell, bringing pain and misery through the gang. There’d been many times I missed payments, and the gang did nothing. I thought they were full of shit. I told them to fuck off. ’Scuse my language.”

Ricardo only knew their nicknames. He didn’t know where they lived, whether they drove cars, or what their phone numbers were. He didn’t recognize the photo of Nina Flores. He wasn’t able to ID any of the gang members from photo books or help a sketch artist. He was cooperating, but doing as little as possible to earn his credit.

“Do you know Detective Hector Ramos?”

“Is he the one who came in that night, shot Bufón, arrested Psycho?”

“Had you ever met the detective before that night?”

“No.”

“Have you spoken to him since then? Or seen him around the neighborhood since the incident?”

“No.” Ricardo looked puzzled.

She moved on. “Please tell the jurors what happened in your brothel around eight
P.M.
on October sixth?”

“It was just about closing time. I was getting romantic with one of my girls.” He played with his wedding ring. “When they burst in, I tried to protect my girl. I fought them, and I am very strong. I could of beat them all, if they didn’t have machetes.”

Everyone was the hero of his own story. Anna saw a couple jurors rolling their eyes.

“Did you know these men?”

“I recognized Gato, Psycho, and Bufón. And they brought the devil-man. He’s real. He did the initials.”

Ricardo lifted his T-shirt, and pointed to a long diagonal scar, over which “MS-13” had been crudely carved into his flabby pecs. He was sewn up, but not bandaged, and the wounds were still red and puffy. A juror retched and hurried out of the room.

“Did the men say why they were doing this?”

“The devil-man said it was to punish me, make an example out of me for not paying the gang. For turning to others for protection. They hurt Tierra for the same reason, to send a message that I can’t protect my girls. Now girls won’t work for me!” He paused. “I mean, if I was still trying to run the business. Which I’m not. I’ve learned, uh, that it’s wrong.”

“Had MS-13 ever ‘punished’ you before this?”

“No. They caused trouble, but nothing like this. Not until that devil-man came.” Ricardo looked truly afraid.

Ricardo was a jerk—as much an exhibit as a witness—but along with Tierra, made a strong case. Rarely did Anna have a sexual assault with a testifying victim who was fully corroborated by an eyewitness. She’d tell his lawyer to get him a button-down shirt for trial.

• • •

When Anna got back to her office, she found a slim accordion file on her chair. It was labeled
IN RE: NINA FLORES.
She held it in her hands for a long moment. The office hummed around her, busy and active in the middle of the day. She considered closing her door, but that would make her feel like she was doing something wrong, when in fact she was just doing her job. She sat at her desk and opened the file.

A large envelope contained 8x10 color photos. They were taken at night, and had the shadowy quality of an urban scene lit by a camera flash. Nina Flores’s lifeless body lay in an alley. She sprawled on her stomach, arms akimbo, legs bent to one side. Nina’s long black hair spread out on the asphalt, her head turned into the sleek waves as if seeking comfort. A dark pool of blood surrounded her head.

Anna set the photos on her desk. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She’d seen plenty of postmortem photos, and was used to the gruesome pictures. But this was different. This was Jack’s wife, Olivia’s mother. It was the first time the corpse was someone she knew. Although Anna had never met the woman, Nina was present in Anna’s life every day. With shaky hands, she put the pictures back in the envelope.

She reached for the next item in the file when her cell phone rang. She jumped, held her hand to her heart, then chided herself:
Breathe.
She answered the phone—it was Jody.

“Hey, Annie! Thanks for
No More Frogs.
It’s hilarious.”

It took Anna a moment to shake off the case and remember the book she’d sent to her sister. “You’re welcome. Put it up on your cork-board, to remind you not to answer Brent’s booty calls. How are things going?”

“Okay. He hasn’t called, so I can’t take too much credit for not answering. But he posted some mobile uploads to Facebook, so I think he’s out of town.”

“Oh, Jody. You need Net Nanny to block you from surfing for him.”

“It doesn’t hurt just to look.”

“It does hurt, it keeps you thinking about him. Go look at the Brazilian elevator prank on YouTube or something. Or better yet, get out of the house, go ride your bike. Get some fresh air.”

“Thanks, Mom. How are
you
? You sound . . . tired.”

Anna took a deep breath. Then she told Jody about her case, and the file she was looking through. She described the photos of Nina’s body.

“Oh my God, Anna! And you’re telling
me
to look away. This is not healthy. Can’t you get someone else to do this?”

“I don’t want anyone else to do it. I want to find out what happened.”

“Touché.”

They hung up, neither one of them an inch further from her own obsession, but both knowing the other one cared—which went a long way.

The next item in the file was Nina’s death certificate and the Medical Examiner’s autopsy report. The cause of death was unambiguous. A single bullet had entered the back of Nina Flores’s skull, traveled through the left lobe of her brain, and exited through her maxilla, taking much of the left side of her jaw along with it. Attached to the autopsy report were photographs taken during the autopsy itself. Anna flipped through these quickly, not wanting to linger over images of Nina’s corpse stretched on the metal table, her ruined face, her torso split with a Y-shaped incision.

Under the autopsy report were police PD-252 forms, memorializing witness interviews. The police had canvassed the block and spoken to residents to see whether any of them had seen the shooter. Anna read each 252. Twenty-nine people had been interviewed. A few reported hearing the sound of a single gunshot. No one admitted to seeing the shooting. She felt a familiar frustration. No one wanted to be involved. She recalled one case where a man had been stabbed to death on the dance floor of a crowded nightclub as the crowd continued to dance around him. At least twenty people had been within inches of the victim, but not a single person admitted seeing the stabbing.

She flipped to the final document on the right side of the folder. It was a report made by an officer on the scene. Reading the narrative, Anna surmised that the officer had been the “Eyes” of the drug bust, the one whose job was to watch Nina as she did her undercover buy, both for her safety and later to testify about how the drug deal had gone down. The Eyes had been stationed in an abandoned row house, and had watched with binoculars from a window. He called Nina “the UC,” the common abbreviation for the undercover officer, and described each unknown person with the letter “S” for “subject.” The Eyes described what he’d seen:

At approximately 2230 hours, the UC approached S-1 and S-2, who were standing on the northeast corner of Benning and G Streets, SE. The UC held up two fingers, then gave $20 in pre-recorded funds to S-1. S-2 gave the UC two small plastic baggies in return. The UC turned away from S-1 and S-2 and walked through the alleyway on the west side of Benning Street. At that time, S-3 entered the alley. He approached the UC, and they appeared to have a short conversation. The UC turned to keep walking, and S-3 withdrew a small black firearm from the dip in his pants. He fired one shot at the back of the UC’s head. The UC fell to the ground. S-3, S-2, and S-1 all fled from the scene. The undersigned radioed this information to the arrest team, then ran down to the street and gave chase. None of the subjects were apprehended.

Police reports managed to reduce the most dramatic moments in life to mathematically dry prose that seemed more like an SAT logic question. But the ultimate message in this report was clear: Nina Flores was executed while on duty, but the police had been unable to find the man responsible. It was one of eighty-six homicides that had gone unsolved that year.

The fact that none of the subjects were caught, despite the arrest team stationed around the corner, was a serious failure. The “Eyes” was the only person to witness the shooting, and he had never been able to ID the shooter. His report described the subjects as men of medium height and medium build; S-1 and S-2, the drug dealers, were African-American, while S-3, the shooter, was Hispanic. A Hispanic man of medium height and medium build could be Psycho or Gato. Or any one of countless other men on the planet.

Anna looked at the signature block for who had been the “Eyes” that night. She did a double take. It was Hector Ramos.

• • •

She took the file to Carla’s office. The Sex Crimes chief was on the phone, but signaled for Anna to come in and sit. Carla’s office was one story above Jack’s and laid out exactly like his: a corner office overlooking the Building Museum. Unlike Jack, Carla had warmed up her office with decorations. A colorful quilt hung on one wall; watercolor paintings were displayed on another. Potpourri perfumed the office, and a bowl of candy sat on her desk. Anna ate a mini Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup while she waited for her boss.

Carla was in her mid-forties: beautiful, poised, and a consummate professional. She was the face of special-victims prosecutions for the city, a regular at community meetings. She was known for her compassion, expertise, and competence. But, as far as Anna could tell, Carla had no personal life. She didn’t have kids. She didn’t seem to have a significant other. Carla had a few peers in the office but most of her contemporaries had left, fleeing in the opposite directions of stay-at-home motherhood or high-paying jobs at law firms. Carla now held a position of prestige and visibility, but she ate lunch alone at her desk.

When Carla hung up, she turned to Anna with a smile. “Hello, Anna. What can I do for you?”

Anna told Carla what she’d learned today. “Something weird is going on with Hector,” Anna concluded. “Jack always said Nina died in a buy-bust—but Hector said MS-13 killed her, and told me to look into the cases she was working when she died. He’s going around talking to people, even though he’s supposed to be on leave. Now I learn Hector was the last person to see Nina alive.”

Carla wrinkled her brow. “It was principally his testimony that led them to conclude her death was part of a buy-bust gone wrong. Finding her picture in Psycho’s pocket, maybe Hector’s having some doubts.”

“Why would MS-13 have been behind her death?”

“Well, this wasn’t common knowledge, but I suppose I can tell you. Nina was taken off sex-offense duty after MS-13 greenlighted her. Jack and I were line prosecutors in Homicide back then, and we worked pretty closely.” Carla picked up a paper clip and started unraveling its coils. “When she was killed shortly afterward, he took it really hard. He was furious that they couldn’t catch the killer. It wasn’t long after that, Jack took over the Homicide unit and really shook it up.”

“Do you think MS-13 was responsible for Nina’s death?” Anna said.

“I don’t know,” Carla said. “But I do know Hector needs to stand down and let you do your investigation. I’ll talk to his sergeant.”

Anna thanked Carla and stood to leave. Carla tossed the mangled paper clip into the trash can.

18

Rooster sat on the curb in the parking lot of the ALDI supermarket, waiting for Buena to pick him up in her father’s car. The sky was getting dark, but the store’s fluorescent lights lit up the patch of sidewalk. Clusters of men and women socialized in pockets of the parking lot and near the bus stop on New Hampshire Avenue. Shoppers periodically came out of the store, carrying groceries and children to their cars. Rooster knew he was in the way, but he didn’t move. The shoppers all stepped around him—until a big man with a scraggly beard walked up and stopped directly behind his back.

“Rooster,” the man said.

Rooster turned around in surprised annoyance. Most people gave him a wide berth. But the man looked familiar.

“Hector?” Rooster stood to face him. “It’s been a long time, man. You look like shit.”

“A couple of your homies hit a brothel on Monroe the other night. You know anything about that?”

“I have the right to remain silent.” Rooster smirked.

“One of them had this picture in his pocket.” Hector held up a copy of Nina Flores’s photograph. “I want to know why.”

“Anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law. Right, Hector?”

“Fuck you, Rooster.
Dígame
.” Hector took a step closer to Rooster. He had dark bags under his eyes.

“I have the right to an attorney, bro. If I cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for me.”

“The woman is dead. Have some fucking respect and let her rest in peace. Tell your homies it’s over.”

“I heard you killed a homeboy at that brothel. If you want, I can tattoo you a little teardrop. What would your five-oh friends think about that?”

Hector’s fist cracked against Rooster’s mouth. Rooster staggered back, and warm salty liquid flooded his mouth. His tongue touched his upper lip and felt where it was split. The blood dripped down his chin.

“Goddammit, this is not a joke!” Hector grabbed Rooster’s shirt, spun him around, and thrust his chest against the brick wall. Rooster knew better than to resist. Hector frisked him, but Rooster had nothing.

Rooster looked back over his shoulder. “With all due respect, my friend, go back to D.C. I can’t guarantee your safety here in Langley Park.”

“Fuck you,” Hector said. But he looked toward the parking lot. A crowd had gathered around them.

“Police!” Hector shouted. “Move along.”