Portland North

By Rich Jackson

While investigating a homicide in an upscale section of Portland, Detective Ramos finds an envelope that connects the murder to his home town of Portillo, Mexico. Two days later, he and his partner, Mai Hidaka, are called to a car bombing in an equally exclusive part of the city. When a connection is made between the two murders, they find themselves embroiled in a dangerous war between rival drug cartels.

As the mystery intensifies and the body count mounts, the two detectives follow clues to the border town of Portillo, a town that has special significance for Ramos and hides a dark secret from his past. It is the town of his birth and the place where, as an eleven-year-old boy, he found his mother and sister brutally murdered by cartel members.

The story opens with eleven-year-old Armando tracking the two murderers through the Chihuahua Desert and executing them with a single shot of a .22-caliber rifle. He crosses the border with an older woman who, likewise, was the victim of cartel violence and takes him north to Portland, Oregon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984568434

Rich Jackson

Rich Jackson was born in Great Falls, Montana. He has lived in Minnesota, Louisiana and Pennsylvania and currently resides in Clovis, California. He has toured professionally as a musician and is a retired, secondary language instructor and soccer coach. He is an Infantry Army veteran and member of Post 147 American Legion in Clovis, CA. Rich Jackson performs music in a number of venues throughout the San Joaquin valley and writes contemporary mystery fiction. His pastimes include: golf, road-trips on his Harley, arranging and performing music with his brother, jamming with friends, following championship boxing and, when time allows, talking treason at the local Starbucks.

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 by Rich Jackson.

Library of Congress Control Number:              2018913984

ISBN:                  Hardcover                     978-1-9845-6845-8

                            Softcover                       978-1-9845-6844-1

                            eBook                            978-1-9845-6843-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 12/19/2018

Xlibris

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To the men and women of Portland law enforcement who suit up and show up every day to fight the war on drugs so we don’t have to.

BOOKS BY JACKSON

Goya Lane is an intense action thriller that is hard to put down. The plot is highly unpredictable and full of suspense. Character development is a strong suit of the novel as the reader is offered a look into the mind of a serial killer turned terrorist.

Seattle Book Review

Goya Lane is a mystery thriller set in Japan. It follows police detective, Soji Hidaka, as he pursues a terrorist cell in possession of a nuclear warhead. Jackson seems to have a solid knowledge of Japanese customs and culture. Goya Lane is everything I look for in a suspenseful thriller with the added plus of a trip to an exotic country."

Michael Shulman Book Review.

We are discussing Rich Jackson’s outstanding novel, Goya Lane. You have to get this book. It is really well written and gets more exciting as it goes along. It will keep you turning the pages and you’ll have a wonderful time."

John Austin Book Podcast

Beyond the Mast is a gale force novel.

1775 Productions

Beyond the Mast is extremely well-plotted. It is written in a style reminiscent of Norman Mailer. There are so many twists and turns the reader will have figured out the wrong person about every five pages. The characters are believable and realistic. I was in love with Katherine Kincaid by p. 34.

John Austin Book Club.

Jackson’s character development in Beyond the Mast has the feel of a great Russian novel, where the pedigree and history of each character is identified and categorized, only to be used against them later as their ultimate flaw.

Sacramento Book Review

Get Beyond the Mast. It will keep you mesmerized.

Jack Drucker Book Review Podcast

If Jackson’s Beyond the Mast is any indication, then it’s fair skies ahead for this first-time author.

City Book Review

Guiding Daniel transcends its origins as a mystery and becomes a relentless examination of the flaws and virtues that drive us all. It reveals the unsung side of fame and celebrity in contemporary American culture. It is ambitious, witty and rich in metaphor.

Xlibris Productions

CONTENTS

PART I

1.     Detective Ramos

2.     Cipriano’s

3.     Portland North

4.     A High Brisance

5.     Ten Shin Ichi Ryu

6.     Look Around You All You See

7.     A Chandelle Lift

8.     The Switch

9.     Slow Tendu on a Triglyph Wall

10.   Janie Po

11.   The Orchard

12.   The Great Unknown

13.   Thirty-Day Chip

14.   Darryl Stark

15.   Corporate Sinecures

16.   Man’s Essential Mediocrity

17.   The Dark Necropolis

PART II

18.   Silent Partners

19.   Serrano

20.   Una Muerte Cercana

21.   A House Speaks

22.   Night Ops

23.   Something That Lethal

24.   Like a Bad Dream

25.   Ella Fatale

26.   The Sangfroid of Kelch

27.   Hormigas Coloradas

28.   The Gringo Keyes

29.   If Looks Could Kill

30.   Reproach to Decency

31.   A Nietzschean Moment

32.   Dead Man’s Best Friend

33.   A Man Apart

34.   Debajo del Fuego

35.   Portland North Redux

Epilogue

Acknowledgement

PART I

PROLOGUE

No me gusta el desierto, Lucho said, un-strapping his pack. En el desierto Dios esconde todos sus errors.

The boy disagreed entirely. He did not think God hid his errors in the desert. For him the desert held great wonder and was proof that the Creator could bring life out of anything. He loved its beauty, its harshness and the diversity of all living things determined to survive.

He knew the plants and animals, the birds, the insects and reptiles; all things grounded or in motion reaching to feel the wind. In the desert everything happened at once and he could never tell which had priority.

They knelt to drink from a hidden spring in the ocotillo bushes, a fuente escondida only they knew. It was identifiable from the distance by a lone, acacia tree.

If God’s mistakes are all here, the boy asked, where is He?

Look down, his father said. What do you see?

The boy peered into the water’s surface. I see only me.

That’s where God is.

They had come twenty miles from the border al norte and had ten yet to go.

They could be in their own beds before dawn.

The father gathered dry twigs of mesquite and pulled a headless diamondback from his pack.

Build a fire he said, pointing to a scatter of ashes, over the old one.

Better protection by the rocks the boy advised, less wind.

No, better here mijo, always here.

Why

There is a saying: del fuego, el tesoro.

From the fire comes treasure? I don’t get it.

The old ashes mark the place where I bury things of value: dry matches, extra cartridges, a skinning knife – things that can save your life in the desert. Now you know. He pointed at the charred pit with the snake dangling like an uncoiled belt in his hand. Over there, chico.

The boy crushed a handful of ocotillo twigs over the blackened stones and covered them with dry leaves. He struck a match and blew gently into the kindling until a blue flame curled out and caught. He built a rotisserie with two forked sticks and ran a third through the length of the diamondback. The fire licked up singing away scales that crackled like pinfeathers.

We’ll eat Lucho said, then rest until the sun goes down.

We should continue, unless you’re too tired.

I was thinking of you.

I could trot the next ten miles. He turned the snake slowly, watching the reticulated skin blacken and draw away from the white flesh.

I don’t like the men you’re going to work for. The boy stated. They had just come from the barrancas where two men had his father drive a converted FedEx truck in and out of the ravines. The truck had Arizona plates with Tri-County Distributors emblazoned on the sides.

Easy, no Lucho? The larger of the two men asked. He had glossy hair that curled at his neck. It has a five-speed automatic with current license and registration. He handed his father an envelope and added: And now Lucho, you are legal to go north.

The boy used his knife to scrape the snake’s charred dermis into the fire.

Tell me why you don’t like these men, Mando.

They are like shadows that move around in the dark.

Shadows that pay money, mijo.

How long will you be gone?

"Some weeks, I don’t know. I am taking their load al norte to the state of Oregon. There’s a town there - Porlan, I think it’s called.

The boy knelt behind a small mesquite and studied the cabin. He lowered the pack and rested his rifle against the tree. He waited at the edge of the desert as motionless as a hawk.

He had eaten nothing all day but a handful of sage leaves to placate the throbbing in his head. He had flushed no game worthy of the small caliber shells in his pocket.

He studied the road that led into his home; a wooden structure with corrugated tin and plastic stretch-wrap over the windows. He could see no road dust coming or going so maybe the devil was taking the day off. He rose to shoulder the pack then dropped to his knees – something about the house alerted him. Then he saw it, a small vector of shadow at the bottom of the front door. It stood partially open, and in his family that was like breaking a Commandment. He thumbed a cartridge into the breach of the rifle and waited.

A lone monarch butterfly glided by overhead then settled on a branch of the mesquite. It seemed so harmless and clean, the very symbol of innocence but he knew better than to trust appearances in the desert. In his culture las palomas represented the souls of children fluttering their way to heaven.

Why can’t the devil just stay put? he whispered.

He pushed the door with the rifle barrel and stepped into a silence deadly as paralysis. A blanket of flies lifted, buzzing like disturbed bumblebees and a metallic odor filled the room. It reminded him of the copper reales his abuelo kept in an old jar.

His mother lay face down in a vermilion pool next to his younger sister, Chela. They had identical wounds to the throat, turned ochre now with the passing of life. He knelt next to his sister; she with the dark, curly hair and features fine as a Rivera painting. He closed her eyes. The dress that her mother had sewn from La Harina flour sacks had been forced above her waist.

Te prometo, Chela he whispered, I promise you.

He stood and stepped back, confronted now with the death of loved ones and the real finitude of life. He was not seized with any sense of his own mortality. In that moment he lost all appreciation for the value of life. He did not consider what he might do with the years that remained, but only with the days that followed.

He knew who did this; the men from the city who appeared on dusty roads in gleaming vehicles and presented themselves with all the courtesy of the devil in polished boots. And the devil always brings a gift.

Here, Lucho, said the smiling man with the oiled hair and confidence of a born leader. He handed his father a roll of bills secured with a rubber band. Consider this a gift from the honorable Mayor Terraza who wants to see all of his people succeed. You drive up north, and on your return, there will be more. You can help your family he offered with paternal concern. You’re a family man, no?

The man bent at the waist and smiled at the little girl hiding behind her mother’s skirts. And what a lovely family you have he said, una familia bonita. The girl had never known a grownup to look at her in such a way.

The boy wrapped his mother and sister in blankets and carried them away from the cabin. He dug two graves then covered them with the desert. He knelt to say a prayer then changed his mind. What good would it do now?

He walked back to the cabin and saturated the floor and walls with kerosene, then shouldered his pack and rifle. He struck a match, threw it through the open front door and walked back into the desert. Te prometo, Chela, he repeated as a mantra, swearing vengeance on the two men from la ciudad - and in a moment of pure clarity, renounced his father.

And he knew exactly where to find these men. They would be at the ravines of the barranca, bringing more campesinos like his father to drive their trucks north.

As night fell he gathered seeds from the base of an ironwood tree and filled his pockets with sage leaves. He could sustain himself with whiptail lizards if necessary, and suck the moisture stored in the spines of the saguaro.

The following evening, he climbed the ridge of the Caldera Montada and studied the ravines below. He slid down the scree of the mountain to a shallow depression and settled his rifle on igneous rock that had been there since the earth cooled.

He studied the cinderblock building from which his father had driven north.

An eighteen-foot freightliner stood on the loading dock in front of two metal doors. The truck had Arizona plates and the words Tri-County Distributors on the side. A lone guard sat against the loading dock, drowsing in the evening heat. The boy rested his rifle on the magma and aimed.

The guard stirred in the hot sun and struggled to rise. The boy could see, but only with the greatest discernment, that the figure was identifiably female and positively filthy. She moved toward a water bowl on the ground and got down on her hands and knees to drink. She had been collared and tethered to the loading dock by a length of chain. He lowered the rifle and sent a subliminal message. The hard realities of life in the barranca have just saved you.

He looked toward the south for dust or movement. The sun was downhill from his position and would set quickly, as always it did in the desert. I can wait, he thought, if not today then tomorrow or even next week, but I can wait. He pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes and slept.

The boy awoke to the sound of car doors slamming and peered over the rim. The two city men slouched against the front of a black Cadillac talking to the female. He waited for the truck with Tri-County Distributors to leave and sighted in. It would be a 75-yard shot in near dark with a .22, single-shot rifle. He had doubts about the effectiveness of a kill-shot from here, but he didn’t doubt his ability to immobilize.

He aimed at the ear of the smaller man and when he squeezed the trigger the man yelped like he’d been stung by a bee and slid down the front of the car. In the evening desert air, the muted pop sounded like a snapped twig. The boy ejected the shell and reloaded. When the larger man with oiled hair turned to locate the source, the boy aimed for left-of-center mass and fired. The man grabbed his chest and staggered around to the driver’s side of the car. When he reached in for his weapon the woman looped a coil of chain around his neck and pulled him back. She watched a young boy walk out of the ravine with a rifle leveled waist high.

He’s still alive, she said, hoping he didn’t intend a third target. The large man watched the approach of a ninety-pound killer. He lay there, gasping with both hands over a burgundy stain. With each breath the boy heard a pneumatic hiss and knew his bullet had found its mark.

I know, the boy said. I’m not going to kill him.

He has the key. Unlock me.

The boy took out his skinning knife and held it against the man’s throat. He reached into a front pocket and handed her the keys.

You’re Lucho’s boy, the man wheezed.

Put the collar on him, he told the woman. When she bent to hook him up the boy saw old bruises on her arms and legs. She smelled as badly as game that had been in the sun too long.

He answered the man: I am Lucho’s boy. Where is he?

Up north, in hell, who knows? He delivered the load but decided he liked the return load more than his family. He’s campesino, what can I say?

Did you touch my sister?

I don’t touch children. That a .22 you shot me with?

It won’t kill you. It hit a lung. Did you touch my sister? He held the skinning knife to the man’s throat.

I didn’t touch anyone. I don’t know about him though, he pointed to the man at the front of the car. I sat outside and had a cigarro.

Of course, the boy replied.

So you’re going to leave me chained here, not kill me?

No, you’re going to kill yourself. And he drew the skinning knife deeply across the inner thigh of the man, severing the femoral artery.

The woman watched as he climbed into the car and cut out the headliner.

Why did you do this, chico? she asked.

They killed my mother and sister.

And now you intend to bury them?

No, I’m going to bury my rifle and cross the border.

You’ll never get beyond Rio Rico. The border patrol will pick you up on the American side, put you in containment, then foster you out. How old are you?

Eleven. He wrapped the rifle in the vinyl headliner and walked back up to the caldera. When he returned the woman looked up from the body of the large man like a maid who just found a jewelry box.

Close to four hundred dollars. She held out a fist of crumpled bills. We’ll ditch the car this side of the border. I know the best place to cross.

We?

You saved my life. Now I’ll save yours. What’s your name, chico?

Armando Cortez.

Armando Cortez, from now on you are Armando Ramos - my son. When asked, you are …?

Armando Ramos. Who are you?

Celia Ramos. I became their property when my husband failed to return with his delivery. I was a convenience for drivers going north and for those returning.

Do you think my father did what your husband did?

Probably. Look, chico, I’m a little worried this might be a mistake. You could easily be as dangerous as the two men you just executed.

Easily, the boy said. So, what’s it like?

What’s what like?

Where we’re going?

Well, if you like telephone poles you’ll love Arizona.

CHAPTER 1

Detective Ramos

The day had just begun, and already Detective Ramos didn’t give a damn. The Portland sky was dark and somber as a string fugue in a minor key.

He had spent the morning with a CI prostitute from 82nd St. trying to learn where the high-quality heroin was coming from. Ella Gaines proved to be a reliable source; she was articulate, observant and completely fearless. She graduated from Reed College with an M.A. in Economics and came from a good family in the West Hills. The drug had reduced her to standing with the other girls like pickets against abandoned buildings and negotiating with customers through the passenger window.

Ramos suspected that a second cartel had moved into Portland. For years the quality of heroin never changed shipment to shipment. When dealers began turning up in the sage north of town he decided it was time to talk to his CI.

Ella stood against a building with barred windows. She seemed lost, too healthy for this line of work. Two girls with dragon tattoos and lips red as fire alarms, stood apart. When he pulled up she walked to the car with a grin so big you could see it from a distance. They pantomimed a negotiation then she got in.

I like working for you, Ramos, She said, digging for a smoke.

Why’s that?

I pretend to work, you pretend to pay me.

"When’s the last time you spent a night in jail? Oh, I’m sorry, thank you Detective Ramos.

She lit a cigarette and smiled. Thank you, Detective Ramos.

The smoke from her cigarette curled then burst against the windshield. She took a luxurious draw then held the pack up as an offering of good manners.

No thanks, he said.

You don’t smoke?

No.

You should. People trust you more.

I hear there’s high quality heroin on the street now.

That what you hear? she took another drag, smoking like a Russian, leaving a quarter inch of ash. "You heard right detective, it’s the best ever – ever. This is pure white like nothing we see around here. It’s like going to heaven only you don’t have to die to get there. Here let me show you something."

She dug in her purse and pulled out two bindles: one a small twisted saran wrapped ball of dark powder, the other a sealed glassine packet with a quarter inch of white powder at the bottom.

She held that packet up – Nobody’s buying the brown anymore.

He took the white from her and held it up to the light.

Whoever’s bringing this in understands marketing. He noticed a symbol in the corner, a small red, white and green arc.

What’s this? he asked her.

It looks like a small rainbow. It’s on all the packets.

In the colors of the Mexican flag, he noted. Physiologically speaking, how do they differ?

Well, without giving a chemistry lesson I’ll simplify. The level of diacetylmorphine in heroin provides the rush. So you see, it’s actually really, really strong morphine. The white is stronger because when it’s processed ether is added. That facilitates dissolution, hence it caters to the injection crowd - me and the others. We wouldn’t dream of snorting white heroin.

In deference to the quality, I’m thinking.

Whatever … actually, heroin is an imposter. It bathes the brain, kicking out endorphins like you can’t imagine, like waking up to find the fever just broke. Then it lets you think you’re in charge of the rush because you popped it. Once it hits the bloodstream and breaches the brain, everything you’ve ever wanted is right here. She held her hand out, palm open. For a minute or two.

Describe those minutes.

Buy me breakfast?

Of course.

Think of the most intense, heightened sexual orgasm you’ve ever had. That’s heroin. And it’s enough to put you off real sex for the rest of your life.

From one who knows.

Don’t be a Philistine. What I do isn’t sex, it’s hydraulics.

Like a day at the office.

You don’t miss a thing.

He looked at the clear, no-limit Portland sky with leaves luffing in the late fall breeze and felt a low registered sense of disappointment.

You ever think about getting into a program? he asked. She quizzed her eyebrows the way a patient grandparent would while listening to a grandkid describe his future.

Detective, heroin laughs at rehab the way a hangover laughs at aspirin.

Forget I asked. So, what else is happening on 82nd and I don’t mean dealers or hookers.

It always changes, but basically you see the same Johns the same dealers. Here’s something caught my eye. There’s a guy in a maroon Lincoln keeps coming around like clockwork. He’s not interested in us and he’s not a dealer. He just parks and watches. I thought he might be one of you guys.

Nope, not us – what nationality is he?

"Ramos, he drives a maroon Lincoln."

Mexican. Next time get me a plate nu …

She held a folded paper up to his face. I’m starved, she said, IHOP?

Before returning to the station Ramos drove north through the Pearl District, his old stomping grounds – before he married Tina, before the force. Back in the day, Pearl had been a bohemian mecca of great energy - funky shops, historic buildings and wandering trouveres. Now it was inhabited by the homeless and strung-out kids with an incomprehensible allegiance to whatever passed as the latest Occupy movement. Outdoor coffee houses had been replaced by cyber/pot cafes and long lines in front of Verizon.

A young man with a ponytail and tee-shirt advertising some kind of high-tech phase pedal approached the detective and asked for change. He asked in a selfless, cleverly distracted way so as to establish a bond of mutuality, like bumping fists with someone you just met. He had the head-shop pallor of someone who spends all day around recreational chemicals and Ramos wanted to slap him senseless.

He stopped at Angus’ newspaper kiosk, a shabby plywood structure with magazines corner-hung from the open partition of a hinge dropleaf. Angus was engaged in conversation with Vito Genova the owner of V’s Genovese, the only place in north Portland that served authentic Italian cuisine. Both had the florid, ruddy complexions of men who had spent some time inside a bottle; both were so shrunken into their clothes that they had become their own fathers.

Aah, look here, V. My favorite officer of the law. He laid a copy of the Oregonian on the counter and placed a pack of Marlboro Lights on top of the paper. Ramos pushed the cigarettes to the side and paid for the paper.

I quit six years ago, Angus.

Yes, I know. Detective, you remember Vito. We were just discussing the Pearl and what a town gotta come to. Now it’s all thieves, addicts and transient dirt bags. This reflects poorly on law enforcement. You should consider your reputation.

I didn’t know I had one.

Angus spoke with Vito as though the detective were in another county, a privilege of old age.

Ramos is a good cop. He thinks all Portland’s a crime scene. Tell you this V, if he suspects you of something I suggest you get on the next plane. Hell, he’s arrested so many people in the Pearl he’s like family. Then he did what old people always do when they speak of you in absentia – That right, detective? Ramos nodded.

You’re on page three Angus said. Ramos leafed to the article.

Commissioner Seeks Joint Drug Interdiction with Homeland Security.

The headline was an implicit condemnation of the North’s inability to halt the rise of cartels in Portland - this would be item number one when Captain Etley held his daily briefing.

Angus reached across the counter and tapped the headline.

You mean to tell me all you trained professionals up there at North need federal help to handle a few uneducated illegals?

It doesn’t seem fair, does it Angus?

When he got back to the station Captain Etley called him into his office.

How you doing, detective?

Surprisingly well. cap, thank you.

I mean with the Ojeda case?

Benjamin Ojeda had been found in his kitchen with a single entry wound to the head. His girlfriend found him. She dialed 911 then locked herself in her car until the police came. Ojeda worked as a shift supervisor for a trucking firm, coached girls’ softball and had never been arrested. He left behind an ex-wife and three kids.

The guy’s clean, not even a speeding ticket. The captain balanced a pen on his finger. He’d heard this before – lots of times. I can’t find a single person who disliked him; but I did find out something interesting. He’s from the same part of Mexico I am.

Why does that interest you?

I don’t know why, it just seems like it should.

The Tech guys are going over his computer and phones, but nobody’s dumb enough to trust technology with secrets. So, where you been all morning?

Talking to Ella Gaines. I took her to breakfast.

The hooker from 82nd? Etley gave that split-second shudder of a father whose son just walked into the room wearing makeup and eyeliner. That the best you can do?

She’s smarter than you and me by about two standard deviations - plus she has great legs. She offered to teach me a new position.

Well, look at you detective, great legs and a new position - could love be far behind? She honest?

She is, but the crowd she runs with view honesty as a flaw, a disease like Ebola only more contagious.

Please, leave me with something affirmative.

She confirms what we already suspected; the quality of heroin in north Portland is way more pure, which probably means there’s a new source.

That it?

She thinks there’s going to be a drug war, says we’re too soft on the dealers and wants to know when the department will put her on the payroll.

You’re making this up.

As I go – why, could you tell? Anyway, she gave me a license plate number that will probably be registered to someone in a rest home.

Go back to the Ojeda place and re-interview everyone in the neighborhood. Go to the trucking firm and talk to people. Oh, and hey I almost forgot, take your new partner with you.

New partner?

Yeah, new partner. Why, should that matter?

Assume that it does.

Captain Etley looked at detective Ramos, almost, but not quite irritated.

Look, detective, I know how you felt about partnering with Kelch. Sometimes we get attached to these guys in a very personal way. He took a bullet for you, it happens, I get it. But he’s retired, and I need you at your complete best.

Captain Etley was referring to Sgt. Joe Kelch, a veteran of the 113th in Jamaica Queens who transferred west because he was tired of handling 25% of New York City’s shootings. When the department lifted the Stop and Frisk amendment Kelch reassigned for what he deemed a more civilized precinct. Unfortunately, he ended up in Portland North.

Two years away from retirement he had been partnered with Ramos, a rookie detective who likewise preferred to work alone.

I got one piece of advice for you, rookie. As they pulled out of the underground garage Kelch pointed a Kilbasi sized finger at his partner. From now on everything we do connects us to the street and in the projects. Nothing happens in a vacuum - everything exists in a state of tension. Don’t never turn your back on these animals. Kelch had a way of addressing you as though you were always in the way of something and needed to move.

They were in pursuit of a felon in the running gun projects when they came upon three men shooting dice on a second-floor landing. Ramos, who was young and did not have a two-pack a day habit like his partner, barreled through the three individuals and continued downstairs after the suspect. One of the gamblers stood and extended his arm in Ramos’ direction. Kelch opened fire dropping the man with a 9mm. round between the shoulder blades. The other two players turned and began unloading their weapons up the staircase at detective Kelch. Knocked to his knees by a chest wound from a .45, Kelch emptied his weapon, killing both men on the stairwell.

By the time Ramos made his way up to the second floor landing his partner was struggling for air as blood darkened the front of his white shirt. Ramos called in officer down and clamped his hand over the wound.

They’re on the way, Joe. Just hang on.

Kelch signaled his partner to lean in. Ramos, he gasped.

Sshh, quiet Joe. Save your breath. We got this.

Ramos, his partner repeated, you don’t never turn your back on people in the projects. Got it? He pushed Ramos away, and in a voice cold as a Bolshevik added: You’re a damn fool, you know that?

I hear you, Joe.

So, what’s the Mick do with all his free time, set homeless people on fire? the captain asked.

He and Mikey bought a walkout log chalet in Montana near the Bitterroot. Ramos was amused by his own words. "At least that’s what he calls it. Last I heard he took the rest of his wife’s inheritance and put a down payment on a used Piper Malibu, six-seater. He’s been