“So now I’ve alerted a potential suspect,” she said, on alert for anything out of place around her. “And if he has something to hide, he’ll bury it.”
“If he can. And if he has something to worry about, he might just get sloppy.”
“We can hope.”
Stella noted the mostly Mexican neighborhood was already prepared for the Day of the Dead, which combined indigenous Mexican and Catholic beliefs. Though officially celebrated on the first two days of November, the Mexican Fine Arts Museum down the street sponsored an extended celebration, beginning before Halloween. The celebration wasn’t morbid, but one that invoked humor and that honored deceased ancestors. Two- and three-dimensional skeletons decorated shop windows, and bakeries and small stores sold bread and candy skulls.
When they got within sight of Candera’s Mercado, Stella slowed down. “I thought I would check in with Señora Candera. She always did like to talk. And she’s friends with Luis’s mother.”
Dermot echoed, “Candera…I don’t remember her.”
“But she might remember you, even if you didn’t hear her confession. Maybe you ought to keep to the background while I see what I can find out.”
He could watch her back, Stella thought, even knowing her nerves were for nothing. No one would dare follow up on that threat she’d received the night before, not now when she was a cop.
As they entered Candera’s Mercado, which specialized in Mexican imports and produce used in neighborhood ethnic kitchens, Stella wondered if Der mot remembered that this was the store where she’d picked up her groceries that fateful night of her attack.
A string of paper skeletons danced among the garlic and peppers overhead. Stella stopped at the fresh fruit counter and bagged a few mangoes, stalling to get her nerves in check. She glanced sideways at Dermot, who was studying a shelf of imported canned products and keeping his back to the counter. Taking a steadying breath, she headed for the register, where—dressed in widows’ weeds as she had been for as long as Stella could remember—Señora Candera sat reading a novella, a Spanish-language romance comic book.
“Señora Candera, how are you today?”
“Estrella,” she said, using the Spanish version of Stella’s name. Peering at her through thick glasses, the older woman smiled and set down her story. “It’s been so long since I see you. I hear you make detective. I always knew you’d be important someday.”
Stella’s answering smile felt a little stiff. “I thought you said I would get married and have fine babies.”
“That, too. You’re still young.”
“Not feeling so young right now.”
“The work is hard, yes?”
“One particular case.” She handed the store owner a five-dollar bill. “Tony Vargas.”
Señora Candera hurriedly crossed herself and mumbled something in Spanish. Stella only caught the “poor Tony” part. Not that she was glad to see him dead, yet there had been nothing poor about Tony but his bank account. He’d been a criminal and all-round weasel as Stella remembered him. But of course she wouldn’t go into that.
Instead she sighed sympathetically and said, “If only we could find his killer.”
“I hear they have a suspect.” Señora Candera rang up the mangoes on her register. “That ex-priest. The Irish one.”
As if there had been more than one in the neighborhood.
Stella confided, “He was set up,” and surreptitiously glanced at Dermot who was within earshot now, though his back was still turned.
“Really?”
Stella nodded. “Maybe you can help, Señora Candera. If you could tell me who Tony got friendly with after he made parole and came back to the neighborhood…”
“I only saw him a few times, and always he was alone. But maybe I can ask Carmen Zamora. She said Luis had some personal business with Tony.”
Carmen being Luis’s mother, Stella remembered. “When was that?”
“Not long ago.” The store owner carefully counted out the change, which Stella shoved into her jacket pocket. “Maybe a week or so.”
“You wouldn’t know what kinda business?”
The woman shrugged. “Something about big money.”
Wondering if Señora Candera knew more, Stella picked up her purchase and left her card with her cell number on the counter. “If you think of anything, you give me a call.”
The woman nodded. “And you, Estrella, don’t be such a stranger.”
Stella turned to signal Dermot but he’d disap peared. She found him waiting for her outside, out of sight of the store windows.
By way of explanation, he said, “I figured if I stayed longer without buying anything, I would look pretty suspicious. So, what juicy offering did the good señora have for you?” he asked as they moved down the street and he slipped a hand around her waist.
A thrill shot through her, straight to her knees. Could he possibly know what he was doing to her? Stella wondered, trying to remain natural around him.
“Señora Candera told me Luis had some business with Tony that involved big money.”
“The blackmail?”
“Maybe…or maybe it’s just poker,” she joked, trying to keep from thinking about Dermot in a more personal way.
“What about poker?”
“Something Frank told me this morning—that Luis plays poker with Johnny Rincon over at Skipper’s, and I thought maybe Tony did, too.”
“Odd…I wonder…”
“What?”
“When I was grilling Bingo Wollensky, he mentioned Tony was due for big money, then said something about playing his cards right. What if he meant that literally, as in a poker game?”
“Things are starting to come together,” she muttered, her thoughts suddenly spinning so fast that she almost ran down another woman walking in the other direction. “Sorry,” she gasped when she saw who it was.
Alderman Marta Ortiz looked nothing like her late cousin. While Tony had shown every bit of his Mex ican heritage through his bronzed skin and broad cheekbones, Marta was almost fair by comparison, and her features were more delicate. She was also tall for a Latina, and her heels made her equal in height to Stella so she could look her in the eyes. Now there was the resemblance to Tony, Stella thought—the eyes, deep-set, dark and piercing.
“Detective Jacobek, what a surprise to see you here,” the alderman said. “Considering you don’t work this district anymore.”
“I’m afraid we haven’t met.”
Which, in truth, they hadn’t, though Stella had seen the other woman in the neighborhood, had even worked details around her while still in uniform.
“Let’s not play games. You know who I am. You know Tony Vargas was my cousin.” Marta’s sharp gaze shifted to Dermot, but she kept talking to Stella. “And I know who he is. You’ve picked the wrong side to work on, chica.”
“You’re not interested in justice?”
The alderman’s gaze whipped back to Stella’s. “Watch your mouth!”
Starting, Stella asked, “Or?”
“You’ll find that my influence is widespread.”
“One of Tony’s major complaints about you,” Dermot said.
Marta blinked and opened her mouth, but before she could conjure a retort, Stella said, “Tony was afraid of you, Alderman Ortiz. Why was that?”
“You dare to question me?”
“Are you above the law?”
Marta flinched as if hit. “You’ll see that it doesn’t pay to cross me, Detective.”
And with that she stalked off, leaving Stella steaming and staring after her. “She certainly has an inflated ego.”
“If that’s all it is,” Dermot said.
“What do you mean?”
“You wouldn’t consider the alderman’s appearance a little too convenient, would you?”
“Her office is on the next block,” Stella told him in an attempt to rationalize. But Marta Ortiz was the one person Tony had harped on in his sessions with Dermot.
“Then again, if someone spotted us and made a quick call…”
“She decided to issue a warning in person,” Dermot finished. “Goes to character.”
Her appearance did seem too convenient, Stella admitted. “The interesting part is that you weren’t a surprise to her. She knew I was helping you. I wonder who took the pains to tell her.”
“Her influence is widespread, remember,” Dermot said, reiterating the woman’s words.
“At least as far as Area 4.”
No doubt the alderman had been in touch with Detectives Norelli and Walker. But would they give her the lowdown on another officer’s activities? Not a good thing. Usually those on the job closed ranks against the outside and kept their internal beefs internal. But first Frank had found out Dermot was the only suspect, and now Marta Ortiz knew Stella was helping him.
Having a big, fat leak made Stella distinctly uneasy.
And reminded her of the personal threat if she continued helping Dermot. She only hoped whoever had left that note for her had been sloppy enough to leave his—or her—calling card in the way of fingerprints. Maybe then they’d get to the truth of the matter.
“Are you okay?”
Realizing Dermot was frowning at her, she said, “It’s not me you should be worrying about.” Not unless he was psychic. “I was just fixated.”
One eyebrow raised in question. “If you say so. What next?”
Her stomach growled, reminding her that it had been hours since she’d eaten. “Lunch, I guess.”
Brain food might give her a clue as to how to proceed from there.
AFTER LUNCH they made a few more stops along 18th Street and on some of the side streets, talking to businesspeople and long-term residents about Tony Vargas. Who might have seen him…who he was with…what rumors they might have heard. Stella hadn’t expected much, and indeed, they came up empty. Even so, she tried to put on a good face for Dermot’s sake.
“Things are coming together,” she said as they exited yet another store. “We just gotta figure out how.”
“Nice that you’ve developed an optimistic streak.”
“You should, too. You have the best on your side.”
“I know you are.”
“I wasn’t shining my own buttons. You have a whole team working to find the truth.”
And enough time had passed that maybe Logan had a piece of it. Stella wanted in the worst way to call him to find out, but she couldn’t do it in front of Dermot. If he knew about the threat, he might refuse her further help.
“I’m about done in for the day,” she said. “I think I’ll go home for a shower and some downtime, and meet you back at the club later.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he agreed. “I have another stop I want to make before heading home, but I can walk you to your car first.”
“Doesn’t sound like it’s on your way. So go.”
Dermot gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Thanks for everything, Star.”
If he really wanted to thank her, he could do better than that. Stella thought. But then, she shouldn’t be looking for trouble. Kissing him the night before had blown her mind and not only in a good way.
“Later,” she said, backing up.
He backed away, too, then he waved her off and turned away. Wondering where he was going—and why she hadn’t asked—she watched him for longer than she should have before heading for her car.
Swinging the bag of mangoes, Stella sauntered down the block, thinking of Dermot. Of them.
Of the possibilities.
Were they possible as a couple?
Her heart said yes, but tough as she might have become on the outside, inside she was scared. Could he ever look at her as a woman without seeing the violated young parishioner he’d picked up off the pavement? She couldn’t stand it if he ever looked at her with pity again.
She turned the corner where her car was parked and came face-to-face with another reason to be afraid. The teenage punk was about five feet, ten inches of pure threat, draped in oversize khakis, a long-sleeved T-shirt imprinted with a snake design and a green bandanna around his forehead.
“Hey, chica, what you got for me?”
For a moment Stella felt faint. She started to back up and realized the punk was looking over her shoulder. She chanced a quick glance back and saw the first one’s companions, younger and smaller but no less venomous, blocking her way.
Three Vipers, and one of her.
Her world tilted, and the bag of mangoes dropped from nerveless fingers and hit the pavement with a splat….
Chapter Seven
Every time Dermot entered St. Peter’s, the past came back to bite him. He stood there at the back of the church for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Automatically, they swept across the rows of seats to the confessionals on the east wall. Not in service today, purple velvet roping them off from anyone entering, the confessional booths stood silent sentinel. As silent as one confessor vowed to remain.
“Can I help you?”
Dermot immediately recognized the voice of Father Julio Padilla. He picked him out in the dim light easily, because the priest’s once dark hair was now silver. Padilla stood several yards away, his gaze focused in the same direction Dermot’s had been—on the confessionals. Or perhaps on the velvet ropes themselves. He couldn’t believe Dermot had stolen the bizarre murder weapon, could he? Someone must have believed it or the detectives couldn’t have put the coincidence together so fast—his having been in this church the same night the velvet ropes had come up missing. Odd that only one had been used and the other was still gone.
“Are you here to make your confession, my son?”
“Don’t be shy, Father. Go ahead and ask if I murdered Tony Vargas.”
“Did you?”
Dermot couldn’t believe the man who’d put him on the right path…who he’d worked under for more than a year…who was his confessor…had to ask.
“No. I might have thought to do Tony violence once years ago, but I didn’t kill him. That doesn’t seem to matter. Unless I can find a way to clear my name…”
Father Padilla gravely inclined his head. “I see. Come into the office where we can speak in comfort.”
Though the priest was small in stature, he had a big presence, just as he always had. He was in his late sixties now, yet his back was still strong and straight, and he walked with the stride of a man far younger. He led the way past side altars with their votives before plaster statues—one of St. Joseph, the other of St. Peter—then around the Blessed Mother and Child to the door to the sacristy, and beyond that, the church office.
While not ornate, the office was comfortable and attractive, from the Oriental carpet to the upholstered couch and chairs to the old wood desk with hand-carved trim.
“Can I get you something, Dermot?” Padilla asked. “Coffee? A soda?”
“The truth would be great. If you have it.”
The priest sank behind his desk. His liquid dark eyes were filled with worry. “Now, what is it you think I can tell you?”
“The word on the street.”
Since Father Padilla was a longtime crusader against the gang wars that kept the area dangerous, Dermot figured he would still be a primary source.
“I think you know this, my son.”
Trying not to let the fact that people believed he was a murderer get to him, Dermot said, “Below the surface. Who is mourning Tony Vargas?”
The priest shrugged. “As far as I can tell…the man wasn’t well liked.”
“But was he not well liked by anyone in particular?”
“I think he talked too much for anyone’s ease.”
“Viper ease.” No doubt Tony played with gang secrets to his death.
Padilla inclined his head in agreement.
“Yet Tony took the fall for Johnny Rincon,” Dermot went on.
“Probably because Tony preferred life inside to no life at all.”
“You’re saying he wa
s threatened into taking the fall.”
“Most likely. Or paid well for doing so. Or both.”
Which meant the priest didn’t know for certain. Which meant he hadn’t heard the condemning answer in the confessional that Dermot had heard so many years ago.
Paid well…big money… Had Tony been paid or simply been promised a reward when he got back on the outside? How much did Johnny Rincon owe him?
Blackmail money?
“Does Rincon still run herd on The Vipers?” Dermot asked.
“Once a Viper, always a Viper. But Johnny never called the shots.”
“He was their leader for years.”
“He was the figurehead. The mouthpiece.”
Dermot thought about that. “You’re saying someone was pulling his strings?”
“And probably still is.”
“Whose strings? Rincon’s or the Vipers’?”
“My guess would be both.”
“You wouldn’t have a name to give me?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Even without a name, without an absolute certainty, the speculation put things in a new perspective. Put Tony Vargas’s twelve-year-old confession in a new perspective, too.
“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“You’ve already helped, Father, by expanding my thinking. And maybe you can do something more for me.”
“If I can.”
“Then tell me if you know anything about Tony’s blackmail scheme.”
Padilla started and said, “You know the seal of the confessional protects him even after death.”
Which told Dermot that he’d hit on something. Tony hadn’t stopped at taunting Dermot with his blackmail scheme. He’d taken it right from the therapy couch to the confessional. Dermot wondered if Tony had named names. If so, Father Padilla would take them to the grave.
That was the thing about being a priest—no matter how heinous the crime, repeating any part of a confession under any circumstances was against church canon.
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