Chapter 3:

I Love This Division

Two days passed during which Sanchez found himself opening the doors and letting the newbie in. Hell, it wasn't her fault she hadn't been in on the beginnings of the team. None of them had been that close in the beginning. Now they were damn near to family. And in family there's always room for one more.

"Where'd you learn Spanish?" he asked, apropos of nothing whatsoever, on Saturday while the group was gathered eating lunch. They'd been apart for less than two hours since arriving at work on Friday morning and everybody was feeling punchy.

"Spain," she told him around her club sandwich. "My parents are into the schmoozing the locals thing. According to local customs. So we all learned party manners everywhere my family was sent."

"Your mom is a foreign ambassador, right?" Brenda asked.

Tanner Moyer nodded. "They're in Paris now. By far my mom's favorite. My little sisters are having the time of their lives. Every high schooler dreams of falling in love in Paris."

"How many of you are there?"

"Six. My mom gets bored, she has another baby. All girls. My dad jokes that there's one of us for each new country."

"And you are?"

"Duty station number two. Daughter of the American ambassador to the People's Republic of China in Beijing." She bowed over her hands and closed her eyes, much like a benevolent master.

Brenda snapped her fingers. "That's it!" she exclaimed, standing. "That's how they do it! Think about it! Who in the world is going to search the luggage of someone in the entourage of a visiting dignitary? Nobody wants to risk offending anybody at any level." She paced, then started bouncing her finger. "Someone get me a list of the people travelling with the Czech ambassador. I want pictures of the entire group as they get off the place, get the passport photos of all those people and lets check them off one by one. Somewhere in there is a murderer and I want to find him. And when I do..." She leaned over the table. "...I want to find out that he or she is only marauding as a diplomat. I want to be able to punish this person. Do ya'll understand me?"

"Here's the thing," Provenza said quietly hours later. "We know who it is. And we know that they won't be punished, even if we bring them in. But we can still bring them in, right? And nobody knows that we know who they really are, so there's always the chance that we've identified them from photograph and official identification only, right?"

"That actually makes sense," Fox told him.

"Thank you."

"I don't think I want to hear what you're getting at," Brenda told the man.

He shrugged expansively. "I'm just saying, as a dangerous criminal known to be responsible for the brutal deaths of two women, plus the shooting of at least two others, it goes without saying that we'd go in prepared to...defend... ourselves. Just in case he should turn a gun on one of us. None of whom are immune to gunshot wounds."

"He's got a point, chief."

Brenda nodded. "I understand your frustrations. But the justice system was laid out for a reason and that justice system says that we can detain the man for questioning, even find him guilty, but we have to get a confession or concrete evidence against him before the DA will touch this case."

"That said," the chief said, "I want all of you in jackets. This guy doesn't touch you. If you catch my drift. Plant something on him if you have to shoot him, but don't let him even look at you cross-eyed."

Moyer grinned. "I love this division," she pronounced.

Three days later she was in the more familiar pose of a takedown position. Sanchez was going in high and was just behind her in the hallway.

"You know," he said softly as they waited for the 'go'. "The club has more formal sets on Sunday nights."

She shot a look over her shoulder. "Huana Bay? They're closed on Sundays for church."

"It's private," he explained. "But you'd be welcome there, if you want to come."

She pursed her lips, considering. "How formal?"

"Not formal, formal. Most people are still in their church clothes. We go to Mass, then eat, then they dance. It's not like you see on TV. But it's the families, the real dance. Not the nightclub."

"I'd love to see it. I don't think I should, though."

"You'll be fine. You won't be the only white person to ever go or anything."

She laughed, then looked up at him. "That's not what worried me. I don't think I'd be able to keep up. And I haven't been back long enough to feel comfortable just walking in the back door one afternoon."

"Well then come with me. I'll introduce you around. Show you the ropes. It'll be fun. You can do it. I promise."

She nodded before her face lost the pensive look, but he knew he had her.

"Consider it a learning experience," he told her. It was his ace in the hole.

She rolled her eyes. Which he was beginning to think was cute. He was also beginning to question his sanity. The next thirty seconds, spent waiting in silence for the order to move, were the longest in his life.

She went. Of course she went. She was powerless not to. Which was strange, because most of her life had been an exercise in self-control. But it was like the seed was planted and had nothing to do but grow until avoiding it became obvious denial. Which didn't work for her. She had no idea that Michael Sanchez had already spoken for her.

He called Gregorio "Huana" Juarez late Friday afternoon-after they'd all done reams of paperwork explaining why the perp had seven bullets in him. Each one a kill shot, according to the medical examiner. It was a point of pride for the seven members of the police force who had simultaneously seen what they thought was the perp going for a gun. Who was to say he hadn't been? But there wouldn't be a major IA snoop since the ballistics testing would reveal that each bullet came from a different gun. The guy was known to be armed and dangerous. What were they supposed to do when he reached behind his back?

So, feeling good about catching the bad guy, feeling good that he wouldn't be back out on the streets, feeling good that nobody's careers were going down the tubes for it, Sanchez felt lucky. And feeling lucky he placed a phone call to his dad's friend.

"Huana, my man, how are you today?"

"Knee deep in the paperwork and books this afternoon. Looking forward to seeing the numbers tonight. I need them."

"Trouble?" Sanchez asked. He didn't know much about the operations of the club. He just knew that it had been a staple of his life growing up.

"I want more profit. I'm greedy." Sanchez could hear the other man's grin. He could practically feel it. "Want to come buy some lovely chica expensive drinks tonight?"

Sanchez chuckled. "I'm thinking about bringing one to Nanita's Sunday."

"Your friends are always welcome," Huana told him. He wracked his brain to remember if the younger man had a steady girlfriend or not. He couldn't remember any recent gossip, but maybe they'd been seeing each other long enough that it wasn't noteworthy anymore. "I haven't seen you often enough," he chided his friend's older boy.

Sanchez laughed. "I've been working."

"Even on Sunday?" Huana scoffed.

"It's the way of it. I barely make time for Mass some weeks."

"Make time this week. I'm telling Anita that you're coming."

"I will. Even if I'm late, I'll be there."

"Say 'hello' to your father for me," Huana ordered.

"Tell him yourself. You'll probably see him before I will," Sanchez reminded him.

"Take care, Niño."

"I will, old man."

It was all over the neighborhood before Sanchez had showered and gotten a cold beer from his fridge. Huana told his wife that Michael Sanchez had called and was coming with company on Sunday afternoon.

"Oh? And who is this girl?" she asked.

Huana shrugged. "Anita, I'm telling you what I know. Call Mollie. She always knows what her boys are doing."

"I've not heard her ask about some new girl. You know she would ask if we'd met her. He always brings dates to the club. You haven't seen her?"

"It's been a while since he was in. Until last week I hadn't seen Michael at all for maybe a month."

"Hmph."

"The man's an adult, sweetness. He has his own life; he isn't tied to the neighborhood."

Anita put her hands on her hips and stared him down. The man in question wasn't tied to the neighborhood. But he loved it. He'd said so often enough. And there were enough times when he came home just to sit on the porch and see and be seen that they both knew the statement was ridiculous.

"I don't know anything about this hussy," Anita declared, turning and wiping her hands on the towel. Her husband sighed as he watched her go. She would start on the phone and he wouldn't get his supper before he went to the club.

The hussy ran into Sanchez on Saturday morning in the LAPD gym.

"Do you want me to pick you up tomorrow afternoon?" he offered.

Confusion clouded her eyes and she frowned.

"Or do you want to meet somewhere?"

"I'm not sure this is a good ide-"

Sanchez held up one hand. "Anybody who dances the way you do loves it. This is simply a widening of experiences."

Easy for him to say.

"So..."

Moyer sighed. "What time?"

Sanchez smiled. "We usually go over after church. Say 1:00 or so. Eat two o'clock, two-thirty-"

"Should I bring something?"

He looked blank.

"For lunch. Should I plan on going to the early service so I can make something for the meal-"

"Dude, I don't know," Sanchez shrugged expansively. "The women usually take care of all that."

Moyer gestured down at herself in frustration. "Woman," she reminded him in a scathing tone. She rolled her eyes. "Your mother or sisters or aunts or anyone else you know usually go to this thing?"

She watched his face relax as he nodded enthusiastically. "All the time."

"What do they do before the meal?"

He shrugged. "My mom usually helps Nanita and her daughters in the kitchen. My little sister-I don't know. It seems like sometimes she maybe sets the table or plays with the little kids or teases the old men. Whatever."

She was giving him up as hopeless. "Fine. Thank you."

"So?"

"So...I think maybe flowers or wine. Maybe I'll bake. I don't know. I think you're clueless."
At this he arched a brow. "I'll pick you up. Have you ever been to the Mass? Do you want to go with us, meet people there first?"

She rolled her eyes. "My family's been Catholic as long as yours has. I'm fine, thanks." She pulled a notepad out of her gym bag and jotted down a number. "Call me when you get out of church and I'll let you know where I am."

He smiled.