“Crazy business.”
“What’s that, Archer?” Espinoza, a homicide detective for the sheriff’s department, looked up from his phone and squinted at Clay.
“Nothing. Just thinking about the insanity that goes on in this town.”
Espinoza spread his arms wide. “Paradise, right?”
“Yeah, some clueless gringo even got that wrong, didn’t he? Paradiso doesn’t even mean Paradise in Spanish.”
“Wrong name—” Espinoza kicked at a pile of sand “—and wrong description.”
Clay and the other Border Patrol agents packed it in, and left the scene to the coroner and the homicide detective. On the way back to his truck, Clay poked Dillon in the back. “You taking some time off?”
“Heading to a rodeo in Wyoming. Can you hold down the fort?” Dillon swept his hat from his head and tossed it onto the passenger seat of his truck.
Jerking his thumb over his shoulder, Clay said, “Unless we find the head or the drugs, especially the drugs, there’s not much for me to do on this one.”
“The drugs will be on the street by the time I come back.” Dillon nodded toward the new agent, hanging back, the green around his gills matching his uniform. “You think he’ll work out?”
“He’ll be okay.” Clay leveled a finger at Dillon. “I remember your first dead body. You didn’t do much better.”
Dillon scooped his hair back from his forehead and flashed his white teeth. “I guess you’re right.”
“Don’t break that pretty face riding one of those bulls.” Clay turned and strode to his truck with Valdez waiting by the passenger side.
“You getting in or staying out here?”
Valdez’s eyes bulged briefly. “Just didn’t want to sit in the truck without the AC. Is that it for the day?”
“That’s it for my day. You’re gonna go back to the office and write up this report. Make sure you check in with the sheriff’s department to see if you can add anything before you send it to the Tucson Sector.”
They both climbed in the truck, and Clay cranked on the air. They’d gone several miles before Valdez turned to him, clasping his hat in his lap.
“Do you think they’ll find the head? What do you think Las Moscas did with it?”
Clay raised his stiff shoulders. “I don’t know. Don’t think about it too much, kid. It’ll make you...”
Clay drilled the desert horizon with narrowed eyes. He didn’t finish his warning to Valdez because he didn’t know what it made you. What had it made him? Bitter? Hard?
He blew out a breath. The work hadn’t done that.
A half hour later, Clay pulled his truck into the parking lot of the Paradiso Border Patrol Office—one of several offices in the Tucson Sector.
For the most part, the residents of Paradiso chose to remain blissfully ignorant about the dangers at the border. The violence of the drug trade didn’t affect them directly, so they were able to carry on with their daily lives—despite people meeting bloody ends several miles down south.
Livestock, lettuce and pecans had been kind to the folks of Paradiso. Its close proximity to the tourist trap of Tombstone hadn’t hurt, either. They lived in a bubble. There hadn’t been a murder within the city limits since...Courtney Hart.
Clay left Valdez in the office and swung by Rosita’s to pick up a burrito on his way home.
As he slapped his cash onto the counter, Rosita put her hand on his. “We heard news of a body at the border.”
Once the Paradiso PD was involved, news traveled fast. He couldn’t blame them. The residents had a right to know—whether they cared or not.
“Unfortunately, that’s true.”
“Drugs?” Rosita’s dark eyes shimmered with tears, and a knife twisted in Clay’s gut.
Rosita’s youngest son had gotten hooked on meth—it hadn’t ended well.
“Yeah, probably a mule.”
“A girl?” She clasped her hands to her chest. “We heard it was a girl this time.”
“A young woman, yes. Ended up on someone’s bad side.” He shoved the money across the counter. “Keep the change, Rosita.”
“Is there a good side when it comes to drugs?” Rosita swept up the bills. “Thanks, Mr. Clay.”
He waved and reached for the door, stepping aside for a couple of customers coming in for dinner. He tossed his bag of food on the passenger seat and took off for home.
His house lay outside the collection of the newer developments that had sprung up in response to the pecan-processing plant. He preferred a little space between him and the next guy.
As he turned down the road that led to his house, he loosened his grip on the steering wheel and flexed his fingers. He swung into the entrance to his long driveway and slammed on the brakes to stop behind an old, white compact sporting New Mexico plates.
His muscles tense, he reached for his weapon wedged in the console and waited in his idling truck. The individual Border Patrol sectors were small enough that the bad guys could discover the identities of the agents if they had a mind to. He held his breath as the driver’s side door of the car swung open, and a...bride stepped out.
Clay whipped the sunglasses from his face and hunched over the steering wheel. Damn, that was no bride. That was bridezilla—April Hart in the flesh.
Leaving his weapon in the truck, he shoved open his door and placed one booted foot on the dirt and gravel of his driveway. He unfolded to his full height, straightening his spine and pinning April in a stare.
She tossed a mangled mane of blond hair over one shoulder and offered up a smile and a half-raised hand. “Clay, it’s good to see you.”
Did she expect him to rush to her and sweep her into his arms? He folded those arms across his chest in case they got some crazy notion to do just that on their own. He dipped his chin to his chest. “April.”
She dropped her hand and tugged on the top part of the dress that clung to her slender waist and rose to encase the swell of her breasts. “I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here...in this dress.”
“You took a detour on the way to our wedding two years ago and you just found your way back?” His lips twisted into a smile while a knife twisted into his heart.
“N-no.” She clasped her hands in front of her, interlacing her fingers. “It’s a long story. Can we talk inside?”
“Do you ever have any other kind of story?” Before she could answer his rhetorical question, he dipped back into his truck and swept his bag of food from the passenger seat and holstered his weapon.
He slammed the door of the truck and stalked up his driveway, brushing past April in her wedding finery.
The gravel crunched behind him as she followed his footsteps. “Someone left you a present. It was here when I drove up.”
A round, pink-striped box sat on the corner of his porch. Clay tilted his head to the side, his pulse ratcheting up a notch. Nobody left him presents—especially the kind in pink boxes.
“You have your hands full. I’ll grab it for you.” April barreled past him, the crinkly material of her gown skimming against his hand.
A spike of adrenaline caused him to make a grab for her dress, but she slipped through his fingers. The story of his life.
“April, wait.”
“That’s okay. I got this.” She reached the porch and grabbed the ribbon on the top of the box. “This is heavy.”
She lifted the box a few feet in the air. Then the lid came off and the bottom of the box hit the porch with a thud.
April’s scream reverberated in his ears as the severed head bounced once, splattering her white dress with blood, and rolled off the porch.
Chapter Two
April opened her mouth to scream again, but the sound died in her throat, which seemed to be closing. She gurgled instead, falling back against the wooden railing of
the porch, her hand still clutching the pink ribbon, the lid of the hatbox swinging wildly and flinging droplets of blood throughout the air.
“Oh my God. It’s the head.” Clay pointed to the soggy hatbox tipped on its side. “Don’t touch that.”
Her gaze darted to his face. Was he out of his mind? Why would she touch that box again?
She dropped the lid and swallowed. “It—it’s a severed head.”
“I’m sorry you had to see that.” He pulled a cell phone from the front pocket of his green uniform shirt. “I’ll get someone to pick it up.”
“I would hope so.” Her hands clutched at the skirt of her dress, until she noticed the streaks of blood marring the white billows. She dropped the material and folded her arms over her midsection. “You don’t seem surprised. You called it the head. You know that head?”
“I do, although I didn’t expect it to show up on my porch. I didn’t expect you to show up on my porch, either.” He started talking on his cell phone and held up his key chain, jingling it in the air.
She nodded and he tossed the keys at her. She caught them in one hand and opened the door to his house—a house and home that could’ve been hers.
She set the keys on a table by the front door. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Nothing with Clay could ever be uncomplicated. There had to be a head in a pink hatbox sitting on his porch the very day she decided to drop in for a visit.
Her eyelids flew open. Was that what she was doing?
Her gaze traveled around the room. He hadn’t much modified his manly space...or his habits. Everything had a place. Even the pillows on the couch sat erectly and in order.
April sauntered to the couch and flipped one of the pillows on its face. She scanned the framed pictures on his bookshelf, looking for her face in vain.
She jumped as a siren wailed on its way to Clay’s house. A few minutes later, what sounded like a hundred vehicles pulled up outside. She peeked through the blinds at the uniformed officers swarming Clay’s driveway. The head obviously had something to do with Clay’s work as a Border Patrol agent. He’d been almost more surprised to see her on his doorstep than the head in the box.
She crossed her arms, cupping her elbows, as a shiver zigzagged up her spine. Clay played a dangerous game down here at the border. Although part of the Tucson Sector, the Paradiso Border Patrol Office was small and everyone—including the drug dealers—knew the agents. Had someone left that head as a warning to Clay?
Good luck. Clay would always do his duty.
The door burst open, and her heart slammed against her chest.
Clay stuck his head into the room. “Detective Espinoza wants to talk to you for a minute.”
April smoothed the skirt of the dress with shaky hands. “Is the head still on the driveway?”
“It is, but they’re going to bag it soon. I’ll ask the detective to come in here, if you want.”
“I’ll be all right as long as I stay on the porch.”
He pushed the door wide, and she swept past him, the dress crinkling between them.
April stepped onto the porch, lifting her skirts to avoid the cone that had been placed next to the stain of blood where the box had sat.
A gray-haired Latino in a suit and a cowboy hat stuck out his hand, his eyes widening as they dropped to her dress. “Ms. Hart, I’m Detective Espinoza. Agent Archer told me you’re the one who picked up the box and it had been here when you arrived.”
“That’s right.” She took in his rugged features and frame from the top of his black hat to the tips of his silver-toed boots. He hadn’t been one of the cops in Paradiso or one of the Pima County detectives during her family troubles.
“What time did you arrive at Agent Archer’s house?”
She glanced at Clay from the corner of her eye. “About five o’clock.”
“The box was already on the porch?”
“It was.”
“Did you see anyone around the house when you got here?” His gaze flicked again to the wedding gown and then back to her face.
“Nobody.” She snapped her fingers. “The dog. Clay, where’s Denali? Do you still have him?”
“Of course I still have him.” He lifted one eyebrow. “He’s staying overnight at the vet.”
“Is he okay?”
Espinoza cleared his throat. “So, you didn’t see or hear anything unusual when you drove up to the house. Did you get out of the car?”
“I didn’t get out of the car. I was tired from my drive and put the seat back to take a nap. Clay got here about an hour after I did, waking me up when his truck pulled in behind me.”
“Why did you pick up the box?”
“Clay had his hands full.” She shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Espinoza narrowed his eyes. “Hart. You’re the daughter of C. J. Hart?”
April’s pulse skittered and jumped. “I am. Does that matter?”
“Just asking.” He waved his pencil up and down the dress. “Why the wedding gown?”
“I just came from a wedding.” Her jaw tightened as Clay shifted beside her.
“We’re going to want to test that blood on the dress. Did it come from the head?”
“I picked up the box by the ribbon on the top, thinking it went all the way around the box. It didn’t. When I picked up the box, the lid came off in my hand and the box fell. The...head bounced out and splattered the dress, and then I dropped the lid.”
Espinoza clicked his tongue. “That’s a shame.”
“Not really.” She tossed her wilting curls over one shoulder. “I can rip a piece of the fabric out right now, if you like.”
“No hurry. Based on what Agent Archer told us, we’re pretty sure we know what happened here.”
Another truck squealed up to the scene and, in the glare of the spotlights, Nash Dillon jumped out of his vehicle and hovered over the authorities transferring the head into a bag.
When they finished the job, Nash strode to the porch. “I guess we found her head, but damn, left on your porch? They’re thumbing their noses at us, bro.”
Clay shook his head. “I need to get some cameras at my house. I didn’t even have Denali here to sound the alarm.”
“Oh, hey, April.” Nash raised his hand and continued his conversation with Clay, as if the appearance of Clay’s ex-fiancée in a blood-spattered wedding dress made all the sense in the world. But then Nash Dillon had always been about Nash Dillon.
When the medical examiner’s van pulled away, Detective Espinoza handed April a card. “You can drop off the dress anytime in the next few days.”
“I’ll do that.” She snatched his card and spun around to the screen door, leaving Clay and Nash talking shop.
She paced the floor a few times, and then plopped down on the couch, grabbing one of Clay’s perfectly placed pillows and hugging it to her chest. What was she doing here? That poor woman’s severed head must be some kind of omen. She should’ve never shown up on Clay’s doorstep. Should’ve never run to him for...what? Why did she come to Paradiso? Clay Archer had been the only bright spot for her here.
She couldn’t recreate the magic they’d shared. She’d destroyed that, taken a sledgehammer to it.
The door opened and Clay stepped into the house, sweeping the hat from his head and unbuckling his equipment belt. His weapon clunked against the kitchen counter as he set down the belt.
“What a crazy day.” He dragged a hand through his dark hair, which made it stick up in different directions. He held up the bag that contained his dinner and swung it from his fingertips. “I kinda lost my appetite. You want it?”
She stuck out her tongue. “No, thanks. Who was that woman?”
“Probably a drug mule who double-crossed Las Moscas. We found her body earlier, just outside a tunnel running across the bor
der.” He braced his hands against the counter and hunched forward. “Are you really interested in this?”
Her fingers dug into the pillow. Las Moscas? He had no idea how interested.
“How do you know it was that gang, Las Moscas?”
“Cartel. Drug cartel and we know because the people who murdered this woman left their calling card in her hand.”
April swallowed. “A fly?”
Clay’s eyebrows jumped to his hairline. “How’d you know that?”
Shrugging, she schooled her face. “Las Moscas. The flies. I mean, not like a real fly, right?”
“Well, there were plenty of those.” He glanced up at her face, and his jaw tightened. “Sorry. They left a carved, wooden fly in her hand.”
April jumped up from the couch and tripped over the wedding dress. She made a grab for the back of the couch to stay upright.
“Are you all right?” Clay had taken a couple of steps closer to her, his brow creased.
“I’m okay. Like you said, it’s been a crazy day.” Her words stopped him in midstride.
He blew out a breath and shoved his hands in the pockets of his green pants. “Do you want to tell me what this is all about, April? The wedding dress? Coming to Paradiso? Adam isn’t here, is he? Is he in some kind of trouble?”
Oh, yeah, her brother was in all kinds of trouble, but he could get into trouble anywhere. It didn’t have to be Paradiso—where all their trouble had started.
“Adam isn’t here and I’ll be happy to tell you all about this—” she plucked at the dress “—but I’d like to change first, if you don’t mind. Detective Espinoza wants this dress, anyway, or at least pieces of it.”
Clay’s head swiveled as he took in the room. “Do you have a suitcase in your car?”
“No. I don’t have a bag with me. I don’t have anything with me.” She linked her fingers in front of her, holding her breath. If Clay tossed her out on her rear, she wouldn’t blame him.
Clay rolled his eyes. “All right. I have a pair of sweats you can probably use, and help yourself to a T-shirt. I’m gonna have a beer. You want one?”
Evasive Action (Holding the Line Book 1) Page 2
