by Jo Robertson
After hanging up, Olivia examined the note. Like the note on Carl Bender's body, this message had all capital letters, no spaces or punctuation. She drew vertical lines between certain letters, dividing them into words, and then separated them into two separate sentences. The first half of the note translated to 'She has been ruled' and the second, 'Fame lives in great things.'
She jotted down the translations even though she had absolutely no idea what they meant in relation to poor Keisha's mangled body.
Chapter Nineteen
Olivia managed to pull into her campus parking space with nearly half an hour to spare before her first class. Hurrying up the concrete steps, she hurried across the crowded campus toward her office in Vincent Hall. The door was closed. Good, apparently Howard hadn't arrived yet. She slipped her key into the lock and noisily entered the room.
Howard Randolph jumped back from the edge of her desk, a guilty look on his face. Every part of her body must have showed the shock that rippled through her at Howard invading her privacy. "Howard! What are you doing?"
Her officemate's normally unflappable demeanor slipped. He'd been caught snooping through her private materials. What excuse could he offer?
Howard made a weak attempt at humor. "Olivia, my dear, you frightened the bejeezus out of me." He laughed weakly. "Sorry for the language, but you really shouldn't sneak up on a person like that."
When she continued to stare at him, he rushed on. "I've run out of those little yellow sticky pads. I thought you might have an extra packet in your desk drawer."
Did he think she was an idiot? Her eyes slid to the spot where he'd let his hand linger on her in-box, and she noticed that her computer was turned on, the home page brightly lit as though someone had recently touched a random key. She hadn't left so hurriedly yesterday that she'd forgotten to turn it off, had she? No, she distinctly remembered closing it down. Anyway, the screen saver wouldn't be flickering if it'd been in sleep mode since yesterday. She frowned, enraged at both his transparent attempt to cover up the fact that he was spying on her, and at herself for questioning her memory.
"I don't have any," she answered sharply. Better to grab the bull by the horns and confront the man straight on. "Why did you turn my computer on?"
Howard looked flustered and turned to the monitor, gaping as though he'd just noticed the light from the screen. "I'm sure the computer was on when I came in, Olivia." His voice took on a priggish tone. "You don't think I did that, do you? I assure you I didn't. And I'm sorry I was searching for the note pads. I'll be sure not to disturb you again."
His self-righteousness irked her, but she refused to be put on the defensive. Howard was the trespasser. "You need to respect my boundaries, Howard."
"Of course, you're absolutely right." Stiff-lipped, he strolled over to his desk and dipped his head into the open book that lay on his desk, effectively ending the discussion. Olivia sat behind her desk and covertly watched him.
No more than a few moments of awkward silence had deepened between them, when Ted Burrows entered the office, bearing a batch of papers. He glanced at Olivia once before he pulled up the extra chair close to Howard's desk.
Olivia turned to her computer, her back to them, and began a search of last-visited sites. She didn't believe Howard's story for a second, but what could he be looking for on her computer? Uneasiness crept up her neck. How could she be comfortable around the man any more?
"Got these papers, Dr. Randolph," she heard Burrows say with sly familiarity, the words followed by the soft plop of papers landing on a hard surface. Ted wasn't as innocent as his charm suggested, but she reminded herself, what exact harm had either done?
What provable harm.
Olivia didn't want to eavesdrop on the two men, but shreds of their conversation wafted to her through the space of the small office. They appeared to be arguing quietly, Ted's voice wheedling and coaxing until Howard's rose in agitation.
She heard something like, "Back off" and "You don't want to go there, Ted."
Finally, she heard the shuffling of papers, the scrap of chair wheels on linoleum, and Ted's final words. "Don't fuck with me, Randolph. I know too many secrets."
Olivia glanced over her shoulder to meet the stormy eyes of her office mate. Something dangerous she'd never seen before raged on the icy surface of the blue irises. However, before anything was said, Howard grabbed his briefcase and hurried out the door, shooting a final grim look her way. What was going on between the two of them? Their relationship seemed far more intense than professor and teaching assistant, especially ones who'd just begun working together? And what was Howard really looking for when he rifled through her desk?
*
The team met in Slater's office later that morning. Deputy Harris was there, and no one mentioned the absent Jack. Isabella Torres was trying to make her case for another interview with Diego Vargas. "The whole Vargas family has ties to the Norteños." Torres rested a hip on Slater's desk.
"You're messing with a dangerous bunch," Slater argued.
"That’s why I have to take him down."
"The Mexican Mafia – the Sureños – keep to the southern part of the state," Slater explained for Olivia's benefit, "but the Norteños run the north."
"Diego Vargas is a vicious man," Torres said. "In my interview with him he was almost completely devoid of affect. He enjoys playing little mind games with people."
"See – a full-blown sociopath," Slater said.
"Could he be involved in something deeper than campaign fraud?" Olivia ventured.
"Like what?" Slater asked.
Torres threw up her hands in exasperation."His wife’s claims of abuse? Vargas likes to hurt people – women – he’s ruthless, and he has absolutely no boundaries."
"You'd better get your hard evidence shored up, counselor," Slater warned.
"I'm setting up another appointment with Vargas." Isabella glanced at Olivia. "I thought Dr. Gant could accompany me."
"Me? Why?"
"Vargas is a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic." Torres shrugged. "You might see something I don't."
Olivia smiled although she didn't feel like it. "Why not?" What else did she have to lose?
When the conversation turned back to the DLK case, Olivia could tell Slater was pleased with the translation of the latest note, although no one had any idea what it meant in relation to the case. Minutes later they finished up and Isabella and Harris left.
"Be careful around Vargas," Slater warned Olivia.
She remembered the yellowing bruises and frightened eyes of Magdalena Vargas' photos and thought of her ex-husband's violent tendencies.
"Diego Vargas is a dangerous enemy, and like a cornered animal, he'll attack desperately and viciously if pinned against a wall," Slater warned. "Torres is young and sometimes she gets a little cocky. Be careful around Vargas."
*
Olivia and Isabella Torres sat across from the Councilman Vargas as guests in his office. Olivia suspected he’d arranged the meeting here as a psychological advantage.
An imposing and taciturn giant named Santos leaned against the wall in a pose that reminded her of a crouching tiger toying with a small animal. Vargas was a bull, charging straight on and goring his enemy with a single powerful thrust, but Santos was the one who meted out indifferent violence as warnings, the cost of running the smoothly oiled machinery of Vargas’ activities.
Olivia had done her homework on the councilman.
She glanced around the spacious office at the trappings of power and position. A flag of Mexico hung behind Vargas' desk, its green, white, and red vertical stripes oddly unsettling beside the red, white, and blue of Old Glory and the California Bear Flag. In a picture of César Chávez at a rally with his arm draped around a dark-skinned boy who surely must be the young Vargas, both grinned into the camera. The usual municipal code books aligned against the wall behind her. All photos were political in nature, one of Vargas with the current governor, another of him shaking
hands with the head of the United Farm Workers of America. Noticeably absent were pictures of Vargas’ wife and family.
The councilman allowed them several moments of gazing around the room. She understood this, too, was a power ploy. Vargas controlled the meeting. He determined when it began and when it ended. When she met his eyes, he was smiling with the bearing and stance of a proud and confident leader.
"So, the beautiful and persistent ADA requests yet another interview with me." Vargas inclined his head in an old-world gesture, inviting them to sit in one of a pair of dark leather chairs. "How can I extend the service of my office?"
"Just a few more loose ends if you don’t mind." Isabella reached into her briefcase and retrieved a pen and notepad along with a small recorder. "I’ll record this conversation." She paused and raised her eyebrows in question. "If you don’t mind, that is."
The flush began in his bull’s neck and crept steadily up to the snowy collar of his shirt where a blue tie with red flecks threatened to choke off his air. "Of course, I do not mind. Only someone with secrets to hide would object." Vargas spread his beefy hands in a parody of apology. "But alas, my attorney would absolutely forbid it." He let his gaze slide to Santos, who'd straightened up from the wall.
Olivia was surprised by the implication that Santos was both bodyguard and lawyer. Surely the brute of a man to whom they’d turned their backs hadn’t the patience or intelligence to study for the bar. But the crafty gleam in his eyes told her Santos was cleverer than she’d believed. She felt ice deep in her bones.
Isabella cleared her throat. "What can you tell me about the Mexican Mafia?"
"The Sureños? What have I to do with those thugs?" He seemed genuinely surprised, and if so, that meant the two rival gangs were not forming alliances, and drug money hadn't funded Vargas' campaign.
"I heard rumors," Isabella murmured.
"Nonsense." Santos intervened for the first time. "Councilman Vargas is a respectable businessman. He has no ties to gang activities. If you wish to turn these allegations into criminal charges – "
"Silencio!" Vargas said. "Of course, ADA Torres does not wish to accuse me. She knows as well as I do that when any Latino goes to prison – or so I have heard – he must choose: either Sureños or Norteños." He smiled expansively, "I do not understand such blood oaths and allegiances, but an alliance seems unlikely."
"Jefe," Santos warned, closing the gap between Isabella and him. His high cheekbones and aquiline nose contrasted with the broad, peasant features of Vargas. A thin line cleft through the left side of Santos’ brow, down through the upper and lower lips and ending in the middle of his chin. A knife fight souvenir, Olivia guessed, staring at his massive hands. "Por favor, es imprudente decir más."
Vargas commanded him back to his station with an insolent wave of his hand. "I decide whether to say more or not." Turning to Isabella, he continued, "You have heard of this, yes? No neutral ground in the gangs. Blood in, blood out. Gang in, death out."
Olivia understood the message all too well. Vargas was speaking of more than gangs.
After a moment of silence, a grin split Vargas’ face and he spread his hands. "Que muchachas bonitas! How pleasant to have a visit by two lovely women." Vargas let his eyes slide over to Olivia. She folded her hands church-like on the table top and held back a shiver. "Such beautiful skin," he observed, "the joining of fair flesh with fine silk."
Vargas inclined his head for Isabella to proceed with her questions, but his eyes remained on Olivia. She lifted her chin, reminded herself to show no emotion, to remember why she was here.
Isabella extracted a red file from her briefcase and glanced at her notes, "Mr. Vargas, the last time we spoke, you mentioned your mother, Consuelo Maria Vargas – "
Santos held his massive hand up like a traffic cop, leaned over and whispered in Vargas’ ear. After a moment, Vargas nodded. Santos knew. He understood that the mother was a weak link in his client’s armor. Olivia met his eyes and saw the unspoken menace written there. She wondered how much the lawyer would interfere while Isabella pushed Vargas’ buttons.
"I only ask," Isabella continued, "because your mother sounds like a wonderful woman. She donates time and money to many charitable causes."
"Si." Vargas pushed his lawyer’s hand away. "Mi madre, she is a saint." He crossed himself and kissed the right thumb of his closed fist. The religious gesture was automatic and clearly meant something to the man.
"I’m sure she is, Mr. Vargas, but I’m looking at a report that indicates she was the largest contributor to your campaign this election year." Her fingers played over a picture of Consuelo Vargas that she’d clipped to the inside flap.
"That’s no crime." Santos answered for his client, his voice reasonable. "Family contributions."
"Yes," Isabella answered in a measured tone, "but the records indicate that Mrs. Vargas used business funds for the contributions. Considering the amount, that could be construed as illegal."
The effect on Vargas was instantaneous.
He jumped up from his seat, his face turning beet red. The chair crashed into the wall behind him as Santos leapt toward the women, grabbing Olivia by the upper arm as she and Isabella rose, startled at the manic reaction.
Santos’ voice was low and menacing. "You had better leave now." His grasp on her upper arm was punishing.
Olivia met Vargas' gaze. He moved his lips, but no words came out. His dark eyes focused on her alone. But the impassive calmness with which Santos urged them toward the office door chilled her to the bone. Santos was the one to watch out for.
When they reached the car, Isabella opened the doors and scooted into the driver’s seat. Ten minutes later, by mutual agreement, they pulled off the road and into the parking lot of a café off I-80. By the time they’d been seated and ordered coffee, both had reclaimed their composure.
Olivia looked around the restaurant at the nearly empty booths, the brightly waxed linoleum, and the array of plants lining the window sills. She ran her fingers through her hair, feeling messy, wondering why Isabella had insisted she wear it down.
Finally, she fixed on Isabella’s calm demeanor and steady eyes. "How do you do it?" Thinking of the flat darkness of the henchman's face, the lewd gleam in Vargas' eyes, sent a sliver of ice down her spine. A memory flashed through her mind, of Roger's small malevolent eyes roaming over her childish face and figure.
Isabella shrugged. "Did you notice the way Vargas ogled you?"
"How could I miss it?"
"I wanted you to wear that kind of dress on purpose."
Olivia frowned, recalling Isabella's insistence that she change into a specific dress – a white dress that was low cut and revealing – before they drove for the interview. She’d been so anxious about the meeting, she hadn’t questioned why.
"You're his type. I wanted you to look… virginal," Isabella explained. "I wanted to observe Vargas’ response to an attractive woman dressed like that, sexy and don’t-touch-me at the same time."
Understanding flooded Olivia.
"But that’s not all he reacted to," Isabella continued, motioning for the waitress to bring the menus. "You noticed his reaction to the negative suggestion about his mother?"
Olivia nodded and perused the menu.
When the server left, Isabella continued, "Vargas likes women to look slutty, but he wants them to be virginal like his mother."
"Saintly, like he considers her."
"Combine his obvious attraction to you with his adoration of his mother, well, that’s a classic Madonna-whore complex. He has fantasies that women are pure, but when he discovers otherwise, he unleashes his fury on them. He loves his mother, but can’t have sex with her."
Olivia wrinkled her nose.
"His dilemma is he can’t love the 'bad women,' the hookers he has sex with, so he turns his rage on them." She leaned back in the booth as the server refilled their coffee cups and left with their order. She grinned. "At least that's my working theo
ry."
"I noticed something too," Olivia offered. "Did you see the sign he made when he spoke of his mother?"
"He crossed himself, which I expected because he had a Catholic upbringing."
Olivia shook her head. "What was important was that when he spoke the name of his mother, he made a movement as if he were going to genuflect."
"I thought only priests did that."
"It’s a sign of extreme reverence and devotion. Some parishioners used to genuflect when they passed the Eucharist or another holy emblem." Olivia leaned forward eagerly. "The point is that Vargas began a genuflection when you praised his mother, and then stopped. For Vargas to consider his mother a true holy woman, like the Blessed Virgin – " Olivia gestured with her palms up and left the implication hanging.
"Means he’s a fanatic," Isabella finished.
"He also made the sign of the cross to perfection, placing thumb, forefinger, and second finger together to symbolize the Trinity." Olivia demonstrated. "Keeping the two smaller fingers flat against the palm. That signifies both the human and divine incarnations of Christ."
"So Vargas knows his ritual," Isabella concluded. "I saw his lips moving too."
"I believe he was repeating the words of the sign, In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti."
"In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit."
"Vargas understands more than a smattering of Latin and quite a bit about his religion."
"A religious extremist?"
"Shite Muslims, Khmer Rouge, tons of that kind of nut in history." Olivia smiled wryly. "Fanatical religious beliefs breed all kinds of maniacs." She reached for her purse, hesitated. "We both agree that Vargas is capable of a serious level of viciousness, that he has motivation, but you can't be thinking he's the Dead Language Killer."
Isabella shrugged."I don’t know. He’s such an evil bastard that I want to believe it. But I’m not sure he could control himself in such a calculated way. Vargas is hot-blooded and hot-tempered. He seems more likely to go berserk when provoked rather than murder someone coldly and methodically like Slater's UNSUB does."
