Bella was prosecuting a routine DUI when she glimpsed Slater as he entered the side door of Judge Carson's courtroom. A film of sweat glinted off his upper lip, and he looked like he'd run three steps at a time up to the third floor of the Bigler County Courthouse. He caught her eye and flashed a meaningful look before he sat in the gallery section.
She knew Slater wouldn't interrupt a court proceeding unless it was important, but other than the enigmatic glance, his face remained inscrutable. She nodded acknowledgment and glanced down at her yellow legal pad of notes.
"Officer Richardson," she addressed the young man on the stand, "when you conducted the field sobriety test of the defendant on the night of March 29, what evidence of intoxication did you find?"
"First I noticed horizontal gaze nystagmus when I tracked the movement of his eyes."
As the young officer explained the procedure, Bella's mind wandered, silently fuming at Charles Barrington for assigning her this driving-under-the-influence case instead of giving it to one of the junior assistants. No doubt, punishment for her stance on the Vargas case.
Aware of an expectant pause in Officer Richardson's testimony, she continued, "What else did you observe?"
"Mr. Jackson's pupils were dilated beyond the normal range, and also there was non-convergence of the eyes."
"And what is that?"
"The person is unable to cross their eyes and can't track a stimulus that's brought to their nose, in this case my finger."
"And what can cause this non-convergence?"
"A number of drugs, including marijuana and alcohol."
As Bella sat down, the defense attorney, an older woman whose office was in Sacramento, asked her first question. "Officer Richardson, what other factors can cause horizontal gaze nystagmus besides intoxication?"
"Beg your pardon, ma'am? I don't understand the question."
"Let me rephrase. Are there conditions other than intoxication that can cause horizontal gaze nystagmus? Diseases, for example?"
"Yes, ma'am, epilepsy can cause it."
"Thank you."
The defense attorney returned to her seat. Bella asked one question on redirect. "Officer Richardson, was there any indication that the defendant was an epileptic?"
"No, ma'am. He wasn't wearing a medical alert bracelet and didn't say he had a condition."
Bella glanced at the wall clock, waiting for Judge Carsons to declare a lunch break. "Thank you, Officer Richardson."
Right on time Judge Carsons banged his gavel. "We'll adjourn for lunch now and reconvene at 1:30. Let me remind the jurors not to discuss the case among yourselves."
Bella flashed a look at Slater, who was bouncing his knees in a gesture she recognized as impatience. He met Bella at the table where she gathered up her papers and stuffed them into her briefcase. His face was solemn as he took her arm and led her from courtroom number three.
"Let's walk," he suggested, guiding her to the ancient elevator and pressing the button for the basement floor.
When they reached the lower level, Slater led the way past the records and evidence department into the underground tunnel of the heating and ventilating system, and up the back cement stairway to the rear of the courthouse. His battered, late-model truck was parked under a clump of trees, but he bypassed the vehicle and walked to a shaded area on the sloping lawn where several picnic tables were scattered along the asphalted walk path. He sat down heavily on one of the tables, his feet planted squarely on the bench, hands dangling between his knees.
Bella sat beside him on the rough surface of the picnic table. "What's this about, Slater?"
"Waylon Harris found a dead body out by Beale's Lake early this morning." Harris, one of Slater's deputies, was his protégé. If he'd alerted Ben, this wasn't a routine death.
"Homicide?"
"Could be. Doc McKenzie's doing the autopsy. Looks like a drug overdose, but the victim didn't get out there by himself."
"What do you mean?"
Slater stared toward the eastern horizon where the slope of the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range showed brilliant against the crisp blue of the sky. He turned westward toward the gentle, rolling foothills and their verdant farming land. "God, this is beautiful country this time of year."
Bella followed his gaze. "Yes," she said simply.
Slater sighed and finally continued, "Male victim, nude. No evidence of clothing discarded in the area, body wrapped in a tarp. Somebody dumped him out there." He scratched his blackish beard, more heavily flecked with specks of gray than when she'd worked with him last year on several other murder cases that involved an old childhood friend of Slater.
"Accidental drug overdose and subsequent cover up?" Bella stared at the side of Slater's face, not sure yet why he felt the case merited pulling her out of court. She paused, her instinct pushing into overdrive, and then ventured a guess. "Does this have something to do with Diego Vargas?"
"Maybe. I think so. Hell, I don't know. But the preliminary toxicology screen showed high-grade heroin, almost ninety-eight percent pure."
"That's ridiculous!"
Most of the heroin in California was a low-grade quality called black tar heroin that came up through Mexico from Central and South American. Bella stared at Slater's profile. "We never get that high-quality smack up here. You think the lab made a mistake?"
"That's what worries me, Bella. I have a feeling pure shit like this came straight from the Triangle."
"Afghanistan?"
"Yeah." Slater stopped, stared at the horizon, and swiveled on the table to bump knees with her. "If it's China White that killed the guy at Beale's Lake, that's sophisticated drug trafficking. We've got to get the DEA involved."
Damn it! Why did everything come back to Rafe Hashemi and his federal drug task force? If he found out about the recent death, he would definitely appropriate everything she had on Diego Vargas and likely cut her out of the loop. He wouldn't have to worry about playing nice. He probably wouldn't let her play in the sandbox at all.
"Bella?" Slater took her hands in both of his, swallowing them with his giant paws, and looked her straight in the eye like her father had when she was younger and got into trouble. "This drug case against Vargas might be bigger than we can handle here in our little county."
"But what about… about the other thing?" Slater knew all about Maria, understood that Bella referred to the human trafficking charges she wanted to bring against Vargas.
"The feds aren't so bad at prosecuting that kind of thing either," he said gently.
She jerked her hands out of his grasp and jumped off the picnic table. "I'm due back in court."
"Bella – " Slater's voice held a warning.
"I know, I know. I won't go off the deep end. I promise." She hurried toward the walkway that ran from the parking lot to the cement steps of the courthouse.
If the body lying in Dr. McKenzie's morgue were a result of a high-grade heroin overdose, Hashemi would have even more reason to usurp the Vargas case. He'd rip it out of her control faster than she could bat her lashes.
Not that she had any intention of doing that to Rafe Hashemi ever again.
Almost as if she'd been expecting Rafe and Max, Francisca Munoz answered the door at the first knock. Her bare brown feet peeked from below the hem of a modest dress that clung to her swollen belly. Her face was blotchy and her red-tipped nose glistened.
Even though Rafe had never met Francisca, a jolt of empathy hit his gut like someone had sucker-punched him. Lupe always chattered in his amiable, optimistic way about the woman who stood in front of them. Rafe saw by the lines etched in her face that she knew something about sorrow and now understood more was headed her way.
"You are the one he reports to, sí?" Her tongue trilled the R's softly in accented English. "You are Rafe? You are his amigo? Tell me this is not true, that Lupe is not dead," she pleaded, twisting her dress in frantic hands.
Rafe had no business telling her anything until the autopsy was complete, until forensics proved the bloody mass of flesh in the morgue was really Lupe Rodriquez. What had he hoped to gain by coming here and adding to her grief? He glanced down at her belly, large and hard beneath the purple and blue print of her dress. The child would grow up without a father, and life would be hard for both of them.
Rafe felt his anger mounting furiously. He wanted to hunt down whoever did this and smash him into an unrecognizable pulp. Until he resembled the scarlet heap of decaying tissue that was Lupe.
He jerked himself back from the precipice. "Can we come in, Francisca?"
Silently, she opened the door wider and ushered them inside. A small but tidy living area held an old sofa covered with a colorful throw. As he sat, Rafe felt the sharp jab of broken springs beneath his hips. No one spoke for long minutes as if the quiet were a requiem for Lupe, a mass of three.
At last Max broke the silence. "Excuse me. Where's the bathroom?"
Francisca gestured to the hall on her right, and Rafe watched Max's retreating back. Had courtesy prompted him to leave them alone? Or was Max uncomfortable around the dead Lupe's pregnant girlfriend?
Francisca laid her hand on his. "Are the police sure it is Lupe?"
Rafe nodded slowly. "Lo siento mucho."
Sorrow settled on her face and tears trickled down her round cheeks. "Me siento mucho también." She held her hand over her belly in a protective gesture. "Who killed Lupe? ¿Quién mató al padre de mi bebé?"
Who killed the father of my baby?
He shook his head. "I don't know, but I hoped you could help me. Can you answer a few questions?"
Francisca nodded.
"After Lupe left for our meeting, did he come back here?"
"He called me around eleven o'clock. He said he had something to do, but he would be home within an hour."
"Did he call after that?"
"No." Fresh tears squeezed from the edges of her brown eyes. "No, and he never came home." She fingered a tiny gold cross hanging from her neck. "When I woke up this morning and he was not beside me in our bed, I knew something terrible had happened to him."
"Francisca, did Lupe ever talk about anyone else he did business with?"
"I do not think so." She frowned. "But something was on his mind the last few days."
Rafe heard the toilet flush and a moment later Max reappeared at the end of the hall. "Do you have any idea what was worrying him?"
"No, I'm very sorry." She paused and looked down at her hands, but a moment later leaned close and whispered in his ear. "But he began to carry a gun with him when he left the apartment."
"He hadn't done that before?" Rafe hadn't noticed Lupe carrying when they met in the bar.
"No, no, I made him promise when we learned about the baby. No más de armas."
No more guns.
A few minutes later, Max and Rafe climbed into an unmarked police car and merged into traffic. "What'd you find in the bedroom and bathroom?" Rafe asked, knowing that's why Max had gone there.
"Nothing," Max answered as his eyes slid away from Rafe's. "Just the regular OTC meds and women's junk."
"No weapon, no ammo, nothing jotted on a piece of paper?"
"Nada. Nothing that shows Lupe was playing both ends." Max slid a quick glance at Rafe. "You can't worry about this, Rafe. It'll wear you down, man."
"I would've bet my life on him, but… "
Lupe Rodriquez wasn't a violent man, and Rafe knew he wouldn't have carried unless he had a good reason. What was Lupe worried about that he hadn't told him?
Was that what got him killed?