Dead to Rights Page 2

  “How many men will be there?” one of the detectives asked.

  “The Tourneau brothers will be there, as will Wood and Krauss,” Brown said.

  The Tourneaus led the cartel with Wood, though Wood was believed to be the real man in charge, and Krauss was their go-to man for when they didn’t want to get their hands dirty.

  “With the heads there, we can expect anywhere between fifteen and twenty armed guards, so use extreme caution. We’re placing civvies on every road leading away from the building.” Civvies were plainclothes cops. Brown signaled to several red tacks in the map. “We’ll also have officers stationed on top of all the surrounding buildings. Spencer and Monroe, you’ll be leading a team through the front entrance; Grayson and Taylor, you’ll take your team through the door on the west side of the building; Jacobs and Norman, the service entrance at the back of the building; and Shea and Lee will take the escape landing on the east side of the building. Any questions?”

  No one spoke.

  Brown went on. “Assistant District Attorney Stephanie Striker plans on trying this case herself and wants these men…”

  Spencer leaned toward her and Lee. “Wait for it.”

  Brown cleared his throat. “Dead to rights.”

  Spencer pumped his fist at the term Striker always used, a legal term meaning just what it sounded like. A case with so much evidence, you’ll be dead to rights. Elizabeth and Lee grinned.

  “One-Strike Striker strikes again,” Detective Monroe said, and everyone groaned except Spencer, who gave him a high five.

  Being the only woman in the DA’s office, Striker had a reputation for being tough but fair, and for winning. She’d worked hard to earn her place, and Elizabeth understood that. It’d taken years and a lot of pushing for Elizabeth to achieve her calling.

  “Is our information from her C.I. or ours?” one of the detectives asked.

  “Ours,” Brown said.

  Elizabeth nodded. Too bad—Striker’s C.I. had a perfect record, but it’s not like the guy would have an in on every cartel out there. Besides, their C.I. had been reliable in the past.

  “All right, suit up.” Brown clapped his hands. “And everyone come back in one piece.”

  Elizabeth and Lee kept their footsteps light as they climbed the escape ladder to the second floor. It was moments like these, in over twenty pounds of Kevlar vest, that Elizabeth was glad she and Lee hit the weight room every morning. Being the binky squad meant the two of them always got the hard jobs. Not that they ever complained. Being in good shape made teasing their elders all the more fun.

  The other teams waited for the signal that they were in place, already stationed below. They reached the small landing on the second floor where the door stood and stopped. Yellow spray paint covered the brick wall and window, spelling out something in fancy letters she couldn’t make out. A big chunk of glass had been knocked out of the window they had to crawl through, leaving one jagged piece hanging dangerously from the top. This building appeared to be a popular spot for vandalism.

  Elizabeth signaled to the hole so Lee would know they couldn’t radio in.

  Lee nodded, took a few light steps to the first landing, and leaned out over the side. He gestured to the teams below and returned. Elizabeth, meanwhile, hunched down and eased past the window, then lifted it slowly. The shard left in the window wobbled precariously, and she tried to pull it out, but it was jammed tight.

  Lee stopped on the step below the landing. She signaled with two fingers for him to go right, and she’d go left. Lee ducked through first, and she held the broken piece just in case. He did a quick sweep left to right, then grabbed hold of the glass for her to slide through too. She moved in to the left, careful to drop quietly on the concrete floor.

  Loud, angry voices wafted around the dank and rusty hallway and into the rafters above. A light flickered on and off about halfway down, near a junction. Easing their way to the T-bend, they stopped and listened. The voices increased with proximity, but the sound echoed too much to tell which way they came from. Lee nodded toward the bend and headed in that direction. She continued straight.

  Why weren’t the other teams here yet? They should’ve been flooding the building by now.

  At the end of the hall, Elizabeth came to another hall and took it.

  “This is our business, not yours, and we’ll run it as we see fit.” A scratchy male voice reverberated from the room.

  Another person began to speak but too quietly to make out the words. The tone, unlike the other voice, shrilled around her.

  Elizabeth paused, wanting to use her radio to contact Lee or anyone, but the echoing was too loud, too much. She stopped at the door, her back to the wall to the right of the handle. Going in there alone was a bad idea. Too dangerous. There could be any number of people in there with any number of different kinds of weapons. She had to locate the rest of the team.

  Taking a deep breath, she stepped back as a loud pop blasted through the building. The echo of the gun’s report bounced around and forced Elizabeth to cover her ears. Not two seconds later, four more shots in rapid succession followed.

  Elizabeth gripped her gun and pulled the door open. The teams would be on their way now. She moved to the side and looked right and left. Hundreds of crates filled the room. At the back, a shadow crossed in front of several of the crates.

  Gun held aloft, she moved with ease through the containers and toward the back of the room, checking around her for people as she went. She squeezed between one of the crates and an I-beam, the rusted metal scratching over her sleeve. Then she saw it leaned against a crate across the room: a small colorful painting of a pond with lily pads and a bridge over it.

  She stepped out from her cover into the open space.

  A crate stood open, the contents laid out on a folding table. Semiautomatic and automatic weapons, a sniper rifle, and several grenades lay toward the end of the table close by where she stood. On the butt of one of the larger guns, the serial number had been scratched out. Around the table lay four bodies, each shot once in the chest, except one that had a shot to the body and one to the head. And one man was still alive.

  A hooded coat covered his frame as he hunched over a body, facing away from her.

  “Hands on your head,” Elizabeth ordered, “or I shoot to kill.”

  The man jerked up, as though surprised, and raised his hands.

  Elizabeth tapped her earpiece. “Upstairs, at the end of the hall. I have four dead and one in custody.” No one responded. She tried again, and the air crackled. “Do you read me?”

  The man spun around, gun in hand, and a blast of white orange light exploded from the barrel. A sharp pain burst at the base of her skull, and then a brilliant pale blue light engulfed her.

  Chapter Two

  The thundering applause from the stadium made the stage vibrate into Patrick Daley’s shoes. He wiggled his toes against the tickling sensation, smiled, and gave one more deep bow as the curtain dropped for the last time that night. He’d already done one encore with a quick reading, and after they closed the curtains that time, the crowd had started chanting his name until they’d opened them again for one last bow.

  The vibration settled somewhat, muffled by the folds of the thick, velvety fabric. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and stared at the curtain. He remembered the days when this kind of thing had excited him. Now he hated it. If it weren’t for that five-year contract he’d signed, he’d never consider it. He was over his days of conning people for money. And to prove it, he consulted with the FBI, and matched and donated his show earnings to nonprofit charities. It didn’t ease the guilt. One more year on his contract and he was done.

  Patrick rubbed his chin, his fingers sliding over the smooth skin there. Once these events ended, he could stop shaving, too. These events and shaving were too exhausting.

  Reading people used to be fun. He’d loved it growing up in the circus, almost as much as he’d loved hypnotizing people. He
hardly did that anymore—hypnotize people; the Feds had a moral objection to him using it on suspects. He didn’t see why. A person could kill someone and lie about it, but he couldn’t use mental suggestion to get them to tell the truth? Where was the morality in that?

  “Mr. Daley.” A woman wearing a gray pantsuit, a headset, and carring a clipboard approached him. She’d introduced herself as Karen before he’d gone on stage. She extended her hand, which he took—though that was exhausting too. As was the fake smiling.

  He needed a nap.

  “That was wonderful,” Karen said. “You’re truly an inspiration.”

  Patrick placed his other hand atop hers and made eye contact. “And you’re too kind.” Tired or not, he was a showman—one of the greatest, if the vibrating stage was any indication—and he did have his reputation to uphold.

  She blushed. “We have your car waiting for you out back, as you requested. Is there anything else I can… do for you?” She batted her lashes.

  He held his smile but thought, Really? What happened to the thrill of the chase? Not that he was up for chasing anyone, but women these days didn’t care if he remembered their names. Boring.

  When he’d first met his wife, thirteen years ago, she’d set the bar higher than any other woman ever had hope of reaching. Her family joined his circus, and he’d immediately been drawn to her.

  They’d both been fifteen, and he’d been excited to have someone his age around. Even at such a young age, Katelyn had known how to play the game. For weeks, she’d refused to give him her name. He wondered if he would’ve ever learned it had her parents not slipped up and called out for her in front of him. Even then she’d found new ways to make him earn her.

  He’d started proposing at nineteen, she’d finally said yes at twenty-one, and at twenty-two, they married. It had never been boring. Not even in the end.

  Ten years he’d had with her. Ten short years. And then two and a half years of this. Sometimes, in his weaker moments, he wished he could forget her. He couldn’t deny it’d be easier.

  He patted Boring-Karen’s hand, which had turned suddenly cold and clammy. “Thank you. I’m good.”

  She walked him to the back door, where she gave him an awkward kiss on the cheek. “God bless you.”

  Right. He slouched out to his limo where his driver opened the door for him.

  “Good night, sir?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mark.” Patrick got in and ripped off his shiny silver tie. He loathed ties. Always had. Why it’d ever become fashionable to wear a noose, he’d never understand.

  Mark pulled out of the parking lot and called back through the center console, “You’re scheduled to meet with the Sacramento PD in forty-five minutes.”

  Patrick sank in his seat. Oh, that.

  He’d forgotten about that. He’d started consulting with the Feds at the behest of his mentor and friend, William Rafferty, last spring. For some reason, he’d been more up to it then, but now, he seemed to be reverting back to how he’d been the first two years after he’d lost Katelyn, starting to feel like he’d lost her all over again. He should have been concerned about why that’d hit him now, but being concerned took effort.

  Rafferty was concerned. Had asked if Patrick had been through any upheavals of late. Patrick couldn’t remember suffering any great tragedies, but come to think of it, the last year in reflection was a little foggy.

  Patrick had agreed to help Rafferty if only to get him off his back. But now, after the show, he didn’t have it in him to pretend. Sure, his skills were real enough, and he was an amazing detective—no hubris about it. But they all thought he was a psychic too. He was done playing psychic for the day.

  “Mark, take me to The Giant Head,” he said. The Giant Head was a bar known for its “giant” mugs of beer, bad puns, and illegal gambling, though the last was a well-known “secret.”

  Mark’s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror. It was too fast for Patrick to be sure, but the look Mark had given him had either been disappointment or possibly concern. “Yes, sir.”

  Patrick leaned over to a small minibar at the side of the limo and pulled out his vice of choice, a Bloody Mary. Air hissed out as he opened the can, red liquid splashing on the metallic lip as he did. He sucked it off and then took a swig. It was such a practical drink: tomato juice for days when he didn’t want to eat, and vodka to help him forget why he didn’t want to eat.

  Patrick twisted his gold wedding band around and closed his eyes. A little over a year ago, he’d managed to take the ring off. And he’d kept it off for a time. But a few months ago, he’d put it back on, mad at himself for ever having taken it off in the first place. Katelyn was the only woman for him. Which meant he had a lonely road ahead.

  Nine cans of Bloody Mary later, and fifteen thousand dollars down in the tiny, dark back room of The Giant Head, Patrick appraised his hand: a king of hearts, a queen of spades, a nine of diamonds, a five of diamonds, and a three of spades.

  How had this happened? It’d been a long time since he’d played so poorly.

  Smoke swirled about him and the four other men at the card table, dodging in and out of the swinging light that hung over the table—the only light in the room. His opponents stared at him with self-satisfied grins that seemed to throb bigger and smaller along with the bass coming from the club.

  One of the men, DeAngelo, leaned forward until the light shone on his silver hair and Tom-Selleck moustache. He pulled his cigar from his mouth and puffed a cloud of smoke into Patrick’s face.

  Patrick coughed and fanned the smoke away.

  Moustache tapped the ash off the end of his cigar into a crystal dish. His pile of red and black chips easily outdid everyone else’s, but the piles of the other three men were nothing to turn their noses up at. “So, what’s your move?”

  Patrick shuffled his five remaining chips around, each worth five hundred. Trying to bluff his way out of this loss would be stupid. He grabbed his chips and tossed them into the center of the table. The pot was close to forty thousand now, and stupid was a relative term. “I see your two thousand and call.”

  A tall skinny man across the table who’d been smoking a joint when Patrick first came in, claiming medicinal reasons, raised a finger at him and waggled it. “You’re short two thousand to match me.”

  Patrick leaned back, resting one arm on his leg. “I’m good for it.”

  “You know the rules.” A third man, short and stocky but no less intimidating, had his hands on the table. “Match or fold.”

  Patrick opened his wallet and pulled out four hundreds. “That’s all I have.”

  “Then you fold.” The fourth man, who had a big, zucchini-shaped nose, black hair, and blue eyes, reached for the chips Patrick had thrown in and started to push them and his bills back.

  Patrick placed a hand on Zucchini Nose’s hand. “Wait.” His gold wedding band glinted in the swaying light. He pulled his hand back and yanked the ring off, then tossed it in the center. “That’s worth two thousand, at least.”

  Mr. Moustache rolled his cigar around with his teeth. “Cocky. I like that.”

  “I don’t.” Zucchini Nose set his cards down. “I fold.”

  Patrick quirked a smile and tapped his cards on the table.

  “Your wedding ring?” Short and Stout dropped his cards. “I’m out.”

  “Me too.” Tall and Lanky tossed his cards too.

  Patrick watched Moustache, DeAngelo, his carefully guarded facial expressions, not just hidden under his facial hair, as he decided what to do. Straight-faced, Moustache glanced up and frowned. Patrick had no doubt the man was measuring Patrick’s recent failures with his previous winning streaks. This was the biggest pot they’d had in a while, and it would be wise to assume Patrick had been playing them until this moment—easing them into a sense of security.

  He was shrewd. Patrick held the man’s eye contact, keeping the smallest of grins on his face.

  Throwing his ring in, so thoughtlessl
y the way he had, had been smart. None of these men had ever seen him without it, and being the criminals and cons they were, they had checked up on him. They would know the significance of the ring. Would know he would never bet it recklessly.

  “What’s it going to be, DeAngelo?” Patrick asked.

  “You’re also an amazing bluffer who’s down fifteen grand.” Moustache leaned back in his chair. “It’s a tough call, Mr. Daley. I’ve never known you to be overtly impulsive.” He threw his cards down.

  Patrick’s smile widened, and he reached for the pot.

  Moustache slammed his hand down, and Patrick jumped. Moustache then turned his cards over one at a time, revealing three of a kind. A horrible hand. So bad that the other men at the table hissed and squirmed in their seats, but Moustache remained calm.

  Patrick’s smile dropped, his gaze whipping to the ring and back. He spoke in a soft timbre. “How did you know?”

  Leaning forward, Moustache grabbed Patrick’s ring and slid it on his right-hand ring finger. “You’re unhinged, my friend.” He glanced at the ring and then signaled to the other men at the table. “These fools may not have seen it, but I never miss unhinged.”

  The room warmed, suddenly stuffy, the air thick and difficult to breathe. Patrick jolted up, knocking his metal chair over behind him, and sending it skidding across the cement floor.

  DeAngelo spun the ring around his finger, and Patrick thought for sure the motion made the room spin as well. He rushed from the room, down the hall toward the club. The heat seemed to increase tenfold and throbbed along with the loud music ahead, pulsing up his throat.

  Behind him, DeAngelo yelled. “Don’t come back here unless you mean to play for real!”

  Patrick shoved through the throng of bodies writhing to raucous music, the door to the club so near. Reaching it, he hurtled past two women in miniskirts and tight shirts and into the cool night air. He barely crossed the small walking alley to the other side as a red liquid burned his throat and streamed out his mouth, leaving the acidic tang of tomatoes behind.