Dispatch answered as he opened the back door and leaned out. “This is de la Cruz.” He gave his badge number. “I need backup.”
Nothing unusual in the shallow parking lot other than a couch that had seen way better days, a broken TV, and some typical city litter. No body. No severely wounded person down on their face on the pavement.
As he gave the address, he walked out a little. The blood trail continued off to the left so he followed it to an abrupt end point off to the side of the alley. Like whoever had been leaking plasma had gotten into a car and driven away.
Ending the call with dispatch, he went back to the rear entry and retraced his path to the base of the stairs. Taking out his pocket light, he shined it on the steps and followed the trail up to the second floor. The third floor. When he came to the fourth—
Over to the left, the door that he’d knocked on the night before was open . . . and the blood went inside the apartment. Or came out of it, was more likely.
Palming up his service weapon, he closed in, and sure enough, his business card had fallen to the floor. Someone had stepped on it and left a partial bloody shoe print—
As the beam flashed inside, he saw the pool of blood immediately. It was off to one corner.
“Detective José de la Cruz, Caldwell Police.”
In his gut, he knew announcing his presence was a waste of time. And when there was no response, he swept his weapon around in a coordinated movement—which was when he saw the stakes that had been driven into the floorboards. There was nylon rope tangled around each, like someone had been tied to them, and there was a major disturbance in the dust.
Evidence of thrashing.
He thought of the missing officer.
“Jesus H. Christ,” he muttered.
Out to the back of the flat, he caught sight of a rotted kitchen. To the front, there were some rooms, at least one of which was a bedroom, going by the stained bare mattress on the floor.
Moving carefully and choosing his foot placement so he didn’t compromise the scene, he went past the bleed-out and peered into the other spaces. Blackout drapes covered the shitty windows, as they did throughout the place. Nothing was on the bed, on the floor . . . other than some errant trash that, like everything else, had a layer of dust on it.
José went back out to the main room, to the stakes. Lowering down onto his haunches, he inspected the frayed nylon around one of the wooden stabs.
It was bloody.
As his cell phone went off, he checked the screen and answered quick. “Treyvon, I was about to call you—”
The other detective cut him off. “They found undercover officer Leon Roberts in the river. ’Bout an hour ago.”
José frowned. “Leon?”
“Guess my source was wrong. It was a male officer missing.”
No, José thought. It meant there were two of them.
“I know Leon. He was a good kid.” Who was Trey’s age, actually. “I mean, young man. Man. He came up through third district patrol like I did. I met him a couple of times.”
“You remember everyone.” There was a sad note to Trey’s voice. “He was in my class at the academy. He was floating facedown . . . got caught in a residential dock. Owner called it in and the ID was made by one of the first responders who played against him in softball on Saturdays.”
Closing his eyes, José swept his face with his palm. “Dammit. How’d he die?”
“Gunshot to the back of his head. Very professional. Unlikely there’ll be water in his lungs.” There was a pause. “Look, he’s not married, but I know his parents are still alive. I was thinking maybe you as a senior representative of the department could—”
“Yup, I’m on it.” José glanced at the blood on the stake. “But I can’t leave my location until other officers get here.”
“Where are you?”
“It’s your day off.”
There was a rustling, as if the guy were pulling on clothes. “Address, please.”
Shaking his head, José looked to the ceiling. And then said with resignation, “Right where you left me last night, just one floor down. Watch the blood as you come up the stairs.”
Things on the other end of the connection got quiet. “There was no blood on the—”
“There is now. We have another scene. I just called it in—and I think you should stay home with your wife and kids, but you won’t. So do me a favor.”
“Anything.”
José took a deep breath—and rubbed his nose. The weird sweet smell was enough to make him rethink his pending request. But then his stomach growled anyway, a sign he was in the right profession, he supposed.