Jo Robertson - The Traitor

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 mine, sir. I appreciate anything you can tell me about his death."

The doctor snapped on latex gloves. "How are you so sure this is your friend? Not from his face, I imagine."

"No, sir. I recognize the tattoo." He indicated the black and red design of kissing angels on the right thigh, with the name Francisca in a banner below the design. "His girlfriend's name." Three lives destroyed he thought, and sighed heavily, thinking of the pregnant Francisca.

"Well, we'll confirm with fingerprints. He's in the system?" Gaitán lifted the hands one at a time, inspecting them carefully, and Rafe saw what he hadn't noticed before. Every finger on both hands had been broken or smashed at the joints, and most of the fingernails were missing.

"Perhaps not fingerprints then," the doctor corrected. "Dental records maybe. Or DNA."

"COD?" Max asked.

"Judas priest, any number of possibilities for cause of death." Gaitán indicated the man's crotch where a dark stain pooled in the genital area. "When you look around, maybe you'll find the rest of him. He was alive when they removed it."

He pointed to the slit throat. "Obviously this wound. But, until I get him on the table, I won't know if he died from that or from the beating." He touched the spot where a white shard of bone poked through the blue-tinged flesh.

He looked at Rafe solemnly, his large rheumy eyes droopy with sad knowledge. "I'll get to your friend as soon as possible. I'll back-burner my other cases."

Rafe nodded and then watched as the emergency techs loaded the body into the van for transport to the morgue. After they'd left, he and Max scoured the area surrounding the body with a member of the forensic team, but the persons who killed Lupe Rodriquez had left little evidence.

One of the new crime scene technicians, a woman, shouted, "Over here!" and they rushed to the area farthest from the street on the Marianna Avenue side.

At first, it looked like a shriveled hot dog, liberally smothered with catsup. But upon closer inspection, Rafe saw that the lump of mangled flesh lying in the grass was the missing appendage that had belonged to Lupe.

The female tech looked queasy. "They castrated him."

To Rafe the message was loud and clear. Back off or you're next. And the earlier phone call made it clear who the next person was. Gutsy son of a bitch, to threaten a federal officer. How had the killers gotten wise to Lupe?

"Come on, man." Max tugged at Rafe's arm. "Let the techs do their job."

Fifteen minutes later, they sat in a local bar near the Federal Building. The place, normally frequented by cops and other law enforcement officers, was almost empty today. Max ordered two beers on tap and when they came, led the way toward a corner booth.

Music from the juke box wailed about flying too close to the ground, which Rafe found remarkably apt, considering his current situation. For the last five months, he'd felt like he was a bird of prey swooping down to capture another, larger bird of prey – Diego Vargas.

Now he wondered if he'd been flying dangerously close to a fast-moving terrain he hadn't realized was so treacherous. "Goddamn it," he ground out after taking a deep swig of the beer. "Lupe deserved better than to die like that."

Max looked hard at him. "You're not gonna go all loose cannon on me, are you?"

Rafe raked a hand through his hair. "God knows, I'd like to… but, no, I'm cool." He glanced at his watch. "How long, you think, before Gaitán calls?"

"We could observe the autopsy," Max offered.

"No… no." He took another pull and emptied his drink, then spun the bottle around on the table. "I don't want to see him like that again. I trust Gaitán. He won't miss anything."

Max looked around, caught the bartender's eye, and held up two fingers.

Rafe thought of Lupe's pregnant girlfriend again. "Jesus, Francisca. We have to talk to her."

"Why? You think she knows something?" Max shifted in his seat. "Why would she?"

Rafe tightened his grip on the bottle. "She was pregnant. Lupe kept saying what a lucky man he was." He slanted a sidelong glance at Max. "Besides, wasn't she the last person to see Lupe alive?"

"Hell, no, Hashish, the killer was the last person to see him alive," Max muttered. "And before that… you."

Rafe stared at his friend and realized something was wrong. Max was edgy, nervous, not his usual easy-going self. "Lupe was on his way home. Either he made it to Francisca's apartment and went out again, or he never got there." He paused, waiting for a response that didn't come. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

A dark flush crept over Max's face before he answered. "Nah, man, I'm just worried about you, that's all."

"I've been taking the hard hits for a long time, Max. What is it? Something about Lupe that I don't know? Francisca?"

"I don't know, Hashish." Max met his eyes for the first time in a few moments and leaned across the table. He glanced around and then lowered his voice. "Word is Vargas has someone on the inside."

"What? My department? Yours?"

Max shrugged. "God, I don't see how. But now you're wanting to see Francisca, maybe ask her questions about Lupe. Who saw him last? Who talked to him? What do they know?"

Rafe tightened his jaw. "Tread carefully, Max," he warned. After a moment he asked, "What are you suggesting? That Lupe was working both sides?"

Max sat back abruptly, silently shaking his head. "Just be careful, okay?"

Finally, Rafe pushed out of the booth. "Let's talk to Francisca."

Bella was prosecuting a routine DUI when she glimpsed Slater as he entered the side door of Judge Carson's courtroom. A film of sweat glinted off his upper lip, and he looked like he'd run three steps at a time up to the third floor of the Bigler County Courthouse. He caught her eye and flashed a meaningful look before he sat in the gallery section.

She knew Slater wouldn't interrupt a court proceeding unless it was important, but other than the enigmatic glance, his face remained inscrutable. She nodded acknowledgment and glanced down at her yellow legal pad of notes.

"Officer Richardson," she addressed the young man on the stand, "when you conducted the field sobriety test of the defendant on the night of March 29, what evidence of intoxication did you find?"

"First I noticed horizontal gaze nystagmus when I tracked the movement of his eyes."

As the young officer explained the procedure, Bella's mind wandered, silently fuming at Charles Barrington for assigning her this driving-under-the-influence case instead of giving it to one of the junior assistants. No doubt, punishment for her stance on the Vargas case.

Aware of an expectant pause in Officer Richardson's testimony, she continued, "What else did you observe?"

"Mr. Jackson's pupils were dilated beyond the normal range, and also there was non-convergence of the eyes."

"And what is that?"

"The person is unable to cross their eyes and can't track a stimulus that's brought to their nose, in this case my finger."

"And what can cause this non-convergence?"

"A number of drugs, including marijuana and alcohol."

As Bella sat down, the defense attorney, an older woman whose office was in Sacramento, asked her first question. "Officer Richardson, what other factors can cause horizontal gaze nystagmus besides intoxication?"