She had to crane her neck to see who the chief was about to introduce. The stage was packed with so many police personnel that some had been forced into the background. The row of officers parted as the chief announced the name.
“Lieutenant Richard Diaz.”
Veranda’s jaw dropped. Sam nudged her and she snapped her mouth shut.
Tall and athletically built, with tan skin and eyes so dark they appeared black, Diaz inclined his head briefly before he melded back into the line of police spanning the stage.
She couldn’t believe Commander Webster had chosen Diaz as the new Homicide lieutenant. In his position as a sergeant in the Professional Standards Bureau, Diaz had been a constant thorn in her side. His zeal for rules and regulations had made it almost impossible for her to do her job, especially the last few weeks. Now she would be under his command.
Furious about Diaz’s appointment, Veranda momentarily forgot her trepidation about the chief’s next announcement.
“The most critical position,” Tobias said, “is the individual who will lead the investigation itself.” The unease roiling just beneath the surface of her thoughts all morning flooded back as the chief cleared his throat.
An hour ago, Tobias had tapped her to lead the investigation. When she objected, he waved away her concerns about mixed reactions from the media. Their coverage of her recent run-in with the Villalobos cartel still rankled her. She’d landed on her feet, but not before paying a steep price. Now her face would be back on television. Accompanied by questions about her suitability to lead the task force. She wanted to step backward and slip behind the row of blue uniforms, but she lifted her chin and steeled herself as Tobias continued.
“For that assignment, I chose someone who has intimate knowledge of cartels, their history, methods of operation, and major players. In short, I appointed a Homicide detective who also has a strong background in narcotics enforcement.” He swiveled in her direction. “I designated Detective Veranda Cruz as lead investigator on the task force.”
A scald crept up the back of Veranda’s neck when a shocked silence ensued. Every eye turned to her as she stepped forward, gave a curt nod, and tried to lose herself in the line of detectives next to Sam.
Questions ricocheted around the room until a print reporter with a deep, booming voice gained the chief’s attention. “Detective Cruz was recently ousted from the Drug Enforcement Bureau under questionable circumstances. Why would you put her in such a crucial position?”
A hot wave of shame blasted her at the memory of her expulsion from DEB, a public spectacle. When her face was plastered all over the news, her career as an undercover narc had abruptly ended.
Tobias had a ready response. “An internal investigation exonerated Detective Cruz. In her capacity as a narcotics detective, she led a task force that included several federal agencies, and therefore has a proven track record of leading this type of team. She played an integral role in making the largest busts in the history of our department. Her work was exemplary, and the circumstances of her departure from DEB were beyond her control.”
The reporter kept gnawing the bone. “Detective Cruz’s informant was exposed and murdered by the cartel. Can she be trusted to safeguard sensitive information?”
“The Professional Standards Bureau conducted a thorough investigation into the facts surrounding the unfortunate death of her confidential informant. She was cleared.”
“Wasn’t Detective Cruz just recently transferred to Homicide? Shouldn’t someone more experienced lead the investigation?”
Her cheeks warmed. The reporter had voiced her other concern. Despite her investigative experience in property crimes and narcotics, she’d only recently transferred to Homicide.
Tobias appeared unfazed. “She won’t work alone. Her fellow squad members are among our most seasoned detectives. Detective Cruz is partnered with Detective Sam Stark, who many of you know by reputation as our most senior Homicide investigator.”
A male reporter standing next to Kiki Lowell started to pose a question, then yelped, hopping on one foot. Kiki glanced at him, then down at her five-inch spiked stilettos. “Oops.” She gave a disingenuous smile before directing her gaze at the chief. “Could this announcement cause the cartel to put a bounty on Detective Cruz?”
The chief’s face reddened. “No. And that kind of speculation is completely irresponsible. This news conference is over. All information released here is in your press kits.” He stepped back from the microphones, pivoted, and stalked toward a rear exit from the stage, the mayor in his wake.
Behind their retreating backs, several reporters called out to Veranda for a comment. Lieutenant Diaz appeared and moved in front of her to intervene, directing questions to Public Affairs as she turned and left the stage.
Once in the hallway, which was cut off from the media by heavy double doors, she spun and confronted Diaz, launching into her area of greatest concern. “Why are you running day-to-day operations at the Fusion Center?”
A sardonic smile raised one corner of his mouth. “Well, Detective, it’s a pleasure to work with you again too.”
She put a hand on her hip. “Will you work with me … or against me, like before?”
Sam, who had halted next to her, interrupted. “Lieutenant.” He proffered a hand. “Congratulations on your promotion, and welcome to Homicide.”
Diaz shook Sam’s hand. “Thank you, Detective.” He turned his dark gaze on Veranda. “We’ll all get used to our new situations. Meanwhile, I’ve arranged for the computer forensics team to help get the Fusion Center ready. They’ll work through the night to set up equipment. You two swing by this evening and check out the facility to see if there’s anything else we need. The computer geeks won’t get there for another hour. You can grab a bite before you head over.”
“Yes, sir.” She laced the last word with contempt.
He stepped closer, invading her space. “You heard the media out there. A lot of people are questioning your leadership of this operation. The chief and mayor put their faith in you. As your supervisor, it falls to me to make sure they don’t regret it.” He angled his head down to her ear and lowered his voice. “Know that I’ll be watching every step you take.”
She refused to give him the last word. “You and everyone else.”
4
Villalobos family
compound, Mexico
Adolfo Villalobos occupied one of five chairs surrounding the ornately carved conference table in his father’s opulent office. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades as he caught a glint of afternoon sunlight reflecting from the crystal water decanter. His eyes traced the beam over the mahogany-paneled walls. He fought to keep his expression calm as anxiety coursed through him. During his flight to Mexico on the family jet, he’d rehearsed his speech. Now, in El Lobo’s presence, the words dried in his mouth like dust in the desert.
His father, Hector Villalobos, had designated everyone’s place at the table as soon as his children came of age. As the family’s leader, he sat at the head. His firstborn son, Adolfo, was directly to his right. The chair to Adolfo’s right stood empty. Hector’s second son, Bartolo, used to claim that seat. Its vacancy still left a palpable sense of loss among the family in the room.
His youngest siblings, Carlos and Daria, occupied the two chairs across from Adolfo. Hector left the foot of the table vacant so everyone had an unobstructed view of the massive flat-screen television, now dark, affixed to the wall.
Adolfo squirmed in the plush leather chair, awaiting his father’s judgment.
“I am disappointed in you, mi’jo,” Hector finally said.
The twitching muscle in Hector’s jaw told Adolfo his father was livid. In refined Spanish, Hector spoke softly—another indication of his fury. Other men shouted and hurled objects when angered, but El Lobo grew quiet.
His father had just clicked
off the live satellite newsfeed from Phoenix Police headquarters. Immediately after Roberto Bernal’s fiasco at the mall, Adolfo, Carlos, and Daria had been summoned to the palatial Mexican estate. They were wheels up in the family jet within the hour, arriving from Phoenix at the private airstrip on the family compound before the news conference began. Now, watching the media coverage, the enormity of Adolfo’s failure pressed down on his shoulders.
He salvaged what he could. “At least Raymond Castillo didn’t get to the police. We only knew about his plans because of me.”
Hector’s eyes narrowed to obsidian slits. “You mean because of Nacho.”
Adolfo barely managed to hide his shock. His father had referred to his computer expert, Ignacio Vasquez, by his nickname. While
people named Ignacio were commonly called Nacho, Adolfo knew his father’s comment conveyed a veiled threat. He has an informant in my camp. And wants me to know it. The realization troubled Adolfo on many levels.
He tried for a businesslike air. “Yes, Nacho acted on my orders. I promised you weeks ago I would hack into the Phoenix Police Department server, and I did.”
Adolfo dreaded Daria’s inevitable interjection. She found her opportunity and pounced. “Yes, yes.” She rolled her eyes. “We all remember you crowing about reading Veranda Cruz’s case files.”
Four days ago, an SSS gang member shot one of Adolfo’s dealers while stealing his heroin shipment. No one had dared to cross the cartel before, and Daria laid the blame at Adolfo’s feet. According to her, his weakness invited attack.
He held his anger in check. “I wasn’t bragging. Without information from our hacks, we would never have known Castillo planned to turn state’s evidence.” He shook his head, considering the breach of his family’s operation. The one piece of the puzzle he hadn’t found. “I still have no idea how Castillo got into our supply line.”
“I do.” Hector ran his fingers along the lapel of his white linen suit. “And I have already taken steps to correct the problem at its source in South America. Still, Castillo had to be silenced before he could talk to Veranda Cruz.”
Again schooling his features to hide his surprise, Adolfo reinforced his point. “Which is why I had him killed.”
Instead of smiling on his eldest son, Hector scowled. “Castillo could not have contacted Detective Cruz if you had already killed her.” The planes of his face hardened into stone. “I recall your vow to eliminate her. But instead she now leads a task force to hunt us down.”
Adolfo cast his eyes around the table at his siblings, seeking support. None came. “As I said before, her death is part of a plan I’ve already set in motion. Soon I’ll have everything in place. We have to act carefully now. Every eye is on us.”
Daria crossed her legs, a smug expression crossing her beautiful face. “And whose fault is that?”
Adolfo’s blood boiled as he slowly turned to confront his sister. Her smirk told him she intended to undermine his leadership at every turn. He struggled for composure. “I sent Roberto Bernal in to perform a critical task. All he had to do was eliminate Castillo, but he screwed up.” He turned back to his father. “I promise you, Papá, he will pay for his mistake.”
Hector picked up a second remote from the table’s polished surface and pressed a button. “I have no doubt he will.” As his father spoke, Adolfo heard the mechanism of a wooden panel the size of a single-car garage door sliding to one side. Crafted to match the woodwork in the wall, the panel was undetectable until opened.
Adolfo’s stomach lurched as the panel slowly retracted to reveal a glass wall. The transparent partition formed one side of a small room. Adolfo had witnessed atrocities committed in that chamber many times. He knew the glass wall facing the office was bulletproof and the side walls were plastic-coated for easy cleaning. His father often arranged to have special punishments meted out as designated individuals watched.
El Lobo disciplined his employees and his enemies in a manner calculated for maximum impact. Adolfo recalled being forced to observe killings, maimings, and beatings from his early childhood. His father always explained who had been sentenced, who was to administer the punishment, and why. Each aspect carried significance. Adolfo hated to watch the brutality, but his siblings seemed to relish the spectacle.
He strove to appear calm as Carlos and Daria swiveled their leather office chairs completely around so they could have a front-row seat for the show. Hot bile rose into his throat as he recognized the man strapped to a metal folding chair in the center of the viewing room.
Roberto Bernal’s eyes, filled with terror, stared at them as he worked his jaws frantically under two thick strips of silver duct tape. Adolfo was certain the muffled gurgles he heard were Roberto pleading for his life, but knew it would do no good. Failure on such a grand scale had sealed his fate. Adolfo would have seen to the execution back in Phoenix, but he would have ordered one of his men to perform the task and dump the body into one of the hundreds of empty mineshafts that dotted the desert outside the city.
For a full minute, nothing happened. Dawning horror crept into Adolfo’s throat as he realized his father meant for him to carry out the execution. El Lobo knew his oldest son abhorred the sight of blood. Knew the gore and wails of agony from a condemned prisoner repulsed him. He was also aware his father wanted him to perform such acts to show his resolve to rule their empire with an iron fist.
Resigned, Adolfo got to his feet. A narrow door inside the chamber opened. Adolfo slumped back down in his chair in surprise when Salazar strode into the viewing room to stand directly behind Roberto.
Adolfo’s sharp intake of breath matched that of his siblings. He had no idea El Matador had returned to Mexico. His roiling stomach iced over.
Salazar was handsome, intelligent, and, as far as Adolfo could tell, without conscience. After Salazar had proven himself both capable and lethal in cartel operations, El Lobo had taken him under his wing, treating him as a protégé and trusted “fixer.” Because of that bond, Adolfo viewed Salazar as a threat and prevailed upon his father to place him in charge of the various Villalobos grow operations in Colombia. Adolfo applauded his own cleverness when his father agreed and sent Salazar away to South America. Secretly, Adolfo hoped one of the vicious rival Colombian cartels would exterminate Salazar, but the man had proved to be not only an excellent businessman, extracting more product from the farmers than ever, but also ruthless at eradicating threats.
Now he was back in Mexico. Why? His appearance on the scene when things were going badly did not bode well for Adolfo. He stole a quick glance at his father, who touched his fingertips to his forehead in silent salute to Salazar inside the enclosure.
Adolfo tore his gaze away from his father and looked back to Roberto. Salazar inclined his head toward El Lobo and reached inside his suit jacket. Unlike his father, who favored white Armani suits, Salazar always wore solid black. The color matched his hair, eyes, goatee, and, Adolfo suspected, his soul.
Salazar slid a Sig Sauer pistol out of a shoulder holster under the tailored jacket. Trained with guns from early childhood, Adolfo recognized this was not Salazar’s customary matte black .50-caliber Desert Eagle. Clearly not wanting to test the limits of the ballistic glass, he assumed Salazar had chosen a 9mm handgun from his personal arsenal for today’s wet work.
Adolfo’s heart pounded as Salazar raised the pistol behind Roberto. Carlos leaned forward in his chair, eyes riveted to the scene. Daria licked her lips and bared her teeth in a feral smile.
Salazar placed the muzzle of the gun against the back of Roberto’s head. Roberto squeezed his eyes shut and let out a muffled scream through the duct tape.
Adolfo held his breath. As if in slow motion, he saw Salazar’s finger tighten on the trigger. A split second later, Roberto’s face exploded. Adolfo flinched as a crimson plume spattered the glass in front of him. His gorge rose when he peered through streaks of brain
matter oozing down the clear panel to see Salazar calmly slide his gun back into its holster. The reinforced glass had stopped the round, which left a pea-sized impact crater in the smooth surface.
Adolfo let out his breath in a long sigh. Too late, he recollected himself and cut his eyes to his father, who watched him with overt disdain. In that moment, Adolfo understood that he had orchestrated this entire performance as a chastisement. Roberto had been punished for his failures but, as always, the circumstances of the execution conveyed a message. Adolfo had been forced to watch on the sidelines while a more capable member of the cartel carried out the death sentence. Furthermore, the rest of the family would see that someone else had been called in to correct the mistake while they also witnessed Adolfo’s aversion to violence, contributing to the perception that he was weak and further undermining his efforts to gain control of the cartel as future leader of the family.
Suffused with impotent rage, he had no time to recover before the main door of the office opened and the butler ushered in Salazar, quietly shutting the door behind him. Relaxed, Salazar ambled across the room and took the empty chair to Adolfo’s right at the table. No one had used Bartolo’s chair since his death. Adolfo sensed his father had arranged this unprecedented incursion into their inner sanctum in advance, but why?
Carlos and Daria rotated their chairs to face Adolfo and Salazar across the table. All four turned to El Lobo, who steepled his fingers.
“That particular problem has been dealt with,” he said. “Unfortunately, Roberto Bernal left us a mess to clean up.” His father jerked his chin toward a grayish-pink slimy clump oozing down the glass. Adolfo, whose seat faced the wide clear panel, caught the double entendre. Roberto’s failure to quietly silence Castillo left the Villalobos family in the crosshairs of every law enforcement agency in the US. Even Mexican authorities were involved in the investigation.
Phoenix Burning Page 3
