Lieutenant, Andre de Avilés is a hard-nosed lawman in charge of Detroit PD's Intel Squad. Born in Spain's Basque Country, the forty-something detective's style is a 'balls-to-the-wall" boldness for suppressing organized crimes. His tenacious methods entail a variety of innovative strategies and tactics that have resulted in a number of well-publicized cases. Nevertheless, for every successful operation he and the squad have pulled off, de Avilés generated new enemies. Mostly, whispered threats came from members of the criminal gangs he and the Intel Squad had dismantled. When a couple sophisticated OCD families tossed out a smattering of bold protests, de Avilés only chuckled, "Not to worry, it's all a part of the job" On the other hand, there were other dangers that were a little closer to home. These were his adversaries from inside his own department. A few were jealous of his honesty, integrity, and innate talent to lead dedicated detectives against the worst of the worst-and get the job done. Some resented the manner in which he recruited and treated squad members. All were handpicked and the cream of the crop. They drove the best UC vehicles and used state-of-the-art electronic gear . . . not from DPD . . . but borrowed from Feds who fought to work jointly. Not much went on in the Metro area that LT and the Intel detectives couldn't find in their files. Then there are his contemporaries in other squads-along with a few of their bosses-the brass-hats who prefer policing to run tacitly, inconspicuously . . . under the radar . . . and minus most publicity. Like those old coppers-loaded down with brass and guilt-who fought to hang on to their fiefdoms. Some say a contemporary definition of certain fiefs in Motown was, Grants of position, power, and perks given to one's appointees by heavyweight politicians in exchange for promises of loyalty and service. In DPD, a number of fiefs came with a full complement of
A Matter of Lex Talionis
Send in Lt. de AvilésBy B.H. La ForestAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2012 B.H. La Forest
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4772-6085-2 Chapter One
Lt. Andre de Avilés The Flash of Light
Lieutenant Andre de Avilés purposely stomped down on the clutch, expertly downshifted, then popped the clutch and jammed the accelerator. Wide rear tires gave a tortured yelp as the low-profile car shot forward in the direction of the new overpasses traversing I-75 and the Fisher Freeways. Eastbound traffic on Vernor Highway was extremely light, and DPD's Intel boss was bushed after his tedious surveillance.
Rapidly gaining speed, he was in the middle of the overpass when he caught sight of a flash in the sky somewhere behind him. In his rear-view and side mirrors, de Avilés glimpsed billowing smoke and dust climbing high into the darkness of the southwest sky. He felt the car shudder when the explosion's sound-wave passed by. "Holy shit!" he yelled.
De Avilés could have attempted a screaming U-turn except that westbound traffic was far more chaotic ... with tires screeching and vehicles slamming into people trying to look at what caused the flash and explosion a few blocks away. There was only one direction open, so the police lieutenant tramped down hard. The GTO gobbled up blacktop fast as it rocketed toward Sainte Anne Street. A quick right, press the pedal to the floor—and de Avilés would barely recall passing the magnificent 17th Century church. Where small houses once filled surrounding streets, empty fields now allowed de Avilés to touch a hundred miles an hour before skidding to a half-stop.
Jersey Barriers at Fort Street were broken and askew, all of them covered in graffiti. Maneuvering around what was left of the cement barricades, the GTO climbed quickly to ninety miles an hour. He held it there for several blocks before slowing. It wasn't quite enough, and de Avilés bounced off the grassy-center of West Grand Boulevard while making the right-hand turn. His GTO gobbled up the four blocks before another right-hand turn back onto Bagley Street.
People were streaming past the sleek black car and away from the carnage, a block and a half to the east. De Avilés grabbed the radio and called Schmitt. "Better call out the posse, Schmitt. Make sure someone contacts Brian Culbert at ATF. He's the new Agent in Charge of the Detroit Field Division ... and a former DPD guy."
"Really!" A few seconds later, de Avilés could hear police and Fire Department sirens responding from several directions. Then Schmitt called, "Andre?"
"Go ahead, Bill."
"Units are on the way. Dispatch has been deluged by callers at the scene and from residents in the area ... should see some units any minute."
"I see some of the trucks now, Bill. I'll call you back."
Pulling up to 24th Street, de Avilés turned south and stopped. It was better to park here, and walk the hundred or so yards to the scene. "Right you are, Bill! I can see the lights coming down Bagley, and south from Vernor on 24th Street. I'll be on my cell or the hand-held radio if you need me. By the way, tell me you've already contacted the Duty Commander?"
"Commander Bivens is on the way from the Eastside. He's leaving the scene of a triple homicide somewhere in old Number Five. I'll check on his location and get back to you, boss."
Andre de Avilés made his way through the debris, and finally arrived at the site of the blast. Flames shot high in the dark skies while thick black smoke was forced to the ground by the heavy humidity. To his left, stretched out on the sidewalk were nine or ten people who were badly burned. Near the four parked cars in front of the burning restaurant, the partial remains of victims lay scattered in the street. De Avilés rightly presumed that those luckless souls had been seated closest to the windows. The powerful blast-wave carried them along as it sought the fastest exit from La Deliciosa Comida de Sonora. Large plate-glass windows in front gave way to fast-moving debris soaring through both casements.
After a quick count of similar shoes, jeans, dresses, shorts, and other more nauseating details—de Avilés figured that at least eight or ten victims were blown clear of the building. He was about to go inside when the fire trucks began arriving. While firefighters jumped to the ground from their well-worn rigs, de Avilés chanced a peek into the smoldering restaurant's interior.
As he studied the interior, a young firefighter unwinding a heavy hose yelled. "Hey! Get the fuck outta' there." When de Avilés appeared to ignore the hose man, he hollered louder. "I said to move it ... before we call the cops."
Remaining at the broken window, de Avilés reached into his left-hand back pocket and pulled out his badge case. He flipped it open and reversed his hand so the firefighter could see the lieutenant's shield. Then he turned and smiled. "No trouble, I was just working in the area. I'll move out of your way."
The kid with the hose just stared until the truck boss asked in a loud voice, "Switzer! God damn it, leave the cops alone and get that fuckin' hose laid out ... and be quick about it, rookie!"
De Avilés watched for a few minutes while Engine 31 and Squad 4 went about their work. Those were the first apparatus to arrive from the nearby West Grand Boulevard Station. Before he finished the thought, his ears picked out the sound of more equipment screaming to the scene. He calculated that another Engine, two or three Medic Units and at least one ladder truck was being dispatched. Finishing the forethought, Engine 5, Ladder 26, Squad 2 and Medic 6, arrived from their downtown house on Alexandrine.
Lt. Andre de Avilés Before the Flash of Light
Twelve minutes before the flash of light preceded the blast at La Deliciosa Comida de Sonora, the dark-skinned boss of DPD's Intel Squad was parked seventy-five yards west on Bagley. July and August in the Motor City can easily mimic what Muscovites' experience in their Russian steam bath. A billboard pushing a popular Scotch Whiskey was flashing its digital thermometer in bright red. It proudly displayed ninety-seven degrees and ninety-one-percent humidity. The two readouts called for something much cooler than a shot of Scotch.
Keeping this area of Detroit jumping in the sultry summer heat, was the truly great food from south of the Border. Served with varieties of imported Mexican beers and iced margaritas, most drinks were chilled to whip the high temperatures. Lining both sides of Bagley Street—broken only by the occasional dusty parking lot, every restaurant at the western-edge of Mexicantown was jam-packed tonight. Families and their children shared warm tortilla chips and spicy salsa, while they waited for plates piled high with burritos, enchiladas, beans and Mexican rice.
Busy evening service required a tweak in the restaurant's open seating policy. The move made sure that the children were seated a few sections away from young and middle-aged couples. Men and women were with their dates, relaxing and tossing back house margaritas served by the pitcher. They were smiling, laughing and drinking—while each one's brain was feverishly multitasking. Instinctively, a majority were studiously calculating the odds—for and against—of landing in the sack later. Satisfied for now with the drinks and friendly atmosphere, they would hopefully dispense with these traditional preliminaries. Romance appeared...
