“So, how does this end up on your doorstep?” Sam asked.

  Veranda hesitated, pulling her coffee mug closer. She had to tread carefully. Sam’s gray eyes followed her like a poker player watching for a tell.

  “Not long after I got to DEB, I busted Flaco for dealing. He wanted to work it off. Gave me enough to get to his distribution circuit, which turned out to be the lowest rung of the Villalobos organization. I kept working him, went through all the right channels and set things up properly. Within six months, we ran an interdiction on two tractor-trailers full of heroin.”

  “You started intercepting Villalobos shipments about two years ago?”

  She nodded. “The street value was well into the millions. One load had five hundred weapons and over forty thousand in cash, along with hundreds of kilos of cocaine.”

  Sam gave a low whistle.

  Veranda had planned to end there, but Sam kept staring at her, so she continued. “I made a project out of the Villalobos narcotics trade. I learned more about their delivery schedules and routes so we could keep up a steady flow of enforcement that has put a serious hurt on them.”

  “But how does this get to Flaco and to you?” he asked. “I’ve never heard of a foreign criminal ring going after a specific narc. Not here in Phoenix anyway.”

  She’d given the matter some thought. “They must’ve made Flaco somehow. From the condition of his body, they tortured him for information.” She dropped her gaze to her coffee mug. Her stomach felt queasy as she recalled the gruesome images of his last hours. Flaco had been her responsibility.

  “His death is on me,” she said quietly, stirring cream into her coffee to compose her thoughts. “Flaco probably told them I was behind all the interdictions, which is true enough. I pushed everyone I arrested for info on the next shipment. I did research with the DEA agents on our task force to gather more background information and became the subject matter expert on the Villalobos family.”

  “So they wanted to stop you without having to kill you.” Sam made it a statement rather than a question.

  “Yes, they found a very effective way of getting me out of DEB for good, as well as making an example out of Flaco. Two birds.”

  “They aren’t worried this murder will draw too much attention?”

  “A drug dealer killed by the criminals he’s working for?” She waved a dismissive hand. “The press is way more interested in the fact that our undercover facility is exposed, and now detectives are scrambling to protect their own informants. Command Staff is forced to look for a new location for DEB, and we’ve got several outside agencies involved in the discussion. Their little stunt totally disrupted regular operations.”

  “Interesting,” Sam said. “The way they set this up demonstrates a deep level of understanding of our procedures. Like they knew exactly what our response would be.”

  “I’m sure Bartolo is behind this. He’s the most dangerous kind of criminal . . . smart and deadly when cornered.” Veranda sipped her coffee. “I believe my interdictions have embarrassed him and that’s one of the reasons he’s coming after me. He needs to demonstrate that he’s ready to take on the responsibility of running the whole organization. He’s in danger of losing the respect of his family and his men.”

  “Is Bartolo reckless enough to personally kill Flaco in front of his men to prove he’s still got his, uh, what’s the Spanish word for it . . . cojones?”

  “He’s got a nasty temper, and he can be impulsive, but Bartolo doesn’t usually bloody his own hands.” She paused. “Flaco told me there were rumors that Bartolo had started sampling his own product. Narcotics could make him erratic.”

  “Doesn’t matter whether he did the deed,” Sam said. “If he ordered the killing, he goes down for it too.”

  Veranda’s eyes met Sam’s. From her very core, she wanted to destroy the Villalobos criminal empire, but she had to be honest. “Sam, this investigation will be highly dangerous. We’ll be going up against a ruthless and well-funded organization.”

  Sam did not answer right away, letting the comment hang in the air as his steady gaze remained on hers. “Veranda, I’m not sure how much you know about me, but I want to make something very clear.” He leaned forward. “I’ve been a cop for over thirty years. I’ve taken down street punks wearing a year’s worth of my salary in gold chains and investment bankers with a net worth in the billions. I’ve been shot, stabbed, beat up, set up, and threatened with lawsuits. I’m not going to let some glorified dope slinger escape justice for what he’s done.”

  Sam Stark was someone who wouldn’t back down despite the odds. Just like her. Veranda grinned. “Then let’s do this.”

  Chapter 8

  Veranda and Sam arrived back at his corner cubicle in the Violent Crimes Bureau to find a note stuck to his chair directing them to the conference room for a squad briefing.

  She did not underestimate the importance of meeting her new team for the first time. She had been on several units since joining the force thirteen years ago. First as a new patrol officer, or “booter” as they were called, then as a Property Crimes detective where she earned her chops in investigations, and finally, in Narcotics.

  Each squad had its own group dynamics. There were leaders, followers, and sometimes saboteurs with hidden agendas. Seemingly innocent conversation could be loaded with subtext. As part of the process of joining a team, she had to determine where she fit in.

  On the PPD, murders were investigated by an entire squad, each with its own sergeant, functioning as a team. Veranda wasn’t surprised to learn that Sam, the senior detective on his squad, had the lead on this high-profile case. She expected the group to be comfortable with each other. They had all reached the pinnacle of their careers, attaining the status of Homicide Detective, where they would likely remain until retirement. For them, there was no longer a need to compete.

  “Welcome to the war room,” Sam said as he opened the door to the conference room. She was met with several curious gazes. The rich smell of Thai food permeated the room, drawing her attention to a cluster of white boxes in the middle of the long table.

  “Everyone, this is Detective Veranda Cruz, on loan from DEB.” Sam indicated an empty chair. “Have a seat. Looks like someone scored takeout from Thai Me Up. Just grab any box. I’ll introduce you to our illustrious team.”

  Veranda slid a white carton and chopsticks in front of her and looked up at Sam, who remained standing. He pointed to the pale, slender dark-haired detective who had resembled a prairie dog popping out of its burrow earlier. “This is Steve Malloy. We call him Doc because he’s spent so much time at autopsies he could pass for an ME.” The group chuckled as Doc gave her a wave.

  “This,” Sam indicated a striking blonde sitting across from Veranda, “is Marci Blane.”

  Marci raised a brow. “What are you planning to say about me? Better watch it.”

  The others grinned as a low “woooo” went around the room.

  Sam raised both hands, palms out. “Not saying a word. Got a keen sense of survival.”

  He turned to the last unfamiliar face. “This is Tony Sanchez, Brooklyn born and raised.”

  “Yo,” Tony said around a mouthful of pad thai. “Welcome aboard.”

  Sam took the chair next to Veranda and whispered in her ear. “Whatever you do, don’t ask Doc how he’s doing because he’ll tell you in excruciating detail.” He winked. “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”

  “Anyway, you’re full of shit,” Marci resumed an interrupted conversation with Tony. “You’ve lived in Phoenix for twenty-five years. Your body acclimated a long time ago.”

  Tony leveled his chopsticks at her. “I could live here a hundred fuckin’ years and still never get used to these summers, which last from April through October, by the way.”

  “It’s a mental thing. Mind over matter,” Sam said.

  Marci snorted. “If that’s the case, then Tony’s a lost cause.” She pointed at various parts of his body as she spoke. “Hairy knuckles calloused from dragging on the ground. Sloped forehead accented with unibrow. Slack jaw and vacant expression.”

  Everyone burst out laughing.

  Tony grinned. “Go ahead and yuk it up. You guys will be sweating your balls off when I’m retired back East. I’m counting the days.”

  “And so are we,” Marci said.

  The group chuckled again as Tony held up a middle finger to the room at large.

  A few quiet moments passed while they ate, then Marci tapped Doc’s arm. “What’s the fastest way to heal a muscle strain?”

  Doc looked anxious. “Are you sure it’s muscular? What are your symptoms?”

  Marci sighed. “It’s definitely a muscle strain.” She rubbed her right bicep. “I finally got my red belt last night.”

  “Hey,” Veranda straightened. “I’ve kickboxed for years, but I’ve been considering martial arts. Do you like it?”

  Marci nodded. “You should give it a try. I study karate. Come to my dojo sometime.” Conversation ceased as the men looked back and forth between Marci and Veranda.

  Marci sighed and rolled her eyes at her compatriots. “Let me interpret for you, Veranda. They’re imagining the two of us in a mud wrestling match right now.”

  “That is so sexist,” Tony said, looking offended. “But I’m not saying I wouldn’t watch.”

  “Their brains are jammed in overdrive,” Marci continued, “because they also know I prefer women.”

  All eyes cut to Veranda.

  “Sorry, guys,” she said. “Not gonna happen.”

  Tony guffawed and turned back to Marci. “A swing and a miss.”

  Marci ran her fingers through her long blonde hair and batted her eyes at him. “You’re just jealous because I get hotter women than you can.”

  “Ouch,” Doc said as everyone snickered.

  Veranda felt right at home. The banter reminded her of similar conversations she had shared over the years with other long-standing teams. This squad had invited her into their circle. There was no mistaking their outreach and acceptance.

  The conference room door opened and Sergeant Jackson walked in followed by two other men. The atmosphere in the room palpably changed as the laughter died out.

  “As you were,” Jackson said and turned to Veranda. “Detective Cruz, this is Lieutenant Aldridge and Commander Webster.”

  She leaned across the table and shook hands with both men. There was some jockeying of chairs as everyone made room for the brass.

  Once the group settled, Lieutenant Aldridge addressed the room. “First, let’s have a report from those of you who already received assignments, then Detective Cruz can give us an overview of the Villalobos organization. We’ll begin with the crime scene.”

  Sam stood and walked to the front of the room holding his notebook. “Due to the high-profile nature of the case, we managed to push the autopsy to the front of the line. The ME will do it first thing tomorrow morning.” He pulled his half-glasses out of his shirt pocket and flipped open the small spiral-bound pad. “While we wait for official tests, Crime Scene processed the scene and did a preliminary examination of the body. The victim’s throat was slashed, which appears to be the cause of death.”

  Sam’s eyes traveled down the page. “There were injuries all over the upper body, probably due to being kicked or beaten. The left side of the chest sustained a fresh burn depicting the head of a wolf. Looks like he was branded.” Several people grimaced.

  Veranda shuddered as she thought of Flaco’s torment. The small amount of chicken panang she’d eaten now churned in her stomach. Even though she had seen the images earlier, they evoked a fresh wave of revulsion toward Bartolo and his crew. How could they be so vicious?

  “Any trace evidence?” Lieutenant Aldridge asked.

  “No latent prints, but samples of hair, fiber, blood and various secretions were all collected,” Sam said. “Everything went to the lab. They’ll check for a match and get back to us. If there’s no initial hit, at least we’ll be ready if we come up with a suspect for comparison.”

  Veranda recalled that Bartolo had been arrested many years ago for a felony narcotics charge. After his Armani-suited lawyer had gotten it busted down to a misdemeanor, Bartolo spent a minimal amount of time in jail as a first-time offender. His DNA, however, remained in the database. If Bartolo hadn’t taken proper precautions when dealing with Flaco . . .

  She blinked as she realized Sam had returned to his seat and Marci now stood in front of the table, a thin stack of papers in her hand. Veranda had missed the beginning of Marci’s report.

  “ . . . so I was able to get fairly high-resolution images from the lab,” Marci said, and stepped forward to hand part of the stack to Sergeant Jackson, who distributed them.

  Veranda glanced down at the page and recognized color images of the Drug Enforcement Bureau parking lot. Several photos had been isolated from the surveillance cameras positioned around the perimeter of the building.

  Marci waited until everyone had a sheet. “Notice the still frame on the upper right-hand corner. The video forensics guys were able to get a partial on the rear license plate of the pickup truck that transported the body for the dump job.”

  Everyone leaned forward to scrutinize the image.

  “We got the make and model of the truck from the front grille and fender on the previous shot.” She smiled. “I cross-referenced the partial plate with trucks of that make and model and obtained only two matches in Arizona. One belongs to a seventy-five-year-old rancher in Yuma. The other one came back to this.” Marci gave another set of documents to the sergeant.

  When Veranda received her copy, she blurted, “Ponte Vista Construction!”

  All eyes turned to her. She tapped the paper with her finger. “That’s a Villalobos front company. Whoever was driving really screwed up. We can actually put one of their vehicles at the scene.” Her pulse quickened at the significance of the mistake.

  “We can do better than that,” Marci said, recapturing everyone’s attention. “I ran another check and found two traffic citations over the past eighteen months for that vehicle. The driver was the same each time.” Apparently enjoying the tension in the room before her bomb detonated, Marci handed the last of her stack to Jackson, who duly passed it around.

  Veranda pumped her fist in the air as soon as she spotted the black-and-white copy of the Motor Vehicle Division photo. “That’s Pablo!”

  Commander Webster cleared his throat. “Detective Cruz, perhaps now would be the proper time for you to give us an overview of the Villalobos organization and how this Pablo fits into it.”

  Eager to get started, she sprang from her seat and strode to the whiteboard, which took up most of one wall.

  She picked up a black marker. “The best way for me to explain this is to make an org chart. PSB has my case files, including a detailed schematic complete with photos of key players and connecting lines going down about six levels, but I can show you the basics.”

  She drew a large rectangle in the top middle spot and wrote El Lobo inside the box. “For those of you who don’t know, el lobo means ‘the wolf’ in Spanish. The patriarch of the family is Hector Villalobos, but he’s called El Lobo by everyone. This comes from the surname Villalobos, which means ‘Village of Wolves’ or ‘City of Wolves.’”

  “So that’s the reason for the wolf brand on the victim’s chest?” Sergeant Jackson asked.

  “Exactly,” she said. “The Villalobos family crest has a gold background with two black wolves rearing up on their hind legs. They’ve adopted the black wolf as their symbol. They stamp it on bales and packages of narcotics to identify their product.”

  She turned to face the group. “Upper-level members of the organization get wolf tattoos over their hearts and wear wolf-themed jewelry. When they reach the inner circle, they’re awarded a dagger encrusted with gemstones and inlaid in gold with a wolf design. At the highest level, family members have the distinction of carrying a gold-plated .50-caliber Desert Eagle pistol with customized wolf’s head ebony grips.”

  “And here I felt lucky to keep my duty weapon when I retire,” Tony muttered.

  Lieutenant Aldridge scooted his chair closer to the whiteboard. “Please continue with the org chart, Detective.”

  “The internal structure of the organization is patterned as something of a hybrid between a paramilitary group and a wolf pack.”

  Veranda drew four boxes below the first with lines linking them. “The second tier is Hector’s four children, who are all adults now. He named them alphabetically by birth order.”

  “Seriously?” Tony asked.

  “Hector is getting on in years and wants to retire and buy his own island,” she said. “He raised his children to take over the empire. From what I’m told, it was supposed to go to Adolfo, the oldest, but Bartolo is so vicious that he’s taken over as heir to the throne. El Lobo hasn’t formally announced it yet, but it’s common knowledge that Bartolo is being groomed.”

  A grin spread across Sam’s face. “So, the big bad wolf wants to pack it in and enjoy a cozy retirement. I wonder if his pension plan is as good as ours.”

  She smiled back. “His pension plan is his kids. They have to step up so daddy wolf won’t have to keep running what amounts to an international conglomerate and, of course, they each want to be the new alpha in their pack.”

  “Perhaps we can use that to our advantage,” Sam said, stroking his mustache. “Maybe someone else in the family wouldn’t mind seeing Bartolo go away for murder.”

  Veranda stilled. “If another sibling wants a change in the pecking order, it will probably involve bloodshed. Hector gave each child a specific part of the organization to manage according to their talents. Each of the four is considered a top lieutenant.”

  She wrote in the box farthest to the left. “First, there’s Adolfo. He’s the finance guy and has a degree in accounting. He oversees loan sharking, collections, and gambling. He also handles money laundering, using fronts and fences. We believe he dabbles in counterfeiting and identity theft. His direct subordinate is a computer whiz and hacking expert.”