The Mamacita Murders Page 7

  I make it to my gun safe and rest my fingers in the hand impression on top of it, sticking my index finger into a drop down compartment. The safe door flips open towards me and I reach inside for my Glock. The light outside my window turns back on. I curse myself for buying the discount window shades. Whoever’s outside can see in more than I can see out.

  I grab my nine millimeter magazine that is fully loaded with bullets and push it into the chamber of my Glock. I hold the top of the gun and rack the slide. The clicking sound makes me feel ready. For what? I have no idea.

  Another sound from the bushes outside my window gets my heart pumping fast again. I take two deep breaths in and out. I walk to my bedroom door, close it, and crawl back into bed. I sit up, spread my legs, and balance my body. Then, I hold my Glock. Steady. Good job, Grace Under Pressure. I aim it at my bedroom door.

  I’ve been a prosecutor long enough to know that no 9-1-1 call will ever protect you like you can protect yourself. I’ve always learned it’s best to stay in one place, armed and ready, waiting for someone to come find you. It’s better than walking around my place. I know the layout of my place much better than any intruder would know. I’ll wait for him to come to me.

  I listen to the waves crashing and sit in darkness. I look at my dresser, wondering if I should put some clothes on. My mom used to tell me to always wear clean underwear when I leave the house in case I was ever taken to the hospital. But I’m too nervous to get up. And the only person who’s going to the hospital tonight is going to be the intruder who’s about to get a nine millimeter bullet right through his chest.

  The only sound I can hear is the rush of blood through my body, which sounds like I’m under water. And then, my beating heart, a sound I’m starting to hear a lot more lately.

  I hear the screen on my front door open. I look at my alarm clock on my night stand. 10:05 p.m. I grab my cell phone and dial a nine, deciding whether to call 9-1-1. Who would be coming to my door at this hour, on a weeknight? If I call 9-1-1, they’ll think I’m crazy.

  I close my eyes and grip onto the handle of my Glock. Please tell me what to do. Nothing. Why do I do what I do? Is this really worth being a prosecutor? I hate living in fear. I don’t get paid enough for this. I think of my mom. And I remember that if my life ended right now, it would be the beginning of a new one with her. My eyes flutter as I grip tighter, careful not to touch anywhere near the trigger.

  I look at my other night stand and see my homicide pager lying there. I’m not going to be the next homicide victim. Just as I dial the next number, I hear the screen to my front door close. I stay quiet, then hear a car door open and close, before an engine starts. The sound of a car driving away makes me hang up the 9-1-1 call. I listen. The sound is so familiar. The ticking rattle of an engine, the same one after the drive-by, fades in the distance.

  I get up and walk down my hallway, holding my Glock in one hand and my cell phone in the other. I get to my front door and look through the peephole. I can’t see through it because something is blocking it. I dial Dylan’s number and listen to his voicemail pick up, then hang up and open the door.

  A note lies in the iron trap design around the peephole of my door. I grab the note as my sensor light turns on. The sound of my beating heart gets louder as I stare beyond the light. A coyote stares eagerly at me. I slam the door shut, flip my inside light on, and let out a deep breath. I put my phone and gun down and open the note. In purple ink, it reads:

  You’Re next. You’Re choice. Bullet, blade, oR flamingo vase?

  8

  ANGEL’S DEN

  The morning after receiving the note, I sit at a small round table inside my Airstream with Angela. She flips over the “Kiki’s Closet” chalkboard sign hanging from a pink satin ribbon on the door to read “Angel’s Den.” I love how she sets the mood, turning our wardrobe closet into our private angel reading room, even during broad daylight.

  She pulls the black fabric curtain with bright pink symbols and designs to shut it closed and make the Airstream as dark as possible. Then she lights a candle on the table next to the threatening note I received last night. We study the note.

  “This means one thing for sure. There’s more to this. Whoever left this note last night was driving the car with that same rattling sound I heard during the drive-by shooting. That’s the same noise the housekeeper described at the motel Laura was assaulted at,” I say.

  “Do you notice all the capital R’s?” says Angela.

  I look closer at the note. “Yeah. What do they mean?” I ask eagerly.

  “I don’t know. Nothing specific. Your angels are just alerting me to them,” says Angela.

  I let out a big frustrated sigh.

  “Not everything has significance. Don’t get frustrated. Just take mental note of it,” says Angela, picking up on my irritation.

  “Look, Gaby,” Angela continues. “I think you really need to tell someone about this. Someone is threatening you. And it’s a direct threat towards The Mamacita Club. I don’t think we should be hiding this, especially after the drive-by.”

  “Give me one good reason. What is the police department going to do with this note? Nothing. They’re not going to find fingerprints, DNA, or anything on it. The only thing turning it over is gonna accomplish is shutting us down. My office is already talking about the liability of us being here. You know what people like Stevie Sapp and Ed Vanderbilt think of us,” I say angrily.

  “I’m just concerned about you and for us. They’re targeting the club. You guys have Clown in custody for what happened to Laura, but obviously there’s more than just him involved. Maybe they can relocate you or our club for a bit,” says Angela.

  “Angela, they’re going to shut us down. And they’re not going to relocate me or even give me any kind of protection. I’m leaving soon on vacation anyway,” I plead. “Is this what my angels are saying or is this coming from you?” I say suspiciously.

  “It’s coming from me, as a concerned friend. For you and the club,” says Angela.

  I look away from Angela, upset.

  “Tell me more about the animal you saw last night. Are you sure it was a coyote and not a wolf?” Angela asks changing the subject.

  “It was definitely a coyote. It was limber and slender. It was staring at me; really curious,” I say.

  “Hmmm. Well, coyotes are known as tricksters. They give you the impression that things are not as they seem, until the lesson is learned and the wisdom is gained,” says Angela.

  “So what am I supposed to be learning?” I ask skeptically.

  After pausing and closing her eyes tightly, Angela looks up at me. “I don’t know. I’m not getting a read,” she replies. “Maybe just the obvious, that this case is not as clearcut as it seems. That there’s more to it,” says Angela.

  “Well, that’s obvious from the note,” I say sarcastically. “No one would know about the flamingo vase except law enforcement or Clown.”

  “Are you gonna tell Dylan about it?”

  “He already suspects someone’s targeting us. I’m not gonna confirm his suspicion. It will get back to my office. I don’t want our club to be blamed for Laura’s assault,” I say.

  “Gaby, just hear me out,” Angela says. “What if something happens to you or to the girls again? Do you realize the liability for us? Knowing that you’ve received this threat, then to stay up and running here at the park.”

  “Do you know how hard we’ve worked to build The Mamacita Club up? I can’t believe you would even think of jeopardizing it by telling police. It’s only going to mean one thing. That my office will shut us down. That doesn’t mean the same thing for you as it does for me. You have a family. You don’t need The Mamacita Club. I don’t have anyone. This is all I have. Plus threats are just that, threats. Terrorism is in the eye of the beholder. I don’t want my office to shut us down over terrorist threats. If someone wants to take me out, fine; let them. At least I’d be back with my mom,” I say, starting to sh
ake.

  “You’re right, you’re right. We at least owe it to the members to let them know about the threat. And then let them make a decision about whether they want to come back,” says Angela persistingly.

  “Fine, you can tell them. But tell them they’re not welcome back if they quit,” I say dramatically.

  “Gaby, you’re being paranoid. The club will always be their home. They’re not going to leave us forever. They love it here too much. It will just be a temporary thing. And I’ll tell them to keep this confidential,” says Angela.

  “Fine,” I say reluctantly. “Do my angels have any ideas to get the police department to look deeper into this case without alerting them to the note?” I ask.

  “I wouldn’t worry about that. Just force them to do their job and comb through all the evidence. Stay persistent. Be the coyote until the wisdom is learned and the truth comes out,” says Angela.

  9

  POINTS OF COMPARISON

  Minutes after leaving the Airstream, I pull up to the Fingerprint Office. The thirty-second walk from my car to the building feels like a mile in the humidity. The smell of the cow manure and thick air makes me want to gag. We are minutes from an area that used to house chicken farms. The years of chicken poop must have seeped well into the ground to suffocate the next seven generations.

  I open the door to the Fingerprint Office and I walk straight through and up to the front desk.

  “Hi there, I’m Gaby Ruiz with the Tuckford County Prosecutor’s Office,” I say. “I’d like to talk to someone about a fingerprint comparison in a case I’m investigating.”

  After a few minutes of speaking with a white-haired receptionist, I follow Fingerprint Examiner Linda Dean down a hallway. We pass cubicles and other examiners looking into round handheld magnifying glasses examining fingerprint cards.

  “Go ahead and have a seat right here,” says Ms. Dean, pointing at two chairs in her cubicle area. “What can I do for you?”

  “A forensic technician found a fingerprint in the case I’m investigating. We think the victim was hit in the head with the vase. The technician photographed the print and sent it to you for examination. This is the case number. I just came to see if there were any results.”

  “Yes, actually,” Ms. Dean begins. “I just spoke with Investigator Mack on this from the Special Homicide Team. It is actually a very clear print of a thumb. Typically, I look for ten points of comparison on the actual print in order to be confident that I can read it. It appeared there are sufficient points of comparison. I spoke with Investigator Mack and he actually submitted the suspect’s recent booking print to me. I have it right here and I should have the comparison done by Monday.”

  “Is there any possible way you can do it right now?” I ask.

  “I have higher priority cases right now,” Ms. Dean replies. “I have prints waiting to be examined from a murder and a child kidnapping case. Those get priority. Our office has strict rules on our caseloads. This case is not a high priority. Plus, I understand you already have a suspect in custody, so it doesn’t have the urgency of other investigations where the suspect is on the loose.”

  “Look, Ms. Dean,” I say. “We have similar rules at my job. My trials get priority over recently filed cases. My child molestations get priority over adult sexual assaults. I get what you’re saying. But I have a staffing Monday morning and I’m trying to get all my ducks in a row. This is the key piece of evidence. If it doesn’t belong to our suspect, that will be a major issue. Either he had help or the real suspect might be on the loose.”

  “I understand what your goal is, but I can’t just drop everything to work on your case,” says Ms. Dean.

  I breathe in and out deeply and try to formulate my frustrated thoughts before I open my mouth.

  “Ms. Dean, sometimes there is no good reason for doing something, other than just to help a girl out. I’m going to get grilled on Monday for why I couldn’t get you to give me this information. And there will be no good reason why this couldn’t be done sooner than later. You not helping me is going to delay things. It’s just one thumbprint and like you said, it’s a good one. If anyone gives you a hard time about it, you can just refer them to me,” I say.

  “Look, I’d really like to help you but...” says Ms. Dean.

  “I’m trying to do my job and it’s my job to have every question answered,” I say, interrupting her. “It shouldn’t take you that long to look at it. And then I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “I’m not doing it, Ms. Ruiz. This is how my casework gets behind and I get into trouble,” says Ms. Dean.

  “I guess this case is not as important to you as it is to me,” I say. “It seems like you have dozens of prints you are waiting to compare and it’s just another fingerprint that comes across your desk. I wish I had your job sometimes, where I didn’t have to look into the eyes of the victims or their family and tell them we are going to have to wait for justice.

  “My life would be much easier if I didn’t have to fight to figure out who hurt seventeen-year-old Laura. She’s sitting on her deathbed in a coma at the hospital. I would love to trade jobs with you so I wouldn’t have to look into her mom’s eyes and tell her we still don’t have an answer. But at least I can tell them I tried,” I say, grabbing my purse from the floor and starting to stand up.

  “Well. All right. This shouldn’t take long. Let me take a quick look and see if it matches,” says Ms. Dean.

  I sit back down as Ms. Dean puts on her black-rimmed reading glasses and takes out a fingerprint magnifier. She positions it over the thumbprint on Clown’s fingerprint card. She looks from his thumbprint to the blown-up photograph of the bloody print, then looks at her points of comparison chart that sits bulletin-pinned on her corkboard inside her cubicle. She takes her glasses off, starts writing some notes down inside her file, and finally puts her pencil down and looks up at me.

  “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” she asks.

  “The good,” I say.

  “We actually have a couple good things here. That print landed in her blood after she was probably hit in the head. It’s called a patent print. Additionally, the thumbprint is facing downwards on the vase as if the suspect held it in a way he could strike her with the most force. See how the ridges curve up and around in the core?” says Ms. Dean, pointing to the center of the bloody thumbprint in the photo.

  “Wow. You would testify to that?” I ask.

  “That’s my interpretation. So yes,” she says.

  “And the bad?” I ask.

  “It’s not your suspect’s print.”

  10

  ORDER OF THE COURT

  Within thirty minutes of leaving the Fingerprint Office, I sit in Department Thirteen. The morning sun’s rays peek their way through the windows as Javier Sanchez shoots his eyes from Dylan, to me, and then the double door entrance of the courtroom. He’s looking for any indication of what’s about to happen. The courtroom clerk, reporter, and deputy do the same before looking at one another as though they are placing bets on what’s about to happen.

  I figure I might as well wait to tell everyone at once what’s going on. I don’t feel like dealing with the questions they will have about Laura and the case. Plus, Carol Hernandez, a well-respected local news reporter, is sitting in the back of the courtroom. The media PR person at my office alerted me yesterday that she was getting calls on the case when they discovered Laura was found in the motel.

  “When are we going to get the DNA results back?” I ask Dylan.

  “They are telling me it will take five months,” says Dylan.

  “Geez, will they speed it up if Laura dies and this case becomes a homicide?” I ask.

  “Calm down. I know what you’re thinking. But that print can belong to a number of people,” says Dylan.

  “‘Like who?” I ask.

  “Laura for one,” says Dylan.

  I think for a second about whether to tell Dylan about the note.
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br />   “Let’s get over to the hospital then the Crime Lab as soon as we’re done here. I want to see Laura’s injuries. And I want to see if the lab will rush the DNA. I’d like everything done before I head out on my vacation. I don’t want to worry about things falling through the cracks after I hand it off,” I say.

  “Sure, but we won’t need that stuff for the preliminary hearing. We have more than enough to get a holding order. I think we’re solid,” says Dylan.

  Before I can respond, I’m interrupted.

  “Come to order, remain seated, court is now in session. The Honorable Samuel Hoffman presiding,” yells the deputy.

  “Are we ready to proceed, Ms. Ruiz?” asks Judge Hoffman.

  “No, Your Honor, we are not,” I say.

  “Have you located Laura?” Judge Hoffman asks.

  “Yes, Your Honor. I’m not sure if you’ve had a chance to read the newspaper, but Laura was found unconscious in a motel room in Leafwood. But for the grace of God, she is not dead. She is currently at Tuckford County Memorial Hospital,” I say.

  “Is Laura’s condition the same?” I whisper to Dylan.

  “Yep,” says Dylan.

  “My goodness. I’m so sorry. I realize you may have been close to her,” says Judge Hoffman.

  I wonder if Judge Hoffman is speaking in a friendlier tone because someone from the media is in the courtroom actually listening to what he’s saying and will quote him in the paper. I wish I had a media representative following me around court every day.

  “What is her expected recovery time?” asks Judge Hoffman.

  “We don’t know at this point,” I say.

  “I know based on our pretrial motions, she had a difficult life and was making bad choices, and running the streets. I’m assuming that had to do with what happened to her,” says Judge Hoffman.