by Style, Linda
On that same first day, the captain had made no secret of the fact that he liked his unit as it had been before her arrival—testosterone across the board. Rumor had it that he’d taken her on under the threat of demotion.
Six years of law enforcement and she still had to prove herself.
At her desk, Crista glanced at her teammates. Across the room on her right, Clyde Hanover, the loudmouth in the group, and his clone, Dylan Farrell. On her left, Jesus Garcia and David Munez, a guy who looked like he might’ve been a sumo wrestler in another life. David’s partner, skinny Martin Vargas, sat behind Pete, whose desk butted against hers. Except for her partner, she’d made no friends yet.
She was definitely the outsider. And maybe that wouldn’t matter as much if she’d still had the support of her academy friends. Until four months ago the six women, Crista, Risa Taylor, Lucy Montalvo, Abby Carlton, Mei Lu Ling and Catherine Tanner, had maintained their strong friendships. And then Risa had come under investigation for shooting her partner.
By openly supporting Risa, Crista had incurred the wrath of the guys in her old unit who’d worked with Risa’s partner before. When Crista stood behind her friend even after it was confirmed the bullet had come from Risa’s gun, she’d been shunned by her fellow officers. Her old academy nemesis Bernie Schwartz had led the pack.
She hadn’t known how dangerous taking that lone stand would be. Until she’d been sent in as a decoy on a drug sting that went bad. She had called for backup three times, crouching behind a Dumpster, gun in her trembling hand. After the third call, she knew no backup was coming. She withdrew, made no arrests and was subsequently reprimanded for screwing up the job.
Devastated, she’d told Risa she could no longer openly support her. Crista hadn’t given her friend all the ugly details, because, Lord knew, Risa had enough to worry about. Risa said she understood. But when Crista’s calls went unreturned, she finally quit calling.
Each of the six friends had an opinion—and some disagreed bitterly. Lucy was convinced justice would prevail in Risa’s case, but Crista knew firsthand what the system could do to a person’s career.
In the end, Crista had made the only choice she could. Self-preservation. She’d worked too long and too hard to let her career slip away. And she’d learned a hard lesson in the process. Stay neutral. Never take a stand that appeared to be against a fellow officer.
When Risa was cleared and it came out that she’d been set up, Crista made another stab at resurrecting the friendship and called Risa, telling her how happy she was that the investigation was over. Risa had said thanks, and that was the end of it.
Crista felt a sharp pain in her chest just thinking about it. Four months since she’d made the decision to step back and she still wondered if she’d done the right thing. She missed her friends terribly.
Pushing the half-finished paperwork away from her, Crista looked up to see Captain Englend motioning her to his office. Embarrassed that he’d caught her daydreaming, she got up, trooped into his office and stood facing his desk, her hands on the back of the chair in front of her.
He nodded. “Sit.”
“I’m okay.” At five-foot four, she’d always felt she had more leverage when she was standing. Besides that, she had too much energy to sit for very long.
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Suit yourself,” he said and dropped into the black, high-backed leather chair behind his desk. All the desks in the unit were gray metal except the captain’s. His was oak.
Captain William Englend oozed authority. A bull of a man with close-cropped white hair, he was all about power and control. He didn’t manage his unit, he reigned over it.
“What’ve you got?”
“Nothing yet. The child is in intensive care. The bullet nicked her shoulder and hit an artery. She lost a lot of blood. Her condition is still questionable, so I thought it best to wait and talk to the father tomorrow.”
Englend’s expression never changed, but she could tell by the rigid set of his mouth that he wasn’t happy with her answer.
“And if the kid doesn’t get better?” Without waiting for a response he continued, “If we worried about everyone’s feelings, we’d never get a case solved. Get it done, Santiago. I want someone in jail.”
“I’ll do what I can, Sir.”
She started for the door.
“In this unit, we don’t do what we can. We get the job done.”
His words stopped her cold.
“If you want to stick around, forget the sentimental crap.”
Gnashing her teeth, Crista stormed back to her desk. From the second he’d assigned her lead detective on such an important case, she’d thought something was fishy. She was the newest detective in the group and was partnered with a guy who, though he’d had years of experience in other units, hadn’t been with the CS much longer than she had.
Until the Encanto case, the captain hadn’t given her any lead assignments, and she’d found it hard to believe he was giving her a chance to prove herself. Now her gut was confirming her suspicion. She’d been given three other detectives to work with and so far none of them except Pete had done anything on the assignment.
Worse yet, the captain was demanding action—never mind that drive-bys were rarely solved unless you had hard evidence or could find a snitch or an eyewitness who could identify the perp.
And so far…she had nothing.
CRISTA GLANCED at the two-story Spanish-style home with its balconies and soaring windows and then checked Alex Del Rio’s address again. Yes. Right place.
The Saturday afternoon sun glinted off the tiled rooftop, the brightness reflecting her own mood since hearing about Samantha Del Rio’s improved condition. She’d called the hospital every couple of hours last night and at about 4:00 a.m., they’d given her the good news. The child was going to be okay. Thank heaven.
As she climbed the steps to the huge home, she wished her partner was with her. But Pete had thought it more productive if they interviewed separately, and he’d gone off on his own to talk to some of the neighbors.
She rang the bell and waited, her nerves drawing tight under her skin. No matter how many times she questioned victims, she never got used to it. Making someone recall a traumatic event so soon afterward was like flaying open wounds.
One of the carved double doors swung open and a matronly woman appeared, her eyes puffy, her clothes rumpled.
“¿Puedo ayudarle?” the woman asked.
Yes, the woman could help her. “Sí. Señor Del Rio, por favor. Detective Santiago.” Crista flashed her shield. This was probably the woman who’d taken her message when Crista had called earlier to say she was going to stop by. A housekeeper maybe.
The lady motioned for her to come in and then disappeared into another room. Waiting in the foyer, Crista took inventory. A wide mahogany staircase rose directly in front of her, a sparkling crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling decorated with faded frescoes and a statue of the Madonna rested on an ornately carved table in an alcove on the wall on her right.
She’d always admired the old homes in this neighborhood, but had never been inside one to see how truly elegant they were.
“The police were already here,” a smooth bass voice came from her left. She turned to see Del Rio standing in the archway to another room, his eyes somber, his dark-as-midnight hair disheveled. He wore black dress pants and a white shirt, open in the front and left hanging out, as if he hadn’t had time to get fully dressed or didn’t care. His chest was smooth and muscular and under other circumstances she might have had trouble drawing her gaze away.
“Hello, Mr. Del Rio, I’m Detective Santiago. I’m sorry to barge in at this time, however, I do need to ask you some questions about the shooting last night.”
“I told the other officers everything I know,” he said, buttoning his shirt. He shifted, standing taller, and his shoulders seemed to broaden in the process. “I didn’t see anything.”
Despite his obvio
us weariness, the man carried himself with panache, his presence almost larger than life. His dark eyes warned her not to get too close. Yet at the same time, the intensity of his gaze drew her in.
Crista kept her feet firmly planted. “I understand your reluctance to answer more questions, but the other officers were here to collect evidence, my job is to conduct further investigation.”
Thoughtful, his gaze circled her face. “When Elena told me a detective was here, I expected a man.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m not. Is there someplace we can sit?”
“Can’t this wait until another time?”
“The first twenty-four hours are critical in gathering information. The longer it takes, the colder the evidence will get and it’ll be difficult to find out anything.” Crista pressed, “If you could go over what happened one more time with me and then answer a few questions, it would be really helpful.”
“It might be more helpful if the police were out there trying to find out who shot my daughter,” he said, anger vibrating in his words.
“That’s what I’m here for, Mr. Del Rio. We have to know where to look.”
He stared at her, and when she didn’t waver, he gave a nod, motioning her inside what seemed to be both a library and an office.
Crista observed an eclectic blend of modern technology and old-world elegance, mahogany bookshelves covered one entire wall while, to her right, stood a sleek desk of glass and chrome. On the desk were an assortment of photographs and computer equipment.
To her left, a supple leather couch and two well-used Cordovan leather chairs flanked a Chicago brick fireplace with a mahogany mantel. A wine and ivory oriental rug under the couch and chairs separated the room like a demarcation between the past and the future.
Family photos, she guessed, were everywhere—walls, tables and bookshelves. Several were of the little girl and a very beautiful young woman. Probably the child’s mother. Del Rio’s wife.
“When we’re finished, I’ll need to talk with everyone who was here last night.”
“Please,” he said, indicating one of the chairs.
She sat, pulling out her notebook and a pen. He sat across from her, leaning forward, elbows on knees, apparently anxious to get this over with. She couldn’t blame him. “Who else lives here with you?”
“Just Sam and my mother-in-law.”
“And your wife?”
He took a quick breath. “My wife died two years ago. A brain aneurysm.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
He’d lost his wife and last night he’d almost lost his daughter. She couldn’t imagine how he must’ve felt. At least now he knew his little girl would be okay.
“Elena has lived here since Sam was born,” he said. “She was sleeping last night when it happened, and she didn’t see anything, either.”
“I’d still like to talk with her when we’re finished.”
Del Rio nodded, but she could tell he didn’t like the intrusion.
“Her full name?”
“Elena Reyes-Vasquez.”
Crista jotted the woman’s name on her pad, then said, “Please tell me what happened as you remember it. From the beginning.”
“I was in my office and heard gunshots. One came through the window over there.” He motioned toward a shattered window now taped and covered with plastic. “And the other came through Sam’s window. I didn’t know that at the time, but my first instinct was to go to her and make sure she was okay.”
He stopped talking, rubbed his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of one hand. When he continued, his voice was hoarse, his emotions raw. “She was unconscious on the floor when I came in. I saw the blood, shouted for Elena to call 911 and applied pressure to her shoulder to stop the bleeding.”
Crista kept her eyes on her notes. She wasn’t supposed to feel anything. This was her job. Yet she’d never been able to dissociate when people got hurt, especially innocent children.
“She must’ve gotten up for some reason, otherwise…” He coughed, then continued, his voice soft, his tone bewildered. “I don’t know why she was out of bed.”
“Was the light in her room off or on?”
He frowned, then shook his head. “Off, I think. But there’s a night-light and I saw her on the floor.”
“Did you see anyone else? Out the window, maybe?”
A flash of anger swept across his face. His hands clenched into fists. “If I had…” He cracked the knuckles of one hand against the other. He inhaled deeply and a moment later, spoke with enormous control. “No, I didn’t see anyone. My only concern was Sam.”
He had every reason to be angry. She would probably be just as furious if she’d had a child who’d been shot.
He glanced up at her, his eyes filled with hurt and disbelief. “You know, you think your home is your sanctuary, that your family is safe and no one can harm you as long as you’re together.” He shook his head. “But that’s not the case at all. Is it?”
She’d never known that kind of security, never had a sanctuary. It must be wonderful to feel that way. But growing up in the barrio and working a beat for five years, she knew nothing was safe. “There’s no explanation for why tragic things happen, and then when they do we feel helpless.”
“Yeah. That’s exactly how I feel.” He leaned back in his chair, drained.
He was in a world of pain, but she couldn’t allow herself to be swayed by it. She had to continue the interview. Looking down at her notes, she asked, “Did your daughter see anything?”
He shook his head. “When she woke up, she was too groggy to talk much about it. Said she didn’t know what happened.”
Crista continued taking notes as she asked questions. “How did you know that you heard gunshots and not fireworks or something?”
“If you’ve ever been shot at, you don’t forget the sound.”
She glanced up, surprised.
He added, “I was in the Marine Corps during the Gulf War.”
Yes, she could picture him in a uniform. Posture perfect, tall, muscular and imposing. Definitely marine material. “How long have you lived in Encanto?”
“Five years.”
“And before that?”
“California. My family still lives there.”
“Any relation to Del Rio Wines?”
A trace of interest flickered in his eyes. “Yes. My parents bought the small vineyard fifty years ago and with a lot of hard work made it what it is today. Most of my sisters and brothers still work for the business.” He gave her a studied look. “Are you a wine connoisseur?”
She suppressed an urge to laugh at the irony. Her favorite wines were Chardonnay and white Zinfandel. Beyond that, she was clueless. “No. Not at all.” In her quick perusal of the room, Crista had noticed a plaque with the Del Rio Winery emblem on one of the bookshelves. She nodded toward it now.
He glanced at the bookshelf, then gave her a quick flash of a smile. “Oh. Yes.”
When he smiled, just that tiny bit, he made her feel warm inside. “So why did you move to Texas when your whole family is in California?”
He frowned. “Is this information important?”
“Yes, it is. The more I know, the better I’ll be able to decide where to look for pertinent information.”
“Information about what? I fail to see how my past has anything to do with last night. Someone needs to get out there and find those creeps.”
“Right now I’m exploring all possibilities. And one of those possibilities is that someone may have intentionally targeted you, and it might have been someone from your past. Do you know any reason why someone would want to harm you?”
A look of resignation crossed his face. “No. My family is very close.”
“What about friends? Co-workers? Have you made any enemies on your job?”
He shrugged. “Not everyone likes the way I do things, but I haven’t made any enemies that I know of. I create programs to get kids off the streets, and h
opefully give them a sense of belonging so they don’t have to get that support by joining gangs. The task force’s goal is to rid the East End barrios of gangs. Most people are happy with what I do.”
“Most? Who’s not?”
He shook his head. “No one that I know of. You’re looking in the wrong place for your evidence, Ms. Santiago. There was another shooting just two nights ago in Paloverde. Drive-by shootings are common in the barrios and most of the time there’s no good reason.”
“Not in this neighbourhood. There’s never been a shooting here before, so it doesn’t fit the pattern.”
She stopped writing and looked at him. According to the case file, Del Rio was the director of the mayor’s Anti-Gang Office and Task Force and had been since its inception. The office had only been set up a year ago at the community’s insistence that the mayor do something to reduce gang-related violence and crime. But since then, the crime rate had only increased.
“What did you do before you had this job?”
“I worked for the mayor in another capacity. When the director’s position came up, I applied.”
“Interesting. What exactly do you do?”
“I’ve created a database with extensive information on the local gangs, developed some activity programs and found a building to use as a center. I’ve recruited some of the youth from the neighborhoods, kids I believe can persuade their peers to participate. Once they begin to get involved, I’m hoping they’ll want to stick around, support the programs and spread the word.” His face had brightened.
It was obvious he took pride in his work. “The kids you’re recruiting…do any of them belong to gangs?”
His eyes narrowed, his hands curled into fists on his thighs. “If you’re thinking any of them would be involved in this, you’re wrong.” He stood.
“I’d like their names so I can talk with them.”
“Most of my recruits aren’t too fond of the police. And they could eat a tiny thing like you for breakfast.”
Crista stood to face him. She wanted to tell him that she could take care of herself better than most men. Instead she said, “I can handle a couple of teenagers. I’m trained to do my job and I do it well.”
