King of Swords

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.

“Hmm, he was about your height, maybe a little taller, no beard or mustache, short hair cut like mine, medium brown skin. Wearing filthy brown slacks and navy blue pull-over sweater with holes in it. I don’t remember what kind of shoes, but I think they might have been boots.”

“Was he carrying anything?” Cruz asked in a quiet voice.

“You know…he was. It was a satchel, one of those old-fashioned types with two straps holding it closed. Dirty brown leather, or suede. You know what I’m talking about?” Briones asked.

“I know the kind.” Cruz cursed inwardly. “Lieutenant, do you think you could describe his features well enough for a sketch artist to do a rendition?” he asked.

“Sure. I think so. But why…?”

“I think it might be important. You may have just been one of the only living people to have ever seen El Rey.” Cruz sighed.

“You’re kidding me…you aren’t, are you? Shit — sorry, sir. Okay, I’ll try to remember everything I can, but the sooner the better. You know how details get lost the longer you wait and the more distractions that take place…”

“Call headquarters and get Arlen down here, and have her bring her pad. I want a face today,” Cruz ordered.

“Will do.”

Cruz hung up. He could envision the satchel in his mind’s eye. Sitting on the counter.

So a call comes in after Tortora has opened his little shop at nine a.m., telling him that a bag full of something important — money, maybe — had been left in the apartment for him to deal with, and to do so immediately. Tortora ducks out of the shop, knowing that there won’t be any customers at that time of day, and goes to his apartment. He doesn’t have to ask how the satchel got there. The killer is a man for whom locks present no problems, or who has a key. Doesn’t matter. Tortora opens the door, closing it behind him so he’s not disturbed. He sees the bag where he was told it would be, walks to inspect it, and before he knows what’s happened, is cut in two by the trusted caller, who he had no reason to suspect or fear. The killer grabs the satchel, goes to the bathroom to clean it off, wipes it down with one of the towels, then sheds the raincoat. Perhaps he also wiped off his face, which might have gotten some blood on it. Cruz made a mental note to warn the crime scene unit to check the towel and the curtain for hairs or other DNA trace materials. It was worth a shot.

So then what does the killer do?

Cruz swung around, considering. He probably does a cursory search, and then grabs the keys to toss the shop office as well. Presuming he was looking for something. If that was the case, it would explain why he was in the alley. He had just completed his search of the office and was leaving the scene of the crime.

The timing suggested that he knew Tortora had a meeting at ten. Again, could be coincidence, but he doubted it. The scenario that made the most sense was that Tortora had contacted the assassin to alert him that he had another gig available, and El Rey decided he wasn’t going to be needing Tortora or any more jobs, so elected to eliminate the only way to trace him. It all meshed together. Especially if he was going to take out a couple of presidents — he had to know that at that point it would just be a matter of time until someone rolled and they got to Tortora.

The puzzle pieces gelled and he saw the whole picture.

Only problem being that it wasn’t proof. It was circumstantial evidence that a skeptic could explain away a dozen different ways. So they were still screwed on securing anything they could use to sway the arrogant pricks at CISEN, much less the NSA.

Cruz had seen enough.

He returned to the foyer, drawn by the sound of Dinah crying, and decided it was time to show his cards.

“Dinah, I’m Federal Police. I came to have a discussion with your father about a matter I thought he could assist us with. I’ve ordered a forensics team, and they’re on their way to process the crime scene.” Cruz’s heart fluttered when she looked up at him, eyes huge and streaming tears, the minute amount of mascara she’d worn streaking her face. “I’m deeply sorry for your loss. Believe me that we will do everything possible to find your father’s murderer. But I need your help. Can you open the back of the shop for me so we can process that area as well? I didn’t see any keys upstairs, so it’s possible that the killer did this to gain access to his office,” Cruz said.

“Police?” Dinah was in shock, her skin now the color of alabaster. She wasn’t really with it, speaking as though from a great distance. “Yes. I’ll open it…” She grabbed at the door handle, nearly collapsing in the process. Julio attentively held her elbow, helping to steady her.

“Did your father have any enemies?” Cruz probed, as they proceeded to the shop next door. “Do you know anyone who might have a grudge or a reason to kill him?”

“Enemies? No…no, everyone got along with him,” she replied absently as she fumbled with her keys. Julio held the front door of the pawn shop open for them, and they eased through it. Dinah approached the back office door with the key held out, but couldn’t steady her hand sufficiently to insert it into the lock. She extended an arm and supported herself against the wall, holding the key ring out to Cruz, silently seeking his help.

He took the keys from Dinah and put his arm around her, opening the door with his other hand. She was