DARK VENGEANCE, Part One

by Reinke, Sara

  Nonetheless, she hadn’t wanted to miss out on the opportunity to jump right into his ongoing investigation—at his invitation, no less—and agreed. If nothing else, it would be a distraction from the previous night’s heartbreak, a chance to once again lose herself in work.

  It was blistering hot outside, and Elías leaned across the cab of the Charger once they’d both climbed inside to adjust the vents so she could better feel some of the airconditioning. She’d noticed before, during their past encounters, that he always wore at least a long-sleeved shirt, if not a jacket, and a tie, despite the heat, and wondered now if it was because he wanted to keep the scars she’d seen earlier hidden from view.

  Before they’d left the condo, she’d overheard him make a phone call. He’d been in his bedroom while she’d sat in the living room, but his door had been open, his voice relatively clear as it had drifted to her down the hallway.

  “Hey,” he’d said. “It’s me. I got your message from earlier…been kind of worried ever since. You weren’t exactly making sense.” He’d laughed, light, little more than a chuckle. “Anyway. It’s a chota thing. Call me, okay? I love you.”

  She recognized the Spanish word chota; Jackie had said it specifically in derisive reference to Elías, in fact; it meant cop. She wondered—then and now—who he’d been speaking to, to whom his message had been left.

  Probably his girlfriend, she thought, because he’d said I love you before hanging up. Of course he has one. I mean, just look at him, for Christ’s sake. Smart, handsome, hard-working with a beachfront condo…he’s got to be beating them back with a billy club.

  She’d carried the case files—a heavy armload of overflowing folders—out to the car with them, and as he drove, she cradled them in her lap, flipping through them, asking him questions, discussing things she found inside.

  “It doesn’t look like Enrique Ramirez had much by way of a criminal record,” she remarked. “Or anyone else who associated with him, this Los Guerreros gang. Misdemeanor assault, first-degree misdemeanor drug and paraphernalia possessions, felony receipt of stolen property.” Raising a speculative brow, she looked at Elías. “Small time shit. Why would someone like Tejano Cervantes be interested in him? In any of them?”

  Because according to his rap sheet, Tejano was anything but a small time criminal. His most recent mug shot—out of a series of more than a dozen—showed a stone-faced Hispanic man with a long face, downturned mouth and furrowed brows, his thick, dark hair shoved back from his high brow. His skin looked like tanned leather, stretched taut and finely lined across his face, and his eyes were cold, close-set and small. Even through a photograph, he exuded a kind of cold, calculating menace; even in a mug shot, Lina couldn’t lock gazes with him for too long without averting her eyes.

  “It’s a pissing contest,” Elías replied. “Tejano had probably never even heard of Los Guerreros or Ramirez. Bayshore’s close enough to Miami by way of county highways to make it worth the while to control. He probably plans to use it as a stopping point for drug trade and human trafficking routes out of Mexico.” Glancing at her, he pointed to a black and white photograph affixed with a paperclip to the inside flap of a folder she held. “See those spray painted symbols? They’re Los Pandieros tags. Once they move into a new territory, they start marking their turf with them. Ramirez and the others noticed them, started countering with tags of their own. Like I said, a pissing contest. Things have escalated from there over the last year.”

  One of the symbols looked remarkably like a cat’s head to Lina, one adorned with sharp fangs and prominent spots. When she pointed it out to Elías, he nodded.

  “That’s their primary tag. It’s a wayob, a Mesoamerican shapeshifting spirit that’s said to manifest itself in the form of the jaguar. You ever hear of the Nahual?” When she shook her head, he said, “According to Mayan legends, they’re the descendants of wayob spirits who mated with human women. They’re reputed to have a jaguar’s strength and speed, to eat flesh and drink blood, just like their spiritual ancestors.”

  Lina felt her skin crawl uncomfortably. Brandon had told her about something called the Abomination, a supposed medieval ancestor of the Brethren who had lived in France during the Middle Ages. Brandon and his sister, Tessa, had found archaic drawings of the creature—hunchbacked, hairless and saber-toothed—in one of the Tomes, a book the Brethren clan Elders had used to trace and track each familial lineage. All at once, at least to her unfamiliar ear, she thought these creatures Elías had mentioned, the wayob, sounded remarkably similar.

  “Why would Los Pandieros use that for their marker?” she asked.

  He cut her a glance, his brow raised slightly, almost expectantly, but when she looked away, back down at the file, he shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe wishful thinking?”

  To Lina’s surprise, in one of the folders, she found a rap sheet for Valien Cadana, with a third-degree felony aggravated assault charge listed.

  “That’s Ramirez’s son,” Elías said, startling her anew. “Arrested back when he was nineteen, I think. Got drunk and tried to knock a homerun using a foot-long wrench for the bat and some guy’s head for a ball.” Then, pointedly, “He lives next door to your mother, you know.”

  “Yeah.” She nodded. “He’s friends with my brother.”

  Is that why you were such an asshole to Elías yesterday at the police station, Jackie? she thought. Not for the first time, she found herself wondering, What the hell have you gotten yourself into?

  To Elías, she asked bluntly, “Is he involved in this somehow? My brother, I mean.”

  “I’ve no reason to think so,” Elías replied, adding after a slight pause, “Do you?”

  “No,” she said firmly. Because no matter what sort of early mid-life crisis Jackie might have been going through, no matter how desperate to “belong,” to have a circle of friends he felt was his own, he wouldn’t resort to anything illegal or potentially dangerous. Would he?

  “Valien’s taken over the gang now that his father’s dead,” Elías said. “But they lost a lot of members—they switched sides, rolled over to Cervantes, and he practices a ‘blood-in’ policy…meaning you pony up in blood. If you survive, you’re in.” Another glance, and he added grimly, “Not all of them made it.”

  Leaning over, he flipped through the folder until he found another set of photos. She could see they’d been taken at crime scenes, bodies draped in blood-stained sheets, chalk outlines against the pavement, yellow tape visible in the background. Detailed shots of the corpses revealed little remained discernable in their faces; what was there was little more than meat, pounded and crushed into a shapeless mass of blood, tissue, shattered bone and splintered teeth.

  “Jesus,” Lina said.

  “Yeah,” Elías agreed with a solemn nod. “Cervantes has a strict ‘blood-out’ policy, too. Meaning once you’re in Los Pandieros, the only way out is by bleeding…to death.”

  When they arrived at Latisha’s house, Lina was surprised to find her mother sitting out on the front porch, a book in hand. She looked up, seeming to share her daughter’s surprise, as Lina stepped out of the unfamiliar charcoal Charger, with the equally unfamiliar young man behind the wheel.

  “You want me to wait here?” Elías asked, the engine still idling.

  Lina leaned back through the opened passenger doorway. “Too late now,” she assured him drily, and with a laugh, he turned the key, switching off the ignition. “Hey, Mama,” Lina called as he stepped out of the car. “I thought you said you were going to take a nap while I was out.”

  “No, I said I was going to take it easy,” Latisha replied. With a demonstrative waggle of her paperback book, she added, “This is easy.” She rose to her feet with a slight, nearly imperceptible grimace, as Lina and Elías crossed the yard together toward the porch. Lina didn’t miss the way she took Elías in, her eyes lingering as she scoped him out, head to toe. To judge by her slight smile, she wasn’t entirely displeased with what she saw. �
��Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  Lina opened her mouth to speak, but Elías beat her to it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Jones,” he said, extending his hand and a broad, handsome smile to Latisha. “My name’s Elías Velasco. I’m a detective with the Bayshore Police Department.”

  At this, Latisha’s face lit up, her brows raising. “Why, the pleasure’s all mine, Detective,” she said, her gaze cutting inquisitively to her daughter.

  “Detective Velasco and I met yesterday at…uh, Wild Eggs, the restaurant where we had lunch,” she said clumsily. “We talked for a few minutes. He said he’d ask his police chief if they were hiring.”

  “What?” Latisha blinked at her. “I didn’t know you were looking here.”

  I didn’t either, Lina thought. “I didn’t want you to get your hopes up if nothing came of it. But I have good news. They offered me a job.”

  With a happy little cry, Latisha hugged her fiercely. “Oh, Angelina, that’s wonderful,” she exclaimed. “Just wonderful!” Then, with a slight frown, she added, “Did you tell them yes?”

  “Yeah, Mama.” Lina rolled her eyes, and Latisha embraced her again. “Look, we’re not here long, okay? They kind of want me to get started right away. I need to change clothes.”

  “Of course.” Latisha nodded, clasping her hands, pulling her toward the door as if she was incapable of making the passage on her own. “Come on inside, the both of you. Detective…Velasco, was it? Would you like something to drink?”

  “Some ice water would be great, thanks,” he replied with a nod, and the patient sort of smile that suggested he was either fawned over regularly by meddlesome mothers, or that he was accustomed to people being overly courteous toward him at the mere mention of his badge.

  While Latisha trapped Elías in the living room with her excited and inane chatter, Lina ducked into the bedroom and closed the door. I wish she would have been this nice to Brandon, she thought with a frown, a sad and sudden ache in her heart. Things might have turned out differently if he’d felt more welcome here.

  Rifling through her suitcase for a moment only confirmed her worst fears—she had nothing suitable to wear. Okay, then. Time to get creative.

  She snagged a pair of black yoga pants from her bag and a plain white, V-neck T-shirt. After pulling these on, she traded her sandals for another pair, these black with a low-slung wedge heel, a little more practical and a lot more comfortable. Next, she rooted through Latisha’s closet until she found a simple black blazer in the back, part of a suit ensemble Latisha kept to wear in the event of a funeral or wake. Lina shrugged it on, tugging on the lapels to situate it comfortably. She was taller than Latisha, but otherwise comparable in size, so after rolling up the jacket sleeves to disguise the fact they were too short, she then turned and looked at herself in the mirror. Elías had given her a lanyard for her badge in lieu of a belt clip or wallet case, and she envisioned it around her neck now with a strange, tremulous sense of pride. It wasn’t haute couture but it would do in a pinch, she decided.

  I look like a cop again, she thought. And man, it was just what the doctor had ordered.

  When she returned to the living room, she found Elías politely engaged in small talk with Latisha, who chattered at him as wide-eyed and giddy as any school-aged girl with a crush might have.

  “All set,” Lina said loudly by way of rescue, and Elías glanced over his shoulder toward the doorway. “I think I look a little more presentable now.”

  “You look fine,” he said, rising to his feet. Though he said no more than this, politically correct, if nothing else, his gaze lingered a bit longer, a bit more appreciatively on a second passing sweep.

  “I’ll be back soon, Mama, okay?” Lina asked, leaning over to kiss Latisha’s cheek as Elías made his way back to the front door.

  “Take your time. No rush,” Latisha replied. “I’m so proud of you, honey.”

  “Thanks, Mama,” Lina muttered with a put-upon smile.

  “And that Detective Velasco?” Latisha added in Lina’s ear, little more than a whisper. “You want yourself a man, honey—a good one, at that, and I suspect you’re looking at him.” With a pointed glance at Elías, she added, “His backside, anyway, at least at the moment. Not that it’s hard on the eyes, either.”

  Lina rolled her eyes. “Mama, please.” Give me a day at least to lick my wounds before you start trying to imposing in my love life again. “I’ll see you soon.”

  ****

  Elías brought her to the police station before heading out to the scene. Here, she filled out some final paperwork to make everything “official,” as Elías kept calling it. She also had her picture taken, a glossy-laminated ID card made to wear with her badge. Elías also introduced her to her new boss, Police Chief James Rayburn. In his mid-sixties, paunchy and balding, Rayburn greeted her warmly, clasping her hand between his and pumping her arm enthusiastically up and down.

  “Good to meet you,” he told her with a broad smile. “Glad to have you on board.”

  “I appreciate the opportunity,” Lina replied, trying to exude confidence in both her hand shake and her voice—because God knew, inside she was still shaking like a leaf with excitement and trepidation.

  They stopped by Elías’s office, a small room with exterior windows, a cluttered desk and a pair of overstuffed bookshelves. As he retrieved a couple of extra files from a small heap on his desk to bring with them, she noticed a framed photograph beside his computer screen—Elías holding a toddler, a little boy with dark hair and eyes—too similar in appearance not to be related by blood. In the picture, the boy was beaming, and Elías was, too, his face filled with such obvious and visible joy, Lina couldn’t help but smile to see it. She’d never thought about having children before…at least until she’d met Brandon. She’d often pictured having a child with him, of building a future together—a family—and seeing his face light up with unadulterated love, just like Elías’s in the photograph.

  “My son,” Elías said, sounding sheepish, as if she’d just discovered a secret cache of porn or something.

  “I can tell,” Lina said with a nod and a smile. “He looks just like you.”

  “Thanks. His name’s Manuel. He lives back in Miami with his mother…my ex-wife.”

  “Oh.” Lina’s smile faltered because she could see this admittance hurt him, made him feel the same kind of sorrowful ache in his heart that even her fleeting thought of Brandon—of the life they might have had together—had brought her. “Do you get to see him often?”

  “Not often enough,” he admitted mournfully. Then he seemed to collect himself; holding up the folder, he said, “I think we’re set now. Ready to roll?”

  Once they reached an industrial portion of the waterfront, she could pick out the crime scene area easily—all she had to do was look for the cluster of TV news vans and satellite feed towers. Elías parked the car and stepped out, leaning into the back to retrieve his suit jacket. As he shrugged it back into place, covering his shirt sleeves and the shoulder holster he wore strapped and flush against his back, he said, “I almost forgot. I’ve got something else for you.”

  Curious, she trailed him to the back of the car. Unlocking the trunk, he opened it, then leaned inside. She saw a shotgun mounted in a metal rack against the backside of the rear seat, and a small black metal lock box, for which Elías now reached.

  “This is standard department issue,” he said, lifting the lid on the box to show her a black pistol tucked into a foam padded liner inside. “A 40-caliber Smith and Wesson automatic.” Slipping it from the case, he drew back the slide bolt, putting the sidearm through its paces demonstratively as he continued to speak. “Holds a fifteen-round clip. Not too bad, but if you prefer something else, you’ll need to have it signed off on before you carry it on duty.”

  Grasping it lightly by the barrel, he offered it butt-first to her. “They gave me a belt holster, but I’ve got an extra shoulder one you can use, if you’d rath
er.”

  “That’s okay.” Eyes wide, Lina took the gun from her, curling her fingers around the barrel, feeling the heft of its heavy stock settle against her palm. “A belt’s fine.” He handed it to her, then held the gun, watching as she drew it around her waist, securing the buckle just beneath her navel. She flipped the hem of her T-shirt over it to camouflage, then, taking the gun in hand again, tucked it into the tight confines of the holster, listening to the tell-tale squeak of steel against new leather, drawing in the familiar, long-missed fragrances of each.

  She’d already slipped the badge and lanyard around her neck, and as her fingers brushed lightly against the gold plate of her shield, she felt momentarily choked up, thinking of her grandfather, and the look of pride that had come over his face the day before when he’d told her, “My granddaughter is on the police force. She’s a damn good cop.”

  “Thank you,” she said to Elías, looking up to find him watching her, a soft smile playing the corner of his mouth. “For this. For everything. You just…” She managed a shaky laugh; it was either that or burst into tears in front of him. “You have no idea what this means to me…how much I appreciate this, how much I…”

  “Hey,” he interrupted gently. “You’re welcome.” Then he side-stepped, hand extended in invitation, allowing her to go first. “Come on, partner. What say we go take a look?”

  ****

  The Bayshore department was small, and crime scene investigation units were called in from the nearest metropolitan area, Elías explained; in this case, Sarasota. Several techs continued scouring the area cordoned off by yellow tape, and Elías exchanged affable nods with them in greeting as they passed.

  The bodies had been removed, but bloodstains remained on the concrete where they had been found. “Two Hispanic males, early twenties, beaten beyond recognition,” Elías told her. “Their names were Lopito Ramirez Olmos and Carlos Ramirez Quesada.”

  Lina’s eyes widened in surprise. “How did you get an ID on them so fast?” she asked, adding to herself, Especially if they were beaten that badly?