by Reinke, Sara
Shuddering against the cold concrete, Brandon gasped for breath. He couldn’t move, as if whatever had just surged through his body and brain had short-circuited all of his nerve endings, leaving him paralyzed and utterly helpless. He tasted blood in his mouth from where he’d landed face-first on the pavement, could feel it trickling from his nose, but couldn’t even summon the strength to spit. He glanced to the left, and saw a glossy black shoe step into view. The quality of light from overhead shifted, fading as the man standing above him blocked the glow somewhat.
He felt the man’s hand brush lightly through his hair, then cinch in a tight fist. He gasped again as the man wrenched his head back, nearly tearing his hair loose in a bloody clump from his scalp. As he looked up, his vision bleary with tears, he tried in vain to make out the man’s face.
Who…who are you…? Brandon thought, his eyes rolling back into his skull, his consciousness side-slipping into oblivion.
CHAPTER SIX
“Hey, Lieutenant. You got a minute?” Lina rapped her knuckles lightly against the door frame to Lieutenant Fairfax’s office.
He looked up from his desk, a big bear of a man with more salt than pepper in his hair, and more belly than waistline beneath his shirt. He boasted the copper skin tone of a native Floridian, and still wore the garnet-and-gold ring he’d earned decades earlier as the captain of Bayshore High’s state-championship football team.
“Sure thing, Lina.” With a nod, he indicated one of the empty, well-worn chairs facing his desk. “Have a seat. What’s on your mind?”
“I wanted to let you know that Téo Ruiz passed away this morning. Some kind of blood clot, they think.”
Fairfax nodded. “I heard.”
“Elías and I…” Lina cleared her throat uncomfortably, then met his gaze. “We had the opportunity to meet Special Agent Marcus Simms while we were at the hospital earlier.”
“Oh, good.” Fairfax nodded again.
She blinked, surprised by his candor. “Uh…begging your pardon, sir, but…Agent Simms said you had contacted the Bureau.”
“I did. I had to once Cervantes started leaving his gang tags all over town. There’s no way we’re equipped to tackle this guy. I say let the feds take care of it.” Leaning across his desk blotter, he rummaged through a small stack of manila folders. “Besides, there’s plenty of local things you can start digging into while Velasco takes some PTO. Here’s one that came in earlier today.”
He handed a file to her, and Lina opened it against her lap. After she’d skimmed the first page, she glanced up. “A missing person?” she asked and he nodded. “She’s eighty-two.” He nodded again. “She has Alzheimer’s.”
“She wandered off from the nursing home where she lived,” Fairfax said. “I’ve got black-and-whites patrolling the area, with APBs out on the local wires. I need someone to head it up for me.”
She must have looked as enthusiastic at this prospect as she felt, because after a moment, and with a fatherly sort of smile, he added, “But why don’t you take a couple of days off first? Hit the beach, read a good book, catch up on your sleep. You’ve been busting your ass from the moment we hired you. A little R-and-R might do you some good. I know you don’t have any down time accrued yet, but we can call it administrative leave so you still draw pay. What do you say?”
It was true; Lina was exhausted. Between the stresses of her new job with the police department, and that of her personal life, the breakup with Brandon, she’d started to feel like she was wearing precipitously thin. She didn’t want to agree, but if given the choice between a few days off and the missing old lady with senile dementia, it wasn’t hard.
One of the station’s interrogation rooms had been converted into a makeshift office for Marcus—a fact Lina hadn’t realized until she walked past the doorway on her way out of the building, and damn near ran headlong into him as he walked out.
“Hey!” she yelped, skittering to a halt. “Where’s the fire?” Then she recognized him and scowled. “Oh. Special Agent Simms. What a surprise.”
“Detective Jones, it’s nice to see you again, too.” He seemed the more sincere of the two of them.
“Yeah, well.” She brushed past him, meaning to continue walking. “If you’ll excuse me…”
“Look, Detective,” he said, and she stopped because it was the polite thing to do, however painful or grating on her nerves. Glancing over her shoulder in his direction, she feigned a look of patient expectation.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “For what I said back at the hospital, about how you and Velasco didn’t have the Cervantes case under control. I was out of line. I’m really not trying to push you off the investigation—even though I know it seems that way to you. He’s up on federal charges, but I’ve been thinking. There’s no reason we can’t pursue local charges, too, based on what you’ve been putting together on him. The longer we can put this son of a bitch away, the better.”
She wanted to fire back some smart-ass retort, but couldn’t think of any. Because he had a point. Again, goddamn it.
“How about a peace offering?” Cocking his head, he managed to catch her gaze. “I talked to the nurses in the ICU this morning before I let Téo’s family see him. The only reason I did was because I think Tejano got to him first, earlier this morning.”
Lina frowned. “What the hell are you talking about? We had an armed guard stationed outside his room twenty-four seven. There’s no way—”
“The nurses told me they’d only seen staff coming in and out of the room today,” Marcus cut in. “And so did your guard. But I reviewed the security tapes from the unit after Téo died. There’s a camera in the hallway practically pointing at his door. I saw a lot of doctors and nurses going in and out, yeah. But I also saw this…”
He reached inside his jacket for an inner pocket, and pulled out a folded sheet of copier paper. When he opened it, she saw the print out of a grainy black-and-white photograph: the corridor near Téo’s room on the ICU, and a man wearing what appeared to be a dark suit walking through Téo’s doorway.
“Is that Cervantes?” she asked, her frown deepening.
“I can’t be sure,” Marcus said. “Not from the quality of the image. But the guy didn’t stay in the room very long…” He pulled out another sheet of paper, this one showing a nearly identical security still as the first—only this time, the dark-haired man appeared to be exiting Téo’s ICU bay. “And five minutes after this picture was time-stamped, Téo Ruiz coded.”
In both shots, Lina could see their uniformed officer on duty, seated beside the doorway. He didn’t appear to have noticed the man in the suit at all; he wasn’t even looking in the man’s direction as he walked into and out of the doorway less than a foot away from him.
“They resuscitated Téo long enough for his family to see him,” Marcus continued. “Then they think he threw the clot. He coded again—no bringing him back this time. I don’t know who this guy in the photo is, or even if he’s involved in anything illegal. But that seems awfully damn coincidental to me.”
Me, too, Lina thought grimly.
“Not to mention the fact that no one has any memory of this guy at all. Not any of the nurses, not your guard, not Téo’s family. He’s like the invisible man.”
“Except caught on tape,” Lina murmured, studying the image closely, uneasily.
“Exactly,” Marcus said. “Look, I want to keep you and Detective Velasco involved in this investigation in any way I can. Really.”
He seemed sincere, she had to admit. And even though she was pissed off, sure, she understood how jurisdictions worked. He was right—there was no reason they couldn’t collar Cervantes on the federal charges, and then prosecute him for the murder of Téo and his friends. In fact, they’d probably have better luck in tracking down the son of a bitch with the FBI’s help—and the help of all of the FBI’s resources.
“Thanks,” she murmured at length, giving a half-shrug. “I…guess I’d like that, too.”
She knew the place; Elías had mentioned it in passing to her once. It was a Cuban restaurant and bar, he’d said, where they ought to go one night after work and drown their mutual sorrows in a pitcher of mojitos. “Which wouldn’t be as good as mine,” he’d added pointedly, making her laugh.
Lina raised her brow. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
“I…no,” he said, shaking his head. “No, of course not, Detective. My interest is purely professional. In the case, I mean. Not you.”
She nodded slowly, a sly glint in her eyes, a playful upturn to the corner of her lips. “Of course.”
His eyes flew wide. She could have sworn he was blushing. “No, wait. I…I mean…”
Lina pressed her lips together to stifle a laugh as she turned and walked away. “See you then.”
* * *
Upon her return to Latisha’s house, Lina dug through her meager assortment of clothes, trying to find something that struck that critical balance between working dinner meeting and dinner date. Because despite what he’d told her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Marcus’s invitation had been more than made in simple professional interest.
And would that be such a bad thing? she asked herself. She and Brandon hadn’t really ever been on a date. Their relationship had hit the proverbial ground running, and hadn’t slowed down once until it had come to a screeching halt. They hadn’t dated—they had run for their lives and made love whenever and however possible. In fact, the circumstances of their relationship had been so chaotic, it had proven nearly impossible for them to slide comfortably into anything resembling the quiet, normal routine of a happy young couple.
Because how do you define normal when you’re in love with a vampire? she thought sadly as she held a black skirt up to herself experimentally. She had a fuchsia, sleeveless silk blouse she could wear with it. And maybe borrow a pair of Mama’s earrings?
Latisha’s jewelry box rested atop her chest of drawers. Lina opened the top compartment, meaning to sift through her collection of multicolored plastic baubles and beads, and blinked in surprise to find a bundle of bills stuffed inside.
What’s all this? she wondered with a frown, lifting the first few of the invoices and statements in hand. She recognized the name of the hospital and out-patient facilities where Latisha had been undergoing chemotherapy and radiation for her breast cancer, as well as the oncologist and surgeons who had performed her mastectomy. Lina brought them out to the living room, then spread them out on the coffee table, arranging them by date until she had more than a half-dozen rows, all with at least four overdue and unpaid statements apiece.
Oh, my God, Mama. Lina pressed her hand lightly to her mouth, feeling stricken and somewhat sick by the time she was finished. The bills spanned the entire length of Latisha’s ongoing treatment for breast cancer, and had totaled—to Lina’s dumbstruck horror—more than $45,000.
Latisha hadn’t told Lina about the bills. She was pretty sure Jackie didn’t know about them, either, because there was no way in hell her brother would have agreed to give up his lucrative position at a private school for deaf children to work as a motorcycle mechanic if he’d even suspected Latisha faced that much debt. She’d only ever told her children that between her supplemental insurance and Medicaid, her medical costs were “taken care of.”
Is this what you meant, Mama? she thought in dismay, her eyes suddenly stinging with tears. Why on earth didn’t you tell me or Jackie about all of this? Come to us for help?
But she knew why—because Latisha was stubborn and proud to a fault, flaws both her son and daughter had inherited. She would have been ashamed not only of the amount of debt she’d amassed during her illness, but of her helpless inability to pay. Her retirement income amounted to little more than a pittance; in no time at all, she would have been overwhelmed trying to keep up with the payments on so many bills.
Goddammit, Mama, she thought in despair. She had some money in savings, but not much. Jackie was in a similar situation, and between the two of them, neither had enough to even begin to cover Latisha’s mounting medical debts. But we could still try. Why haven’t you told us?
The chime of the doorbell startled her. Latisha knew all of her neighbors well enough that they’d simply open the outer security door and knock on the inner wooden one. Jackson had a key, but with Latisha out of town and him still pissed at Lina, there was no way he’d be visiting anytime soon. Elías had to be in Miami by now; when she’d called him from the police station, she’d heard the sound of highway traffic in the background from his end of the line.
So who the hell could it be? she wondered, gathering up all of the invoices and stuffing them back into Latisha’s jewelry box. Lina left the bedroom and went to the door, only to blink in stupefied surprise when she opened it.
“Hola, Angelina,” Pilar Cadana said from the porch. She didn’t look happy to be there, as if this had been a last resort for her, a course of action she’d only chosen because it was preferable to death. “I…I’m sorry to bother you, but I…” Looking up from the toes of her boots and meeting Lina’s gaze, her eyes round and pleading, she said, “Please. I need your help.”
Lina made no move to either unlock or open the door. “Why?” she asked sharply. “So you can mess with my head, too? Make me skip town for Miami?” When Pilar didn’t immediately respond, Lina’s brows narrowed. “That’s what you did to Elías today, isn’t it? You used your telepathy to make him think he wanted to leave.”
“I had no choice.” Pilar’s brows furrowed slightly, and color bloomed in her cheeks; Lina had clearly hit on a nerve.
“Don’t give me that you love-him-and-just-wanted-to-protect-him bullshit,” Lina snapped. “Elías is a big boy, and he’s got a badge and a gun. He’s in a better position to take care of himself than most people in this town.”
“You don’t understand,” Pilar said, shooting a nervous sort of glance over her shoulder, as if she was afraid someone might be watching. “Before he died, Téo talked. So everything he knows, Tejano knows now. Which means he knows who really killed Pepe.”
Her eyes flooded with tears. Her bottom lip quivered and her hand darted to her mouth. “Tejano won’t kill Elías, not at first, because he’ll want his suffering to be horrible.” Shaking her head, she steeled her expression again, her brows narrowing. “I can’t let that happen. Elías was willing to sacrifice himself—his happiness, his entire life—to protect me. Now it’s my turn. And yes—because I love him and I want to protect him.”
Lina frowned. “Tejano got to Téo way before today, so he’s known the truth for awhile.”
“No.” Pilar shook her head. “Téo didn’t tell Tejano shit. None of them did. And Tejano’s not strong enough to break through their mental shields.”
Lina was getting tired of this game. Propping her hand on her hip, she managed a bored expression. “Then how did he find out?”
“Someone else made him talk. Someone stronger than Tejano. Someone Tejano works for.”
“Tejano Cervantes only works for himself. El Jefazo—the big boss—that’s what Elías called him.”
“No.” Pilar shook her head. “There must have been someone there, at the hospital today—the real El Jefazo.”
Lina remembered the photographs Marcus had showed her, the mysterious man no one seemed to recall having seen on the day Téo had died. They hadn’t come up with anything else on him to date, not a single clue. Not until that moment.
With a begrudging sigh, she unlocked the door and gave it a shove. But as Pilar moved to step inside, she planted her arm out,
deliberately blocking her path. “One more thing. Did you sleep with Brandon?”
It killed her to ask the question—she could feel herself hovering on the edge of tears—but she had to know.
“No!” Pilar’s eyes widened and she shook her head, sending wayward strands of hair that had worked loose from her ponytail bouncing and slapping around her face. “No, I couldn’t do that…I wouldn’t. And neither would he.”
Lina wanted to believe her. But she didn’t.
“He still loves you, Angelina,” Pilar insisted. “He’s never stopped.”
Lina didn’t believe that either.
* * *
“You want some iced tea or something?” Lina asked, shifting her weight restlessly from one foot to the other, while Pilar had a seat on the couch. She figured Latisha would be proud; no matter how pissed she still felt at their houseguest, good manners had been instilled well enough in her for her to extend a modicum of hospitality.
“No, gracias,” Pilar replied. She sat stiffly, with her knees primly touching, both feet flat on the floor. For the first time, Lina noticed she had something with her: an old shoe box. The lid had been fixed in place with strips of masking tape. Pilar held it in her lap now, with her hands folded on top.
“What’s that?” Lina asked with a nod to indicate the shoe box.
“What I need your help with.” Pilar slipped her fingertips underneath the edge of the lid and, with a slight tug to loosen the tape, lifted it. Inside, Lina saw what looked like a wadded up towel. When Pilar pulled back the edges of the towel, Lina could see something lying tucked just beneath, some kind of little stone sculpture.