Sam seemed to sense her pensive mood and resumed the conversation with Cole. “I assume you provided a report directly to Commander Webster?”
Cole nodded. “I finished it while I watched the news conference on television.” Disgust tightened his features. “Why did your department promote that prick Diaz, and why is he now in charge of your entire Homicide Unit?”
The mention of her lieutenant’s name pulled Veranda from her dark musing. “Search me. That’s a primo assignment. Never heard of a newbie lieutenant getting it.”
Sam snorted. “When you’ve been around as long as me, nothing surprises you. My guess is the brass wanted someone with a PSB background in Homicide after what happened with the mole.”
Veranda considered Sam’s point. The Professional Standards Bureau conducted internal investigations. The recent discovery of a cartel informant in their midst had stunned and embarrassed the department. If Commander Webster wanted more oversight for his detectives, Diaz was the type to crack the whip.
Cole groaned. “Toeing the line is one thing, but Diaz is so tight he squeaks.” His dense brows furrowed as he eyed Veranda. “And his interest in you is way too personal. I don’t want him anywhere near you.”
Sam pushed his plate away. “You should be happy Veranda will be in Diaz’s chain of command then.”
“Why?”
“Now that she falls under his supervision, he’s strictly forbidden to have any personal relationship with her.”
Cole’s face split into a broad grin, dimples on full display as he happily cut another bite of his burro. “That’s the first piece of good news I’ve heard all day. One less thing for me to think about since I’m flying out tomorrow morning.”
“Where you headed?” Sam asked.
“BATF is hosting an advanced course on the origin and cause of fires for arson investigators. It’s a two-week class, specifically targeting courtroom testimony, at the Redstone Arsenal in Huntsville, Alabama. Looks like I’ll be leaving just when things are heating up again.”
“Don’t worry,” Sam said. “Nothing could get as screwed up as the last mess.”
Cole ran a hand through his sandy hair and turned to Veranda. “Which brings me to my other question after watching the news. Why are they putting you in the hot seat?”
Veranda prepared for the inevitable. “I’ve investigated the cartel for over two years. Led a task force with Feds on the team before too.” She shrugged. “I’m the logical choice.” She knew Cole wouldn’t like it. He’d become increasingly leery about the risks she took.
His blue eyes became icy slits. “I’m sure the Villalobos cartel saw the same media coverage.”
She gave him a defiant stare. “Doesn’t matter if they did. Someone has to lead the charge.”
He dropped his fork on the paper plate. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“It’s not about your feelings. I do my job.”
Cole bristled. “Why does it have to be you? Can’t someone else head up the team?”
Sam’s calming baritone rumbled as he waded into the fray. “Veranda makes sense as leader.”
Cole shot Sam a look. “Aren’t you senior to her? Shit, to everyone? Why can’t you—”
“It’s got nothing to do with seniority. And it’s been decided,” she said.
Cole crossed his arms over his broad chest, his plate completely forgotten now. “Let me get this straight. You’re going to be the public face of the fight against two different drug gangs involved in a turf war?”
Veranda fought to control her temper. She knew Cole wanted to keep her safe, but he wasn’t a police officer and didn’t understand the mission. At times like this, his misguided overprotectiveness set her teeth on edge.
She drew a deep breath and mentally counted to three before responding. “In a word, yes. I’m front and center.”
Cole opened his mouth, but Sam spoke first. “This is different than before. There’s a ton of support from the top down. We have the Feds involved too.”
Cole didn’t look appeased. “But it’s Veranda who’ll be in everyone’s crosshairs.”
She held her tongue. Cole and Sam didn’t know her secret. Didn’t understand why she would always have a target on her back. The current turf war was nothing compared to the grudge that she knew festered in El Lobo’s heart.
6
Standing on the bone-white sidewalk bleached by the late afternoon sun, Veranda used the back of her wrist to mop a line of perspiration from her forehead. Eyes shaded with her hand, she peered up at the Grace Court School building at the corner of 8th and Adams Streets. The early-twentieth-century building made an excellent choice for an ad hoc operations center. A short walk from police headquarters and vacant for years, it could be quickly adapted for their use.
Standing next to her, Sam tilted his head back, eyes travelling up the four imposing pillars at the entry steps to the Classic Revival structure that would house the Fusion Center. “I can remember a time when this school was open.”
Veranda gave him a wry smile. “You and the other kids rode here on horseback, right?” She put a finger to her lip, tapping it lightly. “Or did you all wait at the local trading post to catch a ride on a Conestoga wagon?”
His silver mustache twitched. “I didn’t attend here, but I knew some who did.” He turned to her. “It opened in 1911, by the way.”
“Oh, so you were already out of high school then.”
“Such a smart ass.”
She grinned, enjoying the banter. She respected Sam’s experience, was at times in awe of his accumulated knowledge, but she liked to needle him about their age gap. In turn, he gave her a hard time about having worked as a narc.
Sam trailed her up the steps to the main entrance and jerked a thumb at the parking area. “The computer tech van’s in the lot, so they’re already here.” He stopped at the immense wooden double doors, painted white to match the trim on the windows. An electronic keypad jutted from the wall next to the doorframe. “Maybe they’ll give us the entry code.”
She knocked on the door.
A man in his late twenties with dark hair and black-framed glasses answered. His sallow skin and red-rimmed eyes bore witness to years toiling under fluorescent lights. The ID card dangling from a lanyard around his neck confirmed Veranda’s assumption. A computer forensics detective. “Come in, Detective Cruz.”
She’d started to pull out her creds, then realized everyone would have recognized her after the news conference when the detective greeted her by name.
Sam followed her in. “There must’ve been some renovations over the years.”
The computer detective nodded. “Infrastructure looks good, and the main level has over seventeen thousand square feet of office space. More than enough. And if this grows legs, we can take over the entire second floor as well.”
Used to the cramped confines of the Violent Crimes Bureau with its warren of cubicles, the vast open space in what would become the Fusion Center reminded Veranda of a furniture warehouse. The building had not served as a school for decades, and in the interim, the owners had obviously renovated it for potential office use before putting it on the market for sale. Veranda wondered what kind of arrangement the city had made with the proprietors to lease the space.
As the detective ambled away, she surveyed the space, planning workstations in her mind. She pointed an empty corner out to Sam. “We could push two or three long tables together over there to make a central briefing area. We’ll need two walls for posting materials and projecting images.”
Sam squinted at one of the few private offices bordering the room. “I suppose Diaz will set up shop in one of those.”
The mention of her newly appointed supervisor heated her insides. The chief’s announcement had blindsided her at the news conference. “Don’t get me started about that pinche
lieutenant.” She’d thought about Diaz since their conversation over lunch. No one had ever gotten the coveted Homicide slot as a first assignment after being promoted to lieutenant. Despite what Sam said, she had the nagging feeling it had something to do with this investigation. And with her.
Sam regarded her. “If he makes life difficult, we’ll work around him.”
“He should’ve stayed in PSB where he could keep investigating fellow officers. It’s what he’s good at.” In his previous assignment, he’d seemed to take particular pleasure in scrutinizing her every move. Diaz had made it clear he wanted her sidelined from investigations involving the cartel.
“To be fair, Veranda, PSB exists for a reason. I’ll admit I’ve been known to stray outside the pasture, but there’s a limit to how far.” He hesitated a beat before his next words. “And we both know there are some cops out there who shouldn’t be wearing a badge. It’s PSB’s job to ferret out the bad ones.”
“Agreed, but Diaz needs to get his nose out of the Regs book long enough to see the big picture. He was all over me last time.” She put a hand on her hip. “I’ve had pelvic exams that were less intrusive than his interrogations. And his enthusiasm for following rules damn near got me killed.”
“So did your enthusiasm for breaking them.”
She cocked a brow. “I don’t see you wearing a Boy Scout badge.”
He put his hands up in mock surrender. “We better finish looking this place over and make plans for your first day tomorrow. There’s a lot at stake.”
Her gut clenched at the reminder. She hadn’t shared her feelings about the assignment. Not prone to bouts of self-doubt, she’d barely acknowledged them to herself. Now, alone with Sam, she let down her guard. “You know I don’t back down from a fight.”
He snorted. “Considering how you dealt with Bartolo, I’d say not.”
She didn’t mince words. “You should lead this investigation. Not me.”
His brows shot up. “Why? You led a task force back when you were a narc. In fact, your sergeant pretty much let you call the shots. There were Feds on that team, too, and you guys broke records for asset seizure.”
“I know I said all that stuff when Cole grilled me over lunch, but I just wanted him off my ass.” She dragged a hand through her hair. “The Drug Enforcement Bureau was different. I was an experienced narcotics detective. I had an informant inside giving me intel on the Villalobos cartel.” She threw her hands in the air. “Here, I’m flying blind. Working with Feds I don’t know. I haven’t been in Homicide very long and my inside track on the cartel is gone.” A wave of remorse swept through her as she recalled her informant’s grisly murder.
“Doesn’t matter. Leadership skills are the same. Just run the team like you did before.” He eyed her, speculation in his gaze. “Unless … ” He stroked his mustache. “Is something else bothering you?”
She blew out a sigh. He’d been a detective for decades. Of course he would read her. She looked around to be sure no one could overhear. “Sam, do you remember when you gave me the envelope you took from Bartolo’s body?”
Six weeks ago, Bartolo Villalobos, heir apparent to the cartel, claimed he held a DNA report identifying Veranda’s biological father in a sealed envelope in his back pocket. He had taunted her, refusing to give her the results. To make matters worse, she’d been wearing a transmitter and her fellow officers and supervisors overheard the conversation. After Bartolo was fatally shot, Sam had surreptitiously slipped the envelope from his pocket before the evidence techs processed the scene.
The department brass, with Diaz leading the charge, had demanded to know where the missing DNA report had gone, but Sam never admitted taking it. Hours later, he turned it over to Veranda without breaking the seal, explaining that her father’s identity was her business, not the department’s. Then he left, giving her the choice to read the contents or destroy them.
Once she was alone, her fingers had trembled as she slid the documents out. The pages inside had shaken her to the core. Everything she had believed, all of her life, had been a lie.
Some on the department suspected she’d taken the envelope, but no one could prove it. Sam had never asked her about the DNA results, and she’d vowed to take the knowledge to her grave. But now Chief Tobias had set a new chain of events in motion when he gave her this assignment. The weight of the past pressed on her.
Sam straightened and dropped his voice. “You don’t need to tell me—”
“I know,” she said. “I haven’t told anyone. And I swore I never would, but—”
“I don’t care what was in that envelope.”
“I do. And everyone else would if they knew.”
“Then don’t tell anyone.”
“But El Lobo knows.” She grasped Sam’s elbow, pulled him inside what would be Diaz’s office along the wall, and closed the door. “And I’m sure he told Adolfo. Hell, probably the whole cartel knows.” Bile rose in her throat at the thought. “I don’t know why Adolfo hasn’t leaked the info to the media yet.” She swallowed hard. “One day he will though. And I’ll be toast.”
Sam’s deep voice was neutral. “The envelope held bad news.” He made it a statement.
She bowed her head, unable to look her partner in the eye. Time for her to come clean.
She drew a ragged breath before speaking in a hoarse whisper. “Hector Villalobos—El Lobo—is my biological father.”
Her heart thudded as a silent chasm stretched between them for a full minute.
Then Sam clasped her shoulder. “I seriously considered burning the envelope without telling you I had it.” Regret etched his features. “But I figured you should decide for yourself.”
Her gaze raised to meet his. “If you had destroyed the DNA report in that envelope, the cartel would be the only ones who knew the truth about me. That’s why I had to open it.” She cast her eyes to the floor again. “I can take the blowback if word gets out. My biggest fear is the pain this could cause my mother.”
He withdrew his hand. “You haven’t told her?”
How could she make Sam understand? “Remember what I told you that day at the park?”
He inclined his head. “That Lorena admitted she wasn’t sure who your father was.”
Veranda’s stomach roiled at the memory of her mother’s recent confession. After hiding the truth for over thirty years, Lorena had finally broken her silence. With tears in her eyes, her mother recounted how Hector Villalobos had come to her house after murdering her husband, Ernesto Hidalgo. A slender nineteen-year-old bride, Lorena stood no chance against Hector’s brute force. He had raped her.
That night, Lorena fled across the border with her five younger siblings to escape El Lobo’s wrath. They were granted asylum in the United States, then became citizens and created a life in Phoenix, safe from the cartel. Veranda had joined the PPD to honor her father’s memory. Ernesto had been a Mexican Federale. A police agent. An honorable man. Now she knew her real father was his killer.
“My mother raised me hoping I was Ernesto’s child, but she knew I might be Hector’s. I look exactly like her, so she couldn’t tell from my appearance.”
Sam let her talk. His gray eyes patient.
“She’s convinced herself I’m Ernesto’s daughter because she loved him.” Grief sliced into Veranda as she bared her soul. “That’s why she kept me, you know. She thought Ernesto lived on through me.” She swallowed hard. “I don’t have the heart to tell her the truth. Or the rest of my family.” Her voice broke on her final words. “I always felt different from my relatives. Now I know why.”
Sam waited a long moment before he spoke. “Let me explain something. Everyone who wears a badge feels different. And there’s a good reason for it.”
“What do you mean?”
Sam stroked his mustache. “Say there’s a flock of sheep out in a pasture surrounded
by wolves. When the shepherd sleeps, who protects the flock?”
She recalled a friend who owned a large ranch in southern Arizona. “A dog.”
“Exactly.” Sam became animated. “A dog doesn’t have hooves and eat grass like the sheep. A dog has fangs and claws and eats meat … like the wolves, not the sheep. A dog is a close relative of the wolf. That’s why the shepherd chooses a dog to guard the flock, because it takes a predator to understand and fight another predator.”
She turned his words over in her mind as he continued.
“I knew a lot of kids growing up who could’ve gone either way.” He lifted a shoulder. “Hell, I was one of them. We drove too fast, got in fights, even broke a few laws. Because of that we understood the criminal mindset. We were one of them. Felt the violence inside ourselves and could see it in others. The difference is that some of us mastered it instead of letting it rule us.” The corner of his mouth kicked up. “That’s what makes us the good guys.”
She appreciated his words, but he didn’t seem to understand how deeply she was tainted by her blood. “Unlike you, I haven’t mastered the violence inside.”
He grew serious again. “Some of the best cops I know have a hard edge. Embrace it. A dog lives with the flock but is never truly a part of it. He’s a guardian. Ever vigilant and ready to lay down his life so others can be at peace and live in safety. The wolves are always out there. Ready to attack. Guardians have to be ready too.”
“Dammit, Sam. You make it sound so … noble. But I didn’t feel noble when I took off after Roberto Bernal while Castillo bled out. My first instinct was to abandon him and pursue Roberto.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Yours was to render aid.”
Sam gritted his teeth in exasperation. “You didn’t force me back into the car. I got in because you were right. Castillo was a lost cause. You made a split-second decision to protect the public by trying to catch the perpetrator before he could kill again.”
“But if you were driving, you’d have stopped to check on the victim. When I was locked in on Roberto, you were the one who mentioned Castillo.”
Phoenix Burning Page 5
