Old Wounds

CHAPTER 2 DRUGS AND LIES

CHAPTER 2

DRUGS AND LIESHouston, Texas

I wiped sweat from my brow and moved a cardboard box from the fake homeless shelter, leaving just enough room to see. I checked my gun—safety was off. I didn’t like killing people to start the day, but I would gladly make an exception for Rico.

Two years ago, I collared Rico on a routine drug bust but his high-priced lawyers got him off. Since then, he’d probably been responsible for the death of half a dozen kids.

Should have killed him when I had the chance.

A beige Mazda pulled into the parking lot and nestled beside a light pole. Dave, my partner, got out and walked around, lighting a smoke as he kicked at loose gravel with his brown Lucchese boots. He pretended to stare at the ground but his eyes shifted left and right. He was ready.

Four unmarked cars were positioned within a few hundred yards. I was stationed as close-in back-up, ready to go in at the first sign of trouble.

Halfway through Dave’s second smoke, the dealers pulled up in a black Lexus. Three guys got out. One of them checked Dave’s car, the other two kept their eyes on Dave. A fourth guy stayed in the driver’s seat. I squinted, trying to make them out. I expected Rico to be here, but it looked as if he wasn’t, and if he wasn’t here now, he wouldn’t show at all.

The no-show pissed me off, but busting these guys would hurt Rico, and that would be better than nothing.

I leaned forward so the wind didn’t make noise, and whispered into the mic. “Three outside, one in.”

“Got it,” came the reply.

Dave was talking to one of the dealers. The other two had their hands on guns. I prayed there’d be no trouble. If they started something, it would be tough to contain from here. A dealer frisked Dave, who then opened the trunk and handed a gym bag to him. I knew there was $130 grand in there, but this guy just looked inside then closed it up, didn’t even count it. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. I got on the horn.

“Something might be up,” I said. “The guy didn’t even count the money. Be ready.”

The lead dealer turned, or at least I presumed he was the honcho from the fine leather jacket and the shades he wore. He said something to one of his men—the one wearing a dark blue hoodie over a T-shirt—then headed toward the Lexus. The guy wearing the hoodie drew his gun and fired, one shot into Dave’s head.

“Officer down! Goddamnit, Dave’s down!”

I raced from my hiding place, gun in hand, dodging bullets. When I got close enough to matter, meaning fire a shot, I opened up, taking down the hoodie on the second shot. At least the prick that shot Dave got his. Another one fell after two or three more shots. The lead dealer and another one—I think the one who drove—were in the car taking off. I knelt, fired until I was empty.

Two of the backup vehicles cut them off, and a third one pulled next to their car. The backup team opened fire, taking out the driver with the first volley. The leader got out of the passenger side, firing. I ducked behind the Lexus, popped in another clip, then crouched and made my way to the driver’s side. I took a couple of deep breaths, and wondered for the first time in years if I should say a prayer; instead, I took two more breaths to calm my nerves, then peeked from behind the bumper. The leader had gotten out and was facing the back of the car. He fired once. I pulled the trigger twice, hitting him in the chest. When he fell, I emptied my gun.

I ran back to check Dave. Blood pooled on the asphalt parking lot under him, and there was a gaping hole under his left eye, where his left cheek used to be. The back side of his head was almost missing.

“Goddamn.” I kicked the car, then kicked it again. “Goddamnit.”

I knelt next to Dave, holding him. Inside I was crying but I managed to keep it there; I wasn’t much the crying type. The last time I cried in public was when my wife died.

“Anybody call a bus?” one of the other officers yelled.

“No need to rush,” I said.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up at Bobby Lynch, an old timer from the department.

“Gino, I’m sorry, man. I know what it’s like to lose a partner.”

“I can’t believe those fuckers killed him like that,” I said, but what I thought was—I should have been there for him. I was supposed to protect him.

Bobby helped me up and held onto me afterward. “It’s the drugs. They turn everybody into an animal.”

All I could do was nod. We waited around until they finished processing the scene, then Bobby said, “You got a ride?”

“I rode with Dave.”

He grabbed my arm and started toward his car. “C’mon, I’ll drive you back to the station.”

As I followed Bobby to his car, the smell of fajitas from a restaurant drifted across the parking lot. Dave loved fajitas. Wherever he went, I hoped they had an endless supply.

Bobby dropped me off at the door, and I went inside. Captain Gladys Cooper had left orders at the desk for me to see her as soon as I arrived. Why she hadn’t called me I’ll never know, but that was how Gladys worked.

She also hated it when I called her Gladys. Most of the guys called her Coop. She had taken a liking to that and wore it like a badge of honor, like she was really one of the guys. Rumor had it that she played for the other side as far as s****l preferences go. The fact that she arm-wrestled the guys and won about half her matches didn’t provide much of a defense—if she wanted it. Either way, it didn’t matter to me. I had a lot more to worry about than who my captain might be sharing her bed with.

Cindy met me in the hall with a cup of black coffee. “I heard about Dave. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

After an awkward moment of silence, Cindy walked toward Coop’s office. “She’s waiting for you.”

I went into the office wearing a frown, a little agitated that I had to be here. But things had to be done when an officer was shot, things had to be done, and preparing for the press was of paramount importance. “Hey, Gladys. Nasty stuff, huh?”

She got up from a reading chair and gave me a big hug. “More than nasty. It plain sucks. These drugs will kill us all if we don’t watch out.”

She offered me a seat and punched a button on the intercom. “Cindy, will you please get me more tea? And bring your recorder.”

I sat on the edge of my seat, feet planted on the floor. “I know we need to get a statement out, but let’s do it quick, I need to tell Mindy first, before she hears it on her own.”

“Mindy’s already being notified. And by the way, I don’t mind you not calling me captain, but I wish you’d stop with Gladys. I’ve always hated that name; besides, that’s what Cybil calls me.”

I nodded. Now I knew why she hated the name. Cybil was the mayor’s wife, and could be more than a b***h when she wanted. “What do you need?”

“Wait until Cindy gets here. She’s bringing a recorder. We need this to be official.”

Cindy arrived a moment later and sat next to me, but not before handing Coop her cup of tea.

“Whenever you’re ready, Gino,” Coop said.

Cindy turned the recorder to on.

I took a deep breath, cleared my head, and related the events leading up to Dave getting shot and the subsequent shootout.

“And we’re clean on this?” Gladys asked.

“We’re clean. There’s video to back it up.”

The captain shifted in her seat and gestured to Cindy. “Turn that damn thing off,” she said, then looked at me. When she had witnessed Cindy turn off the recorder, she said, “I’m not trying to rub salt in the wound, Gino, but how the hell did this go wrong?”

I shook my head. “Dave gave them the money. They didn’t even count it, just looked inside the bag then shot him. From my position nothing seemed out of order. I think the bastards just wanted the money.” Silence followed for a moment while I thought. “I should have been there with him. If there were two of us…”

“Then we’d have two dead cops.”

I heard what Coop said, and in some remote corner of my mind I agreed, but I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. After a brief moment, I stood. “If that’s all you’ve got…”

“Whoa, Cataldi. Not so fast.”

I turned to see Coop with her hand outstretched. “Sidearm, please.”

I handed her my gun. I didn’t like it, but I knew it was coming. It happened with any shooting. “I know, psych in the morning, right?”

“You know the drill,” she said as I headed out.

All the way home, images of the day haunted me—the dealer with the hoodie shooting Dave, his blood on the pavement, the chunk of his face missing…him lying there with blank eyes staring at the sky. I punched the steering wheel two or three times, cursing everyone I could think of, including God and all of his angels. Why the hell didn’t He take care of the good people? First my wife, Mary, and now Dave. As I drove, I thought of a few more people I wanted to curse, but most of all I cursed myself.

I should have been there with him.

It had turned dark on my way home. I flipped on the headlights as I exited the freeway toward my house, and soon found myself parked in the driveway next to my son’s car. I gathered my thoughts one more time, and then made a vow to get justice for Dave.

It’s time for Rico Moreno to die.