3

Veranda watched the range of emotions flicker through her mother’s hazel eyes. Fear, anger, and sorrow finally resolved into an expression of deep pain. A single tear escaped, wrenching Veranda’s heart.

After Lieutenant Diaz sent everyone home to eat and get cleaned up, she’d changed clothes at her small two-room bungalow house downtown before coming to see her mother at the family’s food truck. While her uncles took orders and cooked, Veranda had ushered her mother to the driver’s seat, squatting beside her to tell her about the explosion. It hadn’t gone well.

She reached out to sweep the droplet away with her thumb. “I’m okay, Mamá. It’s barely a scratch.”

“This time,” Lorena said, a slight Mexican accent lacing her words. “What about the next time?”

Her mother knew, better than anyone, how relentless the Villalobos family could be. And how dangerous. Hector had brutalized her, and his son Bartolo was the reason she toiled in a cramped food truck every day.

Lorena Cruz-Gomez had started a family restaurant with her younger siblings soon after arriving in Phoenix over thirty years ago. After Bartolo burned the restaurant down last summer, Lorena had accepted an offer from her youngest brothers to share their food truck. They had stationed the brightly colored vehicle in the former restaurant’s parking lot to keep existing customers coming during reconstruction. The new building was almost finished, and the family planned to throw a grand reopening celebration.

Veranda took pride in her family and dreaded bringing more suffering to their door because of her job. The moisture on the pad of her thumb from her mother’s tear told her that was exactly what she’d done.

She bent her head. “I’ll be careful, Mamá.” The words came out hollow, even she could hear their empty promise.

Lorena stood and smoothed her white apron. “I must help them.” She inclined her head toward Veranda’s uncles, who were struggling to keep pace with the lunch rush.

She wanted to say more to her mother, find a way to make things right, but she knew Lorena preferred to work through her troubles. Over the years, she had observed her mother in the kitchen. Chopping, cooking, and plating were a kind of meditation. Feeding others fed her mother’s soul.

Her tío Rico gave her a nod when she followed her mother into the food prep area of the truck. “Chuy’s waiting for you,” he said, pointing a serving spoon at three heaping paper plates sitting on the tiny metal counter. “He already ordered.”

Chuy, her favorite cousin, had asked her to meet for lunch. The third plate meant he must have brought Tiffany, his girlfriend, along. Stomach growling, she inhaled the mingled scents of onion, cumin, and cilantro as she threaded her way through the cluster of sun-bleached card tables and weathered folding chairs. Snatches of conversations in Spanish and English reached her ears from diners enjoying an al fresco meal in the fine late-October Arizona weather.

Plunking the plates down, she quirked a brow at Chuy, who sat next to Tiffany at the farthest table from the food truck.

“You had to pick the farthest table?”

Chuy slid a calloused hand over his shaved and tattooed scalp. “Yeah, I want to talk serious shit, so I’m sitting where folks can’t listen in.” His dark eyes swept the area like an inmate checking a prison yard for threats, a tactic he was intimately familiar with. “Especially our tíos and tías.”

She grinned and pulled out a folding chair. “And people say you don’t have manners.”

“I know, right?” He reached a muscular arm out to slide his plate closer. “I’m a considerate fuckin’ guy.”

She sat down, pushed Tiffany’s enchiladas toward her, and considered the couple. Extensive elaborate body art set them apart from the midday business crowd. While Tiffany’s ink consisted of brightly colored animals and flowers, Chuy’s tended toward dark biker-style Gothic symbols and intricate Mesoamerican tribal patterns. Over the past five years Chuy had converted his crude prison tatts into professional designs. Once he got out, opened a car repair shop in an old garage, and began making legitimate money, he’d forged a new direction for his life. After he got clean and sober, he’d fallen for Tiffany, whose bleached-blonde locks, custom Harley Softail, and mostly spandex wardrobe reminded Veranda of Barbie. If Barbie ditched Ken for a badass Chicano biker.

She handed them plastic forks. “What’s up, Chuy?”

Never one to mince words, her cousin got right to the point. “I’m glad you came to talk to your mom in person. Would have been much worse for her to see it on the news.”

Veranda winced inwardly at the memory of her mother’s stricken expression when she told her about the bomb. She recalled an incident years ago when one of her fellow officers had been shot. Despite his pain, he’d clutched her arm as paramedics lifted his gurney to load him into an ambulance. He had one request: “No one calls my wife except me.”

She understood that the officer wanted to reassure his wife by letting her hear his voice. Every police spouse dreads a phone call or a visit from department officials when their husband or wife is late coming off shift. She had been present when the wife of a member of her first patrol squad was notified of his line-of-duty death. The woman had opened her front door, gazed up at the duty commander, and collapsed into his arms before he could say a word.

Veranda looked back at Chuy. “I knew Mamá should hear about it from me in person. That way she could see me, touch me, know I’m okay.” She shook her head. “Still, I thought she’d pass out when I told her what happened.”

“Ay, Lorena must’ve crossed herself twenty-seven times,” Chuy said, using her mother’s first name as he usually did.

She picked up her burrito, careful to hold it together so the spicy green chile sauce wouldn’t ooze out and drip on her beige slacks. “Why did you want to see me?”

Chuy took a swig of lemonade. “Lorena checked out that cut on your shoulder, didn’t she?”

As soon as she heard about the injury, her mother had insisted on pushing aside the collar of her replacement shirt to inspect beneath the bandages.

Veranda paused before taking a bite. “Don’t worry, Mamá gave me the magic ointment.”

Tiffany’s brow wrinkled. “Magic ointment?”

Chuy grew serious. “Didn’t you know Mexicans have a traditional medicine that heals everything?” At Tiffany’s shake of the head, he continued. “It’s a secret recipe we keep to ourselves. Handed down through our grandmothers for generations.”

Tiffany lowered her voice. “What’s in it?”

Chuy blew out a dramatic sigh. “I don’t know if I can tell you, mamacita. This is kinda … sacred to our people.”

Veranda gave his arm a smack. “Quit messing with her, Chuy.”

He spread his hands. “Am I lying?”

Veranda rolled her eyes and turned to Tiffany. “It’s Vick’s VapoRub.”

Tiffany wrinkled her nose. “That smelly goop that comes in a blue jar?”

Veranda nodded. “We use it for everything from a head cold to a sucking chest wound.”

Tiffany smacked Chuy’s other arm. “Sacred to our people. Please.”

He winked at her and turned to Veranda, his mood shifting. “Seriously though, we need to talk.”

His tone made her wary. “About what?”

“About you. And Lorena.” He hesitated, choosing his words. “My dad told me what happened when your mother saw your tatt. He said you were both real upset.”

Her stomach tightened into a knot and she put down the burrito. Uncle Rico had been watching when Lorena’s gentle hands had pulled her shirt collar aside, exposing the top of the letter V tattooed below her collarbone. Her mother had sucked in a breath, and Veranda knew the sight of it pained her.

She pretended not to understand. “What about it?”

Chuy waited a long moment before speaking. “This might come as a surprise, but I know a few tattoo artists.”

She lifted her head to make an exaggerated study of his extensive body art. “Really?”

“The best one in Phoenix owes me a favor.” When she narrowed her eyes, he dropped his plastic fork and raised his hand, palm out. “I didn’t do nothing illegal, mi’jita, don’t worry.” He picked up the fork. “He could rework that ink for you free of charge. Make it into something different.”

Though she was certain he hadn’t meant them to, Chuy’s words cut to the bone. She had not asked for the tattoo, which, like her unusual first name, had been given to her by a parent. Her mother had named her Veranda to express her love. Her father’s family had marked her as a Villalobos to humiliate her.

Every morning, the vivid reminder of her origins confronted her in the bathroom mirror when she stepped out of the shower. Not only was she the daughter of a notorious criminal, but his brutal assault on her mother had brought Veranda into this world.

She realized her mind had wandered when Chuy paused, a forkful of arroz con pollo halfway to his mouth.

“Where you at, Veranda?” he asked, concern creasing the pointed tip of the dark tattoo that formed a widow’s peak on his forehead.

“It’s not something I like to think about,” she said. “I’ve had the tattoo for seven weeks and I still don’t know what to do about it. I hate the damn thing and what it stands for, but I need time to figure out what works for me.”

“You want to get it lasered off? I know a guy who can do that too.” He shrugged. “Hurts like hell, takes a bunch of visits, but I can make it happen.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know a guy for everything.”

“That’s what it’s all about, mi’jita. Knowing the right people.”

“No, Chuy.” She shook her head. “It’s about knowing what you want. Which I don’t right now.”

“We’ll talk later, here comes your mom.” Chuy lowered his voice. “And she still looks angry. I don’t want her mad at me too.”

Veranda suppressed a grin. Her tough, ex-con cousin was afraid of a middle-aged woman half his size. Of course, Lorena could be formidable. Especially when it came to her eldest daughter’s personal life, safety, or career.

She glanced up to see her mother bearing down on them, brandishing a wooden spoon. “Mamá worries about me too much. She lets it get to her.”

“She’s not a fan of your job.” Chuy raised both pierced brows. “Too dangerous.”

“She’s not a fan of anything that doesn’t involve me getting married and producing grandchildren for her to spoil.”

Lorena’s dark expression cleared as she halted in front of the table. “What did I hear about grandchildren?”

Veranda groaned. “Nothing, Mamá. There aren’t any grandchildren on the way.” She cut her eyes to Chuy. “See what you started?”

Chuy chuckled.

Her mother latched onto the subject closest to her heart. “And there never will be as long as you keep—”

“My life is too hectic for kids, a dog, and a white picket fence.”

Lorena put a hand on her hip. “White picket fence, bah! You will build another casita on our family property.”

Over twenty years ago, when land in the city was cheaper, her mother had used proceeds from the family restaurant to buy three acres on a corner lot in South Phoenix. As her younger siblings—Veranda’s aunts and uncles—got married, they built their own homes on the land. Now, five houses were grouped around an open space in the center of the family property. Only her mother’s youngest sister, Maria, had left the area, moving to Sedona to open up a New Age tea shop.

Her mother obviously expected Veranda to sell her mid-century bungalow downtown and move to the property with the rest of the family. This was the first time her mother had mentioned these plans, and Veranda found the idea both comforting and disturbing.

She didn’t want to argue. “Those dreams will have to wait.”

“Ay, mi’ja, don’t wait too long.” Lorena looked wistful. “You are already past thirty. When will you start a family?”

“When it’s safe.”

Chuy jabbed a plastic fork in her direction. “It’s never going to be safe. Not totally.”

She leveled a death stare at her favorite cousin. “Stay out of it, Chuy, I don’t see you pushing a stroller around.”

Tiffany giggled.

Lorena became tenacious when she got on the subject of grandchildren. “Hector Villalobos has already taken too much from me. Don’t let him take your chance at happiness, mi’ja.”

Her mother’s perseverance in the face of such pain and grief only sharpened Veranda’s determination to solve the storage unit murder. Certain the cartel was behind it, she suspected Daria, who procured their weapons and explosives. Daria was the only Villalobos family member left who could operate freely in the US. Bartolo and Carlos were dead, and Adolfo had multiple outstanding warrants. El Lobo’s chief enforcer, Salazar, was wanted for murder in seven countries. Taking down Daria would inflict serious damage to their organization.

Veranda changed the subject to the only topic guaranteed to divert Lorena’s attention. “What are we doing for Día de los Muertos this year?”

Her mother’s excited expression made her regret her tactic. She didn’t plan to attend, which wouldn’t go down well with the family. She blew out a sigh. At least the inevitable argument would distract Lorena from the explosion.

Tiffany’s blue eyes widened. “Wait, is it Día de Muertos or Día de los Muertos?”

“People say it both ways,” Veranda said. “But in our family, we leave in the los.”

Lorena shrugged. “That’s how I was raised to call it.”

“I’ve seen pictures of people at the parties,” Tiffany said, turning to Chuy. “I’m going to dress up. Wait till you see my outfit.”

Since Chuy and Tiffany had been dating less than a year, his girlfriend had never attended their annual Day of the Dead celebration. Everything Tiffany owned consisted mostly of Lycra. What she might wear for the occasion was anyone’s guess, especially if she used internet photos as a party fashion guide.

Chuy, apparently borrowing Veranda’s distraction technique, spoke around a mouthful of rice when Lorena looked alarmed at Tiffany’s comments. “Are we doing a party on the family property like usual this year?” he asked.

Lorena nodded. “After we visit the cemetery. The celebration will be on November first in the evening, that’s this Wednesday.” She directed her next words at Veranda. “The day after tomorrow, mi’ja. We’ll close the food truck an hour early.”

She squirmed. Better start to lay the groundwork now. “I’m not sure I can make it this year.”

Her mother acted as if she hadn’t spoken. “Come by tomorrow evening. You will help me prepare the decorations. And the Pan de Muertos.”

“Mamá, I’m going to be very busy.” She made a show of looking at her watch. “In fact, I have to head back to headquarters now. Lieutenant Diaz ordered everyone to the briefing room and I’ll be late if I don’t get going.”

The sparkle in her mother’s eyes activated Veranda’s internal alarm system.

“Ah, Richard Diaz,” Lorena said, pressing the wooden spoon to her chest. “Such a good man. He will come to the party too.”

She cursed herself for mentioning Diaz in front of her mother. Lorena adored him. “Ay, please no, Mamá. Not Diaz.”

“But Anita Diaz will be there,” her mother said, frowning. “Of course her son must come.”

Anita Diaz was Lorena’s best friend. Recently reunited, the two women had formed an unholy alliance, waging a not-so-secret campaign to march their offspring down the aisle together. The department’s rules against supervisors fraternizing with subordinates were of no consequence to two Latina mothers on a mission.

At times she suspected her boss might be colluding with them, but then she would put a toe over the line at work. He’d swoop down on her like a hawk on a desert mouse, quoting regulations at her until she couldn’t imagine he viewed her as anything other than a problem employee.

Chuy look offended. “What’s wrong with Diaz?”

Instead of answering her cousin, she shot his girlfriend an imploring look. “A little help here, Tiff?”

“Not from me.” Tiffany gave Chuy’s hand a squeeze. “I owe a lot to your lieutenant. If it weren’t for him, Chuy and I wouldn’t be together.”

Diaz had helped Chuy start a new life after his last stretch in prison ended five years ago. That almost—but not quite—made up for the fact that Diaz had put Chuy in jail in the first place. Her cousin had made it plain he felt differently than she did about the arrest, and he now treated Diaz like a respected older brother.

Clearly outnumbered, she crossed her arms. “If any of you had to answer to him, you’d know what a pain in the ass he is.”

“I’ve had to answer to him.” Chuy leaned forward. “How do you think he kept me from going back to jail? It’s because he’s a pain in the ass that I’m here, mi’jita.”

Her mother scowled at Veranda. “Don’t you talk about Richard like that. He’s a good man with a good heart. He is coming to the party and you will be there too. No arguments.”

How could she make her mother understand why she didn’t want to go? Diaz was only one reason. Her reluctance had far deeper roots.

Every year, her family honored the memory of the departed souls dearest to them. In addition to her parents and grandparents, Lorena grieved the loss of her first husband, Ernesto Hidalgo. She also mourned her son, Bobby, a high school student who overdosed on drugs sold by a cartel dealer.

This would be the first time Veranda celebrated the holiday after learning about her past. Two of the people they would honor had been killed by her biological father; one directly, the other indirectly. Either way, Hector Villalobos had their blood on his hands. She felt tainted, undeserving of a place among her father’s victims.

Chuy gave her a knowing look. “We all want you there, mi’jita.”

“The party will be muy grande this year,” her mother said. “We will have a band, costumes, face painting, and dancers. Father Ramirez announced it at mass last Sunday. Everyone is coming.” She looked at Chuy. “Of course Veranda will be there.”

Veranda accepted defeat. She would have better luck changing the path of a tornado than changing her mother’s mind.

“Yes, Mamá,” she said. “I’ll be there.”