Return of the Spider, page 8
part #33 of Alex Cross Series
“What about Los Lobos?”
“I’ll give you everything I know,” she said.
Donovan told me that she believed the leader of the Red Wolves—behind the scenes, anyway—was Guillermo Costa, a forty-something ex-con who owned a body shop in Bowie, Maryland.
“Costa had trouble as a juvie, involvement in the precursor gang to Los Lobos, then he turned his life around for quite a while,” the undercover officer said. “Became a Marine. Made recon, then got court-martialed for stealing and selling weapons. Did four years in Leavenworth. Came out, joined Los Lobos, and got arrested for grand theft auto. Did another three years hard time but learned auto-body repair, a skill he used to start his business.
“Speaking of, it’s unclear where the money came from to buy the place,” she went on. “I’ll give you the address.”
I handed her my notepad. “How does it work? He comes into the city to run the gang?”
The officer shook her head as she wrote. “Costa never leaves Bowie, from what I understand. The Red Wolves go to him. They talk in secret and leave.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Prince studies him, has him watched. Word gets around.”
“In French?”
“Haitian Creole. My grandmother was from Haiti. She raised me bilingual.”
“You’re one surprise after another.”
She grinned and handed me back my notebook. “Thank you. Any help you need, you can page me at the number I wrote under Costa’s address. I’ll try to get back to you within the hour.”
Donovan got up and turned to leave. I called after her, “Officer?”
“Detective?” she said, looking back.
“Be careful out there.”
“I always watch my six.”
CHAPTER 24
THREE HOURS LATER, AFTER wrapping up the crime scene, Sampson and I decided to pay Guillermo Costa a visit at his auto-body shop in Bowie, Maryland, about nine miles from where Shay Mansion had been found.
Our thinking was we’d start with Costa and see if he could tell us anything about Mansion, Los Lobos Rojos, LMC 51, or Patrice Prince before we did the heavy deed of informing yet another parent that their son had died. First, however, Sampson found a pay phone and called the Woodson High office, trying to track down Shay Mansion’s parents.
I parked but kept the car running, waiting for him. I had WTOP, all-news AM radio, playing softly in the background, an old habit.
“Yes, I know Shay is no longer a student,” John said, then listened. “Expelled, right. But a last address for him would be very helpful.”
He looked at me in despair and then brightened. “Great. Okay.”
Sampson scribbled something, nodded. “You’ve been a great help.”
He hung up and slid into the car, and we headed out. “Rosalina Mansion. Shay’s mom. We’ve got an address and a home number, but the Woodson secretary says the mom’s a nurse’s aide. Husband died a few years back. She works crazy hours, two jobs, never home. Probably part of the reason the kid got involved with Lobos Rojos.”
On the radio, I heard: “Prince George’s County Sheriff’s investigators are said to be converging on a homicide scene in Beltsville this morning. WTOP’s Bill Johnson is there. Bill, what can you tell us?”
Before the reporter could reply, Dispatch called on our police radio, so I turned the broadcast off.
“Roger, Dispatch, this is Sampson.”
“Call Chief Pittman.”
“Roger that.” Sampson sighed, shrugged, and we found another pay phone and pulled over again. This time we both got out of the car and huddled over the pay phone’s receiver so we could talk to him together. Pittman answered on the second ring.
“I heard it’s damn gruesome, this kid in the park,” the chief said.
“It’s not pretty, sir,” said Sampson.
I said, “Downright brutal if you ask me, Chief.”
“Motive?”
Sampson said, “We’re thinking it might be gang-related. According to intel, Mansion was a recruit to Los Lobos Rojos, so this could be a statement killing by rival gang LMC Fifty-One and its leader, Patrice Prince.”
“I saw a report on Prince. Any link to the other kid, the one in the Potomac?”
“Tony Miller,” I said. “Possibly, but I haven’t looked into it yet.”
Sampson said, “Sorry, sir, but we haven’t had much time to devote to the Miller case because of our focus on—”
“Conrad Talbot,” Pittman said. “And that’s right where I wanted your attention and still do. That kid’s death is priority one. It takes precedence. Even over this case.”
“Because Talbot’s white, sir?” I couldn’t help asking.
“No, and don’t play the damn race card with me, Cross. Talbot gets attention because he was a first-team, all-state, Division One–bound athlete who was also smart enough to get into several Ivy League schools.”
“Exactly my—”
“Cross,” Pittman said, cutting me off, “you’re not letting me speak. I want to be clear, okay?”
Sampson slapped me on the upper arm.
“Okay, Chief.”
“Black, Latino, Asian, white, whatever—a kid with those credentials who was killed like that? I’m sorry, but we are giving his murder investigation priority over gangbanger kids who got caught up in a turf war. If that sticks in your craw, swallow hard, because my stand on that is not changing. Clear?”
“Clear, Chief,” Sampson said.
I said, “But also, one last thing, Chief—I don’t know much about Shay Mansion at this point, but I know Tony Miller was a hell of a student. My grandmother knew him and thought he was brilliant, capable of getting into a great school.”
There was a pause, after which Pittman said in a calmer tone, “I’m not telling you to ignore Miller’s death, Cross. Or this kid’s. I expect you to work them too. But you’ve got to learn that as a big-city homicide detective, you’ve got six to eight burners on your stove, and some cases are front burner and others are back burner.”
He hung up.
I said, “I hate when he does that.”
“I do too, especially after he’s said something that makes total sense.”
I frowned, and we got back in the car again. “About prioritizing the Talbot case?”
“About there being a lot of cases you’ve got to keep track of all at once. It takes time to learn how to do that and not lose momentum on any of them.”
“I can see that,” I said. “Still learning.”
“Always,” Sampson said.
CHAPTER 25
COSTA’S BONA FIDE AUTO-BODY and Engine Repair took up several lots and was spotlessly maintained, in contrast to a lot of similar places I’d been. No oil stains. No auto parts scattered about. The place was well cared for.
Indeed, when we pulled up, a ripped, heavily tatted, shaved-head dude in ironed black jeans, a black T-shirt, and polished black tactical boots was spraying down the sidewalk and pavement out front with a pressure hose. I recognized Costa from his booking photo. He turned off the spigot when we climbed out.
Sampson said, “Guillermo Costa?”
Costa took one look at us, smiled sourly, shook his head, and said in a thick accent, “I don’t know what you’re doing here, man, but Costa is clean. Costa’s whole life has been clean since he did his time.”
“Nice clean place,” I said agreeably, holding out my badge and ID. John did the same.
Costa was in his early forties and built like a welterweight. When he dropped the hose and came toward us, his movements were fluid and balanced, like a cat’s.
Sampson and I each had several inches and thirty pounds on him, but Costa was jacked, and his file said he had Special Forces training. Both of us were on high alert as he came closer. He stopped to peer at our credentials from three feet away.
“Metro Homicide,” he said, taking a step back, palms up. “Detectives Cross and Sampson. What’s this about?”
Sampson said, “The body of a sixteen-year-old male was found in a park not far from here. He’d been tied to a tree with wire and lashed. We have it on good authority that the kid was connected to Los Lobos Rojos.”
Costa went unreadable, shook his head, and took another step back. “Man, Costa told you, he is clean. Long time clean.” He waved his hand at the auto shop. “Do you think Costa would take any chance of losing this? After working so hard to build his business and get his life back? No, man, Guillermo the Marine and Guillermo the gangbanger, he left both behind the day he started his last stretch. When he got out, he was Costa, and the Red Wolves knew this new person wasn’t ever coming back to the street. Costa was a different person. He has no beef with them, and they have no beef with Costa.”
I said, “Quit talking about yourself in the third person. It’s really annoying.”
Costa looked like he wanted to deck me. “I am clean. We are talking three different people is all.”
Sampson said, “Right, and yet high-ranking members of the gang are known to frequent your business.”
“As customers, sure. We fix cars here. We are good at it. Some of those people know me from the old days, but we do not see each other as close friends anymore. They have to pay me for what I am skilled at. End of story.”
I said, “So you’ve never heard of Shay Mansion?”
Ripped welterweight or not, changed man or not, Costa looked like he’d gotten a solid punch to the solar plexus. His stony expression cracked, and he gazed at us in bewilderment.
“Shay?” he said softly.
Sampson said, “You knew him, Mr. Costa?”
“You’re sure it’s Shay Mansion?”
I said, “We have a preliminary ID. We’re leaving here to contact his mother.”
“Rosalina,” he said, and all his defensive bluster seeped away. “My cousin. Oh, Jesus. She don’t know?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“Jesus,” he said, wiping away tears with his forearm. “It’s gonna …”
“What?” Sampson said.
“Rip her up. She lost her husband back five years ago. Shay’s her only kid.”
“You two close?”
He shrugged. “Growing up, we were. Our mothers were sisters, and Rosalina and I are almost the same age. We still talk now and then. I help her when I can.”
I said, “She say anything about Shay joining Los Lobos?”
He tightened ever so slightly. “Nah, nah, that I would remember. But you know what? If he was Los Lobos, you don’t want to be talking to me or Rosalina. You want to be talking to that son of a bitch Patrice Prince.”
“From LMC Fifty-One.”
“Damn straight LMC Fifty-One. Bloodthirsty Haitian. Don’t give a damn about life.”
Sampson said, “Wait a second. I thought you said Costa’s not a part of a gang anymore.”
Costa looked like he wanted to punch John now, which would not be a good idea. Built like a brick wall, my friend and partner was six nine, weighed about two fifty, and was capable of sudden and devastating violence when required.
“I am not a part of gang life, but I have ears,” Costa replied evenly.
I said, “What have you heard?”
“You’ll let me go with you to tell my cousin her son is dead?”
I glanced at Sampson, who said, “It’s not a bad idea.”
“Okay,” I said. “What do you know about Patrice Prince?”
“A lot,” he said. “Come in my office and I’ll tell you.”
CHAPTER 26
I TRUDGED HOME THAT evening, feeling emotionally drained but happy that we’d made such strong progress in the fourteen hours since we’d caught the Shay Mansion homicide investigation.
Sampson and I were not entirely sure that Guillermo Costa was walking the straight and narrow. Still, I thought, the guy sure knows a lot about—
All thoughts of the ex-con, the murdered boy, and his shattered mother fled as I reached the front door and smelled a familiar aroma. Before going in, I closed my eyes to savor the glorious scents pouring out. As I opened the door, the river of smells became a wave and then a flood that carried me straight into the kitchen, where Maria was stirring a pot on the stove.
“Daddy!” Damon called from his high chair. His face held evidence of every item he’d eaten, from applesauce to ground meat to squash.
“Damon!” I cried. I managed to kiss him without getting the remnants of his meal on my chin and went over to Maria. I looked into the simmering pot, put my hand over my heart, and moaned. “Your mother’s secret spaghetti sauce. Welcome back, old friend. Welcome back.”
“Hey, what about me?” Maria said, feigning hurt.
“I am always about you.”
“Is that right?” She set down her spoon and embraced me, her belly bumping mine.
“Always,” I said. “I am here to protect my queen and give her what she needs.”
Maria squeezed me. “And I’m here for you in every way I can think of, Alex.”
“Mommy?” Damon said.
“Hold on, kiddo,” she said, peering up at me. “Long day for you?”
“Tough day,” I said.
“Tell me what you can while we eat.”
“Mommy? I finish!”
“Okay, baby. Peaches now,” she told Damon, breaking our embrace. In short order, Maria had diced peaches in Damon’s bowl, and our pasta was steaming on plates on the table. My boy loved peaches and wolfed them down, ignoring us.
I took a bite of the spaghetti with Maria’s mom’s incredible secret sauce and groaned with pleasure. “What is it? What is it that makes it so good?”
“Can’t tell you.”
“I’m your husband. Your soulmate. You won’t share the secret with me?”
Maria set down her fork and gazed at me with a dead-serious expression. “If I gave you the recipe, you could leave me.”
“What? I would never leave you.”
“But if you knew the secrets of the sauce, you could.”
“Are you telling me you think that’s all that’s keeping us together?”
“Not even close. The sauce is just part of the …”
“What?”
I could tell she was trying not to laugh, but then she did and flashed her eyes in that way that always melted me. “The sauce is part of the spell I weave over you.”
“You are mesmerizing,” I said. “And you do weave a spell over me.”
“Good,” she said. “So forget about how the sauce is made and how the spell is cast and just enjoy.”
CHAPTER 27
I LOVED EVERY BITE of that spaghetti and took several trips back to the stove for extra spoonfuls of the sauce while describing my day. I left out the goriest details of the Mansion crime scene but explained that we’d gotten deep insight into a Haitian gang from a guy who was rumored to be the leader of an opposing gang, although he claimed he wasn’t.
“LMC Fifty-One and Los Lobos Rojos?” Maria said. She lifted Damon out of his high chair and cleaned his face with a washcloth.
“You know them?”
“They get shot and stabbed a lot. End up in the ER and then the operating room. It’s my job to find them aftercare if they’re not heading to jail.”
“What do you know about Guillermo Costa?”
She shrugged and put down Damon; he giggled and ran over to his toys in the living room. “Honestly, I never heard of him. Why?”
“Long story,” I said. “What about Patrice Prince?”
Despite her small stature, my wife was rarely intimidated by anyone. I’d seen her walk up to dangerous men who outweighed her by a hundred pounds and quickly put them under her spell. But when I mentioned Prince’s name, Maria lost color and sat down in her chair. “That is one scary person, Alex.”
“You know him?”
A sour expression crossed her face. “I met Prince once. Last year.”
Maria said one of Prince’s young cousins was beaten and left for dead in an alley in Southeast. The gang leader had come to the hospital.
“He was very polished,” she said. “Nicely dressed. Expensive clothes, but not flashy. His English was very good. He was polite and soft-spoken, but …”
“What?”
She looked at me, the memory of a repellent experience etched on her face. “Alex, you know I’ve encountered more than my fair share of bad people at work.”
I nodded.
“Prince?” she continued with the barest of shivers. “He had the deadest eyes I have ever seen. No empathy. No compassion. No recognition. No soul. I mean, I felt like I was a few feet away from someone who wasn’t entirely human. He seemed reptilian to me, and I doubt he saw me as an equal.”
“He probably didn’t. Sounds like antisocial personality disorder.”
“I could see that,” Maria said, glancing over at Damon, who was playing with his blocks. “And now I don’t want to talk about that guy anymore other than to say I hope you find him doing something bad enough that you can put him in a cage for a long time.”
I got up to clear the plates. “If he’s behind the murder, that’s my plan.”
“Be very, very careful around him, Alex,” she said. “I’m telling you, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who radiated such a sense of threat.”
“I hear you loud and clear,” I said, and went to the sink with the plates.
On an impulse born of old habit, I reached over and turned on the little portable radio we had on the counter. WTOP all-news radio came on. The announcer finished the local forecast and began a recap of the day’s events.
“The Prince George’s County Sheriff investigators are still gathering evidence in the Beltsville double homicide of two young medical technicians. Twenty-three-year-old Selena DeMille and twenty-two-year-old Alice Ways were found this morning in Ms. DeMille’s vehicle.
“Sources say that the two women appeared to have been approached while they were parked on a secluded stretch of road and were shot multiple times at close range. Investigators concede they have very few leads and are asking the public to come forward with any information regarding the—”
