The Jetta was left in a vacant lot in a run-down area off Vine Street in central Hartford. It had the rusted color and the same blue and red marking on the trunk that Annie Fletcher had described.
Art Ewell had traced it to a street figure named Hector Morales. Morales had been living in this country for only two years, but his rap sheet already read like a lifetime offender’s. Assault. Possession of cocaine. Possession of a stolen weapon. Burglary. Attempted murder. Fleeing the scene of a crime. Resisting arrest.
Morales had come here from the Dominican Republic when he was nineteen. Since then, he’d been making his way in the world in the only way he knew how. He basically lived on the streets, cracking heads, shooting people, doing jobs for people. Tough jobs. Whatever needed to be done. In street terms Morales was known as a “recruit.” Someone from back home who came here and did things. Climbing the rungs of the one organization that understood his roots. Where he came from.
And he was gone.
The people where he lived said Morales had left a few days before. Paid the rent. Said he wouldn’t be back.
“We missed him, Artie.” Hauck had already looked through the guy’s file and recognized the carved jaw, the light complexion, the thin mustache, the same cold, dark eyes. Definitely the guy he had seen rolling down the window of the red pickup. “He’s gone. Maybe out of the country. Took his passport.”
The Bridgeport detective replied with an audible groan. “Probably back in the DR. We can try to track him. But you know as well as I do that’s a whole different ball game, Ty.”
A completely different game. Bringing in the Feds. Sculley, Taylor. Putting pressure on the Dominican government. Getting the local police involved. It also meant getting caught up in whatever issues happened to be going back and forth between the two countries. Not to mention trying to extradite the guy.
If they even located him.
Something started to pound in Hauck’s brain. “Why the hell would DR-17 do this, Artie? We’ve found nothing between them and Josephina Ruiz. No link to the girl’s brother either. The shooter yelled out her name. They left behind the truck, that newspaper article. They bring in this dude from back home to do the job and now he’s history. You think we’re being played?”
“Played?”
“This didn’t just happen, Artie. Someone authorized it. Someone gave the okay. Who’s running this show, Art? Who’s calling the shots?”
“DR-17? The guy’s name is Vega, Ty. Nelson Vega. His street name’s L’il Nell. I rounded him up once or twice. Nothing ever stuck. They wouldn’t be making a move like this without him pulling the strings.”
“So how do we get a face-to-face, Artie? I think it’s time we find out what the hell’s going on.”
“Your buddies at the FBI ought to be able to help you on that one.”
“Run that by me again?”
“Vega’s awaiting trial on drug trafficking and attempted murder charges,” Ewell said. “He’s a guest of the federal government these days. Stowed away at some facility in upstate New York. I think it’s called Otisville, Ty.”