Collision Course: A Romantic Thriller

by Susan Donovan

  “Ruben? Where are you going? Is there anything I can do to help?”

  He paused before he opened the car door, thinking: If I’m Bradley Rowe and if some reporter from New Mexico calls me out of the blue asking about my missing girlfriend—who ran away after seeing me kill someone—what would be the logical thing to do? I’d go straight to that reporter and find out what she knew.

  “Here’s what you do, Liv. Go to the newsroom and stay there. Do not come back to your house. That way, office security can keep him away from you. Do you understand?”

  Olivia shook her head. “Not really. What’s going on? Should I call police about Rowe?”

  “No!” He walked over to her and grabbed her hands. “Look. It’s a long, long story. Janey is running from Rowe, who’s not a nice guy. Stay in the newsroom where you’re safe. Do not leave the newsroom. Go now. Promise me.”

  She nodded, her eyes once more assessing the damaged car. “Were you in an accident, Ruby? Your face looks puffy.”

  He groaned as he got behind the wheel. “A ten car pileup.”

  Suzie Gilligan decided to hang around after her shift was over. She needed to have a chat with Howard, and she wanted to be there when Kovac got what was coming to him.

  Howard was fairly angry about the car, as she expected he would be. The insurance premium would have to come out of Ruby’s paycheck, he said, and when he came back in two days he’d give him a piece of his mind.

  Suzie knew Howard would eventually get over Ruby’s misbehavior. Kovac, however, was about to get the boot. She was walking from Howard’s office when she saw the two uniformed police officers at the reception foyer. Suzie saw them start their swagger toward the city desk. It was embarrassing to see the pasty fear in Kovac’s face. What a lousy way to end a career. She turned to get Howard, but he was already at her side. He looked like a man with a migraine.

  “Suz, I need you to hold down the fort. You won’t believe who just called.”

  “Who?”

  “Chief Chavez. He’s on his way over.”

  “Chavez? But Ruby hasn’t even been to work in more than a week! What could he possibly have to complain about?”

  “I’ll find out soon enough.” Howard put out his hand to greet the patrolmen. “Officers. Why don’t we sit down in my office and close the door?”

  Howard crooked his finger for Kovac to join them, and once the office door closed, it was as if all life in the building had ceased to exist. The silence was deafening.

  “Don’t bend over for the soap, Dog!” yelled Danielle Holiday. The room erupted with uncontrolled guffaws and giggles.

  Suzie rolled her eyes and stepped into the center of the newsroom. “All right, people. This is not a seventh grade assembly. This is none of our affair, and the last time I looked, we were still on deadline.”

  “Did he really punch Ruby? Did Ruby press charges?” Lynn Ballentine’s eyes were wide with interest. “C’mon, Suz. Tell us the truth.”

  She shook her head.

  “Is Kovac getting fired?” Leslie Bonoff asked, her mouth falling open. “Who’s going to take his slot on the desk? I think we at least deserve to know who our editor is going to be.”

  Suzie rolled her eyes again. She now understood how the police chief must feel at a news conference.

  One of the sports reporters suddenly stood up behind his desk and shouted, “The betting window is now open!”

  He’d been to New Mexico one other time in his life, and that had been sufficient. He didn’t care much for the American Southwest—too ethnic, too touristy, too much teal and blush pink for his tastes.

  Bradley Rowe kept glancing at his GPS while driving the rental north on Eubank Boulevard. He decided he would start at the top, with the best dance school in town, affiliated with the local professional company. If he knew her as well as he thought he did, his first stop might be his last.

  This whole business would be clean and quick and he’d get back to Philadelphia before anyone noticed he was gone. Then he could wait along with everyone else for word, some indication of what happened to the lovely and talented Janey O’Connor. Then, as time went on and hope dwindled, and he finally agreed that it was time to think the worst, he would fall apart on cue. He may not even need to fake it. He’d loved her. He never imagined it would come to this.

  Two cars behind, Val Sheridan shook his head. “This is getting weirder by the minute,” he mumbled to himself. Where the hell was Brad Rowe going? Val needed coffee and he had to take a piss, but Rowe had just pulled into a parking lot.

  Sheridan whipped the car around in a strip shopping center across the street and got out his binoculars. He watched Brad Rowe enter the front door of The Southwest Studio for Dance. A dancing school? A dancing school?

  Three doors south, two men parked in front of a small appliance repair shop. One man watched the federal agent who watch Rowe. The other man didn’t let Rowe out of his sight.

  “What the fuck is he doing?”

  Once inside the studio, Rowe stepped to the front desk. The girl looked up and smiled. “May I help you?”

  “Yes. I hope so.” Brad reached inside his wind-breaker for the photograph of Janey. “By any chance have you seen this woman? She’s a very talented dancer who might have wanted to use your school to practice, perhaps. Has she stopped by here?”

  The girl took the picture and gasped. It was the woman who came in a few days ago with that adorable flirt, who she found out later was some big-shot newspaper reporter. He was cute, and so was this guy. Why did some women have all the luck?

  “Yeah. She was in here three days ago. She bought a bunch of stuff—well, a man bought stuff for her.”

  Brad was genuinely surprised. “A man?”

  “Oh, God.” The salesgirl sighed. “Look, I don’t want to get involved. She was here and she left. That’s all I remember.”

  “Who was the man?” Brad’s voice was cold and flat.

  The girl’s blood ran to ice and her eyes went wide. “I… honestly, I don’t know.” She tried to turn away but his fingers dug into the flesh of her upper arm.

  “His name.”

  The girl began to cry. Was he going to rob the store? Did he have a gun? What was happening? “Jaramillo. He works at the newspaper. You’re hurting me.”

  Brad did not release his grip. “What was the name again?” He hated foreign names. “Spell it.”

  “J-A-R-A-M-I-L-L-O. Please, you’re hurting me.”

  His hand slipped away and he was gone.

  She had barely taken her first breath when the phone started ringing. She picked it up with a shaking hand. “The Southwest Studio… for Dance!”

  “My name is Special Agent Val Sheridan with the FBI. Did a man just enter your store?”

  “What?” She was sobbing now, her entire body shaking.

  “Miss? Are you injured? Miss?”

  “No. I’m all right… he just grabbed me. You’re an FBI agent?” Her voice was high and panicked.

  “I’m sending the police to help you. Now tell me, what did he ask for?”

  “For her, the girl, the dancer who was in here the other day.”

  Val’s head snapped back. “What dancer?”

  “I don’t know her name!” she screamed, her sobs growing louder. “Some blonde in a cast. All I know is our ballet mistress just about had a heart attack when she saw her dance, she was so good.”

  Janey O’Connor was in Albuquerque. Brad was looking for Janey. This had nothing to do with Liberty Path.

  “Miss, wait.” Val had already pulled out into traffic to follow Brad Rowe, three cars ahead at the stoplight. “You said a cast—you mean for a broken bone?”

  “Yes. She had her arm in a cast and she came in with some man who bought her a bunch of stuff. Can I go now?”

  “A man?” Val was surprised again.

  “Yes. J-A-R-A-M-I-L-L-O. A reporter at the paper. Is that all? Can I go now?”

  Val was scribbling down the name o
n a notepad and racing through a yellow light at the intersection. “Yes. Yes. Thank you.”

  Within minutes, Val requested that Philadelphia fax a photo of Janey O’Connor to the Albuquerque field office. Then he arranged for a local special agent to speak with Albuquerque police. Here’s what he needed to know: How had she broken her arm? Who was this reporter guy? Would she be going to the press with what she knew, and if so, why here?

  Val nearly smashed into the car in front of him as his thoughts raced. He found the number for the Albuquerque Star and dialed, keeping an eye on Brad Rowe ahead. Where was he headed now?

  “City desk.”

  “Yes. Mr. Jaramillo please.”

  “Uh, I’m sorry but Ruben’s taking a few vacation days. Would you like his voice mail?”

  Val swung the car left on Montgomery Boulevard and headed downhill toward the Rio Grande Valley. The landscape certainly was dramatic here.

  “Could you just tell me what kind of reporting Mr. Jaramillo does, please?”

  “He’s the crime reporter, the police beat. Is there someone else who can help you?”

  “No. Thanks.” Click. “Well I’ll be damned,” the special agent muttered to himself. “What is that girl doing?”

  “Where the hell are they going?” The third car nearly

  squealed its tires on the left turn onto Montgomery Boulevard. “Do you have any fucking idea where they’re headed in such a hurry?”

  “None,” the other man said. “Not a clue.”

  Maybe all she needed was a few lamps and a couple additional pieces of furniture to feel comfortable here. Maybe a little herb garden in the kitchen window would do the trick. She walked to that kitchen window again and chuckled softly to herself. How ridiculous it was to worry about the inside of this old wooden house, when what lay outside was profoundly beautiful.

  Maybe these daunting mountains would console and shield her. Her problems seemed insignificant in their shadow, and whatever violence she feared was nothing compared to the long-ago brutality that molded these monsters of rock.

  She was just one person in a big world. Maybe she could do the right thing and still be safe. Maybe Brad and his friends weren’t smart enough to find her.

  She worried about Agent Sheridan. When he realized she was gone, would he come looking for her, too? Maybe he wasn’t smart enough to find her either—after all, he was just another man who resorted to lies and threats instead of brains to get what he wanted.

  Maybe no one would ever find her here, and she could stay hidden behind her mountains and her spruce trees, where she could listen to the song of the rushing creek. Maybe as each day went by, and the days turned into months, she could start to relax a little, start to live again, enjoy the solitude. It was going to be a wonderland here during the summer, she could tell.

  Janey’s eyes swept over the cool and dark rooms. The kitchen was tiny and barely functional, and she realized with a smile that it reminded her of Pura Vida.

  She felt that hollow place inside her grow a little more. If anyone was smart enough to find her, it would be Ruby. But she prayed he never did. She had already put him in too much danger.

  Her thoughts wandered. She wondered how long she would matter to him. How long it would be before he gave up looking for her?

  The sunroom here was long and narrow, floored with the tile at Ruby’s place, Saltillo, she thought it was called. The sunroom’s windows spread light into a large and open living room that stretched along the front of the house and led to a hallway, two small bedrooms and a bath. Add the front porch and that was the whole package.

  The real estate agent had done exactly what she’d asked. There was a good supply of firewood, already split into narrow logs and kindling. She’d brought in a futon couch, a desk and chair, a dinette set, and a bookcase.

  Janey would unpack today and find a place to hide the boxes of papers. She wouldn’t worry about the logistics of sending copies to the Justice Department quite yet. She’d give herself a couple days to settle in, clear her head. There could be no mistakes.

  Janey drove the truck down the hill toward the grocery store in town, if that’s what it could be called. Jake Apodaca told her the WestOre Mine employed nine hundred people when it closed six years ago, leaving El Cuento a ghost town. The elementary school closed. The big grocery closed. Most of the houses were now empty and for rent, like the one she now occupied. Jake told her just forty-two households remained, and most of them were old people with nowhere else to go.

  “Hi.”

  “Well, hi there!” Sophia Apodaca stood behind the front counter near the door, reading a National Inquirer. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “No, thank you. I’m just going to get a few things to settle in. I’ll let you know if there’s something I can’t find.”

  Sophia closed the pages to the magazine and frowned. "You know, we don’t have much of a selection, but our meats are fresh-slaughtered.”

  Janey tried to smile appreciatively. “Thank you.” As she turned down the canned goods aisle, the nauseating guilt came on again. How many carne adovada enchiladas had she consumed in the last twelve days? How much chorizo sausage and shank roast and arroz con pollo and pasta with meat sauce?

  Her strictly vegetarian body now swirled with molecules from slaughtered cow, swine, and fowl, and the most shocking thing was that she’d loved every one of those meals.

  Sex and red meat, she thought to herself with a smile, two things Zia had attacked with gusto that Janey could survive without.

  She stocked up on rice, beans, canned and frozen vegetables, and the sum total of the fresh produce section – four bananas and six apples. Into the rickety shopping cart went coffee, tortillas, and cereal. Eventually, she’d find a good health food store in Taos, and either ask someone to pick up her order or have it shipped. This was one of the things she would sort out in time.

  As Janey began to load the bags into the truck bed, Jake Apodaca jogged up the parking lot and lent her a hand.

  “Is there enough firewood at your place? Is the power on?”

  Janey smiled at his concern. “Yes. Thank you. Thank you for all your help.”

  “No problem. Look, there aren’t many of us around, so if there’s anything you need, you know where to find us. Sophia is here and I’m at the post office or the Diamond Shamrock. Our house is the one with the roses out front on Questa Road. You can’t miss us.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jake touched the bill of his cap and turned to leave.

  “Jake?” Janey walked around to him at the other side of the truck. “Can I talk to you about something?”

  He cocked his head. “Sure.”

  “I do have a favor to ask you. It’s a big one.”

  He nodded. “Shoot.”

  “I need someone to drive this truck down to Albuquerque for me and drop it off at the airport. I borrowed it from a friend and he needs it back. I’ll pay $250 dollars. Do you know anyone who could do that?”

  A small smile crossed his face. “I know about ten men who’d fight over easy money like that. When do you need it done?”

  “Right away. Today. I also need you to mail a letter from there, can you do that?”

  “I’ll do it, me and my brother Cappy. He’ll follow me down and we’ll drive back up together. Will that work?”

  Janey sighed in relief. “Wonderful. Take the truck to long-term parking and put the keys under the floor mat and leave the door unlocked.” She had no choice but to trust this man, so she handed him the letter to Ruby. He stared at it, frowning, then looked up.

  “I thought your name was Rosemary. In the envelope return address spot you’ve written ‘Zia.’”

  She shut her eyes, annoyed at her own stupidity, and tried to cover her misstep. “Yeah. Rosemary is a pen name. I’m a novelist. My real name is Zia Jaramillo.”

  Jake raised an eyebrow.

  “You can’t tell anyone that, ok? No one can know I’m here
or that I asked you to return the truck.”

  “It’s not stolen or anything, is it?” His brows knit together.

  “No. Of course not. My privacy is just extremely important to me right now. I have a lot of work to do.”

  Jake Apodaca studied this woman carefully. El Cuento had attracted its share of strange ones over the years. It made sense she was a writer. They’d had painters here, and musicians. And the ones stuck in the gray area between what was legal and technically illegal? They’d had a few of those, too.

  “You’re entitled to your privacy,” he eventually said. “I don’t suppose you’d come here unless you wanted to be alone.”

  She looked down and drew a line in the dirt with the toe of her boot. “Something like that.”

  “It’s a deal then,” he said. “I’ll get Cappy.”

  Oh, God. Damn! Shit! What did Ruby mean when he said Bradley Rowe was dangerous? Because there he was right this minute at the reception desk, with a reserved smile and polite laugh, chatting with the heavily pierced receptionist. Olivia shouldn’t stare. She shouldn’t…

  He looked up and his eyes slammed into Olivia’s, and what she saw in his expression was neither reserved or polite. It was mean and cold.

  “Excuse me, sir, but you can’t go into the newsroom…” Brad Rowe walked past the receptionist, across the heather gray carpeting and directly toward Olivia.

  “Oh, shit.” Olivia steeled herself as he came to a stop at her desk. He was dressed strangely—in a sweatshirt and baseball cap—and seemed nervous. This was not the Brad Rowe she’d seen oozing ease and charm at Philadelphia’s charity balls, the opera, or the symphony. This was not the man she and her friends had lusted after three years ago, when he was named Philadelphia Magazine’s “Bachelor of the Year.”

  “So where is she?” His eyes bore into hers and Olivia’s blood ran cold. She stood up.

  “Hello, Mr. Rowe. I’m Olivia Richards, but I see you already know that.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I honestly have no idea,” she said, using all her strength to remain calm. Several pairs of eyes now stared at her, and she saw Dave Kovac heading her way. She didn’t need that jerk’s protection, and couldn’t believe he’d wormed his way back into the newsroom already after being released from processing.