Speak of the Devil (2 page)

“I know I’ve made mistakes. And I’m sorry. I never saw how a good relationship works. But I promise I’ll do whatever I can to be a good partner to you, and a good mother to Olivia.”

She reached over, pulled the watch out of the box, and turned it around so he could read the inscription on the back:
I WANT TO SPEND ALL MY TIME WITH YOU.

“Will you marry me?” she asked.

A breeze ruffled the ivy on the wall next to him. The candle on their table danced, sending a shadow flickering over Jack’s face. He rocked back in his chair, opened his mouth, and closed it again. It was rare to see the formidable Homicide chief speechless. She became aware of the stares from the other people on the patio, as the silence stretched into an eternity of heart-pounding, stomach-clenching anticipation. Finally, Jack took the watch from her hands and slowly returned it to the box.

“Anna,” he said softly. “No.”

3

Tierra curled up on the mattress, trying to cover her naked body with trembling arms. She watched the man holding the machete to Ricardo’s throat. The brothel owner was skinny everywhere except his belly, which was so round and fat, it looked like he’d swallowed a basketball. He wore a white undershirt, black socks, and a purple condom, which shriveled and splatted to the floor.

“Gato, please,” Ricardo croaked. “Stop.”

“Oh, am I hurting you?” Gato replied in Spanish. “Pardon me.” He threw an elbow into Ricardo’s face. Ricardo’s nose crunched, bent, and spouted blood. The two men standing by the bed laughed.

“You think you’re hurt now,” said the one nearest Tierra. “We haven’t even gotten started.” This man wore a crazy grin, which widened as he looked down at her. He grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her across the mattress toward him. She yelped in pain.

“Where are the other girls?” Gato asked. He shifted the machete so the blade lay on Ricardo’s chest.

The brothel owner opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Gato sighed and put his weight into the steel; it sliced through Ricardo’s undershirt and drew a diagonal red line across his chest.

Ricardo shrieked, “Their car broke down on I-95! Please, stop!”

Gato eased up on the blade. “How unlucky. You believe him, Psycho?”

“It doesn’t matter. The unlucky one is this
puta
.”

The grinning man called Psycho tightened his grip on Tierra’s hair and ran the blade of his machete softly up her thigh. The room tilted and swayed; Tierra thought she might faint.

“Can I go first?” asked the third man. He appeared to be the youngest of the three. “I never get to go first.” Like the others, he spoke Spanish peppered with English. His eyes were glassy and unfocused.

“You’ll wait your turn, Bufón,” said Psycho. “Gato, you want the honors?”

Keeping the brothel owner pinned to the wall, Gato glanced over at Tierra. Instead of the cruelty she expected, she found sympathy in his face. Desperate hope flashed through her. This Gato might actually help her. She pleaded with her eyes. But Gato blinked and looked back at Psycho.

“No, man. I’m handling this
cabron
. You do it.”

“My pleasure.”

Psycho unbuttoned his pants, letting go of her hair as he fumbled with his zipper. Tierra forced herself not to run. She wouldn’t stand a chance if she fought or struggled. No, she’d do whatever these men told her, whatever it took to survive. She’d been screwing strange men all day. Three more wouldn’t kill her. She hoped. She looked down submissively, preparing herself for the worst. But she wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

A fourth intruder stepped silently through the bedroom door. In his right hand he carried a bloody machete. In his left, he held up the severed head of the
cuidador
, the doorman who was supposed to be guarding the brothel. The
cuidador
’s face was frozen mid-scream; his ragged neck dripped blood onto the floor.

Tierra shuddered at the head, but the beast who held it terrified her even more. He was dressed like the others, in a trench coat and jeans, but Tierra understood that he was not human. His skin was entirely covered with dark hieroglyphs. His nose was just two nostrils sunken into his face. He had long black hair—and two fleshy horns protruding from his forehead.

He was the Devil.

She was vaguely aware of the warm wetness spreading on the mattress, as she lost control of her bladder.

“
I
am first,” the Devil said.

He tossed the severed head across the room to Psycho, who caught it with a grunt and a grin. A line of scarlet droplets spattered the wall. The Devil rolled the machete in his hand and looked down at Tierra. He licked his lips and smiled, revealing a row of gleaming white teeth, each sharpened to a point.

She screamed and screamed, but no sound came out.

• • •

Hector Ramos walked down the quiet street of row houses. Although the sky was dark, the night was warm. It had been a hot day for early October, and heat still radiated from the pavement, releasing the scent of asphalt and motor grease. The usual urban activity buzzed from a distance: cars honking on Thirteenth Street, sirens pealing a few blocks over. A man in a suit hurried past, engrossed in something he was texting. This street was a few blocks from Tivoli Square, a historic complex whose renovation had recently caused a wave of gentrification. But many of the longtime Hispanic residents remained, and this was now a diverse and vibrant neighborhood.

It still had some blemishes, though. The brothel operating on Monroe Street was one of them. The redbrick row house looked like all the others on this street, although it hadn’t been fixed up like some of its neighbors. The shutters were peeling, the porch sagged, the windows were caked with filth. Weeds clumped in a mostly dirt yard.

The brothel was small but a nuisance on the block. The neighbors didn’t appreciate the stream of men going in and out in regular fifteen-minute intervals. Complaints had been made; a quick investigation launched; a confidential informant reported four girls working ten hours a day in the basement apartment. Last week, Hector had conducted an afternoon of surveillance. Based on the number of men he saw, each girl might be handling a hundred customers a week.

Hector could have brought his anticipatory search warrant to any sex-crimes prosecutor in the U.S. Attorney’s Office, but he preferred to knock on Anna’s door. Not just because she was pretty. Anna was kind and respectful, even when she was correcting some flaw in his warrant. If this bust went well, he’d have a chance to work with her more.

For now, he focused on the row house. There were two things he always worried about at this stage. First, had the informant lied to him, and was he about to raid some innocent family’s home? Second, would someone inside try to kill him?

The “Eyes” of the operation would watch with binoculars, and Ralph would listen through the transmitter tucked in Hector’s pocket. A fifth officer was waiting in the back alley, securing the rear door. But the arrest team was a block away, and they couldn’t see what went down in the brothel. Once Hector was inside, he was on his own.

He would be quick. Go in, hand thirty dollars to the doorman, establish that he would be getting sex in return for the money. Take his poker chip. A real john would give his chip to the next available girl, who would give him fifteen minutes in return. But Hector would “have to go to the bathroom” first. Then the team would raid the place, arrest everyone inside, and search the house for more evidence. It wasn’t easy work, but Hector and his team had the routine down. They did it several times a month.

Of course, another brothel would soon pop up a few blocks from here, part of the game of Whac-A-Mole the police played with pimps and prostitutes. But the good citizens of Monroe Street would be appeased. At least for a few months.

Hector trotted down the concrete steps to the front door of the basement apartment. A couple of dark-haired kids were putting up Halloween decorations on the stoop next door, talking in mixed English and Spanish. Hector made eye contact with a boy who was holding a little plastic skeleton on a string.

“Hola.”
Hector smiled at the boy as he knocked on the door.

“Shhh.” The boy brought a finger to his lips. “The Devil is inside.”

The hair on the back of Hector’s neck stood up.

4

A woman at the next table was looking at Anna with pity. That was not the reaction Anna had been hoping to elicit tonight. She felt the blood rushing to her cheeks, burning with the pain of rejection and the embarrassment of having it happen so publicly. The latter was her own fault, for popping the question in a crowded restaurant. She tucked the little red box back into her purse, as if hiding the watch could also hide the debacle of presenting it.

“Anna,” Jack said gently. “Wait.”

She didn’t want him to see the hurt on her face. She looked down at her purse, like she was trying to find something in there. Maybe her dignity.

“I understand,” she said.

“You
don’t
understand.” Jack’s voice was quiet but firm. “Look at me.”

She met his eyes. Despite everything, she still found them a warm and happy place to land.

“When a couple gets engaged,” he said, “they have to tell that story over and over again, for years.”

She tilted her head.

“I’m a traditional kind of guy. In our story . . .” Jack’s eyes were twinkling. “
I
want to be the one who does the asking.”

He pulled out his own little red box, stood up, and walked over to Anna’s chair. Then he knelt down on one knee. He opened up the box and turned it toward Anna. Nestled in the white silk was a sparkling diamond on a platinum band. She found it hard to take a breath.

She remembered this ring. It was the one Jack had pointed out when they were at the Tiny Jewel Box a month ago, following up on some evidence in a case involving an escort who was killed at the U.S. Capitol. When Anna realized he was checking out engagement rings for personal reasons, she’d freaked out. That had contributed to their breakup. Now she was overcome with happiness to see the ring again.

“Anna Curtis,” he said, grinning. “I think I know the answer to this question. But I’ll go ahead and ask. Will you marry me?”

Anna looked at the man kneeling in front of her. She wanted to take in every detail of this moment, knowing she would replay it for the rest of her life: Jack, holding the ring out like a glittering promise of their future, his green eyes glowing with happiness, his mouth curved into a broad white smile.

“Yes!” The word came out in a hiccup. She realized she was crying. Her hands were shaking, but he held the left one steady as he slipped the ring onto her finger.

They were both standing, arms around each other, her body pressed hard against his. She kissed him as tears streamed down her cheeks.

The sound of clapping brought her back to the present. They pulled apart and saw that the rest of the restaurant was cheering for them. Jack grinned at her. He looked young and radiant and ridiculously happy.

“We should’ve asked for a bulk discount at the Tiny Jewel Box,” he said.

She laughed through her tears, feeling giddy. “When did you buy the ring?”

“Before we even went there for the Capitol case.” He took a napkin from the table and dabbed her cheeks.

“And you’ve been carrying it around ever since?”

“I couldn’t bring myself to return it. It’s been sitting in my nightstand. That’s why I was late. Your friend Grace tipped me off. I ran home and got it.”

“Grace! I swore her to secrecy.”

“It was all in pursuit of a worthy cause.”

He twined his fingers with hers and held up her hand so they could look at the ring on her finger. It sparkled even in candlelight.

“How are we going to tell the office?” Anna asked. They’d kept their relationship a secret until now.

“Forget the office,” Jack laughed. “How are we going to tell Olivia?”

His sassy six-year-old daughter was either going to be Anna’s biggest fan or her severest critic. But Anna put aside her worries about office politics and family drama. She stepped back into Jack’s embrace. She just wanted to bask in the bliss of getting engaged to the man she loved. They’d figure out everything else tomorrow.

5

A moment after Hector knocked, a woman began yelling from inside the brothel.

“Ayúdeme! Ayúdeme!”

Her voice was muffled, but her words were unmistakable.

“A woman is calling for help inside.” Hector spoke loudly toward his pocket so the arrest team would hear him through the transmitter. “I need backup. I’m going in.”

Cursing under his breath, he pulled the Glock from the back of his jeans, braced himself, and kicked the door to the basement apartment. It buckled open. Hector swung into the brothel, gun first. So much for the plan. There would be no evidence collection, no orderly execution of a search warrant. Not when there was a woman screaming for help.

The dim hallway smelled of cigarettes, latex, and sex. Hector’s eyes skimmed the interior and landed on a hulking shape at the end of the hall. One man was crouched over another, rifling through his pockets. The crouching man sprang to his feet, holding a machete. He was young, with the glassy, unfocused eyes of the very high.

“Stop!” Hector yelled. “Police!”

The man raised his machete and charged at him, screaming obscenities in Spanish. Hector had years of training and experience; he’d practiced hundreds of drills—but a guy charging with a machete was still a heart-stopping moment.

Hector fired twice into the man’s center mass. The machete clattered to the floor. The guy dropped a couple of yards from Hector’s feet. Burned gunpowder overpowered the brothel’s other smells.

The sound of gunshots inside the apartment was stunning. Hector had been on the Metropolitan Police Department for ten years; he had fired his Glock countless times on the range and in MPD training. But he’d never shot a person. His ears rang from the noise; his heart pounded from the shock of what he’d just done.