Title: In the Name of the Law
Summary: A woman turns up dead and all signs point to Trent Malloy as the guilty party – but is there more to the story, and can Carlos, Alex, and the Rangers search out the truth?
Disclaimer: However much I wish I owned Trent, I own none of them.
A/N: For my purposes, Carlos never left the Dallas Police Department, and CD never died. This is set sometime season 9ish or after. Anyone know for sure how old Tommy was at any given point during either Walker or Sons of Thunder?
Chapter 1
"Hey, Tr—" Carlos Sandoval broke off at the sound of raised voices coming from the dojo's main room. He took another step forward, feet light on the floor, but remained in the entryway – something told him he shouldn't interrupt.
"I don't like this!" That was Trent Malloy, and he sounded more angry than Carlos could remember having heard him. Whatever was going on had to be something important, to get him so worked up. The man was a veritable saint, and Carlos generally envied his control over his temper.
The next voice he heard was unfamiliar, belonging to a female, and just as angry as Trent's. "You can't stop me."
The sound of a fist against leather urged Carlos half a foot further, just until he could see his friend and the girl. Trent was hugging a heavy bag, stilling it before turning to face the brunette standing behind him. "I can think of a few ways." His deep voice resonated with the same anger, but also a trace of pain.
"You wouldn't dare." The woman threw her hands up in the air and turned away from Trent, looking straight in Carlos's direction. He backed behind the wall quickly, but not before seeing her face. She was a pretty girl, probably about his and Trent's age, give or take a few years. She wore glasses, and her hair just brushed her shoulders.
What drew his attention, though, was the bruising on her left cheek, the purplish color ringing her left eye. Mentally, Carlos warred with himself, but as the couple fell silent, Carlos took his leave of the karate school, deciding he'd figure out how to broach the subject with Trent in the morning.
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"Wha—" Carlos rolled over in bed, slapping at his alarm clock, only to have the ringing continue. He forced one eye open and groped for his cell phone. "Sandoval."
"Get your ass out of bed. We got a homicide called in, Center Street."
That got his attention. He sat up in bed, ramrod straight, instantly awake. It was too close to the karate studio for his comfort. "Man or woman?"
"Female."
As bad as he felt for it a moment later, knowing that somewhere, someone was going to be told that their daughter or wife or mother wasn't coming home, Carlos breathed a slight sigh of relief. "What time is it?"
"Six thirty."
"Give me twenty." Shower and breakfast would have to wait, no matter how much his stomach would hate him for it.
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Carlos flashed his badge at one of the uniformed officers, a woman he vaguely recognized – if he was placing her right, she'd started just before his promotion – as he ducked under the yellow crime scene tape. "Sandoval, homicide. What've we got?"
"Whitmore," she introduced herself, falling into step beside him as they walked toward the body. "Caucasian, mid- to late-twenties. She was found a little after six a.m. by a garbage collector. Talked to a wino holed up in the alley, said she was jumped by a blond man around eleven last night. Said the guy seemed to know what he was doing, and the ME agrees." She pointed to a man leaning over the trunk of a car.
He thanked her and approached the man, introducing himself once more. "Detective Sandoval, homicide."
"Lucky you. Mike Dennison."
"Whitmore said you think the killer might've been a pro?"
"Yeah. Precise blows. She took a beating before she died. Bruising on the knuckles and knees suggests she fought back, and on the back of the arms looked like she blocked a few good blows. Clean markings, and it was a clean blow to the throat that killed her – crushed her windpipe."
Something felt wrong about this, but Carlos only nodded. "Let's take a look at her."
Dennison nodded, handing him a pair of latex gloves before heading over to the body, now loaded onto a stretcher standing beside a chalk outline on the ground. He held up a hand to the paramedics, stopping them as they started to zip up the all-too-familiar black bag around her.
Carlos couldn't stop his eyes from going wide, but, he hoped, managed to quell any other signs of surprise. The face staring back at him with empty eyes, framed with wavy brown hair just brushing her shoulders, was one he'd seen before – approximately eight hours ago.
I should never've gotten out of bed this morning. "Give me a call as soon as you're done with the autopsy," he told the medical examiner, digging a business card out of his back pocket. "Or before that if you turn up anything strange."
"Will do." The man headed back to his vehicle, and Carlos sought out Whitmore once more, asking her to direct him toward the bum she'd mentioned.
The man, wearing tattered rags that might have once passed for clothes and a wool cap with more patches than original material, was nursing a bottle concealed in a plain paper bag. "Mind if I ask you a few questions?"
"No sirree."
He could hear a slight slur in the man's voice but he seemed to be focused, so Carlos pursued. "Officer Whitmore said you saw a blond man attack the woman last night?"
The wino nodded. "He talked to her; couldn't hear what she said, but… looked like she knew him. Then she started to walk away an' he kicked her in the back of her legs. She fell down, but she about bounced right up. Damnedest thing, like in the movies. You know those movies?" The man looked at him curiously.
Not only did he know them; he lived them from time to time. "Yeah, I do. What happened then?"
"He was kickin' her and hittin' her and she mos'ly defended herself, but she got a few in 'erself. I's kinda rootin' fer her. Then he jus' swung his hand out and she fell and he took off runnin' down the road."
"Which direction?"
"Attaway." The man pointed past Carlos in the general direction of the karate studio. "Didn' see where he went."
"What time was this? Can you give me a rough estimate?"
"Better'n that. Were about ten after eleven."
"You're sure about that?" He didn't appear to have any sort of timepiece.
"Yep." The man pointed behind him, and Carlos turned to see a clock outside a bank. He glanced at his watch. It was dead on.
"Thanks." He turned back. "Can you tell me what he looked like?"
"Um, hmm." He tilted his head back and looked up at Carlos. "Maybe a little shorter'n you, light hair, small sorta guy."
"If you saw him, would you be able to recognize his face?"
He shook his head. "Never saw it."
Great. Getting better by the minute. "Thanks for your time." The wino nodded and wandered off, taking a long draw on his bottle as he went.
Carlos stayed where he was, the crime scene folks packing up around him, and slowly turned to stare down the road toward Thunder Karate.
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Bouncing from foot to foot, Trent relaxed a little more with each time his fists or feet connected with the punching bag. He was, however, a bit too focused on his workout, as when he heard Carlos call his name and spun around, it was all he could do to pull the punch in time. Leaning forward and resting his gloved hands on his knees, he looked up sheepishly. "Sorry about that."
"I'll live." Carlos smiled, but it was obvious that the expression was forced. "In kinda late today?"
Straightening up, Trent gave him a quizzical look, but nodded. "Yeah. My mom's having trouble with Tommy, asked me if I could come out and talk to him."
"Do any good?"
He shook his head. "Not unless you consider getting a door slammed in my face good."
"You two are too much alike, you know that?"
"In some ways," Trent agreed, then went on, "though Tommy has a better head on his shoulders than I did at his age." The blond bent over, picking a towel up off the floor and mopping off his forehead. "Anyway, what brings you out here on a Saturday?"
"Got a case, homicide about a block away."
"Yeah, I saw the police line when I came in." He draped the towel around his neck, holding lightly onto both ends. He was starting to get a bad feeling. "Carlos, what's up?"
"Y'know, I, uh, stopped by last night. Was gonna ask you if you wanted to go out and grab a drink, but you had company. Dark haired girl, pretty."
Together, they walked toward the back of the dojo, Trent wanting to change into street clothes. "Yeah, she's a student of mine, came in… early this year, I guess, looking for private lessons." In reality, he knew the exact date she'd stopped by, because it was right about then his life had started to spiral out of control. But he couldn't tell Carlos that.
"I never met her before."
Trent shrugged, uneasy. There was something his friend wasn't saying, and he didn't like it. "She's got a pretty hectic schedule, doesn't know when she'll be free from week to week. I see her a couple times a month." In the karate school, that was. Outside of it, a lot more frequently.
When Carlos spoke again, there was skepticism in his voice that didn't go unnoticed. "Just a student?"
"Yes, just a student. Carlos, what's going on?"
"Heard you fighting last night. You seemed… pretty angry."
Trent set his jaw and looked away, picking up his jeans and shirt, glancing past Carlos and toward the stairs. Then he shrugged. "You know me; I get too involved for my own good sometimes." Leave it at that, Carlos. Please.
The detective shifted from foot to foot. "What's her name?"
"Gail. Gail Roderick. Why?" He hated dancing around a subject like this, especially with Carlos. "Tell me what's—"
"I'm sorry, man."
The clothes in his hand hit the floor. The words could only mean one thing, but even so, he had to ask. Maybe, maybe, he was wrong. "What?"
"She's dead. She was beaten to death, last night, down the street."
"I…" Trent tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. Oh, Gail. He looked away for a moment, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself. "Sorry, I… wasn't expecting that. You have anything to go on?" In the back of his mind he wondered if Carlos could see through him. He probably could; he'd never really been able to hide anything from the man.
"Actually, yeah." Carlos raked a hand through his hair and, if possible, seemed to grow even more uneasy. "Witness, saw the whole thing. Can't ID the killer, but gave me a pretty good description. Slim blond man, not too tall. ME says the perp was probably trained." He finished with a pointed look in Trent's direction.
It took a moment for his friend's words – and their full meaning – to sink in, but when they did, Trent felt his entire body go rigid. "Carlos, you can't think—"
"I don't, but I have information that I don't have a choice but to report." There was a pleading look in his eyes. "What were you fighting over?"
After a very long silence in which Trent watched the detective grow more and more resigned, he asked, "What did you hear?"
"I can't tell you that."
"I'm not trying to scam you. I just want to know where to start." This couldn't really be happening. Gail, dead, and Carlos practically accusing him of her murder. It was surreal.
"The beginning is usually a good place."
His friend wouldn't like the answer he was going to give. "I can't."
The detective's eyes widened in surprise. "Trent, you don't have a choice. Everything I have right now points to you. You have to give me something!"
"I'll give you something; I just can't give you everything."
"Well, let's start with something then, huh?" Carlos took a couple steps back and sat down on the mat, stretching his legs out and leaning back on his hands. After a second, Trent lowered himself down as well, folding his legs in front of him.
"I've been working with her; she wanted to do something that I didn't think was a good idea."
"I gathered that. I heard her tell you that you couldn't stop her. Took that as my cue to leave."
"Now you're definitely trying to bait me," Trent muttered. "I assume you heard me tell her I could think of a few ways."
"Yeah," Carlos admitted. "What ways?"
"Call her boss, for one. Call Walker, for another." He should have. He should have done both, a long time ago. "Anyway, she left about ten minutes after that. You didn't miss much by not hanging around." At that, something flashed in Carlos's eyes, but Trent wasn't sure what and didn't bother to ask as his friend changed the subject.
"Who's her boss?"
"I can't tell you, Carlos."
Carlos leaned forward. "I don't think you get it, Trent. You saw her and argued with her last night. She was killed down the street, an hour after I saw you with her, by a man who fits your description and has been trained in the martial arts. You have to give me something to go on, 'mano, or you're gonna go down for this and I won't be able to do anything about it."
"You don't understand." Trent unfolded his legs. "There are lives at stake here, Carlos – months of work, and two deaths already, not counting Gail's."
"Trent, listen to me. Yes, there are lives at stake, and this time one of 'em's yours." When Trent looked away and didn't respond, his friend reached a hand out and forced him to look at him. "Damn it, Trent!" he exclaimed, eyes darkening with concern and anger. "For once in your life would you put yourself first?"
"Carlos—"
But the detective wasn't finished yet. "Or if you won't do it for yourself, think about what this will do to your family. How will your mother handle you being arrested for murder? How would Tommy react to you being convicted?"
That got a reaction from him, just as Carlos had certainly expected it would. "Don't play that card, Carlos." He was surprised at the venom in his own voice.
"I'm not playing a card, Trent. Think about it." Carlos shook his head and looked a little sick. "I have to do my job here; I don't have a choice."
"Do your job, then, and I'll do mine." It was as final a dismissal as he'd ever made to Carlos, and his friend didn't misunderstand. He rose slowly, nodding, and walked out without another word. Trent watched him go, more shaken than he'd been willing to let on, then leaned backward, letting his head hit the floor. He stared up at the ceiling, seeing instead her face before him, smiling down.