Jo Robertson - The Traitor

The house to which Rafe had directed her – 1300 Morene Way – was a little less dilapidated than the others. A white house with green trim, it sat further back from the street and boasted a large oak tree in the scanty lawn of the front yard. She didn't see Rafe's car.

Bella rang the doorbell, but not hearing a corresponding sound, rapped sharply on the door. Max answered, looking casual in jeans, a black tee shirt and sandals. He held a large spatula and wore a draped cloth around his waist.

His light blue eyes swept her from head to foot. "Hi, Bella. It's good to see you again."

"Hi, Max. I need to talk to Rafe."

"Early lunch," he said, holding the door wide. "Barbecue. Are you hungry?"

She still wore the black suit and sheer white blouse she'd put on for the Santos interview and looked down self- consciously.

"Never mind that," Max said, gesturing through the living area toward a patio door that looked out on a small, neglected back yard. A platter of produce sat alongside several bottles of condiments on a high, but narrow, serving table on the back patio.

Bella glanced around the living area, which opened up onto a tiny kitchen to the left. One lonely bar stool was pushed up against the counter.

The living room itself held only a small television teetering on a wooden box by a fireplace and a single recliner. A folding tray held several pieces of mail, an empty beer bottle, and a magazine.

She ducked her head back into the foyer which opened up to another nearly empty room on the right. Not only did the house have a general air of deterioration, but it was practically devoid of furnishings. "Where's Rafe?"

Max shrugged. "Said he had business in town. He'll be back tonight. The burgers are ready to flip."

She nodded, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. Something didn't sit right with her about Max and the house, but she put on a bright smile and tried to shake off the queasy feeling.

"My grandmother just got out of the hospital and went into long-term care at a nursing home in Sacramento," Max explained. "My uncle Brian is kind of a lazy dude, hasn't gotten around to getting the house ready to sell."

He took a deep pull on his beer. "He's sold most of the furniture, but actually, this works out well for me."

"I'm glad you have a place to stay," Bella murmured politely.

"Yeah, well, staying with my wife in L.A. wasn't an option." He grimaced. "And I thought I could keep busy doing repairs around here while I get my head straight."

Bella heard the bitterness in his voice and mentally chastised her silent criticism of him. After all, the man's wife had left him. She flashed him a sympathetic look.

Max handed her a soda. "So, how's the case going?" he asked as he scooped burgers off the grill.

"Good." She wasn't going to elaborate about the deal she'd made with Santos. Not around a man she hardly knew.

"I was helping Rafe down in L.A., so I know all about Vargas and Santos."

Bella remained silent. Maybe she did or didn't trust the police officer, but she'd learned her lessons well from Slater. Play your cards very close to the chest and only reveal what you absolutely had to, especially to someone who was an unknown factor.

"Rafe said you've got someone to turn on Vargas," Max said casually.

Bella nodded briefly. "Bathroom?" She held up her hands.

Max stared directly at her, ignoring the request. "Really? That's great. Who?"

Amazed at the man's audacity, she mumbled, "Still too early in the deal. I'd rather not say." She smiled to soften the rejection. "Don't want to jinx anything."

Startlingly Max changed the subject. "Did Rafe tell you how me and him came to know each other?"

"College, wasn't it?" Bella answered, wondering where he was headed.

"We were college roommates, freshman year," he explained, a distant, puzzled look on his face as if he were trying to figure the answer to a math problem. "But we knew each other since fifth grade. He was a skinny little dude all the kids razzed because of his dark skin and tight hair."

Bella looked thoughtfully across the rim of her soda can, feeling puzzled by the strange turn of Max's conversation.

"He was ten years old, his mom had just dragged him from the deadly heat of the Middle East, and he spoke with his weird Arabic accent."

The Middle East? Rafe had never told her anything about his ethnicity, his family, or his homeland. A shock of alarm trailed down her back. How could she know this man so intimately and yet not have learned important and basic details about him?

"Yeah, the dude got his ass kicked nearly every day on the playground until I began standing up for him." His voice hardened and his eyes sparked. "I can't even count the number of times I rescued him." Max chortled mirthlessly.

"Then he shot up like a giant during eighth grade." He finished his beer and lined it up next to four other bottles on the ground. "And he didn't need me to save him anymore."

"Bathroom?" Bella said again.

Max was unfolding a volume of history, but she couldn't decipher the subtext of the words. Something was off, but what?

Max looked nonplussed for a moment. "Sure. Down the hall to the right."

"Thanks."

He flashed an easy grin. "Anything for Rafe's girlfriend."

Santos drove away from the courthouse after signing his official statement in front of Isabella Torres, along with the incompetent district attorney, Charles Barrington. Unfinished business loomed ahead of him – business he could no longer put off, so he hurried.

He was certain the loose-lipped Barrington would inadvertently leak the deal to someone, who would get word to Jensen. Taking out a police detective was a serious matter, but in this thing, Vargas was correct, if not for the right reasons. Jensen presented a dangerous threat to Santos, who had hoped the detective could remain as his informant long after Vargas was sitting in a federal penitentiary or state prison.

Now he realized the timing of the matter was all wrong. Santos would have to create his own network of informants after Vargas was gone, and after all, that was probably the wise thing to do. Arrangements, of course, would be made regarding Diego Vargas, and Santos was confident El Vaquero would not survive the length of the trial.

When he arrived at the ramshackle place where Jensen was staying, he drove slowly by the house for a cursory look and then parked some distance away. He walked casually down the street.

No children played on the streets. No teenagers loitered on doorsteps. No housewives gardened nor old men walked their dogs. The neighborhood bore the stamp of careless neglect, a community running steadily downhill from middle class to low income.

When he approached the house, he walked stealthily around the side yard, through the unlocked gate, and paused at the corner of the back patio. The door was open and through the screen he heard voices.

"I didn't hurt her, Hash. I let her go. That's gotta mean something." Max Jensen's voice, jittery and manic.

The other voice was muffled as if the man spoke around a swollen tongue. "What happened to you, Max? God, what made you turn like this?"

The questions were full of anger, but anguish too. Santos could hear the pain in the other man's voice.

"Fuck you, Hashemi!" A loud, sickening whack of metal against flesh. A sound Santos was well familiar with.

Another scuffle while Santos ducked his head around the back patio sliding door. Jensen faced away from him, kicking the bleeding body at his feet. Without warning the man on the floor grasped Jensen's ankle as it aimed one last blow toward his head. Jensen went down with a thud while Hashemi struggled to stand upright.

Santos was not eager to intervene in a contest between two gringos, both law enforcement men, but he did not like to see an uneven match, and Jensen had both the pistol and a wicked knife in his hands.