The Mamacita Murders Read online

  I recite the Serenity Prayer.

  God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

  I breathe in very deeply and release it with the flow of the water going back out to the vast ocean. All the dots will connect someday soon. It will all make sense.

  I have one last question. I’ve learned to never ask too much and three is enough. Who did this to Laura? It didn’t take long before the waters turned rough and the most beautiful ship caught my attention in the distance. Its huge sails reminded me of the Nina, Pinta, or Santa Maria. The huge mast of the ship looks like those ships with sails you see inside a glass jar that you can buy with a cork inside at Knott’s Berry Farm or some other amusement park.

  I don’t understand the meaning of the ship. But what I do know is that the Universe doesn’t give me clues when things are the way they’re supposed to be. The water turns rough when something’s wrong. If Clown were the right or only suspect, the Universe would not be telling me to look for a ship.

  Just as I’m thinking I might see a pirate come to the ledge spearing his sword around, I keep staring out into the ocean, but nothing is out there, including the ship I just saw. The waters remain rough and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore get louder and louder until they’re almost deafening. It’s not often that my powers scare me. It’s starting to get dark and I rush back home.

  15

  THE PROPERTY ROOM

  The morning after my vision of the ship on the water, I decelerate the beast to exit the freeway towards the Leafwood RV Park. When I turn up my air conditioner, I hear a strange noise coming from my engine. Driving this beat-up old Celica, which still has a cassette player, makes me wonder if I’m still a struggling college student trying to get by or a professional with a law degree.

  The job of being an assistant prosecutor is not a highly paid one. But it’s one that pays a consistent salary. It’s barely enough to maintain a comfortable lifestyle, which includes my gym membership, keeping a fully stocked refrigerator, and maintaining a fashionable enough wardrobe. People envious of my lifestyle forget I’ll be paying down student loans for the next twenty-five years.

  Being a prosecutor, however, has never felt like a day of work for me, except for times like when I’m threatened. I’ve always told people it’s worth the risk and danger that comes along with it. It’s important for me to do what I do not only for my mom but because it’s something not many people are willing to do. Whenever I’ve worried about my safety, I just think I’d be that much closer to my mom if my life ended. So it would be worth it if I died today.

  But the drive-by shooting and the death threat have made me think for the first time how much I want to keep living. I want to keep working with young women like Laura and help them forgive themselves, believe in themselves, and follow their dreams. Even with all the curveballs the girls throw at me, the acceptance they have given me makes the danger worth it.

  Angela once told me that 99.9 percent of people dislike their jobs. Every day I thank God I’m in that percent of people that like theirs. I wouldn’t give it up for anything, except to have my mom back.

  I pull up to the Airstream. Kiki, who’s dressed in a sexy police pin-up costume, jumps in.

  “What’s this is all about?” she asks.

  “It’s a really long story,” I say. “And I haven’t really figured out all the details yet. But what I do know is that Dylan is hiding something from me.”

  “Like what?”

  “A police officer may have some information about Laura’s assault.”

  “Wait. Slow down. Start over. Which assault? What police officer?” Kiki asks, confused.

  “The one in the motel room. Dylan told me that a business card of a police officer was found in Laura’s pocket when the forensic team was collecting evidence. But Dylan won’t tell me who the police officer is and why his business card was in Laura’s pocket,” I explain.

  I slow my Celica down at a lighted intersection on a main street and watch a man multitask. He’s talking to himself while crossing the street in his tattered dark blue jeans held up with a brass belt buckle. His dirtied, cream-colored cowboy hat contrasts nicely against his red-and-white checkered shirt. Moments like this remind me that I’m sixty miles and a world apart from the coast.

  “So what are you thinking the police officer knows about Laura’s assault?” Kiki asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  “I don’t really know,” I reply. “What I do know is that Dylan is not giving me the information. And I want to get it myself. I want to see that business card and find out who it belongs to.”

  “And then what?”

  “Go talk to him,” I say. “I don’t want to go over Dylan’s head, but this looks really bad. I just want to make sure that the Leafwood Police Department is looking into all potential suspects in the case, including one of their own.”

  “Gaby, you’re crazy,” Kiki says. “Are you out of your mind? If the Leafwood Police Department finds out that you’re conducting an investigation into their investigation, do you know how pissed they’re going to be?”

  “Well, I can’t just sit back and wait for Dylan to get me the information,” I say. “I point blank asked him who the officer was and what this had to do with Laura’s case. And he wouldn’t answer me. He said he was still investigating it.”

  “Well then, let him investigate it and wait to see what he says,” Kiki replies.

  “Clown is in custody on the assault. We only have ’til Monday to file charges on him. And if we don’t, he’s gonna be released. My office is gonna want my recommendation. And part of it is based on whether I think there are other suspects. Dylan’s dragging his feet. He hasn’t given me an answer either way why a police officer is showing up in Laura’s motel room,” I say.

  “This is crazy,” says Kiki.

  “Do you trust this guy that works in the property room?” I ask.

  “Totally.”

  “Why?”

  Kiki stays quiet, then opens the sun visor on her side leaning close to it looking in, before snapping it shut.

  “I just do,” she says finally. “We’ve been through a lot together.”

  “Like what?”

  Kiki stays quiet and starts twirling her hair nervously.

  “I’ve never told you this,” she says. “But do you remember my ex-boyfriend? The guy I used to live with before I moved out here?”

  “Yeah, vaguely,” I say.

  “I met him when I was doing wardrobe for that show.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “He used to hit me,” says Kiki.

  “Aw. Kiki, I’m sorry,” I say.

  She looks out the passenger window.

  “So this guy who works in the property room. He was the only one I told when it was happening. I made him swear he wouldn’t report anything and he never did,” Kiki says sadly.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “I know. But please don’t judge me.”

  “I’m not. And Kiki, thanks for sharing that with me.”

  “I was just going through a rough period,” she says. “He was showing me a lot of attention. I didn’t really like myself back then. We only dated a few months. But I couldn’t handle it anymore. The long distance relationship, plus getting hit when we saw each other, was getting really old. He’d tell me he was gonna stop, but he never did. My mom started getting really suspicious. Plus, she felt bad, cuz I watched the same thing happen to her.”

  “What made things change?” I ask.

  “Someone told me to take one hard look at myself in the mirror and ask myself what the hell was I doing,” Kiki says. “So I did. I realized I was canceling other dates so I could drive three hundred miles to spend time with him and get hit. I look back and think, ‘What the hell was I thinking?’”

  “Don’t you think it’s part of the cycle of violence? You were destined to have the same thing
happen to you that happened to your mom,” I say.

  “Even when you’re in the cycle, you can make a choice. You can write your own ending. It doesn’t have to be based on what’s happened to you in the past. Your destiny can end the way you write it,” Kiki says.

  “That’s an interesting way to look at it.”

  “I feel like I have even more of a responsibility to stop the cycle, being a part of it and all,” she continues. “Plus, I can’t blame it on my mom anymore. My problem was that I didn’t like myself. I got what I felt I deserved. I didn’t realize I deserved much more.”

  “How did you end things with him?” I ask.

  “We got into this huge fight. He threw my high heel at me and it hit me in the lip. I got this huge cut that started bleeding. I had to make up some story to my mom, saying it was from falling,” Kiki replies.

  Kiki’s story reminds me of all the times I had to watch my mom make up excuses for her cuts and bruises. The worst time was when I almost missed my second grade school photo. My mom and stepfather got into it over the muffins she over-baked. He took her bare hand and forced her to take the hot pan out of the oven.

  My mom was so busy treating her burns that I had to braid my own hair that morning. By the time we got to my school, the photographer was packing his stuff away. My mom convinced him to set back up. She told him we were having car trouble. I still have that class photo where my braids are lopsided.

  I look back at Kiki.

  “Was it hard to leave him?” I ask.

  “I had to,” she says. “I told Vince he hit me with my high heel. Vince told me I had to leave him or he was going to report him.”

  “So that’s why you trust this guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  I look at Kiki and smile at her.

  “I’m glad you got out of that relationship,” I say.

  Kiki smiles back at me.

  “I’m sure you know this,” she says. “But if Dylan or the Leafwood Police Department doesn’t want to tell you what’s going on with that officer or how he’s connected to Laura, chances are they’re not going to let you find out, either.”

  “I know, but it’s worth a shot,” I say, punching the code Kiki hands me on a piece of paper into a small box at the back gate of the police department. We pull up to the side of a small building and park my car.

  “Let’s try and go through that door right there,” says Kiki.

  Within twenty minutes after arriving at the property room, I look at brown paper bags with yellow evidence labels. Kiki is leaning over the counter and making flirty small talk with Vince. I’m impressed by Kiki, who’s batting her eyelashes and grinning at Vince. I begin to understand why she picked her police pin-up outfit to wear today.

  I sort through thirty pieces of evidence, including the trash they collected outside the motel room. Crime scene technicians always collect all sorts of things, because no one knows what might be important later. One time, a fedora hat was collected from a crime scene in a case I prosecuted. A shooting had happened at a wedding reception and I was able to get the suspect’s DNA off the hat, placing him at the scene.

  The technicians in Laura’s case even collected a plastic soda bottle and a cigarette found on the landing near room 333. Once I get to the thirtieth piece of evidence, I see an envelope that is entitled “card.” It says, “Located in pants pocket southwest of victim location near bed.” I turn the item over and notice that the bag is sealed.

  “Kiki, this is the card I think I’m looking for,” I say.

  “Great, whose card is it?” she asks.

  “I don’t know, we need to open it up,” I say.

  “You want some scissors?” asks Kiki.

  Once I cut open any piece of evidence, I’m forever in what’s called the chain of evidence. Any person that cuts open an evidence bag must cut in a certain place on the bag, and not into someone else’s cutting. Then, the bag must be sealed back up and initialed on the cutting. This guarantees that anyone who had access inside the bag is accounted for. It’s a quality control measure that every police department in Tuckford County uses.

  As a prosecutor, I never want to be in the chain of evidence, because then, I can become a witness. If there is some allegation the evidence is tainted, I could be called as a witness. For this reason, and the fact I don’t want Dylan to know I was here, I’m not going to open it.

  “Hey Vince, I’ve looked through pretty much everything. And it doesn’t seem like there’s anything I need to be concerned about. Most of it is just stuff from the crime scene, like fabric swatches, broken glass, and stuff like that. But there’s a card in this envelope and I’m not quite sure who it belongs to. Do you think there’s any way you could open it, so I can just take a peek? I want to make sure I’m not missing anything important,” I say.

  “Sure, where’s the bag?” he asks.

  Vince touches both sides of the bag trying to feel what’s inside.

  “I just want to make sure it’s not drugs or blood. I can’t open that stuff here. That’s gotta be done in a lab,” says Vince.

  I stay quiet and smile at Vince.

  “Nope, seems like it’s some sort of document or something small I can’t feel,” says Vince.

  Vince looks at Kiki and me.

  “You know, before we open anything, I might want to get my supervisor down here,” says Vince.

  Kiki watches me tighten my lips together, then looks down at her watch before looking back at Vince.

  “I really gotta get outta here. I have a wardrobe consultation in ten minutes. Would it be too much trouble for you to just open that up for her really quick? I really need to go,” says Kiki, smiling at Vince.

  Vince looks down like he’s thinking for a couple seconds. Then, he opens a drawer and sorts through it. He starts to rearrange a stapler, some pens, and then a box of paper clips.

  “Yeah, yeah, no problem. Only cuz it’s you,” says Vince, smiling at Kiki, reaching far back into a drawer and pulling out a pair of scissors. He begins cutting across the edge of the envelope very slowly and looks inside.

  “Hmmm. Officer Hector Cruz. I know who that is,” says Vince, facing the card towards Kiki and me.

  “So do I,” I say, remembering him as the one who saved my job pulling Clown over.

  I widen my eyes at Kiki, alerting her I found what I came for.

  “Can you do me a huge favor and not let anyone know we were here? This needs to stay between you, me, and Gaby,” says Kiki.

  “Sure, no worries. You guys know where to find him? Cuz he’s been put on leave,” says Vince.

  “Can you tell us?” says Kiki in a soft sweet voice.

  Vince grabs a yellow Post-it note, scribbles on it, then hands it to me. I read Cruz’s home address as Kiki leans over to cheek kiss Vince.

  Leaving the property room, Kiki and I wave ’bye to Vince. As the door is shutting, he’s holding his pointer finger up to his lips motioning for us to stay quiet.

  “Good call on the police pin-up outfit,” I say, winking at Kiki.

  Thirty minutes after leaving the property room, I stand outside the front door of Officer Cruz’s home with Kiki. “I can hear someone inside,” whispers Kiki.

  “What can you hear?” I whisper back.

  “It sounds like a TV,” starts Kiki. “Do you think we should be here?” she says, changing the subject and looking afraid.

  “What do we have to lose? He obviously knows Laura,” I say.

  “But who cares? You have Clown in custody already,” says Kiki.

  “And Cruz’s card in her pocket,” I snap back.

  “I’m giving him one more minute to open the door. If not, I think we should get out of here,” says Kiki.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, jiggling the front door handle, checking to see if it’s locked.

  “Don’t do that,” says Kiki frantically.

  “What is your problem?” I ask.

  “Vince said to be careful. He said Cruz is k
ind of shady,” says Kiki.

  “And you decide to tell me this now?” I say.

  “You were gonna come here regardless,” Kiki snaps back.

  She’s right. She knows me pretty well. “It still woulda been nice to know,” I say.

  “Can we go now?” asks Kiki.

  “Gimme a second,” I say, noticing the side gate to Cruz’s home propped open on the other side of the closed attached garage door.

  It takes me all but thirty seconds to slip through the side gate of Cruz’s rather large, roughly three thousand square foot home. No wonder they call these houses McMansions. Tuckford county is filled with them. Low-income families could afford them until the recession hit along with the subprime mortgage bust and they all went into foreclosure. I walk past a sliding glass door on the side of the house and glance in. Cruz is sitting at his couch facing away from me watching a big screen TV. He takes a sip of his beer can, which is so obviously not his first. At least a handful of beer cans litter the floor around his couch along with a pizza box and some packets of either parmesan cheese or red pepper flakes. Beer bottles line the standing bar area leading to his open air kitchen and on his dining table that sits in a room close to the TV room.

  Cruz’s house phone rings, but he doesn’t move or answer it. A Larry King show blares from the TV and music blasts throughout the house. The phone stops ringing and Cruz’s voicemail picks up, which I can’t make out. Someone leaves a message.

  As Cruz gets up from the couch, I lose sight of him and watch him make his way towards the kitchen.

  Kiki comes walking back towards the sliding glass door. “Get down,” I whisper commandingly.

  I strain to hear what Cruz is doing in the kitchen. But Larry King’s voice on the television blasts out interview questions.

  “Let’s get out of here, Gaby. I’m scared,” says Kiki.

  “Hold on,” I mouth to her.

  Kiki shakes her head back and forth, disagreeing with me before walking away.