"Eliminating Rodriquez was a big mistake," the man said, leaning against the car's fender, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, "and threatening the agent was even more stupid."
Gabriel Santos placed a hand on the car's trunk and hovered close to the man's ear. Although they were the same height, Santos outweighed the man by at least fifty pounds. "El Vacquero does not think so," he said, although he privately agreed.
"Fuck El Vacquero!" The man pushed off from the car, spat out the butt, and ground it beneath his boot. He stabbed a finger at Santos' chest, a move the bodyguard found both amusing and dangerous. "Vargas wants my cooperation, he plays by my rules. Rodriquez was a mistake."
The cop had been an invaluable contact for a number of years, and perhaps it was best to let him continue to think he was in charge. Santos contemplated him thoughtfully and nodded briefly. "I will pass the message on."
"Good," snarled the man, his pale eyes eerie in the dim reflection from the car's taillights. "See that you do. I put my career on the line for the information I passed on to Diego." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a set of keys. He opened the car with the alarm button and settled behind the steering wheel. "I had the situation under control. Now the DEA's gonna be crawling up my ass."
Santos remained silent. He'd learned long ago how to hold his tongue and bide his time. One day, when the cop was no longer necessary to Diego's organization, he would regret the insults that now flowed so easily from his mouth. Vargas had a long memory.
"Tell Diego I'll deal with the mess he's made," the man flung out the window as he pulled away, "but no more hits unless I give the word. Capeesh?"
Santos merely nodded again and watched the dwindling taillights as the man pulled out of the docking area, wondering again at the man's hubris. ¡Poli del idiota! Speaking bad Italian to un mexicano.
If Santos ran Diego's organization the way the police ran theirs, they would have been out of business long ago. Unfortunately, having a man like him on the inside made Santos' life easier. For the time being.
He walked the few blocks to where he'd parked the black Chrysler. Good, the wheels and rims were intact. He could never be certain here at the docks near the Gerritson Housing Project where the local gangs did not recognize the automobile belonging to Diego Vargas. Some young gang member might want to jump in by stealing expensive hubcaps.
The trip to his infrequently-used apartment in West Sacramento took over an hour, and when he arrived, Santos permitted himself a single nightcap before retiring to set the alarm for his early morning ride north to pick up Diego.
Before extinguishing the light, Santos reached into the nightstand drawer and withdrew the ancient photograph. He had only a vague notion of why he kept the picture, but he'd had it so long now that its familiarity was like an old acquaintance, perhaps even a friend.
Its faded colors had taken on a sepia look now and the corners curled up. Slashes cut by folds and long ago fingering of the photo made the girl's features nearly impossible to see clearly.
But he knew that she was very beautiful, a woman such as he had never before seen. That mane of rich chocolate was not easily forgotten. Santos remembered every glint of the Mexican sun that reflected off her head and captured the reddish strands running through it. In his dreams, he felt its silken touch as it slid through his fingers, thick softness like the rich pelt of a fine breed of animal.
He sighed. He had been a very young man then, easily captivated by a pretty girl, but he did not think it was his youth that caused him to remember this particular one. Ella era muy hermosa – she was very beautiful in a fragile, unearthly way. But with a strange core of strength in her, like the tensile of thin wire.
Santos turned off the light and contemplated the long journey to pick up Diego at La Casa de Mujeres. Ay, he despised the ugliness of this part of the business.
"Why is Torres so bent on making this case?" Rafe asked as he and Slater waited in the sheriff's small office. "She's resisted the drug angle with Diego Vargas from the start. Doesn't she understand it'll be easier to prosecute that case than the human trafficking?"
"You'd better let her explain her reasons for that… when she knows you a little better," Slater answered, his feet propped up on the edge of his desk.
Rafe assessed the office. Crammed with several filing cabinets, Slater's desk, and the guest chair, it offered little room to turn around. A wide window looked out into the bullpen where he could see Torres talking on one of the phone lines.
She gestured wildly with her hands, the receiver tucked under her chin. A moment later she slammed down the receiver and spat air through her lips so hard that Rafe saw the loose brown strands tangle around her mouth.
Catching his eye through the window, she froze a moment, her lips still pursed, color starting to rise in her cheeks, a pretty pink color even in the harsh fluorescent lights of the bullpen. She frowned and then gestured for them to join her in the bullpen.
"Let's go to my office." She gathered her folders from the purloined desk of a broad man with the face of glistening coal who stood respectfully to the side.
A smile carved the man's face. "You reckon I can have my desk back now, Ms. Torres?"
"What? Oh, sure, sorry, Waylon. I'm in a mood today. Thanks." The smile that lit her features transformed them into the woman more like the one Rafe had first met in the bar.
Torres' office was more expansive than Rafe had expected for an assistant district attorney. Located at the end of the second floor of the courthouse and wedged between two courtrooms, it maintained the elegant, polished-mahogany look of the historic old building.
She'd made the place her own with a few personal effects scattered throughout – a photo of a young girl, maybe six or seven with an older girl who had Isabella's same large dark eyes and wide smile. Another picture of the two women Rafe had seen in Stuckey's Bar with Torres and an older woman, their mother he guessed.
"Have a seat." Torres indicated two large, comfortable-looking chairs in front of a highly polished but alarmingly cluttered desk.
"What's up?" Slater asked casually, crossing his foot over a knee and sinking back into one of the deep chairs.
Rafe took the other one which faced the west end of the building and a floor to ceiling bank of windows that overlooked the side lawn of the courthouse.
"Santos," she answered in a clipped voice. "That's what's up." Her lips flattened in a tight line as if the name on her lips was bitter.
Rafe looked up in surprise. "Vargas' henchman?"
"And his attorney of record, too." Her dark eyes were large in her pale face. "Nevada County picked him up for speeding. A friend of mine works in the sheriff's office up there." She slanted a look at Slater that might've been a token apology for stepping on his toes.
Slater shrugged and spread his hands wide as if he couldn't care less.
"Anyway, it was a bogus move. They wanted to have a reason to look inside the vehicle."
"Find anything?" Slater asked.
"Thirty grams of marijuana, single bag."
"Just enough to be a little trouble, right?" Slater thought a moment. "Was Santos alone?"
Torres nodded.
"Where was he coming from?"
"South. Maybe on his way to La Casa de Mujeres." Rafe noted her perfectly accented Spanish and the smug look Torres flashed him.
"Picking up Vargas, you think?"
"Likely."
The cryptic, short exchange irritated Rafe. "What the hell are you two talking about?"
"The house of wom – " Torres began.
"I know what the damn phrase means," he interrupted. "What's that got to do with Vargas' drugs?"
"Diego Vargas owns two whore houses in Nevada County," Slater explained, "both legit. But Torres thinks he's running at least one illegal brothel where he supplies his customers with… special requests."
Rafe lifted his brows, but he already knew the answer.
"Underage girls," Isabella provided flatly, "some of them as young as seven or eight."
"Jesus." He hadn't known that, but he should've.
"Right," she confirmed sarcastically, "but I don't think Jesus had that much to say about it. You still think the drug angle is more important?"
Rafe shook his head dismissively. "That's not the point – which one's more important. We could butt our heads against that wall all day. What we can actually convict Vargas on, what'll hold up in court is the main thing."
"So you say." Torres tapped her foot, still standing behind her desk even though both the men were seated in front of her.
Rafe looked from Slater to her and back again. "You have any intel on an illegal house? Any idea where it's located? Evidence of ownership by Vargas?"
Torres shook her head, and Rafe figured it cost her to admit to that weakness in her case.
He made a hand gesture as if her silence made his point. "Then let's talk about drugs. How is Nevada County holding Santos with barely more than an ounce of weed? He should've been out already."
"They're pushing it," Torres admitted.
"Tell them to spring him," Slater suggested. "You're right, Bella, it was a bad move on their part."
"He was doing sixty-nine on I-80 coming over Donner Pass," she complained. "They ran the plates when they pulled him over, saw it was registered to Santos, and used his parole from Chino to search the vehicle."
"That's legit," Rafe said.
"Yeah," Slater answered, "but dumb. Now Scarface knows he's being watched carefully."
"Scarface?" Rafe asked.
"You've seen his picture?" Slater countered.
"Actually, no. I've been looking at Vargas. He's our main concern," Rafe answered.
"Vargas already knows he's on our radar," Slater commented. "Santos, not so much. Maybe."
"You should watch out for Santos," Torres warned, the same distasteful set to her mouth.
"The power behind the throne," Slater added.
"How do you mean?" Rafe asked.
Torres finally collapsed in a heap on her chair. "Diego Vargas is a very evil man," she explained, carefully formulating her reply. "But Santos? He's not only bad, he's smart."
"Like a fox," Slater added.