Phoenix Burning

by Isabella Maldonado

  Adolfo glanced at Daria, who looked like she wanted to hit something. She had obviously come to the same conclusion he had.

  “There is another important point to this story I haven’t mentioned yet.” Hector stroked his silver and black goatee. “I promised the chief’s wife I would wait until our son turned eighteen to introduce myself and I would never mention our relationship to anyone else. In exchange for my silence, and for allowing my son to bear another man’s last name, I chose the child’s first name and she convinced her husband it was her idea.”

  Adolfo’s mind reeled. He struggled to keep up with the revelations, sensing another one barreling directly at him.

  With grim satisfaction lighting his eyes, Hector continued. “From the time I was young, I decided to name my children alphabetically, and I already knew what my first son would be called.”

  Adolfo finally found his voice. “Your chief’s wife’s maiden name was Salazar.” He made it a statement.

  Hector nodded silently, apparently waiting for Adolfo to arrive at the inexorable conclusion.

  Adolfo swallowed the bile in his throat and directed his next question at Salazar. “What … is your first name?”

  Salazar’s ebony eyes were trained on Hector. His father. He did not acknowledge Adolfo’s question with even a glance.

  “Salazar’s first name is Adelmo.” Hector’s eyes shone with pride as he returned El Matador’s gaze with obvious affection. “Which means noble and strong.”

  Adolfo heard his voice crack with strain as the final piece clicked into place. “If you named all of your children alphabetically … ”

  “Yes, Adolfo. Salazar is my true firstborn son.”

  Daria shot to her feet and stomped across the room to confront her father. “But he is a bastard!”

  Hector moved so fast Daria had no time to react. He backhanded his daughter across the face, the smack as loud as a gunshot. The blow knocked her off her feet, sending her sprawling onto the thick Persian rug.

  Eyes wide, she laid a quivering hand on her cheek. She slowly withdrew it and stared at the blood on her fingertips caused by her father’s ornate family crest ring.

  Nostrils flared, eyes narrowed to slits, El Lobo spoke to her in a lethal undertone. “Never call him that again.”

  Daria gazed up at her father, mouth working, no words coming out.

  Adolfo sensed the power shift in the room. The world had tilted on its axis, as Salazar usurped his and Daria’s place in the pack. This brutal display made his father’s choice clear. He and his sister had been shunted aside, while Adelmo Salazar would be groomed to take over the family empire.

  He looked down at his sister, still on the floor. Perhaps she would finally ally with him against the outsider. He extended a hand to her.

  She turned to him, her eyes full of molten fury. “I don’t need a fucking hand from you, pendejo.”

  Adolfo lowered his arm as Daria got to her feet. As always, he was on his own.

  Hector chuckled as if Daria were a precocious child who had said something cute. Smiling, he smoothed his lapel and looked at his daughter. “I know you want to take over someday, mi’ja, but I am simply not prepared to accept a female as leader of the family business.”

  Daria bristled. “Women have led entire nations, Papá. Let me show you what a female can do.” She pointed at Adolfo. “As I predicted, Adolfo disgraced himself, but I have done nothing wrong.”

  Adolfo clenched his hands into tight fists. He would tolerate insults from his father, but not his sister. Aware he could do nothing at the moment, he buried the seeds of revenge in a fertile corner of his mind to germinate, silently vowing they would bear fruit.

  Hector scrutinized his daughter. “I will give you a critical assignment, mi’ja. If you succeed, I will reconsider your position in the future.”

  Daria shot Salazar a venomous glare before turning back to her father. “Name it.”

  Hector sneered in his direction. “Adolfo brought me Carlos’s body, and now I must bury a son.” He turned to Daria. “You will bring me Veranda Cruz’s body, and I will also bury a daughter.”

  40

  Veranda pulled her dark sunglasses from the Tahoe’s console and shoved them on to block the late afternoon sun as she cruised down the street to her family’s cluster of casitas at South Mountain. After hours of questions from detectives and a second debriefing with the task force, Diaz had reinstated her to full duty.

  She sighed as she recalled his parting instructions. She was to report to the Professional Standards Bureau first thing tomorrow morning. The department would conduct a full investigation into all circumstances surrounding her suspension and the shooting of Carlos Villalobos. She doubted the blood sample they had taken would still contain any residue of whatever Salazar had injected her with, but no one questioned her claim of memory loss any longer.

  The Tahoe’s oversized tires crunched on the gravel driveway when she pulled up to the largest house in the center of the family property. She’d called ahead and asked Chuy and Tiffany to meet her here, intending to put her own clothes back on, then convince Mamá to go to the construction site of the restaurant with her to plant the Red Bird of Paradise bush.

  Chuy had apparently told the whole family she was coming, because she’d been forced to navigate around several familiar cars on her way down the long driveway. The skull motorcycle leaned on its kickstand next to the mailbox, and she was relieved Chuy had picked it up from headquarters.

  After coming to a stop, she adjusted the rearview mirror to check the cargo area. She smiled at the dense bush, secured in place with twine, its fiery blossoms topping slender sprigs jutting from verdant foliage.

  She pushed the SUV’s door open, swung down from the driver’s seat, and started for Mamá’s front door. Doubt crept in and she hesitated, looking down at her PPD raid jacket, snapped up all the way to her throat. Marci’s words came back to her. Never apologize for who you are. Wasn’t she about to tell her mother not to be ashamed anymore? The cartel had tried to humiliate her by permanently marking her and exposing the truth about her birth. Veranda couldn’t change her past. Neither could Lorena.

  A few weeks ago, her mother had finally stopped wearing the heavy silver choker that covered the scar left by Hector’s knife the night he raped her. Veranda had celebrated that victory. Now what would it say if she hid her tattoo as her mother had concealed the wound on her neck for years? The tattoo, like the scar, had been inflicted by the Villalobos family. She drew a deep breath and yanked the jacket open, pulling the snaps apart with a series of pops. She shrugged out of it and tossed the nylon windbreaker into the open driver’s door window. She would greet her family with the Villalobos body art fully visible. She would own it.

  She strode to the door and knocked.

  Tío Rico answered. His eyes traveled from her face to the tattoo on her chest above the bustier. His expression clouded as he looked back up at her. “Come in, Veranda.”

  She walked into the living room, crowded with family. Her tíos and tías and primos were all there. They took in the tattoo, and the smiles slid from their faces.

  She looked around. “Where’s Mamá?”

  Lorena made her way to the front of the group and stopped short. She looked her daughter up and down, eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Gabriela used her laptop to show me your speech on TV. Ay, mi’ja.” She shook her head. “I’ve been a fool hiding in my house.”

  “Oh, Mamá.” Veranda rushed to her mother and swept her into a tight hug. She felt the warmth of a muscular chest against her back as Chuy joined their embrace, his ink-covered arms wrapped around both of them. One by one, the rest of the family gathered around, squeezing together to form a group hug. Somebody sniffled, and Veranda fought to maintain her composure.

  Finally, they broke apart, Lorena dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

&
nbsp; A tremendous weight lifted from Veranda’s heart as she gave her mother’s hand a squeeze. “Since you saw the news conference, you know I have a Red Bird of Paradise bush in the car. I’d like to drive you to the restaurant site to plant it now, before sunset.”

  “We’ll all go,” Chuy said. “Tiffany brought your clothes if you want to change first.”

  Tiffany strutted toward her in an electric blue tube top, a micro miniskirt, and spike stiletto sandals. She held out a paper grocery bag. “Everything’s in here. No offense, but I couldn’t stand wearing that hideous pantsuit a minute longer.” She shuddered.

  Veranda took the bag. She looked around the room at her family. They had accepted her back into the fold. They knew who she was, what she was, but loved her anyway. Suddenly, getting back into her police persona didn’t seem so urgent. Something more important took precedence. She slowly set the bag on the floor. “Let’s go now.”

  Everyone piled into various vehicles. Lorena sat next to Veranda in the front passenger seat of the Tahoe. Her stepfather sat directly behind her in the seat next to Gabby, who cuddled the quivering little Chihuahua puppy.

  “I named him Randy,” Gabby said. “You know, like the boy version of Veranda.” She scratched his tiny head. “He’s my best friend, and he’s teaching me to be brave … like you.”

  “I’m honored.” Veranda smiled as she led the caravan of vehicles from the driveway and onto the street toward the restaurant.

  There had been moments the past few hours when she’d felt like a Chihuahua snarling at a Pit Bull. She’d dared to stand up to the cartel. She’d even taken a bite out of them. And no doubt, they would strike back soon.

  Her thoughts continued along this dark vein as they rode in silence. Within a few minutes, she turned onto the street where the restaurant was under construction. Her uncles’ food truck squatted next to a cluster of card tables under a tarp in the parking lot, concealing much of the building. Cars lined the street, and Veranda assumed her stepfather, Miguel, had his crew working into the evening to speed up the project.

  She wove the Tahoe around the various cars and trucks, searching for a place to park, when her mother gasped. Veranda stomped the brake pedal, alert for signs of danger. Her eyes found the construction zone. Scores of people milled around carrying Red Bird of Paradise bushes in their arms. She recognized friends and neighbors from the community chatting as they used shovels from the site to dig holes a few feet from the building’s foundation. Camera crews were shooting footage of the event. Kiki Lowell held out her microphone, interviewing someone in front of a local nursery truck, loaded with bushes, parked nearby.

  Lorena began to sob. She covered her face with her calloused hands and tears gushed between her fingers. Veranda stretched an arm around her mother’s shoulders. “They’re here for you,” she whispered. “The whole community came out to support you, Mamá.”

  Then it was Veranda’s turn to gasp. Sam walked into her line of sight from around a corner, directing members of the task force toward an empty patch of ground with freshly dug soil.

  Agent Gates trudged toward the makeshift plot holding two bushes in her arms. Agents Lopez and Rios followed in her wake with more plants, while Sergeant Jackson and her Homicide squad carried shovels. Her mouth fell open when Lieutenant Diaz, Commander Webster, and Chief Tobias rounded the corner pushing wheelbarrows filled with bags of potting soil.

  Unable to hold back any longer, Veranda allowed the tears to flow down her cheeks. The community had come out to support her mother, and her police family had come out for her as well. They had accepted her.

  And she would learn to do the same.

  Acknowledgments

  Every day, law enforcement officers (LEOs) guard the flock, keeping the wolves at bay. Ever vigilant, they stand ready to sacrifice all. As someone who spent 22 years carrying a gun and badge, I have a special connection with the characters in my stories. Through fiction, I hope to shed light on the very real personal and professional struggles LEOs—and those who love them—endure.

  Over the past year, I attended many book-related events. Spouses, partners, friends, and children of other authors—along with my own—helped bright-eyed writers spread the word about the latest book. For the “roadies” in our lives, it’s a labor of love. For the author, it’s a debt that can never be repaid. A special thank you to my roadies, Michael and Max, for making the journey fun.

  No story would make it onto the shelves of bookstores, libraries, and other venues without a team of professionals working hard behind the scenes. Terri Bischoff, Acquiring Editor for Midnight Ink, is one of those heroes in the industry who has devoted her life to shepherding books and authors through the arduous journey to publication and beyond.

  Every so often, you meet someone with such dynamic positive energy that you must take notice. When that person also shares your vision, the universe must take notice. My amazing and talented agent, Liza Fleissig of the Liza Royce Agency in New York, is that kind of person.

  A special thank you to professional organizations for writers such as Sisters in Crime, International Thriller Writers, and Mystery Writers of America. Every year, they help aspiring writers learn the craft, and established authors connect with readers. Their encouragement, support and wisdom make all the difference.

  I am blessed with a wonderful family, whether blood-related or bound by love. Their acceptance of me, with my many foibles, warms my heart as nothing else can. First and foremost are my husband, Michael, who encourages my dreams, and my son, Max, who inspires me every day. In addition to relatives and in-laws, I consider some of my closest friends to be family. One of those dear individuals is Deborah J Ledford. Words cannot express my gratitude for your love and support over the years.

  Finally, I would like to thank readers of crime fiction. I have so much fun meeting people who are excited to discover a new voice and a new story. I love engaging with readers. After all, they are the reason I write.

  About the Author

  Before her foray into the world of crime fiction, Isabella Maldonado wore a gun and badge in real life. She retired as a captain after over two decades on the Fairfax County Police Department and moved to the Phoenix area, where her uniform now consists of tank tops and yoga pants.

  During her tenure on the department, she was a patrol officer, hostage negotiator, spokesperson, and recruit instructor at the police academy. After being promoted, she worked as a patrol sergeant and lieutenant before heading the Public Information Office. Finally, as a captain, she served as Gang Council Coordinator and oversaw a patrol district station before her final assignment as the Commander of the Special Investigations and Forensics Division (since renamed the Investigative Support Division).

  She graduated from the FBI National Academy in Quantico in 2008 after eleven weeks of physically and mentally challenging study for 220 law enforcement executives from around the world. She is proud to have earned her “yellow brick” for completing the famous FBI obstacle course.

  Now her activities involve chasing around her young son and enjoying her family when she’s not handcuffed to her computer.

  Ms. Maldonado is a member of the FBI National Academy Associates, Fairfax County Police Association, International Thriller Writers, Mystery Writers of America, and Sisters in Crime, where she served as president of the Desert Sleuths Chapter in Phoenix in 2015 and currently sits on the board.

 

 

 

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