Harris laughed his deep belly chuckle and then turned solemn. He gripped Slater's hand, the one without the IV catheter, and squeezed hard.
"Ben," he choked out, "I… I can't…"
"I know, Waylon. Me too," Slater said gruffly. "Go on, deputy, get out of here."
All Bella could think of as she left the hospital was coming up with a proposal to entice Santos into turning on Diego Vargas. She had a twinge of guilt at keeping the plan from Slater, but one voice of opposition – and Rafe's was loud and clear – was as much as she could handle.
How on earth had Vargas managed to maintain cover so deep in Bigler County? A rabidly vicious man, nonetheless, he wasn't particularly clever. He tended to react rather than act. She didn't think he could have kept such wide-range and tight control of his organization without a lot of help from men far smarter than him.
Santos, for one. And a whole slew of traitor cops – Sacramento, Nevada, even in Bigler County where Slater was so scrupulous about investigating his new candidates. The hierarchy and organizational structure had to have been in effect for years, decades even.
The enormity of it boggled her mind.
Ruiz was only one of the infiltrators, but there were sure to be others. To uncover them, they had to get their own rat inside Vargas' organization.
And if she had her way, that rat was going to be Santos.
Whatever she had to do to get the bodyguard-lawyer to agree to testify against Vargas – that's what she'd do. When she put her mind to something she was indefatigable as hell and stubborn as a mule.
She wondered briefly about Rafe's department. Slater thought someone inside Rafe's large list of contacts was leaking information to Vargas. Was that possible? She had a hard time believing Rafe wouldn't be as scrupulous as Slater, but even Ruiz had slipped by Ben's cautious vetting.
By the time she reached her office at the courthouse, it was late afternoon and there were dozens of messages to deal with, phone calls to return, and briefs to prepare for her other court cases. She'd been working for an hour when Charles Barrington barged into her office without knocking on the closed door.
"Mr. District Attorney," she said in surprise, "what can I do for you?"
Barrington hardly ever made his way across the street to the old courthouse, preferring to enjoy the comforts and lushness of the brand new structure where he'd set up his own offices. She knew immediately this wasn't a social call. The D.A.'s round pink face was screwed up like a baby getting ready to throw a temper tantrum.
"What's going on with the Vargas case?" he demanded.
"We lost our witness," Bella said as Barrington strode into the room and threw himself in the chair opposite her desk, slouching like a petulant teenager. "Along with a deputy. Waylon Harris is being released today and Slater's out of surgery and stable. Thanks for asking," she added, the sarcasm barely controlled.
"What did you do wrong?" Charles accused.
Bella felt her face heat with anger. "Why do you assume I'm the one who screwed up?"
"You're in charge," he retorted.
"Oh, really? I thought the feds were in charge. The DEA specifically." She didn't want to cast blame on Rafe for the debacle at the safe house, but Barrington couldn't play it both ways. He's the one who insisted they involve the feds.
He waved his hand over his head as if her remarks were unimportant, or worse, ridiculous. "Don't get territorial, Isabella. And whatever you do, don't get on the wrong side of this Hashemi guy."
She definitely wasn't on Rafe's bad side. "We've got a plan to make a deal with someone high up in Vargas' organization." Well, she amended silently, at least she had a plan.
"Who?" he demanded.
Bella hesitated. Charlie Barrington wasn't known for keeping his mouth shut, but after all, he was the D.A. "Gabriel Santos."
"Jesus!" He brightened a bit. "Okay, close this case as soon as possible. It looks bad that you're dragging your feet. Charge someone and get a conviction."
With that he stomped from the office, slamming the door behind him.
The first step Santos intended to take was to contact the Latina assistant district attorney and acquiesce to her no-doubt inadequate plea bargain. He imagined the agreement she offered would not give him the terms he required, but he did not worry about renegotiating.
He could acquire the greater advantage by having her approach him again, but time was of the essence and he could not wait longer for her to contact him. El Vaquero was becoming as dangerous as a trapped animal, and his next movements would be unpredictable.
Santos looked up from his desk where he was examining the books when Jesús Navarro knocked quietly on the office door.
"¿Si?" he barked. He did not like his employees to disturb him when he engaged in the important task of analyzing Diego Vargas' private records.
"Excúsame, por favor, Jefe." The man held his hat in his hands and twirled it between work-worn hands.
"¿Que?"
"Tenemos un problema grande. No sé qué hacer. Ayúdeme, por favor," the man began babbling, the words falling over one another as if he would strangle on them.
"¡Inglés!" Santos commanded. "Speak English." Spineless man, he thought. Why was Diego so unwise in his choice of men to carry out his most delicate assignments?
Navarro took a deep breath and began again. "We have a serious problem. I do not know what to do, Jefe."
Santos threw down his pen and rubbed at the pain that began to radiate from the back of his neck. "What is the problem?"
"The girl from the van, she is dead, as El Vaquero ordered."
"At the sheriff's safe house, sí?"
"Sí, in the foothills to the north."
Santos' brows pulled downward at this confirmation of what Diego had done, and he felt a great white rage build in his mind. ¡Pinche cabron! Vargas was an animal with no sense of caution or finesse. He rampaged through a delicate situation like a bull gone mad with the lust of blood.
The girl could have been spared, shipped back to Mexico. She did not have to die. No one needed to have died.
"What else?" he growled.
"Ruiz is dead."
"¡Mierda, mala suerte de mierda!" Santos ranted, forgetting his own injunction about using English. "What other casualties?"
"Ruiz and the other deputy, but not el hombre negro." The black deputy.
"And Sheriff Slater?"
"Él está condiciones criticas, pero sobrivivrá."
"English!" Santos roared.
After Navarro left, he sat a long while at his desk, refusing to speculate about why he felt a strange relief that the sheriff might survive.
Chapter Thirty-two
Several hours after Charles Barrington stalked out of her office, Bella closed up her files, grabbed her briefcase, and drove home. Rafe was waiting for her on the front porch, sitting on the cement landing, his fingers linked and dangling between his legs.
A warm thrill of pleasure ran through her when she saw him. She almost felt like she was coming home to… to someone who cared. Ridiculous, but the feeling made her irrationally happy. She smiled and waved as she pulled her car into the garage and then met him at the front door.
But when they entered the small house the mood changed without warning. The reality of their trying to forge a relationship in the midst of a major investigation struck Bella as foolish. They both paused in the tiled entry, a sudden awkwardness festering between them as they warily eyed one another.
Rafe saw the hesitation he'd been feeling reflected in Isabella's eyes. "What now?" he asked, his eyes caressing her smooth face, his hands skimming down her sleeved arms.