by Style, Linda
Crista pulled her hair back, twisting the length of it around her fingers before letting it fall again. If Alex Del Rio had come through with the names of the teens in his program, she’d have had a start. She’d already checked the department’s snitch list and while she hadn’t found a single reliable resource, she’d taken a few names anyway. She’d severed all her contacts in Paloverde fourteen years ago and vowed she’d never return. The thought of going door-to-door in her old neighborhood made her stomach cramp.
But it wasn’t exactly true that she had no contacts. There was Diego.
Diego. A lump formed in her throat. Thinking of Diego sent shards of guilt and regret through her. Guilt because she’d had to leave her little brother behind. Regret that she hadn’t been able to keep him from joining the Pistoles when he was twelve.
While they’d not talked in fourteen years, he was always in her thoughts. She’d planned to contact him immediately after his release a week ago, but the urgency of the Encanto case had taken over her life.
Crista sighed. Okay. If she was honest with herself, she’d admit she hadn’t gotten in touch because she was afraid he might reject her again. Just as he had while he was in jail. And because Diego didn’t have a phone, getting in touch meant a trip to the barrio. Two good reasons to be apprehensive, but it didn’t appear she had any other choice.
She got up, poured a mug half-full of milk, added a little hazelnut flavoring and stuck the cup in the microwave. Not the best way to make a latte, but it worked for her.
After the microwave beeped, she filled the cup with espresso and sat at the table again, savoring the rich, nutty flavor and wondering if Diego would even know what was going down on the block. Ten years in jail would put anyone out of touch. She leaned against the back of the chair and closed her eyes.
On the other hand, word on the street spread fast, and a week was plenty of time for Diego to get back into the swing of things. As it stood, any information she could get from him would be more than she had right now.
After she finished her coffee, she hurried into the bathroom and splashed water on her face. If she hustled, she’d have time to see Diego and go to the gym. She pulled on a pair of jeans, a black turtleneck sweater and grabbed a leather jacket to cover her gun. It was her day off and she normally wouldn’t carry, but no way was she going into the hood without protection.
“HOLA, SAMITA,” Alex said, entering his daughter’s hospital room. She’d been moved from the ICU to the children’s floor, and there was another little girl in the bed next to her.
Sam turned her head toward the door as he came in and, seeing him, her eyes lit up. She seemed so small and fragile in the hospital bed, his chest hurt just looking at her. But they’d taken the monitors off, and the doctor had assured him there would be no ill effects. The wound had been clean, the artery repaired.
“Daddy, Daddy! The doctor says I can go home.”
“That’s wonderful, Sam.” He sat on the edge of the bed next to his little girl and gently cradled her hand in his. “I bet you’re anxious, too.”
“Uh-huh. I like the doctor and the nurses, but I like it at home better.”
She still didn’t seem to remember anything that had happened. When she’d first awakened, the medical staff had told her she’d had an accident. Though he’d asked her several times what she was doing out of bed and what she remembered, all she said was that she had to go potty and then she got an owie. The hospital therapist had advised him to let the child take her own time and not to frighten her by pressuring her to remember.
“That’s Jenny,” Sam said, pointing to the girl next to her. “She had a op-ray-shun.”
“Op-er-a-tion,” Alex corrected, then waved to the other child. “Hi, Jenny. Nice to meet you.”
The little girl gave a limp wave back and said softly, “Hi.”
“She’s shy,” Sam said. “Her mommy told me that.”
“Then you’ll just have to be extra friendly.”
“Uh-huh.” Sam nodded. “I want to see Snuffy.”
Alex tweaked her nose. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that her beloved Snuffy had been confiscated by the police as evidence. “I know you do. But first things first. We’ve got to get you better.”
When he’d found Sam, she still had the bedraggled, blood-covered stuffed rabbit in her hands. Apparently she’d been holding the toy at the time and the bullet had gone right through it. The officer collecting evidence told him that the stuffing might include trace evidence, so they’d taken the toy. He wasn’t sure he’d want her to have it back now anyway. Seeing her beloved Snuffy in that condition might be traumatic for Sam.
He’d decided to replace the animal, only he didn’t know where he was going to get another. Marissa had bought the toy on a trip to Galveston before Sam was born.
“The doctor says I’m okay now,” Samantha insisted.
Alex smoothed a lock of dark hair from her eye. She so resembled her mother, it made his heart ache. “You are, Punkin. But we have to get the official okay before you can come home. And the doctor tells me that won’t be until tomorrow.”
Sam’s bottom lip protruded.
“You’re a big girl, you can handle one more night. I know you can. Now let’s see a smile.”
Sam kept frowning, so Alex made a face, one that always made her laugh.
She broke out in giggles. “That’s no fair. I didn’t want to laugh.”
He laughed, too. “But you did.” Making faces had started out as a trick he’d used after Marissa passed away. Sam had been only two, but she kept asking for her mommy and crying. In desperation, he’d started making faces to see if he could get her to laugh. When he came up with the cross-eyed gooney bird, she’d giggled herself silly.
Later, when he was sad, Sam started making faces herself. From then on, whenever one of them was unhappy, it was the other one’s job to get a laugh. It had worked every time since then.
“This way, you’ll get a chance to say goodbye to all the nice nurses who took care of you.”
Sam nodded, fiddling with a string on the blanket, winding it around one tiny finger. “And that other pretty lady, too?”
“What pretty lady is that?”
“That police lady with the shiny badge.”
His adrenaline surged. Had Detective Santiago come here? To talk to Sam? Blood pounded through his veins. No one had the right to question his child without his permission. “What did she say to you?” He attempted to calm himself so his daughter didn’t see how upset he was.
Before Sam had a chance to answer, a nurse came in to take her blood pressure. “How about if you come with me, young lady.”
“Where to?” Alex asked.
“For an X ray and a couple other tests to make sure she’s ready to go home tomorrow.”
“Do I get another sucker?” Sam’s eyes widened like dinner plates. “A red one.”
“Absolutely. You might even get two. But only after lunch.” The nurse turned to Alex. “She’ll be busy for a couple hours, so if you have something else to do during that time…”
Yeah, he had something else to do all right! And it involved one lady detective.
CHAPTER THREE
CRISTA CRUISED down Guadalupe Street, wishing she hadn’t put this off so late in the day. Apprehensive, she’d waited, having one more cup of coffee and then another. And then she’d gotten a call from her seventy-five-year-old neighbor Mrs. McGinty, who’d cut herself with a knife and had to go to the E.R. The woman had no way to get there, so Crista had taken her, glad she’d been there to help. However, the hospital stint had shot the whole afternoon.
She glanced at the dilapidated houses along the street. Fourteen years and everything looked the same. More graffiti, maybe.
She remembered her father telling her how the first Mexican settlers had contributed greatly to the economy of the burgeoning city. Paloverde Park had been one of the earliest Hispanic communities. But now the Mexican-American populatio
n seemed to have evolved into separate social classes: the long-time working-class residents, the middle-class professionals and merchants and the newly arrived, generally unskilled laborers.
The Mexicans who’d been here the longest had moved into the older upscale areas like Encanto and Idylwood and began renovating the old homes. It wasn’t long before many Mexicans started identifying themselves as Latino because they didn’t like the new negative connotations of the term “Mexican.”
For some people in the greater Houston area, the word “Mexican” meant drugs and gangs and illegal immigrants, people who couldn’t speak English and didn’t pay taxes. Stereotypes that had no place in Crista’s world. Hot tamale, Chiquita banana, she’d heard it all. Ironically, she’d also been called a Latina arrepentida—a sellout—by her so-called Latina sisters because she chose not to live in the Hispanic community.
She thought of Alex Del Rio’s mother-in-law. An elegant, sophisticated woman from a wealthy family—who didn’t speak English. She most definitely did not fit the stereotype. Few did.
It wasn’t fair. But then life wasn’t fair. Crista had known that since she was ten.
It was getting dusky and lights popped on up and down the street. A mixture of Latino and hip-hop tunes reverberated from tricked-out cars, and teens hung out on the dimly lit corners. Many of them were likely gang members looking for something to do. But there wasn’t anything to do in the hood. If Alex Del Rio could find a way to get the kids off the street, more power to him.
Driving down the next block, the tiny house she’d lived in for eighteen years suddenly loomed like a behemoth. She tried not to think of anything except that she had to talk to Diego, but she felt a sharp spasm in her chest anyway.
As she pulled up in front and parked, two preteen boys gave her old Jeep a once-over. No worry there. The ten-year-old vehicle didn’t have a radio and the tires were nearly smooth. Nothing any self-respecting thief would want.
She climbed from the Jeep and forced herself forward, each step more difficult than the last. Edging open the front gate, she glanced around. When her father had been alive, the place had been immaculate. He’d whitewashed the tiny house every year covering the old stucco in white so bright it was almost blinding in the afternoon sun. Her mother, a religious woman, had erected a little shrine with a flower garden around it. Now the stucco was a dingy tan, the gate practically fell off its hinges and the front steps appeared treacherous. Weeds had replaced her mother’s flowers.
As she picked her way through chunks of sidewalk and slowly climbed the front steps, a pall of dread fell over her. Pain stabbed behind her eyes and she felt as if the house were pulling at her, dragging violent memories from her soul; her stepfather assaulting her mother, the beatings she’d taken herself trying to stop him, the tiny dark bedroom where she’d locked the door every night to keep her stepfather out. Her head swirled with the horror and her throat constricted—she had to fight to keep her balance.
A car backfired, jolting her to the moment. At the door, she knocked twice. No answer. She still had her own key, and unless Diego had changed the lock, she could go in and wait for him.
She had the key halfway out of her pocket when the door creaked open. Her brother stood on the other side, but he didn’t say a word.
“Hi,” she finally managed.
He just stood there staring at her as if she were an unwanted solicitor. “What’re you doing here?”
“Can I come in?”
After a shrug, he turned and moved back, away from the door. He didn’t invite her in, but he hadn’t closed the door in her face, either.
She took that as a yes, and stepped inside. Just as she did, a loud bang sounded behind her. She swung around at the noise, her heart beating triple time. The door had slammed shut, probably on a gust of wind. She felt stupid. Man, she was on edge.
Diego dropped into an old recliner with gaping holes in the fabric. He glared at her. “You slumming?”
“I came to see you.”
Studying her, he shoved a cigarette between his lips and took a deep drag. He was wearing faded jeans and a white T-shirt, and Crista noticed tattoos on both his arms. He’d also grown a couple feet since she’d last seen him. He wasn’t the skinny pimpled teenager she’d left behind. He looked fit and muscular and his hair, still jet-black and hanging to his shoulders, was shiny and smooth. His complexion had always been darker than hers, but now his skin was a smooth rich bronze. He’d grown into a handsome man.
“Okay. You’ve seen me.”
The chair he was sitting in, a spindly table next to it, a lamp with a crooked shade and a sagging red vinyl hassock furnished the room. Several paintings were stacked against the wall behind him. His paintings, she guessed. Dim yellow light captured a layer of cigarette smoke that floated midway between the dingy wood floor and the low ceiling, giving the place an eerie surrealism—as if they were actors in an old black-and-white movie.
She shoved the hassock closer to the chair with her foot, and then sat on it, hoping she appeared relaxed. “Your work?” she asked, pointing to the paintings.
He nodded. “Not much else to do in prison.”
“From what I can see, they’re very good.” Diego was a talented artist and she’d always hoped he might do something with the skill one day.
“Yeah, kinda adds a special ambiance to the place, don’t ya think?”
His words were said in a casual, offhand manner, barely disguising his anger. He’d always been angry—at life, at her, their stepfather, their mother—he’d been angry at everything and everyone. Disconcerted, she kept her gaze on him.
“So what are your plans?”
He raised his chin. “What difference does it make?”
His bitter words made her wince. “I’d like to help. Maybe I can get you some secondhand furniture or something.” She paused. “If you’re going to stay here.”
“I thought maybe I’d find you living here,” he said, facetiously.
After their mother died and their stepfather moved out, she couldn’t even bring herself to come near the place. She’d hired a local man to act as a rental manager, but when the fifth tenant in six months left the place in shambles, and he couldn’t find any new occupants, she’d had the place boarded up. She’d mailed Diego the key the week before his release.
“I don’t want any part of it. I’ll sign my share over to you if you’d like.”
He shrugged. “I hear you’re a cop now.”
“A detective.”
He made a face. “You’ve joined the other side.”
“Diego, please.” His attitude was getting more annoying by the minute. “Why didn’t you let me visit you when you were in prison?”
He bolted to his feet and stood over her, his body tense, hands clenched at his sides. A muscle twitched near his right eye.
On instinct, she reached to where her gun was tucked under her sweater, but the instant she made the move, she regretted it. Diego was her brother, he wouldn’t hurt her.
Apparently he hadn’t noticed her move for the gun. “Why should I? You’re the one who disappeared and never contacted us.”
Her mother knew why she’d had to flee and why Crista couldn’t contact the family after that. Her mother had supported her decision—had even wished she’d done the same years before. Her mother’s one wish, the thing she wanted most in the world, was for her children to leave the barrio and make good lives for themselves. And Crista had. She’d surpassed anything her mother might’ve wished for her.
She should feel good about that. But she didn’t. Diego hadn’t been told why she left. So he blamed her.
Why not? She blamed herself. If she’d stayed, she might have deflected some of her stepfather’s rage and her mother’s last days might have been happier.
“I had my reasons,” Crista said. She wanted to tell him the truth. But she couldn’t, not until she knew he’d be okay with it. Given the chip on his shoulder, she wasn’t sure when that woul
d be. “Before you start assigning blame, you better take a good look at yourself. You could’ve helped Mami. Why didn’t you?”
He glanced away. “I was otherwise detained.”
“I know that. But before that, you had a choice. I had a choice. They were different. My choice might’ve been wrong, I don’t know. But I do know I can’t change it now.”
He turned his back and paced, his long legs eating up the tiny room in three strides, one hand jingling the change in his pocket. His agitation made her nervous.
“So what have you been doing for the past week? It is a week, isn’t it?”
He dropped into the chair again. “Yeah. It’s a week.”
“Have you looked for a job?”
The question provoked a sarcastic bark. “Who’s going to hire me? I’m an ex-con on parole. I have no skills.”
“You can paint.”
“Yeah, there’s a lot of call for an artist around here. You think someone might pay me to do the graffiti?”
“They must’ve trained you to do something in ten years.”
“And you must be smoking some strong weed if you think Huntsville is a job-training center. The only thing I learned was how to sleep with one eye open so I didn’t get assaulted and raped during the night. I learned how to ignore the screams in the dark and the constant fear in the eyes of those smaller and weaker than me. I learned how to make my own weapons and do drug deals from the inside so I had money to keep myself alive. Basic training on how to survive in hell. Any jobs that call for those skills?”
Texas prisons were the worst. Her stomach knotted just thinking of her brother in that environment. “Maybe I can help.”
“I don’t need your help.”
She glanced away, his words cutting to the bone. After shoring her resolve, she managed, “Okay. But I need yours.”
He looked up, surprised. “That’s a laugh. You never needed anyone.”
