The Traitor

'Max Jensen?'

'Yeah, his grandmother's house has been empty for a while. He's staying here.' He rattled off a quick address in Highland Heights.

'Oh.' She felt an unexplainable chill. 'How convenient.'

'Are you sure you're okay?'

'Of course. Look, I've got to finish this meeting, seal the deal.'

Bella stared at the phone long moments after she'd hung up. Jensen had relatives in the area. A house to stay in. Why did that situation seem strange to her?

Why did she suddenly remember the knowing look on his face when she'd encountered him in Rafe's L.A. office waiting room? What had sparked that sense of unease then, so brief she'd nearly forgotten it?

Deputy Sanderson escorted Santos into the room, and when the lawyer had sat, the deputy took up watch again, this time outside the door.

Santos and Isabella Torres measured each other across the desk like two warriors lined up for battle. He could tell by the set of her pretty jaw that she had no intention of letting him win. She believed she had right and the law on her side.

Santos had long ago put such foolish ideas aside, but the ADA was young enough to believe in them still. Nevertheless, he regretted being the one to burst the bubble of her idealism.

Her dark eyes serious, her lips lushly red, she very much looked like the woman whose picture he kept in his inside jacket pocket. A new picture today, a more focused image, one that Isabella would have no trouble identifying.

'Tell me about Diego Vargas.' The aura of an avenging angel blazed about her.

He examined his hands and thought how to measure the impact of his words. 'First, let me tell you a story, Isabella.'

'Ms. Torres,' she corrected him, narrowing her eyes.

Ay, she would do serious battle with him. But he believed her need for vengeance would win. It was the way of the human condition.

'I'm not interested in fairy tales, Mr. Santos. I deal in the truth, nonfiction if you will. What's the truth about Councilman Vargas?'

'I will give you the complete truth, but only for full immunity.'

'You know I can't do that, even for… '

Santos laughed softly, enjoying the righteous indignation on her face. She held so much power in those small hands, that slight body. 'Ah, but of course you can.'

She looked at a spot over his left shoulder, her face smooth and completely devoid of the turmoil that must rage within her. To capture a man like Diego Vargas was a professional coup and a personal victory. But she would not want to let Santos himself go without punishment. To free him would rankle her to no end.

When she remained silent, looking as if the answer to her dilemma lay on the wall behind him, he decided to make the situation more complex. He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out the second photograph, the vivid colors speaking louder than any of his words. Turning it face down on the desk, he pushed it carefully across the smooth wood until it touched her splayed hand.

He noted the tremor in her fingers as she tapped the edge of the picture. She knew. At some instinctive, primal level, she understood the significance of the photo.

'I've already seen this,' she said, easing one corner toward her.

'Not this one. It will change your mind,' he said simply, not bothering to keep the sorrow out of his voice. He received no pleasure from telling her about the picture. From showing it to her.

Slowly she turned over the photo, confusion furrowing her brows, a look of puzzlement in her dark eyes. He recognized the exact moment when the truth dawned on her.

Her eyes widened in disbelief and then closed in agony. 'It's Maria.' Her fingers covered her mouth as if she'd vomit the grief out of her body.

'Si, your sister.'

She swiveled around in her chair, presenting her back to him. He barely heard the muffled sounds of her grief. Ay, a strong woman.

She had immediately recognized the significance of the bright dress and garish makeup on the face of the young woman in the photo. Santos waited for the emotion to pass, for Isabella to absorb the pain of seeing the photograph, to ask for the details of her sister's life.

'Is she alive?' The question came from a stone voice, as though she had cemented her sorrow behind a wall.

'Do we have an agreement?' he countered.

'Be specific.'

Santos' voice was fierce with certainty. 'There must be no misunderstanding in this plea bargain. Full immunity for particulars about your sister's death.'

He knew if she gave her word, she would see that the agreement held. She would not break her bond. But her pause was longer than he had anticipated.

Did the little lawyer desire his incarceration so badly that she would forego information about her beloved sister? Had he misread her?

But finally she nodded, bobbing her head up and down as though she could not stop the action once it was in motion.

'Is she alive?' she repeated, her voice an immeasurable sea of torture.

'No.'

He thought he heard a small sigh.

'When did she die?'

'Within a year after she disappeared.'

Anger whipped her around, and the wet splotches on her face glinted like sun on steel. 'She was taken, kidnapped. She did not disappear.'

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. 'Si, she was kidnapped. Secuestrado.'

'And you had something to do with it.'

'Si, along with Diego Vargas.'

She flinched at the name. 'I knew it.'

'I can give you specific details,' Santos offered, locking eyes with her, 'of your sister's last months.'

Chapter Thirty-six

Rafe hadn't been this drunk since college.

He had to hand it to Max. The man still held his liquor like an Irishman. They'd spent hours reminiscing and yakking about the good old days, talked about Max's wife Shirley and what had gone wrong with the marriage.

All the time Rafe realized his good friend Max was keeping him under wraps.

Rafe hadn't mentioned the Vargas case. Not once, although Max had broached the topic several times and Rafe had deflected the questions, acting far more inebriated that he was.

Finally Max had laughed and said, 'I'm too damn curious for my own good.'

'Killed the cat, they say.' Rafe chuckled, the sound hollow to his ears.

'Bite me, old buddy.' Max laughed again and pointed Rafe toward the guest room.

Now this morning, sprawled half dressed on a bed without linens, Rafe squinted blearily through the slats of the blinds, then eyed his wristwatch and groped for his cell phone. Not on the bedside stand where he'd left it. Crap, Isabella would worry about him, probably had left several messages.

After relieving himself and splashing cold water on his face, he walked cautiously, favoring his pounding head, into the kitchen where his shoes and jacket lay near a bar stool. His tie and trousers were neatly draped over the bar itself. Max's work, surely not Rafe's.