Traitor, The (4 page)
Diego Vargas' white, powdered gold played a significant role
in the import-export business along the northern California coastline.
An inland deep water port, the Port of Wintuan lay
thirty-two nautical miles northeast of the Port of Stockton. It rested on the
rich delta of the Cache River and emptied into the San Francisco Bay. The
channel itself was a mere thirty-odd miles long and over thirty feet deep, but
sufficient for the ships to make their way into port.
Always less popular than either the Stockton Port or the
Port of Sacramento, the Wintuan Port had been an important route for
importation and navigation from San Francisco during the mid-nineteenth
century. After the gold rush fever dwindled, however, the decrease in
commodities shipments to miners gave way to an increase in agricultural
transportation.
But the other two ports garnered the lion's share of this
business, and most cargo ships no longer followed the Cache River inland to
Wintuan Port. Although it had fallen into less and less usage, construction
materials like lumber and concrete, as well as bulk and bagged rice still made
up a major portion of the port's cargo volume.
Therefore, the port was ideal for the kind of shipping a
businessman like Diego Vargas engaged in.
Vargas' cargo of white gold was easy to slip among the
packages of legitimate products. This expensive, powdered cargo was small in
volume, but very profitable for a man intent on creating new drug trade routes.
Diego intended to carve out a hefty share of the profits from the prolific
trafficking of a drug seldom seen on the west coast – China White heroin.
The seclusion and erratic use of the Wantuan Port appealed to
a man of Vargas' enterprise. The irregularity of these cargo deliveries up the
Cache River was his best protection against government detection and
interference.
Standing now on the dock, staring out at the murky blackness
of the Cache River, Vargas awaited his next shipment from the green hills of
Afghanistan. The cargo made its way weeks ago from the Golden Crescent, the
world's largest illicit opium production, to end up here on the shores of
northern California.
Grinding out his cigarette under the heel of his Bruno Magli
Calvos, Vargas jammed his hands in his overcoat. The winds blowing through the
delta penetrated his woolen full-length coat. Mexican-born, he complained often
about the early coastal chills of northern California.
"Santos," he barked at his bodyguard,
"¿Qué
va mal?
What's the delay?"
He could see nothing through the
pitch of the night and his eagerness to receive the new shipment stamped out
all patience.
"Nothing's wrong.
Está bien,"
Santos
responded, waiting until the ship made anchor and the workers began to unload
the cargo before turning back to Vargas. "She's here now. No problem,
El
Vaquero."
Forty-five minutes later the crates were unloaded and
stacked five deep on the dock. Buried among the packaged rice were the one-kilo
plastic bundles which half a dozen Mexican workers then recovered and stacked
inside canvas bags. Several vans stood at the ready and the workers rapidly
stowed the canvas bags in them. The entire process was completed in less than
ninety minutes.
"Wait," Vargas commanded before the workers could
close the back doors of the last van.
He extracted a kilo from the van, slit a one-inch opening in
it, and dipped his knife into the white, powdery substance. A very tiny amount,
for the smack was so pure it took his breath away, and Diego did not wish to
become euphoric. Only a foolish businessman used his own product, especially in
this particular business.
He sighed with satisfaction.
"Ésta es droga muy
buena."
At one hundred thousand American dollars a kilo, Santos
thought, the supply should be very excellent dope indeed. He slammed down the
back of the van and slapped the palm of his hand firmly on the side.
Immediately, the van pulled out, followed by a second, and then a third
vehicle.
Santos and Vargas watched until the red taillights could no
longer be seen, and then Santos opened the door of the black sedan while Diego
eased his sturdy bulk into the back seat.
"Buen trabajo,
a good
night's work,"
Diego said.
"Do we head north, then?" Santos asked.
El Vaquero
would have a strong need for a woman tonight and the whorehouse in Storey
County was a mere three-hour drive.
"Si, necesito a puta esta noche,"
his boss
laughed, a harsh guttural sound that spoke more of pain than pleasure.
"I
need a whore tonight.
We will go south. No nice college girls tonight."
And no Magdalena, Santos added mentally. Tonight
El Jefe
would not force himself on his wife. Northeast through California and over the
border into Nevada would take them to
La Casa de Mujeres,
one of two
legal brothels Vargas owned in the only state in the country that allowed
legalized prostitution.
Going south meant something entirely different. Crossing the
border into Mexico would take eight hours or so and meant that Vargas wished to
procure more girls for his other brothel in Nevada – the one which was both
legal and not-so-legal.
Santos clamped down hard on his jaw. He preferred to take
his boss north to
La Casa de Mujeres,
the House of the Women, to slack
his lusts. Santos did not like El
Vaquero's
second whore house, the one
which housed young girls like his sister Rosario.
"Wake me when we arrive," Diego ordered and slid
down on the leather seat.
#
Bella opened her eyes to the alien green glow of a clock on
an unfamiliar bedroom nightstand. Four-thirty-five. Morning still. She'd slept
over an hour. A firm band of flesh supported her shoulder and another draped
casually over her hip. Her rear nestled against a hard body.
The moment she moved, she sensed a change in the rhythm of
Rafe's breathing. He remained silent, but the subtle pressure against the
juncture of her legs gave him away. She knew by the quiet rigidity of his body
and the controlled breathing against the back of her neck that he wanted her.
She felt a sudden giddiness and the urge to have his body
tighter around her, on top of her, inside of her. Alive with anticipation, she
thrust the dark moments of the alley to the back of her mind. Turning eagerly,
she wrapped her arms around his middle, buried her face in his chest, and worked
her fingers up under the tee-shirt to the smooth flesh of his back, hot against
her cool hands. The pressure against her thighs increased. She snuggled against
him and inhaled the scent of citrus and warm flesh.
She trailed her lips along the side of his jaw and then
followed with her tongue. "You taste good." She liked the huskiness
of her voice, making her feel strong and bold and sexy. She edged her way to
the corner of his mouth.
Rafe groaned and flipped her onto her back, nudging his knee
between her legs, grinding his mouth into hers and plunging his tongue inside.
The insistent thrusting of his tongue urged her on, his weight on her body a
heavy welcome. A warm gush of arousal dampened the flesh between her legs and
she thrust her hips upward to meet him.
"I want more of you," she breathed rapidly,
tearing at his shirt.
"Ah, Isabella, wait, slow down," he groaned
against her temple. He lay unmoving on top of her a moment, his weight
supported by his arms. His heart raced against her breasts, and she held her
body still, knowing he was trying to control himself, even as she fought every
screaming instinct to undulate against him.
Finally, he lifted himself off her and jerked her tee-shirt
over her head. Hooking his fingers in the waistband of the sweats, he pulled
them smoothly down her legs. They landed on the floor with a soft thud,
followed quickly by his own shirt. She reached for him, trying to loosen the
thick shaft of him from his sweat pants.
"No, God, no. I'll be too fast. You first," he panted
and trailed his fingers lightly between her breasts and down her slick thighs
before cupping her buttocks with both hands and lifting her to his mouth.
As he planted firm, moist kisses low across her belly, her
muscles spasmed in anticipation. His lips, those beautifully carved lips she'd
watched all night, continued a sensuous journey to the crevice of her leg and
trailed along her inner thigh. He lifted her hips higher and, like a man well
used to satisfying a woman, circled his thumb with exquisite pressure around
the perfect spot.
All thought vanished with the next ragged wave of pleasure.
Bella bit down hard on her lower lip and hung on for the sweet, tortuous ride.
She dug her fingers into the wiry crispness of his hair and let the first
throbbing waves of release wash over her.
"Oh, oh," she gasped and then gnawed at her bottom
lip again to keep from moaning aloud. When she came, his fingers joined his
tongue and she felt filled and stretched, pulsating in hard, rolling spasms of
pleasure that crested again and again like foaming breakers on the shore.
"Oh god," she whispered on a groan, unable to hold
back any longer. "Oh my god."
He slid up her moist body to kiss her mouth, continuing to
kiss her, fondle her, and nuzzle her neck, his fingers deep inside her, until
her throbbing climax ebbed and crested again and finally gave way to a tender
fullness between her legs.
At last, he rolled to his side and pulled her naked body
close to him, covering them both with the sheet. She felt the still-hard thrust
of his erection against the back of her thigh. His heart thrummed an urgent
bass rhythm beneath her ear until it gradually gave way to a sure, steady drum
beat.
She drifted off, incredibly relaxed, the concerns of her
current case on hold, her meeting later today with the stubborn DEA agent
forgotten for the moment. She thought smugly that she owed Rafe. And in a few
hours, she'd let him collect on the debt.
The vibration of his cell lying on the bed stand roused Rafe
from a light sleep. He struggled to remember why his head pounded as the naked
ass tucked against him and the warm body attached to it tortured his hard-on.
He swung his gritty eyes toward the alarm clock sitting beside his cell phone and
watch on the bed stand.
Eight-sixteen! He should've been in the office already. In
the fraction of a second before he saw the black strands of hair draped over
Isabella's face and remembered the events of last night, he reached for the
phone and swung out of the bed.
In the bathroom, he sat on the closed toilet seat and
flipped open the cell. "Hashemi."
"Agent Hashemi, you'd better get down to the office
right away." The normally unflappable voice of his assistant quavered
through the receiver.
"What's wrong, Mrs. Roberts?"
"Detective Jensen is waiting for you." She paused
and lowered her voice, heavy with disapproval. "Waiting. In your office.
You know I don't like anyone going in there when you're not here."
Marilyn Roberts had been with Rafe nearly seven years, his
first secretary – assistant she insisted on being called – in his Los Angeles
office. She organized his life and ran his office with military efficiency. She
protected him with the ferocity of a pit bull and made the best damn coffee he'd
ever tasted. But she was a little obsessive about the sanctity of his office.
It was in his best interests to keep her happy. "I'll
be there right away," he promised, closing the phone.
He relieved himself, flushed the toilet, and stared at his
scruffy reflection in the bathroom mirror. He splashed cold water on his face,
washed his hands, and brushed his teeth. The rest of his grooming he left for
later. By now he was sure the bathroom noises had woken Isabella up, and he was
already regretting his lapse of judgment last night.
When he opened the door, she was sitting upright, her legs
crossed yoga-style, her hair in wild tangles around her naked shoulders. The
bed sheet covered what he vividly remembered as very full and beautiful
breasts.
She smiled. "Hi."
He smiled back and sat on the edge of the bed smoothing a
black strand from her cheek. "That was my office," he said tilting
his head toward the open bathroom door where the cell phone lay. "I'm
sorry, but I have to leave."
"Oh." Her face deflated like a disappointed child,
and after a moment she scrambled off the bed and retrieved the tee-shirt from
the floor. She pulled it over her head and tugged downward, but the shirt
barely covered the tops of her thighs.
"Hey, you don't have to go, though. I have to put in a
few hours following up on that incident at Stuckey's. I'll be back by noon."
He glanced at the bedside clock. "One at the latest. I promise."
"You know, really, I should just go. This ..." She
waved her hand vaguely at the jumble of bedclothes. "This isn't ... I don't
usually ... "
"Look, stay, relax, have some coffee." He walked
to the closet and pulled out his blue striped dress shirt. "I'd like to
see you again. Honestly. So, if you feel the same, stay until I get back."
Isabella lifted one dark eyebrow and he knew he'd tossed out
too casual an offer.
"Or leave a phone number, okay?" he said hurriedly.
She gave a tiny nod and appropriated the bathroom. Moments
later he heard the water running. As he dressed in fresh underwear and socks,
his mind raced with a dozen questions about what the investigators had
discovered last night. Nothing definite or Max would've tagged him. Still, he
needed to get there as soon as possible.
He glanced toward the closet where last night's jacket hung,
Lupe's information folded carefully in the inside pocket. Christ! Last night he'd
let his senses get so addled that he'd risked blowing his informant's cover.
Let his guard down so that he hadn't even seen the attack in the alley coming.
Gotten entangled so deep with a woman that he'd taken her back to his apartment
when the smart thing to do would've been to put her in a cab and send her on
her way
.
Now his white-knight conscience was intervening. He sighed
heavily. God knew, he was no saint, but something innocent and almost virginal
about Isabella made him believe her. She'd told the truth. Last night wasn't
typical behavior for her.
He opened the closet and grabbed his tan suit and silk tie
off the clothes dowel and finished dressing. Gathered his briefcase and
holstered his weapon. When he heard the water shut off, he listened at the
bathroom door. He rapped softly.
No answer.
"I'm sorry, Isabella," he said through the door. "I
really am. But I've got to get to work."
The door eased open and Isabella stepped through the archway.
Desire shot through his loins like a flame-thrower's sword. Steady, he warned
himself, but his heart thundered in his ears like a herd of mustangs and his
forehead felt suddenly clammy.
He shoved aside the shards of lust that ran through him. At
least he could keep his hands off her now and not complicate an already awkward
situation.
They hadn't really had sex, not the real kind, the kind that
could get her pregnant or ... Jesus Christ, what had he been thinking of? Taking
a strange woman to his apartment, to his bed? Doing those intimate things to
her body.
He wouldn't go there again. Wouldn't compound the problem.
Decision made, he reached for his suit jacket. "Look,
it's late and I've got to get to work ... " He shrugged helplessly. "Uh,
why don't you grab some coffee and, uh, maybe you can let yourself out. Last
night was great, but ... look, we hardly know each other and ... maybe last
night was a mistake," he ended in a rush.
"A mistake," she echoed, her eyes wide with an
emotion he couldn't read.
He watched the heightened color edge upward toward her face
and clenched his jaw. "You seem like a nice girl. I'm sure you're not used
to hopping into bed with strangers, so let's chalk this ... situation up to the
intensity of the attack or too many drinks, and leave it at that."
As he closed the door behind him, he reminded himself again
of the reasons last night should never have happened. First, agency matters
ought to be at the front of his mind at this delicate stage of his
investigation. Also, he had no business taking advantage of Isabella.
Last night neither had been thinking straight.
#
"You're telling me that isn't blood in the alley?"
Rafe tented his fingers, elbows resting on the arms of his desk chair, and
tried to stare down the homicide detective who sat across from him in his East Temple
Street office.
"Oh, it's blood all right, Hashish," Jensen
answered, throwing in the nickname because he knew it pissed Rafe off. "Crime
scene says animal, not human, but they need to run forensics to be sure."
He spread his hands, palms up. "So, my good friend, you
wanna tell me what this is all about?" He eyed Rafe speculatively. "And
while you're at it, what about that cut on your already fucked-up ugly mug? How'd
you get that?"
Max Jensen had always been too observant for his own good,
starting during their Stanford undergraduate days when he'd noticed Dr.
Henderson's preoccupation with his computer during class. At the mature age of
nineteen, Max had sucked Rafe into breaking into the lab to screw around with
Dr. Henderson's settings.
The straight-on hetero porn Henderson had been salivating
over became heavy-duty gay porn. A joke, but Rafe always wondered if atonement
was why Max had gone into law enforcement instead of being some computer geek
mixing things up in the Silicon Valley.
"My face met the butt-end of a door," Rafe
answered in a way that should warn Max off. "Find anything else in that
alley?"
"Yeah, a lot of garbage and crap." Max laughed. "What
were you expecting?"
Rafe ignored the question. "What about the bartender?"
"One Joseph X. McHenry."
Rafe lifted his brow. "X?"
"What can I say?" Max shrugged. "Xander, go
figure."
"Any record?"
"About as long as your arm, but nothing in the last
seven years. He jumped the SHU in oh-three and has stayed below the radar
since." Max pronounced the acronym "shoe."
"The Security Housing Unit at Pelican Bay State Prison?"
"Yep, that one, where we keep some of our most violent
criminal offenders, lucky us."
"How'd he manage to get out?" Rafe asked.
"Everything's about DNA now. Old Joe was doing life
without parole in the SHU on a rape-murder charge with special circumstances.
And then bing, DNA exonerated him." Max's face tightened in anger. "Never
mind that the bastard committed dozens of crimes he was never convicted of."
"But he's stayed cleaned since?"
"Yeah, the lucky son-of-a-bitch."
"Known associates? Dirty pee test? Carrying?" Rafe
knew most parolees got violated on one of these charges.
"Wouldn't matter," Max said.
"Right, exoneration, not parole."
The state retained a hold on a released offender who waived
his Fourth Amendment search and seizure rights to get parole. He could be
stopped and searched, any time, any place, all without a warrant because of his
parole status.
Most parolees reverted right back to the life. Joseph X.
wasn't on parole, but Rafe still wondered how a guy with his record had managed
to avoid getting busted on one charge or another.
"There was something in the blood, though," Max
added. "Mostly animal blood contaminated by a bunch of gunk." Rafe
raised his brows at the unscientific term, but the detective continued. "Crime
scene techs speculated about trace amounts of human blood along with the animal
blood."
"You think someone tried to cover up the human blood?"
"Could be,
amigo,
could be." Max pushed his
long, lanky form out of the chair and adjusted his shoulder pistol before
turning to the office door. "I'll give you an update as soon as the lab
report's complete."
His hand on the doorknob, Max turned around and eyed Rafe
speculatively. "So, if you're not going to tell me how you got that goose
egg on your head or what put that shit-eating look on your face ... "
Remembering last night, Rafe suppressed a smile.
"A broad? Jesus, Rafe, you finally got laid?" Max
smacked his palm against the door and laughed. "When were you going to
tell me about her?"
"There's no 'her' to talk about. Someone I met at
Stuckey's." He leaned back on two legs of his chair, tossed the pencil on
his desk, and tried to speak casually. "Ended up taking her back to my
apartment. Had to, as a matter of fact."
Max moved back into the room, sat down, and leaned forward
eagerly, a salacious look on his face. "Had to?"
Rafe waved a hand. "Long story."
"Hubba-hubba, old man. So, did she spend the night?"
Max pretended to pant like a dog. "What's her name? Goddamn! You old
devil."
"Don't get so excited. It was just a casual thing, you
know? Besides, nothing happened." Not much, anyway, he amended silently.
"No, I don't know." Max waved his ring hand in the
air. "Hello, married ten years. Leg shackles and all. The only way I get
lucky is through hearing your escapades. At least tell me her name. Give me a
bone, here, Hash."
Rafe chuckled, the sound of her name sexy as it rolled off
his tongue. "Isabella. No last name. Bella," he said, the taste of it
on his lips still feeling great. "Maybe she'll leave her phone number."
"You dick, you didn't get it last night?"
"What I got, Maxwell, was a frantic phone call from
Mrs. Roberts about you in my office early this morning."
Max grinned liked an idiot while Mrs. Roberts appeared from
nowhere and stood beside him, her eagle eye piercing him. Max jumped up,
snapping his jaw shut.
Giving him a scathing look, she spoke to Rafe. "Agent
Hashemi, excuse me, but your eleven o'clock appointment has been waiting quite
a while. Assistant District Attorney Torres," she added, clearly believing
he'd forgotten.
A short, middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense attitude,
Marilyn Roberts put everyone from the governor to the custodian in his place.
She always called Rafe by his title, expected him to address her as Mrs.
Roberts, and reminded him of his sixth grade teacher who'd scared the hell out
of him. Privately, he called her The Little General.
Rafe looked at Max and shrugged. "Sorry, this guy's
been deflecting my emails for over a week. He has case files he doesn't want to
hand over."
"Oh?" Max peeked his head out the door at the lone
figure fidgeting in the waiting room.
"Send him in, Mrs. Roberts." Rafe moved behind his
desk and pulled out a folder that contained ADA Torres' emails.
If not the smirk on Max's face, then at least the puzzled
expression of Marilyn Roberts should've warned Rafe.
She never lost her composure, never missed a beat even in
the worst situations, and absolutely never seemed confounded. "Him?"
she questioned, raising both penciled brows until they seemed to disappear into
her very black hairline. "I don't think so, Agent Hashemi."
