The Avenger (20 page)

Isabella cleared her throat. "What can you tell me about the Mexican Mafia?"

"The Sureños? What have I to do with those thugs?" He seemed genuinely surprised, and if so, that meant the two rival gangs were
not
forming alliances, and drug money hadn't funded Vargas' campaign.

"I heard rumors," Isabella murmured.

"Nonsense." Santos intervened for the first time. "Councilman Vargas is a respectable businessman. He has no ties to gang activities. If you wish to turn these allegations into criminal charges – "

"Silencio!"
Vargas said. "Of course, ADA Torres does not wish to accuse me. She knows as well as I do that when any Latino goes to prison – or so I have heard – he must choose: either Sureños or Norteños." He smiled expansively, "I do not understand such blood oaths and allegiances, but an alliance seems unlikely."

"Jefe,"
Santos warned, closing the gap between Isabella and him. His high cheekbones and aquiline nose contrasted with the broad, peasant features of Vargas. A thin line cleft through the left side of Santos’ brow, down through the upper and lower lips and ending in the middle of his chin. A knife fight souvenir, Olivia guessed, staring at his massive hands. "
Por favor, es imprudente decir más."

Vargas commanded him back to his station with an insolent wave of his hand. "I decide whether to say more or not." Turning to Isabella, he continued, "You have heard of this, yes? No neutral ground in the gangs. Blood in, blood out. Gang in, death out."

Olivia understood the message all too well. Vargas was speaking of more than gangs.

After a moment of silence, a grin split Vargas’ face and he spread his hands. "
Que muchachas bonitas!
How pleasant to have a visit by two lovely women." Vargas let his eyes slide over to Olivia. She folded her hands church-like on the table top and held back a shiver. "Such beautiful skin," he observed, "the joining of fair flesh with fine silk."

Vargas inclined his head for Isabella to proceed with her questions, but his eyes remained on Olivia. She lifted her chin, reminded herself to show no emotion, to remember why she was here.

Isabella extracted a red file from her briefcase and glanced at her notes, "Mr. Vargas, the last time we spoke, you mentioned your mother, Consuelo Maria Vargas – "

Santos held his massive hand up like a traffic cop, leaned over and whispered in Vargas’ ear. After a moment, Vargas nodded.
Santos knew.
He understood that the mother was a weak link in his client’s armor. Olivia met his eyes and saw the unspoken menace written there. She wondered how much the lawyer would interfere while Isabella pushed Vargas’ buttons.

"I only ask," Isabella continued, "because your mother sounds like a wonderful woman. She donates time and money to many charitable causes."

"Si."
Vargas pushed his lawyer’s hand away. "
Mi madre,
she is a saint." He crossed himself and kissed the right thumb of his closed fist. The religious gesture was automatic and clearly meant something to the man.

"I’m sure she is, Mr. Vargas, but I’m looking at a report that indicates she was the largest contributor to your campaign this election year." Her fingers played over a picture of Consuelo Vargas that she’d clipped to the inside flap.

"That’s no crime." Santos answered for his client, his voice reasonable. "Family contributions."

"Yes," Isabella answered in a measured tone, "but the records indicate that Mrs. Vargas used
business
funds for the contributions. Considering the amount,
that
could be construed as illegal."

The effect on Vargas was instantaneous.

He jumped up from his seat, his face turning beet red. The chair crashed into the wall behind him as Santos leapt toward the women, grabbing Olivia by the upper arm as she and Isabella rose, startled at the manic reaction.

Santos’ voice was low and menacing. "You had better leave now." His grasp on her upper arm was punishing.

Olivia met Vargas' gaze. He moved his lips, but no words came out. His dark eyes focused on her alone. But the impassive calmness with which Santos urged them toward the office door chilled her to the bone. Santos was the one to watch out for.

When they reached the car, Isabella opened the doors and scooted into the driver’s seat. Ten minutes later, by mutual agreement, they pulled off the road and into the parking lot of a café off I-80. By the time they’d been seated and ordered coffee, both had reclaimed their composure.

Olivia looked around the restaurant at the nearly empty booths, the brightly waxed linoleum, and the array of plants lining the window sills. She ran her fingers through her hair, feeling messy, wondering why Isabella had insisted she wear it down.

Finally, she fixed on Isabella’s calm demeanor and steady eyes. "How do you do it?" Thinking of the flat darkness of the henchman's face, the lewd gleam in Vargas' eyes, sent a sliver of ice down her spine. A memory flashed through her mind, of Roger's small malevolent eyes roaming over her childish face and figure.

Isabella shrugged. "Did you notice the way Vargas ogled you?"

"How could I miss it?"

"I wanted you to wear that kind of dress on purpose."

Olivia frowned, recalling Isabella's insistence that she change into a specific dress – a white dress that was low cut and revealing – before they drove for the interview. She’d been so anxious about the meeting, she hadn’t questioned why.

"You're his type. I wanted you to look ... virginal," Isabella explained. "I wanted to observe Vargas’ response to an attractive woman dressed like that, sexy and don’t-touch-me at the same time."

Understanding flooded Olivia.

"But that’s not all he reacted to," Isabella continued, motioning for the waitress to bring the menus. "You noticed his reaction to the negative suggestion about his mother?"

Olivia nodded and perused the menu.

When the server left, Isabella continued, "Vargas likes women to look slutty, but he wants them to be virginal like his mother."

"Saintly, like he considers her."

"Combine his obvious attraction to you with his adoration of his mother, well, that’s a classic Madonna-whore complex. He has fantasies that women are pure, but when he discovers otherwise, he unleashes his fury on them. He loves his mother, but can’t have sex with her."

Olivia wrinkled her nose.

"His dilemma is he can’t love the 'bad women,' the hookers he has sex with, so he turns his rage on them." She leaned back in the booth as the server refilled their coffee cups and left with their order. She grinned. "At least that's my working theory."

"I noticed something too," Olivia offered. "Did you see the sign he made when he spoke of his mother?"

"He crossed himself, which I expected because he had a Catholic upbringing."

Olivia shook her head. "What was important was that when he spoke the name of his mother, he made a movement as if he were going to genuflect."

"I thought only priests did that."

"It’s a sign of extreme reverence and devotion. Some parishioners used to genuflect when they passed the Eucharist or another holy emblem." Olivia leaned forward eagerly. "The point is that Vargas began a genuflection when you praised his mother, and then stopped. For Vargas to consider his mother a true holy woman, like the Blessed Virgin – " Olivia gestured with her palms up and left the implication hanging.

"Means he’s a fanatic," Isabella finished.

"He also made the sign of the cross to perfection, placing thumb, forefinger, and second finger together to symbolize the Trinity." Olivia demonstrated. "Keeping the two smaller fingers flat against the palm. That signifies both the human and divine incarnations of Christ."

"So Vargas knows his ritual," Isabella concluded. "I saw his lips moving too."

"I believe he was repeating the words of the sign,
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti."

"In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit."

"Vargas understands more than a smattering of Latin and quite a bit about his religion."

"A religious extremist?"

"Shite Muslims, Khmer Rouge, tons of that kind of nut in history." Olivia smiled wryly. "Fanatical religious beliefs breed all kinds of maniacs." She reached for her purse, hesitated. "We both agree that Vargas is capable of a serious level of viciousness, that he has motivation, but you can't be thinking he's the Dead Language Killer."

Isabella shrugged."I don’t know. He’s such an evil bastard that I want to believe it. But I’m not sure he could control himself in such a calculated way. Vargas is hot-blooded and hot-tempered. He seems more likely to go berserk when provoked rather than murder someone coldly and methodically like Slater's UNSUB does."

"The crucified men and the women buried alive," Olivia said slowly, "that’s deliberate and calculated." A wave of light-headedness made her feel queasy and she recognized the first signs of delayed shock.

#

"I want her to pay for what she insinuated about my sainted mother," Vargas said, slipping into the back seat of the limousine while Santos held the door for him. Santos dismissed the driver and slid behind the wheel. All the way back to the mansion, he thought about how to make his boss see how foolish it would be to harm either of the two women. It was the ADA who had made the insult, but Santos knew it was the other one – the beautiful gringa – who had offended his boss the most. Because she was the one who looked like an angel.

Santos was certain the federal prosecutors could not make their case on the RICO charges, and the grand jury was unlikely to indict Vargas. His reach extended very far indeed, but one thing he could not do with impunity was murder officers of the court. Nor could he corrupt incorruptible persons such as the two women seemed to be. Jackson Holt and Sheriff Slater also were
honorables hombres.
And they were stubborn as well.

Santos did not fear anyone. He had lived too long in the barrio, had fought too hard in many quarters to allow fear more than a mild consideration. No, he did not fear either Sheriff Slater or this new man, Agent Holt. But Santos was
un hombre practico,
one who did not go against his enemy unnecessarily. However, his boss was
not
a practical man. For too long now Diego Vargas had allowed his brain to be ruled by his dick.

Santos pulled the long car into the turnaround in front of the wide steps leading to the double doors of Vargas’ palatial home. He gazed thoughtfully for a moment, assessing the way to approach Diego about the matter. As he jumped out of the car and leaned forward to open the door, he spoke to the councilman.

"Senor Vargas, you pay me very well for my services."

"That is true, Santos."

"For my attorney skills."

Vargas nodded. "As well as for my ... other specialties."

Vargas’ face hardened. "Say what it is you wish to say, Santos. Do not waste my time beating about the bush."

Santos cleared his throat. "The two women
,
they should not be bothered."

"Humph. It was not
your
mother they insulted."

"Now is a dangerous time for you,
el jefe.
There will be plenty of time later to take care of these women, to pay them for the insult to your family."

"Do you promise me this,
mi amigo?"

"Su prometo."
Santos placed his hand over his heart. "I promise I will deliver the women to you. When the time is right. And in such a way that their bodies will never be found."

Vargas smiled slowly. "I should like to spend some time with the pale-faced woman before you take care of the matter, eh?"

He leaned forward to lay a hand on his bodyguard’s shoulder. "You have been with me a long time, Santos. You always know how to cheer me up." Vargas climbed from the cool, leather-seated interior as his houseman opened the front doors and stood waiting for him. "Much longer than anyone else." He lifted his chin toward the steps where the houseman stood patiently waiting for his employer. "And you always keep your promises."

Santos watched his boss climb the stone steps. For now he'd pacified Vargas, had held back his thirst for blood and violence, but Santos was certain Diego Vargas would quench his thirst with the innocent-looking
el doctor
sooner or later.

Chapter Twenty

After the hassle of exchanging the rental sedan for the more versatile Blazer, Jack headed for the mountains. The problem he'd pushed out of his mind until now began to gnaw at him. His recent images of the Dead Language Killer were as elusive as smoke, and Jack felt no closer to the man now than he had four years ago. He hadn't been able to crawl inside this killer's mind as he usually did. He believed his messing with the pills and his involvement with Olivia had altered his abilities. He'd been skimping on blue tablets and increasing the reds, a dangerous combination since he'd eliminated the white pills that eased him into Recovery. Around Olivia the Phens seemed to have no effect, doubly lethal.

Seventeen years ago he'd attributed the eerie increase in strength to a natural growth spurt. That is, until the Invictus people had intervened the night of Roger's death. A few years after that he realized he'd been targeted as a potential candidate for Invictus all along. The Organization liked to track juvenile delinquents with natural physical potential along the line of Olympic athletes. Jack had come across their radar when his father went to prison and the teenage boy had starting getting in trouble with the law.

Tonight he'd felt a surge of increased sensitivity and the edginess that overcame him when his body's instinct clamored to hunt. His senses were alert, his reflexes acute. He wondered if unburdening himself to Olivia might've eased the paralysis he'd been in these last few days. He drove fast, needing to get away from her and put his mind in order, needing to go to a dark, quiet place and listen to the new sounds and urgings of his body. His job was to track a killer, and his natural powers and the small red pills to enhance them would do the job much faster than the local police could find answers.