Page 43 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name

She glanced over at the skinny Latino kid stacking dirty dishes onto a tray by the counter. They’d both agreed on the phone that Sebastián could never know about this little arrangement. Daniel was the only family the kid had left. There was no way he’d accept help from the government if he knew it had come with the price tag of putting his brother behind bars for a very long time.

Belinda looked back down at the photo. The two were looking at each other in a way that seemed intimate. But the images were grainy, the lighting poor. She could have just been imagining it. Three low resolution photos did not a relationship make.

She handed Marti´n back his phone. “Can you send these to me right now?”

He nodded, then walked back to the counter, tapping away at his phone.

Belinda’s own phone rang. She took it out of her bag and glanced at the screen.

Oates.

“There’s been an interesting development,” he said. “Sasha Sokolov is no more.”

That surprised her. The Sokolov brothers had been on the government’s radar from the moment they set foot on US soil. A worse pair of entrepreneurial dirtbags she’d had yet to find. “No more, as in, gone to a better place?” she said hopefully.

“No more, as in, gone to a place where hopefully he won’t need a good amount of his head.”

“Shit.” Belinda pushed her plate of half-eaten enchiladas away. “Has this been confirmed?”

“Let’s just say, from a very well-placed source.”

“Ah. The lovely Svetlana. Your favorite CI. How’s she doing?”

Oates’s tone was grim. “Not good.”

Belinda sobered, too. Four months ago, stripper Svetlana Zeitseva had agreed to inform on the Sokolovs, putting her own life in extreme danger. It was the kind of bravery that was usually rewarded with a shallow grave and deserved more respect than Belinda often gave her. “Is she somewhere safe?”

“She’s staying with a friend,” Oates said. “I’ve been in contact with the OEO. I’m doing the paperwork now. Let’s hope we can get her into witness protection before this mess gets even bigger.”

“What happened?”

“La Mano Negrashow up with the product, as agreed. Everyone seemed happy. For about five minutes, anyway.”

Belinda ran a hand around the back of her neck, squeezing the muscles there. “Wait. Why would LMN want to blow up their deal with the Sokolovs? That relationship seemed like a match made in gangster heaven.”

“Oh, no, that deal is still very much alive. The shot-caller wasn’t Terry. It was Borya.”

“Shit,” she said again. “That’s some Russian brotherly love for you right there.”

“I’ll say.”

“And who was the trigger man?”

Oates didn’t answer right away, and she instantly knew the answer.

“Castan~o,” she said.

“The one and only.”

Belinda looked down at the photo of the young man on her phone. She was under pressure to wrap this operation up. And not just from the CPD who wanted their Body in the Dumpsters case solved. Oates himself believed they should just send in ICE to raid Castano’s trailer. They’d almost certainly find evidence to link him to many of the crimes he’d committed. Then they’d make him an offer he couldn’t refuse and wait until he flipped on his friends to save his own ass.

But Belinda knew better. Guys like Castan~o didn’t bend over that easily. He’d take whatever they threw at him—deportation, even life in prison—and smile serenely back at them from his holding cell. No, she’d always known that to break him, she needed more leverage. She needed something, or someone, he cared about more than himself.

“Anyway,” Oates said in her ear. “What you got?”

Her eyes went to the girl he was staring at in the picture.

“Not what,” she said softly. “More like who.”