Shakedown

Chapter Thirty

“Grisnik,” Troy said, “this case falls under the FBI’s jurisdiction.”

“I don’t think so,” Grisnik said, taking the plastic bag from the tech. “I let you get away with that on the drug house murders. But Javy Ordonez was a suspect in the shooting of Tony Phillips. Phillips’s mother, Oleta, is missing. I’m handling both of those cases. The murder of Ordonez may be connected.”

“We had Ordonez under surveillance. One of our undercover people was on him. That makes it our case.”

“Your investigation, what was it for? Drugs?”

“Yeah, drugs. What’s your point?” Troy asked.

“Cause Javy’s drug-dealing days are done. He’s nothing but a corpse now. Can’t help you one damn bit with your case. It’s my job to catch his killer. I find out anything that you boys may want to know, I’ll be sure and tell you.”

More cars arrived. Doors opened and were slammed closed. Troy smiled and waited. Ammara Iverson came around the corner of the storage shed accompanied by Josh Ziegler, the U.S. Attorney, trailed by two of his junior lawyers.

Ziegler was born to the role, tall, with a square chin that matched his squared shoulders, dark blond hair, and ice blue eyes. He was appointed by the previous administration and was so good at his job that the current president kept him on even though they belonged to different political parties. Unlike a lot of U.S. Attorneys, he tried cases, leaving the job of managing the bureaucracy to his deputies. He guarded his turf like a Doberman in a junkyard.

“Troy,” he said, without acknowledging Grisnik, “what’s the story?”

“You’re familiar with our ongoing investigation into drug trafficking in the greater metropolitan area.”

“Of course I am. You’re keeping me busy trying cases.”

“Javy Ordonez was one of our prime targets. We’ve devoted considerable assets to making a case against him, including putting one of our undercover agents next to him. That’s his Escalade, where he was shot to death, and that’s the Dumpster where the killer dumped his body.”

“Who found the body?”

“Driver of that garbage truck,” Troy said, waving his hand at the truck, “when he unloaded the Dumpster.”

Ziegler listened with his hands on his hips, his eyes boring in on Troy as if he were the only person within a hundred miles, the two of them having a private chat.

“Who was first on the scene?” he asked.

I’d seen this dance routine many times. In fact, I’d choreographed a few of them myself with Troy as my understudy. Troy knew that Grisnik would fight to hold on to this case. He’d already briefed Ziegler and the two of them were preparing to shuf?e off to Buffalo with the case before Grisnik could gain any traction. Troy had been a good pupil. I should have been proud.

“KCKPD,” Troy said. “Did a good job like they always do. They’ve filled us in on the preliminaries. We’re ready to run with it. Detective Grisnik here runs Robbery and Homicide. I believe he has a question about jurisdiction.”

Ziegler turned his “ladies and gentlemen of the jury” smile on Grisnik and stuck his hand out. Grisnik hesitated but gave in, clasping hands for an instant before letting go.

“I don’t blame you for wanting the case, Detective. It’s why we get out of bed in the morning. Thanks for the good work your people did. We depend on them to get things under control in cases like this. It’s the kind of cooperation the director likes to hear about.”

“You be sure and tell him next time you see him,” Grisnik said. “But this is about murder, not drugs. Javy was a dealer, but he’s the victim, not the perp, and he’s not the one that’s going to be arrested and convicted. His killer is going to win that prize. No federal laws are in play. This is my case.”

I half expected Grisnik to also tell Ziegler it was his town and his people, but he left that out. They stood a foot apart, waiting for the other to blink. Grisnik held his ground, subtly tightening his grip on the plastic bag containing the gun.

“Detective,” Ziegler said, with the patience of a priest forgiving the wayward, “We know that Ordonez was engaged in interstate drug trafficking. Obviously, something went wrong in a deal or somebody got jealous or angry over territory or money. Whatever it was, there’s no doubt that this case is about drugs, drugs that crossed state lines, and that makes it a federal case. Murder isn’t the end of our case, it’s just the latest development in our ongoing investigation. I talked to your D.A. on my way over here. He agrees with me. You can give him a call if you like.”

Ziegler retrieved his cell phone from his jacket pocket, holding it in the palm of his outstretched hand. “Go ahead, Detective. It’s number five on my speed dial if you can’t remember the number.”

Grisnik’s eyes burned, his shoulders?aring back as he unconsciously stuck out his chest. I knew the pose. It was the re?ex when your own people slipped the knife between your shoulder blades. It’s hard to tell which is worse-the shock, the pain, or the humiliation. To his credit, Grisnik didn’t buckle, didn’t let his shoulders sag in surrender, or otherwise acknowledge the bitterness of defeat.

“You’ll want this,” he said to Ziegler, handing him the plastic bag. “I’ll have my people deliver a set of reports and all the forensics. You need anything else, give me a call.”

Grisnik looked at me, giving me a brother’s nod, telling me he’d just taken a walk in my shoes, then turned away and left. I didn’t blame him for not asking me if I wanted a ride.