Death Blow

by Isabella Maldonado

  He kissed her ear, then gently pulled the scooped neck of her T-shirt aside and peered down. She felt the hitch in his breath and knew he had spotted the upper edge of her tattoo.

  She’d only let Cole see all of it once. Standing before him in her bedroom, she had held her breath and peeled off her shirt, letting it drop to the floor. His fleeting look of disgust, quickly concealed, had confirmed her worst fears. He viewed her differently. After that, she’d insisted on complete darkness whenever they were intimate.

  Before he could tug at the bandage, she stepped away from him, released her hair to spill down her back again, and plunged her hands into the warm soapy water filling the sink.

  “There’s nothing to see.” She kept her voice light.

  He pressed closer, resting a palm on the counter on either side of her. “Veranda, we need to talk.”

  Their position should have been intimate, but it made her feel trapped.

  She turned off the faucet. “The EMT told me the laceration was fairly superficial.”

  “About the tattoo.”

  “I can probably take the bandage off tomorrow.”

  “About what it means.”

  “I’ll keep putting the Vick’s on until it closes completely after that.”

  He lifted his hands and wrapped them around her waist, pulling her tight against him. “Dammit, Veranda, you know I’m not talking about that cut.”

  She groped around in the water for the sponge. “You made your feelings clear a long time ago.”

  “So, we’re back to that again?”

  She picked up a plate and scrubbed it with unnecessary force. “You said the entire Villalobos family came from a defective gene pool.” She spoke around a lump that had congealed in her throat. “Which makes me defective in your eyes.”

  “I didn’t know you were Hector Villalobos’s daughter when I said that. Hell, no one knew.” His tone hardened a fraction. “Except you.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You could’ve told me when you first found out. Instead, you tried to hide it.”

  “With good reason.” Her temper went from simmer to low boil. “Everyone treats me differently now. They look at me like I’m infected with something contagious.”

  “I’m still here.”

  “Are you really?”

  He looked hurt. “I wish you had trusted me enough to tell me yourself. I found out from watching the news like everybody else.”

  “What if you discovered your father headed one of the most brutal criminal organizations in the world?” She didn’t wait for his response. “You’d take the secret to your grave if you could.”

  “Like you almost did.” He spoke the words softly, eyes filled with remorse. “I nearly lost you, Veranda.”

  Her cell phone buzzed on the countertop nearby.

  Cole eyed her hands, up to the elbows in dishwater, and snatched it up. Glancing down at the caller ID screen, his face reddened. “It’s your son-of-a-bitch lieutenant.”

  Her nerves, already worn from her spat with Cole, frayed. If Diaz was calling, she’d be going out to the scene of a homicide. Probably for the rest of the night. She and Cole wouldn’t be able to sort out their problems. To make matters worse, Cole and Diaz despised each other.

  Cole tapped the screen and put the phone to his ear. “What do you want, Diaz?”

  Hands dripping, she leaned over to grab a dishtowel.

  Cole put his free hand on his hip. “We’re kind of in the middle of something. She might need a few minutes to … get dressed.”

  She threw the towel down and snatched the phone from Cole before he could continue peeing in his proverbial corner. Cole had made it clear he viewed Diaz as a rival. No matter how many times she explained she couldn’t, and wouldn’t, have anything to do with her supervisor.

  “Lieutenant Diaz.” She tried to sound professional. “Whatever it is, I can respond to the scene immediately. I’m already dressed, I just need to change from jeans and a T-shirt to something more suitable.”

  She was even more annoyed for feeling the need to explain herself to Diaz. Her personal affairs were none of his business.

  “I’m glad to hear that, Detective.” Diaz sounded irritated before reverting to his usual detached supervisory manner. “A dog walker noticed a garbage bag floating in one of the canals downtown. His dog latched on and pulled it onto the sidewalk. The dog’s teeth split the bag open, spilling body parts all over the place.”

  She grimaced. “I’m guessing there was no ID in the bag with the body parts?”

  “The guy didn’t look. Too busy tossing his cookies.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re calling me. I’m not at bat, Lieutenant.”

  Since her team caught this morning’s case, another squad should have been assigned to handle the next one.

  “I’m calling you because what was left in the bag looked fresh and showed signs of an explosion.”

  “What the hell’s going on?” Her mind raced. “Two cartel hits within twenty-four hours?”

  “That’s why I want you there, Detective. You know them better than anyone. I’ll text you the location. Sergeant Jackson’s still out. I’ll respond to the scene personally.”

  “On my way, sir.” She disconnected and fixed an icy glare on Cole, who stared right back. She refused to be intimidated. “What was that bullshit about me not having any clothes on?”

  He crossed his arms.

  She jabbed a finger at him. “You made it sound like we were in bed. And you did it on purpose. You’re so damned jealous of him that you take every opportunity to rub his nose in the fact that we’re together.”

  “You may not understand how he looks at you, but I do.” Cole’s voice dropped to a low rasp. “He wants you.”

  “I don’t have time for this.” She spun toward her room.

  “I’m not going to stay here all night waiting for you.” His words sounded harsh, but she could hear the hurt beneath them.

  She stopped and looked over her shoulder. “I probably won’t be back before dawn.” Aware they had only delayed the argument, she softened her tone. “We’ll talk later.”

  “I want this to work, Veranda.” He went to the front door, jerked it open, and paused on the threshold. “You know how to find me when you’re ready to get serious.”

  Was he resentful about her getting called out, leaving their argument unsettled, or spending a night that should have been theirs at a crime scene with Diaz?

  As she struggled for the right thing to say, he shut the door behind him.

  7

  Veranda’s boots kicked up clouds of dust on the bank next to the cement canal. She paced in and out of the glow of illuminated circles cascading down from six portable lights on stands surrounding the scene. Well within the barrier of the crime scene tape, she zipped her jacket up to her throat. At night, the desert air nipped in late October. Though she’d been at the scene for over an hour, she still didn’t have a firm grasp on what had happened.

  Sam slid his thumb and forefinger along his oversized gray mustache. Over the past three months since they’d become partners, Sam’s characteristic gestures and the thought patterns they represented had become familiar. Mustache stroking signaled contemplation.

  “These body parts look too much like what was left of Oscar Cabrera for coincidence,” he said, watching the forensic techs move back and forth in a kind of crime scene ballet. “The two killings are connected.”

  Experience investigating violent death had kept Veranda’s dinner in her stomach when she first laid eyes on the torn black plastic garbage bag, its grisly contents spread across the sidewalk. She agreed with Sam’s assessment. The remains looked disturbingly similar to the carnage in the storage unit.

  The sound of pumps clacking on pavement interrupted her tho
ughts. Marci halted at the far edge of the sidewalk, her Jimmy Choos safe from the dusty canal bank and the puddle of coagulated blood.

  “Tony and I finished interviewing the dog walker,” Marci said, tipping her blonde head toward one of the nearby marked cars. “He’s with his pooch in the back of that patrol unit.”

  Veranda faced her squad mate. “What’s your take?”

  “I doubt he has anything to do with this,” Marci said. “But Tony’s making a few phone calls to check out his story.”

  Behind Marci, Tony glanced down at his notepad as he spoke into his cell phone.

  Lieutenant Diaz joined the group and shot Marci a questioning look. “Why is this guy out walking his dog along the canal at this time of night?”

  “Claims he works the graveyard shift,” Marci said. “Says if he doesn’t walk his dog before he leaves for work, his apartment will be destroyed by the time he gets home in the morning. His dog’s a beagle, and they’re known for their noses.” She grimaced. “Snoopy caught the scent pretty quickly. The owner said his dog jumped in, clamped his teeth on the bag, and wouldn’t continue with the walk until he’d dragged it out onto the sidewalk.”

  Tony slipped his cell phone into his pocket and plodded over to them. “The dog walker’s story checks out. His boss verified the guy supervises an overnight office cleaning crew downtown. I got his ID and contact info.” He looked at Veranda. “Ready to cut him loose unless there’s anything else.”

  She dismissed the witness with a wave of her hand in the general direction of the patrol car. “Let him go. We know where to find him if we need him.”

  While Tony shuffled off to carry out her instructions, she scanned the area. “I can’t see any from here, but we’ll need to check for security cameras nearby.”

  Diaz rested a hand on the gold badge clipped to his belt. “Which reminds me,” he said to Marci. “Did you and Detective Sanchez have any luck with the traffic cameras or video surveillance from the storage lot case this morning?”

  Marci sighed. “Couldn’t catch a break. We had no suspect or vehicle to work from, so we searched through the videos for people matching Salazar’s description or acting suspiciously.” She rolled her eyes. “Which includes just about everyone in that part of town.”

  Veranda followed up with a question of her own. “What about the anonymous call to the storage facility about the foul smell coming from the unit?”

  Marci shook her head. “Originated in Phoenix, but untraceable. Caller probably used a burner phone.”

  Veranda remembered a comment the Bomb tech made in the War Room earlier. “Mac said bombers usually like to have a visual on their target when it detonates.” The dispute with her lieutenant in the storage unit parking lot still fresh in her mind, she rounded on Diaz. “You said patrol had the area locked down tight. Why didn’t we catch anyone?”

  Diaz straightened. “We can discuss critical incident scene management strategies later. Right now, we have more important things to deal with.”

  The Crime Scene van’s rear bay doors slammed shut, drawing Veranda’s attention to the tech striding toward her team.

  She gave the man dressed in a Tyvek suit a quick lift of her chin in recognition. “And here I thought the dayshift guys would get all the action today.”

  “We take turns.” The tech spread his hands. “That way, everybody gets to share the fun.”

  A tone sounded. Diaz tugged his cell phone out of his pocket, brows knitting as he glanced at the display. “Wonder what dispatch wants.” He tapped the screen and put it to his ear.

  She turned back to the tech. “Will you be transporting the remains to the ME’s office?”

  He nodded. “We’re wrapping up now.”

  “Find anything interesting?”

  “Nothing conclusive yet. We’ll take what we have back to the lab and—”

  “When did it happen?” Diaz’s sharp tone attracted everyone’s attention. “Was anybody inside?” he said into his phone. “Get the Arson Investigation Unit and the Bomb Squad out there. I’ll notify Detective Cruz. She’s with me now.” He disconnected.

  She had never seen Diaz act like this. Why had he mentioned her name to the dispatcher? “What’s going on?”

  The color drained from his face. “Veranda, I …”

  She could count the times he’d used her first name on one hand. All of them in bad circumstances. She stepped closer to him. “Lieutenant?”

  He closed his eyes briefly, then met her gaze. “An explosion.”

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Dread gathered inside her like a storm about to break. “What blew up?”

  Voice thick with strain, two words escaped his lips. “Your house.”

  8

  Veranda had been to many fire scenes in her career. She had witnessed families huddled together in a ragged circle beyond the yellow perimeter tape. Shell-shocked and disheveled, they squeezed each other tight while their house, their possessions, and their memories were reduced to cinders before their eyes.

  She’d never imagined herself in the role of displaced homeowner, helpless against the flames consuming her modest bungalow as curious neighbors gathered around the block to bear witness to her personal tragedy.

  After the phone call from dispatch, Lieutenant Diaz had turned the canal crime scene over to Sam, then followed in his car as Veranda drove to her house. She had badged her way past the patrol car posted at the outer perimeter and screeched her Tahoe to a stop behind an idling hook-and-ladder truck, Diaz nosing his unmarked supervisor’s car in behind her.

  Red and blue lights sliced the night sky as she flung her door wide and leaped out. Deaf to Diaz’s shouts to wait for him, she sprinted past the firefighters and their hulking vehicles until she reached the corner lot and her footsteps pounded to a halt. Where her house once stood, only a smoldering husk remained.

  Her hand flew to her mouth, and she choked back a sob, refusing to give voice to the howl of anguish trapped in her throat. She would not allow herself to go to pieces. Not in front of everyone. A firm hand gripped her shoulder. She spoke no words and offered no resistance when Diaz pulled her to him. So much devastation. So much loss. She stared wordlessly at her ruined home and sagged against her supervisor’s chest.

  “Get your hands off her.”

  Her head snapped up at the sound of a gruff male voice to see Cole in his beige turnout glowering at Diaz. She should have realized he would be the one to respond from the fire department’s Arson Investigation Unit. The last time the two men had been within an arm’s reach, they’d come to blows.

  Diaz tightened his hold on her shoulder. “I don’t take orders from you.”

  She was in no mood for their bullshit. “My house just exploded.” She pivoted out of Diaz’s grasp. “Can you two dial it back for five minutes?”

  Cole directed his response at Diaz. “We’re investigating this as a possible gas leak, so it’s a fire department scene right now.” He brought himself up to his full height. “And I don’t take orders from any police lieutenant.”

  Diaz straightened. “It’s a joint investigation until we know what caused it. If it’s a gas leak, you guys handle it. If it’s a bomb, it’s ours.”

  “A bomb?” Cole’s icy blue gaze slid away from Diaz to settle on her. “Who the hell would blow up your house?”

  She saw the moment his jumbled thoughts converged on the only logical conclusion. As his angular features hardened into a mask of fury, Veranda seized on the possible alternate explanation he had offered.

  “Maybe this was a gas leak,” she said, looking at Diaz and Cole in turn. “Maybe a weird coincidence. Maybe …”

  The words died on her lips. She’d heard victims and witnesses say maybe over the years and recognized what it represented.

  Denial. An indulgence she couldn’t afford.

 
Cole took her by the elbow and pulled her aside. Angling his head down, he dropped his voice to a rough whisper. “We both know this was no gas leak, Veranda.” He jerked a thumb at her house. “That fucking cartel did this, and they damn near blew us both to bits.”

  A wave of remorse washed over her. She understood the realization that he had almost died in her house bubbled beneath the surface of his anger.

  She covered his hand with her own. “I never meant to put you at risk.”

  A muscle in Cole’s jaw bunched. “Promise me you’ll stop this insane vendetta with the Villalobos family.” His voice shook with barely contained emotion. “Look where your decision to fight them has gotten you.”

  She took her hand away. “I had no choice.”

  “You went after Hector Villalobos because of what he did to your mother thirty years ago. Now he knows who you are.” He swallowed hard. “That you’re his daughter.”

  “Hector never paid for his crimes. I’m a cop, Cole. I put bad guys in jail.”

  “You act like you’re the only one who can. And that’s a choice.” He reached out to touch her face, then slipped his finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his intense gaze. “I’m asking you to choose me instead, Veranda. Turn the investigation over to someone else.”

  He had put it on the table. A condition for their continued relationship. She recalled that Diaz was close enough to overhear their exchange and held her emotions in check. “You know I can’t,” she whispered.

  He let his hand fall to his side. “Can’t or won’t?”

  Without another word, he turned away and trudged toward the charred remains of her house.

  She watched Cole’s retreating back as Diaz’s deep voice came from behind her. “I can’t stand that pinche fireman, but he has a point.”

  She whirled to face him. “If you weren’t my supervisor, I’d punch you in the mouth.” Seething, she itched to vent her frustration on Diaz. “Hell, I might do it anyway. It’d be worth the suspension.”