Blood Daughters: A Romilia Chacon Novel

Chapter 32

145 Chapter 32 Sasha hadn’t blown it. She didn’t tip off Pico that we were coming after him. As far as he was concerned, he simply had a heated conversation with a pissed-off, mourning, laborer. Sasha had given us the make of his car, a three year old Lexus, dark brown with gold trim. “He shines it like a new pair of shoes,” she had said. San Diego soon found him making his way down the Five. They kept behind Pico and radioed all nearby San Diego Police to let the speeding Lexus keep on speeding. Give Pico a break today. The guards at the posts on the border let him through easily, with just a quick glance at his passport. Such were some of the advantages of being with the Bureau: our reach could extend so quickly into the other agencies. The San Diego Field Office gave us a fellow named Bruce to be our escort. Once I had flown into the city, Bruce had a car waiting for me. He drove. We talked little beyond my filling him in on the highlights of the case. InTijuana,Picoknewwherehewasgoing.Hedrovesouthonlysofar,then startedtakingstreetswhosenamesIdidnotknow,butwhichwerefamiliarto me. Sadly familiar. Streets I had taken with Nancy only recently. Pico found a parking place just a block away from Precinct Seven and walked in. Officer Saenz walked out of the precinct doors with Pico by the arm, almost tossing him out into the street. Pico turned to the cop, obviously pleading. Saenz said something back, made hand movements, all of which appeared to be the basic Don’t ever come to my job, idiot. I did manage to catch Pico saying something about a daughter. He knew that word, hija. Su hija. Was he talking about Marisa, Sasha’s girl? Is that why he ran down here? 146 ~ Blood Daughters Saenz looked up and down the street. I bent my head and hoped to God he didn’t notice us. It seemed he didn’t. Saenz spat, then turned and walked back into the cops’ offices. “That cop,” I said to Bruce, “is dirty.” “Mexican cop. Isn’t that the definition of dirt?” I wasn’t sure what to say to that. I didn’t like the prejudicial edge to it, but also agreed with it. I told Bruce about my encounter with Saenz on the border. “So,” said Bruce, “your next move?” I rubbed my forehead, rested my head in my hand. “I’m not sure. We talk with Saenz now, we won’t get anything out of him.” Though I wanted to talk with him. I wanted to put my barrel in his face and make him confess to Nancy’s murder, and his role in Marisa’s killing. Instead I said, “Let’s pick up Pico.” “Here? We’re not stateside. Isn’t Pico Mexican?” “No. Hell no.” Acid in my words. And prejudice: the attitudes sown in us early, in childhood. “He’s a damn pocho. No country wants to claim his ass.” 7 That was not fair. Even my mother might have pointed that out to me, though she was the one, when Catalina and I were kids, who drilled into us the importance of knowing Spanish. But she would not have cared for my attitude toward Pico, even though Pico evoked every single attitude about pochos that I had ever heard: that the ones who had not dealt with their pocho-ness ended uphatingtheirownkind.Itprobablydidn’thelpthatSpanishspeakingLatinos made fun of them while growing up. Having fun with tongue-twisters like Pinche-pocho and pocho hasta lo’ hueso. Maybe that’s what made some pochos so bitter. Maybe that’s what had made Pico who he was. But I still hated him. He panicked when Bruce tossed him into the back of our car. He must have thought we were Mexican Mafia, or the Gringo Mafia, until he saw me. I let him see the scar on my neck. That’s always a great way of freaking out somebody on a first impression. “Jesus what you want man, híjole I ain’t done nothing malo, I ain’t ratted, no narc here man, me entiendes?” I showed him my badge, credentials, and said the letters. “Ah shit.” Then,asalastthought,helookedbackathisbrownLexuswiththegoldtrim. Marcos M. Villatoro ~ 147 “Don’t worry,” said Bruce, “it’ll be there when you get back.” Then Bruce did something cruel. He glanced about...