by Jo Robertson
"I know we have completely different agendas, Torres," he said, slamming out of the booth, "but I thought you could be flexible."
She grabbed her purse and tried to stand face to face with him; her nose barely reached his chest. "If you think I'm going to let you grab Vargas on some half-assed drug deal, you're loco."
"Half-ass – listen, little miss know-it-all, I'm going to see that Vargas and his sidekick Santos go down for one of the biggest drug schemes since the beginning of the twentieth century."
Bella clutched her purse to her body and sputtered, "What did you call me?"
If she could've killed him with a look, he'd be dead. "Oh, right, how about Isabella, then?" He drew her name out as his voice dripped with sarcasm and he shoved past her, heading toward the cashier.
"¿Es todo aceptable, Sr. Hashemi?" the woman asked.
"Si, Angelina ... "
"El alimento era muy delicioso," Bella interrupted. "¿Es usted el dueño de este restaurante?"
Before the surprised Angelina could respond, Rafe glared and grabbed Bella's arm, ushering her out of the restaurant. "Yes, the food is delicious, and Angelina's family owns the place. Are you trying to show off?"
"No," Bella, muttered, although she had been trying to regain some sort of control. Why should he assume she couldn't speak Spanish when she was obviously Latina. "Never mind that."
Rafe opened the car door and held it while she swung her legs inside. "I won't." He leaned close to her face. "Don't screw around with me on this case, Torres. It's too important." He slammed the car door before she could answer.
Bella decided to delay the argument until they got back to the DEA field office. After a serious discussion of the human trafficking issue, she would convince him it was the more serious charge to bring against Vargas. She hoped.
But when they arrived at the Roybal Building, Rafe simply reached across her lap and opened the car door – ever the gentleman, the jerk – and pointed to the curb. "This is it, then," he said. "I'll see you in Sacramento."
She turned toward the concrete steps leading up to the entrance, but realizing his intent, she looked back at him. "Wait a minute. What's going on here? I thought we were going to exchange information."
"We are," he grinned, "but obviously your information is tucked away somewhere up north. So I'll meet you there."
"But when? How are you getting there?"
His look clearly said those were stupid questions, and they were, she thought, but she'd been surprised at what seemed to be his hundred and eighty degree turnaround.
"Uh, I'd thought about swimming up the Pacific coast, but decided to drive instead," he mocked.
She ignored his tone. "Why not fly? It's quicker."
"I like the idea of having my own car in case I need to scout around somewhere."
She didn't like the sound of that. Was he planning on going off on his own and snooping into her case? Her doubt must've registered on her face because he said, "Don't worry, Torres. I'm not going to screw up what you've been working on. Besides, I have to make a stop in Stockton first."
"Stockton? Why?"
"We'll talk about it later."
"When are you coming?"
"In a few days," he answered while a car's horn blatted behind him.
"Will you bring your files?" she shouted as he drove off.
"Absolutamente." He grinned in what she took as a peace offering.
She had to admire his chutzpah. She walked through the building's entry doors, remembering that she'd left her briefcase in his office. Damn.
#
Less than an hour southwest of Sacramento, Rafe pulled off Highway 5 and took West Fremont Avenue to the dirt road at the edge of the river. He stood beside his car and gazed across the body of water to the docks of the Port of Stockton. He counted three freighter ships docked across the San Joaquin River and eleven docking bays.
Damn, this was way too busy a port. Vargas wouldn't be using Stockton Port for his drug running. If the cargo the drug traffickers brought in was unloaded in the northern part of the state, as his intel had suggested, Rafe figured there were four major possibilities – Stockton, Richmond, Oakland, and San Francisco.
The last three ports were large, the tonnage of their ports huge. They were subjected to thorough cargo inspections. Examinations too close to suit the drug businessman. Rafe needed to look at ports that weren't even ranked by tonnage, like Stockton and Redwood City.
If he intended to check out every port on his list, he'd be longer in getting to Bigler County than he'd anticipated. Short on manpower, he couldn't afford surveillance on more than two or three ports at a time and had to narrow the list down. Maybe he was wasting his time.
Lupe would have gotten the rest of the information by now. If his C.I. were alive. Max hadn't called since yesterday, meaning the blood work wasn't back from the lab. Rafe knew his informant wasn't safe at home with his pregnant girlfriend because he'd called her last night. Francisca was frantic with worry because she hadn't seen Lupe since he left her apartment on the night he met Rafe at Stuckey's Bar. She'd called frantically around to his friends and family.
No one had seen or heard from him.
Rafe cursed silently and dug his toes into the grainy dirt at the edge of the water. Then he jumped back in his car and merged onto Santa Monica Boulevard, taking Highway 5 north to Richmond. He'd scout one more port before he swung east from the coast toward Sacramento.
He checked his voicemail again. Still no message from Lupe. Nothing from Max. A feeling of dread came over Rafe that any news he got would be bad.
Very bad.
Chapter Fourteen
Isabella Torres placed her hands on her slender hips and glared at the Bigler County District Attorney. "I can't believe you were sneaky enough to go around me on this one, Charles."
Sheriff Benjamin Slater suppressed a smile as the three of them crowded into his small office in the historic old Placer Hills Courthouse. He watched Bella's brown eyes flash and her jaw jut out pugnaciously as she towered over Charles Barrington, a diminutive man an inch shorter than her, three inches with the spiky shoes she wore.
"Come on, Izzie," Barrington cajoled. "You know that I don't have to get your permission for decisions I make as district attorney."
Uh oh, Barrington was in trouble now. Slater had known Bella to practically decapitate a junior deputy sheriff who made the mistake of using that nickname on her. But this time, Bella merely continued her silent glaring.
Barrington shuffled from one foot to another, and Slater knew the man was dying to sit down. He didn't look so short that way. What with Slater at several inches over six feet and Bella a foot shorter than that, Charles was the designated Lilliputian in the room.
"I have to make decisions that are best for this office," Barrington continued, still fidgeting, "and if you can't see that, then there's nothing more to discuss."
Slater tried not to roll his eyes at Charles' spineless excuse for an officer of the court. Isabella Torres was experienced in a way Charles had never been and never would be. She knew how to use her body, her facial expressions, and her voice to good advantage. If the D.A. weren't such a putz, he'd have figured out how to use her strengths by now. Instead, he constantly threw roadblocks at her.
Bella was the one who should be district attorney. But the position was an elected one, and Charles was a local, born and bred in Placer Hills, and Bella was a newcomer, a woman, and a Latina.
"I've been working the Vargas case for eleven months, Charles." Bella's voice held an undertone of quiet desperation. "I'm this close." She held her thumb and forefinger nearly together and then looked to Slater for help, but he remained silent.
He knew she hated anything that smacked of pleading, but he was pretty sure Barrington was oblivious to her tone. Anyway, although Slater tried to avoid taking sides, on this particular case he happened to agree with the ruling to turn everything over to the feds. For the first time Barrington made sens
e. Slater just didn't like the sneaky, underhanded methods the D.A. used.
Charles turned his back on Bella and reached for the door knob. "This Hashemi guy comes highly recommended. He'll get the job done."
"Wait a minute." Bella's voice caused Barrington to pause, but he didn't turn around.
Slater leaned against the corner of his desk and waited. What ploy did she have up her sleeve? He knew her too well to think she'd give up without a bigger fight than she'd shown so far.
She coughed and cleared her throat as if it cost her something important to dicker with the D.A. "What if we worked the case together? The feds and our office?"
Charles looked back over his shoulder at this suggestion, a little smirk on his face. "Oh, I don't think that would work, Izzie."
Bella bit her lip and Slater watched her struggle for control of the temper that flared so easily around Barrington. "Maybe not, but why not give it a try?"
Charles was already shaking his head with fake sorrow, and she rushed on, "We've put a lot of work into this case. If we help them out, the DEA has to give us at least part of the credit."
A gamble, Slater thought, and a good one. The only thing Charles was better at than laying around on his lazy ass instead of prosecuting cases, was taking credit for work he didn't do. Slater watched the play of speculation cross the D.A.'s crafty face. The little weasel was already thinking how he could spin the case to snatch the glory away from Bella.
Bella's face, on the other hand, was flushed and full of bright hope. Slater swore to God that if Barrington let her remain on the case, he'd do everything he could as her friend and in his position as sheriff to see she got the credit she deserved.
On the heels of that thought, he wondered if she'd planned it just this way. A ploy to bring Barrington around and get Slater firmly entrenched on her side. He'd even bet she had already made a deal with the DEA agent. Atta girl, he thought affectionately.
Bella waited for the weasel's answer and held her breath, thinking she really hated this puny excuse for a man and an officer of the court she loved so much.
"All right," Charles relented, drawing out the words so it sounded as if he were doing her a big, fat favor. "But the minute the DEA complains, you're off the case. Understand?"
Bella nodded vigorously, pleased with the outcome. She despised toadying to Charles, but for the moment it didn't matter. She glanced at Slater with a smug grin, which he returned with a quick wink. Fortunately Charles missed both. He wouldn't like being played.
This was perfect. They could use the federal agency's budget and still get the result she wanted. Mainly, putting Diego Vargas behind bars for the rest of his life. Maybe even putting a needle in his arm if she could prove the allegations she'd uncovered in the last few months.
Thank God California still had capital punishment. She was sure she could prove special circumstances and this man deserved nothing less than the death penalty.
"Hey there, Izzie," Slater needled her after Charles had banged the office door loudly behind him. "Not a bad job of manipulation."
Bella put on a mock frown. "If you call me that again, Slater, I'll have to kill you." Then she smiled. "Wow, can you believe that nincompoop gave in?"
"You were pretty persuasive." Slater eyed her speculatively, suspicion etched in every line in his face. "What do you know that Charlie Nincompoop doesn't?"
Bella wrinkled her nose and waved her hand as if Charles had left a stench in the room. Which, as far as she was concerned, he had – the stench of incompetence. "I might have already arranged a little cooperation with the feds. Maybe."
"Really? What'd you have to give up for that agreement? Doesn't sound like any federal agent I've heard of."
Bella looked quickly at Slater. She felt her face grow warm. He had sharp eyes and excellent instincts, but he couldn't possibly know what had happened to her in the last several days.
"Quid pro quo, I imagine," he continued, "and that makes me wonder what you gave him."
Slater was too damned good at detecting.
"Don't be silly. Agent Hashemi and I are just going to swap notes, share our toys, and play nice in the sandbox."
Slater laughed aloud, a hearty robust sound that rose from his chest like an engine roaring. "Ah, Bella, you're one of a kind, that's for sure."
He returned to his desk and sank down in a large leather chair that matched his impressive size. "Off with you now, missy. I've got work to do." He waved several sheaves of paper in the air as proof.
Bella grabbed her purse and opened the door. "Thanks, Slater. We'll talk later."
As she reached the door, he called her back. "Isabella?"
Uh oh, he only used her real name when he got serious and went all friendly-protector on her. "Yes, Benjamin," she countered.
"Watch your back, okay? Barrington's a little nuts and a complete idiot, but he's crazy like a fox in the hen house."
She nodded in agreement. Somehow Charles Barrington had convinced the primarily conservative residents of Bigler County that he was tough on crime, so they'd re-elected him. But, in fact, he made outrageous plea bargain agreements every day. The man had no moral center, no sense of fairness, and no idea that he turned hardened criminals out on the streets with his inappropriate deals.
"You too, Slater," she said, blowing him a kiss. "Charles watches you like a hawk. He'll take you down if he can."
"Nah." Slater smiled. "He'd have to grow some balls first."
#
The phone call came while Rafe drove northeast on Interstate 80, fifteen minutes south of Placer Hills, the Bigler County seat. He glanced at the readout. Max. Icy fingers ran up his spine in spite of the sun's heat through the windows warming the car's interior. God, he hoped the detective had good news.
He pressed the receive button. "Max, what have you got for me?"
The pause at the other end of the phone told Rafe all he needed to know. Lupe Rodriquez was dead. He lowered the phone to his chest, but he could still hear Max's voice. He closed his eyes against the pain and bitterness.
When he put the phone up to his ear again, he heard Max's voice continue, " ... so I guess the good news is it's not Lupe's blood in the alley."
Relief washed over Rafe. "What? I thought ... Whose blood was it?"
"An ex-con named Morris Sullivan, thirty-six year old white dude, did a dime at Chino for assault, released six months ago."
"Is he dead?"
"Dunno, Hashish, no body. We don't know what happened to him, if anything, or why his blood was in that alley."
"You're checking it out?"
"Got several guys tracking him, but if he's alive, he probably went to ground."
"Connection to Lupe?"
"None, but Rafe – " Max paused. "Didn't you hear what I said about Lupe?"
"Yeah?" And that's when Rafe realized he hadn't heard the first part of Max's sentence because he'd pulled the phone away from his ear. Max had said, "I've got good news and bad news."
A mixture of sorrow and anger funneled through him like a dark, reckless tornado, but he kept his voice flat and unemotional. "What's the bad news about Lupe, Max?"
"We found a body a few minutes ago in East L.A., Obegon Park." Another pregnant pause. "I'm sorry, buddy, I'm pretty sure it's Lupe."
"Jesus Christ," Rafe whispered.
"I think you should come back right away."
Rafe paused while he shook off grief. "Why? I'm almost to Placer Hills."
"Check into a motel, park your car, and take a flight back," Max advised, his voice low as though he thought someone might overhear his side of the conversation. "If you can be here in an hour or so, I can hold off the coroner."
"Why?" Rafe repeated. "Can't you handle it?"
"There's something you need to see for yourself."
Chapter Fifteen
Rafe hadn't been more precise than to say he would arrive in Bigler County in "a couple of days," so his call caught Bella completely off guard when she answe
red the telephone the next morning.
"Isabella Torres," she snapped into the phone cradled under her right shoulder, both hands busy, one negotiating the lid on a huge latte, compliments of Ben Slater, and the other riffling through a stack of current-case file folders.
"Whoa there, Sparky." The intimate sound of his voice jerked her into the past where it wasn't safe to go.
"Who's this?" She kept her voice aloof, even though she knew damned well who was on the other end of the line.
"Ah, come on, Torres." An amused chuckle as if he'd read her mind. "Take a guess."
No sense pretending, just get it over with. "Agent Hashemi, how nice," she said with a false sweetness belied by her next words. "I'm busy. What do you want?"
"Make nice if you want to run with the big dogs, Torres."
"Sure, Hashemi." Pause. "What can I do for you after you tell me what you want?"
He chuckled again, and she put down both the latte and the papers, feeling ridiculously light-headed at the sound. "Cut right to the chase, huh?"
"Tell me what you want, Hashemi," she said on a weary sigh, suddenly tired. She'd been at the office since six this morning after working late last night, catching up on paperwork that'd grown like mold while she was gone. Her patience was threadbare.
"I won't get there until day after tomorrow, and I'd like you to pick me up at the airport."
Did he think she ran a cab service? "I thought you wanted your own car up here."
"Oh, my car is up there, Torres, just not my body."
"What?" She felt a massive headache coming on and reached for the bottle of Excedrin in her top drawer. "Do I need to ask how that happened?"
"Better if you don't. Here's the airport info. Got a pen?" Without waiting for an answer, he rattled off an airline flight number and time for tomorrow.
"Wait, slow down," she muttered, writing furiously. "Why the delay? What happened?"
After a lengthy pause, she heard the quiet hiss of expelled breath like a groan of pain over the line. "Lupe's dead."
