Black River

Contents

Epigraph

1     Like nearly everyone born in the tin shacks that line…

2     He could hear the blood. Above the rush of the…

3     Renee Rogers flicked her eyes toward the stairs just in…

4     Your Honor, I must again protest.

5     She pulled the olive from the red plastic sword, popped…

6     Half his index finger was missing. Water dripped from the…

7     Ramón Javier stepped forward, placed the silencer against the…

8     The rain fell in volleys, arching in from the south…

9     When Corso slipped through the door, there were three of…

10     Mikhail Ivanov stood in the doorway and watched the flesh…

11     Corso kicked a rolled newspaper aside, stepped over the threshold…

12     Things are a goddamn mess is what they are.

13     We have no vacancy, the guy said. "We have a…

14     Stop, Ramón said.

15     His name was Crispin, Edward J. Or at least that’s what…

16     How’d you find me anyway? Marie Hall demanded.

17     He ain’t got a clue, Gerardo said.

18     Corso leaned against the wall and watched as Robert Downs…

19     She’d become the body electric. A flesh-and-blood software application. An…

20     "I’ll tell you the same thing I told the cops.

21     Warren Klein paced back and forth in front of the…

22     She was right where he expected to find her. Leaning…

23     Gerardo knew the drill. He’d been watching all day. The…

24     Along the north shore of Lake Union, the derelict ferry…

25     The cornstalks stood dry and broken among the furrows, their…

26     Wasn’t till one of the uniforms came up with Rogers’s…

27     They cut a hole in her head. Not very big,…

28     Joe Bocco just happened to be Italian. When you’ve got…

29     His mother, his brothers, and his sister were inside with…

30     Corso held his breath as the straps began to tighten.

31     Joe Bocco leaned back against the wall. He had his…

32     Sam Rozan, chief earthquake engineer for the State of California,…

33     Would you tell us your name, please.

34     The air seemed to have been sucked from the room.

35     Try the county auditor, she suggested.

36     As the four men slipped the ropes through their gloved…

37     The desk clerk didn’t like what he saw, not a…

38     One blue eye. Three brass chains. It’s late, she whispered…

39     The pages fluttered slightly as the book arched across the…

40     Mikhail Ivanov recognized her from half a block away. She’d…

41     The driver pulled the van to a halt.

42     Judge Fulton Howell took his time getting situated behind the…

43     While hope springs eternal and charity begins at home, faith…

44     On the far side of the marsh, three white vans…

45     The Attorney General of the United States stood behind the…

About the Author

Praise

Leo Waterman Mysteries by G. M. Ford

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

Wednesday, July 26

5:23 a.m.

Like nearly everyone born in the tin shacks that line the banks of the Río Cauto, Gerardo Limón was short, dark, and bandy-legged. A textbook cholo, Limón was less than a generation removed from the jungle and thus denied even the pretense of having measurable quantities of European blood, a deprivation of the soul which, for all his adult life, had burned in his chest like a candle. That his partner, Ramón Javier, was tall, elegant, and obviously of Spanish descent merely added fuel to the flame.

Gerardo shouldered his way into the orange coveralls and then buckled the leather tool belt about his waist. A sticky valve in the truck’s engine ticked in the near darkness. Twenty yards away, Ramón spaced a trio of orange traffic cones across the mouth of the driveway leading to the back of the Briarwood Garden Apartments.

The kill zone was perfect. The driveway had two nearly blind turns. This end of the building had no windows. To the north, half a mile of marsh separated the apartments from the Speedy Auto Parts outlet up the road.

You wanna pitch or catch? Gerardo asked.

Who was up last? Ramón wanted to know.

We turned two, remember?

Last time out, they’d encountered an unexpected visitor and had to play an impromptu doubleheader. Ramón’s thin lips twisted into a smile as he recalled the last time they’d worn these uniforms. As he settled the tool belt on his hips, he wondered how many times they’d run their utility repairmen number. Certainly dozens. He’d lost count years ago.

Ramón Javier liked to think he might have become a doctor, or a jazz musician, or maybe even a baseball player if things had been different. If his family had made it to Miami the first time. If they hadn’t been dragged back to that stinking island and treated like pig shit for five years.

Ramón settled the yellow hard hat onto his head and checked the load in the .22 automatic, screwed the CAC22 suppressor carefully onto the barrel, and then slipped the weapon through the loop in the tool belt generally reserved for the hammer.

He checked his watch. Three minutes, he said. What will it be?

Whatever you want, Gerardo said. I don’t care.

Don’t forget, we got orders to lose the truck, Ramón said.

Gerardo shrugged. You pitch. I’ll catch.

Wednesday, July 26

5:24 a.m.

The kitchen floor squeaked as he made his way over to the refrigerator. He removed a brown paper sack, set it on the counter, and checked inside. Two sandwiches: olive loaf and American cheese on white. A little salt, a little pepper, and just a dab of Miracle Whip. Satisfied, he grabbed the plastic water bottle from the refrigerator, stuffed it into the pocket of his jacket, and headed for the door.

Overhead, the Milky Way was little more than a smear across the sky. Too many lights, too many people, too much smog for the stars. He used his key to open the truck door. The ’79 Toyota pickup, once bright yellow, had oxidized to a shade more reminiscent of uncleaned teeth.

The engine started at the first turn of the key. He smiled as he raced the motor and fiddled with the radio. The ON-OFF knob was going. You had to catch it just right, and even then, first time you hit a bump, it would switch itself off, and you had to start all over again.

He caught two bars of music. Chopin, he thought, when the light in the cab flickered. As he sat up, a movement caught his eye. He looked to his left, thinking it was that sorry ass troll who lived in the basement. Guy never slept. Never washed either.

Wasn’t him, though. No, it was old hangdog himself. Standing there with his hands clasped behind his back, staring in the truck window like he’s the messenger of doom or something.

He rolled down the window. You want something? he inquired.

How do you live with yourself? the guy asked. Have you no shame?

He raced the engine three times and then spoke. Don’t you ever give it up, man? It’s over. What can I say? Shit happens.

Given a second chance, the driver probably would have chosen his words more carefully. As last words go, shit happens left a great deal to be desired. Those three syllables were, however, the last mortal utterance to pass his lips, because, at that point, old hangdog pulled a gun out from behind his back and shot the driver four times in the face.

As he stood next to the truck, trying to absorb the gravity of his act, the truck radio suddenly began to play classical music, scattering his thoughts like leaves. He looked uncomprehendingly at the weapon in his hand; then he lobbed it through the window into the driver’s lap and slowly walked away.

Wednesday, July 26

5:26 a.m.

"What was that?" Ramón asked.

Shhh. Gerardo held a finger to his lips.

The pulsing yellow light circled them in the darkness.

Sounded like shots to me, Ramón whispered.

Gerardo slipped the gun from his tool belt and held it close along his right leg as he worked his way along the side of the building all the way to the back, where he could see out into the parking lot. He peered around the corner and then came running back.

He’s sitting there warming up the truck, just like always.

Musta been backfires, said Ramón, without believing it.

They’d been following him for a week. Memorizing his schedule. Getting to know his habits. Gerardo checked his watch. One minute, he whispered.

Whatever his other failings, and the quality of his life suggested they were many, their victim was always on time. Left his cruddy apartment just before five-thirty each morning. Warmed up his truck for three minutes and then left for work in time to arrive at five minutes to six. The only time he’d varied from his schedule was Friday night, when he’d stopped for gas and groceries on the way home.

Gerardo’s thick lips began to tremble as he stared at his watch and counted time. Thirty seconds, he whispered. Twenty-nine…

Wednesday, July 26

5:31 a.m.

He signed his confession, checked his watch, and then dialed nine-one-one. There has been a killing at the Briarwood Garden Apartments. Twenty-six-eleven Marginal Way South, he said. In the back parking lot. I’ll meet the officers there.

Let me have your—

He hung up on the dispatcher. Then he smoothed his confession out on the counter and read it over. It began: This morning, July 26, 2000, I killed a man who deserved to die. For this act I am prepared to suffer whatever consequences society sees fit to impose upon me. It was followed by his signature. He’d thought of explaining his crime but felt certain they wouldn’t understand. They knew so little of honor.

The more he looked at the word consequences, the more convinced he became it was spelled incorrectly. To be thought a killer was one thing; to be thought ignorant was another.

Wednesday, July 26

5:34 a.m.

"He’s late," Gerardo said.

This time it was Ramón who scurried up to the corner of the building and peeked around. In the ghostly overhead light, he could see the mark sitting behind the wheel, hear the sounds of music and the engine running. He wondered if perhaps the driver had fallen asleep at the wheel. Something about the situation didn’t feel right.

When he looked around, Gerardo had doused the emergency light and was throwing the traffic cones into the truck. He hurried along the side of the building.

He’s still sitting there, he whispered to Gerardo. Maybe we should wait a few more minutes.

Gerardo’s face was grim. Something’s wrong, he said. Get in.

Ramón hopped into the passenger side just as the truck sprung to life.

You play center, Gerardo said. I’ll play third.

They’d done it so many times before, nothing more needed to be said. Gerardo gunned the truck up the narrow drive, swung left around the parking lot, and slid to a stop with the bed of their pickup blocking the mark’s. Both men leaped from the truck and ran to their respective positions, Ramón out onto the grass in front of the truck, where he assumed the combat position, holding his silenced automatic in two hands, pointing directly at the dark windshield, Gerardo a half pace to the rear of the driver’s-side window, where by the mere extension of his arm he could place the end of the suppressor behind the victim’s ear.

What the fuck is this? Gerardo said.

When Gerardo returned his weapon to his belt and leaned down to peer in the window, Ramón hustled across the grass to his side. The mark sat open-mouthed. Four separate rivers of blood ran down over his face and disappeared into his collar. He’d been shot twice high on the forehead, once in the right eye and once again just to the left of the nose.

Somebody shot him, Gerardo offered, in that literal manner of his that drove Ramón crazy.

No shit, Ramón said. He pointed down at the .22 target pistol in the dead man’s lap. Shooter dropped the piece, he said.

"What the fuck are we gonna do? We was supposed to shoot the guy. What kinda fuck would do something like this?" Gerardo demanded.

Lemme think, will ya?

Ramón looked around the parking lot. Nothing. Apparently nobody had heard the noise. We gotta finish this thing, he said after a minute. Just like the plan.

But we didn’t pop him.

Don’t matter, Ramón said quickly. We still gotta finish. He checked the area again. Still nothing. We finish…just like it was us who offed him.

It ain’t right, Gerardo said. We was supposed to do it.

Ramón knew the muley look. He pointed the silenced automatic through the window and shot the lifeless corpse twice in the side. The body toppled over in the seat.

There…we shot him, he said. You feel better now?

Gerardo didn’t answer. Just stared sullenly off into space.

Go ahead, Ramón said. Give him a couple.

Gerardo shook his head. It’s not right, he said again.

Go on, Ramón coaxed.

Gerardo hesitated for a moment, gave a small shrug, leaned into the cab, and shot the body three times in rapid succession.

Ramón began to move. I’ll drive his truck. You follow behind. We do it just like we planned.

What if—

Ramón cut him off. You gonna go back and tell the man we struck out? he asked. You gonna tell him how we was sitting on our thumbs out front while somebody else was earning our money for us? They both knew the answer was no. In their present position, failure was not an option.

Ramón pulled open the driver’s door and used his foot to push the body down onto the passenger-side floorboards. Let’s go, he said. Nice and easy like always.

Gerardo hustled over to their truck and moved it forward, allowing his partner to back out into the lot. He began to sweat, as he followed the flickering taillights down the drive, around the corner, and into the street, where they drove north at forty miles an hour.

A mile down the road from the Briarwood Garden Apartments, flashing lights appeared in the distance, blue and white. Both men tensed at the wheel, watching the lights grow closer, until a pair of white police cruisers came roaring by in the opposite direction. Both men smiled with relief and watched their rearview mirrors as the lights disappeared into the darkness.

Wednesday, July 26

5:41 a.m.

The swirling light was captured in the iris of a single orange eye. Then, a moment later, the static crack of a radio scratched the air, and the heron began rushing forward through the water, curling its long neck for flight, beating indignant wings against the cold night air. He watched as the great bird forced itself upward into the black sky and then pulled his confession from his jacket pocket and read it once again. He stayed in the shadows as he made his way toward the pulsing blue-and-white lights ahead. At the final corner, he stopped. Everything was as he had imagined it would be—a pair of police cruisers sat in the middle of the lot, doors open, light banks blazing; four policemen stood in a knot in front of the cars, the harsh glare of their headlights turning their legs to gold—everything but the truck and the body.

The yellow truck was gone. He leaned back against the building to steady himself. Then he looked again. Still gone. He blinked his eyes in disbelief and then, afraid he might have fallen asleep, checked his watch. Five forty-two. Eleven minutes since he’d called nine-one-one. No way the pervert had lived and driven off. No way the cops had towed him off so quickly. His pulse throbbed in his temples and his knees were weak. He’d never been more confused in his life. Without willing it so, he began to move. As if in a trance, he pocketed his confession and hurried back the way he’d come.

2

Tuesday, October 17

9:43 a.m.

He could hear the blood. Above the rush of the traffic and the whisper of the breeze, the rhythm of a thousand hearts came to his ears with a sound not unlike the rush of wings. Between the towering buildings, he could see whitecaps rushing across Elliott Bay and the dark shores of Bainbridge Island floating in the distance, but of the impending crowd there was only the sound.

It wasn’t until he reached the corner of Seventh and Madison that the assembled multitude came into view. The entire block was surrounded by orange police barricades. Mounted officers cantered back and forth between the crowd and the federal courthouse. The helmeted blue line stood shoulder to shoulder, batons at the ready. A dozen satellite trucks squatted in the street, aiming their wide white eyes at the sky.

Corso stopped for a moment and looked up at the clouds, grateful for a break in the relentless rain. Overhead, a swirling sky held the promise of more, and the air was heavy with water. Fall had arrived as a silver river, slanting down from the sky, day after day, for weeks on end. Even a brief respite from the deluge lessened the gloom.

Taking a deep breath, Corso shuddered inside his overcoat, before crossing Seventh Avenue and starting over the freeway bridge. Ahead, the crowd rippled like a snake. He stopped on the corner. Shouted questions pulled his gaze to the left, where an ocean of photographers suddenly raised their cameras above their heads and began snapping away. Atop the satellite trucks, cameramen scrambled to their feet and began squinting through viewfinders.

Two men and a woman were striding south on Sixth Avenue: the federal prosecution team. Corso’s mind began to flip through the pages of their dossiers, as he watched them stroll up the street. The guy in the rumpled trench coat was Raymond Butler. He was the gofer, the research guy. An AGO lifer, Butler went all the way back to Balagula’s first trial in San Francisco, before they understood what kind of animal they were dealing with. They found out the hard way when their star witnesses, a pair of construction superintendents named Joshua Harmon and Brian Swanson, disappeared from a Vallejo motel and were subsequently found floating in San Pablo Bay, alongside the pair of Alameda County sheriff’s deputies who’d been assigned to guard them. This turn of events left the judge in the first trial no choice but to declare a mistrial. The public outcry for justice prompted the feds to seek a change of venue: north to Seattle where, they hoped, a second trial could be conducted beyond the reach of Balagula’s tentacles.

The guy without the overcoat was Warren Klein, current golden boy of the U.S. Attorney General’s Office. A real Horatio Alger story. A poor boy who graduated fourth in his class at Yale, deemed too rough around the edges for major law firms, he signed on with the AG’s office and hit it big when a string of successful organized crime prosecutions down in Miami propelled him from relative obscurity to the lead position in what figured to be the most public trial sinceO. J. Simpson. Off the record, his colleagues found him cold and conniving and, behind his back, whispered that his appointment as lead counsel had surely put him in over his head. Corso’s sources thought otherwise. Word on the street was that Klein had something up his sleeve. Rumor had it that he’d turned a witness, somebody who could tie Nicholas Balagula directly to the Fairmont Hospital collapse. If it was true, rough edges or not, Warren Klein was about to enjoy the lifestyle of the rich and famous.

On the inside, closest to the narrow boxwood hedge, was Renee Rogers, lead prosecutor in the last trial. Once the best and brightest, her star had dimmed considerably when, last year in Seattle, Balagula’s second trial had ended in a hung jury. That the trial had been held amid the tightest security in state history, and had also been among its most costly, had further fueled the fire of public outrage when an anonymous sequestered jury had failed to agree on what every legal pundit in the country had assumed to be an open-and-shut case. The likelihood of jury tampering and persistent whispers of a drinking problem had carried away any chance for Rogers’s further advancement with the AG’s office. This time around, she was in the second chair and rumored to be shopping the private sector.

Lost in thought, Corso watched the paparazzi move along the sidewalk like a meal going down a python. A sudden click of heels pulled his attention to his side. The name tag said Sunny Kerrigan. The logo on the camera and the hand-held microphone read KING 5 News. He’d seen her before. She was the second-banana weekend anchor.

Mr. Corso, she said, could we have a few minutes of your time? The cameraman took a step forward. She pushed the mike up at Corso’s face. He stepped around her and started across the street. She trotted along at his heels like a terrier.

Is it true, Mr. Corso, that you’re acting as a consultant to the prosecution, and this is why you’re the only spectator allowed in the courtroom?

Corso lengthened his stride and veered off to the left. He was halfway across the street when she hustled around him and tried to block his path. Could you tell us, Mr. Corso, whether or not—

He sidestepped her again, slapped the camera out of his face, and kept moving. Hey, the cameraman whined, as he fought to balance the camera on his shoulder. No need for that.

Mr. Corso… she began.

Whatever she had to say was drowned out by a roar from the crowd. At the south end of the block, the police lines parted, allowing a black Lincoln Town Car to roll along the face of the building. The air was suddenly filled with the click of lenses and the whir of automatic winders. The crowd surged along with the car, creeping down the block as the Lincoln moved slowly along. Kerrigan shot him a disgusted look before she and the cameraman hurried off and disappeared into the melee. Corso breathed a sigh of relief.

He picked up his pace, moving the opposite way, toward the area just deserted by the crowd. He walked along the helmeted line of cops until he spotted a sergeant standing behind a barrier. He held up the laminated ID card. The sergeant stepped up, reached between a pair of officers, and plucked the card from Corso’s fingers. He looked from Corso to the card and back. Okay, he said, after a moment.

The barrier was pulled aside and Corso stepped through.

Quite the spectacle, Corso offered.

It’s crap, the sergeant said. California ought to clean up its own mess instead of sending it up north to us.

He had a point. This had all started three years ago when, following a minor seismic tremor, the west wall of the newly completed Fairmont Hospital in Hayward, California, had collapsed, killing sixty-three people, forty-one of them children. Subsequent investigation revealed the structure had been built amid a web of extortion, falsified bids, and assorted frauds, including substandard concrete, nonexistent earthquake protection, and fabricated inspection records. They also found that all roads, however tenuous and well disguised, led to one Nicholas Balagula, a former Russian gangster who had, over the past decade, carved out a substantial U.S. criminal empire beneath the noses of the California authorities. As the bulk of the hospital’s financing was provided by a federal grant, the case was deemed to be within the federal jurisdiction and assigned to the federal prosecutor’s office.

"Oughta just take that Balagula guy out and shoot