"What? Have I worked so hard to raise a daughter only to see her sneak into the house like a thief after being out all night?" Mama's lips were a thin, hard line and her eyebrows were a jagged carving across her forehead. Her spine was as straight as a rod, her feet barely touched the carpet, and her plain cotton housedress smoothed modestly over her knees.
"Mama," Bella began before she was interrupted by the simultaneous opening and closing of both the front and back doors to the house.
Consuelo entered on a rush of words from the front entry. "Bella, why did you leave without telling me this morning?" she chided. "I wanted to prepare your breakfast."
Anita scurried from the kitchen, throwing off her coat and tossing it over the back of the sofa. "Hey, I thought we were meeting at the coffee shop for breakfast." She paused and looked from Connie to Bella and back, her eyes like saucers at the sight of her damp red dress.
"Nita, if your brain had any more holes in it, I could use it as a sieve," Connie said. "At my place. We were supposed to have breakfast at my apartment, not the coffee shop. How could you forget?"
"Sorry," Anita muttered, for once not putting her foot in her big mouth.
Mama eyed the three of them suspiciously. "Humph. And you don't have decent clothes to lend your baby sister so she has to dress like this in the light of day?" She paused and shook her head. "Well, I will prepare breakfast for all of you then."
She rose heavily from the sofa and gestured toward the kitchen, herding them like little chicks. "Come, come. You can tell me all about your big night over huevos y jámon."
Thank you, Bella mouthed to Consuelo when her mother turned toward the kitchen sink. She eyed her mother's back as she washed her hands and dried them on a colorful hand towel. Bella couldn't face Mama's censure. The facts were awful enough. She'd gone home with a virtual stranger and spent the night with him. She was too busy kicking herself to take on Mama's disapproval, too.
Consuelo lifted her palms in a what's-up gesture as she reached for the plates to set the table. The look on her sister's face clearly said, come clean or else, muchacha del bebé. Still a little baby girl. Bella had no intention of telling her sisters about last night. She'd give them a sanitized version while she packed to catch her flight back to Sacramento. Otherwise, they'd hover around her like well-paid bodyguards.
For now Bella ignored her sisters and checked the clock as she set out the silverware. Still time to eat, pack, and make her eleven o'clock appointment.
She wrinkled her nose. After a week of back and forth emails, this Hashemi character had flat-out refused to turn over jurisdiction in the Diego Vargas case. Then he'd gone over her head to her boss, Bigler County D.A. Charles Barrington who had caved in to the superior power of the feds.
No surprise there. Charles had the spinal column of a flatworm, so Bella found herself on a flight to L.A. with instructions to turn over her notes to this Hashemi guy. Enseguida. Right away.
Already she detested the federal agent and she hadn't even met him. She hated being ridden roughshod over and despised even more someone going over her head.
And even though she was duty bound to turn over her files, she didn't intend to make it easy for this… Hash – shem – whatever. She relished the idea of getting into a good scrabble with the feds. She folded the paper napkins and slapped them on top of the plates.
But right now her mama's eggs and ham sounded really good.
Chapter Ten
Bella pulled her rental car into the parking space near the Roybal Federal Building. Her luggage was stowed in the trunk, and she'd already said her goodbyes to her mama and sisters.
The lobby information kiosk indicated that Agent A. Hashemi occupied space on the second floor and listed an office number. She took the stairs and entered an opaque glass-windowed door at the far end of the corridor.
A large, empty waiting room lay behind the door. An older woman with the face of a saint and the roar of a dragon asked her to state her business and afterward indicated she should take a seat in the row of plastic chairs against the wall. Bella eyed the closed office door to her left and sat down.
After waiting twenty-two minutes, she began tapping her foot and shuffled in her seat. She looked at the military-issue wall clock over the receptionist's desk and frowned.
The older woman caught her glance and plastered a reproving smile on her face. "Agent Hashemi is a very busy man, Ms. Torres. He'll be with you momentarily."
Bella was sure the illusive Agent Hashemi – and what the hell kind of name was that anyway – was a busy man, apparently far busier than she was as a mere assistant district attorney in a much smaller county than Los Angeles. She drummed her fingers on the hard edge of the briefcase lying on her lap and debated leaving just for spite. Her already foul mood grew fouler.
Hashemi kept her waiting over a half hour. If he didn't see her soon, she would miss her flight. And the mountain of work piled on her desk. She could schedule a later flight, but she had no intention of leaving behind any of her Vargas files without getting an explicit working agreement with Hashemi for continued access to their information.
She knew the agent would fight her on this, but she came prepared for opposition.
The door to the office swung open and the receptionist – Mrs. Roberts, the name sign indicated – rose from behind her desk in time to greet the person leaving. A lanky, fair-skinned man with an open, laughing face – too open to be the DEA agent, Bella surmised – eased past the dragon lady and caught Bella's eye. He wiggled his brows in a passable Groucho Marx imitation and swept piercing blue eyes over Bella.
"Sorry you had to wait," he said, a grin splitting his pleasant face. He shook his head and smiled knowingly as if he were in on a huge joke. "Hashish will be very surprised."
"Hashish?"
The man tossed the words over his shoulder as he exited through the reception area door. "Agent Hashemi," he explained with a wider grin. "What I wouldn't give to see the look on his face."
The door clicked shut behind him as Bella heard Mrs. Roberts say something about an eleven o'clock appointment. Humph – more like eleven-thirty.
Then distinctly, her voice amused and motherly at the same time, the assistant said, "I don't think so, Agent Hashemi." The older woman turned to Bella and gestured toward the open door. "Don't keep him waiting, Ms. Torres."
Bella smoothed her suit skirt, adjusted her cuffs, and clutched the briefcase firmly in her left hand. She spared Mrs. Roberts a brief look of challenge before she stepped through the office door, her chin tilted and her eyes snapping.
Not a girl from the barrio for nothing, she prepared to do battle – and immediately froze in shock. Damn her silly sisters and their stupid tricks. Double damn her own reckless sense of adventure. She took a fraction of a second to recover, quicker she was satisfied to note, than Agent Hashemi – Ashraf, call me Rafe, long A – Hashemi, the son of a bitch.
She extended her hand in greeting and put on her court voice as he stood behind his desk, mouth still gaping. "Agent Hashemi, I'm Assistant District Attorney Isabella Torres from Bigler County."
And I am seriously screwed, Rafe thought the moment Mrs. Roberts ushered ADA I. Torres into his office. He stumbled to his feet, at a loss for words for the first time in longer than he could remember.
Dressed in a professionally-cut gray suit with a white blouse buttoned at the neck, she looked like a school teacher or a minister's wife. But neither her long hair pulled into a severe knot at her nape, nor her minimal makeup, could hide her natural beauty or the memory of the siren from last night.