Phoenix Burning

by Isabella Maldonado

  Despising the pleading note in his voice, Adolfo felt compelled to speak. “We can still stay ahead of the police by monitoring their emails and reading their case files.”

  Daria snorted. “How? Won’t their remote location have a new computer system?”

  “Doesn’t matter, if they use the same server,” Adolfo countered. “We can still access their database.”

  Hector stroked his black and silver goatee. “I thought you said you were working on a way to clone their cell phones. Now that would impress me. We could have real-time information.”

  Adolfo seized his chance to deliver positive news. “Nacho has found a way. He says he’s within hours of being able to clone Detective Cruz’s mobile phone.”

  Hector splayed his hands on the table, eyes riveted on Adolfo. “Explain.”

  “Almost all cellular telephones worldwide use a program called Signaling System Number Seven, or SS7, to transmit and receive calls and messages. There is a vulnerability in SS7 that allows devices to be easily cloned if you know the phone number and service provider. When we captured and killed Detective Cruz’s snitch a few weeks ago, we got her number from his phone. She never changed it. We can clone her unit and any number she calls. That will give us access to the entire task force … this Scorpion Sting operation. We will be able to intercept all of their communication in real time and read their reports as well. We can also use the internal GPS software to track the movements of anyone whose phone we’ve cloned. We’ll know where they are and what they’re saying at all times.”

  “Why didn’t Nacho do this a long time ago?” Carlos asked.

  “He had to go slowly. There are anti-hacking technologies out there to source the intrusion unless he set up safeguards. The SS7 program is complex and takes sophisticated computer equipment to crack.” He leaned forward. “Remember I also tasked him with breaking into the police department’s server at the same time. He’s been working around the clock on both projects with only one person skilled enough to help him. He breached the server recently, and now he’s almost ready to clone Cruz’s phone. When he gets in, he’ll also need his assistant to help monitor transmissions if we’re going to watch everyone.”

  A thin smile compressed his father’s lips. “Nacho will be busy, so you will be pleased to hear I’m providing you with extra help.”

  Adolfo’s wariness returned. “What do you mean?”

  Hector inclined his head toward the chair next to Adolfo. “Salazar will accompany you back to Phoenix as your second-in-command. He’s the best operative I have, which is why I brought him up from his assignment in Colombia. Things are under control there. But your operation … not so much.”

  Adolfo dug his nails into his palms as he tightened his fists under the table. “I don’t need another supervisor for my men. I have—”

  His father stood, cutting off Adolfo’s protests. “What I just saw on the news tells me you do need more supervision in your operation. Things have gone badly, and I will not tolerate it.” His tone indicated the discussion was closed.

  Everyone else got to their feet. Adolfo rose and shot a venomous look at Salazar, whose expression remained inscrutable.

  “Come,” El Lobo said, starting toward the door. When Adolfo moved to follow, his father halted, speaking over his shoulder. “Not you, Adolfo.” He motioned toward the glass-paneled room. “There is a mop and bucket in the hall.” His lip curled in contempt. “Clean up your mess.”

  5

  Pleasure thrummed through Veranda as her teeth sank into the soft corn tortilla.

  Sitting across from her, Sam paused mid-chew when she groaned. “You need a cigarette?” he asked around a mouth full of cheese enchiladas smothered in red chili sauce.

  She grinned. “Mamá makes the best carne asada street tacos on the planet.”

  Ravenous after the news conference, Veranda had insisted they stop to eat at Casa Cruz Camión, her uncles’ food truck. Patrons carried their meals from a service window on the side of the vehicle and seated themselves at one of eight card tables scattered under a canopy of open beach umbrellas nearby.

  After the family restaurant burned down as a casualty of her last investigation, her Uncles Juan and Felipe had offered their food truck as a temporary replacement during the time needed for reconstruction. Her mother’s renowned classically prepared Mexico City–style cuisine lured customers to eat in the parking lot despite the lack of ambience and the early September heat in South Phoenix.

  Veranda glanced at Sam. At least twenty years her senior, her partner was already in Homicide when she graduated from the academy thirteen years ago. His salt-and-pepper hair, thick silvery mustache, and penchant for dark suits gave him a distinguished air she doubted she would ever attain. Despite the difference in their ages and styles of policing, they had developed mutual, sometimes grudging, respect for each other’s methodologies over the past weeks since she’d been transferred to Homicide.

  Sam cut into his enchiladas with the edge of his plastic fork and peered over her shoulder to watch the men working on the construction site behind her. “Restaurant’s coming along.”

  She turned to look. Men in hard hats trudged back and forth, thick wooden beams balanced on their shoulders. “Once the permits got through Zoning, things started moving fast. Miguel’s crew will have the place rebuilt in a few months.” She craned her neck and waved. “There he is now.”

  A stocky man with a dense shock of gray hair waved back. She admired her stepfather, Miguel Gomez, who began his career as a teenager hand-mixing mortar for brick masons at construction sites. His weather-worn skin, burnished by years toiling in the blistering Arizona sun, bore witness to his determination to build not only structures, but a good life for his family. He’d waited until he finally saved enough to start his own company after he received his general contractor’s license before asking her mother to marry him seventeen years ago. Veranda was already in high school by then, so she’d always known him as Miguel. The rest of the family called him McGomez, the Mexican MacGyver, who could build anything with a paperclip, two toothpicks, and a stick of chewing gum.

  Now Miguel’s construction crew was rebuilding the family restaurant. A lump caught in her throat as she recalled her younger sister Gabby’s frantic predawn phone call six weeks ago. Veranda had raced to the restaurant to find the whole building in flames. A total loss.

  Because of her.

  Her relatives had considered leaving Phoenix after it became clear the Villalobos cartel had set the fire. But after a fierce Spanglish debate, they’d agreed to stay and rebuild. During construction, her Uncles Felipe and Juan had moved their food truck from their prime downtown location to the restaurant’s parking lot so her mother could maintain the customer base. Now in a true family partnership, they cut the menu, prepped some items at their nearby homes, and managed to avoid bankruptcy.

  Today Veranda had delved back into the deadly underworld of the Villalobos cartel. She couldn’t help but wonder if her family would pay the price. Again.

  The sight of her mother brought her back to the present. Lorena Cruz-Gomez emerged from her ancient Ford Econoline van, slender arms wrapped around a plastic grocery bag containing a bush with vibrant red-orange blossoms. She spotted Veranda, rushed to the table, and put the plant down next to their paper plates.

  “Ay, mi’ja.” Lorena bent to kiss her daughter on both cheeks. “How are you?”

  She couldn’t quite meet her mother’s hazel eyes. “Buried in paperwork.” Aware of the pain the Villalobos family had brought to her mother over the years, Veranda didn’t mention the morning’s encounter with the cartel. Lorena would find out soon enough from news reports. Instead, she redirected the conversation, tipping her head toward the plant. “Did you bring that from your yard?” Veranda recognized a smaller version of her mother’s favorite shrub. She had helped her plant dozens all around the group
of casitas where her extended family lived nearby.

  Even after three decades in Arizona, her mother’s slight Mexican accent wove through her speech. “I have a few at home that are doing real good. So I cut some to grow here.”

  “What kind of plant is it?” Sam asked.

  Lorena touched a fiery petal. “It is called a Red Bird of Paradise.”

  “Hold on.” Sam’s bushy black brows drew together. “I bought my wife one of those at the florist and it didn’t look anything like that.”

  Lorena laughed. “You bought a Bird of Paradise flower. This is a Red Bird of Paradise bush. These grow in the desert and the blossom is such a beautiful color.” She brushed her hand over a cluster of blossoms. “Like a phoenix bird on fire. I always loved these, but now they have a special meaning.” Her gaze traveled to the construction site. “Our family restaurant will rise from the ashes like a phoenix.” She turned back to Veranda. “To me, it will become the Cruz Cocina de Phoenix. This bush will be our symbol now. I will plant them all around the restaurant.”

  Veranda swallowed the lump in her throat. Her family was resilient and resourceful. Catastrophes only made them stronger. A memory, laden with regret, sliced into her thoughts. “How is Gabby?”

  Lines of concern creased Lorena’s brow at the mention of her younger daughter. Gabriela Gomez, Veranda’s fourteen-year-old half-sister, recently had a brush with the Villalobos family. The physical wounds had healed, but her emotional trauma persisted.

  “She still has nightmares,” Lorena said.

  Reassurances died on Veranda’s lips. Everything her little sister endured was due to her vendetta against the Villalobos family. In the dark recesses of her mind, Veranda knew she couldn’t give in. Couldn’t stop pursuing her quarry. She felt an itching sensation under her skin. What price would be too high?

  Her mother’s words interrupted her self-recrimination. “At least Gabby is still excited about her quinceañera. When she speaks of it, she’s herself again. I want to make it real special. Did you get her the present we talked about?”

  “I’ve got it all lined up, don’t worry,” Veranda assured her.

  “It is this Saturday.” Lorena crossed her arms. “The day after tomorrow. I do not care what is going on with your work. You will be there for Gabby.”

  When faced with a determined Latina mother, only one answer would do. “Of course, Mamá.”

  Sam put his plastic fork down. “I’ve never been to a quinceañera. What goes on?”

  Veranda jumped at the chance to turn from her mother’s glare. “In our community, when a girl turns fifteen, her family recognizes her transition to womanhood with a special party. Many cultures celebrate rites of passage, and this one is particularly beautiful.”

  Sam looked intrigued. “What was yours like?”

  Veranda smiled, recalling her own fifteenth birthday. It had been quite modest compared to what Gabby planned, but it was a favorite memory nonetheless. “Depends on what country the family is from but, in our tradition, there are several steps.”

  “The most important part,” Lorena cut in, “is going to Mass at the church. That comes first, before the party. Father Ramirez will bless Gabriela and she will leave a doll at the altar to the Virgen de Guadalupe.” Lorena’s eyes gleamed. “She has a very special one she picked out just for this ceremony.” She glanced at Veranda. “And your tía Juana got her a tiara.” She circled the air above her head with her finger.

  “A tiara?” Sam’s eyes widened.

  “It’s formal,” Veranda said. “Gabby’s gown would put most debutantes to shame.” At Sam’s incredulous look, she added, “And then there’s the damas and chambelanes.”

  “The who and what?”

  Veranda chuckled. “The English words are ‘dames’ and ‘chamberlains,’ but it’s really like bridesmaids and groomsmen. She’ll have seven girls and seven boys plus a boy to escort her in the entourage. Everyone dressed in gowns and tuxes.”

  “All this for a birthday?”

  “Not just any birthday—the planning goes on for months. She’ll be viewed as a woman in the eyes of our community after this. That’s why there’s the changing of the shoes.”

  Sam leaned back. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s that about?”

  “During the reception, Gabby’s father takes off whatever shoes she’s wearing, then replaces them with her first pair of high heels. She’ll wear them as she leaves.”

  Sam’s gray eyes crinkled at the corners, a smile lighting his face. “What a great tradition.”

  Touched by his reaction, she went on. “The reception will be at our family property. That’s where everyone cuts loose. We’ll have tons of food and a live mariachi band, but Gabby will waltz with her father before everyone else hits the dance floor.”

  “Sounds like most weddings I’ve been to.”

  “There are similarities. Every tradition has meaning.” She turned to her mother. “I’m glad Gabby’s ready to go out into the world again. She’s got to reclaim her life.” Veranda looked at the restaurant construction going on behind them. “Our whole family has to.”

  Lorena nodded, a knowing expression in her eyes. “I must plant this and get into the food truck, mi’ja. Your tío Rico is making the masa today.”

  Veranda shook her head. Her mother was a five-star general in the kitchen, overseeing the troops as they prepped the food. Lorena touted good masa and excellent molé as the secret to Mexican cooking, and she would trust no one without inspecting their work before dishes were presented to her customers.

  After her mother scooped up the Red Bird of Paradise and hurried toward the food truck, Veranda scanned the construction site again, amazed at the progress. The new restaurant’s interior walls were going up fast. Apparently mistaking her lingering gaze for interest, one of the construction crew winked at her as he shouldered a plank.

  Sam guffawed. “I think he’s in love.” He forked into another bite of enchilada. “Wonder if he knows he’s in danger of imminent death.”

  Veranda directed a quizzical look at Sam before following his gaze to the hulking blond man approaching their table from the far side of the parking lot. She broke into a smile and waved him over. “Hey, Cole. I see you got my text.”

  She’d crossed paths with the Phoenix Fire Department arson investigator during her last case. When they’d started dating, she put up with good-natured ribbing from her squad. Police and fire had a long-standing rivalry, and the banter included references to his beefcake appearance as well as his lamentable career choice.

  Cole Anderson gave Sam a curt nod before sitting next to Veranda. “Wouldn’t miss a chance to eat the best Mexican food in Arizona.” His light blue eyes softened as he looked at her. “Or to see you.”

  Sam grimaced. “If you can stop ogling my partner for a minute, we’re about to start planning for tomorrow’s meeting … Captain.”

  She noticed Sam had emphasized Cole’s official rank, a reminder that this was a working meal. Before she could comment, her tío Rico trotted over, juggling a bottle of ice water and a paper plate warped under the weight of massive burro surrounded by black beans.

  He placed the food on the table in front of Cole with a flourish. “For the brave fireman.”

  Cole straightened and thanked her uncle.

  Sam rolled his eyes. “What, he doesn’t even have to order?”

  Tío Rico beamed. “We know what el capitán likes.”

  “Oh, I think everyone knows what he likes,” Sam muttered under his breath.

  Veranda wanted to slide under the table to hide her burning face. She was sure her mother had seen Cole arrive and fired another salvo in the family’s ongoing campaign to marry her off, plying him with his favorite dish. Unlike her cohorts at work, her large, noisy, interfering family had taken a shine to Cole and actively promoted the relationship.

/>   When her uncle left, Cole took a bite of his red chile burro and gave her a wink. “Mmm. Hot and spicy.”

  Sam rested a hand on the butt of his sidearm. “I’m about to clear leather. Only I don’t know whether to shoot you or myself.”

  Aware her partner had no patience for on-duty flirting, she switched subjects. “Cole, I hoped you could give us a briefing. You just came from the mall, right?”

  The salacious grin slid from his face, and Cole grew serious. “They called me to the scene of the car fire in the garage at the mall. I understand you two were there when it went up.”

  Sam leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Something wasn’t right about that fire. The Escalade exploded when it hit the cement post.”

  “We found two containers of extra gasoline in the rear compartment.” Cole rubbed his jaw. “Can’t imagine what for.”

  A disturbing picture forced its way into her consciousness. Did the impact kill the driver? Was he unconscious when he died?

  Cole regarded her. “You’re second-guessing yourself, aren’t you?” When she didn’t respond, he blew out a sigh. “I examined the wreckage. The driver was pinned in the vehicle. There’s nothing you could have done to extricate him.”

  His statement didn’t make her feel better. Her first instinct had been to catch Roberto Bernal, not to save the cartel’s driver. Even if he would have died anyway, her actions revealed a side of herself she didn’t want to examine too closely.

  Prey drive. When a predator reflexively gives chase with laser focus on the quarry, disregarding anything else.

  The relentless pursuit of the Villalobos cartel had driven her life choices from the time she turned fifteen. After her own quinceañera, her mother had deemed her old enough to hear what Hector Villalobos had done to her family before she was born. That day, Veranda had vowed to destroy the cartel. Her mother’s story was one of the reasons she became a police officer years later. When Veranda discovered recently that her mother hadn’t told her the whole truth back then, the new information only fueled her anger.