by Jo Robertson
A smile carved the man's face. "You reckon I can have my desk back now, Ms. Torres?"
"What? Oh, sure, sorry, Waylon. I'm in a mood today. Thanks." The smile that lit her features transformed them into the woman more like the one Rafe had first met in the bar.
Torres' office was more expansive than Rafe had expected for an assistant district attorney. Located at the end of the second floor of the courthouse and wedged between two courtrooms, it maintained the elegant, polished-mahogany look of the historic old building.
She'd made the place her own with a few personal effects scattered throughout – a photo of a young girl, maybe six or seven with an older girl who had Isabella's same large dark eyes and wide smile. Another picture of the two women Rafe had seen in Stuckey's Bar with Torres and an older woman, their mother he guessed.
"Have a seat." Torres indicated two large, comfortable-looking chairs in front of a highly polished but alarmingly cluttered desk.
"What's up?" Slater asked casually, crossing his foot over a knee and sinking back into one of the deep chairs.
Rafe took the other one which faced the west end of the building and a floor to ceiling bank of windows that overlooked the side lawn of the courthouse.
"Santos," she answered in a clipped voice. "That's what's up." Her lips flattened in a tight line as if the name on her lips was bitter.
Rafe looked up in surprise. "Vargas' henchman?"
"And his attorney of record, too." Her dark eyes were large in her pale face. "Nevada County picked him up for speeding. A friend of mine works in the sheriff's office up there." She slanted a look at Slater that might've been a token apology for stepping on his toes.
Slater shrugged and spread his hands wide as if he couldn't care less.
"Anyway, it was a bogus move. They wanted to have a reason to look inside the vehicle."
"Find anything?" Slater asked.
"Thirty grams of marijuana, single bag."
"Just enough to be a little trouble, right?" Slater thought a moment. "Was Santos alone?"
Torres nodded.
"Where was he coming from?"
"South. Maybe on his way to La Casa de Mujeres." Rafe noted her perfectly accented Spanish and the smug look Torres flashed him.
"Picking up Vargas, you think?"
"Likely."
The cryptic, short exchange irritated Rafe. "What the hell are you two talking about?"
"The house of wom – " Torres began.
"I know what the damn phrase means," he interrupted. "What's that got to do with Vargas' drugs?"
"Diego Vargas owns two whore houses in Nevada County," Slater explained, "both legit. But Torres thinks he's running at least one illegal brothel where he supplies his customers with ... special requests."
Rafe lifted his brows, but he already knew the answer.
"Underage girls," Isabella provided flatly, "some of them as young as seven or eight."
"Jesus." He hadn't known that, but he should've.
"Right," she confirmed sarcastically, "but I don't think Jesus had that much to say about it. You still think the drug angle is more important?"
Rafe shook his head dismissively. "That's not the point – which one's more important. We could butt our heads against that wall all day. What we can actually convict Vargas on, what'll hold up in court is the main thing."
"So you say." Torres tapped her foot, still standing behind her desk even though both the men were seated in front of her.
Rafe looked from Slater to her and back again. "You have any intel on an illegal house? Any idea where it's located? Evidence of ownership by Vargas?"
Torres shook her head, and Rafe figured it cost her to admit to that weakness in her case.
He made a hand gesture as if her silence made his point. "Then let's talk about drugs. How is Nevada County holding Santos with barely more than an ounce of weed? He should've been out already."
"They're pushing it," Torres admitted.
"Tell them to spring him," Slater suggested. "You're right, Bella, it was a bad move on their part."
"He was doing sixty-nine on I-80 coming over Donner Pass," she complained. "They ran the plates when they pulled him over, saw it was registered to Santos, and used his parole from Chino to search the vehicle."
"That's legit," Rafe said.
"Yeah," Slater answered, "but dumb. Now Scarface knows he's being watched carefully."
"Scarface?" Rafe asked.
"You've seen his picture?" Slater countered.
"Actually, no. I've been looking at Vargas. He's our main concern," Rafe answered.
"Vargas already knows he's on our radar," Slater commented. "Santos, not so much. Maybe."
"You should watch out for Santos," Torres warned, the same distasteful set to her mouth.
"The power behind the throne," Slater added.
"How do you mean?" Rafe asked.
Torres finally collapsed in a heap on her chair. "Diego Vargas is a very evil man," she explained, carefully formulating her reply. "But Santos? He's not only bad, he's smart."
"Like a fox," Slater added.
Chapter Nineteen
The last time Isabella Torres had seen Santos face to face was in Councilman Diego Vargas' office on a prior case. That meeting hadn't gone well then, and she dreaded confronting the man again. Now he seemed even more of a giant as he stood for arraignment while she watched from the rear of the courtroom.
Nevada County had decided to press forward on the drug charges although they were likely to be dismissed. Possession of the small amount of marijuana, not repackaged in individual baggies for sale, was a ridiculous charge, and in any other county wouldn't have been worth the court's time. Bella could tell by the look on the magistrate's face that this judge also didn't appreciate the waste.
A short, round attorney, expensively dressed in a black, light-weight suit, stood beside Santos, dwarfed by his client. Santos dipped his head to hear the lawyer whisper in his ear and then stood with military precision, looking neither left nor right, but straight toward the judge's raised podium.
"Your honor," the attorney intoned, "I respectfully request the charges against my client be dismissed and ask the court to sanction the aggressive actions of the sheriff's department in bringing Mr. Santos here on these ridiculous charges."
Frankly, Bella agreed with him.
Judge Schwartz frowned, his florid face a study in irritation, and after several moments of back and forth sniping between the prosecutor and the defense attorney, he finally groused, waving his hand over the podium. "Enough," he pronounced. "Time served and a thousand dollar fine."
He banged the gavel and gave the defendant a hard look. "Mr. Santos, don't let me see you in my court again. Case dismissed."
Santos shrugged inelegantly. His attorney whispered again in his ear while the bailiff removed him to the back of the courtroom to await the short return to the jail and his imminent release. Bella waited impatiently through the tedious process, alternately pacing the sidewalk and sitting in the small lobby. She didn't want to miss the opportunity to confront Santos head on.
When he finally exited through the chain link fence, Bella quickly blocked the way. "Mr. Santos, I'm Isabella Torres. I'd like a word with you."
The black, flat eyes slid over her with less concern than if she were a fly buzzing round his head. "See my attorney."
He moved around her, but she stepped in his way again. He stopped inches from her so she was forced to crane her neck to look up as he towered over her like a teacher over a disobedient student.
Narrowing his eyes, he raked his gaze down her body and up again, as if he were undressing her. No, she amended, nothing so sexual, more as if he were stripping her soul bare. She was grateful she'd worn four-inch heels today, although it hardly put them on an equal footing.
Bella suppressed a shudder and returned his look unflinchingly. When he examined her features more closely, for a moment she saw some emotion flicker within those obsidi
an eyes, a struggle for memory, and then recognition. It lasted a long ten seconds and then vanished. She shook her head, certain she'd imagined it.
Looking at a spot over her head, Santos reached into his breast jacket pocket and fingered a piece of paper. The ragged edges showed from beneath his long, dark fingers.
After a few seconds his face split into a grin, wide, white teeth flashing in his scarred face. "I have heard interesting things about the young assistant district attorney who fights so daringly in court. What does such a fierce warrior as yourself want with a humble Mexican man like me?"
They shifted aside to allow others to pass and Bella found herself pressed nearly chest to chest with Santos. His enormous size felt suffocating. "You're Diego Vargas' attorney, right?"
At his sudden scowl, she continued, "That isn't privileged information. It's a matter of public record."
"Yes, I represent Mr. Vargas," he answered at last.
"Mr. Santos," she mocked. "Are you sure a man with the vile inclinations of Diego Vargas should be called 'Mister?'" She hadn't meant to start so aggressively, but couldn't seem to help herself. She despised Vargas, and by association, this stone-faced man who guarded him.
Santos' face went hard, a granite slab transposing his dark visage. "You are speaking of my client, Assistant District Attorney Torres," he reminded her. "What do you want?"
"Like I said, I want to talk to you."
"About my client?" he scoffed.
"Yes." She watched his face carefully, both intrigued and repelled by the brutishness of his body, the intense stillness of his face. Almost as if all emotion had been stripped from him, flayed off by a master's cruel whip.
"Un hombre sabio no traiciona secretos." Santos said softly.
Bella clearly understood the phrase. A wise man doesn't betray secrets.
"Are you sure?" she asked. "Algunos secretos robarán un alma de hombre." Some secrets will steal a man's soul.
Santos' eyes widened slightly before his carved lips smiled and without a further word, he walked toward the parking area. She realized she'd surprised the bodyguard, and she doubted he was often taken unawares.
She called a warning after him. "I can subpoena you, Mr. Santos."
He paused, turned, and smiled grimly at her. "Perhaps you should not call me señor, either," he said then strolled toward a dark gray BMW in the parking lot.
From her angle Bella could see him pull what looked like a rectangular paper the size of an index card out of his jacket. He stared at it long moments before he replaced it and eased his giant's body behind the wheel. She continued to track the car until it made the turn toward the highway.
Diego Vargas was Santos' only client. She'd known he wouldn't talk to her, but she'd tried anyway on the off chance that she could trick him into saying something damaging. Instead, she'd tipped her own hand.
The drive back to Placer Hills passed in record time, and when Bella arrived, she reported to Slater about the results of Santos' day in court. Neither was surprised by the outcome.
She worked through lunch and beyond, ensconced in her office on the second floor of the courthouse. Today was one of the few days she had no court appearances and she wanted to take advantage to catch up on paperwork and research.
A brief knock on her open office door caused her to look up to see Agent Hashemi framing the doorway. Without preliminaries, he dove right in, the accusation strong in his voice. "Why are you being so damn stubborn about the drug case?"
"Well, hello, there, Agent Hashemi. And good afternoon to you, too."
Torres made that little moue that Rafe had found endearing a few nights ago, but which now just annoyed the hell out of him. "Answer the question, Torres."
He sat down in the comfortable chair opposite her desk and shook his head at the mess cluttered in front of her. How could she work in this chaos? "Why are you digging in your heels?"
The look Isabella flashed him would've killed a lesser man, Rafe decided, but even with her color high and her lips pursed tight against her teeth, she looked pretty damn good.
"You haven't given me anything, Hashemi," she answered mildly, continuing to riffle through papers. "Not a damned thing. So tell me how I'm the one who's being stubborn."
He shrugged his shoulders and shifted in his seat. "Okay, what do you want to know?"
She thought a moment, staring through the doorway into the dimly lit hall and the rickety elevator. He could see the wheels turning in her head and almost laughed. She wouldn't appreciate the humor in her bargaining for information he planned to give her anyway.
"I want to know what you found in that alley."
He smiled to himself. It had to be hard for her to mention the alley and conjure up images of the night they met. "Blood."
"Blood?"
"Yeah, you know, that red, viscous liquid?"
"I know blood," she snapped. "Whose?"
"Ex-con by the name of Morris Sullivan."
"Oh." That stopped her for a minute. "I don't know the name. Is he dead?"
"Don't know. We can't find a body." He looked away, thinking of Lupe's mangled torso.
She pounced on his hesitation, probably thinking he was holding back. "What else aren't you telling me?"
"The human blood was covered up with animal blood."
"Someone didn't want you to know about Sullivan." It wasn't a question, and he liked how her mind wrapped around the problem so fast.
"I thought maybe your office could tie Sullivan back to Diego Vargas," he suggested, getting up and casually walking around the office, noticing how much more spacious it was than Sheriff Slater's.
"Sullivan, that's Irish." Bella frowned, concentrating. "You think a white ex-con would be mixed up with the Mexicans?"
"Strange things happen in prison."
She nodded as if she'd just come to some important understanding. "Is that why you told me about the blood in the alley? Because you wanted my help on Sullivan?"
"Yeah, probably." He grinned unrepentantly. "I'm pretty much a bastard."
"That's what I figured," she said, but with a smile that made his heart skip a beat or two.
Rafe tried again, this time gentling his voice because he sensed something grievous under the surface of her smooth façade. "Why are you so hell bent on ignoring the drug case, Torres, when it's much easier to prosecute than human trafficking?"
She lowered her eyes, but not before Rafe saw a flash of pain in them.
"Okay, never mind about that," he said, unwilling to probe into whatever had caused that distress, unwilling to hurt her more. Time enough to pour salt in the wounds later, he thought. "How about another quid pro quo?"
She raised those dark chocolate eyes to meet his and from his higher position he noted how they were lushly surrounded by thick black lashes. Aha, a spark of interest.
"What do you have in mind?"
"Tell me what happened at the Santos arraignment." The Nevada court proceeding was information he could easily obtain, but he wanted to broker a truce with her. Five minutes later, she'd given him the shortened version, but he didn't mind. He still believed any information about Santos wasn't significant enough to pursue.
"I think Santos is the key," she said, completely upsetting Rafe's train of thought.
He perched on the edge of her desk and leaned forward. "How so?"
"Santos is the attorney of record." She held up her fingers one at a time. "He's been with Vargas a very long time. He's moved from thuggish bodyguard to closest confidant. We should be tailing Santos as closely as we follow Vargas."
Rafe considered. "If there are secrets, you think Santos will know where the bodies are buried?"
She nodded, started gathering up her papers and stuffing them into a battered briefcase. The top of her desk remained as cluttered as when he'd walked in, but Torres seemed ready to call it a day.
An impulse he'd no doubt later kick himself for took over his brain and the words tumbled out of his mouth before he h
ad time to reconsider. "How about we get a late dinner?"
She glanced at the clock before saying, "Oh, I don't know if that works very well for us, Hashemi."
"Why's that?" he pressed.
She walked to the door where he trailed her out and watched her lock up. "Because every time we eat or drink together, we fight."
"Not every time, Torres." He grinned and watched the flush creep up her neck to paint her pretty cheeks a dusky rose beneath the golden skin.
Chapter Twenty
The leggy blonde staggered out of the downtown Sacramento bar ahead of the guy, groped in her jacket pocket for her keys, and pressed the unlock button on the brand new, silver Lexus. All riiiight, he thought, this babe has green. Or else Daddy does. Slightly less drunk than the girl, the guy tried to wrestle the keys from her grip.
"Nuthin' doin,' pretty boy," she laughed and then hiccupped loudly. "Oops, sorry." She burst into a series of giggles that both of them found hilarious.
"Hey," he warned, "it's your ride."
"Damn straight. Come on, Shel," she urged the dark-haired girl just coming out of the bar. The brunette tottered on alarmingly high heels. "Thas right, girl, get going."
The second girl – Shelby, the guy thought her name was – climbed into the back of the Lexus and immediately stretched out on the seat. For some reason the blonde – what the hell was her name? – burst into another round of laughter. Come to think of it, the whole situation was pretty hilarious.
The blonde climbed into the driver's seat and fumbled with inserting the key into the ignition. "Damn key. Whas wrong?"
After a few tries she made it, and by this time, the guy had settled into the passenger seat and hooked up his seat belt. The broad wasn't sober enough to drive and he didn't want to be scraped off the asphalt. This reminded him of the drunk driving video they'd watched in high school – Red Asphalt – which he'd found unbelievably comical, and he started laughing again.
The blonde looked so adorable trying to figure out what to do next with the car that he reached over and kissed her soundly on the mouth, sticking his tongue hard between her lips. God, he hoped he could get it up with all the booze in his system. Shame to miss doing this one.
