Blood's Echo, page 26
Frank voiced the unspoken question. “So what makes you think it was Diaz?”
“He’s been dogging Veranda constantly,” Anderson said. “He keeps butting in, trying to get details about the case.”
Diaz glared at Anderson over Veranda’s head as he said, “Part of the agreement allowing her to do a temp in Homicide was that I have access to her for my investigation.” He turned to the others. “In case you all didn’t notice, I just protected Veranda from the shooter.”
Veranda stood between the two men. She realized it was the second time Diaz had called her by her first name. He was right too. When they were under fire, he put her life before his. In fact, his previous behavior could be construed as overprotectiveness. As she considered his actions from a new perspective, doubt clouded her mind. Her eyes scanned the faces in the room. If Diaz wasn’t the mole, then who was? And how could she figure it out?
Disjointed images coalesced in her thoughts. Finding the cipher. Poring over the printout. Decoding messages between phones. The mismatched pieces snapped into place. “Hold on!” She turned to Grigg. “Sergeant, I need an SAU member to cover every person in here who is not on your team.”
Commander Webster’s eyebrows shot up. “Detective Cruz, what’s going on?” He motioned to encompass her entire team and chain of command. “Are you accusing one of us?”
The mere suggestion that one of them could be a traitor was a profound insult, but she had to go with her plan. “I am. And I’ll root out the mole right now.” She looked at Grigg. “With your help.”
Grigg considered her for a long moment. She appreciated his predicament. If he did as she asked, he would give the order to detain several high-ranking officials based on pure trust. Such a decision could end his term as SAU leader.
Finally, Grigg signaled his team. “Do it.”
Instantly, tactical officers spread throughout the room until two SAU members flanked every non-team member. The only sound in the outbuilding came from Doc, who continued giving chest compressions to Lieutenant Aldridge.
Webster’s face reddened. “Cruz, you’re way out of bounds.” He glanced at Grigg. “Sergeant, if you value your position, you will stop this immediately.”
Sam’s baritone rumbled through the room. “Commander, a mole has jeopardized our detectives and compromised our investigation. If Detective Cruz has a way to identify that person, best we let her get on with it.”
Webster’s visage went from red to a muddy color, but he threw up his hands. “Fine.”
Veranda strode to Bartolo. She crouched next to the body, plunged a hand into his pants pocket and fished out his cell phone. She got to her feet and showed the mobile specifically to Sam.
A knowing look crossed Sam’s face. “I see where you’re going.”
The phone’s screen illuminated at her touch. She tapped the call log icon, then held her breath and connected to the last number dialed.
A repetitive buzz pierced the silence.
All eyes scanned the room for the source of the noise.
“Doc,” Sam said, “stop what you’re doing.”
Doc looked up, his arms continuing to piston up and down. “It’s going to take a while for the ambulance to get here. I’ve got to keep giving compressions.”
Sam lowered his voice. “Ten seconds won’t make a difference. We need total quiet.”
Doc paused.
Veranda tapped the screen to redial.
She scanned the group, stopping at Lieutenant Aldridge. A slight tremor vibrated the outer pocket of his ballistic vest.
33
Five hours later, Veranda squinted and lowered her visor as the late-afternoon sun slanted into the Malibu’s windshield. Despite her fatigue and aching head, she had been forced to relive the entire ordeal three times. As with any use of deadly force, the Department conducted both criminal and administrative investigations. Even though she had not pulled the trigger this time, her actions had brought about the entire confrontation.
First, a detective she didn’t know from another Homicide squad interviewed her. Then, a PSB supervisor made her recount the entire story a second time. Finally, she was poked and prodded by various medical personnel at the hospital, who asked her to describe how she had sustained her injuries, which required her to explain most of what had occurred at the warehouse. Her shoulder was particularly tender where Bartolo had twisted her arm so far behind her back she thought she might pass out. The doctor told her it had not been dislocated, but was strained. The shoulder throbbed. She accepted the prescription for Vicodin, but knew she would never fill it.
While being treated, Veranda was reunited with Gabby, who had been transported to the emergency room by ambulance after her rescue. Her sister was badly shaken but sustained only cuts and bruises. Once Veranda found her, she refused to leave Gabby’s side, insisting the medical staff put them next to each other.
Veranda’s mother had become hysterical when she called to explain that she and Gabby were safe at the hospital. Veranda did everything in her power to dissuade her entire family from descending on the emergency room en masse. She knew her mother was capable of arranging a procession of vehicles worthy of a motorcade with Father Sanchez leading the convoy. She visualized fifty friends and relatives holding hands and praying in the waiting room and her mother counting the rosary until her fingers bled. It took Veranda a solid five minutes to assure Lorena that she and Gabby were both there as a precaution and that neither of them needed to be admitted.
When her mother pushed for details about the circumstances of the rescue, Veranda agreed to tell her everything once she got her sister home. She promised not to leave her sister’s side and take her straight to Lorena as soon as they were released. Veranda insisted that the family wait at home for their return.
After concluding that Veranda’s clothing had no forensic value, the CSI techs had allowed her to put on her black cargo pants, Under Armour T-shirt, and boots. She secured her nylon tactical belt in the trunk of her city car in the hospital parking lot—where Sam had left it for her—before easing Gabby into the vehicle.
As Veranda maneuvered through traffic, she cut her eyes to Gabby, huddled in the passenger seat. Her sister wore green medical scrubs given to her by a sympathetic orderly at the hospital before they checked out. The CSI techs had taken Gabby’s clothes as evidence and Veranda doubted her sister would ever want them back. Gabby’s cuts and bruises were cleaned and bandaged, filling the car with the pungent scent of antiseptic.
Veranda swallowed a lump in her throat as she reached out to squeeze her sister’s hand. “You’ll be home soon, Gabby.”
Tears welled in her sister’s lovely brown eyes. Veranda’s heart lurched. She had promised her mother she would return Gabby safely. She had only partially succeeded. What kind of emotional scars would remain after the physical injuries healed? Gabby was only fourteen. She should be worrying about homework, boys, and her upcoming quinceañera. She should never have been subjected to someone like Bartolo Villalobos. It happened because Veranda had chosen to fight the cartel.
Veranda’s cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She tapped her Bluetooth and Sam’s voice transmitted directly into her ear. “Veranda, Commander Webster ordered everyone to the war room.”
“He authorized me to drive my sister home.”
“He said to come to VCB as soon as you’re clear.”
“I need time with my family.”
“I can buy you an extra fifteen minutes, but you’ll need to cut it short.” He paused. “You can get back to them later.”
“Fine. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She pulled the earpiece from her ear as the car crunched onto the gravel driveway that connected the casitas on her family’s property in South Phoenix.
All of her relatives stood behind Lorena, who waited in front of the main house. When the vehicle ground to a halt, Veranda jumped out and circled the car to open the passenger door. Gabby clambered from her seat and ran into her mother’s waiting arms.
Aunts, uncles, and cousins gathered around Gabby as Veranda looked on in silence. She was an integral part of the family, yet separate. Her mother broke loose and walked over to her. Veranda looked into the hazel eyes, so much like her own. “I’m sorry, Mamá.”
“What are you saying, mi’ja?”
Veranda felt the bleakness of her words. “I brought this pain into our family.”
Lorena reached out to take Veranda’s face in her hands. She looked into her eldest daughter’s eyes and spoke to her in Spanish. “Veranda, from the day you were born, you have brought only love into this family. I am grateful every day that you are my daughter.” A tear coursed down her mother’s cheek. “No one else could have brought Gabriela back to me.”
“Mamá, I’m afraid the Villalobos family isn’t finished with us.” She paused before voicing her most agonizing thought. “Because of me.”
Her mother shook her head. “This began in Mexico. Long before you were born. After Hector attacked me, I knew he would slaughter our whole family if we stayed. I could not fight El Lobo and his forces, so I fled with my little brothers and sisters.”
“Of course, what else could you do?”
“I ran away that night, but I did not truly escape. Hector is not a man who forgets. Do not blame yourself, Veranda.”
“But I’m the one who declared war on the Villalobos family.” She lowered her head. “I admit I only thought of vengeance for our family, not about the danger. The Villalobos cartel has become rich and powerful. Now the next generation has joined the battle and there is nowhere to run where they can’t reach us.”
Lorena gently brought her daughter’s face up to meet her eyes. “Our family has changed. You have taught us all courage. Even in the face of powerful evil.”
Veranda’s eyes widened. “You always had courage. Look how you brought up your younger siblings in a foreign country, where you didn’t even speak the language.”
“That was perseverance. Not courage. I had the strength to endure, but not the will to fight. You, mi’ja, have both. Your bravery inspires us.” Still holding Veranda’s face in her hands, Lorena eased her daughter’s head down until their foreheads touched. “We will never run away again.” When they straightened, her mother’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears.
Veranda now fully understood her role in the family and why she always felt slightly apart from the others. She was a solitary sentinel who would lay down her life to defend her flock against the wolves. “Then I will protect you.”
“Veranda, you cannot guarantee our safety. When our family voted to stay in Phoenix, we accepted the risk that went with our decision.”
Veranda had to be honest. To be sure her mother understood the stakes. “Even though you know I’ll keep going until I bring down the cartel?”
“I know who you are, Veranda. It is not in your nature to quit.” Lorena tugged her into a tight embrace, then released her. “Go. I’m sure your police family is waiting for you.”
Veranda nodded. Her mother had once been married to a law-enforcement officer. She understood the professional relationships that created a unique bond and the obligations of the job.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Veranda waved at the rest of her relatives and turned to walk back to the Malibu.
Duty called.
34
Villalobos family
compound, Mexico
Adolfo sat at the inlaid mahogany conference table in his father’s office, eyes riveted to the massive flat screen on the wall. He struggled to wrap his mind around the spectacle unfolding on live television. His younger siblings, Carlos and Daria, flanked him as they watched a satellite feed of the Phoenix local news.
His father raised the volume on the remote in his hand as the anchorman’s face filled the screen. “Police officials have released a preliminary statement in which they will only confirm three deaths at this time. Other sources, however, tell our onsite reporter this was the scene of a shootout between drug traffickers and police.”
The news program cut to an overhead shot of a warehouse from a media helicopter. The mobile command vehicle squatted among a phalanx of police cars, vans, and technical equipment. Crime scene technicians in Tyvek suits carried materials to a white paneled van. Reporters and onlookers pressed against yellow crime scene tape surrounding the property.
In the background, the anchor’s voice narrated. “This just in. An unnamed source close to the investigation has informed us that two of the deceased are a reputed drug lord and an enforcer from the notorious Villalobos cartel. The third victim is reportedly a Phoenix Police officer. We await official confirmation.”
Hector raised the remote and clicked off the television. “We must act carefully,” he said in the refined Spanish that belied his upbringing in the barrios of Mexico City. “The three of you are to stay here at the compound until the storm passes.”
Adolfo was anxious to get back to Phoenix to take over his brother’s position. “How long will that be?”
Hector tossed the remote on the table. “Not long. The reporters have a short attention span. Soon gas prices will go up, or there will be a terrorist bombing somewhere in the world and they will look elsewhere for news.”
Carlos raked a hand through his thick, dark hair. “The police won’t forget so quickly. They’ll come after us like never before,” he said, bouncing a knee under the table.
The faint rhythmic tapping of his brother’s heel on the floor reached Adolfo’s ears. He knew it was not a nervous gesture, but a sign that Carlos sought the release of taking action. His youngest brother reminded him of a shark, needing continuous motion for survival.
Hector leaned forward. “I am not afraid of police. What concerns me is competition. Every day we don’t run our supply line is an opportunity for other cartels to gain a foothold in our market.” His mouth twisted into a sneer. “All of this goes back to Detective Veranda Cruz. It was her interference that started Bartolo down the path that led us here. I will not let the actions of one woman undermine my organization.” His intense gaze landed on Adolfo. “What will you do about it?”
Adolfo sensed his father’s challenge in the question, and straightened. “Papá, I promised you I would deal with Veranda Cruz, but I have to wait for the right time.”
Hector snorted. “Do you recall Umberto Camacho?”
“He was the man you sent to watch Bartolo and report back to you.” Adolfo resented his father sending a spy into Bartolo’s camp. It meant Hector might have done the same thing to him.
“That was not his only assignment. I also gave him instructions to kill the mole.”
Adolfo glanced at Carlos and Daria to see if they were as confused as he was. “I don’t understand. You ordered the mole to shoot Bartolo. Why would you execute Aldridge for following directions?”
“No one who murders a member of our family can be allowed to survive. Even if it was done on my orders. If our men see that a Villalobos can be killed with impunity they will think us vulnerable. Plan a coup.” He smoothed the lapel of his Armani suit. “Besides, the mole was a traitor to his own people. He had no honor.”
Adolfo’s brows drew together. “What does this have to do with my promise to avenge Bartolo?”
Hector gave him a penetrating stare. “Umberto Camacho’s final order was to kill Veranda Cruz.”
Understanding washed over him as Adolfo grasped the implicit insult his father had just dealt him. “She was my responsibility. I swore an oath.”
“Which shows you how much faith I have in any vow you make, mi’jo. Bartolo had his faults, but he was strong.” Hector clenched his fist. “Now, who will have the cojones to step up and lead our family business?” He looked at each of his children in turn.
“I might not have cojones,” Daria said, “but I’m the smartest.” She smoothed back a tendril of hair that had escaped the chignon at the back of her head. “I can put that bitch in the ground and no one will ever trace it back to us.”
Hector smiled fondly at his only daughter. Adolfo sensed his opportunity slipping away and spoke quickly. “Papá, I am the one with knowledge of the entire operation. Because of my financial expertise, we have billions in assets. I plan to spread our organization throughout the Western Hemisphere. After we have consolidated our power, we’ll make an incursion into the Asian markets. The name of Villalobos will be known throughout the world.”
“Ambitious.” Hector gave him an approving nod. “I was not aware you thought on such a large scale.”
Adolfo leaned forward. Finally, his father might see his vision. “I have many plans, Papá. Let me take over Bartolo’s operation in addition to mine and show you.”
Hector pushed back his chair, clasped his hands behind his back, and strolled over to the mahogany-paneled wall. Adolfo observed his father’s movements, hoping El Lobo’s body language would give away private thoughts. Hector’s head tilted back to study the massive family crest. Adolfo sensed the significance of the moment. Even though his father had never officially decreed it, everyone knew Bartolo was the heir apparent. Now that he was dead, Hector had to select a new successor to the family business.
Adolfo assessed his siblings. Carlos, the handsome playboy who ran the cartel’s human trafficking and sex trade divisions. Adolfo had seen him ruthlessly execute people without hesitation. He was popular with his men, but Adolfo suspected this had more to do with regular offerings of women to his crew than any real leadership skills. A student of human nature who possessed a degree in psychology, Carlos could be highly manipulative.
