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 Forest

AuthorHouse

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 to dance in the eyes of young men and women whose thoughts might have been on what might be in their future afterwards.

For the not so ripe, most prayed that something—anything, along the same line of speculation would take place after the bar closed. Too many men's brains were working overtime, oiled with the fermented juices of the Blue Agave, or iced Dos Equis and Corona beers. The inebriated would-be Lotharios were desperately struggling to look sober while they zeroed in on the more lascivious opportunities. It would be a safe bet that most of these wannabe paramours would end up hugging their own pillow that night. For an unfortunate few, they would squeeze the toilet during the remainder of the night, casting their fading memories of a once promising adventure—out of one end or the other.

At that time, De Avilés was contemplating wrapping up his lonesome surveillance, and taking a spin around Belle Isle—in his black, pristine GTO. He had dipped his last Lucky Strike ... into the gob of wet tobacco spittle, at the bottom of the Styrofoam cup. Then he skillfully shot the butt out through the open passenger's window. The 2008 Pontiac GTO was his new toy, bought when the 2009s arrived in showrooms. Lieutenant Andre de Avilés had fallen in love the moment he slid behind the wheel on the showroom floor. That luscious first-whiff of a new car was something he had learned to appreciate ... along with most American teenagers. It was imprinted from the time they were boys, everyone trying to see through each dealer's frosted windows at the new models. His GMX 282 was built on a Zeta platform developed by Australia's Holden Ltd., a GM subsidiary.

He did not know it at the time, but the word Zeta would carry an entirely different connotation before his next case was closed. Back to the business at hand, he grabbed the surplus U.S. Navy binoculars and made one last sweep of the bustling neighborhood.

At Detroit Police Department (DPD) headquarters, the Intel Group's Duty Officer was working the better part of three hours with the surveillance man parked on Bagley Street. De Avilés was his lieutenant, and the man was calling in his inquiries on vehicles driving to and from the restaurants around Bagley.

Officer Bill Schmitt was responding immediately to those calls, and quickly radioing back the results of his checks. It was his way of remaining in contact with his boss, a bona fide plain-clothes dick from the old school. It was typical for de Avilés to work by himself ... usually after dark. Both he and Schmitt understood that vehicle registrations and traffic tickets were a great source of Intel, oftentimes providing a springboard to other database indices. Those included criminal records, corporate and financial documents, property ownership along with previous owners and buyers in Michigan and elsewhere in the world.

Because of 911—even after several years, Bill Schmitt would not have time this evening to work right then on global potentialities. Those were special now, and subjected to full Intel assessments and link analysis ... the whole ball of wax for members of the community. Considering the increase in intelligence gathering, he earmarked material for a detailed follow-up because of their sensitivity.

Tasks relating to foreign matters would be picked up by one of four analysts assigned to the task force. They were the best—truly a terrific group when it came to carrying out their responsibilities. However, at this time of the night, Schmitt kept his searches to state law enforcement indices and National Crime Information Center (NCIC). Michigan State Police maintained a first-class source of data in real-time. The Law Enforcement Information Network (LEIN) tracked an enormous amount of data used by hundreds of federal, state and local agencies.

The officer went about his tasks with speed and efficiency. He steadily retrieved useful facts, and at first glance they appeared to have some potential. The material recounted routine contacts and the more serious runins with uniformed cops and plainclothes-investigators. These hits showed Schmitt the most promise, and dealt with people identified during arrests, search warrant executions, car-stops, and routine field interrogations.

It was always a given that most of the good stuff came from uniforms working traffic or crime suppression. It was the nature of the job. They must write down almost everything they do on a shift ... a mandatory report or log. On the other side of the coin, some detectives and federal agents are inclined to drag their feet on reports. Oftentimes, it's the uniform officer who ID's other sources of information. Many of those who still play in the game—and others who used to play—can recall squeezing out some great stuff during routine interrogations. Sometimes over minor offenses like a CCW arrest. People caught in these circumstances are often willing to puke up good stuff on their competitors, or to settle a festering beef with another crook. As it was, the hundred and fifty or so license tags yielded Schmitt more than two-hundred and fifty names and businesses.

Back on Bagley Street now, Schmitt's boss was about to end his observations for the night. He would drive down Vernor to Michigan Avenue, where he'd swing right. Straight down Michigan to Woodward, a couple more blocks to Jefferson Avenue ... and a straight shot to the bridge. Once across, he'd race around the twisting roads of Belle Isle.

At this time of night—with the exception of barking dogs and buzzing mosquitoes—it was usually a quick and mellow drive. De Avilés would pass few cars in his trip through the dead silence of the Island. Any that he did pass would be parked and fogged-up at the half dozen making out spots. Those were the gamblers ... especially at this time of night. Stereos were tuned into stations that were up and running with great music. It was good stuff, spun by experts and sent out to supply just the right vibes. Inside these fancy cars, heartbeats raced to the music and the business at hand. Locked in passionate embraces, the preoccupied lovers would make perfect targets for robbers, muggers and carjackers.

At the flick of his ignition key, the powerful engine growled to life. Always kept highly polished, his GTO accelerated from the curb on Bagley Street. He decided against cruising past the string of restaurants where each establishment featured cuisine from the old country. Each eatery offered tasty epicurean specialties from traditional recipes. From both large and small ciudades in various Mexican states, immigrants turned entrepreneurs brought experience and detailed instructions concerning old family recipes.

Passable food, considered de Avilés as he made a left turn north on 24th Street. Even at his age, he still remembered the home-cooking of his childhood. Magnificent culinary dishes from the Basque Region of Europe momentarily flashed in his mind. Mental pictures easily summoned up the taste of thick soup made from potatoes, cabbage, beans and turnips—sometimes with pork or lamb. Out loud he exclaimed, "Garbure! That was the name."

De Avilés shook off the thought as he pulled to a stop at Vernor Highway. Just a two-lane city street with parking on both sides, this section of Vernor cut through an ever-changing ethnic area. Currently, it was dominated by heavy Black, Cuban and Puerto Rican influences. He turned right toward the old and now abandoned Michigan Central Railroad Station

Since Detroit's early days, this area was usually a hotbed of immigrant activity. Workers from the South streamed up Hillbilly Highway—U.S. Route 23. All they wanted was a fair shot at employment in one of the auto plants, or, an affiliated industry. Ford, GM, Chrysler and other factories paid good money. So did hundreds of other shops, those small automotive related workshops on Detroit's Westside and Downriver communities.

That was then ... long before de Avilés' family had arrived in Detroit. Too many years of failed city management, political wars on poverty, drugs, guns, and violence ended up ravaging the once vibrant neighborhood within zip code 48216.

Bouncing over clumps of dirt left on Vernor by the overpass construction, the GTO was on the middle of the bridge. That's when it flashed brightly.

Presently, his attention was drawn back to the galvanized, rhythmic activity of the firefighters. While he watched, Duty Commander Jim Biven's unmarked Crown Vic crunched to a stop in broken glass. He locked his car and walked toward the fire equipment, flashing red, blue and yellow emergency lights.

Three restaurants and two parking lots later, Bivens crossed Bagley and approached de Avilés as the firefighting units from Alexandrine began their tasks. "What the hell happened, Andre? Bombing or gas fire, what's your take?"

"By the sound of it, I'd guess C-4. One hell of a loud crack—it sounded like overhead thunder in the summer. Smoke that blew by me up on Vernor was gray in color. Then again, I have a problem remembering exactly what my ATF buddy told me once. Supposedly, you can tell the type of explosive material by the color of the smoke."

"Hmm, you're saying that you do have friends, Andre? I always thought of you as a loner except—of course, when it comes to Chief of Detectives St. Giles."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from A Matter of Lex Talionisby B.H. La Forest Copyright © 2012 by B.H. La Forest. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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