Traitor, The (13 page)
ADA Torres could only offer him a great deal of trouble. He
thought of the picture stashed in his bedside drawer.
Ay,
this little
avenger was a world of trouble.
Sí, un mundo del apuro.
"I am preparing dinner," he said with a courteous
nod and a wave behind him. "Come in."
Santos possessed the old-world courtliness of Diego Vargas,
but unlike his boss, carried it like a natural mantle. Vargas wore a thin
veneer of civility, but beneath the fancy façade beat the heart of a thug and a
barbarian. Of Santos, Bella wasn't sure.
She had no overt evidence of the difference between the two
men. Both, after all, were nasty criminals, but on some gut level she believed
for all his viciousness, Santos would consider it rude to renege on a promise. If
she convinced him to agree to a deal, he would keep his word.
As he tied an apron around his waist, he made a paradoxical
picture. He reminded her of a fully-grown Arctic male wolf she'd once seen in a
documentary, a beautiful, graceful creature with small, flat ears and a thick
white pelt.
But one she wouldn't turn her back on.
Bella hesitated a second before deciding she'd gain nothing
unless she took a gamble. "Thank you."
She dropped her purse on a bar stool in the kitchen area and
observed Santos as he finished tossing a salad. The rational part of her brain
wondered what the hell she was doing entering the camp of the enemy. She knew
for a fact that Santos had killed men. Still, he acted so ... normal, relaxing
in his own kitchen, preparing dinner for a guest.
Santos was a cold-blooded killer who dealt in drugs and
death, she reminded herself, as she folded her hands on the granite countertop.
"Let's talk business."
He pierced her with a strange look before answering.
"¡Prisa,
prisa!
Hurry.
Always hurry. That is not the Mexican way. Slow down.
Eat."
Was he serious? Have dinner with a known criminal as if they
were best friends?
He must have read the expression on her face.
"¿Qué?
Ms. Torres, you are not afraid of me, are you?" A hint of humor played
around his mouth, a beautifully carved shape cruelly bisected by a giant scar.
She bristled. "Of course not." A moment later she
sniffed the air. "What's cooking?"
"Tamales. And my tamales are
muy deliciosos.
The
recipe was handed down from
mi
abuela."
His grandmother.
If dinner was what it took to get Santos to make a deal with
her, then dinner it was. "Sure, why not?" She glanced at her
wristwatch. "I have a few minutes before I have to meet Sheriff Slater."
A blatant lie, but at least Santos would think she was expected somewhere.
They ate in silence at a small bistro table and chairs
arranged on the patio which looked down on Sacramento's Tower Bridge. The view
of the bridge over the Sacramento River at sunset was gorgeous.
"This is very good," she said at last, dabbing her
lips with the cloth napkin he'd provided.
"Gracias."
Santos poured coffee for both of them and tilted his chair
back, balancing a ridiculously small cup in his large palm. He appeared relaxed
and comfortable as he studied her for a few moments. "So what business
deal do you offer me, Assistant District Attorney Torres?"
He flashed a shark's smile as if he knew things she couldn't
understand. "What proposition is so attractive that I would forsake who I
am? Compromise my honor?"
"Honor?" Bella heard the incredulity in her voice.
Santos slammed down the legs of his chair and nearly
shattered the cup as he banged it on the table.
"Sí,
honor.
Are
you foolish enough to imagine that a man such as I has no
código del honor?"
Code of honor,
she mused.
She'd have to tread
carefully. "Aren't you the same kind of man as Diego Vargas?" she
countered, her voice low.
"Is that what you think?"
She shrugged and spread her hands as if the answer were
obvious, but remained silent this time.
"¡Madre del Dios!"
Santos leapt from his
chair, it teetered to the concrete flooring, and he gathered up the used
plates. He marched into the kitchen and began rinsing the plates and stacking
them in the dishwasher.
Bella trailed him, leaned against the counter, and for a few
minutes, watched his swift, economical movements. "If I thought you were
exactly like Vargas, I wouldn't be here."
Those flat, black eyes in the scarred face studied her
intently, as if analyzing the sincerity of her words. "Let us sit,"
he said after drying his hands.
He indicated a comfortable white leather sofa in a living
room off the kitchen. "What is your proposition, Ms. Torres?"
She sat and turned sideways beside him. "I'd like you
to testify against Vargas."
The look on Santos' face was comic. "Surely you jest."
"I'm deadly serious, Mr. Santos." She refused to
look away from him although she felt the wild pulsing of the vein at her
throat.
"And for this ... testimony what do I get in return?"
"Some kind of ... immunity."
"Complete immunity?"
"That depends on how damaging the testimony is."
Santos crossed his legs at the knee, a gesture that would
have seemed effeminate in a less commanding man. His left arm rested on the
sofa back, his fingers drumming idly on the pristine leather. He jabbed her with
those sharp, emotionless eyes until Bella began to feel uneasy. She considered
terminating the conversation.
Without knowing she would do it, she stood suddenly,
ventured toward the bar stool where her purse still lay, and retrieved her cell
phone. She punched Slater's number on speed dial.
"Why do you wish so badly to catch Diego Vargas?"
He spoke at her ear, startling her.
She ended the connection. "What?"
His gruff voice softened, taking on the tone of a priest or
therapist. "What sin has
El Vaquero
committed to make your fight
with him so personal?"
She dropped the phone back in her purse, feeling like a
young girl caught in a misdeed. "There's nothing personal," she
retorted. "I'm just doing my job, the task of putting scumbags like your
boss away for a very long time."
Santos' laugh was a booming eruption from his barrel chest. "You
should not use such fiery words when you are trying to persuade me of
something,
pequeno guerrero."
Little warrior!
The reference to her small stature
irritated her, and she scowled at him.
Santos read the precise moment when Isabella's decision
reflected in her face. A conciliatory look came first. He marked her struggle
between resignation and determination, and admired her strength and hardiness.
Sitting on the barstool, she clutched her handbag on her
lap, while he walked around the counter to stand opposite her.
"I don't care about the drugs," she confessed,
staring out the patio window to the dark night of the city.
"Oh? What do you care about, Isabella?" He called
her by her first name, turning the power balance back to himself. She was too
intelligent not to realize what he was doing, but she responded anyway.
"The girls," she whispered, "I care what
happens to the young girls."
"They are hardly babies," he countered, although
he knew in his heart this was not true. They were all
bebés
in much the
same way as Magdalena's Corizon was an infant. Certainly all of them were
innocent. Although they did not remain innocent for long.
"Why should you care so much for poor Mexican girls you
do not even know?" Santos forced mockery into his voice so that he would
not feel her pain.
She hunched her shoulders and slid off the bar stool. "I
lost someone. A long time ago."
He strained to hear her voice.
"I know what it means to lose someone you love."
Santos knew the emotion raging in her face was genuine. She
could not be such a good actress as to fool him.
Imposible.
"What
do you propose, Ms. ADA?"
"Full immunity in exchange for Vargas."
He roared with laughter. "
¡Un qué idiota usted debe
pensarme!
What an idiot – "
"I understand Spanish," she snapped. "And I
don't think you're an idiot, Mr. Santos."
"To betray the man for whom I have worked nearly twenty
years? What could possibly induce me to commit such folly?"
"Complete immunity from prosecution," she
repeated, standing taller.
"Pero."
He smiled and spread his hands as
if at the antics of a very young child. "But that is what I have now."
Isabella turned fierce again, the combatant preparing to
attack. "We will catch Vargas," she spat, her nostrils flaring, "and
when we do, you will go down with him. Hard. Your hands are very bloody and you
will have to pay a price for that."
Santos sat on the bar stool she'd just vacated, his knees
nearly bumping her leg. "Let me tell you a story, Ms. Torres."
He interlocked" his fingers between his legs. "When
I was a young boy, my father was arrested by the
federales.
Starved.
Beaten. Tortured."
She slumped against the counter, staring at him, her face
ashen, her body taut.
"My father would not tell them what they wished to
know." He shrugged. "Finally, they brought my mother and my sister
into the village plaza. 'We will rape and murder them in front of you,' they
said, 'if you do not give us the information we need.' He confessed, of course."
Santos smiled without joy. "You see,
él creyó sus
promesas."
"He believed their promises,"
Isabella
repeated.
"Sí,
but they cut off his penis and stuffed it
in his mouth anyway. He bled to death."
Isabella shuddered and Santos knew that his story had made
its point. "What happened to your mother and sister?"
"I do not need to tell you that, do I?"
She remained silent, her dark eyes wide and incredibly
beautiful.
"So, I ask again, how do I know I can trust you to keep
your word?"
She acted as though she would not answer. After a moment she
slung her bag over her shoulder and walked to the foyer, composing herself, he
believed. There she turned and stared at him across the room. A steely look had
returned to her face.
"Look into my eyes and tell me you don't believe me,"
she said. "I don't lie."
"All attorneys lie," he smiled. "I know this
better than anyone."
He sighed heavily and stretched his big body as if he were
bored with the whole conversation. "But I will take your proposal into
consideration."
"Don't take too long," she warned. "I may
regret my generous impulse. The deal won't be on the table forever." She slammed
the door behind her when she left.
Santos gazed at the closed door for a very long time. "Touché,"
he said to no one.
Eventually he cleared away the remains of the dinner and sat
out on the patio to disassemble his weapons. After he had cleaned them, he
stored them in the cutaway behind the kitchen sink. These tasks were merely
ploys to avoid looking at the picture, but he would not let his curiosity rule
him.
Finally, he prepared for sleep. He sat on the edge of the
bed, retrieved the snapshot from his nightstand, and lay down to examine the
worn photo. Every detail of what Vargas had done to the girl for a period of
five years flashed through his memory, and with them, a rage so unfamiliar he
could not breathe for the storm of it.
A vague glimmer of an idea stirred within him, but he thrust
it aside.
¡Es imposible!
Nonetheless, tomorrow he would search the public records. He
would find out who Isabella Torres once loved so much and lost long ago.
#
When Bella pulled into the driveway of her small bungalow,
she recognized the car parked at the curb. She punched the remote control to
raise the garage door and eased her compact car into the tiny space. Through
her rearview mirror, she watched as Rafe climbed out of his car and stalked
toward her. His body looked tight and angry.
"Where the hell have you been?" he yelled as she
swung her legs from underneath the steering wheel.
She grabbed her briefcase, stood up, and slammed the car
door before answering. "Good evening, Agent Hashemi. Wasn't lunch enough
of a visit for you? And since when have you begun monitoring my comings and
goings?"
They'd lunched earlier, an uncomfortable situation where all
she could think of was how handsome he looked despite the scruffiness of his
five-o'clock shadow and his mussed-up hair. He'd constantly run his fingers
through the dark curls, while she'd tortured herself with the memory of the crisp
feel of thickness beneath her fingers.
"Smart-ass," he retorted, blocking her way. "Answer
the question. Where have you been?"
"If you must know, working the case."
At lunch she hadn't even hinted at what she planned to do –
meet Santos on his own turf. Hashemi would've quashed that idea without
consideration.
They'd talked a little about the case, more about each
other, light inconsequential chatter that said little. But the tension beneath
the banter spoke volumes.
Her words now seemed to calm him. "Oh, that's good.
What part of the case?"
She shifted from one foot to the other, wanting to get rid
of him and soak in a hot bath. "Look, it's late, I'm tired. Let's talk
about this tomorrow."
"No," he insisted, taking her keys from her
fingers before she could protest. He walked to the back door, keyed the lock,
and punched the remote to close the garage.
He looked back at her. "Are you coming?" Without
waiting for an answer, he opened the door and disappeared into her laundry
room. What an insufferable, bossy ass! Fuming, but resigned, she followed him
into the house.
