Chapter 17 Levi #2
Caleb turned the screen back toward himself and scrolled—fast, as if he didn’t want me to see the pieces until they were lined up right. “Okay,” he said finally. “So… this part isn’t from the Sheriff’s archive. Or the DEA mirror. It’s from an… older source.”
Frank frowned. “Meaning what?”
Caleb exhaled. “Meaning it shouldn’t exist anymore.”
A cold prickle climbed my spine. “Show me.”
He hesitated, then clicked a file open. Grainy. Fragmented. Scanned from a document that had been photocopied too many times.
Across the top was a faded crest. Mexican Federal Police—Organized Crime Task Group.
My pulse kicked. “What am I looking at?” I asked.
“Remember, we had to deep dive for this, way past the normal searches we did about your Alejandro’s medical training and license.”
“He’s not my… jesus… okay…”
“What Jamie found was a list of recovered minors from cartel sites in Mexico,” Caleb said, tapping the header.
“Kids found alive at raids. Kids rescued when leadership fell.” My throat tightened as Caleb scrolled to highlighted, half-blurred lines.
“This is after the águilas massacre, when federal agencies went in.”
He sat back in his seat so I could see the screen.
VARGA, GAEL ALEJANDRO. Estimated age 10–14. Condition: malnourished, multiple healed fractures, second-degree partial-thickness burns, nonverbal during recovery. Status: unaccounted for after the raid; transfer destination unknown.
VARGA, LUCíA MARISOL. Estimated age 15–17. Condition: severe anemia, untreated infection, evidence of restraint scars, early first-trimester pregnancy (approx six weeks of gestation), nonverbal upon recovery. Status: unaccounted for after the raid; transfer location unknown.
Frank leaned in beside me, his shoulder nearly brushing mine as he studied the file. “Both unaccounted for?” he murmured, quiet but sharp—fully switched-on now.
“Gael Alejandro Varga? You think that’s Doc?”
“Jamie suggested it after tracking fake passports and money transactions, and I tend to agree with his summary.”
“What does it mean, destination unknown?”
“At this point, no freaking idea, we’re running everything we’ve got on this, but I thought you’d want to know.
One interesting thing that’s been so well-hidden it took a week for Lyric to dig up…
As well as the women and children rescued, he tracked down a leadership survivor, a man called Nazario Ortega, the big guy, also known as Raven.
Six months in a burn ward, looks as if he wrestled a flamethrower and lost. When the cartel shattered, everyone considered the cash pipeline had died with it, but the cash never stopped moving; it just went quiet.
Five years later, this Raven creates a new identity and reboots the águilas Cartel.
Same fear and bones, new skin. Previous smuggling routes were revived, with new faces now operating the product through the Iron Bulls MC as before. ”
“So does it make sense that our dumping ground crime scene and the older bodies, courtesy of a link to a surgeon, could also be linked to the cartel?” And somehow in all of that, Doc?
“Can’t say for sure, but that’s my guess.
And you’re right, our connection is someone who knew about the dumping ground and reopened it, with medical knowledge connected to the old cartel, or the old MC, who’s trafficking organs.
Two timelines, two messes. The hillside’s a graveyard from the old cartel days.
The new body could be linked to the cartel’s new iteration. Who knows?”
Someone with medical knowledge who was linked to the cartel.
Alejandro?
I waited for Caleb to join the dots, but he didn’t; instead, he tapped away and pulled up another screen.
“Now, this is where it gets interesting. Fourteen years ago, the day after the massacre, an offshore account was established under a fake ID, and a shit-ton of the old cartel’s money was syphoned from them to this new account.”
Frank murmured under his breath, leaning closer to the screen, “Follow the money…”
“Raven hiding it?”
“Nope, as I said, he was unconscious in a burn ward on the edge of death, no one else left, and this money was moved the day after the massacre.”
“Maybe an agency took it?”
“Nope, wait until you see this.” Caleb pressed buttons until a cam came online, showing a beautiful old house, palm trees in the courtyard, and a gate. “Those transfers made on the day match the same shell corp that pays the property tax on a Bel Air house owned by Harrow Gate Holdings.”
“So, a cartel base in LA.” Not unheard of.
“Better than that!” Caleb raised an eyebrow. “Guess who we have on cam at the residence?” He zoomed in on a figure climbing out of a flashy black Mercedes, timestamped at six p.m. last night.
Doc.
Alejandro.
My heart stuttered once. “The fuck?”
“Who’s that?” Frank asked.
“That’s Alejandro, your boy’s boyfriend,” Caleb smirked. “Facial match off the gate cam. Big house, old money, quiet street—private security, hidden cameras, manicured lawn. Not the kind of place you rent. The kind you hide in.”
The photo showed Doc stepping out of his car. Jeans, jacket, medical bag in hand. Calm. Confident.
A cartel kid who’d survived. Money vanishes the day after a massacre. What was the connection?
Frank gestured at the photo. “Who else lives there?” Thank god he was here because I was having a hard time stringing words together.
Caleb clicked open another file. “Marisol Harper. Two teenage kids, Bradley and Molly Harper. Clean records, private school, normal suburban bullshit. No mention of a husband.”
“Marisol? Lucia Marisol—is this the sister?”
“Hard to tell, but that’s my best guess.
” Caleb spun the laptop toward himself again, scrolling with the kind of irritated focus that meant he was digging through poorly formatted databases.
“Okay,” he said, tone flat. “Here’s what we’ve got on Doc’s family.
Nothing earth-shattering, just background. ”
I leaned against the counter, arms folded. “Go on.”
“So,” Caleb continued, “as you know, Gael Alejandro Varga has one sibling. Lucia, likely this Marisol who has two kids,” he said, tapping the screen.
“Twins. Bradley and Molly Harper. Fourteen years old. Birth records show they were home births roughly six months after the águilas massacre, which tracks, given the data on her being pregnant, and a potential early birth for twins. There is no father listed. Nothing that jumps out as suspicious in the family beyond the usual ‘domestic trauma plus no resources.’ This is standard for people escaping cartel shit.”
He clicked another tab.
“The kids are in private school,” he went on.
“Looks like they’ve been enrolled there since age four or so.
Molly’s the academic. Excellent grades—teachers rave about her.
Quiet, focused, one of those kids who reads everything.
Bradley’s the sporty one—football. His school reports are basically: ‘bright, distractible, brilliant athlete, talks too much.’ Funding for the school is routed through the same holdings company as the house.
Marisol runs a home business that actually does okay: handmade soaps, candles, spa gift sets.
Boutique stuff. Sells okay, small income.
” He scrolled some more, then shrugged. “No drama. No CPS flags. No police reports. No financial weirdness. Just… a family. A normal one by comparison to the rest of what we look at.”
“Is Alejandro a named guardian to the children?” Frank asked.
“Nope, Marisol is the primary guardian. Although her brother’s name shows up a couple of times—emergency contact, that sort of thing.
” Caleb nodded and closed the laptop partway.
“We don’t have anything dramatic. Just the basics.
Sister, two kids, normal life. Well—” he paused, “normal enough considering where they came from.”
I let out a slow breath. No twists. No hidden surprises. Just context.
I stared at the image for a long moment.
Doc—the man who stitched killers back together, who watched people die without blinking—walking through a front yard that looked as if it belonged in a real estate brochure.
It didn’t fit. Nothing about it did. Unless it was Doc moving organs through the old network.
A medic turned cleaner, the perfect cover for someone who could strip a body and disappear the evidence.
The pieces fit in all the worst ways. I’d had him right there, at the scene of a murder, as he watched, and I’d let him go.
What the fuck had I been thinking?
I pushed off the desk. “Send me the address.”
“Send us the address,” Frank corrected.
I placed a hand on my partner’s arm, grounding him before he could step forward. “Not this time. I need your detective eye on Caleb here. You’re the one who actually sees the shit the rest of us miss.”
“No, I—” he started, bristling with the instinct to follow.
“Sandy would kill me if something happened to you,” I cut in, softer but firmer. “Stay here this time, yeah? Keep Caleb focused. Keep digging. I’ll call the second anything shifts.”
Frank didn’t like it—jaw tight—but he stayed put, giving me the kind of look that said don’t make me regret this.
Caleb hesitated. “Levi, if he’s got people in there—”
“I’m not going to kick the door in,” I lied. “I just want eyes on.”
And if I got to see Alejandro, then that was a win.
Within an hour, I was parked half a block away from The Harrow House—white stone, mirrored glass, electric gates humming with wealth.
The kind of place that oozes security and silence.
Manicured hedges, imported palms, two expensive cars in the driveway.
I should’ve logged the sighting, let Organized Crime handle it, and followed the rules meant to keep me out of trouble.
But I could already hear the whispers if I did.
Levi Rosen fucking a key character in this play.
Another Rosen is entangled in another cartel/MC case.