The Christmas Present

by Tracy Wolff

“I know. But I can’t see Nacho buying any of his customers lunch.”

  “He’s dealing?” This from Gabriel.

  “That’s what I hear.”

  Rafael cursed. “You know that’s not a good thing. The kid’s already an amoral ass. I can’t wait to see what a few months as a dealer turns him into.”

  “I think it’s too late to worry about that.” Jose took another big bite.

  “I know. But still…” Rafa ran a hand over his eyes. You can’t save them all, he reminded himself. Especially the ones who aren’t interested in salvation. It grated that a teenager was going bad in front of his eyes. He still remembered Nacho as a little kid. He’d been skinny and mean even then, but there’d been something endearing about him, anyway. Now he was just plain mean.

  Regardless, Rafa couldn’t help wondering if the rest was still there, too, just buried beneath the crap. On his way out of the restaurant, he stopped by the table. “Hey, Nacho. Who’s your friend?”

  “Screw you, Rafael.”

  “Thanks, but you’re not my type.” He held out his hand to the other kid, who shook it, but then looked as if he wanted to swim in a vat of hand sanitizer.

  Rafa didn’t get what these two were doing together, but he’d bet the twenty in his wallet that it had something to do with the drugs Jose had been talking about. “We’re having a barbecue at the center this weekend. You guys should drop by.”

  “Yeah, ’cause that’s going to happen,” Nacho sneered.

  “Too busy picking on defenseless women to make time for a hamburger, huh?”

  “Too busy avoiding pendejos like you.”

  “Well, that’s your prerogative.” He looked at the preppy kid. “Nice to meet you…?’

  “Thomas.”

  “Thomas,” he repeated. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  “Maybe.”

  As Rafael hustled to catch up with the rest of the guys, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen the new kid before. Anymore than he could ignore how uncomfortable that knowledge made him.

  “THANKS SO MUCH FOR seeing me today.” Vivian extended her hand to each homicide detective in turn. “It’s nice to meet you both.”

  “Same here.” Detective Anthony Barnes nodded to her, a lock of his too-long, sand-colored hair falling over his baby face as he did so. He looked younger than Diego, and the idea that this guy had arrested her client for murder threw her for a major loop.

  “You want some coffee?” demanded Daniel Turner, the other detective, even as he raised a hand to signal the waitress.

  “That’d be great,” she said, though she’d already had an entire pot of the stuff that morning. But she didn’t want to seem prickly, especially since these two had been nice enough to meet with her when other detectives would have turned up their noses.

  She smiled at Turner, and was glad to see that he, at least, looked like her idea of a homicide detective. A little overweight, a little rumpled, with lines in his face that showed every one of his forty-odd years, he seemed like he’d been doing this job for a long time.

  “Thanks again for meeting me,” she said, in an effort to keep everything cordial. “I know how busy you are.”

  “That’s okay.” Turner shrugged. “We wanted to get a look at the woman who was defending that piece of scum, anyway.”

  Maybe he’d been on the job too long, Vivian thought, as sheer strength of will kept a pleasant expression on her face. “So, you’re really convinced Diego did it?”

  “We’re not in the habit of arresting people for murder if we think they’re innocent.” The detective’s voice was deliberately bland.

  “Of course. I wasn’t trying to imply that you did. It’s just that after reviewing the case, so much of the evidence seems circumstantial to me.”

  “Enough circumstance adds up—if you know what I’m saying.”

  “I do. But still, why Diego? I know you always look at the boyfriend or husband first, but sometimes he isn’t the killer.”

  “Most of the time he is.” Turner reached for one of the little packets of half-and-half and ripped it open. “In this case, Sanchez is definitely it. He’s practically got a scarlet A branded into his chest.”

  “Why? Witnesses say they saw him drop the victim off at her house at least a couple hours before she was murdered.”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t circle back,” Barnes interjected. She glanced at him and was surprised at how uncomfortable he looked, as if he’d rather be anywhere but in this crappy little coffee shop.

  Deciding to push him, she replied, “It doesn’t mean he did, either. It seems to me he really loved that girl.”

  “Yeah, well, appearances are deceiving. If you learn nothing else in this foray of yours into criminal court, learn that,” Turner said, before Barnes could speak.

  “Oh, I think that’s a lesson I’ve already learned.” Vivian smiled sweetly at him as she let her eyes run over him from head to toe.

  He flushed. “Good. Because no one else had motive, means and opportunity.” He tore open two packets of sugar and dumped them into his coffee, then took a huge swig without bothering to stir it.

  “Means?” she asked as she went over the file in her head for what felt like the millionth time. “I didn’t see anything in the case file about you finding the murder weapon.”

  “I don’t need a weapon. That kid was popped for carrying a knife before he was twelve years old. He definitely knows his way around a switchblade.”

  “Yes, but the case was dismissed as self-defense. Besides—”

  “Self-defense, my ass. Is that what he called murdering his unborn kid?” Turner snorted, then shook his head as he repeated, “Self-defense.”

  “Besides,” she said again, “Diego hasn’t been in any trouble since then—no fights, no problems at school, no drugs. His school counselor seems to think he’s had a pretty rough time of it.”

  “Yeah, well, the vic sure as hell didn’t have an easy time of it either. Pregnant at sixteen, living with two of the scummiest dealers in—” He stopped abruptly, but it was too late and he seemed to know it.

  Vivian was careful to keep a neutral expression as she seized on the opportunity Turner had inadvertently provided.

  “So, you do know Esme’s brothers deal drugs?” She made sure to direct the question to both detectives, then watched as Turner’s face turned beet-red. But his reaction wasn’t nearly as interesting as Barnes’s was. The young detective started drumming on the table with the same nervous energy Diego had displayed when she was questioning him a few nights before.

  Trying to capitalize on his obvious discomfort, she leaned forward and asked softly, “Why didn’t you at least look at the brothers—or their rivals—when Esme turned up dead, Anthony?”

  “We did.” Once again it was Turner who answered. “There was nothing there.”

  “Nothing there? They’re gang members and drug dealers, and both have been in and out of the system for years. How can there be nothing there?”

  “Because they didn’t kill her!”

  “Maybe, but what about other gangs? Other dealers? I hear there’s always a turf war going on in this neighborhood.”

  “What do you know about this neighborhood?” Turner didn’t bother to hide his contempt. “You’re over here doing your little pro bono case, and as soon as it’s done you’ll run as far and as fast as you can back to where you belong.”

  “Where I’m from is not the issue here.”

  “Well, it should be. You do-gooders are all alike. You come over here thinking you can save some kid who doesn’t deserve to be saved. Maybe you save him, maybe you don’t, but either way you make life ten times harder for the victim’s family while you’re doing it. And then you just walk away.”

  “What about arresting an innocent man?” she asked quietly. “How does that affect the victim’s family?”

  Turner’s face went from red to purple, and for a second Vivian feared he might be havi
ng a stroke, but when he spoke, his voice was steady and poisonous. “I wouldn’t know. Your client did it and he’s going down for it. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t get a needle in the arm by the time the D.A.’s done with him. Killing a pregnant woman counts as special circumstances.”

  “Yes, well, the judge didn’t think that scenario was very likely. Otherwise Diego never would have had a chance to make bail.” She gave as good as she got, refusing to back down.

  “Look, lady, we’ve got motive, means and opportunity. That’s a slam dunk.”

  “Really? Because when I was looking through the file, it seemed to me that you had nothing. What’s the motive again?”

  “He didn’t want the baby. According to Esme’s friends and brothers, Diego was getting cold feet.”

  “These are the same brothers that we’ve already established deal drugs?” she asked. “The ones with the shady rivals?”

  “That doesn’t make them liars.”

  “No, but it doesn’t make them paragons of reliability, either. What else have you got?”

  “He could come and go any time from Esme’s place—that’s opportunity.”

  “Yeah, but nobody saw him there and he has an alibi.”

  “Somebody did see him—the woman who lives across the street—and his alibi’s shaky.”

  “So’s your evidence, but you don’t see me whining about that, do you? Your witness is a ninety-three-year old Chinese woman with cataracts. If I paraded Santa Claus in front of her, she’d finger him as the killer.”

  “But she didn’t finger Santa Claus, did she? She fingered your client.”

  “Because he was the only Mexican in the lineup. I can’t wait to see what a judge has to say about that.”

  Turner shook his head in disgust. “Jesus, you’re just as bad as all the other defense attorneys, you know that? I thought a divorce attorney might have more sense.”

  She started to snap back another smart-ass comment, but then his words sunk in. “How do you know what kind of lawyer I am? I never mentioned it to you.”

  “What, are you keeping it a secret?” Turner shot his partner a furious look and then pushed back from the table. “This conversation is over. And don’t call me again. If you want to talk to me, you can do it in court.” He stormed off.

  Barnes smiled awkwardly as he stood. “Sorry about that, Ms. Wentworth. He gets a little excited sometimes.”

  “It’s fine.” She studied him for a second, more than a little intrigued by his discomfort. “Tell me something, Anthony. If Turner hadn’t been pushing for it, would you have arrested Diego Sanchez for murder?”

  “Absolutely.” His voice was firm, resolute, but his eyes never made it past the bridge of her nose. “I have to go now.”

  “I know. Thanks again for meeting me.”

  “No problem.” He reached into his pocket for his wallet, but she stopped him.

  “Don’t worry about it—coffee’s on me. It’s the least I can do after pulling you down here for nothing.”

  He didn’t say anything, just nodded and walked quickly away.

  Vivian watched as Barnes pushed the door open, then continued observing him through the front window as Turner caught his arm outside the diner and said something with an ugly look on his face.

  Turner’s defensiveness was definitely interesting, almost as interesting as Barnes’s inability to look her in the eye. She wasn’t sure what any of it was about. It could be nothing, just their standard operating procedure, but her instincts were telling her there was a lot more to their behavior—and this case—than met the eye.

  Digging in her briefcase for her cell phone, she dialed the office.

  “Stanley and Baker, Vivian Wentworth’s office. How may I help you?” Her assistant’s chirpy voice came through loud and clear.

  “Hey, Marcy. I need you to get one of the investigators on something for me.”

  “Sure, Viv. Let me grab a pen…. Okay, shoot.”

  “I want to know everything there is to know about SFPD homicide detectives Anthony Barnes and Daniel Turner. They operate out of the Tenderloin Station, on Eddy Street.”

  “Got it.” Her voice dropped. “Is this about that case Richard gave you? The pro bono one?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know, reporters have been calling all morning to talk to you. They want a statement.”

  “Of course they do.” Vivian was disgusted at her own stupidity. It wasn’t exactly a surprise the press were interested when the city’s top law firm filed papers with the courts to defend such a violent crime. The miracle was that it had taken them two days to discover what she’d done on Tuesday morning.

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That you were presently hard at work on the case and would contact them as soon as you had had a chance to look over all the evidence.”

  “You’re a lifesaver. I’ll get a statement written up tonight, and you can e-mail it to everyone tomorrow.”

  “Great, I’ll tell them that and maybe it’ll get everyone off my back a little.”

  Vivian laughed. “Don’t count on it.”

  “I won’t.” There was a pause. “Oh, Viv, how do you want me to pay the investigators? Does it come from your office accounts or…”

  “I didn’t even think of that.” She paused, sorted through her options. “Look, tell them to bill us for now, and I’ll talk to Richard this afternoon about how much leeway he’ll give me in terms of expenses for the case. If worse comes to worst, I’ll pay for it myself. Either way, I want that report on my desk by the beginning of next week.”

  “Got it.”

  “Oh, and call Rafael Cardoza at Helping Hands and ask him if I can push tonight’s meeting until seven-thirty. I have a few things I need to do this afternoon before heading over there.”

  “Sure.”

  “And check in with Jenny and see where she is in drafting the complaint over the police questioning Diego without representation. E-mail me with her answer.”

  “Is that all?”

  Vivian laughed. “For now. I’m due in court in forty minutes.”

  “Good luck—not that you’ll need it. The Markison case is in the bag.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears.”

  After she hung up with Marcy, Vivian took a sip of her forgotten coffee, then wished she hadn’t. No wonder Turner had been adding cream and sugar left and right—the stuff tasted like paint thinner.

  Pushing the coffee aside, she leaned back in her chair and tried to make sense of all the pieces of Diego’s puzzle she’d managed to gather in the last few days. But she couldn’t do it. Too many things about this case stank to high heaven.

  Barnes’s nervousness.

  Turner’s determination that Diego was guilty, despite the lack of a murder weapon or definitive proof.

  Esme’s brothers’ extracurricular activities.

  The D.A.’s offer of a deal—as pathetic as it was—on such a high-profile case.

  Richard’s assignment of a divorce attorney to a case that needed a very skilled defense attorney, especially when the press were breathing down everyone’s neck.

  She rubbed a hand over the tight muscles of her own neck. This case was a disaster waiting to happen. And she didn’t have a clue how she was going to avert it.

  WHERE THE HELL WAS DIEGO? Rafael checked his watch for the third time in as many minutes. Diego was late, really late, and that just wasn’t like him. The kid was conscientious to a fault, always showing up on time, never taking off work so much as five minutes early. The fact that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be now meant something bad had happened.

  Rafael could feel it.

  For the second time that night, he scoured the center for the kid. But Diego wasn’t in the game room, or the kitchen, or outside on the basketball courts. He wasn’t taking a shower or hanging out in Rafa’s apartment as he sometimes liked to do.

  He wasn’t anywhere.

  Stressed-out and more than a
little concerned, Rafael bounded up the back stairs for the second time, checked the classroom Diego had been working, then searched all of the other rooms up there as well, hoping like hell Diego had decided to start work on one of them instead of checking in first, even though he’d never done that in the past.

  But by the time he got to the last classroom, Rafa was forced to acknowledge again that Diego wasn’t there. Worry gnawed at his stomach, a painful ache that was growing with each passing second.

  Why wasn’t Diego where he was supposed to be?

  And what the hell was Rafael supposed to tell Vivian when she showed up? He glanced at his watch yet again. It was seven twenty-five and he could only imagine what she would think if her client was a no-show.

  Part of him couldn’t help thinking the worst, and he knew the kid better than anyone.

  Had Diego freaked out and fled, worried that he wouldn’t beat the case? Sure, he was mature and smart and pretty levelheaded for a seventeen-year-old, but he was still just a kid. One who had lost everything that mattered to him except for his freedom.

  Had he taken off in a desperate effort to preserve the illusion of that freedom? But spending his life running, always looking over his shoulder, was just a different kind of prison. One Rafael prayed Diego would never have to experience.

  Damn it, how was he going to find the kid if he had run?

  And if he hadn’t run, then where the hell was he? Rafael paced the long hallway outside the second floor classrooms as his mind whirled with possibilities.

  Had Diego been mugged? Jumped? Shot? The sad fact was a lot of things could happen to a person in this neighborhood, from walking into a corner drug deal to interrupting a robbery.

  Diego had grown up on these streets, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t vulnerable, especially after being arrested for Esme’s death. Right now, he could be lying somewhere in a pool of his own blood….

  The thought galvanized Rafael into action, had him taking the steps three at a time and then whipping through the game room as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. And maybe they were. If Diego had been hurt—

  “Still no sign of Diego?” he called on his way through.

  A chorus of no’s greeted him, then one of the new girls—Lupita, he thought her name was—called, “I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”