“Your son is in our morgue, Mister Castaneda,” Horatio explained. “He’s being well taken care of there while we determine exactly what happened and who killed him. We’ll release him to you as soon as we can, so if you’d like to make arrangements—”
“My wife, she—”
“Faustina told us that your wife was also shot, and I’m very sorry. We try to do our best for every crime victim, but some cases aren’t solved immediately. Some take years, and I can’t lie to you, some are never solved.”
“Because the cops don’t care about our people,” Faustina said. “That’s why our people have to join gangs, so we’ll have someone who will look out for us. Everybody knows the po-po don’t give a damn.”
“That, young lady, is not true. We care about every victim.” Horatio paused. “I care. And I guarantee you, I will do everything in my power to get at the truth. I will find out who killed your brother.”
Faustina Castaneda didn’t answer him. Not with words, anyway. But her deep brown eyes locked on his, dry and bitter, and told him everything.
She didn’t believe him.
He would just have to prove her wrong.