“We were really hoping to speak to him in person. A delicate matter he was helping us with,” Julio said.
Dinah looked confused.
“Delicate matter? Hmm, okay…you know, if you don’t mind, I’ll run upstairs and check on him. Now I’m a little worried. Maybe he slipped and hurt himself or something,” Dinah said, and made for the front door. Both men stepped aside, Julio making a courtly mini bow. They watched as she left the shop and made a right, going to the apartments.
“What’s with the Don Juan act?” Cruz chided.
“Are you kidding? She’s gorgeous. What, are you blind?”
“Her father is El Rey’s agent. We’re working. Does that ring any bells?” Cruz reminded.
“Party pooper. I didn’t get the hit man vibe from her. Did you? I don’t think she knows anything. That’s where my money’s at.” Julio winked.
“Maybe. But there’s no way to be sure-”
They were cut off by a scream of horror from the apartments.
Chapter 9
Cruz and Julio raced to the small apartment entrance’s foyer, to be greeted through the glass door by the sight of Dinah staggering down the stairs from the corridor above, obviously in shock, with blood on her hands and dress. The street door was locked, so they had to wait for her to reach them and open it, tears streaming down her pale face as she grabbed at the handle reflexively.
Once the door was open, Cruz grabbed her by the shoulders.
“What’s wrong, Dinah? What happened?” he asked, processing the blood on her and fearing the worst.
“It’s…my father…”
Julio looked up the stairway with trepidation, and then back at Cruz.
He nodded, and Julio mounted the stairs while Cruz hugged Dinah, who was sobbing against his chest and howling her agonized grief. He had done this hundreds of times in his career, but it never got any easier; each time took a little out of him. Her slender torso shuddered as she struggled to breath, fighting for air between strangled exclamations of pain. Any doubts he had about whether she was involved in her father’s business slipped away — this wasn’t a woman accustomed to the business of death.
Julio returned from the apartment looking wan. He was in the cesspool every day, dealing with the parasites of humanity, not in a combat squad, so he wasn’t used to seeing corpses on a weekly basis. He looked like he was going to be sick.
“It’s bad.”
“Call Briones, and have him get a full crime scene team here. Take care of Dinah. I want to go take a look at what we’ve got,” Cruz instructed, gently pushing Dinah into Julio’s arms.
At the top of the stairs, he was greeted by a short corridor with four entries, one of which was now ajar, and one of which squeaked on its hinges as he slowly walked to the open door. An old woman’s head poked out, scowling with disapproval.
“What’s all the yelling about?” she demanded loudly.
“There’s been an accident. Go back inside, and lock your door,” Cruz answered.
“What, are you fighting with a girlfriend? Did you hit her? Is that the story?” the woman stormed, sure that Cruz was up to no good.
“Senora, please. This is now a crime scene, so go inside, bolt your door, and an inspector will be by later to take a statement.”
She spat an expletive under her breath, and then the door slammed shut, the sound of multiple deadbolts engaging filtering into the hall. The other occupants were probably all at work, so for a while there would be some peace in which to process the scene. That was the only good news so far.
He pushed the door open cautiously with his toe, avoiding touching the knob even though he knew Dinah had already done so. It creaked open. Cruz entered the tiny living room, wishing he had his gun with him, and stopped when he saw the body lying on the floor in a puddle of blood. He’d seen hundreds of corpses in his time, but nothing like this — the man was nearly bisected, from his shoulder to his hip. Cause of death wouldn’t be too tough on this one. What the hell could cause this kind of butchery? A splatter pattern at least six feet wide surrounded the body, evidencing that he’d been cut down where he lay.
He scanned the room and answered his own question. A plaque holding a short Japanese dagger in its scabbard was mounted to the wall, and the pegs above the dagger were empty, dust clearly indicating where a longer katana had resided. Cruz took several more steps into the room and saw the weapon lying on the floor, covered with blood, the scabbard discarded nearby. The blood was fresh, no more than an hour old, he knew from jaded experience. Soon the flies would come, but as of now, it was just the two of them.
Jaime Tortora, whatever his sins, had seen his last morning, and their hopes of closing in on El Rey had died with him. Unless they could find some clues in his shop or his homes, this was, as they said, a dead end. The timing couldn’t have been worse, forcing Cruz to confront the ugly thought that had been circling in his head; nobody but he, Briones and Julio had known about this meeting, so either they had a leak within their ranks, or El Rey had decided to egress from the business and close down his conduit.
Cruz would like to think it was the latter, because it confirmed what he already now believed; that the assassin was planning a hit on the G-20, and getting paid enough to exit the game for good. Perhaps Tortora had contacted him with news of the new potential client he was going to meet, and that had triggered the ugly murder. Maybe Felipe had bragged to the wrong person, and this had nothing to do with El Rey. Possibly, it was a burglary gone wrong, or retribution for something else. Or perhaps it was all coincidence.
But Cruz had long ago given up believing in coincidence.
No, either Briones or Julio had passed on information, or Felipe had talked to the wrong people, or the timing was just wildly unfortunate and it was unrelated, which Cruz didn’t believe for a second. He gingerly stepped towards the bathroom and saw a disposable raincoat, covered in bloody spray, discarded on the floor. So much for the burglary theory. Looking at that, he could do a quick equation in his head and piece together what had happened. Someone who knew the apartment, knew about the swords, had entered unbeknownst to Tortora and waited for him, perhaps hiding, suited up to prevent the spatter pattern that would be inevitable when using the sword.
Cruz slowly turned. There was a large armoire behind him that jutted two feet into the room, behind which was the window to the street, framed by long curtains. He closed his eyes and imagined the scene. That’s where the killer had stood, waiting. But how would he have known when Tortora would return to the apartment? Cruz thought for a few seconds.
Of course. Because he got a call after opening the shop, instructing him to come to the apartment. From someone whose orders he would follow to the letter.
The killer had waited, hidden in the corner by the curtains, shielded from view by the armoire, confidant that Tortora would enter shortly. Tortora had come in, and then walked to the small kitchen bar, and the killer had stepped from his hiding place, taken several long strides, and struck before his victim turned to register his presence.
So how had he gotten him to that location, where he could do the deed within seconds of moving into the room?
Cruz studied the splatter of blood and saw that there was a vaguely rectangular area that hadn’t been hit on the edge of the breakfast bar counter. Something had rested there, and was now gone. He peered over the body into the kitchen, but saw nothing amiss. Returning to the bathroom, he noted a bloody bath towel tossed into the small shower stall.
So the killer had wiped off whatever it was, and taken it with him. Cruz considered possibilities, then reached into his jacket and dialed Briones.
“You mentioned a vagrant you bumped into. Think carefully. Describe him to me,” Cruz instructed.