Page 8 of Daybreak

“Yes, sir,” Whistler said and shut the door, then leaned against it.

Garza and Letourneau suddenly realized they were in trouble, but weren’t sure why.

Dixon took a deep breath and then unloaded. “What did I tell you to do last night?”

“Pick up a body and dump it,” Garza said.

“No. That’s not what I said. My instructions were specific. I said, pick up a body and bury it where it’ll never be found.”

Letourneau shifted nervously. “It was storming when you called. Raining like hell and lightning zapping all around us. The road to the gravel pit was underwater. We did a dump in an abandoned warehouse instead. Hell, by the time the body is found, decomp and rats will have obliterated it.”

Dixon crossed the room, stopping directly in front of them, and slapped Letourneau across the face so hard it knocked him off his feet.

Garza gasped and started whining. “We were high when you called, Boss. We weren’t cognizant enough to make good decisions. We’ll go back today, pick the body up, and do the job right. Give us a second chance.”

Dixon shook his head. “There are no second chances in this business. Someone saw you make the dump and called the police. The Feds already have the body, and it’s been identified. Your only saving grace is that it was too dark for the witness to identify anyone. Now, here’s what I need you to do. The witness was a homeless man who goes by the name Yankee Dan. He’s staying at a shelter run by a man named Wilson Trainer. Find Yankee Dan and make sure he becomes the victim of a hit and run. And then both of you head for the border, and don’t come back. If I see either of you again, I’ll kill you myself. Understood?”

“Yes, Boss. Understood,” Garza said and dragged Letourneau to his feet and out of the mansion as fast as they could move. He shoved his partner into their car and left rubber on the pavement behind them as they drove away, with Burgess Dixon watching their exit from the same library windows.

“What do you want me to do, Boss?” Whistler asked.

“The only reason they’re still breathing now is because I didn’t want their blood and brains on my floor. Make them disappear, and you do the witness. I don’t know what he looks like. Homeless people are victims of something every day. A hit and run won’t be looked at as an actual hit. And I’m going to have to think about that cop. I don’t need the Feds and the State Attorney General’s office on my heels. Heist a car to do the job. Make sure whatever you use is untraceable.”

Whistler nodded and walked out of the library, quietly closing the door behind him.

* * *

Cliff and Gunner arrived on the scene of their next call to see a man’s body hanging by his neck out of the fourth-floor window of an apartment building. The officers first on the scene had assumed it was a suicide until forensics showed up and found scratch marks in the paint on the windowsill, and the same paint beneath the victim’s fingernails.

It was obvious the young man had not committed suicide, but someone had wanted it to look that way, which is why Homicide caught the case. Within moments of their arrival, Gunner and Cliff began interviewing witnesses, and when other detectives arrived, they sent them door to door to interview residents in the apartment building and gather footage from security cameras in the surrounding area.

* * *

Across town, Whistler had followed Garza and Letourneau straight back to their apartment building, which showed him they weren’t in any big rush to carry out Dixon’s orders. He pulled around back and parked, gloved up, and pulled a burner gun out of a bag, attached a silencer to the weapon, and went inside. He already knew the place didn’t have security cameras, but he had a medical mask over his face anyway. Ever since that Covid outbreak a couple of years ago, it was no longer unusual to still see people walking around in public wearing masks, so no one was going to pay attention to him.

He went to Garza’s apartment first, saw a few drops of blood in front of the door, and guessed he’d taken his partner inside to clean him up before they went out looking for Yankee Dan. He had part of a plan, but it all depended upon how they reacted to his arrival as he knocked.

* * *

Letourneau was sitting on the sofa with an unopened bottle of cold beer in his hands, holding it onto the bruised side of his face when they heard the knock. “Are you expecting anyone?”

“I owe the landlord,” Garza said. He pulled a handful of hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and went to the door.

The moment the door swung open, Whistler kicked Garza in the balls. The money in his hand went everywhere as he fell backward, clutching his crotch in utter agony. Money was still floating down as the door swung shut.

Whistler was inside. Garza was doubled over, holding his balls with both hands, groaning and cursing, and Letourneau was on his feet and coming at Whistler with his fists doubled.

Whistler waited until Letourneau was only a few feet away and then shot him between the eyes. The sound was little more than a pop, and Garza was on his feet and coming at him from behind. Whistler pulled a knife and, as he spun, stabbed the knife into Garza’s throat.

Garza’s eyes widened in disbelief. The last thing he saw was Whistler’s eyes above the mask he was wearing, and then cognizance for Garza no longer existed. He fell forward on top of Letourneau. The deed was done; now to set the stage.

Whistler picked up Letourneau’s lifeless hand, cupped it around the knife hasp, and squeezed it to imprint DNA and fingerprints in the right position, making it appear as if he’d been the one to stab Garza in the neck.

Then he shoved the gun with the silencer into Garza’s left hand. A dying reflex was the squeeze he needed as he watched Garza’s fingers curl around the grip. At that point, Whistler added to the pressure and squeezed off one more shot that went into the sofa, making sure gunshot residue would be on Garza’s clothes and skin, and making sure his fingerprints and DNA were all over it, then stepped back, watching the blood beginning to pool beneath the bodies.

He glanced at his watch and grunted in satisfaction. Seventy seconds.

He was eyeing the scene as he backed toward the door—bodies entangled, the rent money scattered beneath and around them, the gun, the knife—knowing the cops would assume they’d had a fight over the money. As he was leaving, he picked up the car keys on the table by the door and left the door unlocked.