"The toxicology report is on your desk, Sheriff," McKenzie said. "But the lab confirmed a lethal dosage of a 97% pure quality of heroin in the bloodstream."
"Addicts think they're taking a lower quality and unintentionally overdose," Rafe speculated.
"But where'd he get it?" Slater asked. "You can't find high-grade heroin around here. Our local addicts prefer meth. It's cheaper and easy to make." He rubbed his five-o'clock shadow. "There's been no word on the street about this stuff."
Bella shifted her feet restlessly. She knew the drug connection was important and Slater had to follow up on it, but she didn't want to lose focus on the human trafficking problem.
"Let's go back to my office and talk," she suggested, turning away from the empty body. "We need to tie Foster's death to Diego Vargas."
Both Slater and Rafe stared at her like she was crazy, but she spun on her heel and walked to the elevator leading up to the hospital lobby. They hastened after her, catching the elevator doors as they were closing.
Slater spoke first. "Let's take Agent Hashemi to his motel room, and then we can get together and talk about the case."
Bella looked to Rafe for his opinion, and when he nodded, her fervor died down. They were right. She had a bad habit of rushing into situations without first thinking through the consequences. She slanted a glance at Rafe as the elevator rose to the first level. When would she learn?
Slater dropped Rafe off at the Wiltshire Extended Motel just off Interstate 80 and gave him directions to the courthouse. They agreed to meet at 4:00 in Bella's office on the second floor. They wouldn't be interrupted because Charles Barrington would have left by then.
The district attorney never stayed past four. He pretended he was out and about on county court business, but Bella knew he was just cutting his workday short.
Slater and Bella decided to have a late lunch in the interim, and after leaving Hashemi at the Wiltshire, they drove to a local Chinese restaurant in Placer Hills near the courthouse where she often ate with Slater and his girlfriend Dr. Kate Myers. This week Kate was in D.C. at a forensic science conference where she was the guest speaker.
After ordering – walnut prawns for her, explosion beef for Slater – Bella sipped on her fully-loaded Pepsi and eyed him speculatively. "So what do you think?"
"About what?"
"Agent Hashemi, of course."
Slater always had the knack of sizing her up immediately. She could never hide anything from him, much like her older brothers, who'd always kept close tabs on her in high school. Now he looked at her as if he knew that she wasn't talking about Hashemi's government credentials.
"Seems pretty competent to me," Slater drawled, "if a little intense."
"He's aggressive," she said flatly and then leaned in and lowered her voice. In a small town like Placer Hills, you always assumed your conversations could be overheard and repeated back to you a few days later with a gossipy-skewed slant. "He really wants the Vargas case."
"I know that, Bella. I was there when Barrington laid down the law."
"I can't let him take over my case, Slater."
He lifted one shaggy brow. "Can't or won't?"
She tossed her head. "Same difference."
He touched her shoulder in a reassuring pat. "You sure you're not letting pride get in the way? Now, hear me out," he continued when she would've protested. "This Rafe fellow seems like a stand-up kind of guy, right?"
She nodded grudgingly.
"And even though he's a federal lackey," he joked, "I don't think he's going to cheat you out of your fair share of the glory."
"It's not the credit I want, Slater," she corrected. "You know that."
"Right." He smiled gently. "But one day you'll have to let go of that." He lifted her chin and made her look at him. "If you don't, it'll eat you alive."
She batted his hand away. "Sure, sure, you always think you know everything."
She smiled to let him know she'd take his advice into consideration, and then turned serious. "I just want to get this bastard, Ben. Vargas is pure evil and I want him so bad I can almost taste it."
Chapter Eighteen
"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.