The Mamacita Murders Read online

  “I can’t believe this. So where should I meet you?” I ask.

  “At Cruz’s home. 1123 Citrus Avenue. It’s in Leafwood. Do you need directions?”

  “I know where it is,” I say without thinking. “I mean I’ll GPS it,” I say backtracking, not wanting Dylan to know about my visit to Cruz’s house.

  “Sorry,” says Dylan, changing the subject.

  “For what?”

  “For everything,” says Dylan.

  “Don’t worry about it. Thanks, though,” I say.

  “No really, I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have called you back or let you know what was going on with Cruz. But I couldn’t go over the Lieutenant’s head. He decided how to handle the internal investigation and all.”

  “It’s okay. Stop worrying about it. It’s fine. I’m fine. Things are all good on my end. I’ll see you in a bit,” I say.

  11:52 p.m. blinks in red on my dashboard. I park my car, get out, and start walking, feeling a sense of déjà vu. Once I get past the crime scene tape bordering not only Cruz’s house but two houses on each side, I see Dylan walking towards me. The smell of his cologne and his big blue eyes never quit being my biggest weaknesses.

  “Do you want a walk-through?” asks Dylan.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Go ahead and put these on,” says Dylan, handing me a white cloth mask and a big yellow and black firefighter-looking coat.

  “Standing in there more than a minute, the smoke really starts getting to you,” he says.

  I have never been in a place that had been burned. I always imagined that when buildings burn, they burn to the ground. But here, Cruz’s garage is still intact, just completely charred, black, and wilted. The heaviness of the air and thickness of the garage begins to overwhelm me. My hot recycled breath inside the mask isn’t much better than breathing in the barbecue-smelling garage.

  The ceiling, an ashy grey and black color, looks like it is about to come crumbling down. The tools, gardening supplies, electrical wires, paint canisters, and automotive parts neatly line the wall units in the garage, but are charred and singed.

  The dust still settling around and darkness throughout the garage makes it hard to focus in on anything. Firefighters and investigators walk in and out of the garage. Given everything is charred, it doesn’t seem as important to preserve the crime scene. We creep our way a few yards to the Suburban.

  Cruz lies on the slightly reclined seat like he is the rotting skeleton in the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland perched up on top of a bed full of gold. But there is no gold; it is all dust, ash, and burned car seat. He looks peaceful, otherwise unrecognizable because of the burn and blackness to his face. His hands rest to his sides and he’s sitting upright.

  The window of his truck is down and all the doors are open. A cool nighttime breeze sends the smell of cow manure and charbroil seeping into my mask. The once tan interior of the SUV is now burned in sections. Firefighters in big yellow suits cut out samples of the floorboard carpet and fabric from the seats.

  “The fire started right here,” says Dylan, pointing at a black area on the ground near the corner of the garage.

  “They are collecting samples to test them for lighter fluid or any sort of flammable liquids to see if that’s what was used to ignite the fire. The preliminary results tested positive for lighter fluid, but they just need to confirm those samples. There was a can of fluid found on one of the shelves in here and it looks like a cigarette was lit in this area of the garage causing the fire.

  “The fire started about ten feet from where Cruz was found. When the fire department arrived, his revolver was found next to the car door. Apparently he kept this gun unsecured in his nightstand. He has a bullet wound to his chest. That’s all we have,” Dylan says.

  “Wow. What do you think happened?” I ask.

  “I’m not jumping to any conclusions. I’ve learned my lesson not to. But I do know we’ll get to the bottom of this. I know we’ll need an answer by Monday as to what involvement he had with Laura. So that will be my next focus,” Dylan says.

  “Tell me more about the card found in the motel,” I say.

  “There’s really nothing more than what I told you,” Dylan says.

  “Was he told why he was being put on admin leave?” I ask.

  “He definitely knew we found the card in the motel. The Sergeant advised him that was the reason he was being put on leave. Speaking of which, this is the Sergeant right now,” Dylan says, answering his phone and leaving the garage.

  “Is it normal that the structure is intact like this?” I ask a firefighter standing near Cruz’s body.

  “Oh yeah, usually just all the smoke causes this blackness you’re seeing throughout the garage. The flames jump around but are not touching a lot of the structure. This fire was very centered in the corner of the garage and the flames went straight up from where it started. It’s the smoke inhalation and heat that causes all the destruction and causes people to die. People usually don’t die because they’re getting touched by the flames. But with a bullet wound like that,” he says, pausing and pointing at Cruz, “he would’ve died before anything having to do with this fire,” he says.

  “Wow, I never realized most deaths occur from inhalation,” I say, watching Dylan walking towards me, waving something in his hand.

  “I just found the answer,” he yells.

  Between the smell of fire and male testosterone surrounding me, the circle I’m standing in near Cruz’s truck alongside the firefighters and officers feels like a campfire meeting with Boy Scouts. I stand next to Dylan as he opens a small diary and starts reading it out loud.

  “I wanted to say goodbye. I think it’s best I end it this way. This will be the end of my career and I can’t imagine life not being an officer. I’m sorry,” reads Dylan, closing the diary.

  “He had to be involved in Laura’s assault,” I say.

  “I think you’re wrong,” says Dylan.

  “Then why would he go to this extreme?” I ask.

  “Being involved with Laura in prostitution would have damaged his career. It’s understandable why he ended things. It would be humiliating,” says Dylan.

  “I think Cruz had more to hide than just a relationship with Laura,” I say.

  “What are you saying, Ms. Ruiz?” asks Ford.

  “I’m saying that he’s still a potential suspect who hasn’t been ruled out in the motel assault. Can we make sure his blood is taken during the autopsy? I’d like to compare his DNA to the DNA found on the belt and inside Laura,” I say.

  “It was Clown’s DNA inside Laura,” says Dylan.

  “Yeah, as the minor donor. There’s a major donor still out there. I’m curious to see whether it’s Cruz. There was also an unknown profile found on the belt. I’d like to see if he matches that,” I say.

  “He wouldn’t be the match on the belt,” says Dylan.

  “How do you know that?” I say.

  “Because that is an X-profile. It belongs to a woman,” says Dylan.

  “Clown is our guy and all of us standing here, including Dylan and the Leafwood Police Department, are in agreement that he’s our guy. This agency is not going to spend resources looking at anyone else, including Officer Cruz. It’s ridiculous that he would have killed this girl. Of course if you’d like, we can take a look at who that X-profile belongs to. I hear you may have been one of the last people to see Laura alive,” says Ford threateningly.

  It didn’t take long for the brass to throw up a stone wall around me, especially because Officer Cruz was at the heart of the investigation now.

  18

  THE STAFFING

  Dylan and I sit quietly on the thirteenth floor of the Tuckford County Prosecutor’s Office. The adrenaline pumping from being on the power floor of this building numbs my early Monday blues. This floor houses most of the brainpower of the office. It is occupied by the appointed prosecutor and several special assistant prosecutors who advis
e her.

  The moments right before a staffing are always unsettling for two people: the prosecutor who is presenting the case and the investigator helping. Basically, that means Dylan and me, since Detective Ford and the Leafwood Police Sergeant said they’re not coming. There’s a lot of pressure during a staffing because time is of the essence. Usually the case needs to get filed later the same morning. A staffing can leave you feeling entirely incompetent. But it’s all for a good reason — so the bigwigs can make the proper filing decision.

  The thirty minutes of hell during a staffing is basically a chance for the top prosecutors to nitpick every phase of the investigation and point out anything that has not been done. But it’s all for good reason. These meetings provide an inordinate amount of experience and brainpower collectively in one room. It’s invaluable when making the important decisions that come out of these type of meetings, like homicide charges and sentencing decisions. No investigation is perfect, so someone’s feelings or ego are destined to get bruised during a staffing. I just hope it’s not mine.

  The prosecutor’s plump secretary, Mary Eddington, walks out of her office towards me, smiling and holding a jar of candy. She sits down on a chair near Dylan and me.

  “They should be done in there shortly. They’re having another staffing. What is this one about, sweetie?” asks Mary.

  “This is the case that I was prosecuting with the girl who lives in the trailer park where I host The Mamacita Club. She had been sexually abused by her stepfather. Remember that one?” I say.

  “Yes, I do. Whatever happened with that case?” Mary asks.

  “She was supposed to testify in that trial and she never showed up. I found her practically dead in a motel room, and it looks like her boyfriend who was pimping her may have done it. But the investigation is still ongoing, so it will be interesting to see what they decide,” I say.

  “Is this a staffing for a homicide, life case, or what should I put on the memo?” she asks.

  “It definitely will have a punishment of fifteen years to life. But it’s not a homicide,” I reply. “Laura’s not dead and we have the suspect booked on attempted murder charges right now, so I’ll be asking for a decision on that. He’s being arraigned this afternoon. It’s just a matter of time before she dies. She’s not even on life support anymore. I’m leaving on vacation in a week, so I wanted to get some direction before I leave.”

  “Honey, I’m so sorry,” Mary says sympathetically. “I know you really tried to get that girl into your club.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “It’s been tough, but I just want to bring justice for her. I promised her that.”

  Mary’s warm smile calms my nerves. I always wonder how much of her niceness over the years has been to help Mike Tanner build a rapport with me, something I’ve refused to do since I’ve worked here. When I was hired, Mary was Mike Tanner’s secretary and she knew a lot about my mom’s case.

  I decided a long time ago not to give Tanner a chance to make amends, ever. But he doesn’t seem to quit trying. I’ve been known to hold grudges, sometimes for years. Early on in my career, Mary made it a point to tell me that Mike Tanner spoke highly of my trial skills. He awarded me twice for top prosecutor of the office. I didn’t say anything to him both years I walked on stage of the Annual Award Banquet to receive my awards. I didn’t want any part of his efforts to make peace with me.

  Mary Eddington still makes nice, warm, and friendly conversation every time I see her. And I think Tanner is just grateful she connects with me. I like Mary; women like her fill the void from the absence of my own mom.

  “Oh, it looks like they’re finishing up. Why don’t you give them about five minutes and then go ahead and make your way into the conference room? I’ll bring copies of your memo in and write Life Case and Possible Homicide Staffing on it. Good luck,” says Mary warmly.

  Dylan and I make our way into the conference room and sit next to each other in the plush leather chairs that surround a mahogany table. Several bigwig supervisors and the appointed Prosecutor Debra Miller stand around chatting about what sounds like the staffing that just ended. The panoramic view reminds me of the status of the thirteenth floor. It’s rare to view the Castle from the same vantage point as the freeway all in the same room.

  Stevie Sapp comes in and sits across from me. I almost want to vomit at the sight of her face, especially dreading what comments she’ll have for me this time.

  She doesn’t waste any time to lay in. “I heard there was a drive-by shooting at the trailer park,” says Stevie in her usual broken record voice, slowly emphasizing the words drive-by.

  “There was,” I say quickly and look down to my phone.

  “This was the exact thing I was worried about. Has Vanderbilt spoken with you yet? And do we have any leads?” asks Stevie.

  “No and no,” I start. “It’s probably the typical gang member drive-by. It just comes with the territory. And we’ve explained the danger to the girls. They still want to continue with the club for now,” I say dismissively.

  “This whole thing is concerning. Not to mention the pin-up thing you’re doing. I just learned about that. And I must say, it’s rather disturbing,” says Stevie.

  “That’s a shame because it’s helped us have some really good breakthroughs with the girls,” I say.

  “I just think you should find a theme that is a little more...how should I say this? A little more respectable than pin-up girls,” she says.

  “Like what? Just Say No? Do you think that campaign has really worked in the last twenty years?”

  “Well, maybe not that, but my daughter’s school uses the American Girl dolls and the slogan It’s Cool to Finish School.”

  “These girls are not upper-class, conservative beach city brats. They live in trailer parks. My club works because it’s memorable to them and that’s what these girls need. They’re dropouts,” I say.

  “That’s an interesting perspective you have. But it sounds rather risky. And it definitely looks risqué. Especially when you’re wearing stuff like this,” says Stevie, pointing towards the pin curls in my hair and the collar of my white polka dot blouse.

  “We’re not provocative pin-ups, we’re professional ones. Our pin-up gear keeps the girls interested in the club because they can relate to this kind of stuff,” I say, pointing to the red flower barrette near my ear holding up my pin curls.

  “They don’t relate to this kind of stuff,” I say, pulling my shiny prosecutor badge out of my portfolio.

  “And they certainly wouldn’t understand that,” I say, pointing to the ruffles on Stevie’s white high collar Victorian shirt.

  “But you’re promoting promiscuity.”

  “Actually, we do the opposite.”

  “I can’t imagine how,” says Stevie balkingly, grinning at Dylan and shrugging one of her shoulders.

  “We use the pin-ups to teach the girls about drugs, alcohol, sex, and abusive relationships,” I say. “It’s not any different from the rest of the costumes in our wardrobe. We have Hollywood starlets in there and even ones like Angelina Jolie and J-Lo.”

  “Angelina Jolie and J-Lo, huh?” says Dylan flirtingly.

  “Yeah. Angelina’s costume helps teach the girls about humanitarianism and social justice. J-Lo’s good for Latina empowerment. Madonna’s in there, too,” I say.

  “What on earth could Madonna teach?” says Stevie sarcastically.

  “We use her songs Papa Don’t Preach and Touched Like a Virgin to teach about sexual independence and teen pregnancy. We used the Eva Peron role she played in the musical Evita to help the girls understand about community service and cancer,” I say righteously.

  “The Evita concept is at least respectable. Much more than the pin-up selection of your wardrobe,” says Stevie.

  “What can I say? The pin-ups have been working. We’ve been having the girls pick a famous pin-up girl and research what she stands for, what she doesn’t, and any poor choices she made along the way
.”

  “Okay?” says Stevie, sarcastically.

  “They help teach the girls how to make better choices.”

  “I’m still not getting it.”

  “Just the other day we debated whether the trampy styles and fetishes of pin-up queen Bettie Page demean women or empower them. We’ve also talked about Marilyn Monroe’s sexcapades and drug overdose, and the fact Rita Hayworth was an alcoholic who married and divorced five times.”

  “And you’re having success with this?” says Stevie disbelievingly, looking away from me towards an antique clock on a side table.

  “Yep,” I say. “The girls are going to be on a panel next month discussing pop culture. They’ll be debating whether Katy Perry is a positive or negative role model for young women today. They’ve sold a hundred and fifty tickets so far at local high schools. These girls can relate to stuff like pin-up models because they’re real life women with real life problems, not beach city plastic dolls,” I say, looking down at Stevie’s boob job, which she had three years ago.

  “I guess I just would never allow my own girls in your club,” Stevie says condescendingly. “The whole pin-up thing just seems like a major setback for women.”

  “What are you talking about? Pin-ups are a part of this country’s history. We sent five million copies of Betty Grable’s pin-up photo to GIs in World War II. It was something to distract them from the war they were fighting and a reason to come home.”

  “Exactly, during a war.”

  “The girls in this county are fighting a war here, too,” I counter.

  “Against who? Themselves?”

  “Drugs, gangs, prostitution, bullying, broken homes, racism, I can go on and on. Every girl in The Mamacita Club has lost a friend to gang violence. Some of them have lost more than four people. They hear gunshots at night and don’t feel safe living where they do. Some of them have used drugs and have been abused,” I say.