Jo Robertson - The Traitor

Who killed the father of my baby?

He shook his head. "I don't know, but I hoped you could help me. Can you answer a few questions?"

Francisca nodded.

"After Lupe left for our meeting, did he come back here?"

"He called me around eleven o'clock. He said he had something to do, but he would be home within an hour."

"Did he call after that?"

"No." Fresh tears squeezed from the edges of her brown eyes. "No, and he never came home." She fingered a tiny gold cross hanging from her neck. "When I woke up this morning and he was not beside me in our bed, I knew something terrible had happened to him."

"Francisca, did Lupe ever talk about anyone else he did business with?"

"I do not think so." She frowned. "But something was on his mind the last few days."

Rafe heard the toilet flush and a moment later Max reappeared at the end of the hall. "Do you have any idea what was worrying him?"

"No, I'm very sorry." She paused and looked down at her hands, but a moment later leaned close and whispered in his ear. "But he began to carry a gun with him when he left the apartment."

"He hadn't done that before?" Rafe hadn't noticed Lupe carrying when they met in the bar.

"No, no, I made him promise when we learned about the baby. No más de armas."

No more guns.

A few minutes later, Max and Rafe climbed into an unmarked police car and merged into traffic. "What'd you find in the bedroom and bathroom?" Rafe asked, knowing that's why Max had gone there.

"Nothing," Max answered as his eyes slid away from Rafe's. "Just the regular OTC meds and women's junk."

"No weapon, no ammo, nothing jotted on a piece of paper?"

"Nada. Nothing that shows Lupe was playing both ends." Max slid a quick glance at Rafe. "You can't worry about this, Rafe. It'll wear you down, man."

"I would've bet my life on him, but… "

Lupe Rodriquez wasn't a violent man, and Rafe knew he wouldn't have carried unless he had a good reason. What was Lupe worried about that he hadn't told him?

Was that what got him killed?

Slater drove his convertible from Placer Hills to the airport instead of the work truck he usually preferred. Bella loved northern California in April. The hot sunny days of summer hadn't descended yet to turn the hills to brown wastelands. The apricot and plum trees were in blossom, their delicate pink and white petals littering lawns and sidewalks.

With the top down, air whiffled through her loose knot of hair, strands escaping the band. Finally she gave up and removed it along with the tight clips that held it in place.

She'd be a mess when they met Rafe's flight, but what did it matter? She wasn't trying to impress him anyway. That ship had already sailed. The only thing about Bella that intrigued Hashemi was the files she had on Diego Vargas.

When Slater had learned about Bella's arrangement with Rafe, he insisted on accompanying her to the airport. As sheriff of Bigler County, he argued, he had a vested interest in where the federal agent intended to poke his nose. And the dead body at Beale's Lake was county business.

Bella didn't protest. She felt better having Slater along.

Hashemi's flight was late. Because of enhanced security since September 11, Sacramento International Airport denied access to the upper level to all but ticketed passengers. Slater and Bella waited by the baggage claim for the DEA agent to arrive.

She drummed her nails on her purse and checked her watch again, stood up to check the flights display, and then walked back to the row of plastic chairs where Slater sat. He glanced up from his magazine over the tops of his sunglasses. "Sit, Bella. You can't hurry the plane by pacing."

He was right. Checking her watch every few minutes only added to her strained nerves. She sat down, blew a strand of hair out of her eyes, and then attempted to tuck the straggly pieces back with the hair clips. When she began tapping her foot, Slater reached over and placed one large hand on her knee. His slow smile made her laugh.

It was at that moment, out of the corner of her eye, that she saw Rafe Hashemi descend on the escalator, an overnight bag in hand, what looked like a laptop case over one shoulder, and a garment bag over the other. Bella absorbed the hard look of him while he was as yet unaware of her. The moment he spied her, he pulled sunglasses on and headed straight her way.

Rafe saw at once that Torres wasn't alone. He hesitated a few feet away to observe her and the man she was with. Broad-shouldered and an inch or two shorter than Rafe, he stood up with Isabella, his hand cupped around her elbow.

Good looking, in an outdoorsy sort of way. Sunglasses hid the man's eyes, but Rafe detected the hardened assurance of law enforcement in his bearing. A cop, then.

"Agent Hashemi, this is Ben Slater, Bigler County Sheriff."

They exchanged handshakes, warily summing each other up.

"Good flight, Agent Hashemi?" Slater asked.

"A slight delay," he smiled. "Security didn't like me bringing my weapon."

Isabella gaped at him. "You brought a gun on an airplane?"

Slater and Rafe exchanged glances, and a moment of camaraderie passed between them.

Slater laughed. "It's a guy thing, Bella."

A puzzled look crossed her face, which the two men ignored as they turned toward the automatic double doors and walked out into the pleasant California sunshine. They were silent as they crossed the street to the space where the sheriff had left his car, a classic convertible in a shade of baby blue that seemed out of character for the hardened officer.

He tossed the keys to Torres and she grinned widely. "You trust me with the baby?"

"Don't let me think about it too hard," Slater warned.

She laughed and slipped into the driver's seat, while Slater and Rafe stored the luggage in the trunk. As soon as she'd negotiated the parking lot exit and pulled onto Interstate 80 heading northeast toward Reno, Slater got down to business and explained the discovery of the dead body and the heroin overdose.

"You think the heroin was China White?" Rafe asked.

"It was too pure and we haven't seen that grade around here before. Never." Slater scratched his head and turned in the passenger seat to look at Rafe seated in the back.

From his position Rafe could see Isabella's eyes in the rear-view mirror. She tracked him during the entire conversation, her large brown eyes luminous. Their gazes met for a moment and she looked away quickly. Why the wariness? What did this cop mean to her?

"Hard to imagine where that quality dope could've come from," Slater continued. "We get a lot of the black tar heroin, but nothing as pure as this stuff."

"Any I.D. on the body?" Rafe asked.

"Nope. Waiting for DMV records and fingerprint hits through AFIS."

Rafe leaned his head back on the seat and closed his eyes. God, he was tired. Nearly forty-eight hours straight and he'd hardly slept.

He barely dozed off when the wailing musical tones of what sounded remarkably like a Willie Nelson tune startled him awake. Sheriff Slater reached into his pocket for his cell phone and flipped it open. He listened for a few minutes with no response other than a few grunts.

"What's happening?" Torres asked Slater in a familiar tone that made Rafe think she and the sheriff were longtime friends.

"DMV records on the dead body."

Rafe leaned forward, his interest piqued.

"A Hollywood actor, twenty-five," Slater said, "name of Jacob Foster. Ever heard of him?"

"Nope," Rafe said, looking at Torres. "Are we supposed to know him?"

"He's a new star on that daytime soap," she supplied, "called 'The Heart and the Heartless.'"

The look Slater gave her was comical. "You're kidding, right?"