Raylan Goes to Detroit Page 2

  Scar: Right Shoulder—Gunshot Wound

  Rindo, a known narcotics trafficker, was wanted in connection with three drug-related murders. They’d seen one the night before. Detroit Police Homicide had found the body of DeShonte Moore, a rival dealer. Dude’s street name was “Money,” also answered to “Boo Money.”

  The crime scene was behind an abandoned factory, yellow tape slung between two Detroit Police cruisers, marked units, lights flashing. Raylan smelled the body before he got out of the car, burned meat and sulfur, and now it was in his nostrils and on his clothes. He and Bobby approached the group standing there: uniformed cops, homicide detectives, and an evidence tech shooting photographs—different angles of the man, what was left of him, charred beyond recognition, a red gas can on its side a few yards from the body.

  Bobby Torres pointed at a shell casing in the dirt. “Looks like DeShonte was shot first. One in the head the brothers call the Fo’ sho.”

  Some distance away was a tricked-out Jag with a personalized plate: Money.

  “This is what happens,” Bobby said. “Someone doesn’t know what the fuck they’re doing, tries to set up shop in Mr. Rindo’s hood. Now you see why he’s top fifteen.”

  Bobby picked up the radio handset. “Paco on the eye. No sign of S-1. Grab a slab, let’s give it a few.”

  Raylan said, “How do you know he’s in there?”

  “One of his exes had Rindo’s kid, dude says it wasn’t his, dumped her, she’s pissed off, gonna show him. You can see it from the woman’s point of view, can’t you?”

  “I can see it from his, too.”

  “You don’t like women?”

  “Sure I do. Married the wrong one when I was young. Now, finally, I think I know what I’m doing. It only took twenty years.”

  “Here’s the best: Rindo’s seeing his ex’s BFF, girl named Heather Lopez. How you think that went over?”

  “I’ve gotta believe that’s why we’re here. The ex tell you who’s in the house with him?”

  “She didn’t know for sure, but Rindo has drugs and money, so there are always pegote, man, the crew hanging out.” Bobby paused. “I been meaning to ask: someone your age, what’re you doing in Detroit?”

  “Churning, but it’s a long story. I’ll tell you sometime. Anything else you want to know?”

  “Yeah, what’s with the hat?”

  Raylan shrugged.

  “Think you’re in the old west or something? Guys don’t wear hats like that in Detroit less they’re going to a rodeo or a costume party. Though I hear you’re a cowboy, like to pull your gun, uh?”

  “Isn’t that what they’re paying us to do?”

  Bobby picked up the binoculars but hesitated before bringing them to his eyes. “Man, I don’t know how you did things in Kentucky, but here you don’t want to call attention to yourself cause that also calls attention to me and the other members of the team. You understand?”

  Raylan took off the Stetson, reached behind him and placed it on the back seat next to Bobby Torres’s Remington 870, and combed his damp hair back with his fingers. Straight ahead past the house he could see an F-150 parked at the end of the street, James Thomas Proctor, a young hotshot from College Station, Texas, everyone called “Jim Tom,” behind the wheel.

  In the side mirror, Raylan could see Calvin Rice, known as “Street,” a low-key black dude in an old Pontiac Bonneville, and somewhere out of sight but close by was a girl deputy marshal, Jill Conlon, who looked about eighteen, and was called “Boom Boom” due to her proficiency with a tactical shotgun.

  “Okay,” Bobby said, “Ready?”

  Raylan nodded. It was 6:42 a.m, the clock on the dash was five minutes slow.

  “Want the shotgun?”

  Raylan shook his head. “I’ll stay with this.” He put his hand on the grip of the Glock holstered at his waist.

  “I seen you got three hundred on the test.”

  “I do okay.”

  “Okay? You know how many score that high?”

  Raylan shook his head. “I used to teach care and use of firearms at the academy.”

  “Why’d you get kicked out?”

  “My supervisor was an asshole.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “Made it difficult to do my job.”

  “So you took his weapon and cuffed him to the steering wheel of his G-ride?”

  “Disciplinary board said I have authority issues.”

  “I bet they did. Wasn’t the first time.”

  “Art, my old chief, went to bat for me. Board said, ‘Okay, we got an opening in Detroit.’ Not exactly where I wanted to end my career. That answer your earlier question?” Raylan reached in the back seat for the heavy vest.

  “How you like it so far?”

  “Reminds me of photos I’ve seen of Raqqa.”

  “Where’s that at?”

  “Syria. There’s a war going on in case you didn’t know. Parts of Detroit look like they’ve been bombed.”

  “It grows on you.” Bobby paused. “Listen, you have a problem with something, tell me about it, okay?”

  Raylan opened the door, stepped out of the car, slipped the UAV over his head, and adjusted the straps. When he got back in, Bobby had the AR-15 across his lap and the radio in his hand. “All right,” Bobby said, “let’s go get him up.”

  •••

  Jose Rindo heard something, opened his eyes, and saw the early morning light around the edges of the window where the blinds didn’t cover all the way. Heather was asleep next to him, her caramel shoulder sticking out of the covers. He picked the nine up off the table next to the bed, moved to the window, opened the slats, and saw armed police moving toward the house. Jesus.

  One thing Jose knew for sure, he wasn’t going back to prison. As he was dressing, Heather turned in the bed, saw the gun in his hand, and said, “What’s going on?”

  He looked out the side window and saw two police with shotguns moving along the side of the house—now thinking they probably had him surrounded. Heather was sitting on the bed naked, long black hair and little tits, rubbing her eyes.

  “Tell me what’s happening.”

  “Is the police. Stay here.”

  Jose moved along the hall to the second bedroom, opened the door. Albano, in bed but awake, was staring at the nine in his hand. Jose brought his finger to his mouth. “Police,” he whispered. “Get the alphabets, man.”

  In the third bedroom he woke Luis, whose face reminded him of a young Roberto Durán.

  And now they stood at the top of the stairs, Albano and Luis dressed and holding AK-47s, looking like Arab terrorists he had seen in the newspapers, the guns with their banana clips unmistakable. Rindo pointed down the stairs and in a quiet voice said, “Buscalos.”

  He went into the room. Heather still sitting on the side of the bed, said, “I am afraid.” Now she stood, moved to him and put her arms around him.

  Jose said, “There is no need to be. The police are here for me not you,” all the while thinking the shooting would begin anytime. On cue he heard a voice say, “US Marshals,” and then a loud burst of gunfire.

  •••

  Raylan watched them come down the stairs holding AK-47 assault rifles with their curved magazines. They were young and inexperienced, doing it all wrong, moving across the open floor. Neither appeared to be Jose Rindo.

  Raylan said, “Put your guns on the floor, you’ll live to tell about this.” Instead they aimed at him, and Raylan shot the tall one, who fell, finger on the trigger, firing a wild burst into the hardwood. The second man ran for the kitchen and Raylan shot him in the leg and he went down howling in pain. Raylan walked over, crouched, cuffed him, and picked up the assault rifles.

  •••

  Jose knew it wasn’t possible to shoot his way out of this, that he’d hav
e to think of something else. When the firing stopped he brought her down the stairs, saw Albano dead on the floor, and the two police. He was behind Heather, his arm around her neck, the barrel of the nine pressed against her temple. The dark-skinned police, who looked like one of them, said, “US Marshals, put your weapon on the deck and release the girl.”

  “Not the way is going to happen,” Rindo said. “Put yours down or I kill her.”

  “Please do what he says,” the girl said, “I don’t want to die.”

  It wasn’t the dark-skinned marshal that concerned him. It was the other one. A tense situation and the man was relaxed as though it did not matter what happened. Now the crazy marshal said, “Listen, you can go out of here on your feet or on your back, but you’re not taking the girl.” He raised his gun, pointing it at Jose. “I know what you’re thinking. Can you pull the trigger before I do?”

  “Take it easy,” the dark-skinned marshal said. “No one is gonna get shot. We’re gonna do this peacefully.”

  “That’s up to him,” the crazy one said.

  “Please,” Heather said, “I have nothing to do with this.” She was crying.

  “Then what’re you doing here?” the crazy one said. “How do we know you’re not involved, part of the gang?

  “I spend the night. I don’t do drugs, I don’t sell them.”

  Rindo pulled Heather closer to him backing across the room toward the kitchen. He could smell sweat from his body and perfume from hers. He could see Luis handcuffed on the floor.

  “One more step it’ll be your last,” the crazy one said, speaking hard words in his quiet tone.

  Jose believed him, knew it was over or his life would be. He dropped the nine on the wood floor, let go of Heather, and put his hands in the air. The crazy marshal came over and jerked his arms behind his back and cuffed him. Jose made eye contact with him. “I see you again, uh?”

  “I doubt it, less it’s in a courtroom.”

  “I think it will happen.

  “You better hope not. Next time you won’t be this lucky.”

  “No, I’m going to repay you. Count on it.”

  •••

  Albano Cruz was taken to the morgue, Luis Ramirez to the hospital, Jose Rindo to the Wayne County Jail, and Heather Lopez to the police station for questioning.

  Standing on the porch, Raylan said, “There you are, a three-for-one special.”

  Bobby Torres said, “Tell me you weren’t really going to shoot him.”

  “It was up to Rindo. I don’t draw my gun less I’m gonna use it.” Raylan fixed his attention on a group of neighbors, watching them across the street, young black dudes, shorts hanging low on their skinny hips—hamming and shuck-a-lucking—as a black Crown Vic pulled up in front of the house.

  A petite Latina and a big corn-fed linebacker got out and walked up the front steps. Raylan knew they were FBI before they identified themselves.

  Special Agent Nora Sanchez said, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You know how long we’ve had this fugitive under surveillance?”

  “How long?” Raylan said.

  Special Agent Sanchez said, “Deputy, do you think this is funny?”

  “You must’ve misread something in my expression. No, we take our work serious.”

  “Jose Rindo is wanted in connection with the murder of Special Agent Frank Tyner. We’ve been after this man for six months. Ever hear of Deconfliction, the Watch Center? Why didn’t you call it in?”

  She was a feisty little thing. Raylan was surprised the big guy didn’t say anything, letting her run the show.

  Nora Sanchez said, “Who’s the bonehead in charge?”

  “He is,” Raylan said, nodding at Bobby.

  “I’ll be talking to your chief about this.”

  Raylan said, “What’re you getting so worked up about? We’ve got Jose Rindo, a major drug trafficker with several murder warrants against him, in custody. When we’re done with him, he’s all yours.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens.”

  She took out a small spiral notebook and wrote something—probably his name.

  On his way back to the office, Raylan said, “That hot little FBI number wouldn’t be so bad you pulled the stick out of her ass. What do you think’s gonna happen?”

  •••

  It was hot in the cell Jose shared with Rocky Castro, a gangbanger trying to act tough—tats on his arm, the outline of a star with the number five in it and the letters LC that stood for Latin Counts. He’d been arrested for carrying a knife and a little weed but said he was bonding out in a couple days, and hearing that gave Rindo an idea. “Hey, look at me, man. Know who I am?”

  Dumb gangbanger, still playing, said, “No, who are you?”

  “The one’s going to make you rich. Money, cars, women, anything you want.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Give me your bracelet, we switch.”

  “You crazy? I be out in two days.” Rocky Castro glanced at the narrow window that had a view of Ford Field. “What they get you for?”

  “Being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Rindo cracked his knuckles. “A million dollars. Tell the guards you were afraid. I threatened you. They won’t do nothing to you, and you be rich.”

  “When do I get the money?”

  “When you get out.”

  “How do I know you do it?”

  “I’m telling you, giving my word as a man.”

  “Your word as a man. What else you gonna give it as, a bitch?”

  Jose wanted to fuck him up, kick his little squat ass, but he could see the dude was interested, just holding back cause his little brain couldn’t quite get around the idea. “I wire twenty-five thousand to your bank account, show you I’m serious.”

  “You think I have a fucking bank account?”

  “I have cash delivered to your mamacita, or your homie, man, whatever.”

  “How you know it will work?”

  “Don’t worry.”

  Rocky Castro grinned, probably picturing the money, a pile on a bed the way you see it in movies, covering himself and laughing. But then he saw something else and the grin faded. “Man, I don’t know. I got to think about it.”

  “Listen, you don’t want to do it, no problem. I find someone else. Is okay, I thought you had it going on. Dudes be standing in line for this.” It was a good move. Let the pendejo think he had the money, already spending it, and then take it away.

  Two days later, Rindo walked out of the Wayne County Jail wearing Rocky Castro’s bracelet and clothes: red warm-up, black cap. Caroline pulled up in the Benz, lowered her sunglasses, looked at him with big blue eyes, said, “Really?”

  Rindo got in the car.

  “I give up, who you supposed to be?”

  “Rocky Castro, gangbanger with the Latin Counts.”

  Caroline smiled now. “They could use some help with their outfits. That’s the worst use of three-color I’ve ever seen.” She rubbed his thigh. “What do you want to do? Although I have a pretty good idea.”

  “First, tell me what you know.”

  “Albano is dead. Luis, shot in the leg, is in the county lockup. The one who did it is Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens. Lives in an apartment building in Royal Oak. What you gonna do?”

  “What do you think?”

  Three

  Got a call from an extremely pissed off Special Agent Sanchez of the FBI,” Chief Wayne Broyles said. “I understand you’re acquainted with her.” He picked up the coffee mug from his desk and took a sip, put it down, glanced at Bobby and then Raylan. “She says they’ve been after this fugitive, Jose Rindo, for six months. Evidently murdered or hired a contractor to take out one of their agents. Now you want to tell me what the hell happened? Why did
n’t you call it in?”

  Raylan said, “It was spur of the moment, a chance to grab Rindo while he was sleeping, minimize the risks.”

  “You didn’t know the FBI was after him?” Chief Broyles said, directing the question at Bobby Torres.

  “We knew,” Bobby said, “but...”

  “You know how this goes. We don’t follow the rules, it ruffles feathers up the food chain,” Chief Broyles said. “They keep score, we all know that, but we’ve got to work with them, so let’s try to get along.” The chief grinned. “Who owns the house, the girl?”

  “Sonora Management,” Bobby said. “My guess, it’s Rindo’s.”

  •••

  Two days later, Bobby Torres said, “Jose Rindo walked out of county jail Thursday morning.”

  Raylan, at his desk in the bullpen, said, “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m serious, man.” Bobby told him about how Rindo and Rocky Castro, this dumbass gangbanger, switched bracelets. Rindo bonded out. “Did the same thing in Tucson, Arizona.”

  “You’re telling me the deputies at county knew this and let it happen again?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  “They don’t make sure they’ve got the right guy?” Raylan couldn’t believe it. “Well, you seem to know Rindo’s tendencies better than most, so where’d he go, where’s he at?”

  “How do I know? Dude’s mother lives in Mexicantown. According to tower records, she’s been talking to someone in Toledo. Why don’t we stop by, introduce ourselves?”

  Twenty minutes later, they were on Twenty-Fifth Street in an industrial area, Raylan staring at a corrugated fence covered in graffiti, Spanish words he didn’t know and symbols he’d never seen before.

  Bobby said, “It’s the gangs tagging and such, showing their colors. You see the outline of a star with the number five inside the shape, and a big LC? That’s the Latin Counts. See the thirteen? That’s the Sureños. The Counts and Sureños don’t get along.”

  Bobby drove like it was his first time behind the wheel, glancing at the laptop, going too fast, or too slow, passing inches from parked cars. His cell phone rang. He answered saying, “What you got?” listened, and said, “Uh-huh, okay,” and disconnected. “The mother just got another call from Toledo. That’s eight in the past couple days.”