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“My grandmother died of cancer,” he told her. “By the time they discovered it, it was too late.”
Maybe if a doctor like Gia had been around back then, his grandmother would still be alive—and his mother wouldn’t have agreed to move to Phoenix.
Every patient that morning allowed him into the exam room, their curiosity outweighing caution. It gave him the chance to observe Gia in her world—respectful, caring, patient. She made recommendations she’d likely made more than once.
Between appointments, she called specialists. Researched affordable medication options. Battled systems bigger than herself on behalf of patients who had no one else.
Caleb’s admiration for her grew.
She only stopped for lunch when Jennie intervened, for which Caleb was grateful. His stomach had been growling for hours.
After eating, he let Gia return to her patients while he commandeered the conference room. He had tasks of his own to accomplish—a facility risk assessment for the clinic to keep Gia safe at work, and phone calls to Camila Richardson, his mother’s friend, and to Phoenix PD’s Drug Trafficking Bureau.
Scrolling through his phone, Caleb found the phone number for Camila.
Her voice, warm and soothing, flowed across the line. She'd offered to clear out his mother’s apartment—donating what she could, boxing up any personal items she thought Caleb might appreciate having.
She’d been the one to call and break the news of his mother’s death.
“I won’t be back in Phoenix tomorrow as planned,” he told her. “Something’s come up here.”
“No worries,” Camila assured him. “I found a box with some journals in it. I didn’t want to pry, but they’re in your mother’s handwriting.” She paused. “I think you’re going to want them.”
Journals?
“Yeah, sure. Thank you.” He didn’t know his mother kept journals.
Maybe someday he’d read them. Not now.
Not while his grief was still fresh.
After hanging up, he placed a call to Carson Elliott, the detective in charge of his mother’s death investigation.
“How can I help you, Mister Varella?” the detective answered, his voice impatient.
Caleb tamped down the irritation skating across his neck. “There’s a man named Manuel Ortega. Warehouse manager for Azamex. I need you to find out if he had contact with my mother before she died.”
“What was Mister Ortega’s relationship with your mother?”
“I’m not sure. He knew my father.” A familiar childhood shame burned in Caleb’s chest. He stared blindly at the round analog clock on the wall. “Ortega has ties to both Espina Negra and a motorcycle club in Gallup that may be distributing the cartel’s fentanyl products.”
“Look, Mister Varella,” weariness edged the detective’s voice, “I’ve got thirty open cases besides your mother’s. I’ll pass the information along to the DEA, but you’ll have to be patient.”
In other words, don’t expect much.
Caleb worked his jaw to loosen the tension. “I’ll be in touch.”
He shoved his phone in his pocket and stood.
If he wanted justice for his mother, it looked like he’d have to get it himself.
Chapter Eleven
Giafinishednotationsonher patient’s case file at a computer behind the nurses’ station, its monitor framed with stickers of colorful hot air balloons. The fluorescent lights cast a pale glow over the keys as her nails clacked across them with the efficiency of years in practice. The sharp smells of disinfectant and burnt coffee hung in the air.
“You always use the same computer,” Jennie said as she returned from escorting an elderly man into room two.
Gia smiled. “I love the balloons. They’re fun to look at.”