Cursing, he started up with the footwork again, and as he came to the walk-up’s door, he slipped a Rolaids into his mouth. Maybe if he could take some time off and eat better, he’d be able to quit the chalky savior stuff.
Although to be fair, he had sucked back a lot of leftovers at two a.m. last night because he’d had so much to think about. That undercover cop had still not shown up, checked in, or been found, alive or dead. But at least his buddy in CSI had done a great job at Officer Hernandez-Guerrero’s place and documented everything like it was a crime scene.
Because he knew in his gut it was one.
Nothing much to go on, yet. The bloodstains were likely the missing officer’s, and the fingerprints had been hers and hers alone. Although maybe something would turn up. All downtown patrols last night had been on the lookout. They still were. And they would be until they found . . . whatever they did.
With a yank, he pulled things open—
“What the fuck.”
As his eyes focused on the trail of blood down the stairs, his nose got filled with a crap ton of not-right. The smell was sickeningly sweet and totally overpowering, to the point where he recoiled.
Recovering fast—like he wasn’t used to bad stenches?—he took some booties out of the pocket of his sports coat and slipped them over his shoes. Then he snapped on two gloves. Stepping up to the blood, he looked down the hallway to the back entrance. He guessed whoever had been leaking badly had headed out that way—because why would you come to a place like this if you needed medical help?
José got his phone and put in a call to dispatch as he walked down the corridor, making sure he didn’t step in anything.
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.”