“Adam team is ten-four,” she said into the mic. “Subjects GOA. Repeat, subjects are gone on arrival. Target location is empty.”
A moment later, Sam’s baritone rumbled through her earpiece. “Bravo team. Same traffic. Subjects GOA. Target location empty.”
Another raid site with a deserted building.
“Charles team. Subjects GOA. Target location empty.”
“David team. Same traffic.”
“Edward team. Same traffic.”
Each response thundered in her ears. The sense of dread coalesced into a tight knot in her belly.
“Frank team. Nine in custody. Large cache of weapons and narcotics on scene.”
The knot loosened as relief washed over her. The mission wasn’t a complete failure. She tugged a folded page out of a concealed flap in her ballistic vest. She checked the paper and found the assignment for the Frank team. It was one of the three SSS locations.
“George team. Twelve in custody. Narcotics located.”
Another SSS location. Sweat beaded at her hairline, prickling her scalp.
“Henry team. Seven in custody. Narcotics located.”
The third and final SSS address. Her heart quickened as she waited for the next report.
“India team. Subjects GOA. Target location empty.”
“John team. Subjects GOA. Target location empty.”
“King team. Same traffic.”
“Lincoln team. Same traffic.”
Her stomach plummeted as the Mary, Nora, and Ocean teams reported the same results. Every single Villalobos location had been empty. Only the SSS sites had been successfully raided.
Realization hit her like a punch to the solar plexus. In a matter
of hours, she had disposed of the cartel’s adversaries, giving them undisputed control of her city. She had done the work of the Villalobos family for them.
Nice going, Cruz.
22
At eight the following morning, Veranda’s eyes traveled over the array of weaponry on the long table positioned at the back of the PPD headquarters media briefing room. Neat rows of rifles, pistols, revolvers, improvised explosives, and exotic edged weapons covered the table’s wood-laminate surface. Tagged with evidence cards, they lay beside packages of heroin, marijuana, and cocaine wrapped in tight plastic bundles of varying sizes.
The Public Affairs Bureau had gone all out for the news conference, which had just gotten underway. Chief Tobias stood at a lectern on the dais fielding questions, while she and other members of the task force lined the stage behind him.
During the pre-conference briefing in the greenroom an hour earlier, Sergeant Hearst told her the press kits he would distribute to the media covered only the positive points. The packets of information emphasized the quantity of contraband seized and number of arrests made during the operation, without mentioning any empty locations.
Hearst had looked like he’d been chewing antacids all morning. Still irritated the Public Affairs sergeant had offered her up on a platter, Veranda had little sympathy for his gastrointestinal distress.
A familiar voice drew her attention back to the present, and she spotted Kiki Lowell shouting to be heard over the din. Scores of media representatives jockeyed for position in the limited space, each vying for the chief’s attention. Shorter than the others, Kiki jumped in place and waved an arm in a wide arc, almost hitting one of her colleagues with the notebook clutched in her hand. “Why are you calling Operation Scorpion Sting a success?”
Chief Tobias pointed at her to acknowledge the question before responding. “Because we arrested twenty-eight people and will be filing additional charges shortly. What’s more, we seized hundreds of kilos of illegal narcotics and took over four dozen weapons off the street. I’d call that a good day.”
Apparently not satisfied, Kiki followed up. “Every person listed in the news release you provided is with the SSS gang. There are no Villalobos cartel arrests.” She glanced at the notebook she held. “Not one.”
Veranda cut her eyes to Hearst, who stood ramrod straight in the back corner of the room next to the display tables. His face flushed and he patted his pockets, no doubt searching for another antacid.
Chief Tobias shifted uncomfortably behind the bank of microphones. “We’ve seriously crippled a criminal gang operating in Phoenix. Not every police action is a total success, but we made good progress and the investigation is far from over. There will be more to come.”
Veranda recognized the tactic. Tobias was trying a different shade of lipstick on the proverbial pig.
A network television reporter with a tailored gray suit, Day-Glo white teeth, and overly gelled hair seemed to scent blood in the water and surfaced to take a bite. “As you just stated, you crippled one of two criminal organizations. The other was left completely untouched. Do you see this as a victory for the Villalobos cartel?”
Standing behind him, she could see the back of the chief’s neck redden as he answered. “No. I do not.”
“I have a follow-up,” hair gel said. “Shutting down the SSS gang gave the cartel a clear field. Since the Phoenix Police Department led this operation and it appears to have backfired, are there plans to turn the investigation over to the FBI or the DEA?”
Tobias squared his shoulders. “No.”
Another shark swam toward the chum, shouting his question at Tobias. “Will you change leadership on the task force?”
Veranda sucked in a breath. Her reckoning had come. The warrant service had been her idea. She owned it. And she was definitely the most junior detective in Homicide. She waited for the axe to fall.
Tobias straightened. His response consisted of one terse word: “No.”
She let out a relieved breath. The chief would give her another chance. When she heard her name, thoughts of gratitude dissipated.
“Do you believe this situation occurred because of Detective Cruz’s lack of experience in Homicide?”
From her position at his back, she studied her chief’s posture and body language. He’d switched to short, sharp answers as the reporters lobbed questions at him. This one, however, made it personal. About her.
After a slight pause, Tobias spoke slowly and clearly, enunciating the word: “No.”
The cold cereal Veranda had eaten for breakfast churned in her stomach. Under heavy fire from the media, the chief stood up for her. Tobias had gone on record supporting her actions, and would now be associated directly with any outcome, good or bad. Another public disaster on this scale could push him into an early retirement. He had cast his lot with hers.
Chief Tobias raised his hands to stave off further questions. “That concludes our news conference. Details about the operation are in your press kits. Sergeant Hearst from Public Affairs will be available later today for further clarification.”
Tobias stepped aside to join Mayor Benitez, who had opened the event and introduced the chief. The pair strode out amid a barrage of questions from reporters.
She filed out behind them along with the rest of the task force. Everyone remained silent until the heavy double doors of the greenroom adjacent to the media briefing room swung shut, cutting off the din.
Lines of fatigue imprinted every face. After last night’s operation, the task force had come together to catalog each item of evidence from the SSS raids. Meanwhile, narcotics detectives from the PPD Drug Enforcement Bureau and Federal DEA agents interrogated arrestees for information about their supply line from Colombia.
She’d been up half the night, only going home for a few hours of fitful sleep before putting on a black pantsuit and picking up Agents Lopez and Rios on her way to headquarters.
Starting before sunrise, everyone had pitched in to prepare display tables for the news conference. Sergeant Hearst hoped a visual sign of progress against the drug gang would divert attention away from a com
plete lack of arrests involving the cartel. The strategy hadn’t lasted ten minutes into the conference before Kiki Lowell started asking pointed questions.
Veranda thought back to her conversation with Chief Tobias in his office on the fourth floor earlier that morning. When she explained about the lopsided arrest tally, he’d taken the news stoically. Everyone knew the significance of the shutdown of only one side of the equation, but no one could figure out how it had happened.
Now she looked around the greenroom and prepared for the inevitable recriminations to begin.
Hearst opened the door and slipped inside to join them, his handsome face uncharacteristically haggard. “We called local news outlets yesterday evening to put a calendar hold on their schedules for this morning, but we didn’t tell them why.” He addressed Tobias. “Chief, those reporters couldn’t have known we were holding a news conference about an operation involving the gang war.”
“Maybe they guessed,” Sam said. “This is the only Phoenix news story getting national attention right now.”
Agent Gates leveled an angry gaze at Hearst. “Do you think the media leaked info about the news conference and Adolfo Villalobos put two and two together?” She threw her hands in the air. “How else would the cartel have known to clear out?”
“Not a chance,” Hearst said without hesitation. “I know how reporters think, and they’d never leak info before the takedown. They’d lose their sources, their credentials, and their story.”
Diaz shifted, wariness crossing his darkly stubbled face. “Do we have another mole on the department?”
The room grew silent. The unspoken suspicion had lurked beneath the surface all night, and now her lieutenant had dredged it up in the light of day.
She recalled the spy she’d discovered in their midst six weeks ago. The cartel, known for cultivating informants inside law enforcement agencies south of the border, had managed to turn someone on the PPD. The department still reeled from the effects of the subterfuge, even though the mole was gone.
The mere idea of a second traitor heated her blood. “Impossible.” She kept her voice calm despite her fury. “I refuse to believe one of our people would ever do that again.”
Agent Lopez threw her a pitying look. “I have seen too much to be shocked by anything involving El Lobo and his cartel.”
Chief Tobias cleared his throat, breaking the tension. “Detective Cruz, we need answers. Mayor Benitez and I are backing you, but we won’t be able to do so much longer if we can’t determine how the cartel got wind of the raids and escaped the dragnet.”
Her pulse quickened. The chief had now tied the mayor’s political future as well as his own to the success of her investigation. No pressure. “I’ll get to the bottom of it.” She had no idea how. “But in the meantime, I want to devote our resources exclusively to the cartel investigation.”
Commander Webster spoke up. “You have homicide cases involving the SSS gang to work.”
Diaz interjected before she could mount an argument. “Every case where an SSS gang member is a perpetrator is closed, Commander. All suspects have been murdered, arrested, or refused to cooperate. We could intensify our work on the cartel without hindering our progress.”
She couldn’t fathom what Diaz was up to, but she’d take support anywhere she could get it. Slogging through lengthy SSS homicide investigations would take time from her main focus.
“I’ll bring it up if no one else will,” Agent Tanner said. “That reporter had a point. Perhaps it’s not a bad idea to consider a change of leadership on the task force.”
The room crackled with tension. The junior FBI agent had spoken out of turn, managing to insult both the police chief and the lead detective on the task force at the same time.
Gates raised her voice to cover whatever Tanner was about to say next. “Chief Tobias already publicly rejected that suggestion.” She shot her subordinate a look clearly designed to silence him. “Besides, it would send the wrong message.”
“There’s something you need to understand about how we operate in Phoenix.” Sam’s gray eyes skewered Tanner. “We don’t change horses midstream.”
Marci stepped directly into Tanner’s personal space, tilting her face up to his. “You want to be in charge?”
Tanner stepped back. “We’re strictly in a support role.” He spoke quickly. “The FBI didn’t call the shots on this operation, which violates our standard procedures, by the way.”
Sam’s face darkened. “We would’ve had more time for proper procedure if someone hadn’t seen fit to tip off that reporter.”
A light rap sounded on the greenroom door.
“Speak of the devil,” Sergeant Hearst said, turning to Veranda. “That will be one of my staff escorting Kiki Lowell here for your one-on-one interview.”
Lieutenant Diaz interrupted the awkward silence, addressing members of the task force. “Everyone except Cruz, get down to the Fusion Center, put your heads together, and come up with a new plan. Dismissed.”
She watched her team leave. Tension formed a line of knots along her spine as she stayed behind, a sacrificial offering to Kiki Lowell, who knew way too many secrets. If she could turn the tables, she would ask three questions. First, how did Kiki find out about the operation in
advance? Second, how did she know the cartel search warrants yielded nothing? And finally, who the hell was her source?
23
Villalobos family
compound, Mexico
A warm rush flooded through Adolfo when his father stood and raised his crystal champagne flute. Struggling to identify the strange sensation in his body, he got to his feet. With a jolt of shock, he realized what he felt was … pride.
Chatter in the room died, every eye on El Lobo as his resonant voice echoed through the expansive dining hall. “A toast to Adolfo. In one stroke, he put our rival out of business, took control of Phoenix, and humiliated Detective Veranda Cruz.”
He noted his father used formal Spanish. Hector Villalobos frequently used elegant speech to distance himself from his impoverished childhood in the barrios of Mexico City. The ornate surroundings reinforced the message that he had far exceeded his early circumstances.
The richly upholstered chairs scraped back from the long dining table, their occupants rising to lift glasses. “Adolfo.” The name chorused around the room, which Hector had designed in classic European style. Three multi-tiered sparkling chandeliers cast a diffuse glow on tremendous oil paintings adorning the walls. The largest art piece was a full-sized portrait of his father, dressed in his customary white Armani suit and peering regally down his angular nose. The claw-footed table, decorated with intricate marquetry and draped in crisp snowy linen, seated eighteen. The meal, a luncheon, was presented with the pomp and circumstance of a royal dinner.
“I must admit,” Hector said, pausing to sip the bubbling liquid in his flute, “Adolfo’s cunning surprised me.”
The champagne turned bitter on his tongue. His father’s compliment couched an insult. El Lobo hadn’t believed his firstborn son capable of turning an unforeseen predicament to his advantage.
When he observed the other guests, the ill-concealed scorn on Salazar’s face told him he’d read the subtext perfectly. His brother and sister already knew of his father’s ambivalence toward him, but the sight of so many people at the table hearing it for themselves undermined any authority he’d hoped to gain from his victory.
Hector resumed his seat and waited for the others to follow suit before he continued. “While we wait for dessert, I’d like an update from each of you. I’ll start with Adolfo.” His father’s penetrating gaze found him. “What are your future plans?”
He emphasized the morning’s success. “Detective Cruz has only felt the first cut. She’ll shed more blood before I’m finished. She—”
Hector held up a hand, silencing him. “We will t
alk about Detective Cruz later.” His father’s voice dropped to a low rumble. “In private.”
Senses alerted, he scrutinized his father for signs of trouble. Unlike other men, El Lobo grew quieter when angered. Now he saw tautness around his father’s mouth, a slight flaring of his nostrils, and an almost imperceptible narrowing of the eyes. Someone who didn’t know Hector extremely well would miss the telltale markers of cold rage. What had gone wrong?
Stomach churning with dread, Adolfo quickly recalibrated his report. “Our new base is up and running. We only had a small window of time to move yesterday, so we had to temporarily consolidate all operations at our emergency backup location. An abandoned warehouse in West Phoenix. Law enforcement cannot trace it back to us.”
“What about revenue?” Hector asked.
Adolfo swallowed hard, hoping the droplets of perspiration gathering along his hairline wouldn’t trickle down his face. “We’re converting part of the space into individual rooms to be used by Carlos’s stable of women. For now, we’ll keep our outside customers to a minimum so authorities won’t find us before we’re ready to decentralize again.”
Hector nodded, his gaze moving down the table. “Carlos?”
His younger brother straightened. “As Adolfo said, we’re remodeling the new location so I can get my women working full-time again. They’re cooking, cleaning, and servicing the men while we wait.” He hesitated, as if considering whether to broach a delicate subject. “One of the girls had to be punished, but she’s compliant now.”
Adolfo directed a quelling look at Carlos. Didn’t the fool know he should never discuss internal problems in front of the guests? Then he glanced at Salazar and realized his father had probably already heard all about the branding from his inside man.
As if to confirm his suspicions, Hector didn’t press for details. Instead, he raised an eyebrow at his daughter. “What do you have to report, Daria?”
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