4

Twenty minutes later, Veranda took her customary seat beside Sam at the government-issue modular table in the Violent Crimes Bureau conference room. Known as the War Room by VCB detectives and supervisors, the large room occupied the center of the second floor. Detectives from all units in the bureau gathered to share information, coordinate investigations, and hold briefings.

VCB Commander Nathan Webster sat at the head of the long rectangular table, scanning the group over smudged drugstore reading glasses with black plastic frames. “I heard from Sergeant Jackson’s wife early this morning. The appendectomy went well. He’ll recover at home until next week.”

Veranda and Sam exchanged looks. After their squad sergeant’s appendicitis attack yesterday, Commander Webster had designated Lieutenant Diaz to step into the breach. In addition to overseeing all ten squads in the Homicide Unit, Diaz would respond to scenes with Veranda’s team while Jackson recuperated.

“Sergeant Jackson’s a healthy guy,” Veranda said. “Maybe he’ll get back on his feet sooner.” She tried not to sound too hopeful.

Across from her, Detective Doc Malloy cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. Doc had earned his nickname. A Homicide detective for eight years, he was her squad’s unofficial medical expert.

“Sometimes complications set in during recovery,” Doc said, always eager to discuss medical conditions, the grimmer the better. “Surgery is nothing to fool around with. He should stay home until released by his surgeon.” Shifting in his chair, he pointed a pale finger at her shoulder.

She grimaced, knowing what was coming.

“Actually, Veranda, I’m concerned about your injury too,” Doc said. “That laceration could get infected. Are you taking antibiotics?”

Doc had attended more autopsies than anyone but the ME. So much time spent focused on death and disease had given him an understanding of human anatomy. And more than a touch of hypochondria. Some people who died violently also had illnesses and conditions. Doc observed the conditions, learned about the illnesses that brought them on, then began to manifest the symptoms himself.

“Got it covered.” She waved his comment away. “Dab on Vick’s VapoRub morning and night.”

Doc scribbled a note on his pad, no doubt intending to do research later. She cast her eyes around the room to see if anyone picked up on the reference. Only Lieutenant Diaz gave her a wry smile.

Marci Blane had no patience for her fellow detective’s drama. “Doc, you’ve got to stop going to autopsies.”

“Moving on,” Commander Webster said, cutting the banter short. “We have visitors.” He indicated the two men sitting to his right. “This is Detective Malcolm Jones of the Bomb Squad. And you all know Detective Tye Kim from the lab.”

The bomb tech wore a black nylon golf shirt with a gold PPD Bomb Squad emblem embroidered on the left upper chest. The design featured a phoenix bird clutching a fragmentation bomb and two jagged lightning bolts.

“Call me Mac.” His smile displayed straight white teeth, contrasting with his dark skin. When he glanced around the table, his balding scalp gleamed under the florescent lights.

“What have you determined about the explosion so far?” Webster asked.

“At this point, it looks a type of pipe bomb,” Mac said. “Remote detonation setup. Probably programmed to receive a signal from a cell phone.” He frowned. “My supervisor reached out to the local ATF Field Division. I’m sure they’ll want in.”

Aware the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms maintained records about bombings nationwide, Veranda wasn’t surprised they would be involved. She had worked with them on arms smuggling cases in her task force days. The location of their Phoenix Field Division a few blocks down the street from police headquarters made collaboration easy, but occasionally politics created unnecessary challenges.

Sam turned to Webster. “Are we about to be swimming in a sea of dark suits?”

The commander nodded. “Special Agent Nicholas Flag from DHS is flying in from Washington DC tomorrow. He’s bringing an ATF agent with him.” He shrugged. “Not sure why Flag isn’t working with our local ATF division.”

Veranda had met Agent Flag with the Department of Homeland Security when he participated in a Phoenix-based task force recently. Sam had speculated Flag was affiliated with one of the various US intelligence agencies despite what he claimed, and Veranda had come to agree with her partner.

Curious to know how he would respond, she put the question directly to her commander. “Why does Flag care?”

“We’ll hear from Crime Scene next,” Webster said. “Detective Kim will answer your question.”

“Wait.” Mac looked confused. “Can someone loop me in?” He looked around. “I know the Villalobos cartel is involved, and I’ve seen news reports about them like everyone else, but more details would help my investigation.”

All eyes turned to Veranda, the subject matter expert. Taking the silent cue, she kept her response brief. “The Villalobos cartel is the largest criminal organization in Mexico, and they’re into narcotics, computer hacking, financial crime, weapons smuggling, human trafficking, and the sex trade among other things. The leader, Hector Villalobos, has four adult children. Two of them are dead. The two left standing are Adolfo, who failed when he tried to take over their North American operation seven weeks ago, and Daria, who specializes in weapons and explosives.”

Mac grinned. “My kind of woman.”

“If you’re into sociopaths.”

He lifted a shoulder. “Nobody’s perfect.”

“I’ve studied the Villalobos cartel too,” Diaz said. “Haven’t found a case where they used bombs inside the US against law enforcement.”

Veranda had also been disturbed by the new threat. “I’m guessing this is Daria’s move to show she’s ready to step up and take over.”

Mac looked intrigued. “What do you mean, step up?”

She outlined the crime boss and his family structure. “Hector Villalobos goes by El Lobo, which means ‘the wolf.’ His children—named in alphabetical order—are his retirement plan. In order to do that, he needs an heir who can run the whole organization. In the past, he’d divided areas of responsibility between his kids. One of them has to step up and consolidate power.”

“How is it divided?” Mac asked.

“His firstborn son, Adolfo, is the cartel’s CFO. He handles financial crime and keeps the books. The next in line, Bartolo, comandante in charge of narcotics, died in a shootout in July.”

Mac leaned back. “I remember that fiasco.”

Rather than rehash one of the department’s greatest embarrassments, Veranda plowed on. “El Lobo’s third son, Carlos, used to manage the coyotes, who run human trafficking operations across the border and maintain sex slave rings. Carlos … got in the way of a bullet recently.”

Mac snorted. “Yeah, I heard something about that. On every news channel. Every day. For a solid week.”

His remark reminded her just how public her run-ins with the cartel had been. She let out a long breath and continued. “His youngest is Daria. Supposedly, she has a munitions-manufacturing plant somewhere near their compound in Mexico. Satellite images are inconclusive, and the federales haven’t had any success sending an operative inside. The intel we get is mostly from people they arrest shortly before the cartel manages to shut them up. Permanently.”

At the far end of the table Marci spoke up. “So Daria’s trying to take over then?”

She considered the question. “A female leader of a cartel is rare, but not unheard of. I don’t know how El Lobo feels about women, but some of these guys are full-on sexists. Daria will have to prove herself if she wants the top spot.”

“I don’t understand,” Mac said. “If Adolfo’s the firstborn son, why isn’t he in charge?”

Diaz provided the answer. “He’s viewed as weak, both inside and outside the cartel. Everyone thinks he’s brainy but lacks the killer instinct. His father gave him a shot at the throne recently. Rival criminal organizations moved in on cartel territory, resulting in that turf war last month.”

Tony Sanchez, another member of her Homicide squad, weighed in. His heavy Brooklyn accent carried through the room. “They’re still digging rounds out of the sides of buildings downtown.”

Mac turned to Veranda. “The murder this morning involved an unknown subject burned with a branding iron. How does that fit in with the cartel’s MO?”

“The cartel brands their property,” she said. “It’s a sign of ownership. They put their mark on packages of narcotics, prisoners, and sometimes, sex slaves.” She fought to keep the anger out of her voice. “Because they consider them property.”

Marci muttered an expletive under her breath that drew a glare from their commander.

Veranda caught her eye in tacit agreement before she continued the briefing. “They also use the brand to terrorize and punish enemies and traitors. The hot iron burns the outline of a wolf’s head on the upper left chest over the heart.”

She schooled her features to hide her feelings about the next part, drawing a deep breath before proceeding. “A tattoo of a black wolf’s head in the same place, on the other hand, is seen as an honor reserved for those loyal to the Villalobos family. It’s something you have to earn.”

She felt everyone’s gaze on her and hoped no one noticed how she’d kept her voice flat and her eyes on the table as she added, “Except in my case.”

Her comment met with silence. The fact that everyone knew why she bore the tattoo didn’t ease the awkwardness of the moment. Or the sting of her humiliation.

“You mentioned they also branded traitors,” Doc said. “Could the subject in the storage unit have been part of the cartel?”

She welcomed the distraction of the question. “Not possible. I got a good look before the bomb went off, and the guy only had a Mexican army tattoo. If he’d been a cartel member, the brand would have gone directly on top of the wolf tatt. The idea is that the ink didn’t sink in far enough, so the cartel’s mark is burned into the flesh to make a deeper impression. Normally, this is followed by immediate execution. Once in a while, the person is given a second chance to prove himself.”

Doc winced. “These people are barbarians.”

Marci gestured to Tony. “Hey, Tony here happens to be a Barbarian-
American. Don’t disparage him by comparing him to those assholes.”

“Detective Blaine,” Webster began, a note of censure in his voice.

Marci held up a hand in apology. “Excuse me, Commander.” She leaned toward Veranda and lowered her voice. “What’s the word in Spanish?”

Before Veranda could answer, Marci straightened. “Wait, I remember it now. I meant to say don’t compare him to those pendejos.” She feigned a look of innocence that deceived no one. “It’s okay if I say it in Spanish, right?”

As usual, Marci had managed to ease the tension in the room. She’d also taken the focus away from Veranda and her unwanted tattoo. Marci’s wink told her she’d done it on purpose.

“No, Detective,” Lieutenant Diaz said over the sound of chuckling around the table. “It’s not.”

The trace of a grin lifted the lieutenant’s lips before he turned to the man sitting to Mac’s right. “Let’s hear from the Laboratory Services Bureau. Detective Kim, you mentioned a report that will explain why Agent Flag from DHS is involved?”

Veranda had worked with Tye Kim before. As detective liaison, he ran interference between the forensics lab and hundreds of detectives constantly pressuring the scientists to push their evidence to the front of the line for examination. She had heard Tye describe his job as triage on a tight rope, and he did it well.

Tye bent down to reach inside a black leather satchel slouching at his feet on the factory-grade blue carpet. “I’ve got a bit of information you might find interesting.” He pulled out a manila folder and a letter-sized brown envelope. Every eye followed Tye’s deft movements as he unclasped the envelope slid a lab report out with a flourish.

Though he said nothing, Commander Webster’s knowing look indicated he’d already been briefed.

“What is that?” Diaz asked, apparently not in the loop.

A satisfied smile lit up Tye’s face. “The identity of the bomber.”