Death Blow

  Copyright Information

  Death Blow: A Veranda Cruz Mystery © 2019 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 © 2019

  E-book ISBN: 9780738755601

  Book format by Bob Gaul

  Cover design by Shira Atakpu

  Cover illustration by Dominick Finelle/The July Group

  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: Death blow : a Veranda Cruz mystery / Isabella Maldonado.

  Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota : Midnight Ink, [2019] |

  Series: A Veranda Cruz mystery ; #3.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018041425 (print) | LCCN 2018042603 (ebook) | ISBN

  9780738755601 (ebook) | ISBN 9780738751030 (alk. paper)

  Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3613.A434 (ebook) | LCC PS3613.A434 D43 2019 (print) |

  DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018041425 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

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For women in law enforcement everywhere,

  my sisters in crime.

  1

  Careful to hide her suspicions, Detective Veranda Cruz bent to examine the dead man bound to a metal folding chair in the center of the open self-storage unit. The distinctive scent of charred human flesh permeated the early morning air as she scrutinized the image of a wolf’s head seared into the victim’s chest. Light from a pair of buzzing fluorescent tubes ten feet above her head spotlighted the gruesome tableau, reinforcing her growing sense that the scene had been staged specifically for her. To draw her in.

  Hands sweating inside tight latex gloves, she pointed to the outer ridge of burned skin. “The brand is fresh,” she said, turning to her partner.

  Sam Stark, senior detective in the Phoenix Police Department Homicide Unit, stroked his thick silvery mustache. “Is it legit?”

  She straightened, pushed a loose tendril of hair behind her ear, and gave him a curt nod. “Villalobos cartel.”

  More than two years spent chasing the Mexican criminal organization at its North American base of operations in Phoenix had made her a subject matter expert. And a target.

  Her thoughts raced. The cartel would never have left a victim on display without a reason. She knew of no connection between Desert Bloom EZ Storage and the Villalobos family or any of its front companies. So why here? Why now? Missing facts compelled and frustrated her in equal parts.

  Lieutenant Richard Diaz ducked under the perimeter crime scene tape and shouldered his way past the Crime Scene techs clustered at the entrance to the unit. She wasn’t happy to see the Homicide lieutenant. The tenuous alliance forged between them during a recent crisis had settled into an uneasy ceasefire over the past month and a half.

  She felt the weight of Diaz’s dark stare when he addressed her. “What have you got so far?”

  By directing his question to her when Sam was the senior detective at the scene, Diaz underscored her lead status on the case. Her first lead detective assignment since the last cartel-related killing seven weeks ago.

  She gestured up and down the victim’s nude body and delivered a rapid-fire summary of her observations. “Unknown Hispanic male. Single gunshot to the forehead, no exit wound. Likely small caliber. Fresh brand in the shape of a wolf’s head on his upper left chest.”

  At Diaz’s nod, she supplied further details. “Subject has no clothing, ID, or personal effects. Tattoos on his arms indicate he served in the Mexican military. Lividity and blanching look like he’s been dead in that chair at least a couple hours.”

  The ME would provide a more accurate time of death, but Veranda could tell by the presence of lividity, which purpled the extremities, that the man’s blood had stopped flowing a while ago. Without the heart pumping it through the system, gravity caused blood to pool at the body’s lowest points. Whiteness of the skin under the cords binding him showed the pressure used to restrain him, referred to as blanching.

  Diaz was all business. “Who found him?”

  Her eyes flicked from her wristwatch to her notebook. “An employee discovered the body fifty-two minutes ago. Tyler Kendall. He’s worked at Desert Bloom EZ Storage for about six months. No criminal record. No prior contacts.”

  “Where’s Kendall now?”

  “According to the paramedics who showed up, he’s still freaked.” She tipped her head toward the main building. “He’s in the front office sucking on an oxygen mask.”

  “You think he’s involved?”

  She exchanged glances with Sam before answering her lieutenant. “Marci and Tony are interviewing him now, but he doesn’t look good for it.”

  She had designated two of her Homicide squad members, Marci Blane and Tony Sanchez, to take Kendall through the start of his day. Before Diaz arrived, Marci had texted a brief but colorful description of Kendall’s borderline hysterical reaction to the grisly discovery.

  When her lieutenant raised an eyebrow, she added, “According to Marci, Kendall got an anonymous call complaining of an odor coming from one of the units, went to investigate, crapped his chonies, and called nine-one-one.”

  “The ambulance crew had to break out the smelling salts,” Sam said. “Still looks a bit green under the oxygen mask.”

  Her partner’s comment jarred her memory. “We got lucky with the paramedics this time. They didn’t mess with the body.”

  She understood that EMTs had a duty to render aid, but she’d seen them compromise a few crime scenes where the victim was what the Homicide squad called DRT, dead right there. Despite obvious signs of death, occasionally paramedics would drag a body across the room, plop equipment on every available surface not trampled by their boots, and leave a blizzard of sterile gauze, white adhesive tape, and other medical debris strewn all over. This time, thankfully, they hadn’t gone through the motions.

  Diaz scanned the bare cinder block walls around them. “Who
’s renting this unit?”

  The remaining members of her squad, Steven “Doc” Malloy and Frank Fujiyama, were running down the rental history. The PPD Homicide Unit consisted of ten squads, each with five to ten detectives. Veranda’s squad had six, usually working in three pairs. As the newest member of the team, she partnered with Sam, who’d been working murder cases when she graduated from the police academy.

  “The site manager showed about ten minutes ago,” she said. “Doc and Frank are with him in the back office digging through their records, but they got a tentative ID.”

  Beside her, Sam peered down at his notebook through half-moon reading glasses. “A subject named Federico Davila rented it out two weeks ago. Every way Doc and Frank run the name leads to a dead end. The only photo is the copy of the Arizona driver’s license attached to the rental agreement—fake for sure.” He stashed the pad in his back pocket. “They’re reviewing video surveillance of the lot now.”

  Veranda signaled one of the Crime Scene techs opening a reinforced plastic carrying case. “You guys ready to move him?”

  He glanced at her through clear plastic goggles. “I’ll cut the zip ties.” He stooped to pull a flex-cuff cutter from a compartment in the bulky case and moved behind the chair. The tech reached down to fasten the yellow-handled tool onto the black nylon restraints binding the man’s swollen wrists together behind his back.

  The naked corpse shifted, and something red caught Veranda’s eye. Squatting, she focused on the smooth metal surface of the chair beneath the man’s crotch. The job had taught her there was no dignity in death. Only the attempt to bring whoever had caused it to justice.

  At first, she assumed the speck of crimson was a trickle of blood. A moment later, she realized the shade of red was too bright. The storage facility employee had discovered the body close to an hour ago. Blood would have oxidized after exposure to air and darkened to maroon by now. A distant memory tugged at the back of her mind, bringing with it a ripple of unease. She had seen this before, but where?

  A moment later, recognition jolted through her like an electric current. “Everyone out.” She sprang to her feet and whirled to face the others. “Now.”

  Sam stepped toward her, craning his neck to see over her shoulder. “What’s going on?”

  Without answering, she turned to the tech, who stood transfixed behind the chair, poised to cut. “Don’t touch him,” she said.

  Eyes widening behind the clear protective glasses, he turned to the highest-ranking official present for direction. “Lieutenant Diaz?”

  “Nobody move,” Diaz said, then shifted his eyes to her. “Explain yourself, Cruz.”

  She responded with a single word. “Bomb!”

  Spreading her arms, she plowed into Sam, forcing him backward. Thrown off balance, he staggered into Diaz. Veranda lowered her center of gravity and used her legs to push, driving them toward the open bay door of the storage unit. She darted a glance over her shoulder, checking to make sure the tech had followed. He sprinted past her to the parking lot.

  Sam grunted as she shoved him again. “What the hell, Veranda?” She latched onto the sleeve of the remaining Crime Scene tech and yanked him along with her as she crossed the threshold onto the asphalt.

  Diaz recovered his footing and glared at her. “Where did you see a bomb?”

  She huffed out a breath. He wasn’t getting it. “We need to get farther away.”

  Diaz became an unmovable wall. “I asked you to explain yourself, Detective.”

  She stifled a curse, aware that her tendency to operate from instinct, skirt rules, and rush headlong into her investigations had caused this. Diaz, always uneasy with her methods, demanded clarification before following her instructions. She knew he would probably have acted immediately to anyone else’s order to evacuate, but she had given him too many reasons to question her actions in the past.

  Instinctively, she positioned her back to the entrance, using her body to shield the others while she squared off with her supervisor. Unable to move him any farther physically, she had to convince Diaz she’d recognized a cartel booby trap.

  “I saw a red wire sticking out of his … body.” She stopped short of using the anatomically correct word. “I’ve seen it before in my background research into the Villalobos cartel. They do it in Mexico, but not in the US.” She paused. “Until now.” Without time to be delicate, she got to the point. “They shove an IED inside a corpse, then use a remote detonator when police show up to investigate.”

  Diaz narrowed his eyes. “Then why aren’t they scraping pieces of us off the storage unit walls?”

  She blew out an exasperated huff of air. “Maybe it didn’t work. Maybe they put it on a timer instead. Maybe the signal didn’t transmit.” Her temper ratcheted up with every moment of delay. “How should I know?”

  “Are you sure you saw a wire?” Diaz asked, completely unruffled. “You said it was red. Could it have been a trickle of blood?”

  She gritted her teeth. “I know what I saw. We need to clear the area and get a bomb tech out here.”

  He considered her for a long moment. “Before I set off the buzzers and bells, I’ll see for myself.” He started to walk around her.

  She grabbed his arm. “No, Lieutenant.”

  His gaze traveled down to her fingers clutching his forearm. “Take your hand off me, Detective.” His voice was deadly calm. “That’s an order.”

  “No.” She matched his tone. “Sir.”

  Their eyes locked.

  “Cruz, this is insubordina—”

  An explosion cut off Diaz’s words. The force of the blast hit Veranda in the back, propelling her forward into Diaz and Sam. Her body barreled into both men, knocking them off their feet. They tumbled in a tangle of arms and legs, her head landing on Sam’s chest and her legs on Diaz’s lap.

  Ears ringing, she blinked to clear her vision and saw the rest of the team sprawled on the asphalt nearby. She extricated herself and shouted over the buzzing in her ears to ask Sam if he was okay. When he gave her a thumbs-up, she turned to Diaz, who had his portable radio to his mouth, barking orders at the dispatcher. She heard the words rescue and bomb squad, but couldn’t make out the rest.

  Gradually, sound began to return. She lurched to her feet and staggered to the Crime Scene tech who’d been ready to cut the zip ties.

  Still sitting on the ground, he let out a stream of expletives. “All my equipment was inside that storage unit.”

  That meant every scrap of evidence he’d collected had blown up as well. She extended a hand to pull him up. “You hurt?”

  He grasped her hand and got to his feet. “I’m fine.” He turned to stare at the unit.

  She followed his gaze. The explosion had peeled back the metal edges of the bay door, leaving jagged shards protruding outward. Inside, black streaks of char snaked across the cement floor. Remains of the folding chair lay twisted in a heap. There wasn’t much left of the man who had occupied it, and she steeled herself for the next part of the crime scene investigation. Instead of examining a corpse in a relatively empty area, she would help the Crime Scene techs hunt for chunks and pieces peppering the walls, floor, and ceiling.

  Sam gently touched her elbow, startling her. “You were closest to the blast.” He looked her up and down. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “She’s not fine.” Diaz’s sharp voice came from behind her. “She’s bleeding.”

  She spun to face him. “What are you talking about?” Even as she asked the question, the top of her left shoulder began to throb.

  Concern wrinkled Diaz’s brow. “The back of your shirt is scorched and torn. Your skin is exposed, and there’s blood.” He drew in a breath. “Looks like a piece of shrapnel cut you.”

  Sam, now behind her after she turned to confront Diaz, concurred. “Lieutenant’s right,” he
said. “The EMTs are here, best let ’em check it out.”

  The paramedics who had been treating the overwrought employee were still in the main office when the bomb went off. Triage bags in hand, they had rushed toward the storage unit after the explosion, the rest of the Homicide squad on their heels.

  Veranda pivoted so her back faced away from both men. “We have more important things to do than worry about a scratch.”

  Ignoring her, Diaz beckoned the EMTs over. “Treat her first.”

  She raised her voice. “I don’t need a medic. I need you to listen.”

  He turned to her. “I hear you, Detective, but it’s my call. You will submit to an examination. Now.”

  She balled her hands into fists to prevent herself from using them to strangle her supervisor. “Lieutenant, the cartel uses a remote detonator to set off these devices. That means the bomber is nearby. Maybe even watching us right now. Instead of wasting time with Band-Aids and antiseptic, we should be checking the area.”

  “I’ve already taken care of that.” He jerked his thumb at a phalanx of black-and-whites at the far end of the parking lot. “The patrol sergeant is forming a grid search pattern. The air unit will be overhead any minute. The bomb squad and the mobile command bus are on the way.” His expression hardened. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

  Before she could respond, the taller EMT distracted her, snapping on light blue latex gloves. “Let’s have a look at your back, ma’am.”

  She crossed her arms. “I’m fine. Why don’t you check on the others?”

  “I’ve already done that,” Diaz said. “You’re the only one with an injury.”

  The second EMT circled around behind her and she felt him tug at the fabric of her blouse. His voice carried a clinical tone. “The laceration doesn’t look too deep, but it stretches up onto your shoulder. That’s as much as I can see right now. Come over to the wagon and let’s get a better look.”

  Diaz’s withering stare killed her protest before it began. She trailed the paramedics, acknowledging Sam’s sympathetic look with a roll of her eyes in the general direction of her boss.