of the adrenaline out of him.
“It was a long time ago, Rita. I made some enemies in Colombia. They don’t forget. Ever. That’s all I can tell you for now.”
She picked up a small plaque that was on the mantel and quietly read the inscription.
Santana knew she had read it before because she had joked with him about it over breakfast one morning. The inscription read:
Life is nothing but a competition to be the criminal rather than the victim.
Bertrand Russell
She turned and looked at him. “You ever think Russell was wrong about this?”
“No.”
“What makes you so damn sure? The job?”
“Among other things.”
She set the plaque down gently on the mantel and looked at him again. “This isn’t the first time they’ve come after you, is it?”
He said nothing.
“And you’re not afraid?”
He hadn’t had time to be afraid. It had all been reaction. Fight and live. Or panic and die.
“Fear leads to panic and panic is the enemy of survival,” he said. “I may be a target, Rita, but I refuse to be a victim.”
She gave a slow shake of her head. “You’re dangerous, John. To yourself and to others.”
“You going to put this in my jacket?”
“I could. And I could suspend you. Until we complete an investigation.”
He had worked with her long enough to know that she was bluffing. Still, he knew he would have to tell her more soon. He was running out of favors.
“I just gave you more information than any investigation will ever turn up, Rita. This guy, whoever he is, doesn’t exist in any data bank. Believe me. The people we’re dealing with made sure of that.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Write it off as an accident.”
“Just like that,” she said, as if she could not imagine how this whole investigation would end.
“He’ll be another John Doe down at the morgue. No one will come looking for him. Let me get back to the case.” He let her think about it before he continued. “Ask yourself this, Rita. If our roles were reversed, what would I do?”
“Dammit, John, if I let this go for now, I want to know everything when the murder book is closed on Pérez and Mendoza. No more secrets between us.”
“All right.”
She went back to the couch and sat down with a heavy sigh.
His eyes met hers and he knew immediately there was something she was holding back.
“What is it?” he asked.
She waited.
“What?” he asked again.
She looked at him for a moment longer. Then she said, “The lab found more than one set of prints on the .22 we found on Córdova.”
A fresh rush of adrenaline shot through Santana. He sat up in the leather chair.
“We also got a palm print we couldn’t run through the AFIS data base,” she said.
Santana knew that the Automated Fingerprint Identification Systems could not be searched for palm prints.
“One set of prints matches Córdova. But we got another match with a fingerprint out of San Diego.” She smiled.
“And?” Santana said.
Gamboni held the smile and her secret.
“Come on, Rita.”
“How does it feel?” she asked, obviously enjoying his frustration.
“Like hell. Now tell me.”
“You know when you apply for citizenship, you have to be fingerprinted.”
“The name,” he said with a nod.
A woman named Torres,” she said. “Angelina Torres.”
T he next morning as Santana rode into downtown with a patrol officer, the sun’s red rays seeped through a thin bank of clouds like blood through gauze. The Crown Vic he signed out of the 11th Street lot was nothing more than a stripped down version of a squad car with the cage removed. He was certain his insurance company would write off the Explorer as a total loss, and he was thankful that he had the use of the Crown Vic. He had no time to look for a new SUV.
A northwest wind had sent the temperature plummeting faster than a skydiver without a chute. It pushed the big car to the left as he drove across the Wabasha Bridge over the Mississippi River. Small
“It was a long time ago, Rita. I made some enemies in Colombia. They don’t forget. Ever. That’s all I can tell you for now.”
She picked up a small plaque that was on the mantel and quietly read the inscription.
Santana knew she had read it before because she had joked with him about it over breakfast one morning. The inscription read:
Life is nothing but a competition to be the criminal rather than the victim.
Bertrand Russell
She turned and looked at him. “You ever think Russell was wrong about this?”
“No.”
“What makes you so damn sure? The job?”
“Among other things.”
She set the plaque down gently on the mantel and looked at him again. “This isn’t the first time they’ve come after you, is it?”
He said nothing.
“And you’re not afraid?”
He hadn’t had time to be afraid. It had all been reaction. Fight and live. Or panic and die.
“Fear leads to panic and panic is the enemy of survival,” he said. “I may be a target, Rita, but I refuse to be a victim.”
She gave a slow shake of her head. “You’re dangerous, John. To yourself and to others.”
“You going to put this in my jacket?”
“I could. And I could suspend you. Until we complete an investigation.”
He had worked with her long enough to know that she was bluffing. Still, he knew he would have to tell her more soon. He was running out of favors.
“I just gave you more information than any investigation will ever turn up, Rita. This guy, whoever he is, doesn’t exist in any data bank. Believe me. The people we’re dealing with made sure of that.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Write it off as an accident.”
“Just like that,” she said, as if she could not imagine how this whole investigation would end.
“He’ll be another John Doe down at the morgue. No one will come looking for him. Let me get back to the case.” He let her think about it before he continued. “Ask yourself this, Rita. If our roles were reversed, what would I do?”
“Dammit, John, if I let this go for now, I want to know everything when the murder book is closed on Pérez and Mendoza. No more secrets between us.”
“All right.”
She went back to the couch and sat down with a heavy sigh.
His eyes met hers and he knew immediately there was something she was holding back.
“What is it?” he asked.
She waited.
“What?” he asked again.
She looked at him for a moment longer. Then she said, “The lab found more than one set of prints on the .22 we found on Córdova.”
A fresh rush of adrenaline shot through Santana. He sat up in the leather chair.
“We also got a palm print we couldn’t run through the AFIS data base,” she said.
Santana knew that the Automated Fingerprint Identification Systems could not be searched for palm prints.
“One set of prints matches Córdova. But we got another match with a fingerprint out of San Diego.” She smiled.
“And?” Santana said.
Gamboni held the smile and her secret.
“Come on, Rita.”
“How does it feel?” she asked, obviously enjoying his frustration.
“Like hell. Now tell me.”
“You know when you apply for citizenship, you have to be fingerprinted.”
“The name,” he said with a nod.
A woman named Torres,” she said. “Angelina Torres.”
T he next morning as Santana rode into downtown with a patrol officer, the sun’s red rays seeped through a thin bank of clouds like blood through gauze. The Crown Vic he signed out of the 11th Street lot was nothing more than a stripped down version of a squad car with the cage removed. He was certain his insurance company would write off the Explorer as a total loss, and he was thankful that he had the use of the Crown Vic. He had no time to look for a new SUV.
A northwest wind had sent the temperature plummeting faster than a skydiver without a chute. It pushed the big car to the left as he drove across the Wabasha Bridge over the Mississippi River. Small
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