I look directly at Tanner in the eyes for the first time in a long time. “What fiasco? If we would have arrested him, a) he wouldn’t have spoken to us, and b) the jail would have cite released him,” I say.
“We could’ve asked the jail to hold him. And besides that, what’s even more concerning to me is that you had no idea he had an outstanding warrant. What exactly have you and Investigator Mack been doing?” Tanner asks.
“Do you know how hard I’ve been working on this case? This victim was supposed to start testifying this morning in my trial and she went missing. I’ve been running the past six hours through Leafwood and Mason Valley trying to gather as much information as I can. Judge Hoffman wants a full report when we return to court. That’s what Dylan Mack and I have been doing. And why would you think we’ve been doing anything other than investigating this case?” I ask.
“Well, for starters, you two were involved in other things in the past,” says Tanner.
“You have no right to pry into my private life. You know what your problem is? You don’t know when to stop. If you want to talk about work, that’s one thing. But you’ve crossed the line. And this is not the first time you’ve gone way too far. Mr. Tanner, you and I will never see eye to eye,” I say bitterly.
I look back down at the mahogany table patterns. A warm tear drizzles down my cheek before it drops down onto my black suit blazer.
“Dylan is the investigator on your case assigned to
my unit
. Your relationship with him is my concern. When this case is filed, I want you off. Your lack of diligence in having this suspect arrested is reason enough to have you removed from the case,” says Tanner.
“Good. You go find someone who will care half as much as I do about Laura or this case. No one will fight like I will to get her justice. I know her and this case better than you ever will or anyone you reassign it to. Are we done here? Because I’m through speaking with you,” I say standing up.
“I have nothing else. Karen?” asks Tanner.
Everyone looks at each other and stays quiet. I walk out and slam the door.
Within thirty minutes of leaving Tanner’s meeting, I pull up to Laura’s mobile home at the Leafwood RV Park with Dylan. It sends chills down my back. I come here all the time to the Airstream, but the last time I came here with Dylan was a year ago. Not much has changed, even my feelings towards him, which date back to the first time I laid eyes on him two years ago.
I’ve always thought he was the one. The smell of Dylan’s cologne and his big blue eyes were my biggest weaknesses. His eyes standing out against his tan skin and thick light brown hair catches the eyes of women in all demographics. Two years ago, I became another woman who threw herself at him.
“You think he’s here?” Dylan asks.
“Just put it this way. I know he’s here,” I reply.
Dylan rolls his eyes, half-believing me. We jump out of his truck and make our way slowly up to Laura’s mobile home. The front door is open with the screen blocking our way inside the house. A Mexican soap opera is on the television in the front room.
Several call-outs for Bess don’t receive any response, and my heart starts beating fast thinking Clown made it to her before we could. My worst nightmare is that some violent perpetrator got loose onto the streets to hurt someone else because of a bad call I made.
“Señora Sanchez,” I yell several times before telling Dylan we need to go inside.
“On what basis are we entering this house?” Dylan asks. “There needs to be an emergency or we need a reason to do a welfare check to break through this screen door.”
“Why can’t we just say he came in here?” I ask. “He’s a wanted fugitive. And responsible for Laura’s assault.”
“Because you know that won’t fly,” Dylan says. “We have no credible information that he is even here. And no, your angels do not count as a credible or reliable source of information. I need a solid tip that he’s here.”
I see a man in jeans and a white tank top and suspenders crossing the dirt road in the trailer park towards us. I’ve seen him before, but have never spoken to him.
“How about we talk with this guy right behind you and see if he saw anything. Hey, Sir! You live here, right?” I ask.
“Well, I sure do and that’s why I came to speak with you. I recognize you from the Airstream. That’s a fine trailer you got there. And a nice thing you’re doin’ for them girls,” he says in his hillbilly accent.
Within seconds, Mr. Smith is rattling off the names of his six kids and wife Georgia, who live in the trailer across the way. His style reminds me of my fourth grade, redneck cowgirl costume my mom and I created for my Halloween contest at Tuckford Elementary School. My mom wasn’t feeling well enough to take me shopping the night before Halloween. When she wasn’t icing her black eye, we dug through our closets to see what we could come up with. We found a pair of my stepfather’s suspenders.
“I saw something suspicious. Someone pulled up, ran through that front door. It happened about ten minutes ago. Next thing I knew, about ten minutes later when I was watching TV, I heard the car start up and take off real fast,” says Mr. Smith.
“What did he look like?” I ask.
“Dark hair, spiky, a letter L on his arm, light skin. He looked young, in his 30s. I think I’ve seen his Lincoln in this neighborhood before. Engine has a strange rattling sound,” says Mr. Smith.
“Thank you for the information. Go ahead and go back to your home,” I say.
“That should be enough for us to enter. And if anything has happened to Bess inside, that should be enough for us to get fired from our jobs. I can see the headlines now. Possible armed suspect breaks into the victim’s home to kill her mother after the Prosecutor’s Office drops the ball. I’m going in,” I say.
Dylan follows me down the hallway of Bess’s small mobile home. Watching Dylan’s gun drawn up in front of him just like I have mine causes my chest to tighten and my heartbeat to pulse throughout my body. It’s times like this that my CCW permit comes in handy. After receiving threats while I was working gangs, I decided I needed a Concealed Carry Weapon; so my boobs and thighs got strapped, literally.
My .38 Special Lady Smith either hides beneath my boobs in a space below my bra or the inside of my thigh when I’m wearing skirts or dresses. Both locations give me easy access to guarantee any surprises go my way.
The books that line a bookshelf in the hallway of Bess’s home catch my attention.
The Secret. The Alchemist. The Five People You Meet in Heaven. Go Ask Alice. The Freedom Writer’s Diary. Scars. The Diary of Anne Frank. Muchacho. Tuesdays with Morrie. Love in the Time of Cholera. The Long Walk. Fruitflesh. The House on Mango Street. One Hundred Years of Solitude.
These weren’t here the first time I came to this house. I can’t believe Laura bought all the books I’ve recommended to the ladies at The Mamacita Club.
There is no sign of Bess or Clown. Dylan and I creep our way down the hallway and I watch Dylan clear every room, looking under beds and through closets to make sure no one is there.
An open window off the kitchen at the end of the hallway catches my attention. A white cotton curtain with a yellow lace fringe is blowing in the wind. I look closer to make sure the screen is not off the window, thinking for a second that Clown skipped out of the window leading off the kitchen. The screen is missing.
“So how did you figure he would be here?” asks Dylan.
Just as I want to remind Dylan about my powers, I stop.
“Why do
you
think he was here?” I ask.
“I asked you first,” says Dylan.
I shrug my shoulders and smile. Dylan smiles back at me and holds my gaze.
“Well?” Dylan asks.
“I figured this place was worth a shot. Tanner’s pissed at me. And you seemed really upset trying to get the fugitive team after him. I figured, why not try Laura’s house,” I say.
“Why do you think he would have picked this place?” asks Dylan.
“I don’t know,” I say.
I start looking around the home. Dylan starts to remind me I wasn’t supposed to be snooping. We were only supposed to enter the house for an emergency reason, like to save a life. I wonder where Bess had gone in such a hurry leaving her front door unlocked and open. I walk into a small room off the hallway. It’s Laura’s room.
Laura has a long dresser with a mirror on top. A white lace doily drapes across it, with a jewelry box sitting on top. I open the box and the piano music fills the air. A ballerina pops up and begins spinning with her arms in the air. When I first came to this house to talk to her about Javier’s case, I admired this same jewelry box. It was the same kind I had always wished for when I was younger.
My mom promised me one for my birthday, but then she died before it came around. So I never got one. When my grandmother offered to buy me one later, I told her that I wanted to wait and buy one if I ever had a daughter. I didn’t want Nana buying me what I wanted my mom to. These days, I wonder if I’ll ever have that chance.
“We probably shouldn’t be touching anything,” says Dylan.
I stay silent as the room becomes blurry from the tears in my eyes.
“I know this is hard and you really liked Laura. You were trying to get her to join your club. I remember when we came here and she invited you in here, while I was talking to Bess. I still remember the beige suit you had on. There was something about you that was glowing that day,” says Dylan.
“It’s funny you say that. I was thinking the same thing coming over here. I never could have predicted anything like this would have happened to her,” I say.
“What’s with the jewelry box? You want one?”
“The timing’s never been right,” I say before picking up my vibrating cell phone.
“Hi, Gaby. It’s Maribel from the front desk. I have Detective Shawn Ford on the other line. Is it okay if I transfer him to you? He says it’s urgent.”
“Go ahead,” I say.
After a couple loud clicks, I hear static.
“This is Gaby Ruiz,” I say.
“Hi, Ms. Ruiz, this is Detective Shawn Ford. We have Rodrigo Garcia in custody at the Leafwood Police Department. Get on over here. We’re getting ready to interview him.”
Detective Shawn Ford, the lead detective handling Laura’s case for the Leafwood Police Department, meets Dylan and I at the back door of the police station.
“I have Rodrigo here, ready to interview. He was located twenty minutes ago two blocks from Motel Leafwood,” says Ford.
Often, suspects will return back to the crime scene to watch their mess unfold or to try and get information about the investigation so they know how much of a viable suspect they are to police.
“The Lincolns are not the sharpest tools in the shed,” Ford says. “I wanted to let you know that it’s a bit questionable how he was pulled over and stopped by our patrol deputy.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Officer Cruz radioed that the suspect had a chain hanging from his rearview mirror. That was the reason he gave dispatch for pulling him over, but there was no chain. Cruz is familiar with him and his Lincoln Continental from the neighborhood,” says Ford.
“He has that warrant out for his arrest. Why do we care about the reason for the stop? Cruz could have pulled him over just because he has that warrant,” I say.
“I know, but Cruz didn’t know about the warrant when he pulled him over. Cruz hadn’t run the plates through dispatch. The all-points bulletin hadn’t been broadcasted yet. Cruz just knew we were looking for him to talk to. He’s young, eager, and just put the cart before the horse, that’s all,” Ford says.
“Is Cruz’s reason for stopping him recorded on the dispatch radio traffic?” I ask.
“Yes, and it appears in the dispatch log as well. There was a woman in the car with him too. He took her at knifepoint, but she’s okay,” Ford replies.
“Oh my God,” I say. “It wasn’t Bess was it?” I ask, seeing my entire career flash before me.
“How’d you know?” asks Ford.
I change the subject.
“Do you know if we get a confession from him right now, his attorney would have a good shot at getting it thrown out? Why are we even bothering to question him?” I ask.
“I know,” Ford says. “That’s why I’m telling you this.”
“Look, it’s gonna be Cruz’s word against a convicted felon’s. Who do you think a judge will believe?” asks Dylan.
“What if they ask where this supposed chain is that he had hanging from his rearview mirror and Cruz can’t produce it because it doesn’t exist? Or what if Bess says something. She’d be the most believable in this whole thing. Anyway, now that you gave me this information, I’m obligated to tell the defense about Cruz’s mistake.”
As a prosecutor, I am bound by an ethical duty to tell the defense anything that may exculpate or set his client free. It’s my duty to inform the defendant of any evidence that might point to his innocence or help his case. This responsibility is non-negotiable in my eyes. And violating this requirement can cost me my Bar card, something that is not worth putting the most heinous defendant away for.