Death Blow

by Isabella Maldonado

  The door creaked open. Sam’s wife walked in, red-rimmed eyes surrounded by dark circles bearing witness to her bedside vigil the previous night. The laughter in the room evaporated like raindrops in the desert.

  In the deafening silence that followed, Sarah spotted Veranda among the group and headed toward her. Veranda watched her in wary silence, still clutching one of Sam’s hands.

  Sarah drew in a deep breath, apparently composing herself. “Sam talked to me earlier this morning when he woke up. He explained what really happened yesterday.” She smiled down at Sam, who gave Veranda’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “He said you pushed him aside and stepped in front of him to return fire,” Sarah continued, returning her gaze to Veranda. “You saved his life.”

  “I just did what—” Veranda began.

  “Lieutenant Diaz also spoke to me,” Sarah said, lifting her fingers to Veranda’s cheek. “You risked your life to protect my husband.” Her eyes grew moist. “And in return, I slapped your face and questioned your loyalty.” She pulled Veranda into a tight hug. “I was so scared for Sam, so angry he’d been shot.” She straightened, tears streaming from her pleading eyes. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.” Veranda’s free hand found Sarah’s, and she became the middle link in a human chain, bonded to Sam and his wife.

  “I told you, Sarah,” Sam said, his voice was huskier than usual. “Veranda and I have each other’s backs.”

  Doc took off his glasses and scrubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “This hospital air aggravates my allergies. They should put HEPA filters in every room.”

  Veranda shared a knowing look with the rest of the squad as the door squeaked again.

  The nurse poked her head in the room. “Time’s up. Everyone out except Mrs. Stark.”

  Veranda released her grip and joined the others shuffling toward the door.

  “Hold up a minute,” Sam called out to her, apparently interested in a private conversation.

  “Go ahead,” she said to the squad. “I’ll catch up later.”

  When the door closed, he beckoned her closer. “Sarah wanted to give you something.” He nodded to his wife, who reached into her purse and pulled out a glossy black box that fit in her palm. “This was Sam’s.”

  Veranda pulled the lid off. “I can’t accept this. It’s too valuable.” She lifted a silver St. Michael pendant dangling from a thick chain.

  “Sam hasn’t worn it in years,” Sarah said. “I bought him a gold one when he made Homicide. You should have it.”

  She turned the medallion over. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

  Sarah dabbed at her tears with a tissue from the box on Sam’s bed tray. “Come and visit us while Sam’s home recuperating.”

  “I will,” she said, meaning it. She turned and walked through the door.

  Lieutenant Diaz waited in the corridor with his arms crossed. He glared down at her like a scowling gargoyle perched on a cathedral. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  45

  Veranda faced Diaz, raising her hands as if her outstretched palms could stave off the tidal wave of anger about to break over her. “I forgot you were coming to pick me up this morning.”

  Diaz gave her a derisive snort. “Save it, Detective.” He spun on his heel and marched down the corridor. “Let’s go.”

  “Professional Standards Bureau?” She fell into step beside him.

  “You’re forty-five minutes late for your appointment.” He gestured to a sign on the wall with directions to the various hospital departments. “I’m parked by the ER.”

  Maybe he thought she had no transportation since he hadn’t replaced her fleet car. “I’ve got my own ride. I can get to PSB.” She had no desire to get in a car with Diaz, especially when he was in such a foul mood.

  “You’re coming with me. I’ll drive you back here afterward.” His tone brooked no argument.

  This was obviously punishment for her escape this morning. The upcoming interview would be the mental equivalent of a body cavity search. She stifled an exasperated sigh and lengthened her strides to keep up as he strode along the maze of corridors leading to the ER exit.

  When they passed through the revolving door, she peered up at Diaz. His jaw line sported an uncustomary layer of dark stubble and his thick black hair looked like he’d dragged his hands through it. A lot. He obviously hadn’t gotten any more sleep than she had.

  In the parking lot, she peeled off to stand by his car’s front passenger door. They’d walked through the hospital in awkward silence. Still feeling the weight of his disapproval, she tried to redirect his anger toward a more appropriate target.

  She met his gaze across the roof of the car. “Doc said Salazar’s on lockdown upstairs waiting for medical clearance to leave.”

  Diaz glanced up at the rows of windows striping the hospital’s exterior, frowning as if he could see into Salazar’s fifth-floor room. “That’s turning into a diplomatic nightmare.” He pressed the key fob.

  After the chirp, she opened her door and angled into the front passenger’s seat.

  “The Mexican government requested expedited extradition,” Diaz said, clicking his seatbelt closed. “Salazar’s not going to contest it.”

  She pictured a battalion of Armani-suited cartel lawyers laying siege on the courthouse like an invading army. Salazar would have no reason to fight to stay in the US, despite the outstanding murder warrants in his home country. He could take his chances on trial there and, even if he lost, Mexico had no death penalty.

  “But we’re going to charge him with murdering Daria, here in the States, right?” she said. “That takes precedence.”

  “They haven’t recovered Daria’s remains.” Diaz started the car and backed out. “We don’t have a homicide warrant yet.”

  “Only because they’re still going through the wreckage. They’ll find her body sooner or later.”

  Diaz had the air of a doctor about to deliver a bad diagnosis. “And the county attorney isn’t likely to charge him even when we do.” He motioned her to let him finish when she leaned forward in her seat to argue. “Salazar’s only giving minimal answers, but he denies throwing Daria into the pit. According to your statement, you never actually saw him do it and he never admitted it to you.” He flicked a glance at her. “He claims Daria slipped and fell in.”

  “Total bullshit.” She couldn’t believe Salazar was going to use the he-said, she-said defense. And worse, it might work.

  Diaz returned his gaze to the road. “Salazar wasn’t at their armory building when SAU hit it, and the coyotes we captured aren’t talking. The only charges we can bring are the assaults on you and Rios. We’re holding him on a prior outstanding abduction warrant right now. Interpol’s sending us paperwork from six countries and counting.”

  She thought about how many people Salazar had assassinated on El Lobo’s orders. Public officials, private citizens, and rival criminal leaders across Central and South America.

  “So, he does his time here, then makes the rounds to the countries who want him for murder. He’ll spend the rest of his life bouncing from one prison to another.” She shrugged. “I don’t see the problem.”

  “Except that the Mexicans want him first,” he said, maneuvering around a slow-moving cement mixer. “As in, ahead of us.”

  “That’s not the way it works.” Agitated, she was back to leaning forward in her seat. “He’s in our custody. We get the first bite.”

  Diaz waved away her comment. “This has gone all the way to Los Pinos.”

  She knew Los Pinos, The Pines, was the Mexican equivalent of the White House. The current resident, Presidente Miguel Bustamante, was in the final year of his six-year-term. Since Mexican presidents only serve one term, Bustamante wasn’t concerned about reelection. He wanted his place in history. Pundits hotly debated whether his
campaign pledge to end the reign of terror brought on by the cartels had been fulfilled.

  The unexpected connection piqued her interest. “Why does Bustamante care about Salazar?”

  “The Villalobos cartel is the largest criminal organization in the country. Salazar is the most feared member of the cartel besides El Lobo himself. Bustamante wants to parade Salazar in leg irons to show he’s not afraid to take on the biggest bully in the school yard.” Diaz stopped at a traffic light. “Remember our conversation with Chuy at Lorena’s house?”

  “Baz wants to hire my cousin for some sort of op in Mexico City,” she said. “And we all thought the timing could be right for the summit meeting between POTUS and Bustamante.”

  “I did some checking. The meeting is scheduled to happen in two months. They’ll renegotiate tariffs and trade agreements, so everything’s on the table.”

  Understanding dawned. “Bustamante thinks the mother-of-all-perp-walks will jack up his popularity. Increase his home field advantage.”

  The light changed, and Diaz started forward again. “Agent Flag has been in constant contact with the State Department since we took Salazar in. POTUS wants leverage and Bustamante wants Salazar, so we’ve been ordered to stand by.”

  “I don’t believe this is happening.”

  He pulled into a weed-choked gravel parking lot in front of an abandoned storefront covered in peeling paint. As she registered that he’d taken a detour on the way to PSB, the tires crunched to a stop under the shade of a palo verde.

  He cut the engine and canted his large frame toward her. “What I don’t believe is that watered-down story you told in your debriefing last night.”

  She cursed herself for getting in the car with him where he could corner her. Raising her defenses, she pinned him with an indignant glare. “I answered every question.”

  “You left things out.” He rested his left arm on the steering wheel, his right on the seat back. “You know it. And I know it.”

  She had no trouble interpreting his body language. He faced her full-on, giving the appearance of openness while taking up more space in the confines of the car. He wanted answers and he would pressure her to get them.

  Responding with her own nonverbal signal, she crossed her arms. “About what?”

  He studied her reaction when he spoke. “Salazar.”

  She conjured a confused expression to hide her growing unease. She’d only left one detail out of her after-action debriefing last night. Both involved Salazar. She briefly pressed her eyes closed, remembering her deal with the devil. But Diaz couldn’t possibly know about that. Could he?

  Still maintaining her puzzled expression, she probed. “Exactly what do you think I didn’t report, Lieutenant?”

  “You said he pushed you out of the pit,” Diaz began, raising his index finger. “Knocked you clear of the building before it exploded”—a second finger went up—“and used his body to shield yours from falling debris.” He wiggled three fingers in the air. “A professional killer saved your life three times.” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  No one had been present when she’d made the pact with Salazar. A confession that he’d demanded she kill Daria in exchange for saving her life would work against him. If Salazar hadn’t talked, then Diaz was fishing.

  She uncrossed her arms to shove his hand away. “Are you accusing me of something, Lieutenant?”

  Dropping all pretense at civility, Diaz got up in her face. “Something’s going on between you and Salazar.” His nostrils flared. “Out with it!”

  He was goading her. An interrogation tactic she’d used on suspects.

  “What makes you say—”

  “He put his filthy mouth on yours!”

  Absolute silence engulfed the car for several heartbeats.

  Diaz pressed his advantage. “I left the hospital right after you hung up on me yesterday. After calling SAU, I intercepted them on the way. Sergeant Grigg wasn’t happy about it, but I drove an unmarked fleet car in front of the SAU vehicles. When I got close, I saw Salazar lying on top of you. According to your statement, you pretended to be unconscious to get the drop on him, but you never explained what he did.”

  Diaz had targeted her like a guided missile. He’d launched his attack, and she had little hope of diverting him, but she gave it a try. “The point is that I arrested him. That’s why he’s in custody right now.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I didn’t hear one.”

  “Did Salazar’s lips touch yours or didn’t they?”

  She flung her hands up in frustration. “What difference does it make? He tried to kill me.”

  “That’s a yes.” Diaz rendered his verdict with the finality of a judge, then jabbed a finger at her. “There’s more you’re not saying. When we get to PSB, you’d better be prepared to explain why Salazar is acting like you’re his … his …”

  “Like I’m his what?” The words echoed in her ear, jarring loose a fragment of memory.

  She stared at Diaz. Her jaw slackened as realization seeped in.

  “You just figured something out.” He made it a statement.

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Something Salazar said.” She spoke through her fingers. “After I arrested him, I asked him why he’d protected me. He said, ‘Because you’re mine.’”

  “He thinks you’re his mujer?” Diaz said, using the Spanish word for woman.

  Her hackles went up. She and Diaz shared the same cultural background. When a man referred to a female as his mujer, it implied deep, intimate, protective feelings for her. Mexican men often introduced their wives this way in casual settings, rather than the more formal esposa or señora. Diaz’s use of the term implied that Salazar harbored intense possessive feelings for her.

  “No, not like that,” she said, her tone sharp enough to cut. “We have the same father! You and Commander Webster were the ones who came up with the theory that El Lobo made executing me a requirement for his replacement. If you two are right, Salazar couldn’t let me die in the blast—or as a result of it—because, technically, I would be Daria’s kill, not his.”

  Diaz closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and released a long slow breath. “He needed to keep you alive so he could take credit for your death.”

  “The media would have reported that I died in the explosion. He wouldn’t get a do-over.”

  Apparently swayed by her logic, Diaz relented. “I’m sure it made perfect sense to Salazar’s twisted mind.”

  Twisted, indeed. “Now it’s my turn.” Borrowing Diaz’s tactics, she edged closer and leaned into his personal space. “I saw you whisper in Salazar’s ear while you escorted him to the transport vehicle. When he muttered something back, you tweaked his cuffs. What did you two say to each other?”

  “That’s between us.” He regarded her. “I will tell you that his parting words to you were a promise. He’s not going to stop.”

  She rolled her eyes. “He’s in custody. He can’t get to me.”

  Diaz wasn’t deterred. “Which will infuriate El Lobo even more. Three of his children are dead. His organization is like a ship taking on water. He’s scrambling to plug the holes while you’ve sidelined his most valuable asset.” He scrubbed a hand over his stubbled chin. “He’s going to come after you like never before.”

  She considered the prospect of Hector’s wrath. “I’m not afraid of him.”

  “Cartels are brought down by dozens of agents in multiple countries,” he said, paying back her previous exasperation in full. “It takes years of meticulous planning. You are one police officer. Let Flag and Ortiz and the federales handle it.”

  She looked at him in silence.

  He opened his mouth, then closed it. His eyes softened as his lips parted again. He hesitated, as if about to say something against his better judgment. “When I saw Salaz
ar on top of you and you weren’t moving, I thought … I thought you were dead. I never want to feel that way again.” He gripped her arm. “Please, Veranda, stay out of this.”

  Her gaze traveled down to his fingers clutching her forearm. “Take your hand off me, Lieutenant.”

  He didn’t move.

  She had an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Five days ago, she’d latched onto Diaz to keep him out of the storage unit. Now he was doing the same to keep her out of her father’s crosshairs. If Diaz believed she could just walk away, he didn’t know her at all.

  She owed her lieutenant the truth. “I can’t avoid this any more than El Lobo can.”

  Diaz reacted as if she’d doused him with a bucket of ice water. A fleeting grimace of pain passed over his face before he recovered, reverting to management mode.

  “Thank you, Detective. I know what I have to do now.” The temperature in the car seemed to plummet. “Your war with the cartel has to stop. In the past, you’ve had too much leeway. That’s about to end.”

  His grim determination caught her off guard. “How?”

  “There will be an investigation into all of your actions,” he said. “Followed by a Disciplinary Review Board.”

  Like their confrontation at the storage unit, this showdown had ended in an explosion. This one, however, had a delayed detonation. Diaz’s comment meant her violations of departmental policy were a foregone conclusion. A DRB only convened when the internal investigation sustained allegations against the officer. Its function was to mete out discipline.

  “You lost control of your department-issued weapon,” he continued. “As a result, a fellow detective was shot. Your cell phone was stolen, providing information allowing a criminal organization to hack into our server. Again.”

  “But we already discussed that, I was the victim of a crime and—”

  He plowed on despite her objection. “The Board will also consider the more serious allegation of disobeying a direct order given by a superior officer.”

  Her temper flared. “That’s not the point.”