Diaz had answers for everything. Hisvoice had dropped in volume but was still louder than before, the edges of hiswords ragged with stress. Whatever he had done in the past, he wasn’t preparedto see something as gruesome as the crime scene photographs. That much wasevident. “I was with my guys, both times. Yesterday…” He hesitated, stoppinghalfway through.
“Yesterday, what?” Shelley asked.
Diaz lowered his head, giving them asideways look as he rolled his neck. “Yesterday, I plead the fifth. I wasn’tkilling nobody. I just can’t say what I was doing.”
“Could it possibly involve the largequantities of drugs discovered at your Pit?”
Diaz didn’t say anything for a long minute.“Sí.”
“Then don’t worry about it. If you wereinvolved in something illegal, we’ll hear about it from someone else.” Shelleylet the words sink in before continuing. “We’ve arrested sixteen members ofyour gang, Diaz. Los Angeles Del Infierno are small-time. How many of them doyou think we’ll need to talk to before we find someone desperate enough forimmunity, or to avoid deportation, that they’ll spill it all to us?”
Diaz chewed his lower lip, his fingerstracing vague shapes on the tabletop. He was agitated for sure.
“It was a deal. I’m not saying any moreuntil I get a deal of my own. I want immunity.”
Shelley gathered her papers together andstood, ready to leave the room and check out what he had told them. It wouldn’tneed much work to verify his claims. A deal from the local DA would allow themto move fast, make some supplementary arrests and convictions. Not bad for aday’s raid, even if he wasn’t their man.
“I would like to ask you about yourtattoos,” Zoe said, interrupting her process. She had not yet moved. Throughoutthe interview, she couldn’t help but be drawn again and again to the marks onDiaz’s arms, neck, and face. The symbols and words, things she didn’t fullyunderstand.
Diaz frowned deeper, clearly suspiciousof the direction she was taking. “What about them?”
“Tell me what they mean.”
Diaz glanced down at his own arms, coveredwith ink. “All of them?” he asked.
“The ones we can see,” Zoe said, makingan impatient motion with her hands. The quicker he got on with it, the quickerthey could leave.
“Uh…” Diaz hesitated, even looking up atShelley. That irritated Zoe. He didn’t need permission. And if he did, he wouldhave needed it from her, since she was the senior agent.
“Start with that one on your hand,” Zoesaid, pointing to a trio of dots placed as if at the corners of a triangle.
“Mi vida loca,” Diaz said. “MeansI’m a criminal. First one I ever got.”
“There, on your arm,” Zoe said, pointingto a design that took up most of his right forearm. A skeleton wearing therobes of a nun, with bony fingers pressed together as if in prayer, a rosarydangling from them.
“Santa Muerta. She protects me.”
Zoe raised an eyebrow. She did not feelthe need to point out that she was not perhaps doing a good job, since hereDiaz was, sitting opposite an FBI agent and about to go back into prison. “Andthe face of the devil, above her?”
Diaz smirked. “It’s the face of thedevil. You need me to translate that one for you?”
Zoe pointed wordlessly to the face nextto the devil, an evil-looking jester with an overexaggerated red nose and lips,harlequin diamonds on his sleeve and hat. He was lifting a finger as if inwarning.
“Means I have no fear,” Diaz said. Hewas almost grinning now. Pride in his tattoos and what they meant was clear. “Andthe letters are the initials of my gang. My family. So everyone knows myaffiliation, get it?”
Zoe nodded. “What is that around yourneck?” A chain seemed to begin there, large black circles with thin linesbetween them, but it disappeared out of sight.
“Rosary for protection. It finishes overmy heart,” Diaz said, patting his chest.
Zoe was beginning to see that thesetattoos were more than just scribbles, destruction of the body. They weremeaningful. A whole code, written on the body for anyone to read. Telling peoplethat Diaz was a fearless and violent man, willing to break the law for hisgang, maybe even kill. But also that he was a man who believed in God, thoughthe could get protection by praying to the right saints, even despite his sins.
She needed to know more. The more sheknew of these patterns and codes, the easier she could read them in the future.“What about on your left arm, the cards?”
Diaz twisted his arm slightly to bringthe tattoo fully to face the front, looking down on it himself: four cardssplayed out, all clubs. An ace, king, queen, and jack. “Clubs mean criminal, andit means that’s how I see life. Like a gamble. Might as well roll the dice.”
Zoe peered closer, looking at the cards.“There, on the king,” she said.
As soon as the words were out of hermouth, Diaz put his arm back, even rolling his shoulders to turn the king awayfrom her view. His own mouth set into a firm, straight line, and his eyes wentstony blank. “I ain’t talking no more,” he said.
Zoe tilted her head, looking at him fora moment. That was curious—very curious indeed.
She gathered her folder and got up,walking out of the room without a backward glance. Shelley followed her,leaving their former suspect alone in silence. Even if he wasn’t a killer inthis particular case, he was still a criminal. Likely still a murderer, in theservice of his gang. Zoe didn’t need to ask about the two teardrops on his faceto know what they signified in prison culture.
“What was that about?” Shelley asked, assoon as the door was closed behind them and Diaz had no chance of hearing.
“There was a number on the card,” Zoesaid. “A thirteen. It was hidden in the scrollwork around the club. I thoughtat first it simply signified the king’s value within the deck, but his reactionmakes me think otherwise.”
“A hidden number…” Shelley trailed off,then opened her eyes wide in recognition. “Indicating affiliation. MS-13,maybe?”
Zoe waved her off. All of that waspointless now. If Cesar Diaz was connected to a more serious
