Jo Robertson - The Traitor

Santos shrugged. "I do not care. I was just making conversation."

"Well, don't," Vargas snapped, returning to his task of sorting papers. A moment later he looked up as if he'd just considered something. "Magdalena's gone on a shopping trip." He laughed falsely. "That woman loves to spend my money, eh?"

"Where?"

"To Mexico. She will be gone a long time." Vargas looked Santos in the eye and he understood what his boss meant. Magdalena may or may not have gone to Mexico, but she was not returning. Ever.

Santos had been with Vargas long before Cory was born. He had attended every significant event of the child's life, watching her grow from a beautiful baby to a young girl. He knew the answer, but had to ask nonetheless. "Why did the little one not go with her mother?"

Vargas snorted as if something foul had entered his nostrils. "You know Magdalena. She never was much of a mother. She said it would be better for Corazon to stay here… with me."

A chill like icy fire trailed up Santos' spine. He heard a small sound from behind him and turned to see the girl standing in the doorway. She did not look at him, but stared straight ahead at her father with an expression too knowing.

Fucking pig! His own daughter! But somehow Santos had known this day would come. From the moment the little one was born, he'd understood what would happen to her one day. And he knew that Magdalena was not strong enough to fight Vargas. Even for her beloved daughter.

Vargas' attention zeroed in on Cory hovering at the doorway. "What do you want?" he growled.

For a brief moment, she glowered back, a look both defiant and cowering, then ducked her head. "Nada, Papa, nada." She turned and closed the door softly behind her.

Vargas slumped into the desk chair. "Magdalena's affairs are not what I called you here for."

Santos noticed that this office, like Vargas' downtown office, was devoid of family pictures. Just the portrait of him with Cory and her recent school photo.

"What has happened?" Santos asked.

"Something's gone wrong with the Reno shipment."

"What?" Santos asked.

"The truck from Manzanillo was intercepted outside Reno," Vargas answered. "They have the girls." His face twisted in an ugly scowl. "¡Campesinos! Fucking Mexican peasants! Low riders! They popped a tire and pulled off to fix it, but some asshole cop stopped to help."

"What happened?" Santos repeated.

"The drivers freaked out and blew it." Vargas paced back and forth on the expensive Persian carpet in front of his desk. "Made the cop suspicious and he searched the rear of the van."

Santos had known transporting the girls would be trouble. He'd tried to warn Vargas, but the boss wouldn't listen. "The search won't be legal. The evidence will be thrown out in court."

"It doesn't matter! They know about the girls!" Vargas' broad peasant face dripped with sweat. "They'll trace the truck back to me!" he shouted.

"The courts will suppress everything. You do not need to worry," Santos repeated patiently.

"You must take care of it!" Vargas shouted, spittle edging the corners of his mouth.

Santos made his voice low and deadly. "And how shall I do that, Diego? Kill them all? The girls and the drivers? Is this your solution to everything?"

"Figure it out. I don't care!" Vargas screamed. "Post the bail and get rid of the evidence. I'm not going to prison because some campesinos estúpidos screwed up!"

"Sea tranquilo. No se atierre." Be calm. Panic is dangerous.

Vargas swiped a hand across his brow. "Yes, yes, you are right. But what about the truck?"

"Nothing is in your name, Diego," Santos reminded him.

Vargas leaned heavily on the desk. "This is true. This is true." He bobbed his head up and down, calming himself. "Contact Shirley. Make sure she takes care of everything. She will know what to do. Leave no traces in case the police come looking for the other ones."

Vargas waved a negligent hand and Santos nodded, recognizing the dismissal. He let himself out of the office, closing the door quietly.

In the foyer Santos reached for the doorknob when Cory peeked her head around the corner. She looked fearfully toward her father's closed office door and then ran for Santos, grabbing him tightly around the torso. She looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes, brimming with tears. They seemed to say, Don't leave me alone with him.

He pried her arms away and knelt beside her, gave her a little squeeze. "Don't worry, little one. Everything will be all right."

"Do you promise, Tio Gabriel?"

"Si, pequena bebé. Prometo." I promise, Santos thought, as he walked to the Cadillac. But how could he keep such a serious and burdensome promise?

Rafe took two days to track the commercial van back to Vargas. With Slater’s connections he accessed Sacramento business licenses, company subsidiaries, and organizations they’d long suspected were a front for Vargas’ illegal activities.

As the sheriff's office had learned while investigating the councilman last year, most of his wide business activities could be traced back to his mother. A tangled web of dummy corporations, one a commercial van dealership, led straight back to Vargas through a subsidiary in the name of the elder Mrs. Vargas. Good leverage, Rafe mused, something he could use.

An interesting bit of information also came in from one of the few deputies Slater claimed could be trusted in Sacramento. Magdalena Vargas had been missing for several days. No one had seen or heard from her, but then again, no one seemed to be looking for Vargas' wife. Slater explained that she'd contacted him last year about domestic violence, but had withdrawn her complaint.

The story circulating about her disappearance was that she'd made an extended trip to Mexico. Had Vargas been worried his wife knew too much about his illegal activities? Rafe seriously doubted that Magdalena was privy to her husband's varied business affairs, but it was worth considering.

Torres had set Rafe up with a miniature office down the hall from hers. He swore if he turned around, he'd bump his shoulder on the opposite wall. The space was cluttered with several empty file cabinets and shelves ran along one wall. Rafe was pretty sure the so-called office had been a utility closet and wondered if Torres was punishing him for his many transgressions against her.

In a perverse way, he liked to see her get her dander up. She was magnificent when her eyes snapped with an internal fire, her breasts heaved, her jaw set. Oh yeah, better not go down that road, his head warned, even though his traitorous body had other ideas.

Rafe's cell phone chimed at the precise moment that Torres poked her head into the office where he sat at a desk so small it must have belonged to a midget. He didn't need to check caller ID. He knew by the ring tone that it was Max Jensen, but he let it go to voice mail.

"Aren't you going to get that?" Torres asked, leaning against the door frame, her arms crossed. Today she wore a gray skirt with a slit up the left side that reached above her knee and exposed a tantalizing stretch of thigh. Her legs were bare and she wore very high-heeled shoes, gray striped with the toe cut out. Red toenails peeked through the toes.

"Nah," he answered looking her up and down. "I'd rather talk to you."

She raised her eyebrows as if she'd learned not to believe any of his bullshit, but he grinned in what he hoped was an engaging manner. "What? You don't believe me?"

"About as far as I can throw you."

"Have a seat, Torres." He waved an arm around the room. "Oh, sorry, the place isn't big enough for another chair."

She laughed and perched precariously on the edge of the tiny desk, bringing her amazing legs too close for comfort. "You are so full of it, Hashemi." She looked around the small space. "We need to talk. You want to go to my office? I believe it's a bit larger."