She sat, heart hammering, as Diaz opened his briefcase and pulled several sheets of paper from a manila folder. Her thoughts a jumble of impossible theories, she initialed each paragraph as Diaz read the Miranda form, signing the bottom when he finished.
“I want an attorney,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. “And a union rep.”
Diaz tucked the paperwork back into the folder, leaving a copy for her. “That is your right, and we won’t ask you any further questions until you have retained legal counsel. In the meantime, I hereby relieve you from duty.”
“What?” Some part of her brain understood this stage of the procedure, but she’d never been forced to give up her badge. She was the job. Losing this part of her identity felt like an amputation.
Diaz held out his hand, palm up. “Give me your badge, credentials, cell phone, duty weapon, and extra clips with ammunition. Detective Stark will drive your city car back to headquarters. You are to remain at home where you can be reached at all times.”
As if in a trance, Veranda stood and retrieved her go-bag from the floor nearby. Something nagged at her. What was her duffel doing there? She always kept it in her closet. Murky images swam just out of view, then disappeared.
She handed the bag to Diaz. “Take it. Everything’s there.”
He rested the duffel on the coffee table to unzip it. Following proper procedure, he inventoried each specified item. When he finished, he handed her the empty bag and a property receipt. “Let me make this perfectly clear,” Diaz said, his expression hard as stone. “As of now, you have no police powers.”
Clutching the proffered paper in clammy hands, she wondered if she would ever see her gun and badge again. As she looked into her lieutenant’s cold, dark eyes, the true nature of her predicament sank in. She was under investigation for a felony.
She swallowed a lump in her throat, wondering if she would go to prison while Adolfo went free.
29
Mia stood in the main room of the West Phoenix warehouse, her small body shaking with fear as Señor Adolfo glared down his crooked nose at her.
“You have your twin sister to thank for this,” he said. “Now tell your family goodbye.”
By her side, her mother wailed with grief and pain, her tattered blouse lying on the concrete floor. Mia and her sister had been forced to watch the coyotes brand their mother’s chest. As the acrid scent of charred flesh lingered, her mother doubled over, clutched Mia’s arm, and sobbed.
“Goodbye.” Tears streamed down Mia’s face as she uttered the word.
Her sister Sofia, the smart one, the hope of the family, sank to her knees and howled her anguish.
Mia couldn’t bear it. Everything she had endured since this journey into hell had not come close to preparing her for this torment. The final farewell to her family and all the other women was breaking her heart.
Her sister’s plan had failed. The secret message to Veranda Cruz had been intercepted before it ever went out. The hope they had kindled with their last desperate bid for freedom had been extinguished.
Señor Adolfo signaled Salazar, the one they called El Matador. Nothing terrified her more than that man. He was a demon. Her knees trembled so hard they knocked together as he drew near. She backed away, but his hand latched onto her slender arm like a vise. He shook her so hard her teeth rattled. Panic overtook her, and she tried to pull free.
“Be still.”
She froze.
Still grasping her, Salazar turned to Señor Adolfo. “We have much to do. I cannot attend to this errand myself. Who do you have that would make sure this one”—he gave her another shake—“suffers before she dies?”
She watched as Señor Adolfo considered the group of fourteen men gathered at the back of the building. The coyotes had made sure every woman stood in front to witness what happened to those who defied the Villalobos family.
She saw his eyes settle on a particularly brutish man with deep scars along his pockmarked face and a cruel set to his mouth. She shuddered. Easily the largest of Carlos’s coyotes, his bulging arms could snap her in half.
Señor Adolfo signaled the man. “Felix, take her.”
Felix pushed away from the wall and strode over to her.
Salazar shoved her into Felix’s expansive barrel chest. “Take her out into the desert. Do whatever you like with her before you kill her, but don’t take too long. We have more work for you here.”
Felix’s face split into a wide grin, showing a gold tooth and black gums.
Her mother and sister wailed louder than ever.
Ignoring the histrionics, Felix wrapped a meaty hand around her upper arm. As he dragged her toward the door, she turned to see her mother and Sofia for the last time. She held her composure until she left the warehouse, then succumbed to tears.
Felix cuffed the side of her head. “Shut up.” He twisted her arm, forcing her toward a black sedan parked in the shade of the building. Earlier that morning, Sofia told her exactly where they were, explaining how this part of the industrial district was full of abandoned warehouses.
As she surveyed her surroundings, she knew Sofia had been correct. No one was around to see her. If she screamed, Felix would simply hit her, so she remained silent as he wrenched open the front passenger door and shoved her inside.
Felix pulled a zip tie from his jeans pocket and looped it around her wrists. He pulled it tight, the closure making a ripping sound as the plastic teeth ground into a locked position. When he leaned forward to buckle her seatbelt, she recoiled as the armpit stains of his grimy T-shirts released a repulsive stench of body odor, stale beer, and cheap cigarettes. She supposed he didn’t secure her out of concern for her safety, but a desire to restrict her movement inside the car.
He cast a threatening glare at her. “I want you up front where I can keep an eye on you. If you’re quiet, I might go easy on you when we get out of the city.” He chuckled. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll like it.”
He slammed her door shut, then lumbered around the vehicle to the driver’s door, angled his bulk to fit behind the wheel, and rechecked her seatbelt.
She took in his greasy hair, filthy clothes, and soot-blackened hands, which she imagined groping her bare skin. A wave of nausea overtook her, and she fought down the urge to retch, saying nothing as he pulled out into the street.
Felix pulled onto a wide thoroughfare. She considered her situation and saw no way out. No chance of rescue. As the car glided relentlessly toward their destination, she accepted the truth. Her life was about to end.
Her hands reddened as the plastic ties cut into her wrists, compressing them together painfully. The discomfort gathered her scattered thoughts to a focal point. She had nothing to lose. She could either go to her death meekly after Felix was finished with her, or try one last time to change her fate.
She looked around the car. Felix had no weapon she could see, although she imagined he would at least have a knife somewhere to kill her. She winced at the mere thought. Or maybe he intended to strangle her.
Choking back a sob of fear, she forced herself to think. Aware every passing second brought her closer to death, she reexamined the car, looking for any means of escape. The door latch was missing, so she couldn’t open it. When she discreetly tried to power down the window, nothing happened.
Felix drove into what she guessed must be the downtown area. Traffic grew heavier and more people strolled the sidewalks. She turned her head away so Felix couldn’t see her, and mouthed the word “help” to passersby. She made frantic faces to other drivers, hoping they would at least call the police to investigate. But no one reacted. Apparently, nobody could see her through the dark-tinted glass, so she didn’t bother trying to wave at anyone to show them her bound hands. When she made her move, it had to count. A weak attempt to attract attention, like tapping on her window, would just piss her captor off, and
waste her only chance at surprising him.
She remained quiet, hoping to lull Felix into thinking she had no fight left in her. All the while, she studied the streets as they passed, praying for an opportunity. After a few minutes, the spaces between high-rise buildings widened. Before long, she figured they’d be out of the city. She had to do something now.
As the sedan approached an intersection, the light turned yellow. Cursing, Felix stomped the gas pedal. She had a flash of inspiration. Her idea was reckless and dangerous, but she would die anyway if she did nothing.
She flicked a glance at Felix. As they reached the middle of the intersection, his eyes locked on the still-yellow traffic signal, his foot mashing the accelerator to the floor.
Now or never.
She lunged to her left, grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, and yanked as hard as she could, aiming the car at a metal light pole on the corner. As other drivers blasted their horns and fishtailed out of the way, their sedan rammed straight into the pole at full speed. Without time to react, Felix had never moved his foot to the brake pedal.
Mia had a final thought before darkness enveloped her. This one aspect of her life, the Villalobos family would not control. She would die on her own terms.
30
After Sam and Diaz left, Veranda sat on the sofa in a state of shock for several minutes. In a near catatonic stupor, she stared straight ahead until her gaze landed on a black-and-white photograph in a pewter frame resting on the end table. The picture, a photo of her mother she had taken last year, was her favorite. Lorena sat on the bench in the gathering space under the pavilion between the casitas at the family property, her head thrown back, mouth wide, and eyes crinkled with mirth. The years had not dimmed her beauty.
Emerging from her trance, Veranda realized one person would be suffering from the devastating news reports even more than she was. A sick feeling clawed at her insides. She shot to her feet, darted to the kitchen, and used her landline to call her mother’s cell phone. She assumed Lorena had already arrived at the food truck, and prayed she hadn’t seen any television.
Listening to ringing at the other end, she gripped the receiver so hard her knuckles whitened. Desperate to reach her mother and warn her about the news story, she chewed her lip during the interminable wait before her uncle picked up the phone.
“Tío Rico, I need to speak to my mother.” Her words spilled out in a breathless rush.
After a long pause, Rico answered. “Lorena gave me her phone.” She could hear the strain in his voice. “She has gone home.” The bleakness in her uncle’s words tore at her heart. “She will not speak to anyone.”
“I’m going over there … ” she began, the empty promise dying on her lips. Even if she weren’t on de facto house arrest, the department had taken her city car, and her personally owned beater was currently up on a pneumatic lift at Chuy’s garage with its guts spread over the oil-stained floor.
“Don’t, Veranda.”
She sensed a chill in her uncle’s tone that had never been there before. Like her mother, Rico had known she might be El Lobo’s daughter. Because he had been there. Seventeen years old at the time, Rico had been the one to hit Hector over the head during the attack. Rico had witnessed the brutish, violent act that had brought Veranda into existence.
No wonder none of them wanted to speak to her now. Bitter despair mixed with bile in her throat, burning a path down to the pit of her stomach.
Her uncle cut into her thoughts. “Veranda, we are closing the food truck for the day. We must care for Lorena. I will call you when she is ready to see you again.” He hung up.
She slumped against the wall. Her knees buckled and she slid down to sit on the tile floor. As moisture pooled in the corners of her eyes, she noticed a small detail. Her uncle had not called her mi’jita—his usual term of endearment—as he always had. As of now, she was simply Veranda. Like she wasn’t family. Wasn’t flesh and blood. Wasn’t welcome.
Deeper than her own pain, she felt the torment her mother undoubtedly experienced at this moment. She knew Lorena would assume people believed she’d voluntarily slept with Hector Villalobos. Worse yet, her mother had been married to Ernesto Hidalgo when she became pregnant with Veranda. Conservative and Catholic to her core, Lorena would expect her community to scorn her as an unfaithful wife. And the community meant everything to her, so she was hiding herself away out of shame. Her mother deserved better, and Veranda cursed herself for not being what her mother desperately wanted—Ernesto’s child..
Soul-wrenching pain tormented her. Veranda had lost her family, her career, and finally, her self-respect. By the time the investigation ended, she might also lose her freedom. She would be reviled as a traitor to her country. Her own department would work with prosecutors to send her to prison for the rest of her life.
Somehow, the Villalobos family had done this to her. The thought ignited a spark deep in the very marrow of her bones. As the heat built, her agony burned away, and she stoked the flames into a raging fire. Done grieving what she could not change, she was ready to fight.
She scrambled to her feet and stormed into the bathroom. Chest heaving, she stood in front of the mirror over her sink and tore off her satin robe. The tattoo was a livid wound on her chest. The letter V above it, a dark stain over her heart.
Biting back angry tears, she turned on the shower and stepped under the hot water. With all her might, she tried to piece together what had happened the night before. She remembered leaving the hotel, and she didn’t have the tattoo then. She recalled getting in her car, but not arriving at her house. What had happened next?
Her background in narcotics told her some drugs not only rendered a person compliant, but permanently deleted several hours from conscious memory. She needed a blood test to reveal traces of any chemicals in her system. She also needed a lawyer, and she’d better find one before Diaz sent a uniform to collect her and take her to headquarters for a highly unpleasant interrogation.
Stepping out of the shower and toweling off, she formulated a course of action. Much better than sitting on the kitchen floor drowning under a tidal wave of guilt. First, she had to be ready when an officer arrived. She dressed quickly in a pale gray pantsuit and walked into her living room in search of her briefcase. Over the years, she’d received business cards from countless criminal defense attorneys. Her experience in the courtroom told her which ones were the best. In her wildest nightmares, she never imagined needing their services as a client.
As she opened the briefcase to retrieve a stack of business cards, her home phone rang. Eager to hear from her mother, she raced to the kitchen and snatched up the receiver. “Hello?”
Lieutenant Diaz’s voice jarred her. “I’m on my way to pick you up, Detective. Be ready to leave in five minutes.”
Although grateful she’d already showered and dressed, she didn’t understand why he hadn’t sent a uniform to take her to an interview room. “I can ride to your location with an area patrol unit.” She had no desire to be in a car with Diaz.
“I’m not taking you to be interrogated.”
“What’s going on?”
“A young girl, looks like a teenager, just arrived at Phoenix General’s ER in an ambulance.”
“Gabby.” Her hand flew to her throat. Could this day get any worse? “What’s happened to my sister?”
Diaz’s voice softened fractionally. “It’s not Gabriela.”
Veranda twisted the phone cord through her fingers. “I don’t understand.”
“The girl said her name is Mia Pacheco. She has a fairly recent brand of a wolf’s head on her chest. She was transported from the scene of a car crash at 8th and Watson. She was the passenger. The driver is an adult Hispanic male in his late twenties with a Villalobos tattoo over his heart. He’s in surgery right now, but he’s circling the drain. No seatbelt, airbag disconnected, lots of head and
chest trauma. The girl was belted in though, so she’s doing a lot better.”
She reflexively flipped into detective mode. “Do you have an ID on the driver?”
“According to his license, his name is Felix Orteña.”
She snapped her fingers. “I know that name. He’s a coyote who doubles as a Villalobos enforcer. Huge son-of-a-bitch.”
“The girl, Mia, says she’s got important information about the raids and about the cartel, but she refuses to speak to anyone except you.”
“But I don’t know her.”
“Well, she knows you. The rest of the task force is at the Fusion Center working on a new plan. Because of the media circus, Commander Webster is now running day-to-day operations on-site at the Center. He slotted Sam in as lead detective. That makes me redundant, so I was assigned to take you to the hospital and get this girl’s statement.”
“I’ll be ready when you get here.” She hung up and fished her house keys from a terra-cotta bowl on the hall table by the door, tossing them in her purse with the stack of business cards.
She watched from the window as Diaz pulled up a few minutes later, then punched in her alarm code and locked the door behind her before she strode to the Chrysler and got in.
As they drove to the hospital, she tried to make headway with Diaz. “I’m innocent, you know.”
He kept his eyes on the road. “Detective, you’ve invoked. I can’t discuss the case with you any further until we’re in an official interview setting with your attorney present.”
“I know, but I’m volunteering this on the record. No matter how it looks, I didn’t betray my family, my department, and my country.” She instilled every ounce of sincerity she possessed into the declaration. “I’d die first.”
He said nothing, and they drove the rest of the way in stony silence.
Diaz pulled into one of the designated police parking spaces next to the emergency room entrance and threw a PPD placard on the dashboard. He badged their way past the hospital security personnel and checked the overhead boards for the ER patient list. The name “Mia Pacheco” was listed in bed seven.
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