The federal prison in Otisville, New York, was in the foothills of the Catskills, about ninety minutes from Greenwich. It housed mostly midlevel felons, drug dealers, and prisoners shuttling to trial in Manhattan. Not exactly Florence, Colorado, or Pelican Bay.
But someone had gone to a lot of trouble to keep Nelson Vega away from the old neighborhood.
Hauck and Munoz stowed their guns at the entrance in the administrative building, and the assistant warden, Rick Terwilliger, met them and took them through a network of checkpoints to the facility’s Secure Housing Units, SHUs, the maximum-security detention pod.
“Don’t let the street punk act fool you, Lieutenant. If you read Vega’s file, you already know he had a couple of years of college. A stint in the army. He tests high. He’s been very active in his own defense.”
Hauck asked, “What kind of contact is he allowed with the outside world?”
“He’s permitted unmonitored phone calls and outside visitors three times a week. Mr. Vega is merely in a holding status here. To this point he has not been convicted of any crime.”
Which, Hauck knew, didn’t mean Vega wouldn’t be the first crime figure who continued to run his day-to-day operation from jail.
“Nonetheless, we look at Vega as a very dangerous man. This is a person who had no qualms about trying to gun down a Connecticut state trooper in the process of committing a felony.”
They arrived at a secure, bolt-locked room with a tiny window on the door.
“You can record your conversation, if you like. But I ask you not to transfer anything to him physically or it will have to be confiscated.”
Hauck looked in. A guard with a Taser was positioned behind Vega.
“You’re about to meet ground zero of the human race, Lieutenant. Ready? I hope you didn’t eat before coming…”
The warden nodded to open the door.
Vega was in an orange jumpsuit, seated at a metal table. He had a smooth, chiseled face, tattoos on his neck, a shaved head, a scar that ran from under his nose to his upper lip.
A uniformed guard who looked like he could bench-press most of South America stood in the corner with a stun gun tucked in his belt.
Hauck took a seat in one of the chairs across from him. “I’m Lieutenant Hauck. This is Detective Munoz.”
Vega showed his wrists, making a show of the rattling of chains. “Sorry if I don’t shake hands.”
“I’m the head of detectives in the town of Greenwich, Connecticut, Mr. Vega. We’re here to talk with you about a drive-by shooting that took place there last Saturday morning, at an Exxon station in town. A bystander was killed, who turned out to be a prosecutor out of the U.S. Justice Department in Hartford. Are you familiar with this incident, Mr. Vega?”
“Jeez, I heard the price of gasoline is sky-high out there,” he said, shaking his head, “but that’s a bit crazy, no?”
“The shooter was Hispanic,” Hauck went on, ignoring the remark, “and wore a red bandana over his head. Are you getting where I’m coming from, Mr. Vega? As he drove away, he shouted the name of a local girl. Josephina Ruiz, who, it turns out, was a teenager from Bridgeport who was accidentally drowned last summer at a public pool. Is any of this starting to ring a bell?”
“Sorry to bring you all the way down here, Lieutenant.” Vega jangled his chains. “But in case you hadn’t noticed, my alibi’s pretty tight.”
“We know your alibi’s tight, Mr. Vega. Later on that evening, another Hispanic male, also in a red bandana, was observed tossing a package into a Dumpster in Stamford. Inside the bag was a Tec-9 automatic that turned out to be the murder weapon.”
“You making some kind of a fashion statement, Lieutenant, with all these bandanas? ’Cause if you are, I know I can fit you out in one just right.”
Vega blew a kiss at Munoz. “What about you, jefe?”
Hauck went on, placing a hand on Freddy’s forearm to hold him back. “The vehicle spotted at the Dumpster in Stamford was a tricked-out Jetta with a blue and red cross on the back. The car was traced to a Hector Morales in Hartford. Mr. Morales is from the same town in the Dominican Republic that you hail from, has a rap sheet that reads like a novel, and is a known member of the DR-17 gang.”
“You come here with some kind of question to ask me?” Vega rocked back. “’Cause I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but, you know, it’s like almost time for Ellen and I was hoping to get in a little dancing. Got it? Talking to the police, without a warrant, ain’t exactly a credo with me.”
“My question, Nelson”—Hauck leaned forward, trying to cut through the prisoner’s smirking glare—“is what connection was there between DR-17 and Josephina Ruiz? This thing won’t be going away, Mr. Vega. I can put together a case right now against Morales that ties you in as an accessory after the fact. If it turns out Morales was in contact with you while you were in here, maybe more. The FBI’s all over it. A federal prosecutor was gunned down, Mr. Vega. If he wasn’t the intended target, then you don’t need that kind of attention at all, do you? Not on top of all you’re facing here.”
“Lemme get this straight.” The gang leader bunched his lips and nodded. “You come all the way down here like Homeland Security and try to scare me with some kind of TV Law & Order rap. You must’ve brought something with you, bro.”
“Just some good sense, to get this off your back.”
“That’s all?”
Hauck shrugged. “How ’bout I toss in an Xbox 360? That do the trick?”
Vega’s eyes sparkled. “That and an Escalade STS, maybe—to take me home. Shit, what show have you been watching, man? You think I need juice from any of you? Mr. big shot Greenwich detective? You think I’m gonna roll on my man because you come down here with your little badge and tell me you’re gonna smooth out my way with the FBI?” Vega shifted around to the guard. “Hey, Leon, you better stun me now, bro, because I don’t think I can sit and listen to this no longer. You know you ought to be on Leno, Lieutenant, because you are a fucking riot!”
When he turned back, Vega’s laugh had quieted and his grin was gone. “Now you copy this, bro—I don’t need your fucking juice. I don’t need you to smooth anything out for me. You think you got it all sized up? Well, here’s my juice: When I’m outta here, when I’m back home and you’re still scratching your heads trying to put together two and two, you come to me and I’ll smooth it all out for you. You copying that, bro?”
He laughed again, glancing back at the expressionless guard. When he turned back, Hauck grabbed the gang leader by the wrist.
“I leave, and the next time I see you it won’t be Ellen that’s on your mind.”
“Oooh, you scare me, niño.” Vega grinned.
Hauck got up. Something wasn’t right here and he was starting to sense what it was. “One more thing. The woman at the restaurant. Who turned in the gun. Annie Fletcher.”
“Who?”
“She’s off-limits now. She’s out of it. For good. You understand, Vega?”
“Not sure I know exactly what you’re meaning.” Vega looked back at Hauck with a smile.
“This is what I’m meaning.” Hauck leaned forward and took the man’s wrist. “One of your boys ever threatens her again…Demonstrates a sudden urge to try the crab cakes or maybe check out where she lives…I don’t care if a goddamn water glass falls off the bar in the wrong way…I’ll tear your head off. You understand? I’ll rip your little network so wide open, the nickels and dimes will fall out on the floor. You hear what I’m telling you, Nelson? You copying that, bro?”
“Yeah.” The gang leader pulled his wrist out of Hauck’s grip. “I’m copying, Lieutenant. So let me get this straight…” He leaned in close and pretended to be interested in something. “This mean that Xbox is off the table?”
“You don’t get it, do you, Nelson?” Hauck went to the door. “I’m gonna find out why that prosecutor had to die. Sooner or later, I’ll be back on you for it. That’s my credo.”