The Mamacita Murders Page 2

  Dylan laughs.

  “Your Honor, may I approach sidebar?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Judge Hoffman replies.

  Sometimes, it seems that when a judge first puts on a black robe, it comes with an attitude, similar to a new car coming with a warranty. It usually wears off after a few years, but there’s an occasional one that comes with the extended warranty. Judge Samuel Hoffman is somewhere in the middle. He makes rulings based on law and experience. The thing I like most about Judge Hoffman is that he cares about the integrity of his judicial appointment.

  At sidebar, I stand eight inches away from full body contact with Judge Hoffman. A real sidebar allows unobstructed contact with a judge, without the big desk between the attorneys like you see on television. I explain to him in a very calm tone that it really is in the best interest of justice to grant a brief continuance. I also remind him politely that I tried to get Laura housed at juvenile hall during the trial because I was afraid she’d run away, but she couldn’t be held because she promised everyone she’d show up. I reminded him that we all agreed she appeared cooperative. After giving Judge Hoffman a smile that says “pretty please,” I walk back to the counsel table.

  “Very well, Ms. Ruiz. Under the circumstances and because you are only asking for a short continuance, I’ll grant your request. But I’ll expect an extensive update about Laura’s whereabouts. And I’ll want to hear about efforts you personally have made to secure her testimony. I’ll have my clerk inform the jury we won’t be in session today. Everyone is ordered back tomorrow at ten o’clock a.m.”

  2

  ANONYMOUS ANGEL

  No longer than fifteen minutes after Javier was looking down my blouse in court, Dylan looks around my office. He picks up and studies a photo of the group of girls in The Mamacita Club sitting framed on my credenza. My office is one of the nicest ones in my building. It’s big, tucked away, has a separate sitting area and floor-to-ceiling windows. I have a view of the Old Town Castle where many famous people have stayed. During the Christmas holidays, the Castle turns into the North Pole decorated with lights and life-size dolls. Horse-drawn carriages whisk visitors around the Castle to experience the festive display.

  Last year, I requested to move into this office. It had been used by the “Producer,” a sophisticated defendant in one of our fraud cases. He stole a building access card one of our prosecutors left behind in court. And he began using the office to host weekend auditions for aspiring actresses in his pilot show called “Crime, Justice and Panties.” After that, no one wanted this office. But I didn’t shy away from it.

  After I moved in, coworkers joked with me asking if I found any underwear in my desk drawers. Whatever circumstances got me into this office, it earns me instant esteem. Law enforcement officers and professionals who visit me to discuss cases are always impressed.

  “So what did you do to get Javier to go along with you?” says Dylan.

  “Invited him back to the Airstream,” I reply.

  Dylan and I start laughing.

  “Seriously,” says Dylan.

  “I just sprinkled a little of my Latin spice on him,” I reply.

  “I figured. If I remember correctly, you tend to do that very well,” says Dylan playfully.

  “Let’s talk about Laura,” I say, changing the subject. “I want her cell phone pinged so we can trail her. We need to get her to court.”

  “There’s no way that’s gonna happen.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, this isn’t the type of case we can do that on.”

  “I have a witness who took off last night refusing to come back to testify. She was ordered back for this morning. What do you mean this isn’t the type of case?” I ask.

  “Even if we do track her down, we can’t even arrest her. You didn’t issue a warrant for her,” Dylan says.

  “I couldn’t. She’s a juvenile. Her mom’s the one who’s supposed to make sure she shows up to court. And Bess doesn’t even know where she is. The last thing I’m going to do is hold her responsible.”

  “If Laura just wants to take off and act like an adult, we should treat her like one. If she were eighteen, we could’ve issued a warrant.”

  “She’s still a victim. Seventeen or eighteen, I can’t say I would’ve issued a warrant. So she can be picked up and arrested and spend the night in juvenile hall? That’s victimizing her even more,” I say.

  “You tried to keep her in juvenile hall before,” Dylan says.

  “That was just a tactic. I knew they’d never hold her and I needed to save my reputation in case she didn’t show. I reminded Judge Hoffman at sidebar about that this morning.”

  “I’m not asking for the search warrant. There’s no way my Sergeant will authorize that.”

  “I just need to find her,” I say. “I’m pretty sure I can convince her to come to court if I just get a chance to talk to her face to face. How do you expect that to happen if we don’t trace her phone?”

  “I have no legal authority to do that,” Dylan replies.

  I return my focus out the window to a tall white cross that sits on top of the local Catholic church.

  “Hey, I just thought of something. Bess is the only person who can complain about a warrant. She pays Laura’s cell phone bill. And she’s not going to care. She wants us to find Laura,” I say, spinning my chair back towards Dylan.

  “Look. If you want me to write the search warrant, I will. But getting a judge to sign off on it is a whole other deal,” says Dylan.

  “Javier is twenty-four hours away from being released on a case he deserves to do life on. Let’s write the warrant. While we’re at it, let’s get all phone records. Laura’s, Clown’s, and Bess’s. It will help us establish a time line,” I say.

  Twenty minutes after we get a hit on Laura’s cell phone, Dylan and I sit at the intersection of Main Street and Amazon Avenue in Leafwood. Low income housing, black iron gates, and graffiti decorates the neighborhood. It makes sense why they call Leafwood the concrete jungle.

  “This intersection is the best we’re gonna get off tracking her. There’s twenty-five apartment complexes down that alley, two motels down this way, and some residential houses on both of those streets. Where do you want to start?” says Dylan.

  “Pull into the motel right here,” I say, feeling pressure to the back of my head every time I look at Motel Leafwood. “If anyone asks how we knew Laura would be here, let’s just say she told me she prostituted here.”

  “Am I still the only one at work who knows about your powers?”

  “Yeah. Well, sort of. Angela obviously knows.”

  Dylan drives his truck slowly through the parking lot of Motel Leafwood, which has three floors of motel rooms. Cars with missing windows and films of dust fill the parking lot. Between the motorhome taking up a couple of parking stalls and the tent pitched next to it, there’s no doubt we’re in Tuckford County.

  “Can you ask your angels what room she’ll be in? There’s thirty rooms here and I’m not about to knock on each door. Half of them are probably occupied by dope dealers and the other half by prostitutes,” says Dylan, turning his truck ignition off. “Are you sure she’s going to be here?”

  “That’s what my angels are telling me. And they’ve never been wrong.”

  Dylan’s laugh fills his county truck with sarcasm.

  “What should I put in my police report for the angels’ address? Heaven? Hell? Somewhere in between?”

  “Mine live in heaven. Yours, on the other hand, would definitely live down south.”

  “Seriously though. Are you just taking a stab in the dark with this place?” Dylan asks.

  “You still don’t believe in my magic,” I say.

  “I live in a world based on facts. You know I solve my cases with real evidence, not magic,” he says.

  “I’ll win cases my way and you solve cases your way,” I snap back.

  “I’m afraid to ask you how many leads you’ve given me from
your angels,” he says.

  “Just assume that every time I told you a tip came from an anonymous caller, it was probably my angels.”

  “How far back?”

  “To that first call-out I met you at.”

  “How’d you hide it so well?”

  “I had to, at least until I trusted you. What was I supposed to say on that first call-out? ‘Hi, I’m Gaby Ruiz. I’m on the homicide pager. Nice to meet you. By the way, my angels told me Chris Jones killed Allen Edwards.’ You would’ve thought I was crazy.”

  “I wasn’t even convinced that Jones was our guy until his DNA came back on the knife. Did your magic put his DNA there, too?”

  “My magic doesn’t plant evidence like some agencies are accused of. Mine gets the bad guys and frees the innocent.”

  Before Dylan has a chance to respond, a door on the third floor of the motel landing opens. My heart starts beating fast as a young girl with dark hair the same length as Laura’s walks out.

  “Is that her?” I ask excitedly.

  “Shh. She’s saying something to someone inside,” says Dylan quietly.

  The young woman, wearing cut-off jean shorts and a plaid shirt tied up in a knot sitting on her exposed and tattooed belly is too far up on the third floor for me to tell whether it’s Laura. She closes the door and starts walking down the landing.

  “She’s walking like Laura. That’s something she’d wear. I think she has those same color Converse shoes,” I say.

  She makes her way down the side staircase and comes walking straight towards Dylan’s truck. I start crouching down in my seat while taking a good look at her as she walks past my window.

  “I thought for sure that was her,” I say disappointedly.

  “So why didn’t your angels tell you it wasn’t?”

  “I freaked out and didn’t listen to my gut,” I counter.

  Dylan rolls his eyes.

  I close my eyes, breathe deeply, and calm my fluttering eyelids. I focus on the darkness and one question while trying to ignore my anger. Where is Laura? I ask the Universe. I feel the warmth of my mom and her soothing voice. I feel calm. Once I hear her words and see the numbers, I open my eyes and unbuckle my seatbelt.

  “She’s in room 333. Let’s head up there.”

  Dylan and I walk towards the motel. The pool surrounded by a black iron gate is floating a murky scum. A female Hispanic housekeeper in her early forties pushes her cleaning cart filled with towels, cleaning supplies, and toiletries up on the third floor.

  “Quite a chateau, huh,” says Dylan.

  “The health department should be called out here.”

  “This is nothing. I’ve seen far worse.”

  “It reminds me of some of the places we used to pull into for an afternoon quickie,” I say.

  “Yeah, you knew how to pick them. Remember that one with the mirrors on the ceilings?”

  “You picked that one, silly.”

  The quiet of the motel would have you thinking it’s close to dawn, but it’s already a little past ten in the morning.

  Our knocks at room 333 go unanswered. I look at the cleaning lady a few yards away sweeping the third floor landing. “Señora, can you please unlock room 333?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry but I’m not allowed to do that,” the cleaning lady says, holding a broom in one hand and dustpan in the other.

  “Look, we need to get into this room. There is a young woman in here who was supposed to show up to court this morning and she wasn’t there. It’s a long story, but we need your help,” I say.

  “You will need to speak with the manager. His office is down there on the first floor on the other side of the pool,” she says, pointing down to a shack close to where Dylan parked his truck.

  “Are you about to clean room 333?” I say.

  “No, there’s a ‘Do not disturb’ sign.”

  I take out my prosecutor golden shiny badge and flash it at her. I remove one of my business cards and hand it to her.

  “Look, I am from the Prosecutor’s Office. I don’t want to startle or alert the manager, because I’m afraid the girl we’re looking for inside might run. Do you have any children?”

  “Yes, I have two teenagers.”

  “Can you imagine if one ran away and you had information she was in this room. You’d want someone to help you find her, wouldn’t you?”

  “My daughter has run away before. In fact, she just came back last night from the streets.”

  “Keep my card. If there is anything I can help with or if you want me to speak with her, I work with teenage girls with problems. I can help her. But I’m asking for your help right now.”

  The cleaning lady looks down at my card and takes a deep breath.

  “Let me put some fresh towels in the room back there. I’ll be right back to open it up.”

  Less than ten seconds after repeated unanswered knocks, unlocking, and going inside Room 333, the housekeeper runs back onto the landing looking like she had just seen a ghost. Shivering and through chattering teeth, she repeats the words, “My God,” five times before I reach into my blouse and free my Lady Smith .38 Special and slowly walk into the room. Dylan follows behind with his gun drawn, too.

  Room 333 is ransacked. A body lies face up on the queen-size bed. She has milky white skin and her black lace panties are pulled down to her ankles. Her long brown hair covers her face, which is rested to the side of the bed. Her arms are resting down by her pelvis and her wrists are restrained with a white belt with shiny black rhinestones. Her breasts are exposed and her dark brown nipples are hard. Each side of her pelvis is tattooed with a dolphin jumping up and as though they’re arcing out of the water facing each other. She is blindfolded with two long white cotton socks tied together, covering her eyes and tied to the back of her head. I run up to her.

  Dylan screams, “Police, police!” as he searches through the closet and the bathroom.

  I move the girl’s brown hair to look at her, then grasp for one of her wrists. I feel a faint pulse.

  “She’s alive,” I shout.

  Her body feels cold. I loosen the socks tied together around the back of her head and feel the pressure around my own head release. I loosen the belt that’s tied around her wrists. I barely recognize her swollen and bruised face, but I know it’s Laura. She has the pink band around her wrist imprinted with The Mamacita Club I gave her when I met her for the first time and was trying to recruit her. This is the first time I’ve seen Laura wearing it.

  Dylan begins frantically making calls. First it’s to 911 dispatch, then the paramedics, and next the Special Homicide Team Sergeant. I grab the bed sheet and wrap it tightly around Laura and tell her help is on its way. I crawl into the bed with her and hold her, rocking her back and forth, telling her everything is going to be okay and to hang in there. She grunts several times when I squeeze her. Her eyes stare right through mine and the white parts around her pupils fill with thin blood vessels.

  Laura’s blank stare reminds me of my mom in a picture I had seen of her when I was thirteen years old. I was sitting in the witness stand of my stepfather’s trial, and the prosecutor, Mike Tanner, asked me to look at a big projection screen.

  My mom was projected life-size lying in her bed in our mobile home. She was pale and her eyes were wide open just like Laura’s. Her silk Kimono night robe, untied and draping to her sides, exposed her breasts and stomach. A long red scratch ran down her arm and a deep gash cut down her temple.

  I cried for five minutes straight on the witness stand until the judge ordered me to answer Tanner’s questions.

  I hug Laura and promise her I won’t leave her side. Footsteps sounding like a stampede become louder and louder until they come through Room 333.

  Within thirty minutes of paramedics arriving to Room 333, Laura is wheeled out the front door on a gurney. Her mouth is filled with a tube and a plastic mask covers her face. Blood droplets fall from her head off the side of the gurney onto the motel landing, ma
rking her path down to the ambulance as I watch her being whisked away. I return back inside the empty room as Dylan barks orders over the phone for crime scene forensics to meet us at the motel.

  A ceramic vase with the body of a bird rests in a puddle of blood near the bed. The bird’s head is broken off and missing. Fake plastic flowers spread around the bed. The blue, mauve, and white bedspread sits swirled up in a cocoon on the floor near the night stand. A matching vase with what I can now see is an intact pink and cream colored flamingo rests on a night stand with a black zip-up hoodie and a white sock draping over it. A pink cell phone sits on the night stand near the vase.

  Looking ahead up to the bed, where I was just curled up with Laura, I see the socks lying on the floor that were once blindfolding her. The belt from Laura’s wrists lay next to the socks and a pair of pants. A black cell phone lies on the floor nearby. The motel room reeks of blood, alcohol, and the smell of sex.

  It reminds me the first time I lost my virginity to my boyfriend Marco after his high school prom. I was fifteen. It happened at a motel one star higher than this one, which his older brother rented for us. After five minutes of something that felt like sex, I said to him, “Is that it?” I thought my first time was supposed to be something special. I couldn’t believe I had lost my virginity to fast rabbit humping.

  Dylan’s phone ringing takes me out of my virginity paradise lost. He silences his phone.

  “Did your angels forget to tell you what we were going to walk into? At least if I knew, I could have called in the forensic team beforehand,” says Dylan.