CHAPTER FOUR
“HEY, ARE YOU GETTING OLD, mi hermano? You’re playing like you’ve got arthritis.”
Rafael flipped his oldest brother, Miguel, the bird before backing up just enough to send the ball soaring into the basket for three points.
“Hey, look at the tall guy taking advantage.” This came from Jose, his teammate and best friend. After everything that had happened to Rafael, it probably should have felt weird to have a cop as a best friend, but they’d been buddies since they were in elementary school together.
Besides, Jose was cool like that—he’d hung by Rafa during his time in prison, despite the crap he’d caught from other members of the force.
“That’s right.” With a grin, he watched Jose intercept the ball, then cruised down the court for the pass. Jose didn’t disappoint, and as soon as Rafa had the ball in his hands, he blew around the opposite team—composed of his two older brothers—and slam-dunked the hell out of it.
Jose whooped. “That was game point, my man!” He looked at Rafa’s middle brother, Gabriel. “You owe us twenty bucks, Papi.”
“I thought gambling was illegal,” Gabe grumbled good-naturedly as he reached into the back pocket of his shorts and pulled out a ten. “Go hit Miguel up for the other half.”
“You know I will!” Jose danced away, talking shit and blowing smoke like he did every time they won. Or lost.
“So, Mama wants to see you.” Gabriel glanced at Rafa, then took a large gulp from his water bottle.
“What else is new? Is there anything specific or is it just time for another ‘you’re my youngest child and I won’t be happy until you settle down’ lecture?”
“I’m sure there’ll be a little of that in there, too.” He smiled when Rafael cursed. “But I think she wants your help planning a surprise party for Miguel.” He nodded at their brother, who currently had Jose in a headlock.
“Seriously? She really wants something to whine about other than how empty her arms feel without my baby in them?”
“I think so, man.”
“Why me? Aren’t the girls the ones who she usually gets to help with stuff like this?”
“Yeah, but Carolina’s a little busy with baby number three right now, and Michaela’s still recovering from pneumonia.” He stepped back and looked his youngest brother over. “Besides, freak boy, you won’t even need a ladder. That’s what you get for growing so big.”
Rafael grabbed a towel to wipe his face, decided to accept defeat gracefully. Maybe if he brought his mama flowers and kept her busy, she wouldn’t remember to nag him about being the only one of her children who was terminally single.
Yeah, right. His mother wouldn’t let a little thing like death stop her from hassling him—why should a bouquet of flowers do the trick? Still, Rafa thought as he drained a water bottle in one long gulp, it was worth a try.
“All right. I’ll call her.”
“You’re a good man.” Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder. “So, winners buy lunch, right? Because I’m starving.”
This time it was Jose who flipped him the bird, having extracted his head from under Miguel’s arm.
“Well, come on then, I’ve got to be back at work in half an hour and I’m hungry, too.” Miguel picked up his bag from the side of the court and headed into the center.
A few minutes later they were all seated at Manuel’s, Rafa’s favorite hole-in-the-wall taco shop, shoveling carne asada burritos into their mouths. Rafa had already blown through his first when he noticed Nacho standing at the corner with an unfamiliar white boy.
“Hey, Jose. Did you get a chance to talk to Nacho about what he pulled the other night?”
Jose followed his gaze. “Absolutely. My partner and I went by and read him the riot act. Hopefully, it’ll be enough.”
Rafa cut his eyes to his best friend. “You don’t think so?”
“No, man. That kid’s a walking time bomb.”
“That’s what I think, too.”
“Who’s he with?” Miguel nodded at the prepped-out white kid. In his chinos and fancy sweater, he stuck out like Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer. “Is he one of your kids, Rafa?”
“No, but he seems familiar.” He continued to watch him, wondering what the kid was doing in this neighborhood—and with Nacho. “That doesn’t look good, though.” He turned to Jose.
“I know. But I can’t see Nacho buying any of his customers lunch.”
“He’s dealing?” This from Gabriel.
“That’s what I hear.”
Rafael cursed. “You know that’s not a good thing. The kid’s already an amoral ass. I can’t wait to see what a few months as a dealer turns him into.”
“I think it’s too late to worry about that.” Jose took another big bite.
“I know. But still…” Rafa ran a hand over his eyes. You can’t save them all, he reminded himself. Especially the ones who aren’t interested in salvation. It grated that a teenager was going bad in front of his eyes. He still remembered Nacho as a little kid. He’d been skinny and mean even then, but there’d been something endearing about him, anyway. Now he was just plain mean.
Regardless, Rafa couldn’t help wondering if the rest was still there, too, just buried beneath the crap. On his way out of the restaurant, he stopped by the table. “Hey, Nacho. Who’s your friend?”
“Screw you, Rafael.”
“Thanks, but you’re not my type.” He held out his hand to the other kid, who shook it, but then looked as if he wanted to swim in a vat of hand sanitizer.
Rafa didn’t get what these two were doing together, but he’d bet the twenty in his wallet that it had something to do with the drugs Jose had been talking about. “We’re having a barbecue at the center this weekend. You guys should drop by.”
“Yeah, ’cause that’s going to happen,” Nacho sneered.
“Too busy picking on defenseless women to make time for a hamburger, huh?”
“Too busy avoiding pendejos like you.”
“Well, that’s your prerogative.” He looked at the preppy kid. “Nice to meet you…?’
“Thomas.”
“Thomas,” he repeated. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Maybe.”
As Rafael hustled to catch up with the rest of the guys, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen the new kid before. Anymore than he could ignore how uncomfortable that knowledge made him.
* * *
“THANKS SO MUCH FOR seeing me today.” Vivian extended her hand to each homicide detective in turn. “It’s nice to meet you both.”
“Same here.” Detective Anthony Barnes nodded to her, a lock of his too-long, sand-colored hair falling over his baby face as he did so. He looked younger than Diego, and the idea that this guy had arrested her client for murder threw her for a major loop.
“You want some coffee?” demanded Daniel Turner, the other detective, even as he raised a hand to signal the waitress.
“That’d be great,” she said, though she’d already had an entire pot of the stuff that morning. But she didn’t want to seem prickly, especially since these two had been nice enough to meet with her when other detectives would have turned up their noses.
She smiled at Turner, and was glad to see that he, at least, looked like her idea of a homicide detective. A little overweight, a little rumpled, with lines in his face that showed every one of his forty-odd years, he seemed like he’d been doing this job for a long time.
“Thanks again for meeting me,” she said, in an effort to keep everything cordial. “I know how busy you are.”
“That’s okay.” Turner shrugged. “We wanted to get a look at the woman who was defending that piece of scum, anyway.”
Maybe he’d been on the job too long, Vivian thought, as sheer strength of will kept a pleasant expression on her face. “So, you’re really convinced Diego did it?”
“We’re not in the habit of arresting people for murder if we think they’re innocent.” The detective’s voice was deliberately bland.
“Of course. I wasn’t trying to imply that you did. It’s just that after reviewing the case, so much of the evidence seems circumstantial to me.”
“Enough circumstance adds up—if you know what I’m saying.”
“I do. But still, why Diego? I know you always look at the boyfriend or husband first, but sometimes he isn’t the killer.”
“Most of the time he is.” Turner reached for one of the little packets of half-and-half and ripped it open. “In this case, Sanchez is definitely it. He’s practically got a scarlet A branded into his chest.”
“Why? Witnesses say they saw him drop the victim off at her house at least a couple hours before she was murdered.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t circle back,” Barnes interjected. She glanced at him and was surprised at how uncomfortable he looked, as if he’d rather be anywhere but in this crappy little coffee shop.
Deciding to push him, she replied, “It doesn’t mean he did, either. It seems to me he really loved that girl.”
“Yeah, well, appearances are deceiving. If you learn nothing else in this foray of yours into criminal court, learn that,” Turner said, before Barnes could speak.
“Oh, I think that’s a lesson I’ve already learned.” Vivian smiled sweetly at him as she let her eyes run over him from head to toe.
He flushed. “Good. Because no one else had motive, means and opportunity.” He tore open two packets of sugar and dumped them into his coffee, then took a huge swig without bothering to stir it.
“Means?” she asked as she went over the file in her head for what felt like the millionth time. “I didn’t see anything in the case file about you finding the murder weapon.”
“I don’t need a weapon. That kid was popped for carrying a knife before he was twelve years old. He definitely knows his way around a switchblade.”
“Yes, but the case was dismissed as self-defense. Besides—”
“Self-defense, my ass. Is that what he called murdering his unborn kid?” Turner snorted, then shook his head as he repeated, “Self-defense.”
“Besides,” she said again, “Diego hasn’t been in any trouble since then—no fights, no problems at school, no drugs. His school counselor seems to think he’s had a pretty rough time of it.”
“Yeah, well, the vic sure as hell didn’t have an easy time of it either. Pregnant at sixteen, living with two of the scummiest dealers in—” He stopped abruptly, but it was too late and he seemed to know it.
Vivian was careful to keep a neutral expression as she seized on the opportunity Turner had inadvertently provided.
“So, you do know Esme’s brothers deal drugs?” She made sure to direct the question to both detectives, then watched as Turner’s face turned beet-red. But his reaction wasn’t nearly as interesting as Barnes’s was. The young detective started drumming on the table with the same nervous energy Diego had displayed when she was questioning him a few nights before.
Trying to capitalize on his obvious discomfort, she leaned forward and asked softly, “Why didn’t you at least look at the brothers—or their rivals—when Esme turned up dead, Anthony?”
“We did.” Once again it was Turner who answered. “There was nothing there.”
“Nothing there? They’re gang members and drug dealers, and both have been in and out of the system for years. How can there be nothing there?”
“Because they didn’t kill her!”
“Maybe, but what about other gangs? Other dealers? I hear there’s always a turf war going on in this neighborhood.”
“What do you know about this neighborhood?” Turner didn’t bother to hide his contempt. “You’re over here doing your little pro bono case, and as soon as it’s done you’ll run as far and as fast as you can back to where you belong.”
“Where I’m from is not the issue here.”
“Well, it should be. You do-gooders are all alike. You come over here thinking you can save some kid who doesn’t deserve to be saved. Maybe you save him, maybe you don’t, but either way you make life ten times harder for the victim’s family while you’re doing it. And then you just walk away.”
“What about arresting an innocent man?” she asked quietly. “How does that affect the victim’s family?”
Turner’s face went from red to purple, and for a second Vivian feared he might be having a stroke, but when he spoke, his voice was steady and poisonous. “I wouldn’t know. Your client did it and he’s going down for it. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t get a needle in the arm by the time the D.A.’s done with him. Killing a pregnant woman counts as special circumstances.”
“Yes, well, the judge didn’t think that scenario was very likely. Otherwise Diego never would have had a chance to make bail.” She gave as good as she got, refusing to back down.
“Look, lady, we’ve got motive, means and opportunity. That’s a slam dunk.”
“Really? Because when I was looking through the file, it seemed to me that you had nothing. What’s the motive again?”
“He didn’t want the baby. According to Esme’s friends and brothers, Diego was getting cold feet.”
“These are the same brothers that we’ve already established deal drugs?” she asked. “The ones with the shady rivals?”
“That doesn’t make them liars.”
“No, but it doesn’t make them paragons of reliability, either. What else have you got?”
“He could come and go any time from Esme’s place—that’s opportunity.”
“Yeah, but nobody saw him there and he has an alibi.”
“Somebody did see him—the woman who lives across the street—and his alibi’s shaky.”
“So’s your evidence, but you don’t see me whining about that, do you? Your witness is a ninety-three-year old Chinese woman with cataracts. If I paraded Santa Claus in front of her, she’d finger him as the killer.”
“But she didn’t finger Santa Claus, did she? She fingered your client.”
“Because he was the only Mexican in the lineup. I can’t wait to see what a judge has to say about that.”
Turner shook his head in disgust. “Jesus, you’re just as bad as all the other defense attorneys, you know that? I thought a divorce attorney might have more sense.”
She started to snap back another smart-ass comment, but then his words sunk in. “How do you know what kind of lawyer I am? I never mentioned it to you.”
“What, are you keeping it a secret?” Turner shot his partner a furious look and then pushed back from the table. “This conversation is over. And don’t call me again. If you want to talk to me, you can do it in court.” He stormed off.
Barnes smiled awkwardly as he stood. “Sorry about that, Ms. Wentworth. He gets a little excited sometimes.”
“It’s fine.” She studied him for a second, more than a little intrigued by his discomfort. “Tell me something, Anthony. If Turner hadn’t been pushing for it, would you have arrested Diego Sanchez for murder?”
“Absolutely.” His voice was firm, resolute, but his eyes never made it past the bridge of her nose. “I have to go now.”
“I know. Thanks again for meeting me.”
“No problem.” He reached into his pocket for his wallet, but she stopped him.
“Don’t worry about it—coffee’s on me. It’s the least I can do after pulling you down here for nothing.”
He didn’t say anything, just nodded and walked quickly away.
Vivian watched as Barnes pushed the door open, then continued observing him through the front window as Turner caught his arm outside the diner and said something with an ugly look on his face.
Turner’s defensiveness was definitely interesting, almost as interesting as Barnes’s inability to look her in the eye. She wasn’t sure what any of it was about. It could be nothing, just their standard operating procedure, but her instincts were telling her there was a lot more to their behavior—and this case—than met the eye.
Digging in her briefcase for her cell phone, she dialed the office.
“Stanley and Baker, Vivian Wentworth’s office. How may I help you?” Her assistant’s chirpy voice came through loud and clear.
“Hey, Marcy. I need you to get one of the investigators on something for me.”
“Sure, Viv. Let me grab a pen…. Okay, shoot.”
“I want to know everything there is to know about SFPD homicide detectives Anthony Barnes and Daniel Turner. They operate out of the Tenderloin Station, on Eddy Street.”
“Got it.” Her voice dropped. “Is this about that case Richard gave you? The pro bono one?”
“Yes.”
“You know, reporters have been calling all morning to talk to you. They want a statement.”
“Of course they do.” Vivian was disgusted at her own stupidity. It wasn’t exactly a surprise the press were interested when the city’s top law firm filed papers with the courts to defend such a violent crime. The miracle was that it had taken them two days to discover what she’d done on Tuesday morning.
“What did you tell them?”
“That you were presently hard at work on the case and would contact them as soon as you had had a chance to look over all the evidence.”
“You’re a lifesaver. I’ll get a statement written up tonight, and you can e-mail it to everyone tomorrow.”
“Great, I’ll tell them that and maybe it’ll get everyone off my back a little.”
Vivian laughed. “Don’t count on it.”
“I won’t.” There was a pause. “Oh, Viv, how do you want me to pay the investigators? Does it come from your office accounts or…”
“I didn’t even think of that.” She paused, sorted through her options. “Look, tell them to bill us for now, and I’ll talk to Richard this afternoon about how much leeway he’ll give me in terms of expenses for the case. If worse comes to worst, I’ll pay for it myself. Either way, I want that report on my desk by the beginning of next week.”
“Got it.”
“Oh, and call Rafael Cardoza at Helping Hands and ask him if I can push tonight’s meeting until seven-thirty. I have a few things I need to do this afternoon before heading over there.”
“Sure.”
“And check in with Jenny and see where she is in drafting the complaint over the police questioning Diego without representation. E-mail me with her answer.”
“Is that all?”
Vivian laughed. “For now. I’m due in court in forty minutes.”
“Good luck—not that you’ll need it. The Markison case is in the bag.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears.”
After she hung up with Marcy, Vivian took a sip of her forgotten coffee, then wished she hadn’t. No wonder Turner had been adding cream and sugar left and right—the stuff tasted like paint thinner.
Pushing the coffee aside, she leaned back in her chair and tried to make sense of all the pieces of Diego’s puzzle she’d managed to gather in the last few days. But she couldn’t do it. Too many things about this case stank to high heaven.
Barnes’s nervousness.
Turner’s determination that Diego was guilty, despite the lack of a murder weapon or definitive proof.
Esme’s brothers’ extracurricular activities.
The D.A.’s offer of a deal—as pathetic as it was—on such a high-profile case.
Richard’s assignment of a divorce attorney to a case that needed a very skilled defense attorney, especially when the press were breathing down everyone’s neck.
She rubbed a hand over the tight muscles of her own neck. This case was a disaster waiting to happen. And she didn’t have a clue how she was going to avert it.
* * *
WHERE THE HELL WAS DIEGO? Rafael checked his watch for the third time in as many minutes. Diego was late, really late, and that just wasn’t like him. The kid was conscientious to a fault, always showing up on time, never taking off work so much as five minutes early. The fact that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be now meant something bad had happened.
Rafael could feel it.
For the second time that night, he scoured the center for the kid. But Diego wasn’t in the game room, or the kitchen, or outside on the basketball courts. He wasn’t taking a shower or hanging out in Rafa’s apartment as he sometimes liked to do.
He wasn’t anywhere.
Stressed-out and more than a little concerned, Rafael bounded up the back stairs for the second time, checked the classroom Diego had been working, then searched all of the other rooms up there as well, hoping like hell Diego had decided to start work on one of them instead of checking in first, even though he’d never done that in the past.
But by the time he got to the last classroom, Rafa was forced to acknowledge again that Diego wasn’t there. Worry gnawed at his stomach, a painful ache that was growing with each passing second.
Why wasn’t Diego where he was supposed to be?
And what the hell was Rafael supposed to tell Vivian when she showed up? He glanced at his watch yet again. It was seven twenty-five and he could only imagine what she would think if her client was a no-show.
Part of him couldn’t help thinking the worst, and he knew the kid better than anyone.
Had Diego freaked out and fled, worried that he wouldn’t beat the case? Sure, he was mature and smart and pretty levelheaded for a seventeen-year-old, but he was still just a kid. One who had lost everything that mattered to him except for his freedom.
Had he taken off in a desperate effort to preserve the illusion of that freedom? But spending his life running, always looking over his shoulder, was just a different kind of prison. One Rafael prayed Diego would never have to experience.
Damn it, how was he going to find the kid if he had run?
And if he hadn’t run, then where the hell was he? Rafael paced the long hallway outside the second floor classrooms as his mind whirled with possibilities.
Had Diego been mugged? Jumped? Shot? The sad fact was a lot of things could happen to a person in this neighborhood, from walking into a corner drug deal to interrupting a robbery.
Diego had grown up on these streets, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t vulnerable, especially after being arrested for Esme’s death. Right now, he could be lying somewhere in a pool of his own blood….
The thought galvanized Rafael into action, had him taking the steps three at a time and then whipping through the game room as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. And maybe they were. If Diego had been hurt—
“Still no sign of Diego?” he called on his way through.
A chorus of no’s greeted him, then one of the new girls—Lupita, he thought her name was—called, “I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”
That wasn’t what Rafael had wanted to hear.
He yanked open the center’s front door, barreled through it without looking, and ran straight into Vivian. The impact had her teetering in the ridiculous heels she liked to wear, and he grabbed her elbows to steady her.
“Are you all right?” he demanded gruffly, bending down so they were eye to eye. “Did I hurt you?”
“I’m fine. Just a little surprised.” She pushed away from him, ran a hand over her tightly restrained hair. “So, where are you going in such a hurry?”
Her voice was smooth, like the silver tequila his mama kept for special occasions, and ripped right through him despite the precariousness of the situation. She sounded as smart and put together as she looked, and while that would normally have made him happy, today it only made him worry more.
How the hell was he going to convince this intelligent, savvy woman that Diego hadn’t run, when he couldn’t even convince himself?
With a sinking heart, he turned and led Vivian back to his office, all the while wondering exactly what he could say to convince her not to dump Diego.
Whatever it was, it had better be good.
* * *
VIVIAN’S KNEES KNOCKED together as Rafael’s black eyes met hers. He looked as bristly and obnoxious as ever, as if those few minutes after the bike ride the other night had never happened.
She started to get her back up, to give as good as she got from him. But when she looked closer, she saw worry in his tense jaw and lowered brows. Her heart sped up in response.
“Rafael? Is everything okay?” She took a step toward him, glanced around. “Where’s Diego?”
Was it her imagination or did he stiffen even more? A sick feeling started in the pit of her stomach, though she tried to tell herself she was being too sensitive. When Rafael opened his mouth to speak, only to close it before any words came out, she felt the sickness turn into something more. Something worse.
“Where’s Diego?” she repeated, her instincts warning her that that was the root of Rafael’s concern.
He stared at her for long seconds, then finally shook his head. “I haven’t got a clue. I was on my way to look for him when you got here.”
Her stomach clenched. “You were in an awful big hurry. Do you know something I don’t?”
“I don’t know anything. That’s the whole point. Except that it’s not like Diego to be late.” Rafael strode over to his desk, picked up the phone and punched in a few numbers. There was a pause as he waited for whoever it was to answer, and then a spate of Spanish she couldn’t understand.
“What did they say?” she asked as soon as he put the phone down. But he held up a hand to stop her, then repeated the process a second time. And a third.
When she felt she was going to burst if she didn’t get some answers, Vivian reached across the desk and grabbed his arm. “What’s going on? Who are you calling? What did they say?”
Rafael’s mouth was grim, his eyes more so when he answered, “No one’s seen him since yesterday. He wasn’t in school today, and he isn’t here. It’s like he disappeared.”
“How could he disappear?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think something happened to him?”
“I don’t know.” His voice got louder.
“Do you think—do you think he’s hiding? This is a lot to deal with—”
“I don’t know!” It was all but a roar. “I don’t know anything, Vivian, that’s the whole point. I haven’t got a clue where Diego is or what he’s doing or who he’s doing it with. If I did, don’t you think I’d find him and drag him back here? He knew about this meeting, knew how important it was that he didn’t miss it.”
His shoulders slumped, and for the first time since she’d met him, Rafael looked as lost and confused as she often felt.
A kernel of sympathy bloomed inside of her and she moved around the desk, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Maybe he’s just late?”
“Maybe.” Rafael shrugged, his powerful muscles bunching beneath her palm.
“You don’t think that’s an option.”
He started to say something, then just shook his head.
“Well, let’s be logical about this then. Where had you planned on checking earlier, when you were rushing out of here?”
“His dad’s house. The church down the street he likes to go to. His favorite restaurant two streets over.”
“So let’s do that.”
“I just did—that’s who I called. No one’s seen him.”
“Well, let’s check somewhere else then. Surely there are other places he hangs out. Maybe someplace he used to go with Esme?”
“You want to help me look for Diego?” Rafael looked shocked.
“Why are you so surprised? Of course I do.”
He leaned forward and those troubled midnight eyes probed her face, though she had no idea what he was looking for. “Why would you do that?” he finally asked, his voice little more than a whisper. “Wouldn’t it be easier for you if he disappeared?”
She started to tell him to go to hell, but bit her tongue at the last second. Hadn’t there been enough assumptions and anger between them already? “Rafael, I took Diego on as a client, which means I care about what’s best for him. And if you think something’s wrong, with him not being here, then I’m going to believe you. Obviously you know him a lot better than I do and—”
The classroom door burst open and one of the kids she’d seen the other day rushed through it, a cordless phone in his hand.
Marco. She pulled the name out of her memory banks. The one who’d been playing the video game with the skateboarder and had teased Rafael about beating his score.
“Rafa, man, it’s Saint Francis Hospital. They say they’ve got an injured kid there with your card in his pocket.”