When the conversation turned back to the DLK case, Olivia could tell Slater was pleased with the translation of the latest note, although no one had any idea what it meant in relation to the case. Minutes later they finished up and Isabella and Harris left.
"Be careful around Vargas," Slater warned Olivia.
She remembered the yellowing bruises and frightened eyes of Magdalena Vargas' photos and thought of her ex-husband's violent tendencies.
"Diego Vargas is a dangerous enemy, and like a cornered animal, he'll attack desperately and viciously if pinned against a wall," Slater warned. "Torres is young and sometimes she gets a little cocky. Be careful around Vargas."
Olivia and Isabella Torres sat across from the Councilman Vargas as guests in his office. Olivia suspected he’d arranged the meeting here as a psychological advantage.
An imposing and taciturn giant named Santos leaned against the wall in a pose that reminded her of a crouching tiger toying with a small animal. Vargas was a bull, charging straight on and goring his enemy with a single powerful thrust, but Santos was the one who meted out indifferent violence as warnings, the cost of running the smoothly oiled machinery of Vargas’ activities.
Olivia had done her homework on the councilman.
She glanced around the spacious office at the trappings of power and position. A flag of Mexico hung behind Vargas' desk, its green, white, and red vertical stripes oddly unsettling beside the red, white, and blue of Old Glory and the California Bear Flag. In a picture of César Chávez at a rally with his arm draped around a dark-skinned boy who surely must be the young Vargas, both grinned into the camera. The usual municipal code books aligned against the wall behind her. All photos were political in nature, one of Vargas with the current governor, another of him shaking hands with the head of the United Farm Workers of America. Noticeably absent were pictures of Vargas’ wife and family.
The councilman allowed them several moments of gazing around the room. She understood this, too, was a power ploy. Vargas controlled the meeting. He determined when it began and when it ended. When she met his eyes, he was smiling with the bearing and stance of a proud and confident leader.
"So, the beautiful and persistent ADA requests yet another interview with me." Vargas inclined his head in an old-world gesture, inviting them to sit in one of a pair of dark leather chairs. "How can I extend the service of my office?"
"Just a few more loose ends if you don’t mind." Isabella reached into her briefcase and retrieved a pen and notepad along with a small recorder. "I’ll record this conversation." She paused and raised her eyebrows in question. "If you don’t mind, that is."
The flush began in his bull’s neck and crept steadily up to the snowy collar of his shirt where a blue tie with red flecks threatened to choke off his air. "Of course, I do not mind. Only someone with secrets to hide would object." Vargas spread his beefy hands in a parody of apology. "But alas, my attorney would absolutely forbid it." He let his gaze slide to Santos, who'd straightened up from the wall.
Olivia was surprised by the implication that Santos was both bodyguard and lawyer. Surely the brute of a man to whom they’d turned their backs hadn’t the patience or intelligence to study for the bar. But the crafty gleam in his eyes told her Santos was cleverer than she’d believed. She felt ice deep in her bones.
Isabella cleared her throat. "What can you tell me about the Mexican Mafia?"
"The Sureños? What have I to do with those thugs?" He seemed genuinely surprised, and if so, that meant the two rival gangs were not forming alliances, and drug money hadn't funded Vargas' campaign.
"I heard rumors," Isabella murmured.
"Nonsense." Santos intervened for the first time. "Councilman Vargas is a respectable businessman. He has no ties to gang activities. If you wish to turn these allegations into criminal charges – "
"Silencio!" Vargas said. "Of course, ADA Torres does not wish to accuse me. She knows as well as I do that when any Latino goes to prison – or so I have heard – he must choose: either Sureños or Norteños." He smiled expansively, "I do not understand such blood oaths and allegiances, but an alliance seems unlikely."
"Jefe," Santos warned, closing the gap between Isabella and him. His high cheekbones and aquiline nose contrasted with the broad, peasant features of Vargas. A thin line cleft through the left side of Santos’ brow, down through the upper and lower lips and ending in the middle of his chin. A knife fight souvenir, Olivia guessed, staring at his massive hands. "Por favor, es imprudente decir más."
Vargas commanded him back to his station with an insolent wave of his hand. "I decide whether to say more or not." Turning to Isabella, he continued, "You have heard of this, yes? No neutral ground in the gangs. Blood in, blood out. Gang in, death out."
Olivia understood the message all too well. Vargas was speaking of more than gangs.
After a moment of silence, a grin split Vargas’ face and he spread his hands. "Que muchachas bonitas! How pleasant to have a visit by two lovely women." Vargas let his eyes slide over to Olivia. She folded her hands church-like on the table top and held back a shiver. "Such beautiful skin," he observed, "the joining of fair flesh with fine silk."
Vargas inclined his head for Isabella to proceed with her questions, but his eyes remained on Olivia. She lifted her chin, reminded herself to show no emotion, to remember why she was here.
Isabella extracted a red file from her briefcase and glanced at her notes, "Mr. Vargas, the last time we spoke, you mentioned your mother, Consuelo Maria Vargas – "
Santos held his massive hand up like a traffic cop, leaned over and whispered in Vargas’ ear. After a moment, Vargas nodded. Santos knew. He understood that the mother was a weak link in his client’s armor. Olivia met his eyes and saw the unspoken menace written there. She wondered how much the lawyer would interfere while Isabella pushed Vargas’ buttons.
"I only ask," Isabella continued, "because your mother sounds like a wonderful woman. She donates time and money to many charitable causes."
"Si." Vargas pushed his lawyer’s hand away. "Mi madre, she is a saint." He crossed himself and kissed the right thumb of his closed fist. The religious gesture was automatic and clearly meant something to the man.
"I’m sure she is, Mr. Vargas, but I’m looking at a report that indicates she was the largest contributor to your campaign this election year." Her fingers played over a picture of Consuelo Vargas that she’d clipped to the inside flap.
"That’s no crime." Santos answered for his client, his voice reasonable. "Family contributions."
"Yes," Isabella answered in a measured tone, "but the records indicate that Mrs. Vargas used business funds for the contributions. Considering the amount, that could be construed as illegal."
The effect on Vargas was instantaneous.
He jumped up from his seat, his face turning beet red. The chair crashed into the wall behind him as Santos leapt toward the women, grabbing Olivia by the upper arm as she and Isabella rose, startled at the manic reaction.
Santos’ voice was low and menacing. "You had better leave now." His grasp on her upper arm was punishing.
Olivia met Vargas' gaze. He moved his lips, but no words came out. His dark eyes focused on her alone. But the impassive calmness with which Santos urged them toward the office door chilled her to the bone. Santos was the one to watch out for.
When they reached the car, Isabella opened the doors and scooted into the driver’s seat. Ten minutes later, by mutual agreement, they pulled off the road and into the parking lot of a café off I-80. By the time they’d been seated and ordered coffee, both had reclaimed their composure.