The corner coffee shop was on the northern side of the underpass to the East Boston Expressway. A one-story brick building with large windows and a simple sign, Coffee Shop, served as the location. The windows were blacked out.
Avery parked right near the door entrance and got out.
A darkening had come to the sky. Toward the southwest, she could see the sunset horizon of orange, red, and yellow. A grocery store was on the opposite corner. Residential homes filled the rest of the street. The area was quiet and unassuming.
"Let's do this," Ramirez said.
After a long day just following along and sitting in a meeting, Ramirez seemed pumped and ready for action. His eagerness worried Avery. Gangs don't like jumpy cops invading their hood, she thought. Especially ones with no warrant who are only there on hearsay.
"Easy," she said. "I'll ask the questions. No sudden moves. No attitude of any kind, OK? We're just here to ask questions and see if they can help."
"Sure." Ramirez frowned, and his body language said otherwise.
A jingle of a bell came as they entered the shop.
The tiny space held four cushioned red booths and a single counter where people could order coffee and other breakfast items throughout the day. There were barely fifteen items listed on the menu and few customers.
Two old, thin Latino men that might have been homeless drank coffee at one of the booths on the left. A younger gentleman wearing sunglasses and a black fedora was slouched in one of the booths and turned toward the door. He wore a black tank top. A gun was clearly holstered in a shoulder strap. Avery glanced at his shoes. Eight and a half, she thought. Nine, tops.
"Puta," he whispered at the sight of Avery.
The older men seemed oblivious.
No chef or takeout employee was visible behind the counter.
"Hi there." Avery waved. "We'd like to speak to Juan Desoto if he's around."
The young man laughed.
Quick words were spoken in Spanish.
"He says, 'fuck you, cop whore and your bitch boy,'" Ramirez translated.
"Lovely," Avery said. "Listen, we don't want any trouble," she added and held up both palms in submission. "We just want to ask Desoto a few questions about a bookstore on Sumner Street that he doesn't seem to like."
The man sat up and pointed at the door.
"Get the fuck out, cop!"
There were a lot of ways Avery could have handled the situation. The man was carrying a gun and she guessed it was loaded and had no license. He also seemed ready to engage despite the fact that nothing had actually occurred. That, combined with the empty counter, led her to believe that something might be going on in a back room. Drugs, she guessed, or they have some hapless store owner back there and are beating him to a pulp.
"All we want is a few minutes with Desoto," she said.
"Bitch!" the man snapped and stood and pulled his gun.
Ramirez instantly drew.
The two older men continued to drink their coffee and sit in silence.
Ramirez called out over the barrel of his gun.
"Avery?"
"Everybody calm down," Avery said.
A man appeared in a cooking window behind the main counter, a big man by the look of his neck and round cheeks. He seemed to be leaning into the window, which gave him a foreshortened height. His face was partially hidden in dim shadow; a bald, light-skinned Latino with a humorous glint in his eyes. A smile was on his lips. In his mouth was a grill that made all of his teeth look like sharp diamonds. No outward display of malice could be observed, but he was so cool and calm given the tense situation that it made Avery wonder why.
"Desoto," she said.
"No weapons, no weapons," Desoto mentioned from the square window. "Tito," he called, "put your gun on the table. Cops. Put your guns on the table. No weapons here."
"No way," Ramirez said and kept his gun pointed at the other man.
Avery could feel the short blade she kept attached to her ankle, just in case she ran into trouble. Also, everyone knew they were headed to Desoto's place. We'll be all right, she thought. I hope.
"Put it down," she said.
As a show of good faith, Avery gently pulled her Glock out with her fingertips and put it on the table between the two older men.
"Do it," she said to Ramirez. "Put it on the table."
"Shit," Ramirez whispered. "This is no good. No good." Still, he complied; placed his gun on a table. The other man, Tito, then put his own gun down and smiled.
"Thank you," Desoto said. "Don't worry. No one wants your cop guns. They'll be safe right there. Come. Talk."
He disappeared from view.
Tito indicated a small red door, practically impossible to notice given its location behind one of the booths.
"You first," Ramirez said.
Tito bowed and entered.
Ramirez stepped through next and Avery followed.
The red door opened into the kitchen. A hallway moved further back. Directly in front of them were basement stairs, steep and dark. At the bottom was another door.
"I've got a bad feeling about this," Ramirez whispered.
"Quiet," Avery whispered.
A poker game was being played in the room beyond. Five men, all Latino, well-dressed and strapped with guns, went silent on their approach. The table was packed with money and jewelry. Couches lined the walls of the large space. On numerous shelves, Avery noticed machine guns and machetes. One other door was visible. A quick glance at their feet revealed that none of them had shoes large enough to match the killer.
On the couch, arms splayed wide, and with a huge smile on his face that exposed the grill of razor teeth, sat Juan Desoto. His body was more bull than man, pumped up and chiseled from daily workouts and, Avery guessed, steroids. A giant even though seated, he might have stood to nearly seven feet tall. His feet, similarly, were huge. At least a twelve, Avery thought.
"Relax, everyone, relax," Desoto commanded. "Play, play," he urged his men. "Tito, get them something to drink. What would you like, Officer Black," he said with emphasis.
"You know me?" Avery asked.
"I don't know you," he replied. "I know of you. You arrested my little cousin Valdez two years ago, and some of my good friends in the West Side Killers. Yes, I have many friends in other gangs," he said at Avery's surprised look. "Not all gangs fight each other like animals. I like to think bigger than that. Please. What can I get for you?"
"Nothing for me," Ramirez said.
"I'm fine," she added.
Desoto nodded to Tito, who left the way he'd come. All men at the table continued to play cards except one. The odd man out was a spitting image of Desoto, only much smaller and younger. He muttered something to Desoto and the two of them had a fiery conversation.
"That's Desoto's little brother," Ramirez translated. "He thinks they should just kill both of us and dump us in the river. Desoto is trying to tell him that that's why he's always in prison, because he thinks too much when he should just keep his mouth shut and listen."
"Sientate!" Desoto finally shouted.
Reluctantly, his little brother sat down but he glared hard at Avery.
Desoto took in a breath.
"You like being a big celebrity cop?" he asked.
"Not really," Avery said. "Gives guys like you a target in the police department. I don't like to be a target."
"True, true," he said.
"We're looking for information," Avery added. "A middle-aged woman named Henrietta Venemeer owns a bookstore on Sumner. Spiritual books, new age, psychology, things like that. Rumor has it you don't like the shop. She was being harassed."
"By me?" he noted in surprise and pointed to himself.
"By you or your men. We're not sure. That's why we're here."
"Why would you come all the way into the devil's den to ask about some woman at a bookshop? Please, explain this to me."
No recognition of Henrietta or the bookstore appeared on his face. In fact, Avery thought he was insulted by the accusation.
"She was murdered last night," Avery said and paid careful attention to the men in the room and how they reacted. "Her neck was broken and she was tied to a yacht at the marina on Marginal Street."
"Why would I do this?" he asked.
"That's what we want to find out."
Desoto began to speak to his men in very quick and agitated Spanish. His little brother and another man seemed genuinely annoyed that they would be accused of something so clearly beneath them. The other three, however, turned sheepish under the interrogation. An argument ensued. At one point, Desoto stood up in anger and displayed his full height and size.
"These three have been to the shop," Ramirez whispered. "They robbed it twice. Desoto is pissed because this is the first time he's hearing about it, and he never got his cut."
With a loud roar, Desoto hammered his fist onto the table and cracked it in half. Bills and change and jewelry went flying. A necklace nearly whipped into Avery's face and she was forced to stand back against the door. All five men pushed away in their chairs. Desoto's little brother yelled out in frustration and raised his arms. Desoto kept his fury squarely placed on one man in particular. A finger was pointed in the man's face, and a threat was given and received.
"That guy took the others to the shop," Ramirez whispered. "He's in trouble."
Desoto turned with his arms wide.
"I apologize," he said. "My men did indeed accost this woman in her shop. Twice. This is the first I've ever heard of it."
Avery's heart was beating fast. They were in an isolated room full of angry criminals with weapons, and regardless of Desoto's words and gestures, he was an intimidating presence, and, if the rumors were true, a mass murderer. Suddenly, the feel of her small blade so far out of reach wasn't as comforting as she'd thought.
"Thanks for that," Avery said. "Just to be sure we're on the same page, would any of your men have any reason to kill Henrietta Venemeer?"
"No one kills without my approval," he flatly stated.
"Venemeer was strangely placed on the ship," Avery pushed. "In full view of the harbor. A star was drawn above her head. Would that mean anything to you?"
"Do you remember my cousin?" Desoto asked. "Michael Cruz? Little guy? Skinny?"
"I don't."
"You broke his arm. I asked him how a little girl could have bested him, and he said that you were very fast, and very strong. Do you think you could take me, Officer Black?"
The downward spiral began.
Avery could feel it. Desoto was bored. He'd answered their questions and he was bored and angry and he had two unarmed cops in his private room beneath a shop. Even the men who'd been playing poker were fully locked onto both of them.
"No," she said. "I think you could murder me in hand-to-hand combat."
"I believe in an eye for an eye," Desoto said. "I believe when information is given, information should be received. Balance," he stressed, "is very important in life. I have given you information. You arrested my cousin. You have now taken from me twice. You see this, yes?" he asked. "You owe me something."
Avery backed up and assumed her traditional jujitsu stance, legs bent and slightly parted, arms up and hands open under her chin.
"What do I owe you?" she asked.
With only a grunt, Desoto jumped forward, cocked his right arm, and punched.
