The two men were shouting at each other, their voices loud and vicious, certain to wake up Corazon who slept in the other room. Santos clenched his jaw and tightened his fists until they became great sides of beef, weapons to kill with a single blow.
When he stepped into Vargas' office, the noises ceased abruptly. Diego planted his feet on the rug in front of his desk, his florid face even ruddier than usual, a white dress shirt pulled tight across his gut, and a blue-patterned tie choking him off at the neck.
In front of him stood Max Jensen.
"All I'm sayin' is you've got a traitor in your organization." He punched his bony forefinger into Diego's chest. "And I'm not fuckin' going down because you can't control your cartel."
Santos stepped between the two men and nudged the policeman aside. He took Vargas by the arm and led him to his great leather swivel chair, then brought him a glass of water. "What's wrong?" he asked, turning back to Jensen.
"Someone's going to name names," he grumbled. "Dates, times, places – Christ, God! – everything!"
Santos knew the little ADA would not have released his name to anyone she was not positive she could trust. Who then? "How do you know this?"
"Never mind how I fucking know! Vargas' whole operation is crumbling around him, and I'm not gonna be destroyed in the process!"
Santos took one step forward and not-so-gently shoved the man into an armchair. He loomed over him, planting both arms on either side of the chair. "How?" he asked again without raising his voice.
Jensen licked his lips as if he were thirsty. Santos knew he was buying time and did not want to give his source.
At last Jensen sighed heavily "What does it matter now?" He struggled to rise, but Santos' arms kept him bound to the chair as if they were steel ropes.
"¿Cómo?" Santos' voice was a deadly whisper.
"Hashemi, the DEA agent, told me. Rafe Hashemi."
"Ah!"
Jensen peered around Santos' arm to catch Diego's eye. "We've been friends since we were kids."
Santos took a calculated risk. "So tell us, Detective Jensen, who is this great traitor who has infiltrated El Vaquero's organization? Who is the man with the cojones to attack a man like the councilman?"
"I – I don't know the name yet," Max muttered.
Santos turned back to Vargas, spread his hands, and shrugged elaborately. "No puedo luchar al enemigo que no conozco."
Vargas' small pig eyes, flat and emotionless, stared at Santos for several moments. Then he swung them back to Jensen.
"What'd he say?" Jensen demanded.
"'He cannot fight an enemy he doesn't know,'" Vargas answered, bouncing his eyes back and forth between the two men as if he could not determine who to trust. "Verdad, it is true. When you hand me an enemy I can see, touch, whose blood I can taste… " The words spewed like venom from his mouth. "Then come back to me."
"I'm telling you – "
"Get out!" Vargas roared.
Santos followed the detective out through the gates to the rental car parked just inside the drive. "When you discover who this… traitor is, see me personally." He flashed a warning smile. "Do not disturb El Vaquero's peace of mind needlessly again."
He thought the detective would protest. Indeed, his fists clenched and his eyes narrowed. "You tell Vargas to be careful," he warned. "Some big shit's gonna hit the fan. I'm not having the turds land on me."
Without another word, he stepped into the car and drove off.
Detective Jensen was now a huge problem, Santos thought. One they would have to soon deal with.
When he returned to Diego's library, the man was pouring a large glass of brandy. He devoured the drink in one gulp, swiped at his thick lips with the back of his hand, and threw himself heavily into his chair. "Get rid of that detective. He is more trouble than he's worth and I do not want anyone to trace him back to me."
Santos stared down at Diego from his position by the bar. "Are you certain? He has provided us with excellent information over the years."
"Fuck, yes! And make it so the body is never discovered."
The meet with Santos took place in an area off the American River Parkway near Discovery Park. Bella left her car in the designated parking lot and walked the short distance alone as Santos had insisted.
Several officers in plainclothes, probably handpicked by Slater, waited in a copse of trees by an unmarked car. They looked armed and fiercely protective, and she made them immediately.
Rafe had battled her over the location, the time of day, and the lack of guards, but he appeared to have stayed away. Or at least kept well hidden.
She'd made it clear that Santos wouldn't talk to her unless he was certain he couldn't be overheard. Or recorded. She carried her cell phone ready to speed-dial for help, and although she didn't feel completely safe, she wasn't really concerned that Santos would harm her.
Killing an ADA was an audacious, but stupid move, and Santos was too crafty to let emotion rule him. She was relying on that. In fact, she suspected that it'd been Santos who'd kept Diego Vargas in check these last few years.
Anyway, El Diablo, as she'd heard Santos called, had made the contact this time.
At this hour of the day, the area was lively with bikers and dog walkers, and Bella waited at the place Santos had designated. She heard him before she saw his bulk looming through the shadows of the trees, even though he trod carefully. She guessed he didn't want to startle her.
As he approached, he searched the area around them with those fathomless black pits. He reminded her of the gigantes y cabezudos of the Spanish festivals of her childhood. His face had the same wooden features of the papier-mâché figures as he patted her down, careful not to touch her intimately.
Afterward, he began without preliminary. "I have decided to tell you everything that you want to know."
Her surprise must have shown. "What caused you to change your mind?"
His pause was so long, she thought at first that he might not answer.
"I have been with Diego Vargas since I was a young man," he explained, "over twenty years."
At the word twenty, she jerked involuntarily, telling herself the years meant nothing. Santos worked for Vargas twenty years; her sister had been missing twenty years. It was nothing but coincidence, nothing but an agony of decades for her and her family. And for Santos? She didn't know.
Bella shifted her stance, looked away. "So? What do you want me to say? That you've worked for an animal like Diego Vargas for enough years that you've become an animal, too?" She hadn't intended to vomit up the pain so caustically.
A faint smile carved his beautifully damaged mouth, but he said nothing.
"I've drafted a deal. Are you ready to look at it?" she asked sharply.
After a long silence, he said, apropos of nothing, "I have a picture. You look very like her."
Bella trembled and covered her mouth to keep from crying out. She didn't pretend not to understand and was furious about the possibility that a man like Santos had a picture of her beloved sister.
Silently she held out her hand while he reached inside his pocket and placed a snapshot carefully in the center of her palm, closing her fingers over the worn edges.
She peered at the photo, not really able to make out the features. Perhaps it was a picture of Maria. Or it could be her mind playing tricks on her.
"How did you get this?" she demanded.
"I will tell you that later," he said, "after our agreement is complete. I can tell you what happened to her. I imagine that information would be very valuable to you."
"I can't bargain with you for personal reasons," she answered even as her fingernails dug into her palms and the beginning of a plan scurried through her mind.
"But you can bargain with me to get El Vaquero. Consider the information about Maria a bonus. And perhaps you will feel generous enough to give me a bonus in return during your negotiations."
She knew he spoke the truth when he mentioned her sister's name. "You bastard," she whispered as he retrieved the photo from her lifeless fingers.
"Yes," he said, "that is true, for my father never married my mother. Think about what I can give you. Not only Diego Vargas but… "
He spread his hands in an old-world gesture and smiled with those beautiful white teeth, but the look in his eyes reminded her of a snake ready to strike.
"Uncle Santos?" The voice over the cell phone was small, quiet, and sounded very, very young and frightened.
Santos was shocked to hear Cory's voice on his cell number because only Diego and a few close advisors contacted him by this means. "Ay, Cory, mi pequena muchacha querida. ¿Cómo estás?"
"Okay, I guess." She sniffled. She had been weeping.
"How did you get this number, little one?"
"I have Papa's phone," she whispered. He could imagine the small girl, slender and dark like her mother, hunched over the phone, fighting back tears she could not quite control.
"Where is your papa?"
"He's sleeping. He snores real loud." She paused and then rushed on in a tumble of words. "Uncle Santos, he's been drinking… a lot."
"Where is he, Cory?" he repeated.
"He… he's in my bed," she sobbed, "and I can't go to sleep because he's so loud."
A rage wholly unfamiliar to Santos squeezed his chest. Rage mixed with a helplessness also alien to him strangled his breathing. Pinche cabrón, he ranted silently as he had many times before about his boss.
But this time, he vowed silently, the pig would be stopped.
Rafe followed the directions Max had given him to the house in South Highland Heights.
Max greeted him at the door of a ramshackle stucco dwelling whose lawn needed mowing and whose trim needed painting. "So, the Vargas case is a mess, huh? Good thing I'm here to solve it for you."
"Yeah, man, I could use a fresh set of eyes." Rafe looked around the porch landing at the general air of neglect and lifted his eyebrows in inquiry. He knew Max was a neat freak.
"Uh, listen, this is my grandma's place. She's in a nursing home, but her only son, my Uncle Brian, hasn't gotten around to selling the house yet. He's letting me bunk here for a while in exchange for keeping an eye on the place."
"Sounds great. I'm in that lousy extended-stay motel."
"Hey, Hashish, why don't you grab your stuff and stay with me? It'll be great, just like old times at Stanford."
Rafe hesitated, wanting to spend time with Isabella, but wondering if they'd complicated matters by moving their relationship up a notch. On the other hand, maybe distance would be good until the case settled.
He wasn't ready to share his feelings about her with anyone just yet. Even with his best friend.
And, on top of everything, at the far back of his mind, that little warning jiggled. "Hell, why not?" he finally answered.
He left Isabella a voice message, giving her details of where he'd be, explained that his old friend needed him, and he'd contact her after she sealed the deal with the informant. Caution made him leave out Gabriel Santos' name.
This would buy him time, he told himself. He'd know when he looked Max directly in the eye. His old friend couldn't lie straight to his face and get away with it.
But the cold suspicion that maybe he'd been betrayed chilled his heart.