nature of the neighborhood, a steady vitality pulsed through the district like blood coursing through an artery.
Before she hit the intersection of Castroville Road, Becca turned her Crown Vic down a side street near Taqueria Vallarta, one of her favorite places to grab a bite. The restaurant served killer barbacoa in fresh corn tortillas, a traditional weekend treat. And if Jose Cuervo took unfair advantage of her the night before, a mega bowl of menudo would do the trick. The breakfast of champions. In "the hood," you couldn't beat the aromas. The dinner hour and her stomach growled in response. But as hungry as she was, Becca had too much on her mind to stop.
After turning onto San Bernardo Street, she spotted the red F—150 of Rudy Marquez and pulled in behind the vehicle. Glittering in the waning sun, rosary beads hung from the rearview mirror of the truck, a common display in town, but the man was nowhere in sight. Before she got out, Becca scanned the neighborhood and confirmed the street address. House numbers reflected off a rusted white mailbox that listed to one side, its concrete base uprooted. She'd found the place.
The Marquez family lived in a dingy white clapboard house with window frames and front door painted in a bright blue, the paint peeling in spots. A dismal pit the size of a matchbox. Even though wrought iron covered every window and door of the house—no doubt meant as a deterrent to crime—the run-down condition of the property should have been enough to discourage a criminal looking for a quick score. What could these people possess that would be worth stealing? But she knew better. Criminals preyed on the poor, who lacked the resources to do anything about it. So much went unreported.
Becca heaved a sigh and got out of her car, shifting her thoughts to how she would conduct her interview with Marquez. Until she got a sense of Rudy's part in all this, she had to play her cards right.
A chain-link fence bordered patches of green in front of the Marquez place. Weeds and dandelions had locked horns with what remained of the St. Augustine grass. Yard work and house repairs were low on the family's list of priorities. They had enough on their minds. With casebook and pen in hand, Becca stepped inside the cyclone fence and clanked the gate shut behind her.
Yellow ribbons made of plastic fluttered in the breeze, tied to a scrawny mesquite tree. A reminder of the family's loss. A stone shrine stood near the cement front stoop with a ceramic statue of the Virgin Mary gazing down, arms outstretched. Placed under rocks to hold them in place, laminated photos of Isabel had weathered and were lying at the foot of the sculpture—a sad memorial.
For a long moment, Becca stared at the grotto, wanting to pray. But the words wouldn't come.
"Can I help you?" A thick Hispanic accent.
As she turned, the glare of sunset hit her sight line, blaze orange on a last-ditch assault. Becca squinted and raised a hand to block the light. From what she saw, the silhouette of a man stood inside the screen door, his face in shadow. She reached for her badge and held it up.
"My name is Detective Rebecca Montgomery. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
"Is this about Isabel?" The man's face came out from the dark.
Becca stopped, taken back by the sight. He had an uncanny resemblance to the missing girl. Yet the white collar had been a complete surprise. Standing in the threshold of the Marquez house stood a priest.
"Are you a family member, Father?"
Intense dark eyes framed by a full head of black hair, dark skin, medium height and build. Although she saw the family resemblance, this man's stern expression hardened the Marquez likeness, gave it an edge.
"Yes, I'm Victor Marquez. Isabel is . . . my sister."
The priest struggled with whether to use the present tense. She knew the feeling. He didn't open the screen door, only stared out the mesh, using it as a fragile barrier against what would come next.
Becca knew
Before she hit the intersection of Castroville Road, Becca turned her Crown Vic down a side street near Taqueria Vallarta, one of her favorite places to grab a bite. The restaurant served killer barbacoa in fresh corn tortillas, a traditional weekend treat. And if Jose Cuervo took unfair advantage of her the night before, a mega bowl of menudo would do the trick. The breakfast of champions. In "the hood," you couldn't beat the aromas. The dinner hour and her stomach growled in response. But as hungry as she was, Becca had too much on her mind to stop.
After turning onto San Bernardo Street, she spotted the red F—150 of Rudy Marquez and pulled in behind the vehicle. Glittering in the waning sun, rosary beads hung from the rearview mirror of the truck, a common display in town, but the man was nowhere in sight. Before she got out, Becca scanned the neighborhood and confirmed the street address. House numbers reflected off a rusted white mailbox that listed to one side, its concrete base uprooted. She'd found the place.
The Marquez family lived in a dingy white clapboard house with window frames and front door painted in a bright blue, the paint peeling in spots. A dismal pit the size of a matchbox. Even though wrought iron covered every window and door of the house—no doubt meant as a deterrent to crime—the run-down condition of the property should have been enough to discourage a criminal looking for a quick score. What could these people possess that would be worth stealing? But she knew better. Criminals preyed on the poor, who lacked the resources to do anything about it. So much went unreported.
Becca heaved a sigh and got out of her car, shifting her thoughts to how she would conduct her interview with Marquez. Until she got a sense of Rudy's part in all this, she had to play her cards right.
A chain-link fence bordered patches of green in front of the Marquez place. Weeds and dandelions had locked horns with what remained of the St. Augustine grass. Yard work and house repairs were low on the family's list of priorities. They had enough on their minds. With casebook and pen in hand, Becca stepped inside the cyclone fence and clanked the gate shut behind her.
Yellow ribbons made of plastic fluttered in the breeze, tied to a scrawny mesquite tree. A reminder of the family's loss. A stone shrine stood near the cement front stoop with a ceramic statue of the Virgin Mary gazing down, arms outstretched. Placed under rocks to hold them in place, laminated photos of Isabel had weathered and were lying at the foot of the sculpture—a sad memorial.
For a long moment, Becca stared at the grotto, wanting to pray. But the words wouldn't come.
"Can I help you?" A thick Hispanic accent.
As she turned, the glare of sunset hit her sight line, blaze orange on a last-ditch assault. Becca squinted and raised a hand to block the light. From what she saw, the silhouette of a man stood inside the screen door, his face in shadow. She reached for her badge and held it up.
"My name is Detective Rebecca Montgomery. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
"Is this about Isabel?" The man's face came out from the dark.
Becca stopped, taken back by the sight. He had an uncanny resemblance to the missing girl. Yet the white collar had been a complete surprise. Standing in the threshold of the Marquez house stood a priest.
"Are you a family member, Father?"
Intense dark eyes framed by a full head of black hair, dark skin, medium height and build. Although she saw the family resemblance, this man's stern expression hardened the Marquez likeness, gave it an edge.
"Yes, I'm Victor Marquez. Isabel is . . . my sister."
The priest struggled with whether to use the present tense. She knew the feeling. He didn't open the screen door, only stared out the mesh, using it as a fragile barrier against what would come next.
Becca knew
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