The Traitor

by Jo Robertson

  The girl in the back seat started to snore softly as they peeled away from the curb on Sixteenth Street. The blonde got a dozen or so blocks from the bar without an accident and approached the onramp.

  They'd left the bar before midnight, too early to call it a night. "Hey, I got an idea," the guy said. "Take the next ramp, no, not there, next one." He directed her south on Interstate 80, and they lurched onto the freeway. "I just 'membered where we can get some really good smack."

  "Oh yeah, baby, I like that idea," she said, running her hand up his thigh and lingering over his crotch.

  God, he really hoped he could keep a hard-on. Maybe the H would help. After turning east on Highway 50, he directed her to the Folsom turnoff and pointed the way toward a middle-class neighborhood in an older section of Folsom.

  When they arrived at the blue-trimmed stucco house shrouded in shrubbery and barely visible from the street, he stumbled from the car and lurched toward the porch. No light on. These people liked to stay under the radar.

  A few minutes later, he made the exchange and returned to the Lexus. "Babe, this is primo H. You'll like it."

  "Where to?" she asked, staring at the white glassine packets.

  "Turn right onto Auburn-Folsom. Let's go to the lake."

  "Great plan," she said, starting up the car. "Beale's Lake, right?"

  Twenty minutes later they pulled up to the barricaded entrance gate at Beale's Lake, and the girl – Joanie was her name, he suddenly remembered – parked the car in the turnabout. They left Shelby in the backseat of the car sleeping off her drunk, and hauling a blanket out of the Lexus' trunk, walked the short distance to the beach.

  They spread the blanket on the sand near the water. The lake was closed at this hour and the beach deserted. He used to come here all the time when he was a teenager. The park was closed, but he knew the rangers hardly ever bothered anyone unless they built an unauthorized fire on the beach.

  After settling down, the guy produced the packets and prepared the heroin for snorting. Then they both lay back on the blanket and looked at the night sky. In minutes he could feel his heart rate slow down and his blood pressure drop. Euphoria swept over him like a warm blanket, a surge of pleasure that was better than sex.

  He glanced at Joanie, but she'd already closed her eyes. God, this was great stuff. He thought he said the words aloud, but wasn't sure.

  When he looked over at Joanie again, he saw her lips had turned blue and her body was very pale in the light from the moon. With effort he propped himself on an elbow and opened her lid, looked at the pinpoint pupils. Damn, she probably wasn't used to the good stuff. Was she going into a coma?

  Fuck, he thought mildly, but couldn't bring himself to get worked up about it. Why was this his problem? He didn't know how to do CPR, so what the hell could he do?

  Anyway, he didn't want anything to interfere with the melting away of all his troubles. He lay back down and stared at the stars, feeling the girl's body begin to tremble next to him.

  As she convulsed, he wondered why she was bumming his high.

  #

  "Not every time," Rafe repeated as he followed Isabella to the elevator. He remembered the night she had spent in his apartment, the excitement and thrill of all that soft fullness and warm passion against him. He knew she was thinking the same thing by the way she avoided his eyes.

  He shook his head and warned himself off. It was just as well she'd refused his dinner invitation. "Suit yourself," he said with as much nonchalance as he could muster when she refused a second time.

  She cleared her throat and jabbed at the button. They stepped into the elevator and rode down to the first floor in silence.

  The antique old Otis was slow as molasses in January and Rafe couldn't wait to hit the bottom floor and head back to his motel, but after they'd gone through the metal detectors and said goodnight to the on-duty guard, Isabella's voice stopped him.

  "I guess I have to eat," she muttered, sighing theatrically, "but you'd better not fight with me again."

  He laughed, relief and trepidation mixing together as he wondered what the hell he was getting himself into.

  They decided to take her car, but as they walked toward the parking lot, she turned to him. "You know, I'm not all that hungry." She looked up at him from beneath impossibly thick lashes. "How about I fix us something light at my house? Would that work for you?"

  He hesitated. That would more than work for him, although he wasn't sure being alone with her was a good idea. She probably wanted to worm more information out of him.

  Before he could think better of it, his maverick tongue overrode his brain. "Sounds good. I'll follow you in my car."

  Isabella pulled her car into an attached garage to the left of a neat, bungalow-style home in Placer Hills, a few miles from the courthouse. Rafe parked his on the street and walked up a long path of flagstones across a deep, beautifully tended lawn to meet her at the porch landing. Riotous with color, rose bushes lined the front of the house and what looked like every space possible.

  The front double-doors had impressive stained glass windows from waist high up to the top. Too easy to break into, Rafe thought, but inside the foyer, Torres coded numbers into what looked like a sophisticated alarm system.

  The front entry opened into a long hall, a huge great room to the right and the kitchen to the left where she headed after hanging their jackets in the entry closet. He wandered down the hall, examining the small, one-story house, two bedrooms and a bath angling off to the right and what looked like a master bedroom and bath, along with a small utility room, to the left.

  The kitchen was small and cozy, a recessed window over the sink looking out over all the crazy colors of her front landscaping. She would enjoy standing there and looking out at the mass of flowers, and he briefly imagined her dressed in skimpy night clothes, her hair mussed up and drinking her morning coffee.

  While Isabella prepared several turkey and cheese sandwiches, Rafe leaned against the stove beside her and admired the taut stretch of her breasts beneath the filmy blouse. When she bent over to retrieve potato chips from a lower shelf, he watched the play of her ass beneath her slacks and thought of gripping the firm flesh with his hands.

  A sharp image of his hands and mouth on her, his fingers deep inside her slapped him back to reality. He shifted uncomfortably and moved to sit at the table in the small kitchen alcove while she brought the sandwiches on plain white plates which she set on floral placemats.

  "Why don't you get the drinks?" she asked as she reached for glasses in a high cupboard.

  He looked inside the refrigerator. "Beer or soda?"

  "I'll take soda." She filled the glasses with ice from the ice-maker and smiled at him. "Anything wrong?" Her voice sounded too innocent for her not to be aware of how his damn body reacted to her.

  He shook his head and plopped down the cans on the table. They ate quickly and discussed the case for a while in the kitchen.

  Afterward they moved to the great room where several deep sofas in a natty fabric and a wide-screen television decorated the high-beamed room. "Wow, look at that puppy."

  She grinned. "My single indulgence."

  "Funny," he said as they took their seats on the sofa facing the screen, "you don't seem like much of a TV watcher."

  "Oh, I'm an avid sports fan – the Forty-Niners, the Lakers." She laughed. "A gift from my dad and three older brothers."

  "Who'd have thought?"

  He turned to face her and placed his arm along the sofa back. She kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet underneath her. Music she had turned on earlier wafted from the stereo system on the far wall.

  In the dim light, she looked soft and vulnerable. They listened to the sounds of Ella and Louie on the stereo. Obviously her tastes ran to jazz.

  Later, they watched the news and then Letterman. Rafe found he enjoyed just sitting quietly with her, a sharp contrast to the physicality of their initial meeting. Finally he dared bring up th
e sensitive issue between them. Why was her stance on the human trafficking charges so much stronger than on the drug trafficking? Hell, what did it matter what they got him on as long as they put that scum Diego Vargas away?

  Her voice muted and quiet, she made the usual moral argument about the destruction of innocent young girls. The degradation of woman and the heinous reality of abuse, rape, and sodomy. But Rafe intuited that there was much more that she wasn't saying. "What else," he murmured, "what else drives you like this, Isabella?"

  At first he was sure she wouldn't answer him, but then her voice hitched in her throat and she spoke so low he had to tilt his head forward to hear. "I had a sister once – Maria."

  When she didn't go on, Rafe asked, "What about Maria?"

  Long moments followed in which Bella stared across the room, tension in every line of her face and body. "She disappeared. Maria went on a trip to Mexico for her high-school graduation, and she never came back."

  "And you think – "

  She interrupted him, angry tears in her eyes which she tried to dash away with trembling fingers. "I don't know what I think, Hashemi. All right? I just don't know."

  Fat tears rolled silently down her cheeks, her beautiful mouth trembled so that the only thing he could do was cover it with his own. He swore his only intention was to comfort her, nothing more, but she groaned as his lips touched hers and answered his kiss with a responding hunger that flamed the fire.

  He ground his mouth into hers, ran his fingers through her thick hair, pulling out the pins that held it up, and tangled his fingers in the soft thick curls. He kissed her neck, pressing his mouth down her flesh until he got to the top of her blouse.

  He undid the first two buttons to run his fingers along the swell of her breasts at the top of her brassiere. When he followed with his mouth, he felt her shudder in his arms and wondered if she'd climax from just this much. He felt the painful, hard thrust of his erection against his slacks and pulled her onto his lap, continuing his assault on her mouth and neck. God, she felt so good, tasted so delicious.

  Bella squirmed in his lap and he knew she could feel the hard, hot thrust of him against her ass. He reached inside her bra and caressed one breast, lightly pinching the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She moaned and began her own assault of his jaw and neck.

  He flipped her on her back and quickly ripped off his shirt and undershirt before he stretched out on the sofa, half covering her body with his own. He framed her face with his hands, holding himself off her body with his elbows. His breathing was labored and unsteady.

  "What are we doing here, Torres?" he muttered.

  "I don't know. I don't care," she answered, eyes closed as she kissed him hard, her tongue smooth and urgent in his mouth.

  God, she was like a drug. He couldn't keep his hands off her, couldn't leave her alone. He wouldn't be satisfied until he was deep inside that sweet, soft body, until he pounded away at her like –

  An annoying buzz sounded in his pants pocket.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Diego Vargas' office in downtown Sacramento was a visual testament to every immigrant who'd made a better life in the land of the free and the home of the brave. The surroundings of the councilman's office showed his Mexican heritage and his powerful connections to California's movers and shakers, Latinos and gringos alike.

  Gabriel Santos disliked being summoned here, especially at this ungodly hour of the morning after a long week of driving many miles up and down the state. He wondered privately why Vargas could not have conducted this business at his home instead of having Santos pick him up in the Cadillac and accompany him downtown.

  After they entered the office, Santos remained standing while Diego sat in a stiff-backed chair behind the impressive dark wood desk, signing papers and ignoring his attorney's presence. Glancing around the room, the attorney noted the new addition to Vargas' desk – a family photo. The councilman never kept pictures in the office except political ones, him with the governor and various congressmen, with celebrities, even of him with César Chávez when Diego was a boy.

  The new photo was of Vargas and Corazon, his eleven-year-old daughter, a recent picture because Cory wore new braces on her teeth and tried to hide her smile. Diego had his arm around her shoulder, holding her tight against his barrel chest.

  And where was Vargas' wife Magdalena in this family picture?

  Finally Vargas signed the last document with a flourish and looked up. "The RICO charges have been dropped?" he asked, continuing the thread of the discussion they'd begun as they drove from Vargas' mansion to downtown.

  "Sí, we knew the feds were not going to be able to prove them." Santos crossed his arms and shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet. "But from last year, the rape charges – "

  "That was completely bogus!" Vargas' thick brows drew together in a scowl as he interrupted. "You told me the girl agreed to silence, and the D.A.'s office has not pursued the allegations."

  "They haven't, El Vaquero, but that is what bothers me."

  "Why should that bother you?" Vargas shoved back impatiently from his desk, his ample gut stretched over his belt. "It is good, no?"

  "The Bigler County D.A.'s office had too much evidence to drop the charges, but they did not follow the investigation. One has to wonder why that is, considering Sheriff Slater is usually like a bulldog with a bone."

  "I do not fucking care why," Vargas growled as he pushed out of his chair and moved to stand chest to belly with Santos. "There are more pressing matters."

  Santos willed his face into granite, a trick he had a great deal of practice with. "What matters?"

  "Another overdose, some stupid college kids."

  "Local?"

  "Granite Heights at Beale's Lake."

  Santos shrugged. "They will not be able to tie the charges to us. Our protection runs too deep."

  "¡Chingada! Maybe in L.A., but not here!" As Vargas shouted, spittle dotted Santos' tie and shirt front. Diego raised his meaty fist as if he would strike. "Take care of it. Get rid of the dealer," he ground out. He spun on his heels and stalked back to his desk, sinking heavily into the leather chair.

  Santos wiped his hand discreetly over his chest. Vargas threatened and blustered, but he would never strike Santos. Even El Vaquero knew which lines not to cross with his bodyguard. Santos tried again to persuade his pig-headed boss. "Such reactionary steps are not necessary, El Jefe, and they may bring more attention to the situation that we wish."

  "¡No cuido! I don't care. Get rid of the dealer." He passed over a folded note. "Here is the address. Do it yourself. I do not wish to have loose ends." He swiveled his chair towards the window and ignored Santos while he quietly left the office.

  Ay, some day Diego would go too far. Wounds had been festering within Santos for over twenty years and the pus of their infection was a grievous lesion on his body. One day he must lance the abscess and cut out the pustule to cleanse it. He did not look forward to that day – Santos was a man to avoid overt trouble – but neither did he fear it.

  Downstairs in the parking lot, he pulled the sepia photo from his jacket. The pickup and delivery of the girl in the picture had been the first important assignment he had completed for Diego Vargas many years ago. Santos had been a young man then, eager to make his mark, hungry for far more than food to fill his belly.

  New to this country, he nevertheless had many years of practice at thuggery in Mexico. Huge and strong like an ox even as a young man in his late teens, he had honed his skills in the fires of Mexico's slums.

  But he never forgot the young girl, those large dark eyes, huge in her frightened face, the slender body and full breasts. Her name was Maria and she was seventeen. Vargas was a fat pig of a man even then, and he liked his girls young.

  #

  A moment passed before Rafe identified the sound that had interrupted them. Cold reality washed over him, and he saw the same mood-breaker in Isabella's wide, chocolate eyes. Reluctant
ly, he rolled off her and sat on the edge of the sofa, slanting a look her way.

  After the fourth ring he flipped open the cell phone and barked into the receiver. "Hashemi."

  Slater's voice sounded equally loud over the phone and by the look on Bella's face, Rafe knew she could hear Slater's words. She furiously shook her head.

  "Trouble here, Mr. Agent-Man," the sheriff said in his deep, slow drawl. "Better get out here pronto."

  "Drugs?"

  "Yeah, maybe more of the China White."

  "Where?"

  "Beale's Lake. Get directions from Torres."

  Rafe turned to glance at Bella whose look clearly said, how did he know?

  "Give me her address," Rafe covered. "I'll pick her up."

  "Sure." Slater's voice sounded puzzled, but Rafe couldn't tell if that was real or he was fishing. "But I got the impression she was with you."

  "Why the hell would Torres be with me? She can hardly stand me." Rafe wasn't about to let the sheriff know what'd happened between them tonight. Or that he was sitting on her sofa right now. At her house. At this hour.

  "No reason," Slater said cryptically and rattled off the address that Rafe already knew.

  He closed the phone and put it back in his pocket, not looking at Torres as he put his shirt back on. "There's another drug death." He ran his fingers through his hair in a quick attempt at combing.

  When he looked over at her, she'd buttoned up her blouse, tucked her shirt in her slacks, and put her shoes on. Her high color gave her a vibrant, sexy look. Thank God for the interruption. He felt like a man at the edge of a precipice who'd barely escaped losing his footing and plunging off.

  Fifteen minutes later they left, taking separate cars to the scene at Beale's Lake, Rafe following Torres because he was unfamiliar with the area. When they arrived at the lake, he noted the Lexus parked outside the gate, all four doors ajar. The EMTs were working over a dark-haired girl in the back seat. Slater's battered truck and three patrol cars lined the turnabout, and Rafe and Isabella had to park some distance from the gate.