The Mamacita Murders Read online

  Stevie Sapp interrupts my counting.

  “How’s your girls’ club coming along, Gaby?” she asks.

  I give Stevie a big fake smile.

  “Thank you for asking. The Mamacita Club has been wonderful. I’ve bonded with some of the toughest girls. A lot of them come from the mobile home parks we’re hosting in. I hope to continue doing it and growing the club. I’ve been recruiting all kinds of women to mentor; in fact, many are from your unit,” I say, hoping to upset her.

  When I started The Mamacita Club, Stevie Sapp was anything but supportive. She didn’t like the idea that a high ranking prosecutor would want to drive around in an RV helping the community instead of earning a trial stat she could add to her monthly report.

  “How’s the mobile home holding up?” asks Stevie.

  I look at her, disgusted.

  “It’s a motorhome, not a mobile home,” I say.

  “Is there a difference?” says Stevie rudely.

  “Yeah. A big one. A mobile home stays in one spot. Most of them aren’t drivable unless you hook them up to a truck. Mine’s a Vintage Airstream, custom-made classic. I can drive it to different RV parks,” I say.

  “And you live in that thing?” says Stevie.

  “Just occasionally. It’s really not that bad. I grew up in a trailer park,” I say.

  “I guess you can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the girl,” says Stevie.

  I give her another big fake smile. “That’s right. You should try camping in one. You’d probably like it,” I say.

  “No, thank you,” says Stevie dismissively.

  I roll my eyes at Dylan.

  “We’ve received several complaints about that thing being parked in the trailer park. People are concerned your group is a law enforcement club. And that their park might be targeted by gangs, etcetera, if they are associating with you,” says Stevie, emphasizing the word “you” like she’s the real one targeting me.

  “That makes absolutely no sense. There’s no evidence of that even being remotely true,” I snap back.

  “Well, this case we’re about to discuss involves one of the girls from your club. Doesn’t it?”

  “No. I wanted her to join, but the office said it was a conflict. I have to wait until her case is over. Plus, her mom never gave her permission,” I say disappointedly.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware, but Ed Vanderbilt is already in talks with the trailer park about the liability of you being there. It may be too much of a problem to have your club meetings on their premises,” Stevie says.

  “That’s okay. We’ll just drive the Airstream to another trailer park.”

  “You might want to hold your horses and check with Ed before you set up camp anywhere else.”

  Mike Tanner walks in, interrupting my frustration and concern about Stevie’s comments. He wastes no time before laying in on us.

  “What the hell is going on, Karen?” Tanner asks. “There was a homicide suspect in the lobby of our office thirty minutes ago. He had a warrant for his arrest. Why the hell would he not be detained? Explain that to me, because the prosecutor and the press are going to want an explanation for this.”

  I look at Chuck before I look down and stare at the maroon swirl pattern of the table.

  “We were told to hold off and not make an arrest. The only information we had was to keep an eye on him. And we were told there was no probable cause. Chuck was the one who discovered this man had a warrant,” says Karen.

  “I’m going to ask you again. Tell me why, after Chuck realized there was a warrant in the system, you did not hook him up right there?” asks Tanner.

  I can feel Chuck looking at me as I’m staring down at the table. I can’t stand confrontation. There is silence in the room.

  “It’s my understanding that Chuck was told not to make an arrest,” says Karen.

  “I hope that was the prosecutor who made that decision. And I’m not talking about an assistant prosecutor, I’m talking about the appointed prosecutor. If that suspect hurts anyone, goes out and continues his killing spree, or turns up missing, do you know who’s going to have to answer questions about this decision?” asks Tanner dramatically.

  “Sir, we still know nothing about this case,” Karen says. “The only information we had was that this was a possible homicide suspect, his physical description, and that there was not enough PC to arrest him. He had walked into the office asking to speak with Ms. Ruiz and we were to keep an eye on him. We were never informed about any warrant. Chuck found the old warrant when he ran this fellow through the criminal database. We would have only been making an arrest on an old warrant issued when he failed to appear on a drug case. You know we would have booked him across the street and the jail would have released him. There’s no room for him over there.”

  “I was under the impression he had a warrant for a murder. Was I misinformed?” asks Tanner.

  I stay quiet. And I try to tune out the screaming. Everything will eventually stop. At least that’s the way I survived my stepfather’s alcoholic rages late at night when I was young. I would listen to him scream at my mom in the next room. I would stay quiet, paralyzed under my covers, squeezing Zip my stuffed monkey and crying until things calmed down.

  “Yes, you were misinformed. And Chuck was misinformed,” Karen replies. “I don’t think Ms. Ruiz or Investigator Mack knew that he had an outstanding warrant. Chuck was specifically instructed not to arrest him.”

  “It sounds like this was a colossal crater of misinformation,” says Tanner.

  I stay silent.

  “Investigator Mack, it is my understanding you are assigned to this homicide case and were assisting Ms. Ruiz in her trial. Is that correct?” Tanner asks.

  “It is, sir,” says Dylan.

  “Is it fair to say you never informed her of any warrants this suspect had?” asks Tanner.

  “That’s correct. I wasn’t aware of any warrants,” Dylan replies.

  “Did you check a database or run his criminal history?” Tanner asks. “I’m sure the warrant would have been in the database.”

  “Sir, the Leafwood Police Department is the investigating agency on this case. It is an attempted homicide, not a homicide, so SHT hasn’t officially taken it over. The Leafwood Police Department never mentioned the warrant,” says Dylan.

  Dylan should know better than to try to blame another agency. Mike Tanner is a skilled prosecutor. Tanner knows the pass-the-buck blame game and Dylan just got caught doing it.

  “You certainly know what a criminal database system is and what a dispatcher does, don’t you?” asks Tanner condescendingly.

  “I do,” says Dylan.

  “It would be within the color of your authority to use those things to check for warrants, wouldn’t it?” Tanner asks rhetorically.

  Dylan stays quiet.

  “Never mind, don’t answer that,” says Tanner laughing.

  “This isn’t as bad as I thought it was walking into this room. Investigator Mack, I’m going to ask you to step out of the room for just a moment. I need to speak to Ms. Ruiz briefly,” Tanner says.

  Dylan grabs his portfolio and gives me a nervous smile before walking out and closing the door behind him.

  Mike Tanner is an overall distinguished looking man in his late fifties. He has a full set of brown hair that looks fluffed and hair-sprayed neatly. He has on gold rings, a gold watch, and gold cufflinks. His starched white shirt sits flat inside his tan and dark brown suit. Sitting ten feet away from him after he sent Dylan out, I’m able to study his appearance for the first time. It cries out top prosecutor of the county. It’s no wonder he was able to convict my stepfather based on his appearance alone.

  I know my mom’s case struck a chord with him. Twelve years later, he helped to get me hired behind the scenes. At least that’s what the rumors were. I haven’t spoken with him aside from staffings or mandatory meetings like this one.

&nbs
p; This reminds me of when he examined me during my stepfather’s trial. At thirteen years old and crying on the witness stand, Tanner asked the judge to order me to answer questions about hearing my mom scream for me to call police the day she died. Tanner and I haven’t spoken since. It was mainly because of that picture he showed me of my mom when I was testifying.

  A couple years after the trial, he visited me. He tried to apologize to me and explain that he needed the jury to feel my pain. My stepfather was a sympathetic defendant and Tanner was worried the jurors wouldn’t convict him.

  What was most insulting about his visit was that he left some brochures on the Alateen program for me. He told my grandma it had to do with a group that helps family members of alcoholics. Nana told him she didn’t believe in that type of stuff.

  From time to time I wonder if the past twenty years would have been different for me had I started going to Alateen. I never forgave Tanner for showing me that picture.

  “Ms. Ruiz, I know you and I have not spoken in a very long time. Almost twenty years, I think. Any of the people in this room will tell you that I have nothing but respect for you, your trial work, and your contribution to this office. However, I am less than thrilled with your involvement in the fiasco that just happened,” says Tanner.

  I look directly at Tanner in the eyes for the first time in a long time. “What fiasco? If we would have arrested him, a) he wouldn’t have spoken to us, and b) the jail would have cite released him,” I say.

  “We could’ve asked the jail to hold him. And besides that, what’s even more concerning to me is that you had no idea he had an outstanding warrant. What exactly have you and Investigator Mack been doing?” Tanner asks.

  “Do you know how hard I’ve been working on this case? This victim was supposed to start testifying this morning in my trial and she went missing. I’ve been running the past six hours through Leafwood and Mason Valley trying to gather as much information as I can. Judge Hoffman wants a full report when we return to court. That’s what Dylan Mack and I have been doing. And why would you think we’ve been doing anything other than investigating this case?” I ask.

  “Well, for starters, you two were involved in other things in the past,” says Tanner.

  “You have no right to pry into my private life. You know what your problem is? You don’t know when to stop. If you want to talk about work, that’s one thing. But you’ve crossed the line. And this is not the first time you’ve gone way too far. Mr. Tanner, you and I will never see eye to eye,” I say bitterly.

  I look back down at the mahogany table patterns. A warm tear drizzles down my cheek before it drops down onto my black suit blazer.

  “Dylan is the investigator on your case assigned to my unit. Your relationship with him is my concern. When this case is filed, I want you off. Your lack of diligence in having this suspect arrested is reason enough to have you removed from the case,” says Tanner.

  “Good. You go find someone who will care half as much as I do about Laura or this case. No one will fight like I will to get her justice. I know her and this case better than you ever will or anyone you reassign it to. Are we done here? Because I’m through speaking with you,” I say standing up.

  “I have nothing else. Karen?” asks Tanner.

  Everyone looks at each other and stays quiet. I walk out and slam the door.

  5

  EMERGENCY SEARCH

  Within thirty minutes of leaving Tanner’s meeting, I pull up to Laura’s mobile home at the Leafwood RV Park with Dylan. It sends chills down my back. I come here all the time to the Airstream, but the last time I came here with Dylan was a year ago. Not much has changed, even my feelings towards him, which date back to the first time I laid eyes on him two years ago.

  I’ve always thought he was the one. The smell of Dylan’s cologne and his big blue eyes were my biggest weaknesses. His eyes standing out against his tan skin and thick light brown hair catches the eyes of women in all demographics. Two years ago, I became another woman who threw herself at him.

  “You think he’s here?” Dylan asks.

  “Just put it this way. I know he’s here,” I reply.

  Dylan rolls his eyes, half-believing me. We jump out of his truck and make our way slowly up to Laura’s mobile home. The front door is open with the screen blocking our way inside the house. A Mexican soap opera is on the television in the front room.

  Several call-outs for Bess don’t receive any response, and my heart starts beating fast thinking Clown made it to her before we could. My worst nightmare is that some violent perpetrator got loose onto the streets to hurt someone else because of a bad call I made.

  “Señora Sanchez,” I yell several times before telling Dylan we need to go inside.

  “On what basis are we entering this house?” Dylan asks. “There needs to be an emergency or we need a reason to do a welfare check to break through this screen door.”

  “Why can’t we just say he came in here?” I ask. “He’s a wanted fugitive. And responsible for Laura’s assault.”

  “Because you know that won’t fly,” Dylan says. “We have no credible information that he is even here. And no, your angels do not count as a credible or reliable source of information. I need a solid tip that he’s here.”

  I see a man in jeans and a white tank top and suspenders crossing the dirt road in the trailer park towards us. I’ve seen him before, but have never spoken to him.

  “How about we talk with this guy right behind you and see if he saw anything. Hey, Sir! You live here, right?” I ask.

  “Well, I sure do and that’s why I came to speak with you. I recognize you from the Airstream. That’s a fine trailer you got there. And a nice thing you’re doin’ for them girls,” he says in his hillbilly accent.

  Within seconds, Mr. Smith is rattling off the names of his six kids and wife Georgia, who live in the trailer across the way. His style reminds me of my fourth grade, redneck cowgirl costume my mom and I created for my Halloween contest at Tuckford Elementary School. My mom wasn’t feeling well enough to take me shopping the night before Halloween. When she wasn’t icing her black eye, we dug through our closets to see what we could come up with. We found a pair of my stepfather’s suspenders.

  “I saw something suspicious. Someone pulled up, ran through that front door. It happened about ten minutes ago. Next thing I knew, about ten minutes later when I was watching TV, I heard the car start up and take off real fast,” says Mr. Smith.

  “What did he look like?” I ask.

  “Dark hair, spiky, a letter L on his arm, light skin. He looked young, in his 30s. I think I’ve seen his Lincoln in this neighborhood before. Engine has a strange rattling sound,” says Mr. Smith.

  “Thank you for the information. Go ahead and go back to your home,” I say.

  “That should be enough for us to enter. And if anything has happened to Bess inside, that should be enough for us to get fired from our jobs. I can see the headlines now. Possible armed suspect breaks into the victim’s home to kill her mother after the Prosecutor’s Office drops the ball. I’m going in,” I say.

  Dylan follows me down the hallway of Bess’s small mobile home. Watching Dylan’s gun drawn up in front of him just like I have mine causes my chest to tighten and my heartbeat to pulse throughout my body. It’s times like this that my CCW permit comes in handy. After receiving threats while I was working gangs, I decided I needed a Concealed Carry Weapon; so my boobs and thighs got strapped, literally.

  My .38 Special Lady Smith either hides beneath my boobs in a space below my bra or the inside of my thigh when I’m wearing skirts or dresses. Both locations give me easy access to guarantee any surprises go my way.

  The books that line a bookshelf in the hallway of Bess’s home catch my attention. The Secret. The Alchemist. The Five People You Meet in Heaven. Go Ask Alice. The Freedom Writer’s Diary. Scars. The Diary of Anne Frank. Muchacho. Tuesdays with Morrie. Love in the Time of Cholera. The Long Walk. Fruitflesh.
The House on Mango Street. One Hundred Years of Solitude. These weren’t here the first time I came to this house. I can’t believe Laura bought all the books I’ve recommended to the ladies at The Mamacita Club.

  There is no sign of Bess or Clown. Dylan and I creep our way down the hallway and I watch Dylan clear every room, looking under beds and through closets to make sure no one is there.

  An open window off the kitchen at the end of the hallway catches my attention. A white cotton curtain with a yellow lace fringe is blowing in the wind. I look closer to make sure the screen is not off the window, thinking for a second that Clown skipped out of the window leading off the kitchen. The screen is missing.

  “So how did you figure he would be here?” asks Dylan.

  Just as I want to remind Dylan about my powers, I stop.

  “Why do you think he was here?” I ask.

  “I asked you first,” says Dylan.

  I shrug my shoulders and smile. Dylan smiles back at me and holds my gaze.

  “Well?” Dylan asks.

  “I figured this place was worth a shot. Tanner’s pissed at me. And you seemed really upset trying to get the fugitive team after him. I figured, why not try Laura’s house,” I say.

  “Why do you think he would have picked this place?” asks Dylan.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  I start looking around the home. Dylan starts to remind me I wasn’t supposed to be snooping. We were only supposed to enter the house for an emergency reason, like to save a life. I wonder where Bess had gone in such a hurry leaving her front door unlocked and open. I walk into a small room off the hallway. It’s Laura’s room.

  Laura has a long dresser with a mirror on top. A white lace doily drapes across it, with a jewelry box sitting on top. I open the box and the piano music fills the air. A ballerina pops up and begins spinning with her arms in the air. When I first came to this house to talk to her about Javier’s case, I admired this same jewelry box. It was the same kind I had always wished for when I was younger.