Chapter 10 - Blood in the Mendoza House
Jorge Mendoza held a press conference the morning after his son’s body was found.
He stood on the steps of Mendoza Urban Development headquarters wearing a navy suit, a black tie, and the expression of a grieving father who had practiced in the mirror until the grief looked photogenic.
“My family has suffered an unimaginable loss,” he told the cameras. “My son, whom we loved privately and protected from public attention due to lifelong health struggles, died yesterday while under immense stress caused by false allegations.”
False allegations.
Every word was a brick in the wall he was trying to build around himself.
Reporters shouted questions.
Was his son actually Dr. Emilio Salcedo?
Had he been involved in the Ruiz case?
Was Mendoza Urban under investigation?
Jorge lowered his head at precisely the right angle.
“We will not dignify conspiracy theories while mourning.”
Then he looked straight into one camera.
And although he never said my name, I knew the message was for me.
“Those exploiting tragedy for financial advantage should search their souls before they destroy more families.”
By noon, my consulting account was front-page news.
RUIZ HEIR LINKED TO SUSPICIOUS PAYMENTS.
Investigators Examine Possible Bribes in Land Dispute.
Anonymous sources claimed I had received funds from competitors hoping to block Mendoza Urban’s redevelopment plans. A leaked memo suggested my father’s tapes had been “recently fabricated.” A commentator on television wondered whether my mother’s illness had been “politicized by a desperate son.”
By three, my phone, newly replaced and secured by police, was full of messages from people who had known me for years and suddenly weren’t sure what they knew.
Did you really take money?
Tell me this isn’t true.
Daniel, call me before this gets worse.
The worst message came from my own cousin Elena.
Maybe your mom is confused. Maybe don’t blow up everyone’s life over old papers.
I put the phone face down.
Detective Fuentes found me in the safe apartment kitchen staring at nothing.
“You need a lawyer,” she said.
“I thought I had the truth.”
“The truth needs representation.”
Samuel Ortega came that evening with a younger attorney named Patricia Ramos, who looked barely thirty but carried herself with the calm impatience of someone used to being underestimated. She specialized in financial crimes and defamation. Samuel introduced her as “the sharpest blade I know.”
Patricia reviewed the leaked accusations for twenty minutes.
Then she smiled.
It was not a friendly smile.
“It’s sloppy.”
I blinked.
“It looks pretty effective.”
“Effective and sloppy are cousins. Whoever planted this money expected fear, not scrutiny.”
She pointed to the transaction dates.
“These deposits were routed through three shell vendors over six months. But two of the companies weren’t legally formed until after the first deposit.”
Fuentes leaned closer.
“That’s enough to prove fabrication?”
“It’s enough to start cutting.”
Patricia looked at me.
“Do you have access to your consulting invoices?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We build a clean ledger tonight. Every client. Every contract. Every deposit. Every tax filing. Then tomorrow morning, before Jorge controls the narrative completely, we file for emergency injunctive relief and ask the court to freeze any transaction involving the Ruiz trust.”
“The same court?”
“Not probate,” Patricia said. “Civil division, with notice to the Attorney General. And we attach evidence of judicial corruption so Carrillo can’t touch it.”
I exhaled for the first time all day.
“Can we do that?”
Patricia’s smile widened.
“We can do many things when powerful men panic.”
That night, we worked until dawn.
Fuentes came and went, coordinating with investigators. Samuel sat beside my mother at the hospital, reading every document twice despite his shaking hands. Patricia dismantled the planted-money scheme line by line.
At two in the morning, while reviewing old emails, I found something that made me stop.
A message from Karina, sent to her father five years ago.
Subject-He is not what you said.
I opened it with my heart pounding.
Papá,
Daniel is kind. Lucia is frightened of us, not guilty. I need more time. If we push too hard, he will know. Also, I don’t want Mateo near her. He scares me.
Jorge’s reply was three lines.
Do not confuse softness with truth.
Do not confuse desire with loyalty.
You are a Mendoza before you are a wife.
I sat back.
Patricia watched my face.
“Useful?”
“I don’t know.”
“For court or for you?”
I had no answer.
At dawn, Fuentes returned with news.
“Salcedo’s toxicology found elevated potassium chloride.”
Patricia looked up.
“Not a natural cardiac event.”
“No.”
“Can you prove who administered it?”
Fuentes hesitated.
“We recovered security footage from the airfield.”
She placed her tablet on the table and pressed play.
The footage showed Salcedo entering the aircraft alone. Ten minutes later, a maintenance worker approached carrying a small cooler. Cap low. Face hidden. He boarded for less than three minutes, then left.
Fuentes paused the video and zoomed in on the worker’s wrist.
A tattoo showed beneath the sleeve.
A black scorpion.
I frowned.
“That means something?”
Fuentes nodded.
“Private security group. Former military contractors. They’ve been linked to intimidation work for several development companies.”
“Mendoza?”
“Unofficially.”
Patricia leaned back.
“Can you identify him?”
“Working on it.”
The tablet buzzed with an incoming message. Fuentes read it, and all the color left her face.
“What?” I asked.
She turned the screen toward us.
A live video feed had been sent from an unknown number.
It showed my mother’s hospital hallway.
The two officers outside her door were gone.
The camera moved closer.
Then a gloved hand reached toward the handle.
A text appeared beneath the video.
STOP THE INJUNCTION OR SHE STOPS BREATHING.
May you like
For one horrifying second, nobody moved.
Then Detective Fuentes drew her weapon and ran.
