The bullet ricocheted off the block walls all around them.
Noah jerked Castillo away from the fence and slammed him to the ground, facedown. Hard enough to stun him. “Put your hands behind your back!”
This time, he cooperated.
Noah wrenched his arms back and cuffed him, searching the pockets of his baggy pants. His hands were shaking from the near miss, his mind racing in a dozen different directions. Both he and Castillo were breathing hard.
There was a small bag of white powder in Castillo’s front pocket. The sight of it filled Noah with fury. “This is why you pulled a gun on me?” he said, tossing the bag on the asphalt. The tattoo on Castillo’s neck stood out in harsh relief, his pulse throbbing beneath it. “For an eight ball of coke?”
Noah didn’t mention Lola Sanchez, but he wanted to. He wanted to give Castillo another hard shove. Slam him into the asphalt a few more times. If he’d raped and murdered a defenseless young woman, he’d earned the rough treatment.
Instead of lashing out at Castillo, Noah took a calming breath. Getting physical with a suspect after he’d been restrained was never a good idea. Noah was a conscientious police officer, and he liked his arrests to stick.
Patrick appeared at the end of the alleyway a moment later, his gun drawn. Noah imagined the scene through Patrick’s eyes, and it didn’t look pretty. The suspect was facedown beneath him, shirt torn, nose bloody.
“Officer Young, stand down.”
Noah climbed off Castillo, feeling woozy.
“He fired at you?”
“Yeah.”
“Have a seat.”
Noah slumped against the wall, closing his eyes. He was still breathing heavily, his heart pumping with adrenaline. His lungs were burning and his knuckles felt raw. Patrick called in their location, and backup arrived within moments.
Several officers patted Noah on the shoulder, praising him for a job well done. He didn’t deserve it. Officers were trained to consider every suspect armed and dangerous, but Castillo had caught him off guard. Noah should have expected a documented gang member, convicted drug dealer, and possible murderer to have a gun.
He’d been careless. And if Castillo had been quicker on the trigger, he’d be dead.
Castillo started to grumble about police brutality. The blood on his face had dried into a macabre black caul. With his huge pupils and shaved head, he looked like a fucking ghetto vampire.
They cleaned him up and took him away.
The crime scene photographer took a photo of Noah’s hands. They had blood on them, his and Castillo’s. He cringed at the sight, hoping he wouldn’t be accused of excessive force. He’d been close to losing control for a minute.
“I scraped my knuckles on the side of the wall,” he said, remembering a flash of pain as he took Castillo to the ground.
“I don’t care if you scraped them on that asshole’s face,” Patrick replied, giving him some foam hand wash. “A guy who resists arrest, carries a concealed weapon, and takes a shot at you? He’s lucky you didn’t beat him senseless.”
“He was fast.”
“On his feet?”
“With the gun, too. One second I was yanking him away from the fence, the next he’d drawn on me.”
“Good thing he missed.”
“The safety was on.”
Another patrol officer, who’d been listening in, let out a low whistle. “You must have an angel on your shoulder, man. That is some crazy shit.”
Noah’s eyes met Patrick’s. The warning his partner had given him earlier, about a young criminal pulling a gun, hung in the air between them. Patrick had been right. Noah’s tendency to throw caution to the wind was a dangerous thing.
A more experienced cop wouldn’t have made the same mistake.
After giving a brief statement, they headed back to the station. Santiago would question Castillo in the morning, after he’d been processed. Noah didn’t get a chance to look at the surveillance footage from Club Suave, because it took him a couple of hours to complete the arrest sheet. He was meticulous with every detail.
Maybe Castillo would confess to Lola Sanchez’s murder and the case would wrap.
By the time Noah got home, it was almost 3:00 A.M. His house in Imperial Beach was cool, quiet, empty. Although he was exhausted, he didn’t go up to bed. Grabbing a cold beer, he sat down in the dark living room, trying not to replay the ugliest scenes of the day.
Touching the sweating bottle to his forehead, he closed his eyes and pictured something beautiful: April Ortiz.
4
April was certain Eddie hadn’t seen her give the note to Officer Young, but she still worried about the repercussions.
Tony Castillo was a violent man with dangerous connections. He’d had a rocky relationship with Lola, and he was a longtime member of CVL. She also suspected Tony of supplying her boss with drugs.
Eddie had a lot to lose if the truth came out. His marriage, his business, and even his life were on the line.
Her stomach was tied in knots for the remainder of the evening. Maybe Tony had killed Lola in a jealous rage and planned to target Eddie next. If Tony found out about the note she’d written, he could very well come after April.
Hands shaking, she called home to check on Jenny.
No one answered.
Her mother, Jenny’s babysitter, was a night owl. On the weekends, she often went out in the wee hours of the morning, after April got home. It was possible that Josefa had already gone to sleep, but not likely.
April scrambled to fill the final drink orders, in a hurry to finish her shift. Tonight she had no patience for stragglers. When the guy at table seven loitered, trying to put his hand on the back of her thigh, she “accidentally” spilled water all over his lap.
“Ay, Dios mío,” she said, whipping some napkins out of the pocket of her waist apron. “I’m so sorry.”
He left without tipping. Jerk.
At closing time, she turned in her totals and rushed off. The other girls were already gossiping about Lola, and Carmen probably wanted to grill her about Officer Young, but April couldn’t indulge them.
“Where’s the fire?” Eddie asked.
“At my house. Mom isn’t answering the phone.”
He nodded absently. “See you next week.”
Everyone at the club knew about her home situation. They just didn’t appreciate the severity of the problem.
Her mother had injured her wrist about a year ago, and she’d been on pain medication ever since. April wasn’t convinced that Josefa still needed the drugs. Recently, her dependency had skyrocketed. April suspected she was abusing the medication by taking more than the prescribed dose and mixing the pills with alcohol.
Last week, April had found her passed out on the front step, unresponsive. She’d almost called an ambulance.
Josefa had always been a little unpredictable, but she was a kind person and a wonderful grandmother. April had agreed to let her watch Jenny under two conditions: no men, and no drinking. Until recently, Josefa had complied. She was an exemplary caregiver—with Jenny. That hadn’t been the case when April was a child.
The situation had become unmanageable in a very short time, and April didn’t know how to deal with it. She loved her mother and depended on her in many ways.
And it wasn’t as if she could leave Jenny with her father.
April drove too fast on the way home, checking her rearview mirror for flashing lights. The distance was only a few miles, and the roads were deserted. At this time of night, even the mean streets of South Orange were quiet.
She pulled in to the one-car garage and engaged the vehicle alarm as soon as she got out. In this neighborhood, it was necessary to take every precaution against theft.
The door to the kitchen was unlocked, which was typical. April locked it behind her and stashed her purse in the cabinet above the fridge. Even inside the house, she had to be careful. Josefa would borrow cash from her purse.
“Mam
á?” she called, walking through the pint-size kitchen and past the small dining area, into the living room. The television was on, volume turned down low. April picked up the remote and clicked it off.
Her mother’s bedroom door was open.
She peeked inside. The room was empty, the bed neatly made. Her unease grew. Frantic, she jogged down the hall, checking the room she shared with Jenny. Again, the bed was unoccupied. The striped blankets lay askew.
April whirled around, looking in the tiny bathroom. “Jenny?”
“Mommy?”
The voice was muffled, hesitant. April crossed the bedroom in two horrified strides, wrenching open the closet door. Her five-year-old daughter was huddled in the corner, hugging her favorite stuffed animal, Lalo, the one-eared dog.
Tears of relief filled April’s eyes. She knelt down and held out her arms. Jenny launched herself into them.
For a moment, April was so overwhelmed she couldn’t speak. She hugged her daughter tight, savoring the feel of her slight body, the smell of her hair, her soft pajamas.
Jenny was everything to her. She was her reason for living.
“What happened, pepa?” she asked, pulling back to study her daughter’s pretty face. Jenny was a miniature version of April, black-haired and brown-eyed.
The only hint of Raul was in her stubborn little chin.
“I woke up and Abuelita was gone,” she said, her mouth trembling. “I thought a stranger might come, so I hid in the closet. Like we did that one time.”
Pain squeezed inside her chest. “Has a stranger ever come before?”
“No, Mommy. I was just worried.”
“I’m here now,” April said, hugging her again. “Everything’s fine.”
Jenny sniffed back her tears. “Is Abuelita okay?”
“Of course. She probably had to get some more medicine.”
“Is she still sick?”
“Yes,” April said, whispering. “She’s very sick, and we have to help her get better. Can you do that with me?”
Jenny nodded, her eyes solemn. She was a thoughtful, tenderhearted child. And April loved her so much it hurt.
“Let’s go back to sleep now, pepita.”
Nodding, Jenny picked up Lalo, who had fallen to the closet floor, and climbed into bed. April lay down beside her, smoothing the hair away from her tear-streaked face, crooning softly in her ear. Soon, her breathing came deep and even.
April was tired but too hungry to drift off. She was also worried about Josefa, though she knew better than to try to hunt her down. Josefa’s cell-phone service had been canceled months ago, and when she was out partying, she didn’t want to be found.
Easing away from Jenny, April removed her shoes and left the room. She closed the door behind her and padded into the kitchen, her fishnet stockings making no sound on the linoleum floor.
Josefa had made chicken enchiladas for dinner, so there were leftovers in the fridge. Stomach rumbling, April served herself a plate and stuck it in the microwave, watching it rotate. When it was finished heating, she went to the only table. The small dining area had a window that overlooked the backyard.
April had chosen this place because of the yard. It wasn’t lush or spacious, but it had a vegetable garden and room for Jenny to play.
As soon as she sat down, a man’s face appeared at the window.
Raul.
April leapt to her feet, drawing a breath to scream.
“It’s just me,” he mouthed, holding up both hands.
Not Raul. Eric.
She exhaled in a rush, her heart pounding. Embarrassed by her own skittishness, she went to let him in. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Sorry. I didn’t want to wake Jenny.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek, his attention straying to the food on the table. “What’s that?”
“Enchiladas. Lo quieres?”
“Did you make it?”
She stuck out her tongue. “No.”
He laughed. “Then, yes, I would love some.”
After warming up a plate with about twice as much food as she would eat, she grabbed drinks from the fridge for both of them and came back to the table.
“Thanks,” he said, digging in.
They ate in companionable silence, as they’d done many times before, in the stillest hours of the night.
“This is awesome. Your mom is a great cook.”
April made a murmur of agreement. Josefa didn’t prepare meals as much as she used to, so the enchiladas were a rare treat. During the past year, April had assumed almost all of the responsibilities around the house, including cooking, but she couldn’t hold a candle to her mother in the kitchen.
The tension she’d experienced earlier this evening shrank her appetite, and she couldn’t finish all of her dinner.
Eric ate the rest for her.
“So, what’s up?” she said, taking the empty plates away.
“Nothing. I was just checking in. I meant to drop by earlier, but I got tied up.”
“Hmm.”
His eyes narrowed, cruising over her face. “How are you?”
After a moment’s hesitation, April gestured for him to follow her into the living room, where they could talk more comfortably. He sat down on the couch, his lean body taking up a lot of space. She settled in on the other side, keeping an arm’s length of distance between them. “When I came home tonight, Mamá was gone. I found Jenny hiding in the closet. She woke up alone and got scared.”
Eric rubbed a hand over his mouth, as if he wanted to say something unflattering about Josefa but was restraining himself. “I’ll come over more often,” he promised. “Every night you’re at the club.”
April shook her head. Eric already did too much. He worked during the day, his grandmother was ailing, and he had other responsibilities. She appreciated his offer, but he wasn’t an appropriate choice for a babysitter.
“I can’t leave Jenny with my mom anymore.” Her throat closed up. “I’m going to have to ask her to move out.”
Eric’s eyes softened with sympathy. He knew that physical contact made her uncomfortable, so he didn’t put his arm around her. At one time, she’d have been grateful for his restraint. Tonight, she felt empty and alone, aching for human touch.
She studied Jenny’s uncle from beneath lowered lashes, considering him in a way she never had before. He was younger than she was, but not boyish. He had the dark good looks of their culture, paired with above-average height and an athletic physique. His black hair was cropped short, his white T-shirt immaculate.
She knew he was popular with the girls in the neighborhood, but he didn’t create drama. He was a player and a gentleman.
On the downside, he looked exactly like Raul. And she loved him like a brother.
“I have another problem,” she murmured.
His eyes sparked with interest. “Yeah?”
“Did you hear about Lola Sanchez?”
“No. I just got back from TJ.”
Taking a deep breath, she told Eric about her visit with the officers at the club. “I gave them Tony’s name.”
He straightened abruptly. “How?”
“In a secret note. I don’t think anyone saw me.”
Relaxing a little, he said, “Okay.”
“Do you think he did it?”
“He’ll be sorry if he did.”
April felt a cold sensation, like an icy hand on her spine. “What if someone figures out I mentioned his name?”
Eric’s expression turned fierce. “No one will ever touch you.”
His conviction was reassuring, and she believed he would protect her. She also couldn’t help but consider the literal interpretation of his words. It had been years since she’d been touched by a man. Not that she didn’t have urges, but usually those were vague needs, easily ignored or self-assuaged.
Tonight she wanted to feel close to someone else. And her desire had a specific reason, an identifiable source: Officer Young. She didn’t just want a man
to touch her, she wanted him to touch her. She thought about his strong hands and intense blue eyes and shivered.
Eric gave her an odd look, as if he could sense her thoughts.
Flushing, she crossed her arms over her chest. It occurred to her that Eric might offer to help her out in that arena. Maybe he saw her as a woman, not a sister. From what she’d heard, he liked to make a girl feel good. Repeatedly.
His eyes traveled down her body, from her ultra-thin tank top to her fishnet tights. “I hate that outfit,” he muttered.
It was such a brotherly thing to say, she laughed.
“Call me tomorrow,” he said, rising to his feet. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will.”
He reached into his pocket for a stack of bills.
She put a hand up in protest. “Eric—”
“For Jenny,” he said. “For a new babysitter.”
While she wavered, trying to decide what was best, he pressed the twenties into her palm, refusing to take no for an answer. After another quick buss on the cheek, he left.
For a long time, she stared at the wad of cash, wishing she didn’t need it, wishing she didn’t ache for a man’s touch. Tears filled her eyes, spilling down her face and splashing on the surface of the drug money.
Like her, it would never be clean.
–––
Someone’s in the house.
A faint noise startled Noah, jerking him out of his reverie. The beer he was holding, half full and still cold, sloshed over his knuckles. He set it aside, wiping his hand on his jeans, and listened harder.
The sound came again, a vague whisper of movement.
Frowning, he rose to his feet and went to the front window. After a quick glance at the dark, deserted street, he checked both doors, making sure they were locked, and looked out at the minuscule backyard. He didn’t see anything unusual.
Maybe it was just the house settling, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone.
Earlier this evening, with Tony Castillo, he’d been too pumped up on adrenaline, too mindlessly aggressive. He hadn’t proceeded with caution. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
The Edge of Night Page 4