“Yes. And there are sections where trouble always happens. From the GPS, I knew where the field was, but Isidoro was high in the mountains and the signal kept going in and out. Suddenly, vans were coming down this old dirt road and his signal came in again. We knew he was on the move in one of the vans, so we hid our car in a short fork in the road and followed. They brought all those men down to this abandoned street corner in Tijuana and they opened the van doors and started throwing these guys out like trash.”
I stared at him. “In broad daylight?”
“They do it a lot. Who’s going to stop them? The drug cartels have everybody living in fear.” Santos lapsed into silence.
“Can I see Isidoro?” I asked.
Santos shook his head. “He said he would call when it was okay, when he’d been debriefed.”
I realized that Isidoro being a US DEA agent meant he would probably have to go into hiding or be sent away from California. I didn’t know what to think.
“But he’s really okay?” I asked.
Santos nodded. He pulled Angus to him. “Querido, I am so sorry your computer is in the apartment with all your work on it.”
Angus gave a weak smile. “I have cloud storage. I can access it from my desktop, but still, I hate the thought of leaving everything behind.”
“Maybe someone who works with you could go in and pack your things,” I suggested.
“That’s what I am thinking.” Santos took his cell phone from me. “The important thing is we are all alive. And we are free. And now I need to lie down. I am not used to emergency rescues from drug cartels.” He looked pale as he took Angus by the hand and left the room.
They left me alone with my spiraling thoughts and mounting anxiety. I kept checking my cell phone, but it remained frustratingly silent. Pacing the room for a couple of minutes, I became aware of the dogs staring at me. They seemed as anxious as I was, and I patted and hugged them, trying to give them comfort.
I was so antsy I turned on the TV in the living room, which was part of the open-plan kitchen and dining area. I sat on the sofa and flicked through the channels, stopping at a live news report from some park in East LA.
“Well, the scene here is chaotic to say the least,” the reporter said, her expression grave. “The bodies of two young women were found on a trail here by a woman walking her dog.” The scene cut to police talking to a woman, her back to the camera, waving her arms as she spoke. The reporter continued. “Both young women appeared to have been beaten and one of them had been shot in the head. Sources say one of them had been pregnant.”
“Do we have I.D. on them?” a TV news anchor asked as the scene became split, half given to the crime scene, the other to the studio.
The reporter shook her head. “No. We’ve been given a possible name for one of the women, apparently they are both local, but police will not give us any more information at this time.”
I was about to turn off the TV when I saw him right there on the screen.
Isidoro.
“Santos!” I screamed, unable to tear my gaze from the news report.
He came running out of the bedroom he shared with Angus, naked, throwing a towel around his waist. He sat beside me on the sofa, Querida nudging me with her gentle nose, as though offering me her support.
“It’s Isidoro,” I said, pointing to the man on the far left of the screen. He wore jeans and a checked shirt. An LAPD cap covered half his face, but I knew it was him. He had joined the group of uniformed detectives talking to the woman who’d apparently stumbled onto the crime scene.
“My God, so it is. What is he doing there?” Santos squinted at the scene. The woman was crying now and Isidoro hugged her briefly before slipping away through some trees.
The news reporter spoke again. “I talked to the first responders and they said they’d never seen a crime scene like it. So much blood. And such terror for two young women.”
“That’s a terrible story. A bad day for the city of Los Angeles,” the news anchor said. “There’ve been other killings in that neighborhood. Three other women have been found dead in the Montecito Heights area in the last two years. Do we know if there is any connection between these killings?”
The reporter shook her head. “Not at this time.” Somebody off camera handed her a piece of paper and she said, “I can tell you now, exclusively to our station, that friends have come down here to the park and identified one of the young women as seventeen-year-old Alicia Sanchez. Police have confirmed this, but still haven’t released the name of the second women, but according to our sources, these two women were best friends.” Grief tugged at her face and her wobbling voice.
“Do you think these killings were connected with the drug cartel in Mexico?” I asked Santos.
He shook his head. “I’m wondering the same thing. Seventeen years old. She’s a baby. These cases have to be connected.”
Angus had come out of the bedroom and was making coffee in the kitchen. The smell soothed my soul, but his words chilled me. “It sounds like these girls were executed,” he said, his voice low. “I don’t recognize my own city anymore. Who does this? Kills young women like this?”
None of us had a response. The news moved onto another story, then Santos’ cell phone rang. He checked the readout and his face lit up.
“Isidoro!”
My heart gave a leap at the sound of his name.
“He’s right here.” Santos handed me his phone and left me alone on the sofa.
“Are you okay?” I asked, wishing I could dive through the phone and hug the man.
“I’m fine.”
“I saw you on TV.”
He sighed. “You did?” A pause. “It’s a horrible business. I will explain. I have to work for a while, but can I come there later?”
“Of course.”
“You might need to pick me up. I don’t have a car. Yet.”
Oh, boy! Did this mean he’d be staying in LA? “Of course. Just let me know.”
“Give me your number. I no longer have my cell phone. I’ll explain later.”
I gave it to him.
“I love you,” he said. “Just please stay safe.” His voice crackled with emotion.
“I’m fine. I’m here. I love you, too.”
He ended our call, and, blinking back a threatening tear, I glimpsed the goopy expressions on my friends’ faces.
“You two remind me of us,” Santos said. “So lovey-dovey.”
There was silence for a moment. “Thank you for saving him,” I said.
Santos’ face crumpled, and I went into the kitchen and hugged him.
“Por nada,” he said. “It’s nothing.”
Angus busied himself throwing together a chicken and pasta dinner, and surprisingly, we all managed to eat. We walked the dogs later, and when we returned, I could tell Santos and Angus were exhausted. I urged them to get some rest. I did the dishes, listening to updates on the radio about the two young women then sat around waiting for Isidoro’s call. All the news updates seemed to be coming from local residents still hanging out at the scene of the crime. I Googled other female deaths in the neighborhood and discovered that Montecito Heights—and other surrounding new and renamed neighborhoods I’d never heard of before—were severe gang territories. Could the two young women who’d died tonight have had anything to do with gangs?
Around midnight, my cell phone rang and it was an unfamiliar two-one-three number, the original Los Angeles code.
“Ky?” Isidoro sounded worn out with that one single word.
“I’m here. Where are you?”
“I will get a ride to the Hollenbeck police station.”
Voices interrupted our call and I let him end the connection. I busied myself looking up the station online. The First Street division serviced neighborhoods I’d never heard of such as Aliso Village, Estrada Court, Monterey Hills and Pico Gardens. The lofty-sounding names were some of the roughest, poorest areas in the city, I soon learned. I gaped at
the ledger of the day’s crimes on the right of the page. An armed gang member had shot a police officer just minutes ago. The murder of the two girls came next, then there was a manhunt for a guy who had beaten his small dog to death in broad daylight on a busy street. The list went on and on. I jotted down the address for my GPS and left the house, the dogs acting woebegone to be on their own. I ignored their pleading glances, knowing they’d soon be snoozing on the sofa, nudging each other for space.
Traveling to East LA could take up to an hour, even more with traffic, but I made it across town in twenty minutes. I called Isidoro and he came out of the well-lit station half-running and half-hobbling.
I unlocked the passenger door and he climbed into the seat, wincing.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yes. No. Say, you feel like tacos?”
I grinned at him. “Should I get you to a doctor first, or are you having a taco emergency?”
“Tacos first. My foot is strapped up. I am feeling pain now, but I want to eat, then I want to hold you in our bed. Why didn’t you bring the dogs?”
“I, er, I didn’t know I was supposed to.”
“They’re good protection at night.” He sulked. “This is a dangerous city, sweetheart.”
“Mine is not the only one.” I glanced at him. “Yours isn’t exactly Disneyland.”
He gave me a glance and touched my cheek. “I know.” He took a deep breath, released a sigh that spoke volumes and he slumped in his seat. “I know a good taco place. They usually close early, but they stayed open because of all the police activity tonight.”
I studied him for a moment. He was pale in the moonlight and I wanted to hug the hurt away. All of it.
“I’m okay.” He reached for me, putting his hand on my thigh, his eyes filled with emotion. “I’ll direct you.”
I blinked back the tears that threatened to fall and nodded. When I started the car he said, “Thank you for coming to get me. This was the best thing that happened to me today.” He kept his hand on my lap as he instructed me to take some sketchy-looking streets all the way into South Central Los Angeles.
As a white guy I’d never, ever spent much time in the neighborhood and I didn’t feel encouraged by the sign telling me I had just entered a historic district. I kept thinking about my white cousin who’d taught school in Compton and loved her students, but got killed in a drive-by shooting several years ago. We pulled up at a well-lit tire shop and the whole place seemed crammed with uniformed men and women.
“What are we doing here?” I asked, peering over my steering wheel.
“The best taco stand in town is here, baby. But you might have to buy.”
“Might?” I glanced at him.
“I have ten dollars. A gift from one of the detectives. I have no wallet. No ID. Nada.”
“No problem,” I said. “Hang on to your money. And by the way, you don’t have nada. You have me.” I switched off the ignition and he squeezed my leg.
“I was worried. I know you saw the video and I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want you to think I am a risk.”
“No. Never. I’m just glad you’re alive.”
“We’ll get the food to go and then I’ll explain a few things.” He got out of the car, and I followed, suddenly starving. He ordered an array of dishes from the window of a battered-looking silver caravan, swapping hugs, handshakes and greetings with the others. He introduced me to several people, but the names were a blur. I was half-mad from the tantalizing smells of meats and molten cheese, so when he suggested we grab a free card table, I agreed. I handed him a twenty dollar note, but he shook his head, handing his ten over to the smiling chef.
For ten bucks, we got the best feast I’d ever eaten in my life. We carried about a dozen small plates to our card table and I grabbed the first one Isidoro suggested I try. Homemade soft corn tortillas were filled with the most succulent meat with pungent green and red sauce.
“Hmmm, what is this?” I asked, enjoying the detailed flavors immensely. Onions, cilantro and the dense, tender meat had me dizzy with pleasure.
“That’s a cabeza taco.”
“What’s a cabeza?”
“It’s meat from the head of an animal.”
I stopped eating for a moment. Why did I always meet men with peculiar eating habits? I resumed my feast, too afraid to ask what kind of animal.
“It’s beef,” he said, as though reading my thoughts. “Try this one. It’s called Al Pastor and it’s made of lamb and is very, very good. It might remind you of shawarma. It has that kind of taste because it’s spit-grilled.”
I’d never experienced anything like the tasty dishes before us and realized what I’d always thought of as Mexican food was far from authentic cuisine.
“This is traditional Tijuana food,” Isidoro told me. “They bring their ingredients across the border every single week.”
“How did you find this place?”
He grinned. “I put it here. The chef is my brother. Is he a great cook, or what?”
I watched his brother chatting with some of the uniformed officers. Before I could ask another question, Isidoro said, “We’ll talk on the drive home.”
We finished our food quickly then vacated our table to a couple of officers who nodded their thanks. We dumped our trash, waved at Isidoro’s brother and we left.
“Do they know he’s your brother?” I asked.
“No. He is safer in this neighborhood if people don’t think he’s related to a cop.” He frowned at me. “Are you okay to drive?”
“Of course.”
We got in and as I peeled away from the curb he said, “Those two girls…it was very rough to see them.”
“I can’t imagine how awful it was. Can you tell me what happened?” I longed to watch his facial expression as he talked, but I had to concentrate on my driving.
“Everything I tell you now is in confidence.”
“Of course,” I said.
He waited a beat. “They were friends. One was nineteen, and her name was Marianna. She was friends with the other girl, Annette, who was seventeen. They had a falling-out apparently some months ago because Annette had been dating a gang-banger. Marianna has been around gangs her whole life with her father and brother being involved, and she had moved away from all of it. She was engaged to a good man, pregnant with his child. Annette left the gang life too and was doing very well, by all accounts.
“She and Marianna started talking again. Marianna encouraged Annette’s plans to be a dental technician. Today, Annette called Marianna and said that her ex-boyfriend had contacted her and wanted to speak to her. Marianna begged her not to see him, but Annette insisted she wanted to go and she would feel safe if Marianna went with her. She said she didn’t want to be afraid of him.”
I was so mesmerized by this story I sailed right past the freeway entrance. I pulled over.
“So she went? Marianna, I mean?”
“Yes.” Isidoro closed his eyes. “She was lured to this gang-banger’s house and Annette was there. She apparently never really broke up with this guy and lied to Marianna.”
“How do you know this?”
“A witness told me everything.” His voice sounded hollow. “What gets me is that Annette loved Marianna, but loved this asshole guy more. She tricked her friend into coming there so he could shoot her. Can you believe that?”
“But both women were killed, weren’t they?”
Isidoro nodded. “Yes. This gang-banger is from a rival drug-dealing gang with its roots in Tijuana, same as the one I’ve been pretending to work for. He got a call this morning about all the deaths that happened in Tijuana today and he was told to kill Marianna because she is the sister of the drug cartel leader they believe was behind this morning’s ambush. This woman had no ties to any gang. She got away. Her brother and father are both dead, killed by rivals a few years ago. These gangs are out of control killing women now. And in Los Angeles. At least we know who this guy is and the U.S.
Marshals are hunting for him tonight.”
“So this is how you got involved? You know the gangs?”
“The witness is an informant of mine. He’s now in the Witness Protection Program, and I am getting out of undercover life. The DEA is not for me. It’s a losing battle and I am tired.” He paused. “I’m planning to move back here and go back to robbery homicide, where I used to work. I know I made a difference. How do you feel about that?”
“If that’s what you want, then yes. Do it. Will you be safer, though?”
“Much. What happened to me today showed me that I can’t be an effective crusader in the drug war. It’s not where I can help. There’s a better way. I want to stay alive. You’ve given me that hope again.”
He leaned over and kissed me, but my cell phone rang. Who would be calling me at one o’clock in the morning? I checked the readout. Kate Hannon. I took her call.
“Help,” she said, the single word one never wants to hear at any hour.
Isidoro must have heard it too, because he raised his eyebrows at me.
“It’s Ron Random. Ky, he locked himself in the bathroom and none of his managers or staff are answering their phones.” I’d never heard Kate so unglued. “And I can’t call nine-one-one. I know he’s alive because he’s singing a Bay City Rollers song, only he’s changed the lyrics and says he wants to kill himself.” She paused. “He also stole my underpants.”
“I don’t even want to know how that happened. I’ll be right there,” I said.
Isidoro’s gaze held mine as I ended the call on Kate’s frantic, “Hurry!”
“Who is Ron Random?”
“You’ve never heard of Ron Random?”
“No.”
“He’s an actor. A movie star. Won two Academy Awards. He’s been in about twenty action movies and does Shakespeare, too.”
Isidoro’s gaze turned wistful. “I’ve never been to a movie.”
“Never been to a—” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I’ve watched lots of TV, of course.” He sounded defensive.
About You Page 10