"I'm Detective Sergeant Kit Walker, of the Marina Heights police. And," she added quickly as she saw the woman's expression go cold, "I meant every word I said. I'm here to help."
"My family has had enough of your kind of help." Mrs. Rivas backed up, ready to shut the door.
"Mrs. Rivas, please. I know you have no reason to trust me, but think. Why would I have come if I didn't mean what I said? What reason could I possibly have for looking into an old case that's been classified as inactive?"
The woman hesitated, studying Kit's face. Kit took advantage of her hesitation, hoping she could convince the woman.
"I'd never heard of your son's case until that morning I met you. I wasn't in the detective division when it happened. So I have nothing to go on except what you're willing to tell me."
"I told them all before. No one listened."
"I'm sorry about that. But I can't change it. I can only listen now."
"Why should I believe you will do anything? You are a cop. You protect your own."
"Just as you protect yours, Mrs. Rivas," Kit said. "But I'm not blind to the fact that there are a few cops who aren't what they should be. The only blindness I believe in is that of justice. Give me something to tip her scales."
For a long moment there was silence. And then, reluctantly, Mrs. Rivas opened her door. "Come in," she said.
The room was as tidy as the yard, although a bit gloomy with the drapes closed and dark wood paneling on the walls.
"I was closing up the house, since I have to go to work soon," Mrs. Rivas said by way of explanation.
"You're a nurse?" Kit asked, indicating her white uniform. The woman nodded. "I work for Dr. Kirk, in town." She gestured, still reluctantly, to the sofa, and Kit sat where she indicated.
"Do you wish something to drink?"
The offer was made more out of courtesy than anything else, Kit was sure, and she shook her head. "No, thank you. I know dragging up old, unpleasant memories will be difficult for you and that you'd like to get it over with quickly."
"Speaking to the police is what is difficult," the woman said, and Kit knew that while she'd consented, it didn't mean she'd thawed.
"If what you say is true, you have reason," Kit said.
The woman blinked as if surprised by the words. She studied Kit once more, intently.
"You have good eyes," she said after a moment. "I think you may be sincere."
Kit felt oddly warmed by the grudging assessment. "I told you, I can't promise you anything except that I will listen and be honest about what I find."
The woman nodded. "Ask your questions."
Kit wondered where to begin and how to do it without rekindling the woman's distrust. It suddenly seemed so cut-and-dried. The report had been short because there had been nothing else to document, nothing but a dead young man who had been this woman's son.
Finally she said simply, "I don't think reciting the facts of the case will serve any purpose. And in the end, only one thing really matters. Why do you think it was a police officer who killed your son?"
"I don't think," the woman said bitterly, "I know."
Kit sighed. Was this nothing but a desperate mother needing someone, something to blame for the horror of losing a son? Had she wasted her time and drawn attention needlessly? She grimaced inwardly at the thought and steeled herself for one last effort.
"How, Mrs. Rivas? The report says there was no evidence, no witnesses, no—"
The woman swore. Kit stopped. It was in Spanish, but she'd picked up enough here and there to know it was an oath she wouldn't have expected from the mouth of this woman.
"You said you would listen, but you're like all the others, like that man with the cigar and your other detective who hates my people. You don't want to listen."
"I am listening, Mrs. Rivas. Tell me."
"I will tell you," the woman said, nearly spitting the words out. "Your report is a lie!"
She was wasting her time, Kit thought. Robards had been right, the woman wasn't rational about this. She had no real proof, she was just looking for someone to blame, perhaps unable to accept the truth about her son—
"You look just like they did now, those police who looked at my poor Jaime's body and did not care. But I tell you, one of them killed him! I know it. Just like I know your report is a lie."
"How?" Kit said wearily, not expecting any kind of sensible answer.
"Because there was a witness."
* * *
Chapter 5
«^»
Kit, Miguel thought when he saw her light still on, was putting in as many hours as he was lately. He knew she was working hard to keep up until they could get somebody qualified to replace Gage—as if they'd ever find anyone with his kind of dedication—but it was nearly nine, and that was a bit extreme. He'd always admired her dedication, along with her integrity and energy and more things than he could count, but she couldn't keep this up.
Telling himself it was purely out of concern for a valued employee, he stepped into the detective division and walked toward her office. He glanced through the window first and saw her studying something intently. He tapped lightly on the door before opening it and peering in.
She smiled, looking glad to see him. He felt pleased, more than he would have expected, then caught himself. That smile of hers could easily be simple gratitude that it was him and not Lieutenant Robards, he told himself. And he noticed that whatever she'd just been looking at had vanished. A legal pad with a few notes on it was the only thing on her desktop.
"Working late again?"
They both said it simultaneously, then both laughed, and he supposed he looked as sheepish as she did.
"Maybe we both work too hard," he said.
"No maybe about it in your case," she answered.
He looked pointedly at his watch, then at her. "At least I was about to leave."
She gave him a crooked smile that made him smile right back at her. He had always liked her smile.
"I guess we could both be charter members of the get-a-life club," she said. "Friday night, and here we both are."
The moment she said it, he could almost see her realize who she was joking with and wish the words back. He hated the intimidation factor of his rank. But he was finding he particularly hated it with Kit.
"You start showing up on weekends," he said lightly, "and you're in trouble."
She seemed to relax. "Not me," she said. "I learned from Gage that's the first step toward obsession."
"Good. Don't try and pick up all the slack yourself. We'll get you some help soon. As soon as we get those trainees out on the street, that will free us up for the transfer. Believe it or not, there are a few foolhardy souls willing to brave your lieutenant for the slot."
"That many?" she said dryly.
He had to stop this, he thought. It really wasn't right to say such things to her. But it seemed to remove the barrier between them, and he supposed there was a certain benefit to the detectives knowing the chief wasn't unaware of the problems they were having. Now if he could just do something about it. He might have to move Robards up on his priority list.
"Anybody you'd like to see in here?" he asked her. She looked startled, and he guessed she'd never been asked for her input before. "It's your unit, you should have a say on who comes in. You'll have to be working pretty closely with whoever it is. So if you had your preference, who would it be?"
"That's hard to say, without knowing who put in for it," she said cautiously.
"Ever tactful, aren't you?" he said with a grin. "Just take your pick."
It didn't take her long. "I'd say Romero, if he'd be willing to work the detail. He's got a lot of detective experience, even if it's not in Juvie and Sex Crimes. And he handles victims well, from what I've heard."
"He's still pretty new at Trinity West," Miguel said. "Putting a guy in with less than two years at the department might ruffle some feathers."
"It'll ruffle Robards, that's for su
re," she said with a grimace. He knew exactly what she meant. Quisto Romero was everything that pushed Robards's buttons. He was young, smart, fit, up-to-date, handsome—and his skin was a shade too dark to earn him Robards's liking.
"Somehow," Miguel said, "I have a hard time seeing that as a bad thing."
Damn, he'd done it again. What was it about her that loosened his tongue like that? He was going to get them both in trouble if he didn't knock it off.
"I don't think anybody who knows Romero's record could be really upset. They've sort of been expecting it ever since he came over from Marina del Mar. And somehow I don't think Quisto would have any trouble handling it. Even … the lieutenant."
"Neither do I," he agreed. "And in fact, he did put in for it."
Kit smiled. "I hoped he might have."
"And suggested it?"
Her smile widened. "Well, maybe just a hint."
Miguel laughed. "So," he said as the thought occurred to him, "whatever happened with that old murder case you were looking into?" Her eyes flicked to the legal pad on her desk, and he saw the barest edge of a white page protruding. "Was that what you were looking at?"
She hesitated, then nodded. Things were getting really bad in here if, knowing he'd given her the okay, she was still hesitant to admit she'd been doing it. Robards was definitely moving up on his list.
"Why don't we go get a cup of coffee, and you can tell me what you've found out?"
She glanced at the foam cup that sat to one side of her desk blotter. He could see it held maybe an inch of brown liquid, and he also saw her mouth quirk.
"I meant real coffee," he said dryly. "Not the stuff that passes for it around here."
"Oh," she said with a little laugh. He'd always liked her laugh, too, it was such a light, carefree sound. And she wasn't afraid to laugh, to really get into it until tears came. He'd seen it, in the days when he and Anna and she and Bobby had done things together.
And now Anna and Bobby were both dead, and it seemed neither he nor Kit had managed much of a life since, outside their work.
"The café?" he suggested, using the familiar term for the coffee shop that was just a few blocks away. "That way you can get something to eat, too. I'll bet you haven't even had dinner."
"I'll bet I had more than you did," she countered.
He smiled crookedly at her, glad for the return of the easy banter. "So where are the applications for that get-a-life club?"
She laughed, and after a moment's hesitation agreed to join him. "I am feeling the strongest urge for some of their extra-greasy fries," she said.
"Urp," he said descriptively, and she laughed again.
After a short walk, they turned down a narrow side street, both of them glancing in unison at the jewelry store as they passed. The glass had been replaced since Gage and Laurey had been shot at in the doorway, but nobody at Trinity West was likely to forget the incident very soon.
Kit actually ordered the fries, and Miguel had to admit they smelled wonderful. As if she'd read his mind, she nudged the plate toward him.
"Neither the calories nor the cholesterol counts if you steal them."
He chuckled and snaked one of the steaming strips of potato off the plate. "The salt, on the other hand," he said as he savored it, "won't help my blood pressure."
"Your job doesn't help your blood pressure," she pointed out.
He chuckled again. "There is that."
He had the passing thought that he liked this. They'd always gotten along well when Anna was alive and she would visit them. He'd enjoyed Kit's company.
And just how are you enjoying her company now?
His hand froze in the act of reaching for his napkin to wipe some of the extra grease from his fingers.
He knew the answer to that question by the speed with which the need to revert to business rose in him. And he knew he didn't dare ignore that need.
"So what about this case?" he asked, hoping he didn't sound too urgent.
She gave him a quick look but didn't seem to notice anything untoward. "I … talked to the mother today."
He lifted a brow at her. The way she said it indicated it hadn't been an easy decision for her, and he could guess why. Some cops wouldn't care that they'd be stirring up old, painful memories. If they wanted to talk to someone about a case, even five years old, they did it. But Kit wasn't one of those. She was always aware that they were dealing with people's feelings. She was very adept at reading those feelings, and whenever she could, she was careful of them.
And when she couldn't be, she did her job anyway. It was quite a balancing act, being as tough as she had to be when necessary yet never losing that caring sensitivity that in many other cops was hidden beneath a scarred facade they'd had to develop to survive. He admired and respected her tremendously for being able to do it.
He cleared his throat. "And did she explain why she believes a cop killed her son?"
Kit nodded. And hesitated. Miguel knew she was weighing what she'd learned against the wisdom of telling him, or rather, telling her chief. Or she was deciding how much to tell him.
"Would it help," he said casually, lifting the cup of decaffeinated coffee he'd ordered in deference to the hour—he had enough trouble sleeping without adding late doses of caffeine, "if this was unofficial?"
She looked startled, but then a slight smile curved her mouth, as if she was pleased by his perception. And she had such a lovely mouth, soft, full, tempting—
He nearly burned his own mouth as shock at what he'd just thought made him gulp instead of sip.
"She told me there was a witness. An eyewitness."
He was grateful for the distraction of what she'd said, enabling him to ignore what had just happened and concentrate on something safe. Like a possibly bungled murder investigation? The irony didn't escape him.
"A witness? I thought there hadn't been any."
Kit nodded. "According to the report, there weren't"
"Why didn't she say something then?"
Kit let out a compressed breath. "That's just it. She says she did."
He frowned. He wasn't liking the sound of this at all. Kit toyed with one of the remaining french fries—when not steaming hot, they lost a bit of their appeal—and he waited, giving her the chance to work it out, knowing Kit rarely spoke in haste. Anna had told him once that Kit spoke carefully because she expected to be held to her word. He'd known instantly Anna was right. It had fit with what he'd observed, and he'd thought all the more of Kit for it.
He admired her, it seemed, for a great deal, he thought warily. And he kept adding to the list.
"Stripped of the distortion of her anger," Kit said, "what it comes down to is that she says there was an eyewitness who had seen the beating and knew the suspect for a cop. She says she told the investigating officer—the man with the cigar, she called him—but he wouldn't listen to any accusation of a fellow officer."
His frown deepened. "Go on."
"She said it wouldn't have done any good anyway, because unlike her son, the witness was a gang member, and no cop would believe him."
Miguel knew, on a practical level, it was probably true. Any statement from an avowed gangster would be viewed with more than a little suspicion. Especially if that statement involved the actions of the police, the only enemy common to all street gangs.
"It's still a violation of procedure not to talk to a possible witness. If the information is questionable, then it's our job to sort it out."
She gave him a steady look from beneath thick lashes, soft brown tipped with the same gold as her hair. "It's a violation of written procedure and your policy. Under Lipton it was pretty standard."
She wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know. His predecessor had been of the old school, a product of the times before public outcries against the police, before civilian review boards, before political correctness, the times when police authority had been unquestioned and respected. He could see the attraction of those times and
why some resented their loss. And not all of those who yearned for those days wore uniforms.
But if he had to choose between a lumbering dinosaur like Robards and a cop like Kit Walker, from either side, fellow cop or civilian, he knew which one he'd chose.
"So this witness told her he'd seen—"
He stopped when Kit shook her head. "He told her other son, Martin. Jaime's little brother."
"How little?" he asked, foreseeing another credibility problem.
Kit nodded in understanding. "He was only twelve at the time."
"So he's seventeen now?"
"Yes. Same age as Jaime was when he died."
"You talked to him?"
She shook her head. "There's the real credibility problem," she said, startling him with her use of the exact words he'd been thinking. "He's currently in the custody of the CYA." She grimaced at his expression. "I know. This whole thing is descending into farce. And it gets worse."
"Worse than the California Youth Authority?"
She nodded. "That gang witness nobody wanted to hear about or talk to?"
"Yes?"
"He's dead."
"Figures," he muttered.
"Want the clincher?"
Miguel grimaced. "No, but yes."
"He was killed in a drive-by shooting the night after Jaime Rivas was murdered."
He stared at her. "The next night?"
"Yeah, that's what I thought. A bit convenient. I've got records pulling the report, but from what she said, it sounds like just another typical rival gang hit."
He let out a long breath. "Were it anyone else, I would say I don't believe in that much coincidence."
She nodded. "Me, either. But with the life expectancy of the average gang member…" She ended with a shrug.
He pondered, then asked, "Do you want to continue?"
She gave him a surprised look. "I … yes, I do."
"Why?"
He agreed with her, there was enough about this case that bothered him to okay it, but he was curious to hear her reasons.
"I feel like we owe it to Mrs. Rivas. She's a good, honest woman. Whether she's right or wrong, she was treated badly, and her son's death was treated lightly. And she, if not he, deserves better than that."
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