Fields of Wrath (Luis Chavez Book 1) (5 page)

VIII

Ernesto’s cell rang while he was dropping his kids off at school. His father’s number appeared on the caller ID. As his father never called this early, he answered at once.

“Dad? Everything okay?”

“Turn on the radio,” Moises said quietly. “There was a break-in at St. Augustine’s Church last night. A priest got beat up. They’re not saying who.”

Ernesto didn’t need to turn on the radio. He hung up with his dad and radioed his dispatcher, already angling his car in the direction of the parish.

“The padre got lucky,” a patrolman told Ernesto when he arrived. “The men who came in were armed. They could’ve hurt him a lot worse. You a friend of his?”

“He knows my father.”

“He’ll be all right,” the patrolman assured him. “Apparently he heard a noise, came downstairs, and there they were. There was a homeless woman with them who’d been at the church last night, maybe acting sick. We think she might have been some kind of scout, casing the place, then letting the others in after-hours. Chavez interrupted them, got his ass handed to him on a plate, but kept them from getting away with anything.”

“Wow,” Ernesto said, marveling at how off base this assessment probably was. “Can I see him?”

“It would probably help. The detectives aren’t getting much out of him. Between you and me, the only reason it’s even a full-court press is because the chief’s tight with the cardinal.”

Ernesto was directed to the administrative offices, where he found two detectives trying hard not to look bored. Luis sat, hands folded, in front of the bookshelves. Pastor Whillans leaned against his desk, surveying the scene with distaste.

“You all right, Father Chavez?” Ernesto asked, eyeing the bandage covering much of the priest’s right cheek.

Luis nodded. Ernesto explained who he was to the detectives. Happy for the excuse to hand off the scene to a fellow member of law enforcement, the pair passed out business cards and admonitions to call if anything came up.

“Who were they?” Ernesto asked.

“It was dark. But they were well equipped and knew what they were doing.”

“Well equipped?”

“They wore night-vision goggles. Like in the military. All four of them. Expensive tech.”

“What were you thinking?” Ernesto said. “They could’ve killed you.”

“First thing I said to him, too,” Whillans chimed in.

“They were too smart for that,” Luis said. “Then the cops would actually have to do something.”

Ernesto was about to bite back, then held his tongue. “I should’ve insisted you bring her into custody.”

“If cops really are involved in this, that might not have changed anything,” Luis replied.

Ernesto hadn’t thought of that.

“It may be too late, but I might’ve found your city attorney. I can’t be a hundred percent sure, but there’s a deputy DA who was keeping a case that sounds a little like this under wraps.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

Michael eyed the police officer, Peter Cubillas, on the witness stand. He’d only been sworn in five minutes before but already looked uncomfortable.

Just stay with me for five more minutes. That’s all I ask.

“Where did you find Miss Mascarello?”

“Burger King parking lot. Near the pay phones.”

“How’d she look?”

“Objection,” the defense attorney, Laura McClain, said. “Asking the witness for an opinion.”

The judge looked sleepily from the defense attorney to the police officer, then over to Michael at the prosecutor’s table.

“Rephrase?” he asked.

“Did it appear she’d left her home in a hurry?” Michael tried.

“Objection,” McClain repeated. “Same reason.”

The judge gave Michael a look that said,
Work with me.

“Was she dressed?” Michael asked.

“She was,” responded the officer.

“Pants? Shirt?”

“I don’t remember.”

Goddammit.

“Would it help refresh your memory to see the police report?”

“Yes.”

“May I approach the witness?” Michael asked.

“You may,” said the judge.

He moved to the witness box and handed Cubillas his own police report, open to the page in question. The officer looked at it and handed it back.

“What was she wearing?” Michael asked.

“A T-shirt and shorts.”

“Shoes?”

“No.”

Michael glanced to the jury. It was only the third day of the trial, but they were already spent. He couldn’t blame them. It was an ugly case. An eighteen-year-old woman had been repeatedly threatened with violence by her sometimes live-in, sometimes homeless boyfriend. On the night in question he came home high on drugs and attacked her with a carving knife. She grabbed her baby and ran out of the apartment.

This was bad enough, but the guy (a) had a history of violence, (b) was a registered sex offender, and (c) had possibly impregnated the victim when she was underage. Though he hadn’t been charged with statutory rape, the insinuation hung over the proceedings like an ammonia cloud.

No one wanted to be there.

The courtroom door opened and Michael glanced back, figuring it was some kind of court business for the bailiff. He was therefore surprised to see a priest, one who looked like he’d taken a shot or two to the face, grab a seat in the gallery. He didn’t recognize him and thought he must be someone invited by the defense.

What, a visual reminder of the defendant’s redemption?

He caught a bemused glance from the defense attorney and realized she thought it was his doing. He glanced back and saw that the priest was looking over at him. He nodded casually in greeting, and the priest nodded back. He shifted his gaze to the jury. At least half had seen the exchange.

Why thank you, Father, whoever you are . . .

On the next stenographer’s break, Luis exited the courtroom with the jury and waited for Michael Story. The deputy DA exited a couple of minutes later, head bent over a cell phone. When he saw Luis rising to speak to him, he moved aside as if to avoid him. Then he saw the various jury members glancing back their way.

“Can I help you, Father?” Michael asked. “I know I’m a bit lapsed, but I didn’t expect a house call.”

“I need to talk to you about Anne Whittaker.”

Michael looked as if he’d been punched. He recovered quickly, but Luis hadn’t missed his reaction.

“Did you work with Annie?” Michael asked.

“No, but I know Odilia Garanzuay.”

“Who’s that?”

“She was in Annie Whittaker’s house the night Whittaker was killed,” Luis explained. “She says she barely escaped herself.”

“Of course. The other one,” Michael said, nodding. “Annie didn’t give me her name. If she was in the house, she’s a potential witness. Has she spoken to law enforcement?”

“She was too scared. I was trying to get to you, but she didn’t know your name.”

“Where is she now?”

“She was kidnapped from the parish last night,” Luis reported regretfully.

“The incident at St. Augustine’s,” Michael realized. “
Shit.
So she’s gone?”

Luis said nothing. He already felt like a fool for allowing it to happen. Michael cursed under his breath.

“Something went wrong,” Michael said. “I still don’t know what. They got our other potential witness as well.”

“Was it Santiago?” Luis asked. “She mentioned a Santiago.”

“Santiago Higuera,” Michael said. “He was coming in on his own Sunday night but vanished before we could get to him. They found him strung up in Mexico yesterday. I tracked down the taxi driver. He delivered Higuera to the safe house. You know how many people know the addresses of departmental safe houses?
Few.
”

Luis tensed. This time it was Michael who noticed.

“This Odilia told you something?” Michael asked, eyeing him closely. “Did she know who might have done this?”

“She thought the police were involved,” Luis admitted before realizing Michael might be the wrong person to say this to. “Maybe that was why. Are they?”

“I don’t know,” Michael sighed. “Annie only gave me dribs and drabs to get me interested. She specialized in the abuse of migrant or illegal labor, so I knew it might’ve been something people were turning their backs to.”

“There’s a difference between cops turning their backs and cops leaking the address of a safe house or, worse, actively delivering a whistle-blower to their death.”

“Is there? If there’s anything I’ve learned in this office, it’s that cops are masters of internal compromise and rationalization, and that comes from someone who is on their side. Still, I got the idea that it was much bigger than a couple of corrupt cops and bad-apple field hands. Annie made it sound like there were a number of players, a number of victims, and a great deal of money.”

“And she couldn’t have done that just to pique your interest?”

“I don’t think so,” Michael said, shaking his head. “Not given what I saw from her.”

“Are you going to continue the investigation?” Luis asked.

“Based on what?” Michael cried, before lowering his voice after a few jury members looked his way. “Malfeasance in the fields? A couple of local police looking the other way? I don’t even have jurisdiction. Annie promised there was an LA connection involving transport, but without evidence I’ve got nothing. And I even checked in with INS, the Border Patrol, even the Feds, looking for a connection between people stopped at the border and a Ventura County destination. Nada.”

“What about Annie’s files?” Luis said, grasping at straws.

“Oh, you hadn’t heard? Her computer and backup drives didn’t have a single file on them. At least if they’d been stolen, that’d be a robbery. But no, we’re to believe she plugged in her brand-new computer, hooked it up to a printer, a scanner, and a backup drive, then promptly never used them for anything more than browsing CNN. As much as I hate letting the bad guys win this round, I have a dozen other open cases clamoring for my attention.”

A feeling of calm came over Luis. He understood logically that getting the brush-off like this should have frustrated him. The calm, he decided, was from God. The course of action would follow.

The bailiff stepped out of the courtroom to call everyone back in.

“Are we done here?” Michael asked.

“It’s that easy for you to walk away?” Luis snapped.

Michael whirled around.

“Pardon me for saying so, Father, but you don’t know
shit
about me,” Michael snarled. “This case I’ve got going on in there right now? Should be a slam dunk. The defendant’s a repeat offender for the same crime, we’ve got cop witnesses, but the key witness—the victim—won’t testify because the defendant wrote her all these jailhouse letters swearing up and down that he was a changed man, that he’d go to church every day if she didn’t come to court.”

Luis said nothing. He knew the type.

“Without a witness,” Michael continued, “without somebody there to say, ‘This is what I saw, this is how it happened,’ the entire case hinges on the attention span of your jury when it comes to facts and figures. You want to guess how long that is? Not very fucking long.”

A few jury members glanced their way upon hearing this last expletive. Michael sighed and finished up.

“Annie Whittaker was my friend. I’m the one who had to drive up there and identify her corpse. So you’ll have to excuse me if less than twenty-four hours later I’m still conflicted about next steps on a case with zero leads.”

Luis nodded but then took Michael by the wrist, leaning in close.

“You said you couldn’t do anything without a witness. What if I went up there? What if got whatever they were going to bring you? Could you act on it?”

Michael fell silent. Luis waited to hear he’d be arrested for such a stunt. That he had no business involving himself in a criminal investigation. Him, a
priest
. Michael’s eyes trailed up to the ceiling, though his face remained unreadable.

“Two people are dead and a third missing and probably dead as well,” Michael finally said but then added, “You’d be on your own. I couldn’t help you or direct anyone else to.”

“That’s not what I asked.”