by Jo Robertson
She scanned her memory, recognized the name along with the mixture of grief and anger in his voice. She'd heard it often enough in her mother's voice after Maria disappeared. "Lupe," she repeated.
"Rodriquez, my confidential informant on the Vargas case."
A shudder rippled through her. A storm was gathering, and Mama would've said someone was walking over her grave. Whatever was brewing, Bella sensed trouble and pressed two fingers against her temple.
"Lupe was the guy who knocked you down at Stuckey's." The softness in his voice was gone now, replaced by sharp angles. "Remember him, Isabella?" The words burned her ears with their intensity. "Well, he's dead now."
Bella easily recognized the displacement of anger and the shifting of blame. In her family, there'd been plenty of that, too. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Me too. Just be there tomorrow," he ordered and hung up.
#
The corpse lay under a small clump of trees in Obegon Park, where North Mariana intersected with East First Street in East Los Angeles. The public display of the body, coupled with the viciousness of the attack, told Rafe that Lupe Rodriquez's death had two purposes: the murder of a suspected informant and the sending of a message.
The area had been cordoned off, and yellow and black crime scene tape dangled like last year's party streamers. Max had used his department connections, and the medical examiner had just now arrived at the crime scene. With the assistance of several officers, a second perimeter, approximately fifteen yards from the inner perimeter, held a growing group of onlookers at bay.
Rafe lifted the tape, moved inside the first area, and stared down at the body. He hardly recognized the mass of bloody contusions and swollen flesh as the carefree face of his informant. Lupe had been severely beaten, his neck slit open, and his tongue pulled out through the neck opening.
"Colombian necktie," Max stated unnecessarily.
Dr. Horace Gaitán looked up from where he crouched over the body. "Actually, the Colombian necktie, although attributed to Pablo Escobar and his drug cartel, has been around much longer than the Colombians as a method of punishment and warning." He glanced at Rafe. "But you probably know this, right, Agent Hashemi?"
Rafe shook his head. "No, sir."
"Humph, you'd think a high-ranking DEA agent would know something about the history and origin of drugs and their associated terms."
Max rolled his eyes behind the M.E.'s back.
Dr. Gaitán was something of a medical history buff and liked to be treated with old-fashioned courtesy, so Rafe always approached him with respect. "I take it that Escobar didn't invent the Colombian necktie."
"Right you are, Agent Hashemi."
Rafe squatted down beside the doctor. "Lupe Rodriquez was a friend of mine, sir. I appreciate anything you can tell me about his death."
The doctor snapped on latex gloves. "How are you so sure this is your friend? Not from his face, I imagine."
"No, sir. I recognize the tattoo." He indicated the black and red design of kissing angels on the right thigh, with the name Francisca in a banner below the design. "His girlfriend's name." Three lives destroyed he thought, and sighed heavily, thinking of the pregnant Francisca.
"Well, we'll confirm with fingerprints. He's in the system?" Gaitán lifted the hands one at a time, inspecting them carefully, and Rafe saw what he hadn't noticed before. Every finger on both hands had been broken or smashed at the joints, and most of the fingernails were missing.
"Perhaps not fingerprints then," the doctor corrected. "Dental records maybe. Or DNA."
"COD?" Max asked.
"Judas priest, any number of possibilities for cause of death." Gaitán indicated the man's crotch where a dark stain pooled in the genital area. "When you look around, maybe you'll find the rest of him. He was alive when they removed it."
He pointed to the slit throat. "Obviously this wound. But, until I get him on the table, I won't know if he died from that or from the beating." He touched the spot where a white shard of bone poked through the blue-tinged flesh.
He looked at Rafe solemnly, his large rheumy eyes droopy with sad knowledge. "I'll get to your friend as soon as possible. I'll back-burner my other cases."
Rafe nodded and then watched as the emergency techs loaded the body into the van for transport to the morgue. After they'd left, he and Max scoured the area surrounding the body with a member of the forensic team, but the persons who killed Lupe Rodriquez had left little evidence.
One of the new crime scene technicians, a woman, shouted, "Over here!" and they rushed to the area farthest from the street on the Marianna Avenue side.
At first, it looked like a shriveled hot dog, liberally smothered with catsup. But upon closer inspection, Rafe saw that the lump of mangled flesh lying in the grass was the missing appendage that had belonged to Lupe.
The female tech looked queasy. "They castrated him."
To Rafe the message was loud and clear. Back off or you're next. And the earlier phone call made it clear who the next person was. Gutsy son of a bitch, to threaten a federal officer. How had the killers gotten wise to Lupe?
"Come on, man." Max tugged at Rafe's arm. "Let the techs do their job."
Fifteen minutes later, they sat in a local bar near the Federal Building. The place, normally frequented by cops and other law enforcement officers, was almost empty today. Max ordered two beers on tap and when they came, led the way toward a corner booth.
Music from the juke box wailed about flying too close to the ground, which Rafe found remarkably apt, considering his current situation. For the last five months, he'd felt like he was a bird of prey swooping down to capture another, larger bird of prey – Diego Vargas.
Now he wondered if he'd been flying dangerously close to a fast-moving terrain he hadn't realized was so treacherous. "Goddamn it," he ground out after taking a deep swig of the beer. "Lupe deserved better than to die like that."
Max looked hard at him. "You're not gonna go all loose cannon on me, are you?"
Rafe raked a hand through his hair. "God knows, I'd like to ... but, no, I'm cool." He glanced at his watch. "How long, you think, before Gaitán calls?"
"We could observe the autopsy," Max offered.
"No ... no." He took another pull and emptied his drink, then spun the bottle around on the table. "I don't want to see him like that again. I trust Gaitán. He won't miss anything."
Max looked around, caught the bartender's eye, and held up two fingers.
Rafe thought of Lupe's pregnant girlfriend again. "Jesus, Francisca. We have to talk to her."
"Why? You think she knows something?" Max shifted in his seat. "Why would she?"
Rafe tightened his grip on the bottle. "She was pregnant. Lupe kept saying what a lucky man he was." He slanted a sidelong glance at Max. "Besides, wasn't she the last person to see Lupe alive?"
"Hell, no, Hashish, the killer was the last person to see him alive," Max muttered. "And before that ... you."
Rafe stared at his friend and realized something was wrong. Max was edgy, nervous, not his usual easy-going self. "Lupe was on his way home. Either he made it to Francisca's apartment and went out again, or he never got there." He paused, waiting for a response that didn't come. "Is there something you're not telling me?"
A dark flush crept over Max's face before he answered. "Nah, man, I'm just worried about you, that's all."
"I've been taking the hard hits for a long time, Max. What is it? Something about Lupe that I don't know? Francisca?"
"I don't know, Hashish." Max met his eyes for the first time in a few moments and leaned across the table. He glanced around and then lowered his voice. "Word is Vargas has someone on the inside."
"What? My department? Yours?"
Max shrugged. "God, I don't see how. But now you're wanting to see Francisca, maybe ask her questions about Lupe. Who saw him last? Who talked to him? What do they know?"
Rafe tightened his jaw. "Tread carefully, Max," he warned. A
fter a moment he asked, "What are you suggesting? That Lupe was working both sides?"
Max sat back abruptly, silently shaking his head. "Just be careful, okay?"
Finally, Rafe pushed out of the booth. "Let's talk to Francisca."
Chapter Sixteen
Bella was prosecuting a routine DUI when she glimpsed Slater as he entered the side door of Judge Carson's courtroom. A film of sweat glinted off his upper lip, and he looked like he'd run three steps at a time up to the third floor of the Bigler County Courthouse. He caught her eye and flashed a meaningful look before he sat in the gallery section.
She knew Slater wouldn't interrupt a court proceeding unless it was important, but other than the enigmatic glance, his face remained inscrutable. She nodded acknowledgment and glanced down at her yellow legal pad of notes.
"Officer Richardson," she addressed the young man on the stand, "when you conducted the field sobriety test of the defendant on the night of March 29, what evidence of intoxication did you find?"
"First I noticed horizontal gaze nystagmus when I tracked the movement of his eyes."
As the young officer explained the procedure, Bella's mind wandered, silently fuming at Charles Barrington for assigning her this driving-under-the-influence case instead of giving it to one of the junior assistants. No doubt, punishment for her stance on the Vargas case.
Aware of an expectant pause in Officer Richardson's testimony, she continued, "What else did you observe?"
"Mr. Jackson's pupils were dilated beyond the normal range, and also there was non-convergence of the eyes."
"And what is that?"
"The person is unable to cross their eyes and can't track a stimulus that's brought to their nose, in this case my finger."
"And what can cause this non-convergence?"
"A number of drugs, including marijuana and alcohol."
As Bella sat down, the defense attorney, an older woman whose office was in Sacramento, asked her first question. "Officer Richardson, what other factors can cause horizontal gaze nystagmus besides intoxication?"
"Beg your pardon, ma'am? I don't understand the question."
"Let me rephrase. Are there conditions other than intoxication that can cause horizontal gaze nystagmus? Diseases, for example?"
"Yes, ma'am, epilepsy can cause it."
"Thank you."
The defense attorney returned to her seat. Bella asked one question on redirect. "Officer Richardson, was there any indication that the defendant was an epileptic?"
"No, ma'am. He wasn't wearing a medical alert bracelet and didn't say he had a condition."
Bella glanced at the wall clock, waiting for Judge Carsons to declare a lunch break. "Thank you, Officer Richardson."
Right on time Judge Carsons banged his gavel. "We'll adjourn for lunch now and reconvene at 1:30. Let me remind the jurors not to discuss the case among yourselves."
Bella flashed a look at Slater, who was bouncing his knees in a gesture she recognized as impatience. He met Bella at the table where she gathered up her papers and stuffed them into her briefcase. His face was solemn as he took her arm and led her from courtroom number three.
"Let's walk," he suggested, guiding her to the ancient elevator and pressing the button for the basement floor.
When they reached the lower level, Slater led the way past the records and evidence department into the underground tunnel of the heating and ventilating system, and up the back cement stairway to the rear of the courthouse. His battered, late-model truck was parked under a clump of trees, but he bypassed the vehicle and walked to a shaded area on the sloping lawn where several picnic tables were scattered along the asphalted walk path. He sat down heavily on one of the tables, his feet planted squarely on the bench, hands dangling between his knees.
Bella sat beside him on the rough surface of the picnic table. "What's this about, Slater?"
"Waylon Harris found a dead body out by Beale's Lake early this morning." Harris, one of Slater's deputies, was his protégé. If he'd alerted Ben, this wasn't a routine death.
"Homicide?"
"Could be. Doc McKenzie's doing the autopsy. Looks like a drug overdose, but the victim didn't get out there by himself."
"What do you mean?"
Slater stared toward the eastern horizon where the slope of the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range showed brilliant against the crisp blue of the sky. He turned westward toward the gentle, rolling foothills and their verdant farming land. "God, this is beautiful country this time of year."
Bella followed his gaze. "Yes," she said simply.
Slater sighed and finally continued, "Male victim, nude. No evidence of clothing discarded in the area, body wrapped in a tarp. Somebody dumped him out there." He scratched his blackish beard, more heavily flecked with specks of gray than when she'd worked with him last year on several other murder cases that involved an old childhood friend of Slater.
"Accidental drug overdose and subsequent cover up?" Bella stared at the side of Slater's face, not sure yet why he felt the case merited pulling her out of court. She paused, her instinct pushing into overdrive, and then ventured a guess. "Does this have something to do with Diego Vargas?"
"Maybe. I think so. Hell, I don't know. But the preliminary toxicology screen showed high-grade heroin, almost ninety-eight percent pure."
"That's ridiculous!"
Most of the heroin in California was a low-grade quality called black tar heroin that came up through Mexico from Central and South American. Bella stared at Slater's profile. "We never get that high-quality smack up here. You think the lab made a mistake?"
"That's what worries me, Bella. I have a feeling pure shit like this came straight from the Triangle."
"Afghanistan?"
"Yeah." Slater stopped, stared at the horizon, and swiveled on the table to bump knees with her. "If it's China White that killed the guy at Beale's Lake, that's sophisticated drug trafficking. We've got to get the DEA involved."
Damn it! Why did everything come back to Rafe Hashemi and his federal drug task force? If he found out about the recent death, he would definitely appropriate everything she had on Diego Vargas and likely cut her out of the loop. He wouldn't have to worry about playing nice. He probably wouldn't let her play in the sandbox at all.
"Bella?" Slater took her hands in both of his, swallowing them with his giant paws, and looked her straight in the eye like her father had when she was younger and got into trouble. "This drug case against Vargas might be bigger than we can handle here in our little county."
"But what about ... about the other thing?" Slater knew all about Maria, understood that Bella referred to the human trafficking charges she wanted to bring against Vargas.
"The feds aren't so bad at prosecuting that kind of thing either," he said gently.
She jerked her hands out of his grasp and jumped off the picnic table. "I'm due back in court."
"Bella – " Slater's voice held a warning.
"I know, I know. I won't go off the deep end. I promise." She hurried toward the walkway that ran from the parking lot to the cement steps of the courthouse.
If the body lying in Dr. McKenzie's morgue were a result of a high-grade heroin overdose, Hashemi would have even more reason to usurp the Vargas case. He'd rip it out of her control faster than she could bat her lashes.
Not that she had any intention of doing that to Rafe Hashemi ever again.
#
Almost as if she'd been expecting Rafe and Max, Francisca Munoz answered the door at the first knock. Her bare brown feet peeked from below the hem of a modest dress that clung to her swollen belly. Her face was blotchy and her red-tipped nose glistened.
Even though Rafe had never met Francisca, a jolt of empathy hit his gut like someone had sucker-punched him. Lupe always chattered in his amiable, optimistic way about the woman who stood in front of them. Rafe saw by the lines etched in her face that she knew something about sorrow and now understood more was headed her way.
&nb
sp; "You are the one he reports to, sí?" Her tongue trilled the R's softly in accented English. "You are Rafe? You are his amigo? Tell me this is not true, that Lupe is not dead," she pleaded, twisting her dress in frantic hands.
Rafe had no business telling her anything until the autopsy was complete, until forensics proved the bloody mass of flesh in the morgue was really Lupe Rodriquez. What had he hoped to gain by coming here and adding to her grief? He glanced down at her belly, large and hard beneath the purple and blue print of her dress. The child would grow up without a father, and life would be hard for both of them.
Rafe felt his anger mounting furiously. He wanted to hunt down whoever did this and smash him into an unrecognizable pulp. Until he resembled the scarlet heap of decaying tissue that was Lupe.
He jerked himself back from the precipice. "Can we come in, Francisca?"
Silently, she opened the door wider and ushered them inside. A small but tidy living area held an old sofa covered with a colorful throw. As he sat, Rafe felt the sharp jab of broken springs beneath his hips. No one spoke for long minutes as if the quiet were a requiem for Lupe, a mass of three.
At last Max broke the silence. "Excuse me. Where's the bathroom?"
Francisca gestured to the hall on her right, and Rafe watched Max's retreating back. Had courtesy prompted him to leave them alone? Or was Max uncomfortable around the dead Lupe's pregnant girlfriend?
Francisca laid her hand on his. "Are the police sure it is Lupe?"
Rafe nodded slowly. "Lo siento mucho."
Sorrow settled on her face and tears trickled down her round cheeks. "Me siento mucho también." She held her hand over her belly in a protective gesture. "Who killed Lupe? ¿Quién mató al padre de mi bebé?"
Who killed the father of my baby?
He shook his head. "I don't know, but I hoped you could help me. Can you answer a few questions?"
Francisca nodded.
"After Lupe left for our meeting, did he come back here?"
"He called me around eleven o'clock. He said he had something to do, but he would be home within an hour."
