by Style, Linda
She ignored the remark—one she’d heard before. Everyone she knew thought she was a loner, that she didn’t need anyone. “A case I’m on… Two shootings, one on Wednesday night and another on Friday night. It seems the two might be connected. Gang-related, maybe. I was wondering if you’d heard anything?”
He stared blankly, and then anger flared in his eyes. “That’s why you came here? To get information.”
Oh, God. She wanted to snatch back the words, but it was too late. She shook her head. “No. I wanted to see how you’re doing…see if I could do something to help. And I thought as long as I was here, I might as—”
“You’re really a piece of work, you know that. For just a second there, I thought maybe…” He glanced away. “Yeah. Well, it doesn’t matter what I think, does it.”
She caught the slight tremor in his voice. The last thing in the world she wanted was to hurt Diego. Despite the fact they’d been estranged, she’d always trusted that he knew she cared. Apparently not.
The jangle of her cell phone cut the awful silence. Glad for the reprieve, she fished the unit from her pocket. “Crista here.”
“Alex Del Rio, Detective.” His voice was stern.
“What is it? Is something wrong?”
“Yes, something is very wrong. I’d like to know what the hell you were doing in my daughter’s room at the hospital.”
The accusation in his voice chilled her. Her hand tightened on the phone. “I was doing my job, Mr. Del Rio,” she snapped, unable to keep the defensiveness from her voice. “But I can’t talk to you right now. I’m with someone else. I’ll call you back.” She clicked off the phone, folded the unit and stuffed it into her pocket.
“Problems?”
“Uh…yeah,” she mumbled and waved a shaky hand. The Friday drive-by in Encanto. A little girl was hit. That was her father.”
Diego’s eyes widened. “A kid was hit? Man, that sucks.”
Maybe prison hadn’t destroyed everything Crista loved about Diego. He’d always liked kids. “It’s been on the news.”
“I haven’t been watching any news lately.” He waved a hand around the sparsely furnished room.
She glanced away, still unnerved by Alex’s phone call. “I have an old TV,” she said, looking at him again. “You can have it if you’d like.”
His mouth thinned. “I don’t need any handouts.”
“It’s not a handout. I bought a new one, and I was going to give it away anyway.” She’d planned to donate it to a shelter for battered women—the shelter that had helped her get away when she couldn’t help herself. And if she didn’t give it to Diego, who knows where he’d find money to buy one.
“Forget it,” he said, staring at her, his gaze hard and unfeeling.
She stared back. Five years separated them in age, but it seemed a lifetime. The man sitting next to her was a stranger. She rose to her feet. “I better go.”
Diego took another drag from his cigarette and blew out a string of perfectly formed smoke rings. She reached into her pocket and drew out a card, wrote her home phone number on it and handed it to him. “Here’s my number if you want to talk…about anything. And the offer for the television still stands.”
She moistened her lips, waiting for a response. Finally she turned and headed for the door. But as she reached for the knob, she stopped and said, “I mean it Diego. I want to help.”
Silence. She closed her eyes feeling more alone than she had since she was a child. Somehow she’d always felt that as long as Diego was there, she wasn’t alone in the world. But he wasn’t there. She grabbed the knob, threw open the door and nearly collided with a man coming up the steps. Two men.
Marco. Marco Torres. A Pistoles gang leader she remembered from way back, and…her heart stopped. Oh, God!
Trinidad Navarro.
Trini seemed as surprised to see her as she was to see him. His black eyes raked over her like she was a piece of meat. “Hey, pretty lady. I’ve missed you.”
He stepped closer, his face less than an inch from hers, his breath hot on her lips. She’d thought he was in prison. Twenty-five years she’d heard, which was why she’d been comfortable returning to Houston.
“Yeah, I’ve been away and you know it’s been a long time since I had a woman. You miss me, too, querida?” He reached out and stroked her cheek.
A tornado of old fears ripped through her. Remembering that last horrible night, her fears switched to anger. She shoved him away. “In your dreams, cholo.”
Trini’s eyes filled with hatred. His fist shot out to strike her, but her training kicked in first. She caught his arm, spun him around and slammed him against the house face-first. Pulling her gun at almost the same time and keeping his arm in a locked position, she jammed the Glock against his neck. With her mouth next to his ear, she said, “You want to try that again, Trini? I hope so, because then I’m going to nail your ass for assaulting a police officer. My guess is that you’re on parole, so I’ll tack on some other charges and you’ll be going back to prison for quite a few more years.”
Trini didn’t say a word, but beneath her hands his body was rigid. She glanced at Marco, who, grinning like an idiot, held his hands up and spoke in heavily accented English. “Not my fight, chica. I’m goin’ inside.”
Crista tipped her head toward the door, giving him her okay. After Marco was gone, she said to Trini, “What’s it going to be tough guy?” She felt his body vibrate with rage—a rage she knew all too well. “You want to try again?”
He cursed, his breathing deep and labored like he’d just run a marathon. Then after a second, he said, “I changed my mind.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” he spat out. “I’d rather take care of myself than do a bitch cop.”
She held on a few seconds longer and then, releasing her hold, she shoved him away. But she kept her gun in hand.
Trini shook his shoulders out, trying to stand taller than his five-foot-seven before he yanked open the door and strutted inside. As the door closed behind him, he said, “Woman, you’re gonna wish you’d never come back here.”
He’d threatened her before—always right before he’d hit her. They’d only been together for a year, but even still, she couldn’t remember how many punches he’d thrown. Well, this time was different and Trini had to know it. Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t go inside, pull out his own gun and blow her away.
She was counting on past experience that he wouldn’t do that with Diego and Marco there. Trini was a coward and had always waited until he had her alone. She hurried down the steps and reached her Jeep in one piece. Holstering her weapon, she climbed inside.
As she drove away, she felt a sudden swell of pride. Up till now, she’d only imagined what she’d do if she ever ran into her ex-husband again. Now she knew.
But she’d probably fueled Trini’s fire—and he wasn’t the kind to forget.
Even worse, seeing both Trini and Marco at Diego’s was a bad omen.
ALL NIGHT, Crista thrashed in bed, her dreams peppered with nightmares—nightmares filled with anger, guilt and shame. What bothered her most was knowing that Diego must still be with the Pistoles. Otherwise why would Marco have been there?
Relieved when narrow shafts of sunlight through the blinds signaled it was dawn, she rolled over and stretched her painfully tense muscles. She hadn’t gone to the gym last night and her body was letting her know it.
Every other day for the past ten years, she’d gone to the Shao-Lin Martial Arts Studio to practice her skills in Wing Chun Kung Fu. Soon, she hoped to attain Master status.
Part of her training was spiritual. Learning to open and focus the mind. Using that internal channel to strengthen and calm the body. She closed her eyes and tried again to block last night from her memory. She couldn’t. Seeing Trini had unleashed too many emotions.
Fourteen years ago, she’d escaped her ex-husband, but even then, she hadn’t felt safe. Trini’s possessiv
eness bordered on obsession, his erratic behavior and volatile personality made him a man to fear. Every waking minute became a nightmare of watching and waiting—until one of her co-workers mentioned she was taking self-defense classes. Self-defense. The idea intrigued Crista. If she learned to protect herself, maybe she wouldn’t be such an easy target.
The next week, she’d started classes in basic self-defense, mastering the art in less than two years. She couldn’t remember when exactly, but sometime during those two years, she’d realized protection wasn’t her only reason for taking the classes. Knowing she could defend herself boosted her self-confidence, something she was sorely lacking. And for the first time in her life, she’d felt hopeful about the future.
At her instructor’s suggestion, Crista went on to learn Wing Chun Kung Fu, a major Chinese martial art based on the theory of surviving an attack by being a better attacker than the assailant. The focus was on personal protection and street survival. Exactly what she’d needed.
When she’d returned to Houston for her mother’s funeral, she was no longer the frightened teenager who’d fled the city. She was strong and confident, and that knowledge had given her the courage to stay. Knowing Trini was in jail helped, too.
But all the training in the world couldn’t erase the past. She’d escaped from Trini with her life, but her unborn child hadn’t been as lucky. And there wasn’t a day that went by when she didn’t think of her little girl.
The ugly memory was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. Wing Chun had taught her to try to live in the moment, living each day as it came. She glanced at the clock. Almost 7:00 a.m., but if she hurried…plenty of time to go to the studio before work.
She bolted from the bed, showered, brushed her hair into a ponytail, pulled on her black instructor’s level T-shirt, a pair of gray sweatpants, and, after grabbing a latte and taking care of Calvin, she was out the door.
She rarely went to the studio in the morning and was surprised to see her old friend Mei Lu Ling on her way out. Both women stopped. They’d only exchanged a few words since the rift, maybe a “Hello” as they passed each other in some official capacity, but that was it. While Crista had been close with all the women in the group, she and Mei had formed a special bond, and she regretted that loss the most.
“Hi, Mei,” Crista said, feigning a perkiness she didn’t feel. “I’m happy to see you’re still working out.”
At the academy, Mei had asked Crista to help her hone her own martial arts skills. Crista had been happy to oblige. Both women were dedicated to their careers, and they’d become close, training together, having coffee—tea in Mei’s case—and talking at length about their backgrounds. They’d laughed at how they could have such different families, be raised so differently, and yet be so much alike. Especially when it came to men.
Crista’s early experiences with her stepfather and ex-husband had put her off men for years, and Mei simply didn’t see the need for such frivolous emotions as love. It wasn’t that Mei didn’t have emotions—she had plenty when it came to her family.
“I couldn’t miss my workout if I wanted to,” Mei responded. “You taught me well.” She gave an open, friendly smile, her manner relaxed and easy.
Crista smiled back. Mei was as beautiful as ever, even in sweats and with a few wild black hairs sticking out of the bun at the top of her head. “That’s good to hear,” Crista said, unsure what to say next. Yet she felt compelled to say something. “If you need a sparring partner sometime, give me a call.”
Mei nodded, a little hesitant herself, but she said, “Yes, let’s do that. I’ve missed our workouts.”
Crista nodded, and another awkward silence ensued.
“Well, I better go,” Mei said. “I need to be at the station soon.”
“Right. Me, too. I mean, I’ve got to work out before I go in.”
Mei continued to her car and Crista went inside, hoping her friend would call.
Despite the unsettled feelings she’d had after talking with Mei, she managed a good workout. A stellar match always helped clear her head and her new instructor, a Master’s level, was glad to take her on.
After that, she went back home to shower and put on her uniform, a navy pantsuit and white blouse. She wanted to interview a couple of Alex’s neighbors Pete had missed before she went to the station.
Two hours later, she had no more information. No one had seen a thing.
At headquarters, she parked in the garage and headed straight for the CS unit. A couple of detectives from the previous shift were still working. The rest of her team either hadn’t arrived yet or they were out on calls. But Captain Englend was there.
She pulled out the Del Rio file, picked up the phone and punched in Alex Del Rio’s number, noting that his first name was actually Alejandro.
After several rings, the answering machine picked up. Crista started to leave a message when she heard another voice on the line. “Hola. Residence de la Del Rio.” Elena Reyes. Crista wondered if she only answered the phone when she knew the other person spoke Spanish.
Crista asked for Alex, but learned he wasn’t home and that she should call his office. Odd. He’d seemed such a doting father, she’d expected he’d spend every minute with his little girl while she recuperated.
Finally connecting with Alex at his office, he immediately asked, “What were you doing at the hospital?”
Crista’s nerves tensed. “My job. I was asking the doctor about your daughter’s health. Samantha awakened while I was there and we spoke for a minute.”
The line was silent for too long. “Are you there?”
“Yes,” he said. “Did you question her? Did you mention the shooting?”
“Of course not.”
Another silence.
“I wasn’t interrogating her if that’s what you’re thinking. Parental permission is required to interview a child. And even if I could do it without consent, I don’t interrogate children. I talk with them.”
Del Rio was quiet. Then he cleared his throat and said in a softer voice, “I apologize. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”
She took a deep calming breath herself. “If my daughter had been injured, I’m sure I’d feel the same way.”
“Please accept my apology.”
The man’s manners were impeccable. “Apology accepted.”
“Any new leads yet?”
“No. But I’m working on it.” Then, since she had him on the line, she said, “I’d like to come to your office and go over some of your files.”
“What files?”
“I understand you’ve done a lot of research on the local gangs and have statistics that might be helpful.” When he hesitated, she added, “It’s public information, right?”
“Yes. Most of it. But I’ll have to call you back after I check my schedule. I probably won’t be able to do it until Thursday or Friday since Samantha is coming home tomorrow.”
“That’s wonderful. I’m happy she’s doing so well. Instead of bothering you and waiting till Thursday or Friday, perhaps there’s someone else in your office who can help me?” Which might actually be better because she had the feeling he would censor what she was allowed to see. Or he’d be watching over her shoulder the whole time. Legally, she didn’t have to wait for an appointment at all.
“No, it’s best if I’m there. No one knows the program like I do and wouldn’t be as much help. I’ll be in touch.”
He was a man who liked control and he wasn’t about to relinquish it. “Fine, I’ll wait to hear from you. Thanks for your time.” And if he didn’t come through, she’d do whatever she needed to get the information.
Hanging up the phone, she saw Captain Englend towering over her.
“Any new developments?”
“No, but you’ll be the first to know when there are, Captain.” She hoped he didn’t hear the edge in her voice. She really had to learn to temper her words.
The captain sauntered off toward the briefing
room and one-by-one, the rest of the team filtered inside. When it was time, she went in. Pete hadn’t arrived yet.
“Santiago, where’s your partner?” Englend bellowed, as if she had some kind of inside track on the man.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe Sharon is having the baby?”
Hanover piped up, “He’s taking the week off when that happens, so I think the captain would know if that was the case. You’re his partner, Santiago, how come you don’t know where he is?”
Clyde was always getting on her case, trying to make her look bad, and one of these days she was going to get on his. “Because he doesn’t call his partner whenever he has a hangnail, Hanover. Not like some people.”
The guy couldn’t function without calling his partner and it seemed he couldn’t take a pee without telling the captain first. She hadn’t been in the unit very long, but enough to know which cops she’d want covering her back. Hanover wasn’t one of them.
“Okay, Detective Santiago. Give us the rundown on the callout in Encanto.”
She’d just told Englend she had nothing, why was he asking again? She cleared her throat. “I had a lead,” she said. It wasn’t a blatant lie. Diego was as good a lead as any other she had at the moment. “But it didn’t go down the way I wanted it to. I’m doing more interviews in the neighborhood today and meeting with the vic’s father tomorrow.”
“Any suspects?”
“Nothing concrete.”
“Do we like anyone for the job?”
“The M.O. is consistent with the Pistoles initiation rites.”
The captain’s mouth formed into something between a sneer and a grimace. “Hell, it’s the M.O. for every gang initiation.”
Laughter scattered throughout the room.
“True,” she said, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. “CSU has some evidence that it may be the Pistoles.” She’d checked with the Crime Scene Investigation Unit earlier and learned they’d picked up gang markings at the scene of the first shooting. But she was still waiting on ballistic evidence to see if the bullets from both crime scenes matched.
The captain stared at her. “You have evidence?”
