by Jo Robertson
"Did he call after that?"
"No." Fresh tears squeezed from the edges of her brown eyes. "No, and he never came home." She fingered a tiny gold cross hanging from her neck. "When I woke up this morning and he was not beside me in our bed, I knew something terrible had happened to him."
"Francisca, did Lupe ever talk about anyone else he did business with?"
"I do not think so." She frowned. "But something was on his mind the last few days."
Rafe heard the toilet flush and a moment later Max reappeared at the end of the hall. "Do you have any idea what was worrying him?"
"No, I'm very sorry." She paused and looked down at her hands, but a moment later leaned close and whispered in his ear. "But he began to carry a gun with him when he left the apartment."
"He hadn't done that before?" Rafe hadn't noticed Lupe carrying when they met in the bar.
"No, no, I made him promise when we learned about the baby. No más de armas."
No more guns.
A few minutes later, Max and Rafe climbed into an unmarked police car and merged into traffic. "What'd you find in the bedroom and bathroom?" Rafe asked, knowing that's why Max had gone there.
"Nothing," Max answered as his eyes slid away from Rafe's. "Just the regular OTC meds and women's junk."
"No weapon, no ammo, nothing jotted on a piece of paper?"
"Nada. Nothing that shows Lupe was playing both ends." Max slid a quick glance at Rafe. "You can't worry about this, Rafe. It'll wear you down, man."
"I would've bet my life on him, but ... "
Lupe Rodriquez wasn't a violent man, and Rafe knew he wouldn't have carried unless he had a good reason. What was Lupe worried about that he hadn't told him?
Was that what got him killed?
Chapter Seventeen
Slater drove his convertible from Placer Hills to the airport instead of the work truck he usually preferred. Bella loved northern California in April. The hot sunny days of summer hadn't descended yet to turn the hills to brown wastelands. The apricot and plum trees were in blossom, their delicate pink and white petals littering lawns and sidewalks.
With the top down, air whiffled through her loose knot of hair, strands escaping the band. Finally she gave up and removed it along with the tight clips that held it in place.
She'd be a mess when they met Rafe's flight, but what did it matter? She wasn't trying to impress him anyway. That ship had already sailed. The only thing about Bella that intrigued Hashemi was the files she had on Diego Vargas.
When Slater had learned about Bella's arrangement with Rafe, he insisted on accompanying her to the airport. As sheriff of Bigler County, he argued, he had a vested interest in where the federal agent intended to poke his nose. And the dead body at Beale's Lake was county business.
Bella didn't protest. She felt better having Slater along.
Hashemi's flight was late. Because of enhanced security since September 11, Sacramento International Airport denied access to the upper level to all but ticketed passengers. Slater and Bella waited by the baggage claim for the DEA agent to arrive.
She drummed her nails on her purse and checked her watch again, stood up to check the flights display, and then walked back to the row of plastic chairs where Slater sat. He glanced up from his magazine over the tops of his sunglasses. "Sit, Bella. You can't hurry the plane by pacing."
He was right. Checking her watch every few minutes only added to her strained nerves. She sat down, blew a strand of hair out of her eyes, and then attempted to tuck the straggly pieces back with the hair clips. When she began tapping her foot, Slater reached over and placed one large hand on her knee. His slow smile made her laugh.
It was at that moment, out of the corner of her eye, that she saw Rafe Hashemi descend on the escalator, an overnight bag in hand, what looked like a laptop case over one shoulder, and a garment bag over the other. Bella absorbed the hard look of him while he was as yet unaware of her. The moment he spied her, he pulled sunglasses on and headed straight her way.
Rafe saw at once that Torres wasn't alone. He hesitated a few feet away to observe her and the man she was with. Broad-shouldered and an inch or two shorter than Rafe, he stood up with Isabella, his hand cupped around her elbow.
Good looking, in an outdoorsy sort of way. Sunglasses hid the man's eyes, but Rafe detected the hardened assurance of law enforcement in his bearing. A cop, then.
"Agent Hashemi, this is Ben Slater, Bigler County Sheriff."
They exchanged handshakes, warily summing each other up.
"Good flight, Agent Hashemi?" Slater asked.
"A slight delay," he smiled. "Security didn't like me bringing my weapon."
Isabella gaped at him. "You brought a gun on an airplane?"
Slater and Rafe exchanged glances, and a moment of camaraderie passed between them.
Slater laughed. "It's a guy thing, Bella."
A puzzled look crossed her face, which the two men ignored as they turned toward the automatic double doors and walked out into the pleasant California sunshine. They were silent as they crossed the street to the space where the sheriff had left his car, a classic convertible in a shade of baby blue that seemed out of character for the hardened officer.
He tossed the keys to Torres and she grinned widely. "You trust me with the baby?"
"Don't let me think about it too hard," Slater warned.
She laughed and slipped into the driver's seat, while Slater and Rafe stored the luggage in the trunk. As soon as she'd negotiated the parking lot exit and pulled onto Interstate 80 heading northeast toward Reno, Slater got down to business and explained the discovery of the dead body and the heroin overdose.
"You think the heroin was China White?" Rafe asked.
"It was too pure and we haven't seen that grade around here before. Never." Slater scratched his head and turned in the passenger seat to look at Rafe seated in the back.
From his position Rafe could see Isabella's eyes in the rear-view mirror. She tracked him during the entire conversation, her large brown eyes luminous. Their gazes met for a moment and she looked away quickly. Why the wariness? What did this cop mean to her?
"Hard to imagine where that quality dope could've come from," Slater continued. "We get a lot of the black tar heroin, but nothing as pure as this stuff."
"Any I.D. on the body?" Rafe asked.
"Nope. Waiting for DMV records and fingerprint hits through AFIS."
Rafe leaned his head back on the seat and closed his eyes. God, he was tired. Nearly forty-eight hours straight and he'd hardly slept.
He barely dozed off when the wailing musical tones of what sounded remarkably like a Willie Nelson tune startled him awake. Sheriff Slater reached into his pocket for his cell phone and flipped it open. He listened for a few minutes with no response other than a few grunts.
"What's happening?" Torres asked Slater in a familiar tone that made Rafe think she and the sheriff were longtime friends.
"DMV records on the dead body."
Rafe leaned forward, his interest piqued.
"A Hollywood actor, twenty-five," Slater said, "name of Jacob Foster. Ever heard of him?"
"Nope," Rafe said, looking at Torres. "Are we supposed to know him?"
"He's a new star on that daytime soap," she supplied, "called 'The Heart and the Heartless.'"
The look Slater gave her was comical. "You're kidding, right?"
Isabella laughed. "You've never heard of the show?"
Slater reached over and tousled her hair. "Why the hell would I have heard of it, Bella?"
"I've never heard of it either," Rafe added.
"What a pair of Neanderthals. Jake Foster is the newest hottie on the 'tween scene."
"Humph, that explains it," Slater grumbled.
"The important question," Rafe interjected, "is why a well-known Hollywood star is lying naked and dead in your county?"
The words had a sobering effect, and Slater and Isabella exchanged a meaningful glance
. Slater unloosened his seat belt and turned fully around so he could look Rafe straight in the eye.
"And you're gonna help us find the answer to that question, right Agent Hashemi?"
Rafe had a feeling he wouldn't like to go toe to toe with Sheriff Slater. Should it come to that, the sheriff would be a formidable opponent.
#
Slater, Rafe, and Bella joined Dr. McKenzie, the coroner, in the basement of the Sutter Memorial Hospital which housed the Bigler County Morgue. The medical examiner pulled out the metal drawer which held the body of Jacob Foster and pulled the sheet down to his waist.
In death Jacob Foster, budding movie star, wasn't as pretty as on daytime television. Bella stared at the putty-like, sallow flesh of his face and neck. The Y-shape of the autopsy incision slashed crudely through his torso. The pathetic body of this young man contrasted sharply with the ebullient, lively actor Bella remembered from the small screen.
"The toxicology report is on your desk, Sheriff," McKenzie said. "But the lab confirmed a lethal dosage of a 97% pure quality of heroin in the bloodstream."
"Addicts think they're taking a lower quality and unintentionally overdose," Rafe speculated.
"But where'd he get it?" Slater asked. "You can't find high-grade heroin around here. Our local addicts prefer meth. It's cheaper and easy to make." He rubbed his five-o'clock shadow. "There's been no word on the street about this stuff."
Bella shifted her feet restlessly. She knew the drug connection was important and Slater had to follow up on it, but she didn't want to lose focus on the human trafficking problem.
"Let's go back to my office and talk," she suggested, turning away from the empty body. "We need to tie Foster's death to Diego Vargas."
Both Slater and Rafe stared at her like she was crazy, but she spun on her heel and walked to the elevator leading up to the hospital lobby. They hastened after her, catching the elevator doors as they were closing.
Slater spoke first. "Let's take Agent Hashemi to his motel room, and then we can get together and talk about the case."
Bella looked to Rafe for his opinion, and when he nodded, her fervor died down. They were right. She had a bad habit of rushing into situations without first thinking through the consequences. She slanted a glance at Rafe as the elevator rose to the first level. When would she learn?
Slater dropped Rafe off at the Wiltshire Extended Motel just off Interstate 80 and gave him directions to the courthouse. They agreed to meet at 4:00 in Bella's office on the second floor. They wouldn't be interrupted because Charles Barrington would have left by then.
The district attorney never stayed past four. He pretended he was out and about on county court business, but Bella knew he was just cutting his workday short.
Slater and Bella decided to have a late lunch in the interim, and after leaving Hashemi at the Wiltshire, they drove to a local Chinese restaurant in Placer Hills near the courthouse where she often ate with Slater and his girlfriend Dr. Kate Myers. This week Kate was in D.C. at a forensic science conference where she was the guest speaker.
After ordering – walnut prawns for her, explosion beef for Slater – Bella sipped on her fully-loaded Pepsi and eyed him speculatively. "So what do you think?"
"About what?"
"Agent Hashemi, of course."
Slater always had the knack of sizing her up immediately. She could never hide anything from him, much like her older brothers, who'd always kept close tabs on her in high school. Now he looked at her as if he knew that she wasn't talking about Hashemi's government credentials.
"Seems pretty competent to me," Slater drawled, "if a little intense."
"He's aggressive," she said flatly and then leaned in and lowered her voice. In a small town like Placer Hills, you always assumed your conversations could be overheard and repeated back to you a few days later with a gossipy-skewed slant. "He really wants the Vargas case."
"I know that, Bella. I was there when Barrington laid down the law."
"I can't let him take over my case, Slater."
He lifted one shaggy brow. "Can't or won't?"
She tossed her head. "Same difference."
He touched her shoulder in a reassuring pat. "You sure you're not letting pride get in the way? Now, hear me out," he continued when she would've protested. "This Rafe fellow seems like a stand-up kind of guy, right?"
She nodded grudgingly.
"And even though he's a federal lackey," he joked, "I don't think he's going to cheat you out of your fair share of the glory."
"It's not the credit I want, Slater," she corrected. "You know that."
"Right." He smiled gently. "But one day you'll have to let go of that." He lifted her chin and made her look at him. "If you don't, it'll eat you alive."
She batted his hand away. "Sure, sure, you always think you know everything."
She smiled to let him know she'd take his advice into consideration, and then turned serious. "I just want to get this bastard, Ben. Vargas is pure evil and I want him so bad I can almost taste it."
Chapter Eighteen
"Eliminating Rodriquez was a big mistake," the man said, leaning against the car's fender, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, "and threatening the agent was even more stupid."
Gabriel Santos placed a hand on the car's trunk and hovered close to the man's ear. Although they were the same height, Santos outweighed the man by at least fifty pounds. "El Vacquero does not think so," he said, although he privately agreed.
"Fuck El Vacquero!" The man pushed off from the car, spat out the butt, and ground it beneath his boot. He stabbed a finger at Santos' chest, a move the bodyguard found both amusing and dangerous. "Vargas wants my cooperation, he plays by my rules. Rodriquez was a mistake."
The cop had been an invaluable contact for a number of years, and perhaps it was best to let him continue to think he was in charge. Santos contemplated him thoughtfully and nodded briefly. "I will pass the message on."
"Good," snarled the man, his pale eyes eerie in the dim reflection from the car's taillights. "See that you do. I put my career on the line for the information I passed on to Diego." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a set of keys. He opened the car with the alarm button and settled behind the steering wheel. "I had the situation under control. Now the DEA's gonna be crawling up my ass."
Santos remained silent. He'd learned long ago how to hold his tongue and bide his time. One day, when the cop was no longer necessary to Diego's organization, he would regret the insults that now flowed so easily from his mouth. Vargas had a long memory.
"Tell Diego I'll deal with the mess he's made," the man flung out the window as he pulled away, "but no more hits unless I give the word. Capeesh?"
Santos merely nodded again and watched the dwindling taillights as the man pulled out of the docking area, wondering again at the man's hubris. ¡Poli del idiota! Speaking bad Italian to un mexicano.
If Santos ran Diego's organization the way the police ran theirs, they would have been out of business long ago. Unfortunately, having a man like him on the inside made Santos' life easier. For the time being.
He walked the few blocks to where he'd parked the black Chrysler. Good, the wheels and rims were intact. He could never be certain here at the docks near the Gerritson Housing Project where the local gangs did not recognize the automobile belonging to Diego Vargas. Some young gang member might want to jump in by stealing expensive hubcaps.
The trip to his infrequently-used apartment in West Sacramento took over an hour, and when he arrived, Santos permitted himself a single nightcap before retiring to set the alarm for his early morning ride north to pick up Diego.
Before extinguishing the light, Santos reached into the nightstand drawer and withdrew the ancient photograph. He had only a vague notion of why he kept the picture, but he'd had it so long now that its familiarity was like an old acquaintance, perhaps even a friend.
Its faded colors had taken on a sepia look now and the corn
ers curled up. Slashes cut by folds and long ago fingering of the photo made the girl's features nearly impossible to see clearly.
But he knew that she was very beautiful, a woman such as he had never before seen. That mane of rich chocolate was not easily forgotten. Santos remembered every glint of the Mexican sun that reflected off her head and captured the reddish strands running through it. In his dreams, he felt its silken touch as it slid through his fingers, thick softness like the rich pelt of a fine breed of animal.
He sighed. He had been a very young man then, easily captivated by a pretty girl, but he did not think it was his youth that caused him to remember this particular one. Ella era muy hermosa – she was very beautiful in a fragile, unearthly way. But with a strange core of strength in her, like the tensile of thin wire.
Santos turned off the light and contemplated the long journey to pick up Diego at La Casa de Mujeres. Ay, he despised the ugliness of this part of the business.
#
"Why is Torres so bent on making this case?" Rafe asked as he and Slater waited in the sheriff's small office. "She's resisted the drug angle with Diego Vargas from the start. Doesn't she understand it'll be easier to prosecute that case than the human trafficking?"
"You'd better let her explain her reasons for that ... when she knows you a little better," Slater answered, his feet propped up on the edge of his desk.
Rafe assessed the office. Crammed with several filing cabinets, Slater's desk, and the guest chair, it offered little room to turn around. A wide window looked out into the bullpen where he could see Torres talking on one of the phone lines.
She gestured wildly with her hands, the receiver tucked under her chin. A moment later she slammed down the receiver and spat air through her lips so hard that Rafe saw the loose brown strands tangle around her mouth.
Catching his eye through the window, she froze a moment, her lips still pursed, color starting to rise in her cheeks, a pretty pink color even in the harsh fluorescent lights of the bullpen. She frowned and then gestured for them to join her in the bullpen.
"Let's go to my office." She gathered her folders from the purloined desk of a broad man with the face of glistening coal who stood respectfully to the side.