John Cabrera's Arc

Chapter 7 of 8

Cabrera drove to the cemetery where his father was buried. The iron gate stood open, rust flaking off the hinges. He parked and walked through rows of headstones until he found the granite marker with his father's name. Detective Miguel Cabrera had worked cold cases for thirty years, never giving up on a single one. John knelt and brushed dirt off the stone. His father had taught him that the truth didn't care about budgets or captains or convenient timing. It just waited. Cabrera stayed there for twenty minutes, not praying, just thinking. When he stood up, his jaw was set. The warrant would expire, but he'd find another angle. He always did. His father had shown him that much. He left the cemetery and drove toward the edge of town. A narrow path cut through rugged granite formations, rocks jutting up from the ground like broken teeth. Cabrera pulled over and got out. He walked the trail, boots scraping against stone. The granite had been here for thousands of years, worn by wind and rain but still standing. Development had swallowed most of the city, but this outcrop remained, too stubborn to move. Cabrera stopped and pressed his hand against the cold rock. Three years on this case, and he wasn't going anywhere either. The city stretched out below the path, buildings crowding together under gray sky. Somewhere down there, Puente was cashing another check that didn't belong to her. Somewhere down there, seven bodies waited in the ground. Cabrera turned and walked back to his car. He'd document the warrant expiration, then start fresh. Social security fraud was still a crime. The handwriting samples proved that much. If he couldn't dig up the bodies, he'd build the case another way—one forged signature at a time. By midnight, he needed coffee. A diner sat on a corner lot, its neon sign glowing red in the dark. The checkered floor and vinyl booths looked like they hadn't changed in forty years. Cabrera slid into a booth and ordered black coffee. A waitress brought it without asking questions. He spread his notebook on the table and flipped through the pages—dates, signatures, check amounts. The fraud case was solid even without bodies. It wouldn't give the families closure, but it would put Puente away. And once she was locked up, he'd keep digging. The bodies weren't going anywhere. Neither was he. Cabrera closed the notebook and drank his coffee. Tomorrow he'd start building the case all over again.