Who else, Rafe wondered, had Vargas gotten his hooks into early on and set up as an informant for the cartel? What other traitors led secret lives of betrayal that'd gotten Luis Rodriquez and the girl Esperanza killed?
After leaving Slater, Rafe secured his seat belt, started the ignition, and swung his car onto the freeway, heading toward the courthouse where he knew Isabella was pounding out the deal she planned to offer Santos.
At a gas station while Rafe filled up the car's tank, Max Jensen called again. Rafe slipped on his sunglasses, merged with the traffic on Interstate 80, and put his cell on speaker mode. "What's up, Max? Did I forget something else?"
"Hashish, old man." Max's voice held an undertone of forced conviviality.
The strain of his marriage must be getting to him, Rafe thought, as a squiggle of uneasiness wormed down his back. "Are you okay, buddy?"
"Nah, Hash, I'm a fucking mess."
Rafe attempted humor. "Just like my case, huh?
"Sounds like I came just in time to rescue your ass." Max's tone didn't quite measure up to his words and Rafe made a quick decision.
"I'll be there in a few hours," he said and disconnected. First he'd observe Bella's meet with Santos, then he'd attend to Max.
Thirty minutes later he watched Isabella leave her vehicle and wend her way through the American River Parkway. If she was going to broach Santos alone, he'd be sure to have her back.
Chapter Thirty-four
The two men were shouting at each other, their voices loud and vicious, certain to wake up Corazon who slept in the other room. Santos clenched his jaw and tightened his fists until they became great sides of beef, weapons to kill with a single blow.
When he stepped into Vargas' office, the noises ceased abruptly. Diego planted his feet on the rug in front of his desk, his florid face even ruddier than usual, a white dress shirt pulled tight across his gut, and a blue-patterned tie choking him off at the neck.
In front of him stood Max Jensen.
"All I'm sayin' is you've got a traitor in your organization." He punched his bony forefinger into Diego's chest. "And I'm not fuckin' going down because you can't control your cartel."
Santos stepped between the two men and nudged the policeman aside. He took Vargas by the arm and led him to his great leather swivel chair, then brought him a glass of water. "What's wrong?" he asked, turning back to Jensen.
"Someone's going to name names," he grumbled. "Dates, times, places – Christ, God! – everything!"
Santos knew the little ADA would not have released his name to anyone she was not positive she could trust. Who then? "How do you know this?"
"Never mind how I fucking know! Vargas' whole operation is crumbling around him, and I'm not gonna be destroyed in the process!"
Santos took one step forward and not-so-gently shoved the man into an armchair. He loomed over him, planting both arms on either side of the chair. "How?" he asked again without raising his voice.
Jensen licked his lips as if he were thirsty. Santos knew he was buying time and did not want to give his source.
At last Jensen sighed heavily "What does it matter now?" He struggled to rise, but Santos' arms kept him bound to the chair as if they were steel ropes.
"¿Cómo?" Santos' voice was a deadly whisper.
"Hashemi, the DEA agent, told me. Rafe Hashemi."
"Ah!"
Jensen peered around Santos' arm to catch Diego's eye. "We've been friends since we were kids."
Santos took a calculated risk. "So tell us, Detective Jensen, who is this great traitor who has infiltrated El Vaquero's organization? Who is the man with the cojones to attack a man like the councilman?"
"I – I don't know the name yet," Max muttered.
Santos turned back to Vargas, spread his hands, and shrugged elaborately. "No puedo luchar al enemigo que no conozco."
Vargas' small pig eyes, flat and emotionless, stared at Santos for several moments. Then he swung them back to Jensen.
"What'd he say?" Jensen demanded.
"'He cannot fight an enemy he doesn't know,'" Vargas answered, bouncing his eyes back and forth between the two men as if he could not determine who to trust. "Verdad, it is true. When you hand me an enemy I can see, touch, whose blood I can taste… " The words spewed like venom from his mouth. "Then come back to me."
"I'm telling you – "
"Get out!" Vargas roared.
Santos followed the detective out through the gates to the rental car parked just inside the drive. "When you discover who this… traitor is, see me personally." He flashed a warning smile. "Do not disturb El Vaquero's peace of mind needlessly again."
He thought the detective would protest. Indeed, his fists clenched and his eyes narrowed. "You tell Vargas to be careful," he warned. "Some big shit's gonna hit the fan. I'm not having the turds land on me."
Without another word, he stepped into the car and drove off.
Detective Jensen was now a huge problem, Santos thought. One they would have to soon deal with.
When he returned to Diego's library, the man was pouring a large glass of brandy. He devoured the drink in one gulp, swiped at his thick lips with the back of his hand, and threw himself heavily into his chair. "Get rid of that detective. He is more trouble than he's worth and I do not want anyone to trace him back to me."
Santos stared down at Diego from his position by the bar. "Are you certain? He has provided us with excellent information over the years."
"Fuck, yes! And make it so the body is never discovered."
The meet with Santos took place in an area off the American River Parkway near Discovery Park. Bella left her car in the designated parking lot and walked the short distance alone as Santos had insisted.
Several officers in plainclothes, probably handpicked by Slater, waited in a copse of trees by an unmarked car. They looked armed and fiercely protective, and she made them immediately.
Rafe had battled her over the location, the time of day, and the lack of guards, but he appeared to have stayed away. Or at least kept well hidden.
She'd made it clear that Santos wouldn't talk to her unless he was certain he couldn't be overheard. Or recorded. She carried her cell phone ready to speed-dial for help, and although she didn't feel completely safe, she wasn't really concerned that Santos would harm her.
Killing an ADA was an audacious, but stupid move, and Santos was too crafty to let emotion rule him. She was relying on that. In fact, she suspected that it'd been Santos who'd kept Diego Vargas in check these last few years.
Anyway, El Diablo, as she'd heard Santos called, had made the contact this time.
At this hour of the day, the area was lively with bikers and dog walkers, and Bella waited at the place Santos had designated. She heard him before she saw his bulk looming through the shadows of the trees, even though he trod carefully. She guessed he didn't want to startle her.
As he approached, he searched the area around them with those fathomless black pits. He reminded her of the gigantes y cabezudos of the Spanish festivals of her childhood. His face had the same wooden features of the papier-mâché figures as he patted her down, careful not to touch her intimately.
Afterward, he began without preliminary. "I have decided to tell you everything that you want to know."
Her surprise must have shown. "What caused you to change your mind?"
His pause was so long, she thought at first that he might not answer.
"I have been with Diego Vargas since I was a young man," he explained, "over twenty years."
At the word twenty, she jerked involuntarily, telling herself the years meant nothing. Santos worked for Vargas twenty years; her sister had been missing twenty years. It was nothing but coincidence, nothing but an agony of decades for her and her family. And for Santos? She didn't know.