Fields of Wrath (Luis Chavez Book 1) (12 page)

XV

Michael had been looking forward to an easy Saturday. Sure, he’d have to spend most of it working, but even though Helen had an open house to prep for, the kids all had playdates and activities.

But that’s when he got the call from DA Rebenold to be in her office by nine sharp.

At least there’d be no traffic.

“Jesus, Story,” she said when he stepped into her office. “You think I needed this today?”

He saw the open file folder on her desk. There was a single letter inside with the seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation at the top.

“I ran into Judson Nichols this morning.”

Shit.

“He said he felt it important to bring this to my attention directly before the bureau does so officially on Monday.”

“What is it?” Michael asked.

She pushed the folder over to him but didn’t wait for him to read it before launching in.

“Can you explain to me how it is that you contacted the Mexican federal police without first running it by me?” she asked. “More importantly, why you did so with regard to a murder investigation that, to my knowledge, has nothing to do with this office?”

Oh fuck,
Michael thought. He’d debated telling her but knew it’d open a can of worms. When he’d called the Policía Federal about Santiago moments after it hit the papers, he hadn’t even given his name, saying it was a routine call from the LA district attorney’s office to see if they needed any assistance. He pumped them for information, they gave him even less than they gave the press, and that was it.

And here it was, biting him in the ass.

“Hello?” she asked. “This is a letter from the FBI chastising this department for circumventing them and potentially obstructing their own investigation into the murder of an American citizen named . . .”

She looked at him expectantly.

“Santiago Higuera.”

“Bingo. Who is that? And if you choose to lie, make it a good one.”

As it’ll be your last,
Michael filled in. He hesitated a moment, shifting his weight as if to bolster himself before revealing a confidence. “I was approached by a member of the Los Angeles archdiocese and asked to look into it. I said that I would. They asked for discretion. I’m sorry I didn’t run it by you, but it seemed like such a small thing.”

This was not what District Attorney Rebenold expected to hear. She stared at Michael as if waiting for him to admit the lie. When he did not, her features relaxed, until she seemed on the verge of a smile.

“Well, like it or not, these things do happen in this city,” she said, bemused. “But men like Judson love stirring the pot, so discretion or not, loop me in. I probably would’ve told you to handle it the same way, but I wouldn’t have brought us in on a Saturday. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Michael was about to leave when he sensed Rebenold wasn’t done with him.

“Did you learn anything?”

“The PF think they found the kill site a few yards from the bridge. They brought him into Mexico, took him to this isolated location, cut his throat, then strung him up even before all the blood had drained out.”

“Jesus Christ. Every time I think we’ve got sick fucks up here in LA, I remember we’ve got nothing on the cartels.”

Michael went to his office with the idea of getting something done before heading back home. He pulled out his iPhone as he turned on his office computer and found a single new e-mail, the subject line reading, “Whittaker Case.”

The sender was listed as Rabbit’s Foot. He wondered if it was from Luis. There were sixteen attachments, and he could see by the thumbnails that they were photographs. He opened the first and his heart skipped a beat. It was an image of him and Annie having sex.

For a half second he thought it was something he’d accidentally sent to himself the day before. Only he didn’t recognize the snap. He opened the next few, until it came to him: he hadn’t taken these pictures.

Panicking, he sorted through the rest until he remembered the day—actually days, as they were from two different sessions—they were taken. One was from her house and the second from a motel they favored, a few miles away.

They’d been watching her house even then?

He was pissed. Were these from the people who’d sent Judson to warn him off the case? Had they somehow found out about his meeting with the priest? This was amateur-hour bullshit.

He hit “Reply” to shoot back an aggressive and taunting response. That was when he saw the message had been cc’d to someone. The e-mail address was instantly familiar. It was his wife’s.

He felt something akin to an electric shock racing through his body. The e-mail had been sent at 9:52. It was now 10:02. Helen’s phone was never out of her hand for more than a few minutes at a time. His life flashed in front of him in an instant. There’d be a divorce. He’d be out of the house. The child support would be devastating.

And, of course, there’d be fallout at work.

Lasting
fallout. The kind that affected advancement.

It was then he noticed the
m
had been dropped from the
.com
in his wife’s e-mail address. Instead of showing up in her inbox, it would have bounced back, undelivered, to the sender.

Even as his pulse returned to something resembling normal, Michael knew this was a new ballgame. The message was clear: we can destroy you, so drop the case. He decided he would do just that. When the priest next made contact, he would beg off. End of story.

He turned back to the e-mail. Somehow Annie managed to look even more vulnerable when she didn’t know she was being photographed than when she did. All she’d wanted was a little justice in the world.

He stared into her eyes a minute longer, then deleted the e-mail.

Luis awoke to the sound of leaf blowers. He put down the knives and peered out the closet door. It was—
Oh shit
—already light out. He’d meant to be up and out the door well before dawn.

Though he’d initially had qualms about going into Annie’s house, it was the only place he knew for certain would be empty. Any other yard or house, he was sure to attract the attention of all those high-priced security systems. Annie’s just put him at risk that the local cops might be watching it, and maybe that wasn’t the worst thing with bullets flying over his head.

It had been nothing to vault Annie’s back gate after finding it locked. He’d assumed her windows and back door would be locked and was right. He didn’t want to go around front but had no other choice. He didn’t think he’d have any better luck with the front door or windows there, so he went straight to the garage door. It wasn’t locked, but it was an automatic. He could only raise it a few inches, but that proved to be enough. He slipped under, praying that the metallic crunch of the door wouldn’t awaken the neighbors, and scurried to the back of the garage.

He waited, but no one came. He eyed the door leading into the house but feared that the moment he turned the knob an alarm would go off. As he looked for a corner to spend the night, he came across the fuse box on the back wall. He opened it, but despite finding switches conveniently labeled “washer/dryer” and “air conditioner,” none were marked “alarm.” He decided to chance it, trying the door leading to the house. He turned the knob and pushed it open. No alarm. He went in. There would be more places to hide.

He spent the first hour watching the street from an upstairs window. He’d seen the truck a couple of times. It had slow-rolled down the block but hadn’t stopped. Other vehicles went by as well, but he could tell they were residents. No, the men who wanted to kill him pretended to have somewhere to go, but their eyes were everywhere at once.

When it was obvious no one was coming in, he stayed awake regardless, searching the house for anything related to the case. As expected, he came up dry. Annie’s clothes, photos, keepsakes, appliances, books, and other personal items were in every room. Any files, notes, or directories were gone.

In one of the guest rooms, he found new clothes and a few unopened toiletries, suggesting it was Odilia’s room. At some point, exhaustion had sent him to find a place to sleep. The closet in the guest bedroom seemed the best bet, particularly after he’d barricaded himself in with boxes. Still, he’d closed his eyes, believing the next thing he’d see would be a gun barrel aimed between his eyes.

He crept out of the closet and listened. The house was silent. The only sounds came from outside. His body was stiff, a result of sleeping propped up in a tight corner all night, muscles tense, as he waited to be discovered.

Deciding it was time to go, he went downstairs and slipped out the back door. Rather than head to the rear gate, which he thought might be watched, he hopped the wall into the backyard of the neighbor’s house, where a team of gardeners was mowing the grass and trimming bushes. He nodded and walked through the house’s side gate to the truck out front. The group’s foreman was loading equipment back onto the truck. Luis asked him for a ride into town, and the man shrugged.

After being dropped at a bus stop, Luis used the last of his cash for the two-hour ride back into Los Angeles. Once there he considered taking a Metro bus to St. Augustine’s but felt he needed some time to think and walked instead. When he reached the parish an hour later, it was well into the afternoon.

He wasn’t sure what drew him to Whillans’s office. He just wanted a shower and a change of clothes, which could be found in the rectory. Maybe it was because he wanted to feel retethered to the life he’d been away from for a few days.

Whatever the case, when he stepped past Erna’s empty desk—she never worked Saturdays—he fully expected to find Whillans in his office but hadn’t anticipated finding him in the arms of a parishioner.

Luis had seen the woman—Bridgette something; Gildea? Goldea?—around the church a number of times. She was active in a number of the women’s groups and taught Sunday school. In her late forties or early fifties, she was seldom without an inviting smile on her face. He knew she was single but figured her for one of those matronly women who’d accepted it wasn’t in the cards for her early on and had devoted herself to the church instead.

But here she was with her arms around the pastor’s neck, pulling him tight as she buried her face in his shoulder. It was not a comforting embrace but one of intimacy. That Whillans’s hands were low around her waist confirmed this.

Luis stepped back quickly, but the movement caught the pastor’s eye. He was surprised, a deer in the headlights, until he saw that it was Luis. Then he relaxed.

“Come in, Luis,” Whillans said softly.

Bridgette’s eyes shot to the doorway as she pulled away. Any possibility that Luis had slipped upon an innocent encounter was erased by the guilt on her face. She gathered her purse, touched the pastor’s hand in a grave gesture, then exited without looking at Luis.

Whillans sighed and flopped into his desk chair.

“You’re back. Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I have more questions, few answers,” Luis replied curtly, waiting for an answer to the unasked question.

“Yes,” Whillans said, opening his palms.

“‘Yes’?” Luis asked.

“Yes, Bridgette and I have been in a union, a sort of unorthodox marriage, for the better part of ten years.”

Luis couldn’t have been more surprised if Whillans said he’d set fire to the sacristy.

“I don’t understand.”

“My biggest regret is that this is how you’re finding out. I am deeply sorry.”

“I . . . I don’t want your apology,” Luis stammered. “You have to break it off with her. Beg God’s forgiveness.”

“What’s wonderful about you is your first thought is of my eternal soul,” Whillans said. “I understand my actions and accepted long ago that I will be judged by God, as we all are.”

“That sounds like pride.”

“I suppose it does,” Whillans said. “Did you know that for centuries Catholic priests were allowed to be married? It was the First Lateran Council that changed that in the twelfth century. When there was pushback from the clergy, the Vatican began arresting and killing the wives. Some were even sold into slavery. To avoid this happening to their loved ones, the priests accepted the new rules. In a gracious touch, the surviving wives were allowed to be considered widows by the pope rather than divorcées. Lovely of him, don’t you think?”

Luis didn’t reply. He turned to leave, but Whillans raised a hand.

“There’s something else.”