by Jo Robertson
"Don't you think I know that?" Rafe's face turned dark and an angry blush crept up from his white collar. "God, I want Vargas so bad I can taste it."
Bella rose and walked around the desk, leaning against the edge. "Vargas is a maniac, an insane madman. We'll get him on any charge we can make stick." They all realized it was a kind of truce.
Slater moved across the room and paused at the door. "I've got county business looming ahead of me," he said with a wry smile, "but I'll personally oversee the transport of the girl."
Bella nodded. "We can't let anything happen to her."
"It won't." Slater walked down the hall, his shoes clicking loudly on the linoleum flooring.
Bella and Rafe were silent for long minutes after he'd left. The weight of this latest discovery lay between them like a fog of grief and disappointment.
"Come on, Torres," he finally said. "Let's have that late breakfast."
"I'm not hungry," she murmured.
"Early lunch, then," he wisecracked, but she could see his heart wasn't in it.
Last night Bella had started putting together a proposal for using Santos as a wedge against Vargas. Dangerous business, but she was convinced Vargas' only weakness was his reliance on Santos. And she'd seen something in the bodyguard's flat, dark eyes that had spoken to her in some crazy way. She wanted to approach him alone.
Without his boss around. Without anyone knowing what she was doing.
#
Santos did not mind the intrusion of the attractive Latina ADA into his personal life. He had not completely forgotten how to admire a pretty, young woman. What he minded very much, however, was the uncanny resemblance the woman bore to the dead girl whose picture he carried with him always.
ADA Torres approached him at his home, a sacrosanct habitat. At first, this seemed a violation. The persistent ringing of the doorbell interrupted his dinner, and he ignored the annoying sound for a while, but when it appeared the intruder would not leave, he wiped his hands on a kitchen towel, tucked his handgun into the back of his trousers, and looked through the peephole before opening the door.
The woman occupied the small landing to his condominium like an avenging angel, holy retribution surrounding her like a refiner's fire. ¡Ay, madre del Dios! This one was a starving dog with a scrap of bone. She would not go away.
"Assistant District Attorney Torres." He barred his teeth and looked down his nose at her. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
The strap of her purse hung over her shoulder and even in her high heels she barely reached his chest. She planted both fists on slender hips. "We need to talk."
"We have nothing to say to each other."
"I think we do, Mr. Santos."
He grinned then, amused that such a little one could be so fierce a warrior. She reminded him of little Cory when she tried to defy her father. "Why should I talk to the district attorney's office? To do so would only disadvantage me."
He moved to shut the door on her, but she inserted her foot into the doorway. He glanced down, back up to her face again, and flashed a warning. "That is a dangerous move, Ms. Torres. Perhaps you should reconsider invading my home in this bellicose manner."
"Bellicose?" The woman smiled mockingly. "You have a fancy repertoire of language, Santos." He noticed she'd dropped the courteous salutation. "Perhaps you should consider how much trouble you and your boss are in."
"And why should you concern yourself with our troubles?"
"Let me in and I'll explain."
He assaulted her with his eyes, hoping to intimidate her. "As I explained, there is no advantage to me in giving you access to my home."
"How will you know if you don't hear what I have to say?" When he hesitated, she pressed her advantage. "Five minutes. If you don't like what I say, I'll leave."
What was it about this one that caused him to open his door to her, to gesture her into the entry and then into the small kitchen where he prepared tamales and a giant salad? He could only conclude that she had piqued his curiosity. Why else would he make so incautious a gesture?
ADA Torres could only offer him a great deal of trouble. He thought of the picture stashed in his bedside drawer. Ay, this little avenger was a world of trouble.
Sí, un mundo del apuro.
Chapter Twenty-five
"I am preparing dinner," he said with a courteous nod and a wave behind him. "Come in."
Santos possessed the old-world courtliness of Diego Vargas, but unlike his boss, carried it like a natural mantle. Vargas wore a thin veneer of civility, but beneath the fancy façade beat the heart of a thug and a barbarian. Of Santos, Bella wasn't sure.
She had no overt evidence of the difference between the two men. Both, after all, were nasty criminals, but on some gut level she believed for all his viciousness, Santos would consider it rude to renege on a promise. If she convinced him to agree to a deal, he would keep his word.
As he tied an apron around his waist, he made a paradoxical picture. He reminded her of a fully-grown Arctic male wolf she'd once seen in a documentary, a beautiful, graceful creature with small, flat ears and a thick white pelt.
But one she wouldn't turn her back on.
Bella hesitated a second before deciding she'd gain nothing unless she took a gamble. "Thank you."
She dropped her purse on a bar stool in the kitchen area and observed Santos as he finished tossing a salad. The rational part of her brain wondered what the hell she was doing entering the camp of the enemy. She knew for a fact that Santos had killed men. Still, he acted so ... normal, relaxing in his own kitchen, preparing dinner for a guest.
Santos was a cold-blooded killer who dealt in drugs and death, she reminded herself, as she folded her hands on the granite countertop. "Let's talk business."
He pierced her with a strange look before answering. "¡Prisa, prisa! Hurry. Always hurry. That is not the Mexican way. Slow down. Eat."
Was he serious? Have dinner with a known criminal as if they were best friends?
He must have read the expression on her face. "¿Qué? Ms. Torres, you are not afraid of me, are you?" A hint of humor played around his mouth, a beautifully carved shape cruelly bisected by a giant scar.
She bristled. "Of course not." A moment later she sniffed the air. "What's cooking?"
"Tamales. And my tamales are muy deliciosos. The recipe was handed down from mi abuela." His grandmother.
If dinner was what it took to get Santos to make a deal with her, then dinner it was. "Sure, why not?" She glanced at her wristwatch. "I have a few minutes before I have to meet Sheriff Slater." A blatant lie, but at least Santos would think she was expected somewhere.
They ate in silence at a small bistro table and chairs arranged on the patio which looked down on Sacramento's Tower Bridge. The view of the bridge over the Sacramento River at sunset was gorgeous.
"This is very good," she said at last, dabbing her lips with the cloth napkin he'd provided.
"Gracias."
Santos poured coffee for both of them and tilted his chair back, balancing a ridiculously small cup in his large palm. He appeared relaxed and comfortable as he studied her for a few moments. "So what business deal do you offer me, Assistant District Attorney Torres?"
He flashed a shark's smile as if he knew things she couldn't understand. "What proposition is so attractive that I would forsake who I am? Compromise my honor?"
"Honor?" Bella heard the incredulity in her voice.
Santos slammed down the legs of his chair and nearly shattered the cup as he banged it on the table. "Sí, honor. Are you foolish enough to imagine that a man such as I has no código del honor?"
Code of honor, she mused. She'd have to tread carefully. "Aren't you the same kind of man as Diego Vargas?" she countered, her voice low.
"Is that what you think?"
She shrugged and spread her hands as if the answer were obvious, but remained silent this time.
"¡Madre del Dios!" Santos leapt from his chair, it teet
ered to the concrete flooring, and he gathered up the used plates. He marched into the kitchen and began rinsing the plates and stacking them in the dishwasher.
Bella trailed him, leaned against the counter, and for a few minutes, watched his swift, economical movements. "If I thought you were exactly like Vargas, I wouldn't be here."
Those flat, black eyes in the scarred face studied her intently, as if analyzing the sincerity of her words. "Let us sit," he said after drying his hands.
He indicated a comfortable white leather sofa in a living room off the kitchen. "What is your proposition, Ms. Torres?"
She sat and turned sideways beside him. "I'd like you to testify against Vargas."
The look on Santos' face was comic. "Surely you jest."
"I'm deadly serious, Mr. Santos." She refused to look away from him although she felt the wild pulsing of the vein at her throat.
"And for this ... testimony what do I get in return?"
"Some kind of ... immunity."
"Complete immunity?"
"That depends on how damaging the testimony is."
Santos crossed his legs at the knee, a gesture that would have seemed effeminate in a less commanding man. His left arm rested on the sofa back, his fingers drumming idly on the pristine leather. He jabbed her with those sharp, emotionless eyes until Bella began to feel uneasy. She considered terminating the conversation.
Without knowing she would do it, she stood suddenly, ventured toward the bar stool where her purse still lay, and retrieved her cell phone. She punched Slater's number on speed dial.
"Why do you wish so badly to catch Diego Vargas?" He spoke at her ear, startling her.
She ended the connection. "What?"
His gruff voice softened, taking on the tone of a priest or therapist. "What sin has El Vaquero committed to make your fight with him so personal?"
She dropped the phone back in her purse, feeling like a young girl caught in a misdeed. "There's nothing personal," she retorted. "I'm just doing my job, the task of putting scumbags like your boss away for a very long time."
Santos' laugh was a booming eruption from his barrel chest. "You should not use such fiery words when you are trying to persuade me of something, pequeno guerrero."
Little warrior! The reference to her small stature irritated her, and she scowled at him.
Santos read the precise moment when Isabella's decision reflected in her face. A conciliatory look came first. He marked her struggle between resignation and determination, and admired her strength and hardiness.
Sitting on the barstool, she clutched her handbag on her lap, while he walked around the counter to stand opposite her.
"I don't care about the drugs," she confessed, staring out the patio window to the dark night of the city.
"Oh? What do you care about, Isabella?" He called her by her first name, turning the power balance back to himself. She was too intelligent not to realize what he was doing, but she responded anyway.
"The girls," she whispered, "I care what happens to the young girls."
"They are hardly babies," he countered, although he knew in his heart this was not true. They were all bebés in much the same way as Magdalena's Corizon was an infant. Certainly all of them were innocent. Although they did not remain innocent for long.
"Why should you care so much for poor Mexican girls you do not even know?" Santos forced mockery into his voice so that he would not feel her pain.
She hunched her shoulders and slid off the bar stool. "I lost someone. A long time ago."
He strained to hear her voice.
"I know what it means to lose someone you love."
Santos knew the emotion raging in her face was genuine. She could not be such a good actress as to fool him. Imposible. "What do you propose, Ms. ADA?"
"Full immunity in exchange for Vargas."
He roared with laughter. "¡Un qué idiota usted debe pensarme! What an idiot – "
"I understand Spanish," she snapped. "And I don't think you're an idiot, Mr. Santos."
"To betray the man for whom I have worked nearly twenty years? What could possibly induce me to commit such folly?"
"Complete immunity from prosecution," she repeated, standing taller.
"Pero." He smiled and spread his hands as if at the antics of a very young child. "But that is what I have now."
Isabella turned fierce again, the combatant preparing to attack. "We will catch Vargas," she spat, her nostrils flaring, "and when we do, you will go down with him. Hard. Your hands are very bloody and you will have to pay a price for that."
Santos sat on the bar stool she'd just vacated, his knees nearly bumping her leg. "Let me tell you a story, Ms. Torres."
He interlocked" his fingers between his legs. "When I was a young boy, my father was arrested by the federales. Starved. Beaten. Tortured."
She slumped against the counter, staring at him, her face ashen, her body taut.
"My father would not tell them what they wished to know." He shrugged. "Finally, they brought my mother and my sister into the village plaza. 'We will rape and murder them in front of you,' they said, 'if you do not give us the information we need.' He confessed, of course."
Santos smiled without joy. "You see, él creyó sus promesas."
"He believed their promises," Isabella repeated.
"Sí, but they cut off his penis and stuffed it in his mouth anyway. He bled to death."
Isabella shuddered and Santos knew that his story had made its point. "What happened to your mother and sister?"
"I do not need to tell you that, do I?"
She remained silent, her dark eyes wide and incredibly beautiful.
"So, I ask again, how do I know I can trust you to keep your word?"
She acted as though she would not answer. After a moment she slung her bag over her shoulder and walked to the foyer, composing herself, he believed. There she turned and stared at him across the room. A steely look had returned to her face.
"Look into my eyes and tell me you don't believe me," she said. "I don't lie."
"All attorneys lie," he smiled. "I know this better than anyone."
He sighed heavily and stretched his big body as if he were bored with the whole conversation. "But I will take your proposal into consideration."
"Don't take too long," she warned. "I may regret my generous impulse. The deal won't be on the table forever." She slammed the door behind her when she left.
Santos gazed at the closed door for a very long time. "Touché," he said to no one.
Eventually he cleared away the remains of the dinner and sat out on the patio to disassemble his weapons. After he had cleaned them, he stored them in the cutaway behind the kitchen sink. These tasks were merely ploys to avoid looking at the picture, but he would not let his curiosity rule him.
Finally, he prepared for sleep. He sat on the edge of the bed, retrieved the snapshot from his nightstand, and lay down to examine the worn photo. Every detail of what Vargas had done to the girl for a period of five years flashed through his memory, and with them, a rage so unfamiliar he could not breathe for the storm of it.
A vague glimmer of an idea stirred within him, but he thrust it aside. ¡Es imposible!
Nonetheless, tomorrow he would search the public records. He would find out who Isabella Torres once loved so much and lost long ago.
#
When Bella pulled into the driveway of her small bungalow, she recognized the car parked at the curb. She punched the remote control to raise the garage door and eased her compact car into the tiny space. Through her rearview mirror, she watched as Rafe climbed out of his car and stalked toward her. His body looked tight and angry.
"Where the hell have you been?" he yelled as she swung her legs from underneath the steering wheel.
She grabbed her briefcase, stood up, and slammed the car door before answering. "Good evening, Agent Hashemi. Wasn't lunch enough of a visit for you? And since when have you begun monitoring my comings and goi
ngs?"
They'd lunched earlier, an uncomfortable situation where all she could think of was how handsome he looked despite the scruffiness of his five-o'clock shadow and his mussed-up hair. He'd constantly run his fingers through the dark curls, while she'd tortured herself with the memory of the crisp feel of thickness beneath her fingers.
"Smart-ass," he retorted, blocking her way. "Answer the question. Where have you been?"
"If you must know, working the case."
At lunch she hadn't even hinted at what she planned to do – meet Santos on his own turf. Hashemi would've quashed that idea without consideration.
They'd talked a little about the case, more about each other, light inconsequential chatter that said little. But the tension beneath the banter spoke volumes.
Her words now seemed to calm him. "Oh, that's good. What part of the case?"
She shifted from one foot to the other, wanting to get rid of him and soak in a hot bath. "Look, it's late, I'm tired. Let's talk about this tomorrow."
"No," he insisted, taking her keys from her fingers before she could protest. He walked to the back door, keyed the lock, and punched the remote to close the garage.
He looked back at her. "Are you coming?" Without waiting for an answer, he opened the door and disappeared into her laundry room. What an insufferable, bossy ass! Fuming, but resigned, she followed him into the house.
Chapter Twenty-six
By the time Bella had walked through the laundry room into the kitchen, Rafe had already removed his jacket, flung it over a wing chair, and sprawled comfortably on her living room sofa. She placed her briefcase on the tiled floor, hung her jacket in the entry closet. Toed off her shoes.
"How about something to drink?" he asked from his place on the sofa.
"You're not going to be here that long," she snapped.
"Maybe not, but I'm not leaving until I know where you've been and what you've done."
She blew a strand of hair out of her face. "Now you're starting to sound like mis hermanos, my brothers. And maybe I was working on the case at the office."