Traitor, The (7 page)
Shirley Winston had been in the business a long time. More
years than she admitted to the few johns who still asked for her when they
visited
La Casa de Mujeres.
Heaving a sigh, she hauled her body off the chaise and
plopped down on the delicate stool in front of the small vanity she used for putting
on her makeup. The brassy blonde that looked back at her as she applied a thick
layer of cosmetics looked old, she thought. Hell, she was forty-one, but looked
sixty, no matter how much makeup she smeared on. She lit a cigarette and blew
the smoke out of the side of her mouth.
Shirley liked to say she was in the management portion of
the business. She was very good at her job and ran the house with an iron hand,
mainly 'cause nothing bothered her no more. Live and let live, that was her
motto.
She started working for Diego Vargas when she was a natural
blonde and barely eighteen years old. A looker in those days, even if she said
so herself. Diego didn't ask for her no more like he did in the old days, which
was hunky-dory by her.
She'd had enough of ugly bruises and broken bones.
A loud pounding on the downstairs door brought her to the
top of the staircase. Little Audrey sat behind the reception desk and Buck
guarded the door as it swung open. Damn! Too early for regular customers, she
thought as Gabriel Santos walked into the entry and stared up at her with those
damned flat eyes of his, silent as the grave, like usual.
Diego Vargas followed right behind him. "Shirley,
bebé."
Diego beamed up at her. "How is my favorite madam?"
It cost Shirley a lot to smile at him. Last time he visited,
the girl he asked for bled to death before he finished with her. Business was
business, but still, Diego liked mixin' his business with too much pleasure for
her taste.
"Hey, there, Councilman. What can I get for you? Wine,
whiskey?" Not my girls, she prayed silently.
"No, no, I have brought the girls with me."
"Yourself?" Shirley couldn't hide her surprise.
Diego almost never delivered the girls himself. Transporting them across the
border was a tricky business.
"This was
muy especial,
a very special trip for
a particular cargo." Vargas beckoned her down the stairs. "Come, I
will show you."
Shirley wrapped the silk gown around her plump belly and
started down the curved staircase.
"Bring the girls into the sitting room," Vargas
ordered Santos.
Five minutes later, the big giant brought the girls in and
lined them up in front of where Shirley and Diego sat on a soft paisley print
sofa. God, what a string of dirty kids, she thought. Children. What the hell
kinda thing was Diego gettin' her mixed up in now? "I don't wanna deal in
no kids," she whined.
"Don't be estúpida,
Shirley. How many times do
you have customers who ask for
peticiones especiales?"
Five of Vargas'
special requests
stood there, all of
them with blown pupils, leaning weakly on each other. Drugs, prolly. He woulda
drugged 'em for the trip to keep them quiet.
"Take their clothes off," Diego ordered. "I
want to see my merchandise."
The girls were dressed skimpy and it wasn't long before they
were all naked, looking around the fancy sitting room with bruised eyes. Just
babies, she thought. Flat-chested babies.
Jesus on a crutch, but what the hell could she do? She was
just a old worn-out hooker, way past her prime. No one was gonna pay to screw
her any more.
She turned away as Diego reached for the smallest girl.
#
Rafe stared at Isabella across the restaurant table and
wondered how she could say nothing had happened between then, even though a few
hours ago he'd tried to convince himself of the same thing. He'd kissed her,
hell, fondled her in a pretty damned intimate way. How could he think
nothing
had happened? How could
she
think it?
Under other circumstances, it might've been everything. What
they'd done last night seemed sexier than if he'd been inside her, pounding his
urgent lusts into her more than willing body.
He coughed and got his head together. Water under the
bridge. No point to that kind of thinking. Right now, he needed to find out
whose blood was in that alley. Determine if his confidential informant was safe
or ...
"You're right," he said, reaching for the check
and standing. "Let's put this behind us. And get the hell out of here."
Torres didn't hide the flash of surprise that crossed her
face. "Sure," she said slowly. "Right now the important thing is
to focus on the human trafficking case against Vargas."
Rafe sat back down, raised his eyebrows, and thought surely
she was joking. "Human trafficking? How about a very big drug trafficking
ring? One that puts the Colombian cartels to shame."
"Drugs?" Her voice pitched higher and he heard the
strain under her words. "What are you talking about?"
"Diego Vargas and his use of the Norteños to create
brand new drug routes into the country through California." He shrugged. "What
else?"
"Illegal drugs have been around for decades. What we
need to get Vargas on is the human trafficking." Her face was a study in
astonishment. "Surely, you can't think the drug deals are more serious
than the slavery of human beings?"
"I know we have completely different agendas, Torres,"
he said, slamming out of the booth, "but I thought you could be flexible."
She grabbed her purse and tried to stand face to face with
him; her nose barely reached his chest. "If you think I'm going to let you
grab Vargas on some half-assed drug deal, you're
loco."
"Half-ass – listen, little miss know-it-all, I'm going
to see that Vargas and his sidekick Santos go down for one of the biggest drug
schemes since the beginning of the twentieth century."
Bella clutched her purse to her body and sputtered, "What
did you call me?"
If she could've killed him with a look, he'd be dead. "Oh,
right, how about Isabella, then?" He drew her name out as his voice
dripped with sarcasm and he shoved past her, heading toward the cashier.
"¿Es todo aceptable, Sr. Hashemi?"
the
woman asked.
"Si, Angelina ... "
"El alimento era muy delicioso,"
Bella
interrupted.
"¿Es usted el dueño de este restaurante?"
Before the surprised Angelina could respond, Rafe glared and
grabbed Bella's arm, ushering her out of the restaurant. "Yes, the food is
delicious, and Angelina's family owns the place. Are you trying to show off?"
"No," Bella, muttered, although she had been
trying to regain some sort of control. Why should he assume she couldn't speak
Spanish when she was obviously Latina. "Never mind that."
Rafe opened the car door and held it while she swung her
legs inside. "I won't." He leaned close to her face. "Don't
screw around with me on this case, Torres. It's too important." He slammed
the car door before she could answer.
Bella decided to delay the argument until they got back to
the DEA field office. After a serious discussion of the human trafficking
issue, she would convince him it was the more serious charge to bring against
Vargas. She hoped.
But when they arrived at the Roybal Building, Rafe simply reached
across her lap and opened the car door – ever the gentleman, the jerk – and pointed
to the curb. "This is it, then," he said. "I'll see you in
Sacramento."
She turned toward the concrete steps leading up to the
entrance, but realizing his intent, she looked back at him. "Wait a
minute. What's going on here? I thought we were going to exchange information."
"We are," he grinned, "but obviously your
information is tucked away somewhere up north. So I'll meet you there."
"But when? How are you getting there?"
His look clearly said those were stupid questions, and they
were, she thought, but she'd been surprised at what seemed to be his hundred
and eighty degree turnaround.
"Uh, I'd thought about swimming up the Pacific coast,
but decided to drive instead," he mocked.
She ignored his tone. "Why not fly? It's quicker."
"I like the idea of having my own car in case I need to
scout around somewhere."
She didn't like the sound of that. Was he planning on going
off on his own and snooping into her case? Her doubt must've registered on her
face because he said, "Don't worry, Torres. I'm not going to screw up what
you've been working on. Besides, I have to make a stop in Stockton first."
"Stockton? Why?"
"We'll talk about it later."
"When are you coming?"
"In a few days," he answered while a car's horn
blatted behind him.
"Will you bring your files?" she shouted as he
drove off.
"Absolutamente."
He grinned in what she
took as a peace offering.
She had to admire his chutzpah. She walked through the building's
entry doors, remembering that she'd left her briefcase in his office.
Damn.
#
Less than an hour southwest of Sacramento, Rafe pulled off
Highway 5 and took West Fremont Avenue to the dirt road at the edge of the
river. He stood beside his car and gazed across the body of water to the docks
of the Port of Stockton. He counted three freighter ships docked across the San
Joaquin River and eleven docking bays.
Damn, this was way too busy a port. Vargas wouldn't be using
Stockton Port for his drug running. If the cargo the drug traffickers brought
in was unloaded in the northern part of the state, as his intel had suggested, Rafe
figured there were four major possibilities – Stockton, Richmond, Oakland, and
San Francisco.
The last three ports were large, the tonnage of their ports
huge. They were subjected to thorough cargo inspections. Examinations too close
to suit the drug businessman. Rafe needed to look at ports that weren't even
ranked by tonnage, like Stockton and Redwood City.
If he intended to check out every port on his list, he'd be
longer in getting to Bigler County than he'd anticipated. Short on manpower, he
couldn't afford surveillance on more than two or three ports at a time and had to
narrow the list down. Maybe he was wasting his time.
Lupe would have gotten the rest of the information by now.
If his C.I. were alive. Max hadn't called since yesterday, meaning the blood
work wasn't back from the lab. Rafe knew his informant wasn't safe at home with
his pregnant girlfriend because he'd called her last night. Francisca was
frantic with worry because she hadn't seen Lupe since he left her apartment on
the night he met Rafe at Stuckey's Bar. She'd called frantically around to his
friends and family.
No one had seen or heard from him.
Rafe cursed silently and dug his toes into the grainy dirt
at the edge of the water. Then he jumped back in his car and merged onto Santa
Monica Boulevard, taking Highway 5 north to Richmond. He'd scout one more port
before he swung east from the coast toward Sacramento.
He checked his voicemail again. Still no message from Lupe.
Nothing from Max. A feeling of dread came over Rafe that any news he got would
be bad.
Very bad.
Isabella Torres placed her hands on her slender hips and
glared at the Bigler County District Attorney. "I can't believe you were
sneaky enough to go around me on this one, Charles."
Sheriff Benjamin Slater suppressed a smile as the three of
them crowded into his small office in the historic old Placer Hills Courthouse.
He watched Bella's brown eyes flash and her jaw jut out pugnaciously as she
towered over Charles Barrington, a diminutive man an inch shorter than her,
three inches with the spiky shoes she wore.
"Come on, Izzie," Barrington cajoled. "You
know that I don't have to get your permission for decisions I make as district
attorney."
Uh oh, Barrington was in trouble now. Slater had known Bella
to practically decapitate a junior deputy sheriff who made the mistake of using
that nickname on her. But this time, Bella merely continued her silent glaring.
Barrington shuffled from one foot to another, and Slater
knew the man was dying to sit down. He didn't look so short that way. What with
Slater at several inches over six feet and Bella a foot shorter than that,
Charles was the designated Lilliputian in the room.
"I have to make decisions that are best for this
office," Barrington continued, still fidgeting, "and if you can't see
that, then there's nothing more to discuss."
Slater tried not to roll his eyes at Charles' spineless
excuse for an officer of the court. Isabella Torres was experienced in a way
Charles had never been and never would be. She knew how to use her body, her
facial expressions, and her voice to good advantage. If the D.A. weren't such a
putz, he'd have figured out how to use her strengths by now. Instead, he
constantly threw roadblocks at her.
Bella was the one who should be district attorney. But the
position was an elected one, and Charles was a local, born and bred in Placer
Hills, and Bella was a newcomer, a woman, and a Latina.
"I've been working the Vargas case for eleven months,
Charles." Bella's voice held an undertone of quiet desperation. "I'm
this close." She held her thumb and forefinger nearly together and then
looked to Slater for help, but he remained silent.
He knew she hated anything that smacked of pleading, but he
was pretty sure Barrington was oblivious to her tone. Anyway, although Slater
tried to avoid taking sides, on this particular case he happened to agree with
the ruling to turn everything over to the feds. For the first time Barrington
made sense. Slater just didn't like the sneaky, underhanded methods the D.A.
used.
Charles turned his back on Bella and reached for the door
knob. "This Hashemi guy comes highly recommended. He'll get the job done."
"Wait a minute." Bella's voice caused Barrington
to pause, but he didn't turn around.
Slater leaned against the corner of his desk and waited.
What ploy did she have up her sleeve? He knew her too well to think she'd give
up without a bigger fight than she'd shown so far.
She coughed and cleared her throat as if it cost her
something important to dicker with the D.A. "What if we worked the case
together? The feds and our office?"
Charles looked back over his shoulder at this suggestion, a
little smirk on his face. "Oh, I don't think that would work, Izzie."
Bella bit her lip and Slater watched her struggle for
control of the temper that flared so easily around Barrington. "Maybe not,
but why not give it a try?"
Charles was already shaking his head with fake sorrow, and
she rushed on, "We've put a lot of work into this case. If we help them
out, the DEA has to give us at least part of the credit."
A gamble, Slater thought, and a good one. The only thing
Charles was better at than laying around on his lazy ass instead of prosecuting
cases, was taking credit for work he didn't do. Slater watched the play of
speculation cross the D.A.'s crafty face. The little weasel was already
thinking how he could spin the case to snatch the glory away from Bella.
Bella's face, on the other hand, was flushed and full of
bright hope. Slater swore to God that if Barrington let her remain on the case,
he'd do everything he could as her friend and in his position as sheriff to see
she got the credit she deserved.
On the heels of that thought, he wondered if she'd planned
it just this way. A ploy to bring Barrington around and get Slater firmly entrenched
on her side. He'd even bet she had already made a deal with the DEA agent. Atta
girl, he thought affectionately.
Bella waited for the weasel's answer and held her breath, thinking
she really hated this puny excuse for a man and an officer of the court she
loved so much.
"All right," Charles relented, drawing out the
words so it sounded as if he were doing her a big, fat favor. "But the
minute the DEA complains, you're off the case. Understand?"
Bella nodded vigorously, pleased with the outcome. She
despised toadying to Charles, but for the moment it didn't matter. She glanced
at Slater with a smug grin, which he returned with a quick wink. Fortunately
Charles missed both. He wouldn't like being played.
This was perfect. They could use the federal agency's budget
and still get the result she wanted. Mainly, putting Diego Vargas behind bars
for the rest of his life. Maybe even putting a needle in his arm if she could
prove the allegations she'd uncovered in the last few months.
Thank God California still had capital punishment. She was
sure she could prove special circumstances and this man deserved nothing less
than the death penalty.
"Hey there, Izzie," Slater needled her after
Charles had banged the office door loudly behind him. "Not a bad job of
manipulation."
Bella put on a mock frown. "If you call me that again,
Slater, I'll have to kill you." Then she smiled. "Wow, can you
believe that nincompoop gave in?"
"You were pretty persuasive." Slater eyed her
speculatively, suspicion etched in every line in his face. "What do you
know that Charlie Nincompoop doesn't?"
Bella wrinkled her nose and waved her hand as if Charles had
left a stench in the room. Which, as far as she was concerned, he had – the
stench of incompetence. "I might have already arranged a little
cooperation with the feds. Maybe."
"Really? What'd you have to give up for that agreement?
Doesn't sound like any federal agent I've heard of."
Bella looked quickly at Slater. She felt her face grow warm.
He had sharp eyes and excellent instincts, but he couldn't possibly know what
had happened to her in the last several days.
"Quid pro quo,
I imagine," he continued, "and
that makes me wonder what you gave him."
Slater was too damned good at detecting.
"Don't be silly. Agent Hashemi and I are just going to
swap notes, share our toys, and play nice in the sandbox."
Slater laughed aloud, a hearty robust sound that rose from
his chest like an engine roaring. "Ah, Bella, you're one of a kind, that's
for sure."
He returned to his desk and sank down in a large leather
chair that matched his impressive size. "Off with you now, missy. I've got
work to do." He waved several sheaves of paper in the air as proof.
Bella grabbed her purse and opened the door. "Thanks,
Slater. We'll talk later."
As she reached the door, he called her back. "Isabella?"
Uh oh, he only used her real name when he got serious and
went all friendly-protector on her. "Yes, Benjamin," she countered.
"Watch your back, okay? Barrington's a little nuts and
a complete idiot, but he's crazy like a fox in the hen house."
She nodded in agreement. Somehow Charles Barrington had
convinced the primarily conservative residents of Bigler County that he was
tough on crime, so they'd re-elected him. But, in fact, he made outrageous plea
bargain agreements every day. The man had no moral center, no sense of
fairness, and no idea that he turned hardened criminals out on the streets with
his inappropriate deals.
"You too, Slater," she said, blowing him a kiss. "Charles
watches you like a hawk. He'll take you down if he can."
"Nah." Slater smiled. "He'd have to grow some
balls first."
#
The phone call came while Rafe drove northeast on Interstate
80, fifteen minutes south of Placer Hills, the Bigler County seat. He glanced
at the readout. Max. Icy fingers ran up his spine in spite of the sun's heat
through the windows warming the car's interior. God, he hoped the detective had
good news.
He pressed the receive button. "Max, what have you got
for me?"
The pause at the other end of the phone told Rafe all he
needed to know. Lupe Rodriquez was dead. He lowered the phone to his chest, but
he could still hear Max's voice. He closed his eyes against the pain and
bitterness.
When he put the phone up to his ear again, he heard Max's
voice continue, " ... so I guess the good news is it's not Lupe's blood in
the alley."
Relief washed over Rafe. "What? I thought ... Whose
blood was it?"
"An ex-con named Morris Sullivan, thirty-six year old
white dude, did a dime at Chino for assault, released six months ago."
"Is he dead?"
"Dunno, Hashish, no body. We don't know what happened
to him, if anything, or why his blood was in that alley."
"You're checking it out?"
"Got several guys tracking him, but if he's alive, he
probably went to ground."
"Connection to Lupe?"
"None, but Rafe – " Max paused. "Didn't you
hear what I said about Lupe?"
"Yeah?" And that's when Rafe realized he hadn't
heard the first part of Max's sentence because he'd pulled the phone away from
his ear. Max had said, "I've got good news and bad news."
A mixture of sorrow and anger funneled through him like a
dark, reckless tornado, but he kept his voice flat and unemotional. "What's
the bad news about Lupe, Max?"
"We found a body a few minutes ago in East L.A., Obegon
Park." Another pregnant pause. "I'm sorry, buddy, I'm pretty sure
it's Lupe."
"Jesus Christ," Rafe whispered.
"I think you should come back right away."
Rafe paused while he shook off grief. "Why? I'm almost
to Placer Hills."
"Check into a motel, park your car, and take a flight
back," Max advised, his voice low as though he thought someone might
overhear his side of the conversation. "If you can be here in an hour or
so, I can hold off the coroner."
"Why?" Rafe repeated. "Can't you handle it?"
"There's something you need to see for yourself."