Traitor, The (11 page)
Diego Vargas' office in downtown Sacramento was a visual
testament to every immigrant who'd made a better life in the land of the free
and the home of the brave. The surroundings of the councilman's office showed
his Mexican heritage and his powerful connections to California's movers and
shakers, Latinos and gringos alike.
Gabriel Santos disliked being summoned here, especially at
this ungodly hour of the morning after a long week of driving many miles up and
down the state. He wondered privately why Vargas could not have conducted this
business at his home instead of having Santos pick him up in the Cadillac and
accompany him downtown.
After they entered the office, Santos remained standing
while Diego sat in a stiff-backed chair behind the impressive dark wood desk,
signing papers and ignoring his attorney's presence. Glancing around the room,
the attorney noted the new addition to Vargas' desk – a family photo. The
councilman never kept pictures in the office except political ones, him with
the governor and various congressmen, with celebrities, even of him with César
Chávez when Diego was a boy.
The new photo was of Vargas and Corazon, his eleven-year-old
daughter, a recent picture because Cory wore new braces on her teeth and tried
to hide her smile. Diego had his arm around her shoulder, holding her tight
against his barrel chest.
And where was Vargas' wife Magdalena in this family picture?
Finally Vargas signed the last document with a flourish and
looked up. "The RICO charges have been dropped?" he asked, continuing
the thread of the discussion they'd begun as they drove from Vargas' mansion to
downtown.
"Sí,
we knew the feds were not going to be able
to prove them." Santos crossed his arms and shifted his weight onto the
balls of his feet. "But from last year, the rape charges – "
"That was completely bogus!" Vargas' thick brows
drew together in a scowl as he interrupted. "You told me the girl agreed
to silence, and the D.A.'s office has not pursued the allegations."
"They haven't,
El Vaquero,
but that is what
bothers me."
"Why should that bother you?" Vargas shoved back
impatiently from his desk, his ample gut stretched over his belt. "It is
good, no?"
"The Bigler County D.A.'s office had too much evidence
to drop the charges, but they did not follow the investigation. One has to
wonder why that is, considering Sheriff Slater is usually like a bulldog with a
bone."
"I do not fucking care why," Vargas growled as he
pushed out of his chair and moved to stand chest to belly with Santos. "There
are more pressing matters."
Santos willed his face into granite, a trick he had a great
deal of practice with. "What matters?"
"Another overdose, some stupid college kids."
"Local?"
"Granite Heights at Beale's Lake."
Santos shrugged. "They will not be able to tie the
charges to us. Our protection runs too deep."
"¡Chingada!
Maybe in L.A., but not here!" As
Vargas shouted, spittle dotted Santos' tie and shirt front. Diego raised his
meaty fist as if he would strike. "Take care of it. Get rid of the dealer,"
he ground out. He spun on his heels and stalked back to his desk, sinking heavily
into the leather chair.
Santos wiped his hand discreetly over his chest. Vargas
threatened and blustered, but he would never strike Santos. Even
El Vaquero
knew which lines not to cross with his bodyguard. Santos tried again to
persuade his pig-headed boss. "Such reactionary steps are not necessary,
El
Jefe
, and they may bring more attention to the situation that we wish."
"¡No cuido! I don't care.
Get rid of the dealer."
He passed over a folded note. "Here is the address. Do it yourself. I do
not wish to have loose ends." He swiveled his chair towards the window and
ignored Santos while he quietly left the office.
Ay,
some day Diego would go too far. Wounds had been
festering within Santos for over twenty years and the pus of their infection
was a grievous lesion on his body. One day he must lance the abscess and cut
out the pustule to cleanse it. He did not look forward to that day – Santos was
a man to avoid overt trouble – but neither did he fear it.
Downstairs in the parking lot, he pulled the sepia photo
from his jacket. The pickup and delivery of the girl in the picture had been
the first important assignment he had completed for Diego Vargas many years ago.
Santos had been a young man then, eager to make his mark, hungry for far more
than food to fill his belly.
New to this country, he nevertheless had many years of
practice at thuggery in Mexico. Huge and strong like an ox even as a young man
in his late teens, he had honed his skills in the fires of Mexico's slums.
But he never forgot the young girl, those large dark eyes,
huge in her frightened face, the slender body and full breasts. Her name was
Maria and she was seventeen. Vargas was a fat pig of a man even then, and he
liked his girls young.
#
A moment passed before Rafe identified the sound that had
interrupted them. Cold reality washed over him, and he saw the same
mood-breaker in Isabella's wide, chocolate eyes. Reluctantly, he rolled off her
and sat on the edge of the sofa, slanting a look her way.
After the fourth ring he flipped open the cell phone and
barked into the receiver. "Hashemi."
Slater's voice sounded equally loud over the phone and by the
look on Bella's face, Rafe knew she could hear Slater's words. She furiously
shook her head.
"Trouble here, Mr. Agent-Man," the sheriff said in
his deep, slow drawl. "Better get out here pronto."
"Drugs?"
"Yeah, maybe more of the China White."
"Where?"
"Beale's Lake. Get directions from Torres."
Rafe turned to glance at Bella whose look clearly said, how
did he know?
"Give me her address," Rafe covered. "I'll
pick her up."
"Sure." Slater's voice sounded puzzled, but Rafe
couldn't tell if that was real or he was fishing. "But I got the
impression she was with you."
"Why the hell would Torres be with me? She can hardly
stand me." Rafe wasn't about to let the sheriff know what'd happened
between them tonight. Or that he was sitting on her sofa right now. At her
house. At this hour.
"No reason," Slater said cryptically and rattled
off the address that Rafe already knew.
He closed the phone and put it back in his pocket, not
looking at Torres as he put his shirt back on. "There's another drug
death." He ran his fingers through his hair in a quick attempt at combing.
When he looked over at her, she'd buttoned up her blouse,
tucked her shirt in her slacks, and put her shoes on. Her high color gave her a
vibrant, sexy look. Thank God for the interruption. He felt like a man at the
edge of a precipice who'd barely escaped losing his footing and plunging off.
Fifteen minutes later they left, taking separate cars to the
scene at Beale's Lake, Rafe following Torres because he was unfamiliar with the
area. When they arrived at the lake, he noted the Lexus parked outside the
gate, all four doors ajar. The EMTs were working over a dark-haired girl in the
back seat. Slater's battered truck and three patrol cars lined the turnabout,
and Rafe and Isabella had to park some distance from the gate.
Slater met them once they'd crossed over the barrier. He
walked ahead of them down towards the lake. "Park ranger found them when
he was making his late rounds," he said without preamble, gesturing with a
nod of his head. "Down by the sand."
At the edge of the lake the scene had been cordoned off and
the coroner hovered over a blanket, examining the bodies. Slater stooped to
recover two glassine packets from the blanket. Each was partially filled with a
white, powdery substance.
"What do you think?" asked Rafe. "Is it the
high-grade stuff?"
"I'd bet money on it," Slater answered, examining
the packets before he placed them in an evidence bag. "Take a look at the
bodies. Looks like overdoses."
"That's right, Sheriff Slater," Dr. McKenzie, a
small, precise man, interjected. "My guess is very high quality heroin
because most of the drug wasn't ingested and appears to remain in the packets.
Only high grade would cause overdose with that small amount."
He shook his gray head. "Autopsy will confirm, but see
the blue lips and tinged skin?" He pointed to the blonde's mouth. "And
the limb contortion indicates convulsion. If they'd gotten the Narcan, they might've
made it, but ... " His voice trailed off sadly. "The cause of death
undoubtedly will be respiratory failure."
Waylon Harris, Slater's deputy sheriff, pulled a wallet from
the dead man's pocket and handed it to Slater who read aloud off the driver's
license. "Jeremy Brown, DOB 6-15-90, credit cards, about ... " He
counted the money. " ... two hundred in cash."
Another deputy, holding a woman's handbag, hurried from the
Lexus. "You'll want to see this, Sheriff." He pulled out a ladies
billfold from the purse and handed it over.
Slater opened it without a word and then groaned. "Holy
crap hitting the fan."
"What?" Isabella asked.
"Joan Anne Welch." Slater sighed as if the weight
of the world had just descended on him.
Rafe looked from her to Slater and back again. "So?"
"She's State Senator John Welch's little girl," she
answered, her face pinched with worry. "Damn, Barrington's going to be all
over this."
"Patch," Slater called over to the coroner, "can
you get that autopsy report to me ASAP?"
"I always do, Sheriff," the coroner muttered with
a grim smile. "I like the mommies and daddies to know right away what
happened to their babies."
McKenzie was a dapper man whose voice had the stilted
formality of a college professor. Slater enjoyed calling him "Patch,"
and the doctor enjoyed pretending he disliked the nickname.
"Jesus Christ," Rafe muttered. "They're
bringing in this shit fast and in volume." He looked at Slater again. "Seven
a.m., your office?"
"Yeah, it'll be that long for the autopsy even with a
rush. The medics are taking the other girl to the hospital, but when she's
stable we can interview her." He looked down at the dead girl. "I'll
do the notification myself. Bella, you'd better contact Charlie."
Even though Bella was technically Slater's superior, she
didn't mind taking orders from him. She'd never trusted anyone more, even her
own brothers. He was smart, cool-headed, and would step in front of a bus for
her. And she knew he hated the family notifications.
"I'll go with you," she offered.
Slater nodded once. "We have to know where they got the
heroin," he said to Rafe. "What can your sources tell you? Maybe we
should move on it tonight."
Rafe shook his head. "We'd better get a couple hours of
sleep. It'll take that long for my contacts to find the dealer, and it's going
to be one long day." He knew he wouldn't sleep tonight, not by a long
shot.
Isabella's face was pale and drawn. He bet she wouldn't sleep
either. They'd both be remembering what had happened on her sofa, what would've
happened if they hadn't been interrupted by a gruesome death. Neither would
find sleep for a very long time.
An hour later he parked the car in front of the motel unit
he occupied. He hadn't spoken to Isabella when they left the lake, but he'd
raised his hand in a farewell gesture as she drove away.
Christ, he thought, as he climbed the stairs to his room, he
was tired of eating fast-food and living out of his suitcase.
The call came in on Rafe's cell phone shortly after he'd
finally evaded thoughts of Isabella and just drifted off into a dreamless
sleep. "This had better be important," he muttered, rousing himself.
"Hashemi?"
"Yeah." He didn't recognize the voice and few
people contacted him on this line. "Who's this and how the hell did you
get this number?"
"Banadoora."
Arabic for tomato. That would
be McNally, the red-faced Homeland Security agent who crawled up Rafe's ass so
far he wanted to fart the bastard out like a giant turd. Rafe waited for the
password question.
"Ma ismak?"
What is your name?
McNally
loved the cloak and dagger pretense.
"Khiyar,"
Rafe responded, using the Arabic
word for cucumber, a little Homeland Security cornball humor. The DHS boys
thought that was hilarious because they said Rafe was always as cool as a
cucumber. "What do you want, McNally?"
The agent rattled off the name and address of the contact. Homeland
Security was already on this. That meant only one thing – they'd made the
connections between the new drug routes and distributions to terrorist
activities.
"The China White profits are being funneled right back
into Thailand," McNally continued, "and then into an organization
called
Mohandis
in the Golden Crescent."
That meant Afghanistan and
Al Qaeda.
"Winters wants you to run a parallel investigation with
the county D.A.'s office. Don't make waves, just get along with that woman ADA
until we have the background intel we need. Then we'll assume jurisdiction over
the investigation."
So it's begun, Rafe thought, snapping the cell phone shut.
From their overseas intelligence, they'd expected this, but hearing the reality
of it was like taking an icy bath. Torres would be royally pissed when the
takeover happened, and he felt bad about that, but it couldn't be helped; he
had no choice. National security trumped local charges, no matter how ugly the
bad guys were.
#
The raid on the drug house lasted less than fifteen minutes.
Slater accompanied Rafe and four federal agents. The sun had
barely begun to peek in the eastern sky, a hazy purplish-pink that indicated a
high pollution day. Most people on the quiet, residential street were still asleep
before beginning their workday.
Slater positioned himself at the rear, a motion Rafe
appreciated, so that his team of agents could take the lead, approaching the
front and back entries of the house with weapons drawn. His federal warrant
didn't require an announcement, and Rafe had no intention of alerting possibly
armed drug dealers of their imminent arrest.
With a nod to the agent opposite him, Rafe indicated the man
should kick in the door. Then Rafe went in first, low and to the right. Complete,
eerie silence filled the interior. No dogs, unusual for a drug house.
They crept in stealthily, clearing each room as they went.
The three agents who'd taken the back found the animals, two Doberman pinchers
and a giant black lab. Gunshot wounds. In a small rear bedroom, they found the
home's occupant, a small, dark man, possibly Latino, though it was hard to tell
because his face and the upper half of his body were saturated with blood.
Rafe crouched down by the body. "Knife?" he asked
Slater.
"My best guess. Any body parts missing?"
"Torres told you, huh?"
"About your informant? Yeah. Sorry, man."
"Well, it looks like this scumbag has all his parts,"
Rafe answered, thinking of how Lupe had suffered while this piece of shit got a
quick death.
Slater knelt beside him. "Looks like a swift, single
slice to the carotid. That's why all the blood." He looked around the
dirty carpet. "And the arterial spray blood spatter."
"Get the crime techs in here," Rafe shouted at the
agent standing by the door. "See if you can find any trace of the drugs."
He jammed his fist into his pocket. "How the hell did they get to him so
soon?"
Slater stood, pulled on latex gloves, and walked around the
bedroom, searching but not touching anything. "How good is your
intelligence, Hashemi? Are you sure this is the drug dealer?"
"I'm sure," Rafe said shortly. "The guy would
be alive otherwise."
Slater stepped close to Rafe and spoke low in his ear. "Looks
like you've got a serious leak somewhere, Hashemi."
"Not necessarily." He waved a hand over the dead
body. "Mr. Drug Dealer here could've told someone higher up."
Slater shrugged noncommittally and meandered around the
room, poking here and there, curious like any good detective.
Rafe punched a number into his cell phone. When the person
on the other end of the line answered, he asked the question. "What's the
name?" A few minutes later he snapped the phone shut. He looked over at
Slater, who was lifting up an edge of the mattress and bending to look
underneath.
"His name's Enrique Salazar. Ties to the Norteños."
Slater looked up. "Which means Diego Vargas."
Rafe nodded, suddenly tired of the confining room, needing
fresh air. He could hear the coroner and crime scene techs arrive. They'd be
hours and he and Slater had better things to do than hang around. He knew the
sheriff was right about an inside job, and it was what Max Jensen had
suggested. But he'd thought it was a C.I., possibly Lupe or another informant.
This looked like a serious breach in security at a much higher level.
Christ, this looked like one of their own had betrayed them.
#
Bella had been with the girl ten minutes when Slater and
Rafe entered the hospital room. The girl's dark eyes widened to the size of
saucers when she saw the two men, one dressed in a dark suit, the other a
uniform, both wearing sunglasses, and looking like bad-ass criminal types.
"It's okay, Shelby," Bella said. "These men are
here to help. They need to hear your answers to the questions I'm asking."
"I don't know anything," the girl protested.
Rafe crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, taking
the girl's hand in both his own. "Sometimes you know something and don't
even realize it," he said gently. "Don't worry, we'll help you
remember."
Shelby nodded dumbly.
The tenderness with which he approached the girl surprised
Bella, and she looked at Slater who made a who-knew facial expression. She cleared
her throat. "Let's start again, okay? Can you remember what time you left
the bar – the Shady Shack Bar, right?"
Shelby had already told her she'd gone to the trendy bar
with Joan Welch and hooked up with a guy whose name she couldn't remember.
Probably didn't ever know.
"It was kind of early, I think, because ... well ... "
She paused and looked soulfully at Rafe who still retained her hand.
"It's okay, Shelby. We're not so old that we don't
remember going to a bar and getting hammered." Rafe's smile was almost
bashful, a peer confessing a secret. Damn, he was good, Bella thought. Where
did all this charm come from?
"We were pretty wasted," the girl admitted. "That's
why we left early, because we didn't want to get carded." She realized
what she'd implied and quickly amended. "I'm sure Joanie was sober enough
to drive. She wouldn't screw around with her dad's Lexus." Huge, fat tears
welled in the girl's eyes, but didn't spill down her blotched cheeks.
"Do you remember any stops between the bar and the
lake?" Bella asked.
Shelby frowned, her shapely dark brows knitting as she
concentrated. At last she shook her head. "I'm sorry. I think I crawled in
the back and passed out because I don't remember anything after leaving the Shady
Shack. And I can barely remember that."
"That's okay, don't worry." Rafe patted her hand and
ruffled her hair as if she were a child. "If you think of anything else,
give me a call." He removed a card from his jacket pocket and put it in
her hands. "Take care of yourself, Shelby."
When the three of them stepped outside the door, Bella
protested. "That's it? No more questions? She might know something about
the drugs."
"Nope." Rafe shook his head. "She's scared
shitless, but she doesn't know anything else. Probably never woke up until the
EMTs got to her."
"But we won't know unless we ask her more questions."
Bella hurried to keep up with Rafe's long-legged strides.
"Besides," Slater said as they walked toward the
hospital elevator doors, "we found the dealer."
Irritated, she snapped, "Why didn't you say so?"
Rafe's face was blank as he stared at her. "I thought
that was obvious. I didn't want to upset the girl."
Bella felt her face flush at the implication that she cared
less than he did about what Shelby had been through. She punched hard at the elevator
button. When it arrived, they stepped inside without a word.
She pushed down her temper. "How did you find the
dealer so soon?"
"My contacts," Rafe answered, "are really
good." He paused and then dropped the bomb. "But the dealer's dead."
"Oh my God! How?"
"Looks like a professional hit. Much like Lupe." The
mention of his confidential informant brought a distant look to Rafe's eyes and
Bella knew he still suffered from guilt over Lupe's death. "Without the
torture."
"The house was ransacked," Slater added, "probably
making sure the drugs were gone. The techs will look for traces of the heroin."
"If they find anything, we can match that up with the
quality found with the two victims," Rafe said.
"Three," Bella corrected with determination.
"It'll be the same and it'll trace back to Vargas."
"You're probably right," Rafe said. "The drug
dealer, Enrique Salazar, had ties to the Norteños."
When they reached the underground parking area, Bella watched
as Rafe and Slater jumped into their vehicles and headed back to the precinct.
Even though mountains of paperwork were piled up on her desk, she wasn't going
to return to the D.A.'s office.
First she needed to do something. She knew Hashemi wouldn't
go for any kind of plea bargaining. And Barrington was a spineless jerk who
wouldn't stand up to the feds no matter what. Bella was going to have to reach
out to Santos first, feel him out about making a deal, even though every fiber
in her body screamed against it. ñ
She shivered, but not from the cold. Thinking of approaching
Santos was like contemplating walking into the jaws of a ferocious beast.
#
Santos pulled the Cadillac CTS up to the gate of Vargas'
house and entered the code to open the barriers. He stood on the wide porch
landing and rapped on the door. Usually Magdalena answered the door. He always
liked seeing
El Vaquero's
wife, gauging by her demeanor if Vargas was in
a bad or good mood. Determining how much Vargas had hurt her by grief or joy in
her dark, expressive eyes.
Today the door swung open and Santos dropped his eyes from where
he expected to see Magdalena to the slender form of her daughter Corazon. The
child's large dark eyes, so like her mother's, looked very serious and a little
fearful. Too serious and too fearful for such a little girl.
"Hóla,
little one, where is your
madre
today?"
Cory shook her head silently as Santos peered around her
into the spacious foyer.
"Is she sleeping?"
Cory looked down at her feet, digging the toe of one shoe
into the cement. "She's gone."
"Gone? Some shopping?" Santos laughed and gently
caressed the girl's head.
"Ay,
mothers are always going shopping."
She shook her head and glanced over her right shoulder as if
she expected someone to reach out and grab her. "Not shopping," she
whispered.
Santos crouched down so that his massive size seemed smaller
and his eyes did not look down on her from his enormous height. "How long
has your mama been gone,
pequena bebé?"
Large tears welled up in the girl's eyes but she did not
allow them to drop. "Since Sunday." She swiped at her nose. "I
miss her."
So long?
Santos knew that something was very wrong.
Magdalena would not be gone so many days from her child if she could help it.
