by Style, Linda
He studied her for a moment. “Yes, I expect you do. But I’m still surprised they put a woman on a case like this.”
The skin on her arms prickled. “Fortunately, your opinion doesn’t count.”
He looked a little surprised at her response, but didn’t pursue it. It was also apparent he wasn’t going to cut loose with any names. How could she blame him? She knew those kids would never trust him again if he sent the police to their homes. “Okay. If you won’t give me names, then maybe you can persuade a couple of them to call me?”
“…Okay.”
She heard the hesitation in his voice, but handed him a card with her office and cell phone numbers anyway. “There’s a recorder, so they can call anytime—24/7.” They wouldn’t call, she knew that. But she had to start somewhere.
“So once again. Did you see anyone, or is there anything else you haven’t mentioned?”
He hiked his shoulders again and his frown returned. “I told you everything. My word is good.”
“No offense intended. It’s my job to ask more than once because often people don’t remember everything right away. Sometimes they remember things days or weeks later.” She took the card from his hand and scribbled her home phone number on the back. “If you think of anything, I’d appreciate a call. If it’s important, and if you can’t get me at the other numbers, use that one.”
She handed the card back to him. “Please don’t give that number to anyone else.”
He nodded. “Are we done?”
“We are.” she said. “I’d like to talk to your mother-in-law before I go.”
“It won’t be helpful.”
“Then it’ll be a short conversation.”
He stalked from the room and a few moments later, he returned with Señora Reyes-Vasquez.
The woman sat on the couch opposite Crista, while Del Rio stood like a sentinel behind her. Glancing at Del Rio, Crista said, “If you don’t mind, it would be better if we talked privately.”
His back visibly stiffened. “She speaks little English.”
“That’s not a problem.”
His gaze locked with hers—a battle of wills, it seemed. Crista didn’t look away. Finally he said to his mother-in law in Spanish, “I’ll be right outside the door.”
The interview with Elena Reyes-Vasquez was short. She’d been asleep and hadn’t heard the shots, she’d only heard Alex when he’d called out to her. Listening to the older woman, Crista was pleasantly reminded of her grandmother who’d lived with the family before Crista’s father died.
Despite Alex Del Rio’s reluctant attitude, she decided he was a kind man to provide a home for his mother-in-law.
Alex was standing outside the door waiting when Crista came out. “She lived through it,” Crista announced.
“Encuentren a estos malvados!” Elena said, coming up behind Crista.
Crista couldn’t help but smile at the older woman’s spirit. Yes, Elena Reyes-Vasquez very definitely reminded Crista of her grandmother. “We’ll do everything we can to find the person who did this,” she answered in Spanish. “Or persons.”
Crista turned to Alex. “I’d like to take a look at the bedroom, if you don’t mind.”
Del Rios’s expression went cold.
“It’ll only take a few minutes. I need to see it for my report.”
Taking a breath, he nodded to Elena and asked her to show Crista the room. Apparently he couldn’t bring himself to go back there yet, a response she understood only too well.
The little girl’s room was pink and white, with a poufed up coverlet on her four poster bed and fluffy clouds painted on the ceiling. Crista could almost feel the love that went into creating this room. She gave a long sigh and hurried through her inspection. A single shot had come through the window. The hole was tiny and Crista was amazed the bullet could’ve inflicted such damage. A lighter spot on the carpet revealed where a throw rug had been removed. She knew from the case file that there had been blood on the rug and the Crime Scene Unit had taken it as evidence. She made a few notes and hurried out. The file contained the rest of the information she needed.
Coming down the stairs, Crista crossed directly to where Del Rio waited by the door, ready to escort her out. “I know this was difficult for you,” she said. “But it really was helpful.”
She stepped outside, then turned to face him. “Oh, one more thing. Are you planning on staying in the area? In Encanto, I mean.”
“Of course,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I?”
She shrugged. “Living so close to the Paloverde barrio…and, well… With all that’s happened and because you have family in California, I just wondered, that’s all.”
A puzzled expression crossed his face. “This is my home. My daughter’s home. I have no intention to move anywhere.”
“Not even to a different neighborhood?”
“I’m not going to run away.”
Macho to the nth degree. “Admirable in principle,” Crista said. “Except drive-by shooters don’t care much about principles… I guess you know that already.”
If he didn’t, he was deluding himself. Then again, considering all his pie-in-the sky hopes for the barrios, delusion was probably the best word for it. He’d never lived in a neighborhood like Paloverde or Segundo, and he’d only worked with the Hispanic community for a year—yet he thought he knew how to fix what was wrong.
“I would move away instantly if I thought that would keep my daughter safe. But random shootings can happen anywhere. If the police apprehend the criminals, we’re one step closer to a safer community.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Besides, if I moved away, how credible would I be to those I’m trying to help?”
His credibility wasn’t going to change anything. For eighteen hellish years she’d lived in the barrio—a place where the poverty ate at your soul and the violence kept you awake at night. She knew the only changes since she’d left the place were more poverty and more violence.
No point in bursting his bubble, though. He’d find out soon enough. “I see your point.”
His dark gaze seemed to cut right through her. “No, I don’t think you do.”
CHAPTER TWO
HE’D ACTED LIKE a jerk. Alex sat at his desk, staring at the taped-up window. He hoped the detective didn’t think he was being uncooperative.
It was just that he’d been through all the questions before. And when she’d started probing his past, his family and then his job and the kids he was working with…he didn’t see the point. The police should be tracking down the scumbag who did this, not wasting time with irrelevant questions about his family.
Maybe he was wrong not to give the detective the names of the boys he’d recruited, but he knew those boys. They wouldn’t be at the center if they were still on the streets. Hell, if he thought for one second they might be involved and had hurt his little girl, he’d give out their names in a New York minute. But he didn’t believe that. He trusted them. They trusted him. Giving the detective their names could break that trust and ruin the mayor’s program he’d worked so hard to put in place.
“El te’esta listo en la cocina,” Elena said from the doorway, letting him know she had tea ready in the kitchen.
“Thank you, Elena, I’ll be right there.” Since his mother-in-law knew little English, they always spoke in Spanish, and it drove his daughter crazy. Sam wanted to talk “American” because all her friends in preschool did, but she was forced to converse with her abuela in Spanish.
For him, speaking his native language was a matter of pride in his heritage. His father was a proud, hardworking man, who’d instilled the same values and beliefs in his children. Never forget who you are and where you came from. Alex found himself spouting his father’s favorite phrase to Sam on more than one occasion. The thought made him smile. If his siblings ever heard him say that, they’d tease him unmercifully.
He pulled in a tired breath, rose to his feet and trudged to the kitchen. He needed to sleep
, except right now sleep would intrude on his time with Sam. While the bullet had gone clean through the right shoulder, Sam had lost a lot of blood from the damaged artery, causing her little body to go into shock and putting her life at risk through the night. When her physician had finally given him the word that she was going to be fine, he’d collapsed in a heap. God had answered his prayers.
He’d only gone home because Dr. Rosenthal told him the medications would keep Sam out until late afternoon. But he hadn’t been able to rest, and the detective had taken the brunt of his foul mood. She was there to find out who was taking potshots at his house and he’d acted like an ass.
He glanced at the table in the breakfast nook where Elena had set the teapot, then shook his head. Since Marissa died, Elena had stepped up the attention she lavished on him and Sam. He knew why. She had to do something to take her mind off her daughter’s death. Unfortunately, he’d gotten used to all the fuss. Liked it, in fact. He just wished Elena would take a little time for herself. “Join me, please?”
“No, gracias,” Elena said, explaining that she had to get things ready for Sam when she came home. He suspected Elena worried about being useless now that her daughter was gone. He’d told her many times that he and Sam needed her now more than ever, but he wasn’t sure Elena believed it.
“Gracias,” Alex said again and, when Elena left the room, he moved the tray with the delicate china teapot, cup, saucer and cookies to the center island where he preferred to sit. He pulled up one of the wrought-iron stools and perched on the edge, going over the detective’s questions.
The jangle of the phone disturbed his thoughts. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone, but it could be the hospital or someone on the task force. He got up and answered, “Hello?”
“Alex, that you?” Tom Corcoran’s voice bellowed from the other end.
“What can I do for you, Tom?”
“I just wanted to let you know the papers are in the works to transfer ownership of the building and everything should be completed by the end of the week.”
The task force had already started work on the building despite the paperwork holdup, so Alex was relieved to hear it. “That’s great, Tom. The city can’t thank you enough. I can’t thank you enough.”
At Alex’s suggestion, Tom Corcoran, Houston’s largest building contractor, had agreed to donate one of his vacant buildings in the barrio for use as a neighborhood center.
Alex had had no idea who owned the property when he’d chosen it as his ideal spot. After hours of research, he’d been surprised to find that the owner of the building was none other than Tom Corcoran. Tom owned it under a corporation’s name instead of his own, probably for tax purposes. And he hadn’t seemed too pleased that Alex had been able to track him down.
“Well, I’ve been thinking about doing that for a long time. Why not put the building to good use helping the community… But I do have one requirement.”
“What’s that?”
“I prefer to do my charity work anonymously, if you know what I mean.”
If he hadn’t known before, he did then. Corcoran didn’t want anyone to know he was a slumlord.
“I don’t expect you’ll want anything more from me.”
The words were matter-of-fact, but the man’s tone held a warning. Did he think Alex was going to come back for something else? That he might blackmail him? The idea of blackmail was so far removed from Alex’s code of ethics it was laughable. But he found no reason to defend himself to Corcoran. The program needed the property, and he was grateful for the donation.
“You’re more than generous, and of course our office will respect your wishes.”
“Good. My attorney will be contacting you to finalize details.”
Alex said goodbye and went back to his tea, the phone call a reminder of Detective Santiago’s question, “Do you have any enemies?” He thought about Corcoran’s caustic remark, then dismissed it. While the guy might not have been happy about being discovered as a slumlord, he doubted he’d hired someone to shoot at Alex’s house.
The detective had asked about his family, too, but as far as family went, his brother-in-law Stan was the only one who might have an issue with him. And that was only because Alex had told him if he ever laid a hand on his sister again, he’d make sure he didn’t have a hand to hit her with.
Neither Tom Corcoran nor his brother-in-law were likely suspects in a drive-by. The shooting had to be random, just like all the others in the East End barrios. Gang related. It bothered him to think the violence was spreading. He’d always felt safe in Encanto, but now he had to wonder if he was wise to keep his family here.
He pulled the woman’s card from his pocket. Crista Santiago. Nice Latino name. It made sense that she’d wanted to talk to his program leaders, but he had to talk to them first. He knew a couple of them had previously been associated with local gangs, and he knew how hard it was to break away. Impossible sometimes. They’d made progress, but still had a long way to go. He didn’t want to break the fragile trust they’d developed.
While he felt bad that he wasn’t more help to the detective, he’d had no other choice.
When he finished his tea, he walked to the wall phone next to the kitchen door and, reading Detective Santiago’s card, punched in her home number.
Saturday evening, he doubted she’d be home. He’d noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and a single woman who looked like Crista Santiago didn’t sit home on a Saturday night.
“Hello.”
He’d expected a message machine and was surprised to hear her voice—soft and sleepy, different from the all-business tone she’d taken with him earlier. He imagined her shiny dark hair spread on her shoulders instead of the tight bun she’d worn at his house. “Ms. Santiago. This is Alex Del Rio.”
“Yes, Mr. Del Rio. What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to apologize for my rudeness earlier.”
“You’ve been through a lot. I understand.”
“There’s no excuse for being rude,” he said. “I also wanted you to know that after you left, I thought of a couple people who may not be too fond of me. But neither one would be involved in something like this.”
“Go on.”
He told her that he’d had a misunderstanding with Corcoran and then explained about his brother-in-law and that both episodes had been resolved. She must have thought the same, since she didn’t seem too interested. Or maybe she thought it was an excuse to call her. He smiled. Maybe it was.
“I just wanted you to know that I’m not the boor that I must’ve seemed to be.” He wished for just a second that he had something else to say so they could keep talking. But he couldn’t think of anything else. “That’s it, I guess.”
“How is Samantha?”
“The doctor says she’s doing great and should be able to come home soon,” he responded, surprised by the question.
“Wonderful. That’s good news.”
Her voice rose, as if hearing about Sam’s improvement was important to her. Despite her surname, he heard no trace of a Latino heritage in her speech. She didn’t sound as if she was from Texas, either, and he wondered where she’d grown up.
“I’m sure you’ll feel much better when she comes home.”
Her empathy was refreshing. The other officers hadn’t even asked about Sam. “Yes, yes I will. Thank you for your concern.”
“Thank you for the information, Mr. Del Rio. Please call again if you think of anything else.”
“I will if you call me Alex.”
She hesitated, then said. “Okay, it’s a deal—you call me with more information, and I’ll call you Alex.”
He laughed, the first time in two days. She was a professional all the way. He liked that. It meant she’d do a thorough investigation. She also had a sense of humor, and he liked that about her, too.
“It’s a deal,” he said. “And can you let me know if you get a lead?”
“I will if I can,” she
said, her tone all business again, ending the conversation.
SMILING, Crista leaned back on the couch and dropped the phone into the receiver. Alex’s laughter, subdued as it was, was a good sign. It meant that he’d probably come out of this okay. She would have to talk to the little girl, but this was certainly not the time to mention that to the child’s father. Regardless of how soon Englend wanted this case solved, some things couldn’t be rushed.
She clicked on the television to watch the news, but her thoughts kept going back to the Encanto case. Finding evidence to tie it up was going to be tough. Pete wouldn’t be much help, she feared, not with his wife ready to deliver at any moment. He and Sharon had waited fifteen years for this child. And Crista might as well forget the rest of the guys. It was obvious she’d have to work around the clock.
Her thoughts went round and round and eventually she drifted off, awakening in the morning still on the sofa. She seemed to be doing more and more of that lately, finding it more comfortable to fall asleep with the television talking to her. She stretched and then rubbed her eyes. Rustling in the birdcage behind her made her sit up.
“Awk. What’s your twenty. Awk. Awk.”
Crista glanced at Calvin. “I’m right here. Same location as you, silly bird.”
She got up and checked the parrot’s food and water.
“Awk. Same location as you, silly bird. Awk. Awk!”
Calvin hadn’t said a word for the first two months after she’d rescued him from a crack house. After that he’d started spouting everything that hit the airwaves—dialogue from TV programs and commercials and things Crista said on the phone. Things she’d rather he didn’t repeat, sometimes. After two years together, Calvin had an extensive vocabulary and she wasn’t sure what would come out of the little guy’s beak next.
Despite his large repertoire, Calvin wasn’t much of a conversationalist. She sometimes tired of hearing him spout off, but mostly she was grateful for the company.
She went into the tiny L-shape kitchen, ground some coffee beans, filled the espresso pot and pressed the On button. Sitting at the kitchen table she’d bought on sale through the Ikea catalogue, she inhaled the nutty scent of freshly brewed coffee, her addiction most intense in the morning.
