by Style, Linda
“The shooter marked the first scene with the gang’s colors. Beads. CSU has that on file.” The Pistoles were the only local gang she knew that wore gang beads. Her brother had worn them way back when. Marco, too.
“Any names?”
“No. Not yet.”
“And how do you know no other gangs use the same markings?”
“I’m getting closure on that tomorrow.” That’s the information she needed from Del Rio. Apparently he had a large database on gang activity in the various Houston barrios and whether he liked it or not, he was going to give it to her. If he wanted to withhold information, she’d get a subpoena. And if he still refused, he could be arrested for obstructing justice.
The captain frowned. “You file a report?”
“Of course.”
“The mayor expects action within the week. If you don’t think you can handle that, let me know now.”
She squared her shoulders. “I can handle it.”
Ignoring her answer, Englend called on Hanover to give a status report on a domestic homicide in the Idylwood neighborhood. She barely heard the report. All she could think of was that she couldn’t pull evidence out of thin air.
And her job would be toast if she didn’t.
CHAPTER FOUR
“THERE’S A DETECTIVE SANTIAGO here to see you, Mr. Del Rio,” Alex’s administrative assistant said over the intercom.
Four days since the detective’s phone call, and each day he’d been more antsy, checking the calendar, making sure he hadn’t gotten the date or time wrong. He realized then that he was actually looking forward to her visit.
While Crista Santiago was like none of the women he’d ever been attracted to, he was strangely intrigued by her. He’d never been with a woman who seemed to have such a firm sense of self. Never been attracted to a woman who had a man’s job.
It was hard for him to think of a petite woman like her arresting criminals and putting her life on the line. He’d been brought up to believe women should be revered, taken care of. “Thanks, Adele. Send her in.”
Adele, an upbeat, robust woman who reminded him of his mother, directed the detective into the room. Crista Santiago smiled courteously and extended a hand. “Thank you for making time to see me, Mr. Del Rio. Although I’m sorry to say again that we have no new leads.”
He knew that. He’d called the police department to ask if they were getting any closer to finding the criminals who shot his daughter. He also knew that whoever the shooter was, he probably hadn’t planned on hitting anyone. Random drive-bys were usually gang initiations, scare tactics to warn rival gangs, or a way to claim new turf. Planned hits usually took out gang members in home territory.
He reached out and shook her hand, appreciating how it fit perfectly in his. She wore dark pants and a jacket similar to what she’d worn before, but for some reason she looked different. Her blouse was unbuttoned at the collar exposing the smooth arch of her neck. “Alex. You promised to call me Alex. Remember?”
“Yes…yes, I remember…Alex.” She drew her hand back.
“Do you mind if I call you Crista? I hate being so formal.”
Surprise glinted in her brown eyes, but she shrugged and said, “Sure. Call me whatever you like.”
He could tell by the way her shoulders stiffened that she didn’t like him getting that friendly. He judged that she chose not to be disagreeable because she wanted something from him. He motioned for her to sit. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” When she hesitated, he said, “If you tell me what it is you’re looking for, I’ll know how this office can best assist you. You mentioned statistics.”
“Yes, that’s one of the reasons I’m here.”
He saw her glance at the chairs before sitting. They were ratty, the seat fabric an ugly gray and the metal arms scratched and dented. No one could accuse him of spending too much money on office decor. And since the task force had been forced on the mayor’s office by the community, he wasn’t going to kid himself that there would be money for anything new soon. “One of these days we’ll get some new furniture,” he said, then sat in the chair next to her rather than behind the desk.
Glancing about the room, she said, “It always amazes me how top government offices look like an interior designer was at work and the rest as if they’d scrounged the local garage sales.”
Alex shrugged. “It’s a workplace. It doesn’t need to be fancy. I have my comforts when I go home.”
Her eyes caught his. “Yes, quite nice comforts at that.”
“Thank you,” he said, not sure if she was being complimentary or if she thought it was inappropriate for a government employee to own such a large house.
“How is Samantha? Is she at home now?”
He smiled. “Yes, she is. She’s amazing. She wants to go back to preschool right away, but I told her it wasn’t going to happen until next week at the earliest.”
“Children bounce back so easily, don’t they?” She seemed sincerely interested, not just asking to be polite.
“Yes. I’m happy about that. She’s been through a lot in the past couple years. But…you’re not here to talk about my family.”
She reached down, pulled a legal pad and pen from a briefcase and then leaned back in her chair. “I hear you have demographics and other more detailed information on the local gangs.”
He nodded. “Yes. A lot of that information is available to the police already, and to the public on the department’s Web site.”
“I know. I checked. But what I want are specifics on the local gangs: names, colors, symbols, that kind of thing. Most of the stuff online is general to all gangs.”
“I thought the police received some kind of special training in this area.”
“They do. At the academy. But for me, that was over six years ago. I was supposed to get a refresher course when I joined the Chicano Squad, but there wasn’t anything in place.” She gave him a wan smile. “So I’m counting on your office to get the information I need.”
“The Chicano Squad? That sounds ominous.”
She laughed, a sound that was pure and natural. Infectious.
“Ominous it isn’t. The unit consists of officers and detectives who have experience with the Hispanic culture and speak the language.” She thought for a second, then said, “That’s not entirely true. Some just speak the language, and not very well at that.”
“I see. And where did you get your experience? Locally or elsewhere?”
“My grandparents came from Mexico, but I grew up here. Which I guess makes me as familiar with the culture as anyone.”
Interesting. “You don’t sound as if you were raised here. No Texas drawl or Latino.”
A smile crossed her face. “I had a good English teacher.”
“Well, whether you were raised here or not, I’m still surprised they’d give a woman this kind of duty.”
The look on her face could’ve wilted Elena’s entire rose garden.
“What surprises you? Do you think there’s a difference between a man’s ability to do the job and a woman’s?”
Major faux pas. “No, not at all. I’m surprised because I’m aware how dangerous this investigation could be since it’s more than likely gang-related.”
“Uh-huh.”
She wasn’t buying his revised explanation.
“The job is dangerous sometimes,” she elaborated. “But it’s dangerous for all officers. Not just the women. And danger isn’t confined to particular neighborhoods, either.”
He hadn’t explained himself very well, and he wasn’t sure he could. “Doesn’t your family worry about you?”
“I…I have no close family.”
In his large family everyone was concerned about one another. Too concerned sometimes. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have no one. “Everyone has someone who cares—and who worries.”
Her shoulders stiffened, but she didn’t answer him.
“It must be hell for the families of police
officers. I can’t imagine not knowing if a spouse was going to make it home each day.”
“Lots of cops are married and it works out just fine. Yes, family members worry, but they usually know from the beginning what they’re in for.” She cleared her throat. “Since I’m not married, it’s not something I think about.”
“I see. If you don’t get married, no one will worry.”
Her mouth tightened and he could tell she didn’t appreciate the comment. More points deducted.
“I’m not married because I haven’t found a man I’d want to marry. And now that we’ve covered my personal life, I’d really like to see the statistics. Please.”
He couldn’t help grinning. He wanted to know more about her personal life. Just talking to her sent a jolt of energy through him that he hadn’t felt since Marissa. But what he’d said was true. He couldn’t imagine being married to someone whose life was in danger every time she went out the door to work. “Sure. I’ve put together some things that might help.” He got up and gathered the data, which listed everything about the local gangs. At least everything it was possible to find out.
“Most local Hispanic gangs are aligned with the national umbrella nations La Gran Raza and La Gran Familia, but there are several renegade gangs. Hermanos de la Frontera, aka the Border Brothers, for one. It’s mostly made up of illegal immigrants.”
“I thought the umbrellas were mostly on the east coast?”
He shook his head. “In Houston, street gangs are the most prominent, but several organized crime and prison gangs have taken root. The Syndicato Tejano, the Texas Syndicate, is one of the most dangerous.”
“What about the Mexican Mafia?”
He nodded. “The kids I’m trying hardest to reach are still considering whether to join a gang or not. If I can reach them early enough, I might be able to do some good. My recruits so far are mostly taggers or the younger members of street gangs. They’re not hardened criminals.”
“Yet.”
He raised an eyebrow. “A little cynical are we?”
“Realistic.”
“Then you should know how dangerous dealing with long-time gang members can be. Most crimes are directed toward their own community, but Mexican gangs view law enforcement as their enemy. Because many have been victimized by the police in their own country.”
“I know all that. What I’d like are specific details that will help me decide how to go about getting the evidence I need.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon going through the files, Alex answering question after question. Exactly how many gangs are there in Houston? Which are the most violent? Did he know how many members were in each gang and their colors and signs? Who are the leaders? Mostly she asked about the Pistoles. “You ever hear of a gangster named Marco Torres in connection with the Pistoles?”
He shook his head. “You think he’s responsible?”
“Not necessarily, but there are indicators pointing to the Pistoles.” She drew her gaze from him. “Even so, if we can’t pinpoint the crime to a specific person, we don’t have a case.”
“So how are you going to get that information?”
She shoved the papers on the desk away from her and leaned back in the chair. It had been a long afternoon and he could see the strain around her eyes. Eyes, the color of a smooth, expensive cognac. Oddly, he wanted to comfort her, take her in his arms and tell her everything would be okay. Which made no sense at all since she was a cop and she should be hardened to the kinds of things cops see every day.
But he didn’t get the feeling that she was hardened at all. And sitting next to her he could smell clean, fresh soap…and another softer scent, too subtle to be perfume. Whether a perfume or not, it was driving him crazy.
“I don’t know. I’ll just keep digging and asking questions. Sooner or later someone will offer some small piece of information that will lead to another piece of evidence and another. Before you know it the case will be solved.”
“Is that wishful thinking?” The success rate on solving this type of crime was low, and his gut knotted every time he thought of it. Someone needed to pay for hurting his daughter.
She exhaled. “Wishful thinking? Maybe. Right now I’ve got nothing. And time is running out.”
That was a strange thing for her to say. “How does time run out? Either you solve it or you don’t.”
His comment produced a smile from Crista. “Right. Either I solve it or I don’t.”
She bent to pick up her briefcase, placed her notebook inside and looked directly at him. “This is probably not the time to mention this, but I will need to talk with Samantha about that night.”
His protective instincts kicked in again. “That’s not a good idea.” He shook his head to emphasize the point. “I’ve asked her several times if she saw anything and she always says no. She doesn’t remember what happened. She felt something hurt her and then there was blood. Right now all she knows is that she had an accident and an operation. I want to find out who did this more than anyone, but I don’t want to subject Sam to questions that could traumatize or scare her.”
Crista nodded. “Like I said, this might not be the right time to talk about it.”
He let out a breath.
“In the meantime, I have something I’d like to give her.”
He couldn’t imagine what she wanted to give Sam, but didn’t think it was a good idea, either. “I’ll give it to her for you.”
She paused briefly, then said, “Okay. It’s in my car. I’ll be right back.”
Returning a few minutes later, she handed him a large plastic bag with paw prints on it.
“I know some things mean a lot to a child,” she said.
He opened the top of the bag and peered inside. What he saw caught him off guard. He tried to say something but no words came out.
“I don’t believe Samantha is going to get hers back, so I thought this little guy might be a good replacement. I used to have one just like it when I was a kid.”
Alex handed the bag back to her. Finding his voice, he said, “I was wrong. I think this is something you better give to Sam yourself.”
CRISTA PULLED into Alex’s driveway, her pulse racing. Why she was nervous, she didn’t know. No, that was a lie. Sitting with Alex all afternoon yesterday had unnerved her, and she was well aware of the reason. He was a sexy, attractive man—and she’d been attracted. No big secret there.
But that kind of attraction was all wrong.
First off, the department frowned on officers getting involved with anyone related to a case. She frowned on it herself. Business was business and she’d always kept it that way. And secondly, even if it wasn’t a problem with the department, Alex Del Rio was exactly the type of man she’d vowed never to get involved with again.
For years she’d been off men altogether, and when she’d finally started dating again, she was very particular about the guys she dated. Number one on the top of her “no, thank you,” list was the macho man. Which pretty much translated into, no Latinos.
And now she found herself attracted to Alex. Hadn’t she learned anything from the past?
But Alex had only invited her over to give the stuffed animal to Sam. That was it. Even though he’d made the point that there would be no conversation about the night of the shooting, he’d insisted that she give Sam the gift herself.
So here she was, gift in hand, her nerves tingling and her heart thumping wildly. She bit her bottom lip. What was wrong with her? All she had to do was go in, give the gift to Samantha and leave. Simple as that.
She exited the Jeep, grabbed the bag from the back seat and locked the door. Taking a big breath, she climbed the steps and rang the bell. Two seconds later, the massive door swung open.
“Hi,” Alex greeted her with a wide welcoming smile. “C’mon in.”
He had a great smile. “Thanks.” As she stepped into the foyer, Alex motioned to take her coat. Shrugging off her leather jacket, her arm got stuck in t
he lining of the sleeve. She shook it, struggling to get the jacket off.
“Here, let me help.”
Alex moved in close and her heartbeat accelerated. His masculine scent made her stomach do a little flip. Within a second he had her out of the coat and hung it up. Placing a hand on her back, he directed her inside.
Embarrassed by her reaction to him, she concentrated on the rich scent of pastries and homemade bread that permeated the air. “Umm. Whatever you’re cooking smells wonderful.”
“Elena’s making something for Thanksgiving.”
“Almond. I smell almond. My grandmother used to make almond cookies before every holiday. And she always started baking two weeks in advance.” Just thinking about it made Crista relax.
“Used to make?”
“She’s been gone since I was ten.” Crista had wonderful memories of her abuela. Memories that had dimmed with the years in between, but Elena’s cooking brought it back in a flash.
“I know what you mean. My mother is a great cook, and I’m always reminded of it when Elena makes something similar.”
“Where’s Samantha?” Crista asked.
“Upstairs. When she found out you were coming, she got too excited, so I told her she needed to rest.”
“Is she okay?”
He nodded. “You must’ve made quite an impression.”
“I only saw her for a minute, but she told me she wanted to see Snuffy and described him for me. It was the strangest thing because I’d had the same stuffed animal when I was a child.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “That’s why she took to you so quickly.” He pointed to the bag. “That isn’t your old one is it?”
Crista shook her head and laughed. “Heavens, no. Right about the time my grandmother moved out, my Snuffy went missing.” Which was right about the time her stepfather moved in. “Funny how we bookmark events in our lives, isn’t it.”
“Yeah. But life goes on. Right?” His tone was wistful despite the upbeat words. She’d bet he had bookmarks of his own. The death of his wife for one.
“Let’s get some cookies and milk to take up to Sam.”
