After they entered the office, Santos remained standing while Diego sat in a stiff-backed chair behind the impressive dark wood desk, signing papers and ignoring his attorney's presence. Glancing around the room, the attorney noted the new addition to Vargas' desk – a family photo. The councilman never kept pictures in the office except political ones, him with the governor and various congressmen, with celebrities, even of him with César Chávez when Diego was a boy.
The new photo was of Vargas and Corazon, his eleven-year-old daughter, a recent picture because Cory wore new braces on her teeth and tried to hide her smile. Diego had his arm around her shoulder, holding her tight against his barrel chest.
And where was Vargas' wife Magdalena in this family picture?
Finally Vargas signed the last document with a flourish and looked up. "The RICO charges have been dropped?" he asked, continuing the thread of the discussion they'd begun as they drove from Vargas' mansion to downtown.
"Sí, we knew the feds were not going to be able to prove them." Santos crossed his arms and shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet. "But from last year, the rape charges – "
"That was completely bogus!" Vargas' thick brows drew together in a scowl as he interrupted. "You told me the girl agreed to silence, and the D.A.'s office has not pursued the allegations."
"They haven't, El Vaquero, but that is what bothers me."
"Why should that bother you?" Vargas shoved back impatiently from his desk, his ample gut stretched over his belt. "It is good, no?"
"The Bigler County D.A.'s office had too much evidence to drop the charges, but they did not follow the investigation. One has to wonder why that is, considering Sheriff Slater is usually like a bulldog with a bone."
"I do not fucking care why," Vargas growled as he pushed out of his chair and moved to stand chest to belly with Santos. "There are more pressing matters."
Santos willed his face into granite, a trick he had a great deal of practice with. "What matters?"
"Another overdose, some stupid college kids."
"Local?"
"Granite Heights at Beale's Lake."
Santos shrugged. "They will not be able to tie the charges to us. Our protection runs too deep."
"¡Chingada! Maybe in L.A., but not here!" As Vargas shouted, spittle dotted Santos' tie and shirt front. Diego raised his meaty fist as if he would strike. "Take care of it. Get rid of the dealer," he ground out. He spun on his heels and stalked back to his desk, sinking heavily into the leather chair.
Santos wiped his hand discreetly over his chest. Vargas threatened and blustered, but he would never strike Santos. Even El Vaquero knew which lines not to cross with his bodyguard. Santos tried again to persuade his pig-headed boss. "Such reactionary steps are not necessary, El Jefe, and they may bring more attention to the situation that we wish."
"¡No cuido! I don't care. Get rid of the dealer." He passed over a folded note. "Here is the address. Do it yourself. I do not wish to have loose ends." He swiveled his chair towards the window and ignored Santos while he quietly left the office.
Ay, some day Diego would go too far. Wounds had been festering within Santos for over twenty years and the pus of their infection was a grievous lesion on his body. One day he must lance the abscess and cut out the pustule to cleanse it. He did not look forward to that day – Santos was a man to avoid overt trouble – but neither did he fear it.
Downstairs in the parking lot, he pulled the sepia photo from his jacket. The pickup and delivery of the girl in the picture had been the first important assignment he had completed for Diego Vargas many years ago. Santos had been a young man then, eager to make his mark, hungry for far more than food to fill his belly.
New to this country, he nevertheless had many years of practice at thuggery in Mexico. Huge and strong like an ox even as a young man in his late teens, he had honed his skills in the fires of Mexico's slums.
But he never forgot the young girl, those large dark eyes, huge in her frightened face, the slender body and full breasts. Her name was Maria and she was seventeen. Vargas was a fat pig of a man even then, and he liked his girls young.
A moment passed before Rafe identified the sound that had interrupted them. Cold reality washed over him, and he saw the same mood-breaker in Isabella's wide, chocolate eyes. Reluctantly, he rolled off her and sat on the edge of the sofa, slanting a look her way.
After the fourth ring he flipped open the cell phone and barked into the receiver. "Hashemi."
Slater's voice sounded equally loud over the phone and by the look on Bella's face, Rafe knew she could hear Slater's words. She furiously shook her head.
"Trouble here, Mr. Agent-Man," the sheriff said in his deep, slow drawl. "Better get out here pronto."
"Drugs?"
"Yeah, maybe more of the China White."
"Where?"
"Beale's Lake. Get directions from Torres."
Rafe turned to glance at Bella whose look clearly said, how did he know?
"Give me her address," Rafe covered. "I'll pick her up."
"Sure." Slater's voice sounded puzzled, but Rafe couldn't tell if that was real or he was fishing. "But I got the impression she was with you."
"Why the hell would Torres be with me? She can hardly stand me." Rafe wasn't about to let the sheriff know what'd happened between them tonight. Or that he was sitting on her sofa right now. At her house. At this hour.
"No reason," Slater said cryptically and rattled off the address that Rafe already knew.
He closed the phone and put it back in his pocket, not looking at Torres as he put his shirt back on. "There's another drug death." He ran his fingers through his hair in a quick attempt at combing.
When he looked over at her, she'd buttoned up her blouse, tucked her shirt in her slacks, and put her shoes on. Her high color gave her a vibrant, sexy look. Thank God for the interruption. He felt like a man at the edge of a precipice who'd barely escaped losing his footing and plunging off.
Fifteen minutes later they left, taking separate cars to the scene at Beale's Lake, Rafe following Torres because he was unfamiliar with the area. When they arrived at the lake, he noted the Lexus parked outside the gate, all four doors ajar. The EMTs were working over a dark-haired girl in the back seat. Slater's battered truck and three patrol cars lined the turnabout, and Rafe and Isabella had to park some distance from the gate.
Slater met them once they'd crossed over the barrier. He walked ahead of them down towards the lake. "Park ranger found them when he was making his late rounds," he said without preamble, gesturing with a nod of his head. "Down by the sand."
At the edge of the lake the scene had been cordoned off and the coroner hovered over a blanket, examining the bodies. Slater stooped to recover two glassine packets from the blanket. Each was partially filled with a white, powdery substance.
"What do you think?" asked Rafe. "Is it the high-grade stuff?"
"I'd bet money on it," Slater answered, examining the packets before he placed them in an evidence bag. "Take a look at the bodies. Looks like overdoses."
"That's right, Sheriff Slater," Dr. McKenzie, a small, precise man, interjected. "My guess is very high quality heroin because most of the drug wasn't ingested and appears to remain in the packets. Only high grade would cause overdose with that small amount."
He shook his gray head. "Autopsy will confirm, but see the blue lips and tinged skin?" He pointed to the blonde's mouth. "And the limb contortion indicates convulsion. If they'd gotten the Narcan, they might've made it, but… " His voice trailed off sadly. "The cause of death undoubtedly will be respiratory failure."