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  She whirled and got right up in his pock-marked face. “Do you have something to say, Manuel?”

  Eyes wide, he swallowed audibly. “No, Señorita.”

  The fear in his voice spiked her arousal. He would pay for his insolence. She slid her tongue along her teeth. “On second thought, you come too.”

  She sashayed down the empty hall, three pairs of booted footsteps thudding in her wake.

  “You’ve just volunteered to try out my new equipment,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ve got to break the leather in properly.”

  The answering gasps from behind her brought a hot flush of excitement to her cheeks.

  10

  Veranda’s idea of haute couture involved ballistic nylon in chic tactical black. Overriding her objections, Marci had cajoled her into a charcoal gray Chanel suit hanging in her closet, pairing it with a white silk blouse. Then she’d foisted three other ensembles on her, insisting they were all second-hand from a Scottsdale boutique specializing in vintage fashion. Since last night, Marci had done everything conceivable to lift her spirits, but she should have foregone the wardrobe overhaul. Veranda glanced down at her Ferragamo-clad feet and sighed, yearning for her Hi-Tec boots.

  Marci stuck her head around Veranda’s cubicle. “Let’s go, chica.” Veranda stood to peer at the wall clock above the warren of fabric-covered partitions spanning the Violent Crimes Bureau. Five minutes until the eight o’clock meeting in the War Room. Cole had texted her to say he would attend to represent the Fire Department, but he hadn’t stopped by her desk on his way in. What did that mean?

  She pushed the thought aside and joined her squad mate in the passageway between cubicles. “Thank you again,” she said to Marci. “But you really shouldn’t have loaned me your designer outfits. I can be hard on clothes.”

  Veranda’s squad had come to the housefire late last night after clearing the canal homicide scene. They had supported her through the shock and grief of losing everything she owned. Then Marci had insisted Veranda spend what was left of the night at her apartment. Sleep had only come in fragmented pieces, but at least she had showered and slurped down some coffee before driving to headquarters this morning.

  Marci planted a hand on her hip. “Are you kidding? You rock that Chanel.”

  Before she allowed Veranda to leave the apartment, Marci had handed her a grocery bag filled with makeup samples and toiletries.

  “I could have dug my go-bag out of the trunk of my car. There’s always an emergency outfit inside.”

  “Let me guess,” Marci said. “Hi-Tec boots, black BDUs, and an

  UnderArmour shirt, right?”

  “Think of it as cop couture.”

  Marci gestured at her partner, Tony, who had shuffled past them on his way to the conference room. “You have to look professional. There’s a prime example of what happens when you let yourself go.” She called out to him. “Hey, Sanchez, pick your knuckles up when you walk. You’re leaving wear marks in the carpet.”

  Tony flipped her the bird over his shoulder and continued toward the War Room door without comment.

  “You’re not fooling anyone,” Veranda said as Marci chuckled. “When Tony retires, you’ll miss him the most.”

  Marci let out a theatrical groan. “He says he’s going back to New York, but I don’t believe it.”

  “He complains about the heat from April to November. Why wouldn’t he go back?”

  “The desert’s gotten into his blood,” Marci said. “He’s gone native.”

  They continued toward the conference room. Marci and Tony’s ongoing verbal battle returned Veranda to a sense of normalcy. Throughout her career, she’d learned to recognize the banter between squad members for the bonding ritual it was. Often, the ones who teased each other most were closest. Cops don’t gush about their deep emotional attachment to each other. Not when biting sarcasm, elaborate pranks, and trading barbs communicate the point just as effectively.

  Marci’s hard exterior hid a compassionate heart, which she had just proven by giving Veranda the clothes off her back without being asked. Had any of her other teammates been female, they would have done the same.

  When they entered the packed War Room, Veranda was reminded of the gravity of her current situation. Commander Webster, Lieutenant Diaz, and the rest of her Homicide team milled around in loose groups sipping rot-gut VCB coffee from Styrofoam cups or stained ceramic mugs. Agent Flag listened attentively to a man she didn’t recognize in the far corner of the room. The sight of Cole chatting with Detective Kim from the lab and Detective Jones from the Bomb squad unsettled her. Their last conversation had ended badly.

  “Nice threads,” Sam said, startling her from thoughts of her troubled relationship.

  Sam’s remark turned several heads in her direction.

  Tye Kim did a double take. “You look great, Veranda.” A moment after the words left his mouth, he tried to take them back. He flicked a glance at Commander Webster before holding his hand up, palm facing her. “I mean, you look, uh, very professional, Detective Cruz.” A red scald crept up his neck as he put his other hand up. “Not to say you don’t always look professional, that is, um—”

  Webster’s frown silenced his babbling.

  Tye’s awkwardness magnified her discomfort at the unwanted attention. The room had gone quiet, all eyes on her. Cole’s jaw dropped, Flag gave her a nod, and Diaz did a slow perusal.

  “She’s been Marci-fied,” Tony said, his Brooklyn accent making the invented word funnier, ending the awkward moment.

  Her eyes found Cole’s but slid away from his penetrating gaze. She would talk to him later.

  Commander Webster cleared his throat. “Take a seat. We have a lot to cover.”

  She claimed the chair next to Sam’s.

  “We have two more guests today,” Webster said, lifting a hand to indicate Flag and the other man in the corner, who took the last unoccupied seats. “Most of you remember Special Agent Nicholas Flag with the Department of Homeland Security.”

  Mumbled greetings went around the table.

  “He’s accompanied by Agent Javier Ortiz with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.” Webster yielded the floor to Flag, who elaborated.

  “Agent Ortiz works out of the ATF’s Washington Field Division,” Flag said. “I requested him for this investigation because we’ve worked closely together on international cases.” He inclined his head toward Ortiz. “He speaks fluent Spanish, understands cartel culture, and has traveled extensively in Central and South America.”

  Ortiz’s hooded eyes scanned the room without comment. Veranda thought his rugged features and stocky form made him look like a rugby player in a business suit.

  “Thank you, Agent Flag,” Webster said, turning to Lieutenant Diaz. “Let’s get started.”

  “The first order of business is a change in the lead detective.” Diaz gestured to Sam. “Detective Stark is on point now. Any and all supervisory decisions still go through me.”

  No one asked for the reason behind the abrupt change, which meant everyone was aware of her new status as victim.

  Diaz glanced at Mac. “Any updates from the Bomb squad?”

  “I’ve confirmed that a man-made device caused the explosion at Detective Cruz’s residence,” Mac said. “Once we ruled out a gas leak, the fire department turned the scene over to us.”

  “Then we won’t need to include the Arson Investigation Unit going forward. Any objections, Captain Anderson?” Diaz posed the question in a neutral tone.

  Heads swiveled to Cole. “This will be my last briefing.” His voice sounded strained. “I’ve submitted my report and will be available for any fire-related questions.”

  Both men’s faces were carefully blank, their demeanor completely professional. If she didn’t know they loathed each other, this exchange wouldn’t have clued her in.
She studied Cole’s handsome Nordic features and felt the emptiness of impending loss. She forced her attention back to the briefing when she realized Mac had started his report.

  “Trace evidence from fragments of bomb materials recovered at both scenes proves the devices at the storage unit and Detective Cruz’s house were manufactured at the same location,” Mac said.

  Agent Ortiz from ATF spoke for the first time. “I’ve made arrangements to send the bomb remnants to our Walnut Creek lab.”

  Commander Webster forestalled any debate. “I approved the transition to their California facility. ATF labs have state-of-the-art equipment.” He shot a rueful look at Tye. “Our lab is excellent, but they specialize in explosive materials and have access to worldwide databases.”

  Veranda read between the lines. Ortiz was putting his size elevens smack in the middle of this case.

  “Will that delay DNA results from the piece of water bottle cap?” she asked.

  “Not at all.” Ortiz waved the question away. “We’re only taking bomb fragments. Your lab will keep the rest of the evidence. Besides, partial prints from Salazar have already been recovered, right? The DNA will only confirm what we already know—he’s behind this.”

  The ATF agent had drawn a conclusion she didn’t share. Time to offer an alternate view. She prepared to perform the dance local police sometimes did with Feds, each leading in turn while avoiding toes.

  She opened with a statement of fact before getting to her theory. “Salazar isn’t a bomber and isn’t sloppy. He wouldn’t leave incriminating evidence behind.” She paused to let that sink in, waiting for a few slow nods and thoughtful expressions, before continuing. “I like Daria Villalobos for both explosions. Unfortunately, she’s never been arrested, so we don’t have her prints or DNA on file for comparison.”

  “What are you getting at, Detective?” Lieutenant Diaz asked her.

  “If either lab finds unknown samples, we should get a search warrant for Daria’s DNA.”

  “Your PC?” Diaz pressed.

  Her boss wanted to hear her probable cause. The question was reasonable, but the intent behind it grated on her, as if Diaz didn’t believe she could convince a superior court judge to sign a warrant.

  When she paused to consider her best argument, Sam’s rumbling baritone filled the gap. “You’ll have my affidavit in support of a search warrant on your desk tomorrow morning, Lieutenant.”

  That settled the matter. As lead detective, Sam could call that play, and as one of the most renowned detectives on the department, his opinion carried serious weight. Weight he had just thrown behind her.

  After giving Sam a grateful smile, she focused on Agent Ortiz again. “If Daria’s DNA is found under the piece of bottle cap or on the explosive materials, we’ll have her.”

  “I’m familiar with Salazar,” Ortiz said, veering away from a discussion about Daria. “I agree he’s not sloppy. Have you considered that he might have believed the explosion would destroy the bottle? Or that he left it behind on purpose? The cartel may have wanted to put US law enforcement on notice.”

  She countered both ideas, beginning with the first. “Even though it’s not his preferred method of killing, Salazar’s dealt with explosives in his line of work, so he’d know forensic evidence could survive a blast.” She waited a beat before moving on. “I can’t accept that Salazar would deliberately incriminate himself to make a point either. The cartel sent their message by branding the murder victim before blowing him up.”

  Ortiz pounced. “The brand on the victim brought you to the scene, Detective Cruz.” He placed both hands on the table and leaned forward. “Exactly as it was intended to do.”

  She had blundered straight into Ortiz’s trap. The snare clamped down tight. Her eyes drifted to Cole, who looked like he wanted to hit something, no doubt still angry about the bullseye on her back. The ATF agent’s remark would make everyone else in the room question why she still had any part in the investigation. Ortiz was about to get her thrown off the case.

  “Your point is well taken,” Commander Webster said to Ortiz before looking at the others. “I had intended to have a private conversation with Lieutenant Diaz about this, but now that the elephant’s in the room …”

  She barely managed to contain herself. This conversation should take place behind closed doors, but Ortiz had challenged her in the middle of a briefing, guaranteeing an audience. What the hell was he up to?

  Webster put his elbow on the table. “I have three major concerns.” He raised his index finger. “Detective Cruz is under direct threat.” A second finger went up. “Everyone around her is in danger.” A third finger completed the count. “And she has ties to the suspects.” He lowered his hand and turned to Veranda. “I have to reconsider your involvement in the investigation.”

  Webster sat through a barrage of objections flying at him from every direction before offering a response. “Five people under my command came within seconds of dying yesterday morning.” His voice thickened. “Last night, Detective Cruz and Captain Anderson were almost killed.” A vein pulsed along his temple. “On my watch.”

  No one moved. No one spoke. Tension expanded with each passing moment, crackling through the air around them. Veranda had never considered the weight of responsibility that burdened her commander.

  Sam broke the silence. “I’ve been on the job more than thirty years,” he said, somber gray eyes drilling into Webster. “I’ve taken my share of beatings and a couple of bullets along the way. There were times I thought I wouldn’t make it home to my wife. She doesn’t like it, but she accepts that it’s part of the job.” His dark bushy brows knitted. “With all due respect, Commander, risk goes with the territory.”

  Webster’s back stiffened. “With all due respect to you, Detective, I’m in charge.” He jerked a thumb at his chest. “Whatever happens is on me. I have to answer for my decisions.” The ruddy tinge climbing his face stood out in sharp contrast to his sandy gray hair. “And I’m not talking about my career either. Fuck promotion. I’m talking about my detectives. It’s been nine years since I’ve had to bury a detective under my command, and I never want to do it again. Especially if I can prevent it.” He leaned into his next words, aiming them directly at Sam. “Who do you think would have done the death notification if you hadn’t made it out of that storage unit? Who would have sat next to your widow at the funeral?”

  “I’d have retired a long time ago if safety was my top priority,” Sam said, unfazed. Decades with a badge had given him an air of steady resolve. “If I die on the job, then at least I’ll die doing something I believe in. Something that matters.”

  She had never heard her commander and her partner at odds before. And she was at the center of their dispute.

  “You didn’t order me into that storage unit yesterday,” she said to Webster. “I went in because it’s my job. A job I freely chose.” She narrowed her eyes. “But I didn’t choose my father. He’s gunning for me and I need my department to back me up, not shut me out.”

  Webster’s flush deepened to a shade of maroon. He opened his mouth to shoot back what Veranda was sure would be a scathing reply when Marci inserted herself into the debate.

  “Our Kevlar vests aren’t fashion accessories,” Marci said. “We all understood the risks when we were sworn in.”

  Tony followed suit. “We’re gonna have to investigate these cases one way or another. Why bench our best player?” He shrugged. “Just sayin’.”

  Doc cleared his throat. “Statistically, police have a much better chance of dying from heart disease than a bullet.” He grimaced. “If you ask me, a bullet would be far less painful.”

  Her squad had spoken. The commander felt responsible, but the detectives were the ones physically in harm’s way. She hoped their unanimous support would convince Webster, but doubt clouded her mind. What more could she add? She studied the
commander, trying to read his body language, when he turned to Diaz for input.

  She tensed, prepared to hear a litany of reasons why she should stay away from any case involving the cartel, when her lieutenant’s response stunned her.

  “Cruz can’t take point on this investigation, so I reassigned the lead to Stark,” Diaz said. “But there’s no specific policy preventing her from assisting.” He gave a small shake of his head. “Truth is, Commander, we can’t keep her away from the case. The cartel killed a man to draw her in. They’ve gone after her twice since. They’re not going to stop.” He spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. “She’s in, whether we like it or not.”

  Veranda caught Sam’s eye and raised her brows. He returned her bemused expression. She glanced at her squad mates, reading the same mix of confusion and surprise on their faces.

  Webster shook his head. “This squad has no supervisor at the moment. Sergeant Jackson’s still recovering from his appendectomy and I don’t have another sergeant to spare.” He took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Without looking up, he said, “I’m pulling another lieutenant to cover the Homicide Unit on a temporary assignment.” After a long pause, he raised his head and leveled a weary gaze at Diaz. “You will work exclusively with this squad until Jackson’s back on full duty. I expect daily reports and constant oversight.” His red-rimmed eyes found Veranda. “Especially where Detective Cruz is concerned.”

  Her victory felt more like defeat. The same skills that gave her the edge as a narc made her a liability everywhere else on the force. Quick-thinking, flexible with the truth, and adaptable to most environments, she’d relied on a combination of brains, bravado, and bullshit to stay one step ahead of her quarry in the past.

  Now her supervisors viewed her approach to investigations with more than a hint of skepticism. She had colored outside the lines too many times, and Commander Webster seemed to think she would go rogue if given half a chance. Deep inside, she knew her reputation for what she thought of as creative thinking and Lieutenant Diaz called a complete disregard for the rules was well-deserved, but her commander’s last comment irked her anyway.