by Jo Robertson
"Oh, it's blood all right, Hashish," Jensen answered, throwing in the nickname because he knew it pissed Rafe off. "Crime scene says animal, not human, but they need to run forensics to be sure."
He spread his hands, palms up. "So, my good friend, you wanna tell me what this is all about?" He eyed Rafe speculatively. "And while you're at it, what about that cut on your already fucked-up ugly mug? How'd you get that?"
Max Jensen had always been too observant for his own good, starting during their Stanford undergraduate days when he'd noticed Dr. Henderson's preoccupation with his computer during class. At the mature age of nineteen, Max had sucked Rafe into breaking into the lab to screw around with Dr. Henderson's settings.
The straight-on hetero porn Henderson had been salivating over became heavy-duty gay porn. A joke, but Rafe always wondered if atonement was why Max had gone into law enforcement instead of being some computer geek mixing things up in the Silicon Valley.
"My face met the butt-end of a door," Rafe answered in a way that should warn Max off. "Find anything else in that alley?"
"Yeah, a lot of garbage and crap." Max laughed. "What were you expecting?"
Rafe ignored the question. "What about the bartender?"
"One Joseph X. McHenry."
Rafe lifted his brow. "X?"
"What can I say?" Max shrugged. "Xander, go figure."
"Any record?"
"About as long as your arm, but nothing in the last seven years. He jumped the SHU in oh-three and has stayed below the radar since." Max pronounced the acronym "shoe."
"The Security Housing Unit at Pelican Bay State Prison?"
"Yep, that one, where we keep some of our most violent criminal offenders, lucky us."
"How'd he manage to get out?" Rafe asked.
"Everything's about DNA now. Old Joe was doing life without parole in the SHU on a rape-murder charge with special circumstances. And then bing, DNA exonerated him." Max's face tightened in anger. "Never mind that the bastard committed dozens of crimes he was never convicted of."
"But he's stayed cleaned since?"
"Yeah, the lucky son-of-a-bitch."
"Known associates? Dirty pee test? Carrying?" Rafe knew most parolees got violated on one of these charges.
"Wouldn't matter," Max said.
"Right, exoneration, not parole."
The state retained a hold on a released offender who waived his Fourth Amendment search and seizure rights to get parole. He could be stopped and searched, any time, any place, all without a warrant because of his parole status.
Most parolees reverted right back to the life. Joseph X. wasn't on parole, but Rafe still wondered how a guy with his record had managed to avoid getting busted on one charge or another.
"There was something in the blood, though," Max added. "Mostly animal blood contaminated by a bunch of gunk." Rafe raised his brows at the unscientific term, but the detective continued. "Crime scene techs speculated about trace amounts of human blood along with the animal blood."
"You think someone tried to cover up the human blood?"
"Could be, amigo, could be." Max pushed his long, lanky form out of the chair and adjusted his shoulder pistol before turning to the office door. "I'll give you an update as soon as the lab report's complete."
His hand on the doorknob, Max turned around and eyed Rafe speculatively. "So, if you're not going to tell me how you got that goose egg on your head or what put that shit-eating look on your face ... "
Remembering last night, Rafe suppressed a smile.
"A broad? Jesus, Rafe, you finally got laid?" Max smacked his palm against the door and laughed. "When were you going to tell me about her?"
"There's no 'her' to talk about. Someone I met at Stuckey's." He leaned back on two legs of his chair, tossed the pencil on his desk, and tried to speak casually. "Ended up taking her back to my apartment. Had to, as a matter of fact."
Max moved back into the room, sat down, and leaned forward eagerly, a salacious look on his face. "Had to?"
Rafe waved a hand. "Long story."
"Hubba-hubba, old man. So, did she spend the night?" Max pretended to pant like a dog. "What's her name? Goddamn! You old devil."
"Don't get so excited. It was just a casual thing, you know? Besides, nothing happened." Not much, anyway, he amended silently.
"No, I don't know." Max waved his ring hand in the air. "Hello, married ten years. Leg shackles and all. The only way I get lucky is through hearing your escapades. At least tell me her name. Give me a bone, here, Hash."
Rafe chuckled, the sound of her name sexy as it rolled off his tongue. "Isabella. No last name. Bella," he said, the taste of it on his lips still feeling great. "Maybe she'll leave her phone number."
"You dick, you didn't get it last night?"
"What I got, Maxwell, was a frantic phone call from Mrs. Roberts about you in my office early this morning."
Max grinned liked an idiot while Mrs. Roberts appeared from nowhere and stood beside him, her eagle eye piercing him. Max jumped up, snapping his jaw shut.
Giving him a scathing look, she spoke to Rafe. "Agent Hashemi, excuse me, but your eleven o'clock appointment has been waiting quite a while. Assistant District Attorney Torres," she added, clearly believing he'd forgotten.
A short, middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense attitude, Marilyn Roberts put everyone from the governor to the custodian in his place. She always called Rafe by his title, expected him to address her as Mrs. Roberts, and reminded him of his sixth grade teacher who'd scared the hell out of him. Privately, he called her The Little General.
Rafe looked at Max and shrugged. "Sorry, this guy's been deflecting my emails for over a week. He has case files he doesn't want to hand over."
"Oh?" Max peeked his head out the door at the lone figure fidgeting in the waiting room.
"Send him in, Mrs. Roberts." Rafe moved behind his desk and pulled out a folder that contained ADA Torres' emails.
If not the smirk on Max's face, then at least the puzzled expression of Marilyn Roberts should've warned Rafe.
She never lost her composure, never missed a beat even in the worst situations, and absolutely never seemed confounded. "Him?" she questioned, raising both penciled brows until they seemed to disappear into her very black hairline. "I don't think so, Agent Hashemi."
Chapter Nine
Seven muchachas jóvenes lined up along the corridor of the tavern, youngest girl to oldest, although most of them looked to be the same age, around eleven or twelve. Perhaps the one at the end was thirteen, but none older than that. He could tell by their flat chests and straight hips as well as the baby-soft skin on their cheeks.
Santos crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the dirty faces and ragged clothes.
"Una cosecha fina de muchachas, a very fine crop this time. You agree?" The proprietor of La Taberna Afortunada – The Lucky Tavern – smiled broadly at Diego Vargas and chucked the first girl under the chin.
A fine crop, as if he were speaking of corn or coffee bean harvest, Santos thought.
"Dé vuelta alrededor," the tavern owner ordered the girl, making a circular motion with his hand. Thin and brown, barefoot and dressed in a dirty white chemise, she turned slowly around at the command.
Santos peered into the girl's eyes, listless and dilated, like a cat's in the dark. She'd most certainly been drugged. Probably one of the benzodiazepines, but he couldn't be certain.
El Vaquero wanted the girls mildly sedated for transport, but not completely wasted. It was much safer that way to make the nearly fifteen-hour van drive north through California until they crossed the California-Nevada border.
"See, I told you," the fat proprietor said. "¿Muchachas finas, eh? And I can get you plenty more."
"Shut up, old man," Santos growled.
He watched lust play across the face of Diego Vargas. Santos knew his boss was calculating the price of having his way with one or two of the girls first and thereby lowering their value.
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Lust and greed always battled inside Diego. Usually, his love for money won out, but sometimes the power of his lust overcame him and he succumbed. Often with tragic consequences. Although El Vaquero usually preferred his women large and lusty, he occasionally liked to sample the wares he purchased before he turned them over to the women in charge of his two legal, and one not-so-legal brothels.
Yes, Santos thought for the thousandth time, Diego Vargas was a fucking pig, un cerdo de mierdo. However, he allowed none of these thoughts or emotions to register on his face or in his stance. After all, he was El Vaquero's lawyer, as well as his bodyguard, and he was wise enough not to make his personal opinions available for perusal.
He was not afraid of Diego Vargas. In truth, he feared nothing and no man. His strength had been forged in pain and his reputation in fire. There were few enterprises Santos refused to engage in, few men or women he would not kill when necessary, few appetites he would not satisfy.
But some lines should not be crossed.
Santos did not remember his father. Miguel Gabriel Santos had been killed in the plaza when Santos was a small boy. He well remembered the square, the burnt adobe stones of the surrounding buildings, the deep stone well that stood at the end of the street. But he did not remember his father's actual death.
To this day in the village where he was born, stories of that event were widely repeated. Of how Miguel stood up to the oficiales federales. Of how he died slowly in the village plaza of Real de Cantorce after hours in the baking sun. Of how he choked on his own testículos.
The small boy Gabriel Santos did not recall the event of his father's death.
He did remember his mother, however, and this trafficking with the girls – Santos knew his madre would not approve of a man who made his life's work out of the flesh of innocents. Santos did not fear the fuego del infierno or death's end, and he did not believe many true innocents walked the face of this earth. But the few there were should not be sacrificed.
Drugs, fine, una opción. The users made their own choices.
Killing, una necesidad. Often very necessary.
But the girls, absolutamente no.
Santos knew the day would arrive when he would draw his boot across the sand and tell El Vaquero that he could not cross that line. That would be a very bad time for all of them, and Santos was not eager for that day to arrive. But, nonetheless, it would come.
The tavern owner pinched the scrawny backside of the last girl as she climbed into the back of the battered van.
Sí, the day would come.
#
Bella didn't leave the bathroom until she heard the door shut firmly when Rafe left the apartment. Even then she waited what she guessed was five minutes more before entering the bedroom. After searching, she found her dress hanging from the shower curtain rod in the second bathroom. He'd apparently tried to clean it for wet spots dampened the bodice and hem.
That hadn't worked. The dry cleaners might be able to get the stains out, but Bella guessed she'd owe Anita the price of an expensive new dress. The panties and bra were soaking in the kitchen sink and her shoes rested on the counter on a piece of newspaper. The evidence of her wild night brought fierce color to her cheeks.
She felt like snarling. Rafe must've been awfully sure she'd stay. And who would've guessed he'd be so ... tidy. She imagined him touching her underwear, but more embarrassing was him thinking she'd be here waiting when he returned, like a favored lapdog. At the back of her mind she knew she was more furious with herself than him, but she enjoyed her moment of pique a little longer.
She washed out her panties and blotted them on a towel. As uncomfortable as it was, she dressed in the damp clothing and slipped her shoes on. Her wisp of a purse lay where she'd dropped it in the armchair.
Finally, she searched about for paper and pen. In one corner of the bedroom a walnut desk rucked up against the tall windows. Rummaging through the drawers, she found what she needed and sat down on the chair to write a note.
"Rafe," she wrote, "I had a great time. Call me, Bella, 916-781-3043." She crumpled up the note and tossed it in the waste basket. "Bella, 916-781-3043." No, she should give him her cell number. She tore that paper up and grabbed another from the middle desk drawer. "Bella" ... She stared out the window and tapped the pen against her teeth.
This wouldn't work. So she'd had a one-night stand. She wasn't going to let her Catholic guilt rule her. Why make more out of it than it was? Because, she answered herself, because she liked Rafe. He was probably one of the good guys. And because they hadn't really ... well, hadn't really had sex, per se. Per se, lawyer talk. She shook her head. She was an idiot.
Somehow their encounter seemed unfinished and in the end she left no note at all. She left Rafe's apartment, pushing the button to latch the front door. She scarcely had time to make it home to change for her eleven o'clock meeting with the bull-headed DEA agent.
The cabbie dropped Bella in front of her mother's modest three-bedroom house in Riverside. If God were really on Bella's side, Mama wouldn't even hear her sneak in. Sometimes her mother stayed up so late at night watching her Spanish soaps that she slept until ten or later the next morning. No such luck today.
Orotea Torres sat upright on the floral-covered sofa that faced the entryway of the small house. Her arms gripped each other tightly across her ample bosom, and Bella knew without seeing the grim look on Mama's face that she was mad. Great! Her sisters had wheedled her into going out and then abandoned her to face their mother's strict Catholic questioning.
"What? Have I worked so hard to raise a daughter only to see her sneak into the house like a thief after being out all night?" Mama's lips were a thin, hard line and her eyebrows were a jagged carving across her forehead. Her spine was as straight as a rod, her feet barely touched the carpet, and her plain cotton housedress smoothed modestly over her knees.
"Mama," Bella began before she was interrupted by the simultaneous opening and closing of both the front and back doors to the house.
Consuelo entered on a rush of words from the front entry. "Bella, why did you leave without telling me this morning?" she chided. "I wanted to prepare your breakfast."
Anita scurried from the kitchen, throwing off her coat and tossing it over the back of the sofa. "Hey, I thought we were meeting at the coffee shop for breakfast." She paused and looked from Connie to Bella and back, her eyes like saucers at the sight of her damp red dress.
"Nita, if your brain had any more holes in it, I could use it as a sieve," Connie said. "At my place. We were supposed to have breakfast at my apartment, not the coffee shop. How could you forget?"
"Sorry," Anita muttered, for once not putting her foot in her big mouth.
Mama eyed the three of them suspiciously. "Humph. And you don't have decent clothes to lend your baby sister so she has to dress like this in the light of day?" She paused and shook her head. "Well, I will prepare breakfast for all of you then."
She rose heavily from the sofa and gestured toward the kitchen, herding them like little chicks. "Come, come. You can tell me all about your big night over huevos y jámon."
Thank you, Bella mouthed to Consuelo when her mother turned toward the kitchen sink. She eyed her mother's back as she washed her hands and dried them on a colorful hand towel. Bella couldn't face Mama's censure. The facts were awful enough. She'd gone home with a virtual stranger and spent the night with him. She was too busy kicking herself to take on Mama's disapproval, too.
Consuelo lifted her palms in a what's-up gesture as she reached for the plates to set the table. The look on her sister's face clearly said, come clean or else, muchacha del bebé. Still a little baby girl. Bella had no intention of telling her sisters about last night. She'd give them a sanitized version while she packed to catch her flight back to Sacramento. Otherwise, they'd hover around her like well-paid bodyguards.
For now Bella ignored her sisters and checked the clock as she set out the silverware. Still time to eat, pa
ck, and make her eleven o'clock appointment.
She wrinkled her nose. After a week of back and forth emails, this Hashemi character had flat-out refused to turn over jurisdiction in the Diego Vargas case. Then he'd gone over her head to her boss, Bigler County D.A. Charles Barrington who had caved in to the superior power of the feds.
No surprise there. Charles had the spinal column of a flatworm, so Bella found herself on a flight to L.A. with instructions to turn over her notes to this Hashemi guy. Enseguida. Right away.
Already she detested the federal agent and she hadn't even met him. She hated being ridden roughshod over and despised even more someone going over her head.
And even though she was duty bound to turn over her files, she didn't intend to make it easy for this ... Hash – shem – whatever. She relished the idea of getting into a good scrabble with the feds. She folded the paper napkins and slapped them on top of the plates.
But right now her mama's eggs and ham sounded really good.
Chapter Ten
Bella pulled her rental car into the parking space near the Roybal Federal Building. Her luggage was stowed in the trunk, and she'd already said her goodbyes to her mama and sisters.
The lobby information kiosk indicated that Agent A. Hashemi occupied space on the second floor and listed an office number. She took the stairs and entered an opaque glass-windowed door at the far end of the corridor.
A large, empty waiting room lay behind the door. An older woman with the face of a saint and the roar of a dragon asked her to state her business and afterward indicated she should take a seat in the row of plastic chairs against the wall. Bella eyed the closed office door to her left and sat down.
After waiting twenty-two minutes, she began tapping her foot and shuffled in her seat. She looked at the military-issue wall clock over the receptionist's desk and frowned.
The older woman caught her glance and plastered a reproving smile on her face. "Agent Hashemi is a very busy man, Ms. Torres. He'll be with you momentarily."
Bella was sure the illusive Agent Hashemi – and what the hell kind of name was that anyway – was a busy man, apparently far busier than she was as a mere assistant district attorney in a much smaller county than Los Angeles. She drummed her fingers on the hard edge of the briefcase lying on her lap and debated leaving just for spite. Her already foul mood grew fouler.
