“Any controlled substances anywhere in this scenario?”
“No, sir. Absolutely not. The warehouse was solely for a transportation company that my client wanted to start up in America.”
“Aside from this, any warrants on your client?”
“None.”
“Then why enter illegally?”
“The answer is that my client’s profession in Mexico is well known. It is suspected that he is responsible for the influx of large quantities of drugs into the U.S. He was concerned that he would be detained at Passport Control on technicalities. Perhaps imprisoned on trumped-up charges.”
“Go on.”
“At the warehouse my client met with the owner of the facility—”
“His name?”
“Christopher Cody. They discussed the terms of the deal and my client took a tour. Now, it happened that Cody was under investigation on some weapons charges. Completely independent of my client. El Halcón did not know this. A local police officer was conducting some surveillance. When my client and the bodyguard showed up he grew suspicious. He thought these might be arms dealers. He sent a picture of my client to his office, which alerted the FBI. They identified my client, checked with Border Protection and learned he had entered illegally. A team of FBI and some local police hurried to the warehouse. A gunfight ensued. Mr. Cody and his bodyguard were killed, and one FBI agent and the local officer who had taken the photos were badly injured.”
Facts Rhyme was aware of.
“The prosecution claimed what?”
A shrug. “What they always claim. That officers and agents approached, calling for surrender, and the men inside opened fire.”
“And your client’s story?”
“The officers fired first without identifying themselves and the men in the warehouse returned fire. They believed it was a robbery or hijacking. In any event, my client did not participate. He was in the restroom at the time. On the floor, hiding, so he would not be hit by a stray bullet. And, quite frankly, terrified. There he stayed until the firing stopped. He came out, saw what had happened and was arrested.”
“Did the other men with him, inside, give any statements?”
“Mr. Cody was killed instantly, a shot in the head. The bodyguard survived for a day but never regained consciousness.”
“Tell me about the tainted evidence.”
“You see, when my client was being arrested he was placed facedown on the floor of the warehouse. At one point, an agent or officer — he couldn’t see who — came up to him and searched him. But then my client felt something pressed against his hands and clothing. It was cloth. He is sure the officer was transferring gunshot residue he’d lifted from Cody’s hands. When he asked what the man was doing, my client was told, ‘Shut the fuck up. Two of our guys’re shot to hell. You’re going away forever.’”
Rhyme said, “So the prosecution claims that after Cody was killed, your client picked up his gun and shot the officer?”
“That’s right.”
“Friction ridges — fingerprints — on the weapon?”
“Only Cody’s, not my client’s. There were no gloves or rags nearby he might’ve used to hold the gun but the prosecutor’s position is that he undid his shirt cuff button and held the pistol in the sleeve. That would explain the gunshot residue and the absence of fingerprints.”
“Clever theory. What are the exact charges?”
“The illegal entry into the U.S. — it’s called ‘entry at improper time or place’ under the statute. The charge carries a fine and imprisonment of up to six months. A federal misdemeanor. The other charges are what you’d expect: weapons, assault on a law enforcement officer, attempted murder of a law enforcement officer, Cody’s death — felony murder. We admit he was in the country illegally and he is willing to plead to that. So, now, that is our situation.” He eyed Rhyme closely. “You said you were busy. Working a big case.”
“I am, yes.”
“I am asking you is it possible to take some time and look at the evidence, see if you can find proof that the officers at the scene planted that residue?”
Rhyme’s head eased back. He gazed at the ceiling for a moment. Thoughts swirled.
Finally he said, “I’ll need all the forensic files. Yours and the prosecution’s.”
Carreras-López said, “I’ll have copies of the files sent over. A half hour. Gracias, sir. God bless you.” He pulled on his coat and left.
Rhyme placed a call to Ron Pulaski. He would have liked to pursue the El Halcón tainted-evidence matter on his own but that wasn’t possible. There’d be some fieldwork.
“Lincoln.”
“Need you to do something for me.”
“Sure. This about Forty-Seven?”
“No. A different case. There’ll be a box of files over here in a half hour. I’ll need you to collect it and take it home.”
“Home?” the officer asked. “As in home-home?”
“Exactly. I need a complete analysis of all the firearm, clothing, electrostatics and surface trace from the scene.”
“Sure, Lincoln.”
“Then I need you to do something else.”
“What’s that?”
“Keep quiet. Don’t say a word about this to any other living soul. You got that?”
Silence.
“You got that, Rookie?”
“Yes.” Pulaski was whispering, as if speaking any louder would itself be a breach of the rules.
Chapter 39
Another earthquake.”
Rhyme glanced toward Mel Cooper, who’d just delivered this news. The tech’s eyes were on the TV.
He followed the man’s gaze. On the screen, news cameras were filming an apartment in Brooklyn, engulfed in swirling flames and smoke. The cause was, as with the others, a gas line rupture, which had followed on the heels of the second quake.
Now the scene shifted to a press conference at City Hall. Rhyme read the closed-captioned account of the mayor’s words: In light of the second quake, the city had decided to reject Northeast Geo’s request to resume its geothermal drilling even on a limited basis. The talking heads appeared again: Ezekiel Shapiro — the bearded activist leader of the One Earth movement; Dwyer, head of Northeast Geo; and C. Hanson Collier, CEO of Algonquin Power.
As they spoke, the scene shifted to the blazing apartment building, surrounded by the clutter of fire trucks and emergency vehicles.
The text at the bottom reported three fatalities. The victims had been engulfed by flames.
The door buzzer sounded. Thom was out, at the store; Rhyme looked at the security camera screen. It was Lon Sellitto. Didn’t he have a goddamn key? After all these years? They should have one cut for him. Rhyme buzzed him in.
“Okay. Are you ready for this?”
Rhyme sighed and lifted an eyebrow.
Sellitto nodded at the screen, on which were stark images of brawny, spiraling flames, a black torrent of smoke.
The crawl at the bottom of the screen: Multiple fatalities.
The detective said, “Linc, that wasn’t from the quakes. All the fires were arson — just staged to make it look like the earthquakes caused ’em.”
“What?” Mel Cooper asked.
“That latest quake, the second one? Right after, this woman at home by Cadman Plaza — it’s near where the epicenter is — smells gas really strong. She thinks the quake broke the line and it’s gonna blow. She’s home with her kid, a baby. But the good news is she’s got a broken ankle. I mean, a totally fucked-up ankle. She falls and breaks it again and passes out.”