Hashemi." Pause. "What can I do for
you after you tell me what you want?"
He chuckled again, and she put down both the latte and the
papers, feeling ridiculously light-headed at the sound. "Cut right to the
chase, huh?"
"Tell me what you want, Hashemi," she said on a
weary sigh, suddenly tired. She'd been at the office since six this morning
after working late last night, catching up on paperwork that'd grown like mold
while she was gone. Her patience was threadbare.
"I won't get there until day after tomorrow, and I'd
like you to pick me up at the airport."
Did he think she ran a cab service? "I thought you
wanted your own car up here."
"Oh, my car is up there, Torres, just not my body."
"What?" She felt a massive headache coming on and
reached for the bottle of Excedrin in her top drawer. "Do I need to ask
how that happened?"
"Better if you don't. Here's the airport info. Got a
pen?" Without waiting for an answer, he rattled off an airline flight
number and time for tomorrow.
"Wait, slow down," she muttered, writing
furiously. "Why the delay? What happened?"
After a lengthy pause, she heard the quiet hiss of expelled
breath like a groan of pain over the line. "Lupe's dead."
She scanned her memory, recognized the name along with the mixture
of grief and anger in his voice. She'd heard it often enough in her mother's
voice after Maria disappeared. "Lupe," she repeated.
"Rodriquez, my confidential informant on the Vargas
case."
A shudder rippled through her. A storm was gathering, and Mama
would've said someone was walking over her grave. Whatever was brewing, Bella
sensed trouble and pressed two fingers against her temple.
"Lupe was the guy who knocked you down at Stuckey's."
The softness in his voice was gone now, replaced by sharp angles. "Remember
him, Isabella?" The words burned her ears with their intensity. "Well,
he's dead now."
Bella easily recognized the displacement of anger and the
shifting of blame. In her family, there'd been plenty of that, too. "I'm sorry,"
she whispered.
"Me too. Just be there tomorrow," he ordered and
hung up.
#
The corpse lay under a small clump of trees in Obegon Park,
where North Mariana intersected with East First Street in East Los Angeles. The
public display of the body, coupled with the viciousness of the attack, told
Rafe that Lupe Rodriquez's death had two purposes: the murder of a suspected
informant and the sending of a message.
The area had been cordoned off, and yellow and black crime
scene tape dangled like last year's party streamers. Max had used his
department connections, and the medical examiner had just now arrived at the
crime scene. With the assistance of several officers, a second perimeter,
approximately fifteen yards from the inner perimeter, held a growing group of
onlookers at bay.
Rafe lifted the tape, moved inside the first area, and
stared down at the body. He hardly recognized the mass of bloody contusions and
swollen flesh as the carefree face of his informant. Lupe had been severely
beaten, his neck slit open, and his tongue pulled out through the neck opening.
"Colombian necktie," Max stated unnecessarily.
Dr. Horace Gaitán looked up from where he crouched over the
body. "Actually, the Colombian necktie, although attributed to Pablo
Escobar and his drug cartel, has been around much longer than the Colombians as
a method of punishment and warning." He glanced at Rafe. "But you
probably know this, right, Agent Hashemi?"
Rafe shook his head. "No, sir."
"Humph, you'd think a high-ranking DEA agent would know
something about the history and origin of drugs and their associated terms."
Max rolled his eyes behind the M.E.'s back.
Dr. Gaitán was something of a medical history buff and liked
to be treated with old-fashioned courtesy, so Rafe always approached him with
respect. "I take it that Escobar didn't invent the Colombian necktie."
"Right you are, Agent Hashemi."
Rafe squatted down beside the doctor. "Lupe Rodriquez
was a friend of
you after you tell me what you want?"
He chuckled again, and she put down both the latte and the
papers, feeling ridiculously light-headed at the sound. "Cut right to the
chase, huh?"
"Tell me what you want, Hashemi," she said on a
weary sigh, suddenly tired. She'd been at the office since six this morning
after working late last night, catching up on paperwork that'd grown like mold
while she was gone. Her patience was threadbare.
"I won't get there until day after tomorrow, and I'd
like you to pick me up at the airport."
Did he think she ran a cab service? "I thought you
wanted your own car up here."
"Oh, my car is up there, Torres, just not my body."
"What?" She felt a massive headache coming on and
reached for the bottle of Excedrin in her top drawer. "Do I need to ask
how that happened?"
"Better if you don't. Here's the airport info. Got a
pen?" Without waiting for an answer, he rattled off an airline flight
number and time for tomorrow.
"Wait, slow down," she muttered, writing
furiously. "Why the delay? What happened?"
After a lengthy pause, she heard the quiet hiss of expelled
breath like a groan of pain over the line. "Lupe's dead."
She scanned her memory, recognized the name along with the mixture
of grief and anger in his voice. She'd heard it often enough in her mother's
voice after Maria disappeared. "Lupe," she repeated.
"Rodriquez, my confidential informant on the Vargas
case."
A shudder rippled through her. A storm was gathering, and Mama
would've said someone was walking over her grave. Whatever was brewing, Bella
sensed trouble and pressed two fingers against her temple.
"Lupe was the guy who knocked you down at Stuckey's."
The softness in his voice was gone now, replaced by sharp angles. "Remember
him, Isabella?" The words burned her ears with their intensity. "Well,
he's dead now."
Bella easily recognized the displacement of anger and the
shifting of blame. In her family, there'd been plenty of that, too. "I'm sorry,"
she whispered.
"Me too. Just be there tomorrow," he ordered and
hung up.
#
The corpse lay under a small clump of trees in Obegon Park,
where North Mariana intersected with East First Street in East Los Angeles. The
public display of the body, coupled with the viciousness of the attack, told
Rafe that Lupe Rodriquez's death had two purposes: the murder of a suspected
informant and the sending of a message.
The area had been cordoned off, and yellow and black crime
scene tape dangled like last year's party streamers. Max had used his
department connections, and the medical examiner had just now arrived at the
crime scene. With the assistance of several officers, a second perimeter,
approximately fifteen yards from the inner perimeter, held a growing group of
onlookers at bay.
Rafe lifted the tape, moved inside the first area, and
stared down at the body. He hardly recognized the mass of bloody contusions and
swollen flesh as the carefree face of his informant. Lupe had been severely
beaten, his neck slit open, and his tongue pulled out through the neck opening.
"Colombian necktie," Max stated unnecessarily.
Dr. Horace Gaitán looked up from where he crouched over the
body. "Actually, the Colombian necktie, although attributed to Pablo
Escobar and his drug cartel, has been around much longer than the Colombians as
a method of punishment and warning." He glanced at Rafe. "But you
probably know this, right, Agent Hashemi?"
Rafe shook his head. "No, sir."
"Humph, you'd think a high-ranking DEA agent would know
something about the history and origin of drugs and their associated terms."
Max rolled his eyes behind the M.E.'s back.
Dr. Gaitán was something of a medical history buff and liked
to be treated with old-fashioned courtesy, so Rafe always approached him with
respect. "I take it that Escobar didn't invent the Colombian necktie."
"Right you are, Agent Hashemi."
Rafe squatted down beside the doctor. "Lupe Rodriquez
was a friend of
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