ADA Torres could only offer him a great deal of trouble. He thought of the picture stashed in his bedside drawer. Ay, this little avenger was a world of trouble.
Sí, un mundo del apuro.
Chapter Twenty-five
"I am preparing dinner," he said with a courteous nod and a wave behind him. "Come in."
Santos possessed the old-world courtliness of Diego Vargas, but unlike his boss, carried it like a natural mantle. Vargas wore a thin veneer of civility, but beneath the fancy façade beat the heart of a thug and a barbarian. Of Santos, Bella wasn't sure.
She had no overt evidence of the difference between the two men. Both, after all, were nasty criminals, but on some gut level she believed for all his viciousness, Santos would consider it rude to renege on a promise. If she convinced him to agree to a deal, he would keep his word.
As he tied an apron around his waist, he made a paradoxical picture. He reminded her of a fully-grown Arctic male wolf she'd once seen in a documentary, a beautiful, graceful creature with small, flat ears and a thick white pelt.
But one she wouldn't turn her back on.
Bella hesitated a second before deciding she'd gain nothing unless she took a gamble. "Thank you."
She dropped her purse on a bar stool in the kitchen area and observed Santos as he finished tossing a salad. The rational part of her brain wondered what the hell she was doing entering the camp of the enemy. She knew for a fact that Santos had killed men. Still, he acted so… normal, relaxing in his own kitchen, preparing dinner for a guest.
Santos was a cold-blooded killer who dealt in drugs and death, she reminded herself, as she folded her hands on the granite countertop. "Let's talk business."
He pierced her with a strange look before answering. "¡Prisa, prisa! Hurry. Always hurry. That is not the Mexican way. Slow down. Eat."
Was he serious? Have dinner with a known criminal as if they were best friends?
He must have read the expression on her face. "¿Qué? Ms. Torres, you are not afraid of me, are you?" A hint of humor played around his mouth, a beautifully carved shape cruelly bisected by a giant scar.
She bristled. "Of course not." A moment later she sniffed the air. "What's cooking?"
"Tamales. And my tamales are muy deliciosos. The recipe was handed down from mi abuela." His grandmother.
If dinner was what it took to get Santos to make a deal with her, then dinner it was. "Sure, why not?" She glanced at her wristwatch. "I have a few minutes before I have to meet Sheriff Slater." A blatant lie, but at least Santos would think she was expected somewhere.
They ate in silence at a small bistro table and chairs arranged on the patio which looked down on Sacramento's Tower Bridge. The view of the bridge over the Sacramento River at sunset was gorgeous.
"This is very good," she said at last, dabbing her lips with the cloth napkin he'd provided.
"Gracias."
Santos poured coffee for both of them and tilted his chair back, balancing a ridiculously small cup in his large palm. He appeared relaxed and comfortable as he studied her for a few moments. "So what business deal do you offer me, Assistant District Attorney Torres?"
He flashed a shark's smile as if he knew things she couldn't understand. "What proposition is so attractive that I would forsake who I am? Compromise my honor?"
"Honor?" Bella heard the incredulity in her voice.
Santos slammed down the legs of his chair and nearly shattered the cup as he banged it on the table. "Sí, honor. Are you foolish enough to imagine that a man such as I has no código del honor?"
Code of honor, she mused. She'd have to tread carefully. "Aren't you the same kind of man as Diego Vargas?" she countered, her voice low.
"Is that what you think?"
She shrugged and spread her hands as if the answer were obvious, but remained silent this time.
"¡Madre del Dios!" Santos leapt from his chair, it teetered to the concrete flooring, and he gathered up the used plates. He marched into the kitchen and began rinsing the plates and stacking them in the dishwasher.
Bella trailed him, leaned against the counter, and for a few minutes, watched his swift, economical movements. "If I thought you were exactly like Vargas, I wouldn't be here."
Those flat, black eyes in the scarred face studied her intently, as if analyzing the sincerity of her words. "Let us sit," he said after drying his hands.
He indicated a comfortable white leather sofa in a living room off the kitchen. "What is your proposition, Ms. Torres?"
She sat and turned sideways beside him. "I'd like you to testify against Vargas."
The look on Santos' face was comic. "Surely you jest."
"I'm deadly serious, Mr. Santos." She refused to look away from him although she felt the wild pulsing of the vein at her throat.
"And for this… testimony what do I get in return?"
"Some kind of… immunity."
"Complete immunity?"
"That depends on how damaging the testimony is."
Santos crossed his legs at the knee, a gesture that would have seemed effeminate in a less commanding man. His left arm rested on the sofa back, his fingers drumming idly on the pristine leather. He jabbed her with those sharp, emotionless eyes until Bella began to feel uneasy. She considered terminating the conversation.
Without knowing she would do it, she stood suddenly, ventured toward the bar stool where her purse still lay, and retrieved her cell phone. She punched Slater's number on speed dial.
"Why do you wish so badly to catch Diego Vargas?" He spoke at her ear, startling her.
She ended the connection. "What?"
His gruff voice softened, taking on the tone of a priest or therapist. "What sin has El Vaquero committed to make your fight with him so personal?"
She dropped the phone back in her purse, feeling like a young girl caught in a misdeed. "There's nothing personal," she retorted. "I'm just doing my job, the task of putting scumbags like your boss away for a very long time."
Santos' laugh was a booming eruption from his barrel chest. "You should not use such fiery words when you are trying to persuade me of something, pequeno guerrero."
Little warrior! The reference to her small stature irritated her, and she scowled at him.
Santos read the precise moment when Isabella's decision reflected in her face. A conciliatory look came first. He marked her struggle between resignation and determination, and admired her strength and hardiness.
Sitting on the barstool, she clutched her handbag on her lap, while he walked around the counter to stand opposite her.
"I don't care about the drugs," she confessed, staring out the patio window to the dark night of the city.
"Oh? What do you care about, Isabella?" He called her by her first name, turning the power balance back to himself. She was too intelligent not to realize what he was doing, but she responded anyway.
"The girls," she whispered, "I care what happens to the young girls."
"They are hardly babies," he countered, although he knew in his heart this was not true. They were all bebés in much the same way as Magdalena's Corizon was an infant. Certainly all of them were innocent. Although they did not remain innocent for long.
"Why should you care so much for poor Mexican girls you do not even know?" Santos forced mockery into his voice so that he would not feel her pain.
She hunched her shoulders and slid off the bar stool. "I lost someone. A long time ago."