She switched on a ceiling fan to disperse the stuffy air and strolled to the kitchen. “I’ve got iced tea, beer, and water,” she said over her shoulder. “You thirsty?”

  He leaned his tall frame against the wall by the Saltillo tiled kitchen counter. “Parched.”

  She turned to see his eyes burn a path up and down her body. She licked her lips, ambled over to him, and tilted her head up to his. “What would . . . quench your thirst?”

  He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer, bringing his mouth down to hers.

  Heat rushed through her. She slid her hands up his neck to bury her fingers in his thick auburn hair.

  The doorbell chimed.

  She wrenched away, bent to tug her gun out of its ankle holster, and glanced at Cole, who had already drawn his Glock.

  She stood to the side of the door, wishing it had a peephole. “Who’s there?”

  A man’s voice, slightly muffled, came from outside. “Sergeant Diaz.”

  Cursing, she shoved her gun back into its holster, unlocked the bolt on the front door, and flung it wide. “What do you want?”

  Diaz stood on the stoop, hand resting on the gleaming gold sergeant’s shield clipped to his belt. “I got off work and dropped by to check on you. Was just going to drive by when I noticed a city truck parked out front.” His eyes narrowed as Cole stepped behind Veranda. “What is he doing here?”

  Aware she was already on shaky ground with the PSB sergeant, she tilted her chin up as if she had done nothing wrong. “He gave me a lift home.”

  “You could’ve called for a ride,” Diaz said. “He’s not supposed to know the location of the safe house. This is completely unprofessional.”

  “I’m not sure how confidential the safe house really is,” she said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Shit. “What I meant to say is that he’s a sworn law enforcement officer like us. He’s investigating the suspects in this case. He can be trusted.”

  “He may be sworn, but he’s not like us.” Diaz’s voice dripped with contempt.

  Cole moved in front of her. “Do you have something to say to me, Sergeant?”

  Diaz took a step forward and tilted his head back a fraction to glare into the fire captain’s eyes. “I don’t like you interfering with a police investigation, or hanging around Detective Cruz. I want you out of our safe house. Now.”

  Cole bristled. “You can’t order me around, Diaz.”

  Veranda knew different. “He can order you out of a clandestine police facility,” she said quietly.

  Cole turned to her. “Then come with me. We’ll go someplace else.”

  “I am ordering Detective Cruz to stay here,” Diaz said before Veranda could respond.

  Cole’s eyes implored her. “Surely he can’t—”

  “He can,” she said.

  “We’re both off duty,” Cole insisted. “This is our personal time.”

  Diaz crossed his arms. “Something else you firemen don’t understand. There is no ‘off duty’ for us.” He gestured toward Veranda. “We’re always accountable for our actions. Always subject to discipline. My orders have to do with maintaining this detective’s safety and the integrity of the investigation she’s conducting. Your presence does not help either objective.”

  Cole looked as if he wanted to throw a punch. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow with the test results.” He glowered at Diaz and strode down the front walkway to his truck.

  Diaz rounded on her. “You never should have brought him here.”

  “You know, I resent you checking up on me. We’re all on the same side, trying to apprehend Bartolo.” She narrowed her eyes. “Aren’t we?”

  He returned her stare, his dark brown eyes giving nothing away. “He’s not a cop. He’s trying to get in your pants. And he generally pisses me off.”

  “Get over it,” she said. “We need to work together.”

  “You’re pushing it, Cruz.” He leaned in. “Especially for someone in your position.”

  She made no response.

  “Despite what I said, I didn’t come here simply to check on you.” His jaw muscle tightened. “I didn’t want to discuss police business in front of that pinche fireman.”

  “What business couldn’t wait until Monday?”

  “I have an appointment scheduled first thing Monday morning in my commander’s office to give him a progress report on my investigation,” Diaz said. “Unfortunately, I can’t update him when I’m in the dark about key facts.” He paused. “I came by to give you one last chance to come clean before I tell my commander you’re being less than forthcoming.”

  She widened her eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I just reviewed Detective Stark’s report on your interview with Bartolo Villalobos.”

  “Why would you read his report?”

  “I told you I wanted to be kept in the loop on all of your dealings with the Villalobos family because it could have a bearing on my investigation. Sergeant Jackson agreed and gave me a thumb drive with the case file on it.” He appeared to choose his next words. “There are things you’re not telling me.”

  She knew better than to say anything more than necessary at this point. Let Diaz show his cards.

  “What did Bartolo mean when he said he checked into your background and knew things about you?” he asked her.

  She gave a derisive snort. “You’re going to take the rantings of a coked-out criminal seriously?”

  He pointed a finger at her. “There’s more, Detective Cruz. I can feel it. Either talk to me now, or I report that you’re being evasive.”

  “Evasive!” She went on the offensive. “I never lied to you.”

  Left out pertinent facts, yes. Lied, no. She knew the Department would consider it a lie of omission, so she was screwed either way if he caught her.

  He took a step closer. “Why don’t we put that to the test, Detective? I can call out a polygraph examiner to meet us at PSB in twenty minutes.”

  Her pulse ticked up at the mere mention of a polygraph. No matter how well she masked her outward symptoms of stress, she couldn’t fool the machine. Time to change tactics. Go for sympathy. Buy time.

  “Look, I’ve got nothing left in my tank,” she said on a sigh. “My family’s restaurant burned to the ground. I spent the past several hours trying to help them pick up the pieces of their lives.” She let her shoulders sag. “I’m exhausted.”

  The tension in his features eased. “I know you’ve been through a lot.” He hesitated. “I’ll let you get some rest tonight, but I need answers tomorrow.”

  Her temper flared again. “Tomorrow is Saturday. Don’t you have a family life?”

  Diaz’s gaze hardened. “My personal life is none of your business. You will report to PSB at zero-nine-hundred hours.”

  She mentally kicked herself for her insensitive comment. It had pissed him off. “I don’t have authorization for overtime.”

  He pursed his lips. “My OT budget is unlimited for this investigation. I’ll make sure you’re covered.”

  So much for softening him up. Damn if he didn’t push her buttons. “Can’t this wait until Monday?”

  “I’ve extended you a great deal of credit, Detective Cruz.” He leveled a dark gaze on her. “It’s time to pay the bill.”

  Chapter 30

  Bartolo sat behind the wheel of a nondescript delivery van, hidden by a stand of mesquite trees. He lifted the night vision binoculars to his eyes a second time. All the lights in the house had gone out over an hour ago. He checked his watch. Half past two in the morning. Everyone should be well asleep by now.

  He’d seen her earlier that night. Long and lean with supple tan skin and thick dark hair cascading down her back. She had come into the house with the rest of the family.

  They hadn’t noticed him hiding. Now his plans were about to pay off. Plans for her. Sweet, innocent, beautiful. He had learned her name from his research.

  “Gabriela,” he murmured, tasting the name on his lips.

  Bartolo got out of the van and crept forward to her bedroom window. He had watched her silhouetted figure as she changed into a short summer nightgown, her lithe body backlit from the glow of her bedroom light. He had become aroused and had to suppress his excitement so he could focus on his mission. He would take his time with the girl later.

  When he reached the window, he pulled on heavy duty rubber gloves before silently sliding it open. He’d checked earlier, and found it unlocked. He slipped in and listened to the steady rhythm of her breathing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic baggie containing a damp cloth, withdrew the rag, then tucked the empty bag back into his pocket.

  Delicious anticipation raced through him as he inched toward the bed and got into position. In one swift motion, he pounced on Gabriela, pinning her with his bulk. At the same time, he slapped the cloth over her nose and mouth, clamping down hard.

  The girl thrashed, but she was no match for a man of his size and strength. Worse for her, the more she struggled, the deeper she’d have to breathe. Sure enough, he felt her suck air into her lungs. Within ten seconds, she went limp.

  Aware of the limitations of chloroform, he acted quickly. Gabriela would begin to recover as soon as she inhaled fresh air. He lifted her from the mattress, draped her over his right shoulder, and climbed through the window. He paused to close it behind him before carrying her across the yard to the waiting van.

  The handle to the rear cargo area gleamed in the moonlight. He wrenched open the door, thrust Gabriela inside, and scrambled in after her. She began to groan and writhe. Bartolo slapped her across the face. She whimpered and slumped onto the metal floor.

  He grasped both of her hands, placing one on top of the other, then twisted to jerk flex cuffs from his pocket. A staccato ratcheting sound filled the van as he cinched the black plastic strip until it bit into her delicate wrists.

  Finally, he fumbled in the dark recesses of the cargo area until his fingers found a roll of duct tape. He used his teeth to tear off a piece. A silver shaft of moonlight sliced into the darkness in the van, playing across her lovely features. He paused to admire her full young lips, gently parted in repose. Then he pressed the tape over her mouth.

  Bartolo drove away slowly, obeying all traffic laws. This was no time to get pulled over for a traffic infraction.

  He wanted to deal with only one person on the Phoenix Police Department.

  Chapter 31

  Veranda woke up the next morning disoriented in the unfamiliar bed, convinced she would never be comfortable in the safe house. She shuffled to the bathroom and took a hot shower.

  When she emerged, she went back into the bedroom and pulled out black bikini briefs and a matching bra from the bureau, then started for the closet. She stopped short at her nightstand. A missed call light pulsed on her cell phone.

  She picked up the phone and tapped the screen. Eight text messages and a voicemail from her mother. She’d switched the phone to silent mode before she fell asleep. Damn. She touched the voicemail icon.

  Her mother sounded frantic. “Mija, Gabriela is missing! We checked her room when she did not come to breakfast. She was gone. She has never run away. I am scared something terrible happened. Please call me.”

  Veranda’s heart slammed against her ribs. Instinctively, she knew her mother was right. Something terrible had happened. Scenarios ran through her mind, each one more horrific than the last.

  Just as she caught her breath, her phone vibrated in her hand and she looked at the screen. Her racing heart stuttered. A text message from Flaco’s old cell phone. She tapped the icon with trembling fingers.

  The grainy, low-lit image of a crying young girl appeared. She was gagged and tied to a chair, one eye swollen.

  Veranda clutched the nightstand to steady herself. “Gabby,” she whispered, and hit the call button.

  A masculine voice she recognized answered. “Good morning, Detective Cruz.”

  Her gut clenched. “Bartolo.”

  “Nice to speak to you again.”

  She wanted to tear him to shreds. “What have you done to Gabriela?”

  A soft chuckle. “Nothing . . . yet. But that won’t last.”

  Veranda had to think strategically. Screaming at Bartolo would only feed his feeling of power. Giving in to her worst fears wouldn’t help. She summoned every ounce of resolve she possessed and forced calm into her voice.

  “What do you want, Bartolo?”

  “This is between us. Tell no one I have contacted you. I will exchange the cigarette butt the fireman found at the restaurant for Gabriela.”

  The fact that he’d mentioned Cole, although not by name, confirmed that the mole had filled him in on developments from the arson investigation.

  She pretended she hadn’t noticed. “What cigarette butt?”

  “You don’t want to play with me, Cruz. If I don’t have that evidence in my hands today, your sweet little sister will become the property of Carlos.”

  Veranda fought down a wave of nausea when Bartolo mentioned the brother in charge of the coyotes and their human trafficking operation. Her little sister could be sent into any of the underground brothels run by Carlos Villalobos in the States, or even smuggled into Mexico.

  Veranda might never find her.

  Bartolo’s voice broke into her thoughts. “That is, after I’ve spent some time with her.”

  He wanted to provoke her. Wanted her to lose control.

  She took a moment to steady herself. “You seem to have a lot of inside information about the investigation.”

  “I’ve been watching you.”

  “Here’s something you don’t know,” she said. “Getting the cigarette butt isn’t that simple. The evidence is secured at the forensics lab downtown. There are controls in place. The investigating officer has to sign it out. It’s not even a police case. The Fire Department has jurisdiction.”

  “Then get the fireman to sign it out and give it to you. I don’t care how you make it happen, just bring it to me.”

  “Do you think that if the butt is missing, you’ll walk?”

  “As I said before, I have a law degree. If you can’t produce the physical evidence at trial, any tests from that evidence are inadmissible. If the investigating official loses the evidence after signing it out, his testimony has no credibility.” He paused. “So, yes, Detective, I think I’ll walk.”

  “How about if I just put a bullet in your brain when I see you?”

  “Then Gabriela would start her new . . . profession.”

  Raging at him would do no good. In fact, it would play into his hands. She forced herself to maintain her composure, to think like a cop.

  Her mind whirred as she struggled to come up with a plan. “I’ll call you when I get the evidence so we can make the exchange.”

  His mocking laughter followed. “Detective, you must think I’m stupid. I know full well that if I leave this cell phone on you will use the signal to trace my location. I can’t give you that information until I’m ready to receive you as my guest.”

  He’d guessed her plan.

  “How the hell am I supposed to meet with you then?”

  “First, I destroy this phone. Then I’ll use a new phone to contact you at noon. You will text me a photo of the evidence in your hands. At that time, I’ll send you the location of a warehouse where I’m holding Gabriela. I have an alarm system and men on the perimeter. If you bring anyone with you, I will know. And your sister will die . . . eventually.”

  “How can I trust you not to kill us both?”

  “Interesting question. I guess you’ll have to figure that one out for yourself. And, speaking of trust, you’d better not double-cross me. I have a way to verify that the cigarette butt has been signed out of the lab. I’ll know if you try to substitute a fake.”

  Of course, his informant could check to see if she had obtained the real evidence. She assumed Bartolo was still not aware she knew about the mole, so she played along. “How would you know what’s going on at the lab?”

  “I know every move you make. If you dare try anything, my men will arrange for the rest of your family to die in very unpleasant ways.” He disconnected.

  “Dios mío,” she whispered, crossing herself.

  This would take divine intervention. Bartolo was insane. How could she deal with a madman? She rushed to her closet, grabbed her go-bag, put on a fitted black Under Armour shirt, then stepped into black cargo pants. She finished the outfit with tactical boots and a nylon webbed belt before pulling her thick mane into an elastic band high on the back of her head.

  While she dressed, she formulated the beginnings of a strategy. Still in her closet, she called Sam.

  “Hello?” His calm baritone reassured her.

  “Something just happened. I’ll brief you in person. Meet me at Encanto Park in twenty minutes. Same entrance as before.”

  “Veranda, what’s going on?”

  “Can’t talk now.” She paused. “You’d better call Commander Murphy and tell him to come too.” She disconnected.

  She dialed Cole and repeated the conversation. He seemed equally baffled when she refused to explain the situation.

  She grabbed her ballistic vest and slung her gun belt over her shoulder as she reactivated the alarm and locked the door behind her.

  Scanning the area, she strode to the Impala parked in the driveway. All quiet. She unlocked the car door and slid behind the wheel, tossing her vest and gun belt onto the passenger seat.

  She paused and stared at the cell phone in her hand. What should she say to her mother? She recalled the panic in her mother’s voice and didn’t want her to contact the authorities. A standard police response to a missing juvenile would only complicate matters. She rehearsed what she would say before making the call.

  “Veranda?” Lorena’s plaintive voice sounded desperate.

  “Mamá, I have difficult news for you.” She steeled herself. Better to get it out right away. “Bartolo kidnapped Gabby. I’m on my way to get her.”

  A gasp followed by sobs from the other end of the line wrenched Veranda’s heart.