Blood's Echo Read online

  For my husband, Michael, who showed me I could fly.

  Copyright Information

  Blood’s Echo: A Veranda Cruz Mystery © 2017 by Isabella Maldonado.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2017

  E-book ISBN: 9780738751337

  Book format by Bob Gaul

  Cover design by Ellen Lawson

  Editing by Nicole Nugent

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Maldonado, Isabella, author.

  Title: Blood’s echo / Isabella Maldonado.

  Description: Woodbury, Minnesota: Midnight Ink, 2017. | Series: A Veranda

  Cruz mystery; # 1

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016033193 (print) | LCCN 2016039303 (ebook) | ISBN

  9780738750804 | ISBN 9780738751337

  Subjects: LCSH: Policewomen—Fiction. | Women detectives—Fiction. | Drug

  traffic—Fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3613.A434 B58 2017 (print) | LCC PS3613.A434 (ebook) |

  DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016033193

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Midnight Ink

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  2143 Wooddale Drive

  Woodbury, MN 55125

  www.midnightinkbooks.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Acknowledgments

  Going from police work to writing is a big leap, and there are many people who made the journey possible. Before I mention all of those wonderful souls who helped bring this story to light, I would like to thank the men and women of the Phoenix Police Department who walk the thin blue line every day. Their tireless commitment to the community they serve is summarized by their motto: Protection, Respect, Integrity, Dedication, and Excellence (PRIDE).

  Every story has a beginning. This one began as a small seed. The first person I discussed it with was Deborah J Ledford, one of those bright, shiny lights in the world. She also happens to be an extremely gifted author, screenwriter, producer, editor, mentor, and friend. She assured me the seed, if properly nurtured, could grow into something wonderful. Then she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. She was my beta reader, editor, and sounding board as I navigated through the drafts until this tale was ready.

  So many aspiring authors toil alone at their computers. Their only desire, to get their story into the hands of readers. To make that happen, someone has to believe in a new writer enough to convince a publishing house to gamble on a long shot. Terri Bischoff, acquiring editor for Midnight Ink, is a true visionary who understands alchemy. I am forever grateful that she gave this story the chance to find its audience.

  Nothing is like a fresh set of eyes, especially when they’re attached to a first-rate mind. Nicole Nugent, editor with Midnight Ink, spent countless hours to make the words sparkle. Her dedication and commitment make her a pleasure to work with.

  In this economy, many publishing houses are hesitant to commit resources to an unknown writer. Midnight Ink, an amazing publisher with a talented team of professionals dedicated to the art and craft of writing, was willing and able to make a leap of faith. Thank you for taking a chance on this debut author.

  Every day, brave first responders and support personnel from the Phoenix Fire Department put their lives on the line to keep the community safe. This includes the efforts of their team of investigators who work to find the cause and origin of fires. I am very grateful for the technical expertise of Ret. Captain Steve Franklin, Arson Investigator, Phoenix Fire Department. The information he provided about fire investigations was invaluable to this story. Any inaccuracies about the manner in which these cases are solved are solely mine.

  Fresh from my retirement after over two decades on the force, I moved to Arizona and joined the Sisters in Crime Desert Sleuths Chapter in Phoenix. They are an amazing and talented organization that truly celebrates every member’s success along the way. Their encouragement, support, and wisdom made all the difference in making my writing more professional.

  I am blessed with a wonderful family, whether blood-related or bound by love. Their acceptance of me, with my many foibles, warms my heart as nothing else can. First and foremost are my husband, Michael, who encourages my dreams, and my son, Max, who inspires me every day. In addition to relatives and in-laws, I consider some of my closest friends to be family. Words cannot express my gratitude for your love and support over the years.

  Finally, I would like to thank readers of crime fiction. They are smart, funny, loyal, smart, interesting, shrewd, smart, curious, and did I say smart? I love engaging with readers. After all, they are the reason I write.

  1

  Five hundred kilos of white death snaked through downtown Phoenix. As the tractor-trailer lumbered toward the warehouse district, Det. Veranda Cruz of the Phoenix Police Drug Enforcement Bureau crouched beside a cinder block wall with her team. She squinted against the midday glare and peered down the alley. Sweat trickled along her spine under her ballistic vest. She glanced at her watch. The delivery was six minutes overdue.

  Sergeant Fromm’s voice carried through her earpiece. “Air support confirms target vehicle is approaching.”

  Finally. Veranda inched back to be sure she wasn’t seen from the street. Her pulse quickened as she prepared for the takedown. Her hand rested on the grip of her holstered Glock. The plan was for the tactical team to stop the truck when it reached the loading dock, then make entry into the warehouse and detain everyone inside. Veranda and her team would then move in to take charge of the investigation.

  More than thirty Phoenix Police Department officers and detectives lay in wait over a three-block grid in a sector known as the Duce. The nickname originated in the twenties, when the area was filled with produce warehouses, some of which remained. From her informant, Flaco, Veranda had learned the Villalobos cartel used one of the buildings as a distribution center. Flaco had revealed that Bartolo Villalobos, comandante in charge of narcotics trafficking, would personally take delivery of today’s heroin shipment. Two years of painstaking investigation were about to pay off. The other detectives had accused her of an obsession with the cartel. If they knew the truth, they would have her thrown out of the Drug Enforcement Bureau. None of
that mattered now. She would put cuffs on Bartolo at last.

  Black-clad tactical personnel hunkered in rapid-deployment formation in the alley opposite hers, their armored vehicle hidden several blocks away. Veranda tilted her head up and spotted a countersniper on the roof across from her. She knew two more peered through rifle scopes perched atop surrounding buildings. She flicked a glance at the detectives from her team lined against the wall behind her.

  The streets were abandoned. Municipal offices were empty on Sundays, and the scorching summer heat drove most pedestrians inside. In the distance, she heard the rumble of a semi grind through its gears as the driver downshifted to turn a corner.

  Her cell phone vibrated in a nylon pocket on her vest. She tugged it out, scanned the text message, then pressed the transmit button on her radio. “All units, target vehicle is rerouting. Repeat. Target is changing course. We need to reposition.”

  A moment later, Sergeant Fromm spoke in her ear again. “I have verification from air support. Target has just turned southbound onto Jackson. We’ve been compromised. Abort the operation.”

  She cursed and mashed the transmit button. “All units stand by.” Her mind raced. If Fromm would agree to deviate from the ops plan and move the tactical team, they could still seize the truck. She might not catch the king rat in the trap, but she could prevent the drugs from poisoning her city.

  There was no time for finesse. She pushed the button again. “SAU can redeploy to intercept at Dawkins and Eighteenth.” SAU, the Special Assignment Unit, was the name for the Phoenix Police tactical team. Her heart pounded as she waited for Fromm’s response. The countermand of her supervisor’s orders was a breach of protocol. Borderline insubordinate.

  Everyone assigned to the operation shared the radio channel. The silence stretched as police personnel spread throughout the net of their perimeter waited to hear how Fromm would react.

  The SAU sergeant would have heard her transmission, but he had to follow procedure. Her muscles tensed as she heard the SAU leader seek direction from the supervisor officially in charge of the operation. “Sergeant Fromm?” he prompted.

  Fromm sounded irritated as he responded. “Do it.”

  SAU members and Drug Enforcement Bureau detectives ran in every direction. Patrol cars screeched down alleys. The stench of hot tires hung in the air.

  Dante Washington, one of her fellow DEB detectives, touched her elbow as the others raced across the street. “What happened, Veranda?”

  “No idea, I just got a text from my informant. All he said was they were changing routes.” She pushed away from the wall. “They’ve still got their load, though.”

  Blades whirred in the background as the helicopter pilot broadcast through her earpiece. “Target vehicle turned again. Now headed eastbound on Main.”

  “That’s two blocks west of here.” She sprinted down the alley.

  “Wait for backup, Veranda.” Dante chased after her. “The rest of our team followed the SAU guys.”

  She ignored him. Racing around a corner, she spotted a tractor-trailer grinding to a halt. The driver’s door swung open and a figure jumped out, legs pumping as he hit the ground.

  Veranda slid her Glock from its holster. “Police, don’t move!” she yelled to his retreating back as he darted into another alley. “Shit!” She ran after him into the narrow side street and skidded to a stop. The driver pushed an elderly bystander over the iron railing of a short flight of cement stairs that led to the rear door of a produce warehouse. She flung her body under the falling man just before he hit the pavement. As she fought to get air back into her lungs, a metal warehouse door slammed shut.

  “You okay?” She holstered her gun and looked the old man over carefully. He groaned but nodded.

  She vaulted up the stairs and yanked the door open. She could barely make out a figure on the far side of the vast space. He disappeared through a side exit. She dodged crates of corn, onions, and watermelon overturned in her path, then spun and darted back onto the cement steps. She ran to the side of the warehouse to intercept him there. As she rounded the corner of the building at full speed, she slammed headlong into Dante.

  Dante recovered first. “Which way did he go?”

  She pointed. “I’ve lost sight of him, but he ran out of this side door. Did you see him?”

  Dante shook his head. “He’s gone.”

  “The hell he is.” She bolted ahead, eyes searching for any sign of the suspect.

  Dante pounded up behind her. “We’ve got the semi with the shipment. We don’t need the driver.”

  She narrowed her eyes and turned to face him. “My intel, my bust, my rules. Nobody walks.”

  “Fine. Let’s start with this side street then.”

  She scanned the area. A rustling noise caught her attention. She spotted a dumpster halfway down the alley. “If I was trying to get away, I’d lie low. Find a place to hide.”

  Following her gaze, Dante snorted. “No way is the dude gonna hide in that. It’s already a hundred and fifteen out. The inside of that dumpster’s an oven. He’d be extra crispy in minutes.”

  “He’s not a rocket scientist and he doesn’t have a lot of choices.” She pulled her Glock back out of its holster and motioned to Dante.

  Leather creaked as he slipped out his gun and followed her. They approached the dumpster at right angles, weapons trained on the heavy lid.

  She slowed her breaths, and then nodded. Dante jerked the lid open.

  “Police, drop your weapon!” Her vision constricted to the small space inside the reeking trash container. Sound muted. Time slowed. The metallic ring of a gun barrel pointed directly at her. Her gaze took in the whitened skin at the first knuckle of an index finger on the trigger.

  She fired.

  Blood bloomed on the man’s white undershirt. He clutched his chest with his free hand and slumped into the garbage.

  She jumped inside the dumpster, taking care to land on the pistol in the driver’s slackened right hand.

  Dante landed beside her and placed two fingers to the man’s neck. “Nothing.”

  An hour later, Veranda sat in a cramped booth in the rear section of the police mobile command center as the engine rumbled under her seat. She figured the brass had to call the behemoth, filled with the latest electronics and equipment, out to a scene at least once a month to justify its existence.

  Two men stared at her across a laminated table that jutted from the wall. The athletic one wore a gold shield clipped to his belt and had introduced himself as Sergeant Diaz. The older one said he was Detective Stark. She swallowed a lump in her throat. Every police shooting was investigated. Procedure. Protocol. It didn’t matter what they said. She was guilty until proven innocent.

  It was her first fatal shooting, but she knew that everything depended on how she handled this interview. She had killed a man, something the Department did not take lightly. Because she could be prosecuted criminally, they had Mirandized her, offered her a union representative and a lawyer. It was a trap. If you asked for a lawyer, you looked guilty. If you didn’t, you looked stupid.

  A digital voice recorder rested on the table next to a circular coffee stain. Diaz switched the device on.

  She drew in a breath and hid her sweating hands under the table. “Let the games begin,” she muttered.

  Diaz narrowed his eyes and turned the recorder off. “This isn’t a game.” He leaned forward. “I don’t know if you understand that you’re on the wrong end of an interrogation, Detective Cruz, and you’d better take it seriously.”

  She held up her hands, fingers spread. “I’m an open book. Fire away.” This was not getting off to a good start.

  Diaz switched on the recorder again. “The date is Sunday, July seventeenth. The time is fourteen hundred hours. Present for this interview are Sergeant Richard Diaz of the Professional Standards Bureau,
Detective Samuel Stark of the Violent Crimes Bureau Homicide Squad, and Detective Veranda Cruz of the Drug Enforcement Bureau.”

  She recognized Stark. The legendary detective had the highest closure rate in Homicide. He’d been there since she joined the department thirteen years ago and showed no sign of retiring. His thick silvery hair and mustache were contrasted by black eyebrows. His gray eyes bored into her.

  Diaz leaned forward. “We are conducting a joint initial interview of Detective Cruz regarding the use of deadly force during the arrest of an individual suspected of transporting heroin.” Diaz glanced at the man next to him. “Detective Stark is leading the criminal investigation, and I am conducting the departmental investigation into this matter.”

  She faced quadruple jeopardy. An officer could be terminated, sued, and jailed for any use of force deemed unjustified. Finally, a federal case could be brought for violating a suspect’s civil rights. The departmental and criminal interrogations usually occurred separately, but they’d informed her they would conduct the initial interview jointly and then split the investigations. She clenched her fingers, unsure if the deviation from protocol was good or bad for her.

  Stark’s rumbling baritone cut through the silence. “Detective Cruz, you’ve been advised of your rights and you’ve also signed an official Notice of Investigation. You have elected not have an attorney or a union representative present for this interview. Is that correct?”

  She nodded.

  “Detective Cruz, you have to speak. The voice recorder will not reflect that you nodded your head in agreement.”

  “Yes, I was read my rights, received my NOI, and waived counsel.”

  Stark shook open a pair of reading glasses, put a notepad on his lap, and pulled out a pen.

  He’s a dinosaur. She wondered if he used a typewriter for his reports. She glanced at Diaz, who propped an iPad on the table and unfolded a keyboard.

  “Detective Cruz.” Stark slid the glasses onto a crease halfway down his long nose. “How did you develop intelligence about the shipment?”