Traitor, The (21 page)
"And you had something to do with it."
"Sí,
along with Diego Vargas."
She flinched at the name. "I knew it."
"I can give you specific details," Santos offered,
locking eyes with her, "of your sister's last months."
Rafe hadn't been this drunk since college.
He had to hand it to Max. The man still held his liquor like
an Irishman. They'd spent hours reminiscing and yakking about the good old
days, talked about Max's wife Shirley and what had gone wrong with the
marriage.
All the time Rafe realized his good friend Max was keeping
him under wraps.
Rafe hadn't mentioned the Vargas case. Not once, although
Max had broached the topic several times and Rafe had deflected the questions,
acting far more inebriated that he was.
Finally Max had laughed and said, "I'm too damn curious
for my own good."
"Killed the cat, they say." Rafe chuckled, the
sound hollow to his ears.
"Bite me, old buddy." Max laughed again and
pointed Rafe toward the guest room.
Now this morning, sprawled half dressed on a bed without
linens, Rafe squinted blearily through the slats of the blinds, then eyed his
wristwatch and groped for his cell phone. Not on the bedside stand where he'd
left it. Crap, Isabella would worry about him, probably had left several
messages.
After relieving himself and splashing cold water on his
face, he walked cautiously, favoring his pounding head, into the kitchen where
his shoes and jacket lay near a bar stool. His tie and trousers were neatly
draped over the bar itself. Max's work, surely not Rafe's.
No phone.
"When did you know for sure?"
Max's voice sounded behind him and Rafe whirled, reaching
for his weapon, which he realized immediately wasn't holstered where it should
be, securely under his left arm.
It dangled from Max's fingers.
He'd known, dammit! Why had he been so careless? He'd
known! In his gut he'd known all along.
Rafe considered bluffing it out, but knew by Max's
expression that it was a lost cause. "For sure? Right now."
Max scratched the back of his head, retrieved the missing
cell phone from his pocket, and shook his head with a genuine look of remorse.
"I'm really going to hate this, Hashish, old man."
"Then don't do it." Rafe took a half step forward.
"Too late for that, I'm afraid. I'm in too deep."
"We can work something out, Max." Another half
step forward. "Please."
"I can't go to prison, Rafe. You know that, even
federal. I'd be dead within a month."
"Protective isolation." Another half step.
"Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Hash. I know the
reality."
"Why?" Rafe asked and heard the echo of anguish in
his own voice. "Was it the money?"
Max laughed bitterly. "Fuck, yes. What else? You know what
a cop makes. You know Shirley's tastes. And L.A., man, who can live there
without having a fortune?"
Filthy lucre, Rafe thought. People dead because Max wanted
money.
Max must've read the disgust in Rafe's expression.
"Don't judge me, Hashish." His voice hardened. "Don't you dare
judge me. I tried, God knows I tried hard to resist."
He brandished the gun dramatically, emphasizing his point.
"It was just the little stuff at first. You know how it goes." He
laughed bitterly. "Or maybe you don't. You got the lucky breaks all your
life. You don't have a wife and kids. You don't know what it's like."
"I'm sorry," Rafe murmured, thinking how true it
was. He didn't know. He'd rather die than dishonor his commitment to the
department. He felt like weeping or howling or just lashing out with his fists.
But he stood quietly and eased another half step forward.
"I'm really sorry, Max."
"Yeah, me too."
Rafe anticipated the move a millimeter of a second before it
showed in Max's eyes, spun sideways and kicked out, landing the intended blow
to Max's shin before the gun exploded and he felt the sharp, deadly burn in his
upper chest. Ah, shit, he thought as he toppled to the floor.
#
Santos waited patiently while Isabella Torres paced the
interior of her office, pausing occasionally to stare at him as if the sun rose
or set tomorrow based on her imminent decision. Perhaps for her it did.
After several long minutes, he dangled the bait again.
"I can tell you every single detail – names, places, dates – but I do not
think you will wish to know them all."
Indeed Santos wished
he
did not know about the last
years of the girl's life, the final moments of her suffering.
He'd come upon Maria several months after she'd been
delivered to La Casa de Mujeras. Sheer accident caused him to be in the hall at
that moment on that particular night. She still had some fight remaining in her
then, a defiance and will not yet broken that he admired.
Ay, she was so very beautiful and as a young man he was
half in love with her at the moment he first looked at her. When she saw him,
she recognized him and threw her slender body into his arms, clutched his
waist, and begged him to return her to her home.
But Santos knew there was no going back for the lovely
Latina. She could not return from the difficult road she had walked. He wanted
to explain this to her, but at that moment, Diego stepped from the room he
usually occupied when he stayed at the whore house.
Without a word, he jerked the girl from Santos' arms and
cuffed her with the back of his hand. When she landed on the carpeted hall, he
kicked her with the toe of his boot, but not too hard because damaged
merchandise was not valuable.
Isabella Torres turned toward the window, wrapping her arms
around her waist as if to keep the core of herself – heart, lungs, soul – from
spilling out.
While he waited for the attorney to make her decision,
Santos remembered the night Maria had died, five years after she'd been among
the very first vanload of girls that came over the border from Mexico.
Diego was in a foul mood that matched the nasty fog settling
in the Central Valley during that winter. As his driver, Santos kept one eye on
the dangerous, fog-slicked road and one on the rearview mirror where Diego sat
with the dull-eyed and lackluster girl. She had aged ten years since Santos had
last seen her, track marks on her arms indicated the drugs used to subdue her,
and she no longer spoke to anyone, let alone appealed to the boss's bodyguard.
When Diego began to paw at the girl's clothing, she
simply lay back on the leather upholstery and spread her legs. Santos knew she
would not last long. Already she was past the age of girls that held Diego's
interest. In truth, Santos did not know why the boss had kept her so long. If
she did not die of a drug overdose, she would surely perish at the hands of
Vargas' insatiable violence or one of the patrons he passed her off to.
When Isabella Torres turned back to him, Santos saw the
steel in her jaw and the determination in her eyes. "Yes, I want the
details," she said. "I want to know every single moment of her life
after she was stolen from us."
"Pero, por supuesto. But, of course.
Ask the
questions and I will answer."
"Did she suffer?"
Santos shrugged. "How does one measure the suffering of
another person?"
"Don't play games with me," she snapped. "You
are getting – what did you call it? – an
excellent
deal." She sat
down, leaned forward across the desk, her hands bracing her tight body.
"Did. She. Suffer?"
"Solamente un poco. Only a little.
She was not
passed from man to man as the other girls were, but stayed with one protector
the entire time." A lie, but perhaps a small consolation, although, in
truth, Santos did not know why he bothered with it.
"Vargas?"
"Sí."
"You expect me to believe a man like Vargas treated her
well?" Her face had lost all color, but her voice dripped with scorn.
"Believe what you wish, but Diego Vargas was a younger
man then and he seemed fond of her in his own way. Perhaps his later ...
proclivities were not fully developed."
She nodded slowly. He realized with surprise that she
believed him and took some comfort in the false knowledge.
"How did she die?"
Santos had driven the girl and Vargas to a very upscale
motel. The fog was a deadly blanket that made further driving northeast to
Sacramento impossible. He booked two adjoining rooms, one for himself and one
for the girl and his boss. Why Diego had taken the girl with him on this
particular trip Santos did not know at the time, but later the truth of his
boss's actions became clear. He had another, younger girl waiting for him in
Nevada.
"She perished in a car accident," Santos answered.
"She and Diego were going from Los Angeles to Sacramento by automobile.
Passing through Modesto, we hit a severe fog bank. That is when the accident
occurred." So easy to sequester a lie within the truth, he thought.
"You were driving?"
"Sí. The car rolled over several times. Diego and I
were trapped in the vehicle, but the girl was thrown from it."
The noises had come through the walls separating the two
motel rooms several hours after Santos had fallen asleep. The sounds woke him
up and he lay in the darkened room, listening for signs that he was needed.
Another loud thump.
He knocked on the adjoining door. "El Jefe, is
everything all right?"
No sound but the dull thud of pounding and then Diego's
heavy breathing, a guttural nastiness that Santos knew well.
"¿Diego, qué usted?"
"¡Nada!" the man growled through the door while
the steady, sick thumping of flesh on flesh continued.
Santos shouldered the door open and took in the scene at
a glance.
"Did she die quickly?" Isabella Torres asked.
"Yes. Instantly. She did not suffer. I tried to perform
emergency medical aid at the scene." He spread his hands in a sign of
futility. "But she was dead before the ambulance arrived. Very quickly."
Great glimmering tears pooled in Isabella's dark eyes, but
she did not allow them to fall. "There was no police report?"
"There are ways to cover up such matters."
"Of course."
A long, sad sigh flowed from her mouth like a funeral dirge
filling the room.
"Diego Vargas is a man with many faults, many
sins," he reassured her, "but Maria's death is not one of them. He
treated her with care. He may have been a bit in love with her."
Santos looked at the unlit tip of his cigarillo and realized
he was not speaking of
El Vaquero
at all,
but of the long-ago,
foolish boy-man who had been Gabriel Santos
.
The room had been a bloody mess, and the girl ceased to
breathe long after Diego continued to pummel her broken body with his fists and
feet. Santos checked the pulse at her neck and closed the once-luminous eyes.
"Get this fucking piece of shit out of here,"
Santos roared, sweat dripping down his face onto his already thickening body,
his cock still hard and jutting from the thrill of beating the girl to death.
Santos could not revive her, and he was a long time
cleaning up the mess.
"Is there evidence that I can use to tie her death to
Diego Vargas?" Isabella Torres asked.
Santos shook his head, sadness and relief warring within
him. "The evidence disappeared long ago."
"Then I will hang him with what you tell me."
"Verdad."
Three hours later, Santos had given the assistant district
attorney all that she needed, and she had agreed to grant him full immunity in
exchange for his testimony against Diego Vargas in a court of law.
"I'll need to run this by the district attorney."
Weary lines etched around her mouth and between her eyes. "But I don't
anticipate any objections."
In fact, Santos knew that Charles Barrington would be
delighted that the ADA had resolved the case without further media criticism.
And he would likely garner the credit for himself instead of giving it to her.
"You can sign your official statement after it's
processed," she said. "If Vargas finds out that you've informed on
him, you won't survive long enough for the trial."
Santos thought Isabella would not mind his death so much as
losing him as a witness. He smiled and stretched his hand across the desk.
Surprisingly, she extended hers and his large bear's paw engulfed her small
hand like the mating of a giant and a dwarf. But her grip was firm and when she
squeezed his hand, he knew that she was a survivor.
He was glad that he had not told her the truth about her
sister.
Ay, ella era un ángel que se vengaba. The little lawyer
was an avenging angel.
As soon as Santos left, Bella contacted Rafe on his cell
phone. "It's done" was all she said when it went straight to voice
mail.
Then she called Slater at the hospital. "He gave you
everything?"
"Yes."
"Names, dates, places?"
"All of it."
"That's great." Slater's voice sounded strained
over the line. "How did you manage it?"
"I'll drop by the hospital and tell you later."
"Bella, wait. Are you okay?"
"Yeah. Yeah, sure."
The stress of the last few days rushed in like a storm to
rip out her last ounce of strength. She hated the weakness, but she didn't want
to return to her empty house. She didn't want her imagination about Maria to
choke her mind like a poisonous vine.
She wanted someone to help her forget. She needed Rafe.
Although she didn't really want to spend time around Jensen,
she did want Rafe. She wanted to cuddle, pour her heart out, cry for her lost
sister, say her last goodbye.
Rafe could read the transcripted interview of the
information Santos had given her. This was Rafe's case too and he should be in
on the close of it. He wouldn't be happy about Santos getting off scot-free,
but in the end he'd understand that the plea bargaining was all part of the
prosecution chain. Vargas was the big fish.
Before going to South Highland Heights, however, Bella
stopped by the hospital to look in on Slater. It was early enough that no
visitors had arrived yet, and she was happy to get him alone.
After giving him the details on the Santos case, she waited
for his comment, sure he'd be furious that she'd cut a deal with a man like
Santos, but he remained silent.
"Aren't you going to say anything?" she finally
asked.
"You did what you had to do, Bella. No shame in
that." Slater looked much better today and she now suspected his stay in
the hospital would be shorter than she'd expected.
"You know how I hate these plea bargains," she
muttered.
Slater knew only the bare bones of her sister's
disappearance. She didn't want to tell him about the new photo and the story
Santos had spun about her sister.
She wanted to believe the tale of a car accident taking her
sister's life. It was so much cleaner than the nightmares she'd had since she
was old enough to know what stealing a teenaged girl meant.
She told herself that Santos would have no reason to lie to
her. He'd gain nothing from that.
"Just be careful, Bella. Sometimes these things have a
way of blowing up in your face."
She looked at him sharply. "Do you think someone will
get to Santos before he can testify?"
Slater shrugged and swiped his big hand over his scruffy
beard. "Who knows? There's gotta be another leak besides Manuel
Ruiz."
"No one knows about the plea bargain but you, me,
Santos, and Rafe. Even Sanderson doesn't know what went on inside my
office," she argued.
"What about the meet yesterday? Did you have
backup?"
"They were cleared."
"Anyone else?"
"No, no one ... but ... " Her thoughts went to the
phone messages she'd left Rafe and the company he kept. Her mind flipped to Max
Jensen. Had he known about the first meet? Had he overheard details about the
plea bargaining? Did he know about this morning's deal?
"What, Bella?" Slater looked alarmed and the last
thing she needed was him getting his blood pressure up when he was still
recovering.
"Nothing, nothing at all. Rafe's checked everyone out,
so it's fine." She arranged the covers around him and plumped his pillows.
"You take care of yourself, okay?"
He grabbed her hand and pressed it against his chest.
"Keep Rafe close to you," he warned. "He'll protect you."
She laughed, kissing his cheek. "How do you know?"
"Because I can see it in his eyes."
"What do you see?"
"He's half in love with you, Bella. He'll keep you
safe."
She smiled, but wondered if it were true because she
certainly thought she might be half in love with Rafe.
#
As Bella pulled out of the hospital parking lot, she thought
with satisfaction of what they'd accomplished today. Everything was signed,
sealed and delivered. Santos had refused any kind of protective custody with a
sly smile that spoke volumes of his ruthlessness in saving his own neck.
Edgy and restless, she drummed her fingers on the steering
wheel.
Was Rafe still with Max? Why hadn't he contacted her?
Dammit, if he planned to confront Jensen, she was going to be there, too.
Less than an hour later, Bella pulled into the circular,
gravel driveway in front of the house where Rafe had given her directions. The
house was in a marginal neighborhood where row upon row of cookie cutter
houses, new forty or fifty years ago, now lined streets with broken out street
lights and grass growing between the sidewalk cracks.
The house to which Rafe had directed her – 1300 Morene Way –
was a little less dilapidated than the others. A white house with green trim,
it sat further back from the street and boasted a large oak tree in the scanty
lawn of the front yard. She didn't see Rafe's car.
Bella rang the doorbell, but not hearing a corresponding
sound, rapped sharply on the door. Max answered, looking casual in jeans, a
black tee shirt and sandals. He held a large spatula and wore a draped cloth
around his waist.
His light blue eyes swept her from head to foot. "Hi,
Bella. It's good to see you again."
"Hi, Max. I need to talk to Rafe."
"Early lunch," he said, holding the door wide.
"Barbecue. Are you hungry?"
She still wore the black suit and sheer white blouse she'd
put on for the Santos interview and looked down self- consciously.
"Never mind that," Max said, gesturing through the
living area toward a patio door that looked out on a small, neglected back
yard. A platter of produce sat alongside several bottles of condiments on a high,
but narrow, serving table on the back patio.
Bella glanced around the living area, which opened up onto a
tiny kitchen to the left. One lonely bar stool was pushed up against the counter.
The living room itself held only a small television
teetering on a wooden box by a fireplace and a single recliner. A folding tray
held several pieces of mail, an empty beer bottle, and a magazine.
She ducked her head back into the foyer which opened up to
another nearly empty room on the right. Not only did the house have a general
air of deterioration, but it was practically devoid of furnishings. "Where's
Rafe?"
Max shrugged. "Said he had business in town. He'll be
back tonight. The burgers are ready to flip."
She nodded, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. Something
didn't sit right with her about Max and the house, but she put on a bright
smile and tried to shake off the queasy feeling.
"My grandmother just got out of the hospital and went
into long-term care at a nursing home in Sacramento," Max explained. "My
uncle Brian is kind of a lazy dude, hasn't gotten around to getting the house
ready to sell."
He took a deep pull on his beer. "He's sold most of the
furniture, but actually, this works out well for me."
"I'm glad you have a place to stay," Bella
murmured politely.
"Yeah, well, staying with my wife in L.A. wasn't an
option." He grimaced. "And I thought I could keep busy doing repairs
around here while I get my head straight."
Bella heard the bitterness in his voice and mentally
chastised her silent criticism of him. After all, the man's wife had left him.
She flashed him a sympathetic look.
Max handed her a soda. "So, how's the case going?"
he asked as he scooped burgers off the grill.
"Good." She wasn't going to elaborate about the
deal she'd made with Santos. Not around a man she hardly knew.
"I was helping Rafe down in L.A., so I know all about
Vargas and Santos."
Bella remained silent. Maybe she did or didn't trust the
police officer, but she'd learned her lessons well from Slater. Play your cards
very close to the chest and only reveal what you absolutely had to, especially
to someone who was an unknown factor.
"Rafe said you've got someone to turn on Vargas," Max
said casually.
Bella nodded briefly. "Bathroom?" She held up her
hands.
Max stared directly at her, ignoring the request.
"Really? That's great. Who?"
Amazed at the man's audacity, she mumbled, "Still too
early in the deal. I'd rather not say." She smiled to soften the
rejection. "Don't want to jinx anything."
Startlingly Max changed the subject. "Did Rafe tell you
how me and him came to know each other?"
"College, wasn't it?" Bella answered, wondering
where he was headed.
"We were college roommates, freshman year," he explained,
a distant, puzzled look on his face as if he were trying to figure the answer
to a math problem. "But we knew each other since fifth grade. He was a skinny
little dude all the kids razzed because of his dark skin and tight hair."
Bella looked thoughtfully across the rim of her soda can,
feeling puzzled by the strange turn of Max's conversation.
"He was ten years old, his mom had just dragged him
from the deadly heat of the Middle East, and he spoke with his weird Arabic
accent."
The Middle East?
Rafe had never told her anything
about his ethnicity, his family, or his homeland. A shock of alarm trailed down
her back. How could she know this man so intimately and yet not have learned important
and basic details about him?
"Yeah, the dude got his ass kicked nearly every day on
the playground until I began standing up for him." His voice hardened and
his eyes sparked. "I can't even count the number of times I rescued him."
Max chortled mirthlessly.
"Then he shot up like a giant during eighth grade."
He finished his beer and lined it up next to four other bottles on the ground. "And
he didn't need me to save him anymore."
"Bathroom?" Bella said again.
Max was unfolding a volume of history, but she couldn't
decipher the subtext of the words. Something was off, but what?
Max looked nonplussed for a moment. "Sure. Down the
hall to the right."
"Thanks."
He flashed an easy grin. "Anything for Rafe's
girlfriend."
