Traitor, The (5 page)
Seven
muchachas jóvenes
lined up along the corridor
of the tavern, youngest girl to oldest, although most of them looked to be the
same age, around eleven or twelve. Perhaps the one at the end was thirteen, but
none older than that. He could tell by their flat chests and straight hips as
well as the baby-soft skin on their cheeks.
Santos crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the
dirty faces and ragged clothes.
"Una cosecha fina de muchachas,
a very fine
crop this time.
You agree?" The proprietor of La
Taberna Afortunada
– The Lucky Tavern – smiled broadly at Diego Vargas and chucked the first girl
under the chin.
A fine crop, as if he were speaking of corn or coffee bean
harvest, Santos thought.
"Dé vuelta alrededor,"
the tavern owner
ordered the girl, making a circular motion with his hand. Thin and brown,
barefoot and dressed in a dirty white chemise, she turned slowly around at the
command.
Santos peered into the girl's eyes, listless and dilated,
like a cat's in the dark. She'd most certainly been drugged. Probably one of
the benzodiazepines, but he couldn't be certain.
El Vaquero
wanted the girls mildly sedated for
transport, but not completely wasted. It was much safer that way to make the
nearly fifteen-hour van drive north through California until they crossed the
California-Nevada border.
"See, I told you," the fat proprietor said.
"¿Muchachas
finas, eh?
And I can get you plenty more."
"Shut up, old man," Santos growled.
He watched lust play across the face of Diego Vargas. Santos
knew his boss was calculating the price of having his way with one or two of
the girls first and thereby lowering their value.
Lust and greed always battled inside Diego. Usually, his
love for money won out, but sometimes the power of his lust overcame him and he
succumbed. Often with tragic consequences. Although
El Vaquero
usually preferred
his women large and lusty, he occasionally liked to sample the wares he
purchased before he turned them over to the women in charge of his two legal,
and one not-so-legal brothels.
Yes, Santos thought for the thousandth time, Diego Vargas
was
a fucking pig,
un cerdo de mierdo.
However, he allowed none
of these thoughts or emotions to register on his face or in his stance. After
all, he was
El Vaquero's
lawyer, as well as his bodyguard, and he was
wise enough not to make his personal opinions available for perusal.
He was not afraid of Diego Vargas. In truth, he feared
nothing and no man. His strength had been forged in pain and his reputation in fire.
There were few enterprises Santos refused to engage in, few men or women he
would not kill when necessary, few appetites he would not satisfy.
But some lines should not be crossed.
Santos did not remember his father. Miguel Gabriel Santos
had been killed in the plaza when Santos was a small boy. He well remembered
the square, the burnt adobe stones of the surrounding buildings, the deep stone
well that stood at the end of the street. But he did not remember his father's actual
death.
To this day in the village where he was born, stories of
that event were widely repeated. Of how Miguel stood up to the
oficiales
federales.
Of how he died slowly in the village plaza of
Real de
Cantorce
after hours in the baking sun. Of how he choked on his own
testículos.
The small boy Gabriel Santos did not recall the event of his
father's death.
He did remember his mother, however, and this trafficking
with the girls – Santos knew his
madre
would not approve of a man who
made his life's work out of the flesh of innocents. Santos did not fear the
fuego
del infierno
or death's end, and he did not believe many true innocents
walked the face of this earth. But the few there were should not be sacrificed.
Drugs, fine,
una opción.
The users made their own
choices.
Killing,
una necesidad.
Often very necessary.
But the girls,
absolutamente no.
Santos knew the day would arrive when he would draw his boot
across the sand and tell
El Vaquero
that he could not cross that line.
That would be a very bad time for all of them, and Santos was not eager for
that day to arrive. But, nonetheless, it would come.
The tavern owner pinched the scrawny backside of the last
girl as she climbed into the back of the battered van.
Sí,
the day would come.
#
Bella didn't leave the bathroom until she heard the door
shut firmly when Rafe left the apartment. Even then she waited what she guessed
was five minutes more before entering the bedroom. After searching, she found
her dress hanging from the shower curtain rod in the second bathroom. He'd apparently
tried to clean it for wet spots dampened the bodice and hem.
That hadn't worked. The dry cleaners might be able to get
the stains out, but Bella guessed she'd owe Anita the price of an expensive new
dress. The panties and bra were soaking in the kitchen sink and her shoes
rested on the counter on a piece of newspaper. The evidence of her wild night
brought fierce color to her cheeks.
She felt like snarling. Rafe must've been awfully sure she'd
stay. And who would've guessed he'd be so ... tidy. She imagined him touching
her underwear, but more embarrassing was him thinking she'd be here waiting
when he returned, like a favored lapdog. At the back of her mind she knew she
was more furious with herself than him, but she enjoyed her moment of pique a
little longer.
She washed out her panties and blotted them on a towel. As
uncomfortable as it was, she dressed in the damp clothing and slipped her shoes
on. Her wisp of a purse lay where she'd dropped it in the armchair.
Finally, she searched about for paper and pen. In one corner
of the bedroom a walnut desk rucked up against the tall windows. Rummaging
through the drawers, she found what she needed and sat down on the chair to
write a note.
"Rafe," she wrote, "I had a great time. Call
me, Bella, 916-781-3043." She crumpled up the note and tossed it in the
waste basket. "Bella, 916-781-3043." No, she should give him her cell
number. She tore that paper up and grabbed another from the middle desk drawer.
"Bella" ... She stared out the window and tapped the pen against her
teeth.
This wouldn't work. So she'd had a one-night stand. She wasn't
going to let her Catholic guilt rule her. Why make more out of it than it was? Because,
she answered herself, because she liked Rafe. He was probably one of the good
guys. And because they hadn't really ... well, hadn't really had sex,
per
se. Per
se,
lawyer talk. She shook her head. She was an idiot.
Somehow their encounter seemed unfinished and in the end she
left no note at all. She left Rafe's apartment, pushing the button to latch the
front door. She scarcely had time to make it home to change for her eleven o'clock
meeting with the bull-headed DEA agent.
The cabbie dropped Bella in front of her mother's modest
three-bedroom house in Riverside. If God were really on Bella's side, Mama
wouldn't even hear her sneak in. Sometimes her mother stayed up so late at
night watching her Spanish soaps that she slept until ten or later the next
morning. No such luck today.
Orotea Torres sat upright on the floral-covered sofa that
faced the entryway of the small house. Her arms gripped each other tightly
across her ample bosom, and Bella knew without seeing the grim look on Mama's
face that she was mad. Great! Her sisters had wheedled her into going out and
then abandoned her to face their mother's strict Catholic questioning.
"What? Have I worked so hard to raise a daughter only
to see her sneak into the house like a thief after being out all night?" Mama's
lips were a thin, hard line and her eyebrows were a jagged carving across her
forehead. Her spine was as straight as a rod, her feet barely touched the
carpet, and her plain cotton housedress smoothed modestly over her knees.
"Mama," Bella began before she was interrupted by
the simultaneous opening and closing of both the front and back doors to the
house.
Consuelo entered on a rush of words from the front entry. "Bella,
why did you leave without telling me this morning?" she chided. "I
wanted to prepare your breakfast."
Anita scurried from the kitchen, throwing off her coat and
tossing it over the back of the sofa. "Hey, I thought we were meeting at
the coffee shop for breakfast." She paused and looked from Connie to Bella
and back, her eyes like saucers at the sight of her damp red dress.
"Nita, if your brain had any more holes in it, I could
use it as a sieve," Connie said. "At my place. We were supposed to
have breakfast at my apartment, not the coffee shop. How could you forget?"
"Sorry," Anita muttered, for once not putting her
foot in her big mouth.
Mama eyed the three of them suspiciously. "Humph. And
you don't have decent clothes to lend your baby sister so she has to dress like
this in the light of day?" She paused and shook her head. "Well, I
will prepare breakfast for all of you then."
She rose heavily from the sofa and gestured toward the
kitchen, herding them like little chicks. "Come, come. You can tell me all
about your big night over
huevos y jámon."
Thank you, Bella mouthed to Consuelo when her mother turned
toward the kitchen sink. She eyed her mother's back as she washed her hands and
dried them on a colorful hand towel. Bella couldn't face Mama's censure. The
facts were awful enough. She'd gone home with a virtual stranger and spent the
night with him. She was too busy kicking herself to take on Mama's disapproval,
too.
Consuelo lifted her palms in a what's-up gesture as she
reached for the plates to set the table. The look on her sister's face clearly
said, come clean or else,
muchacha del bebé.
Still a little baby
girl.
Bella had no intention of telling her sisters about last night. She'd
give them a sanitized version while she packed to catch her flight back to
Sacramento. Otherwise, they'd hover around her like well-paid bodyguards.
For now Bella ignored her sisters and checked the clock as
she set out the silverware. Still time to eat, pack, and make her eleven o'clock
appointment.
She wrinkled her nose. After a week of back and forth
emails, this Hashemi character had flat-out refused to turn over jurisdiction
in the Diego Vargas case. Then he'd gone over her head to her boss, Bigler
County D.A. Charles Barrington who had caved in to the superior power of the
feds.
No surprise there. Charles had the spinal column of a
flatworm, so Bella found herself on a flight to L.A. with instructions to turn
over her notes to this Hashemi guy.
Enseguida. Right away.
Already she detested the federal agent and she hadn't even
met him. She hated being ridden roughshod over and despised even more someone
going over her head.
And even though she was duty bound to turn over her files,
she didn't intend to make it easy for this ... Hash – shem – whatever. She
relished the idea of getting into a good scrabble with the feds. She folded the
paper napkins and slapped them on top of the plates.
But right now her mama's eggs and ham sounded really good.
Bella pulled her rental car into the parking space near the
Roybal Federal Building. Her luggage was stowed in the trunk, and she'd already
said her goodbyes to her mama and sisters.
The lobby information kiosk indicated that Agent A. Hashemi
occupied space on the second floor and listed an office number. She took the
stairs and entered an opaque glass-windowed door at the far end of the
corridor.
A large, empty waiting room lay behind the door. An older
woman with the face of a saint and the roar of a dragon asked her to state her
business and afterward indicated she should take a seat in the row of plastic
chairs against the wall. Bella eyed the closed office door to her left and sat
down.
After waiting twenty-two minutes, she began tapping her foot
and shuffled in her seat. She looked at the military-issue wall clock over the
receptionist's desk and frowned.
The older woman caught her glance and plastered a reproving
smile on her face. "Agent Hashemi is a very busy man, Ms. Torres. He'll be
with you momentarily."
Bella was sure the illusive Agent Hashemi – and what the
hell kind of name was that anyway – was a busy man, apparently far busier than
she was as a mere assistant district attorney in a much smaller county than Los
Angeles. She drummed her fingers on the hard edge of the briefcase lying on her
lap and debated leaving just for spite. Her already foul mood grew fouler.
Hashemi kept her waiting over a half hour. If he didn't see
her soon, she would miss her flight. And the mountain of work piled on her
desk. She could schedule a later flight, but she had no intention of leaving
behind any of her Vargas files without getting an explicit working agreement
with Hashemi for continued access to their information.
She knew the agent would fight her on this, but she came
prepared for opposition.
The door to the office swung open and the receptionist –
Mrs. Roberts, the name sign indicated – rose from behind her desk in time to
greet the person leaving. A lanky, fair-skinned man with an open, laughing face
– too open to be the DEA agent, Bella surmised – eased past the dragon lady and
caught Bella's eye. He wiggled his brows in a passable Groucho Marx imitation
and swept piercing blue eyes over Bella.
"Sorry you had to wait," he said, a grin splitting
his pleasant face. He shook his head and smiled knowingly as if he were in on a
huge joke. "Hashish will be very surprised."
"Hashish?"
The man tossed the words over his shoulder as he exited
through the reception area door. "Agent Hashemi," he explained with a
wider grin. "What I wouldn't give to see the look on his face."
The door clicked shut behind him as Bella heard Mrs. Roberts
say something about an eleven o'clock appointment. Humph – more like
eleven-thirty.
Then distinctly, her voice amused and motherly at the same
time, the assistant said, "I don't think so, Agent Hashemi." The
older woman turned to Bella and gestured toward the open door. "Don't keep
him waiting, Ms. Torres."
Bella smoothed her suit skirt, adjusted her cuffs, and
clutched the briefcase firmly in her left hand. She spared Mrs. Roberts a brief
look of challenge before she stepped through the office door, her chin tilted
and her eyes snapping.
Not a girl from the barrio for nothing, she prepared to do
battle – and immediately froze in shock. Damn her silly sisters and their
stupid tricks. Double damn her own reckless sense of adventure. She took a
fraction of a second to recover, quicker she was satisfied to note, than Agent
Hashemi – Ashraf, call me Rafe, long A – Hashemi, the son of a bitch.
She extended her hand in greeting and put on her court voice
as he stood behind his desk, mouth still gaping. "Agent Hashemi, I'm
Assistant District Attorney Isabella Torres from Bigler County."
#
And I am seriously screwed, Rafe thought the moment Mrs.
Roberts ushered ADA I. Torres into his office. He stumbled to his feet, at a
loss for words for the first time in longer than he could remember.
Dressed in a professionally-cut gray suit with a white
blouse buttoned at the neck, she looked like a school teacher or a minister's
wife. But neither her long hair pulled into a severe knot at her nape, nor her minimal
makeup, could hide her natural beauty or the memory of the siren from last
night.
Christ, who could've imagined the sexy woman he'd spent the
night with was the ADA from up north? The one whose repetitive emails contained
a single annoying refrain:
Their office would not turn over their case files
on Diego Vargas.
The hand she extended was far firmer than the one which had
trailed fingers across his body twelve hours ago. With a voice far more
strident than sexy, her first question was like a thrown-down gauntlet. "So,
tell me, Ashraf, did you know last night who I was?"
Before speaking, Rafe nodded to dismiss Mrs. Roberts, eyeing
the composed and modestly dressed Isabella Torres until his assistant left.
This Isabella was a study in contrast from last night's woman who'd moaned
beneath his ...
Shit!
Why had he ever thought those dark eyes were warm and
inviting? Right now they snapped at him as sharply as a whip in a lion tamer's
grip. He pulled himself together and met her coolness with a glare. "Of
course I didn't know who you were. Whatever you think of me personally, I'm a
professional."
Rafe had known all along that Bigler County had no option
but to turn over their Vargas case files to him. He'd just never expected the
man – woman – to turn up
in person
to do it. He gestured toward the
padded chair in front of his desk. "Please sit down, Ms. Torres. Let's
straighten out this misunderstanding."
Torres took the chair opposite his desk and perched on the
edge, setting her briefcase on the floor. Her slender hands clasped in her lap.
She looked pale. And severe, with her long black hair pulled tightly back from
her face.
Silence. Her dark, clear eyes remained unfriendly.
Unnerved in the face of her quiet militarism, Rafe sat down,
folded his hands, and pasted what he hoped was a pleasant smile on his face. "When
D.A. Barrington called a few days ago to say the files were on their way,"
he began, "I assumed they'd arrive by courier or special delivery."
"You probably never dreamed the – what did you call me,
oh that's right – ballsy ADA would deliver them herself." She referred to
a momentary lapse in judgment when he'd used the term in an email to Charles
Barrington.
"Actually, I thought 'himself,'" Rafe replied with
a calm smile that belied his turmoil.
Merde! Scheisse!
Shit!
The ability to swear –
and speak – half a dozen languages made him quite good at his job, but right
now his mind scrambled for a way to handle the current situation. Should he
ignore it, pretend last night never happened? Blow it off like a bad joke?
Jesus!
After a moment he said, "Look, maybe we should meet the,
uh, issue head on and agree to put it behind us." Bella from last night
would've gladly agreed, but he wasn't sure about today's Isabella of the fiery
eyes.
He paused and waited for a reply that didn't come. "Would
that work for you?" he asked a long moment later, curbing his impatience.
Torres contemplated the scene out the small window and then
swept those bottomless eyes up to meet his through thick lashes. She inclined
her head gracefully as if she was doing him a big favor. "Of course. What
happened between us last night was very ... unfortunate, but hardly the end of
the world."
Unfortunate?
He scowled before catching himself and continued in as
smooth a voice as he could manage. "Okay, then, we're in agreement. We go
on as if it never happened."
Since Rafe never had any intention of cooperating with
Bigler County in the Vargas investigation, the idea of putting it behind them
was the best solution. Get the uncomfortable moment over with, obtain the damn
files, and move on, never to see ADA I. Torres again.
Isabella, call me Bella, Torres.
They would treat last night as a casual encounter between
consenting adults.
Right?
Why had he assumed only a man could be so ferocious in
refusing a request from a federal agent? And what a cosmic joke that he, who
rarely had time to date, would hook up at a bar with the very person he'd been
wrangling with over the Vargas case files!
What the hell were the odds of
that?
Suddenly he recalled that his email address had also
contained simply his initial and last name. A. Hashemi. And he'd only mentioned
his full given name Ashraf last night. Call me Rafe, he had insisted.
And then he wondered. "Did you know who I was?" he
countered belatedly.
"Don't be ridiculous." She seemed restless as she
jumped up from the chair and examined the enlarged photo of Parker Center on
the east wall. "I had no idea who you were."
For some odd reason, relief flooded through him and on the
heels of that, genuine remorse. "Look, Isabella, I'm sorry."
Her back to him, her voice small-sounding, she whispered, "Yeah."
Then she squared her shoulders and turned to face him. "You're right. Let's
put this thing behind us."
A wave of regret washed over him for the
what-might-have-been. He'd heard that remembered passion was sweeter than the
real thing. If so, he was in a helluva lot of trouble. Last night the warm,
willing proffer of Isabella's body had clouded every sensible restraint he
usually put on himself.
Instead, he'd thrown himself into the intensity of giving
her pleasure. And there was no doubt that Isabella had been thoroughly pleasured.
He felt himself grow hard behind the desk that shielded his lower body.
Now what?
Would Torres use their brief relationship as leverage to stay
involved in the Vargas case? Looking at her grim face, her minimal makeup, and
her set jaw, he couldn't believe she would risk her career by going against her
D.A.
She couldn't be more than twenty-eight. Twenty-nine? Young
for an ADA, and that meant she was ambitious. No, he didn't think she'd want
last night's events splattered all over the small world of law enforcement any
more than he did.
He stood and bought himself time by adjusting the blinds
behind his desk and looking out over Temple Street. When he resumed his seat,
he felt calmer, ready to proceed. He smiled. "After all, the stakes are
the same. The Bigler County District Attorney's Office has information on Diego
Vargas that is germane to my federal case."
She nodded, throwing a glance at her briefcase still resting
on the floor by her chair.
"There's never been any question that your office would
turn over the files," he reminded her.
"We have no choice?" He knew her asking closed the
door to any secret hope she might've harbored.
"Exactly." And, he thought, last night didn't
alter that fact.
Rafe took in her appearance as she stood under the picture.
Isabella Torres looked as different from the bright, sexy Bella who'd spent the
night entwined in his arms as oranges from lemons. Even her mouth, drawn in
tight puckers, hid the other woman.
He recognized both her conservative suit and prim hair style
as attempts to detract from her looks. Torres wanted badly to be dealt with on her
abilities, not her beauty. Well, she failed miserably.
In just a few moments of observation, Rafe had learned a
great deal about Isabella Torres. Whatever that said about him, he intended to
use this knowledge to his advantage.