“I need to find her,” Rowe said, attempting a smile. “I’m very worried that my Janey may be in some kind of trouble.”
“I can’t help you, Mr. Rowe. I thought I might have seen her in town but I must have been mistaken.” At that moment, Kovac strolled by, his eyes coming to rest at something in Brad Rowe’s hand.
Olivia followed his glance to a color publicity photograph of Janey O’Connor, being squeezed so tightly in Rowe’s fingers that the glossy paper began to crackle.
“Perhaps you were mistaken, perhaps not.” Brad shrugged. “Thank you for your interest in Janey.”
With that he turned around and walked out the entrance to the front lobby, as Kovac followed him.
“I think I can help you.”
Brad spun around so quickly that he didn’t have time to hide the fury in his eyes.
Kovac blinked in surprise. “Uh, I was just wondering if I could help you with something.”
Brad collected himself and smiled. “I was looking for a friend.” He held up the wrinkled photograph. “Have you seen her?”
It didn’t do her justice, Kovac thought. Personally, he’d liked the picture of her sailing through the air with her legs spread wide.
“Oh, yeah. I know exactly where she is.” The editor’s words were barely more than a whisper.
Brad’s arm dropped to his side and he waited, calm on the outside, roiling on the inside.
“She’s with a guy named Ruben Jaramillo, a reporter here. I saw them together last night, here in the office.” Kovac gestured to the newsroom entrance. “They seemed extremely comfortable with each other, if you get my meaning.”
Brad could not hide the shock he felt. “What?”
“If you’re interested, I can tell you where you might find them.”
Brad felt his mouth go dry. No woman had ever, ever left him for another man. And Janey? His shining, good-hearted fiancée’? She would be the last he’d suspect of such a thing.
“That would be very kind of you. I’m very concerned for her welfare.”
“You should be,” Kovac said, chuckling. “Jaramillo’s a real lady killer.”
“Where are they?” Brad had grown tired of this man. He knew scum when he saw it. He knew the smell of petty revenge. A man this weak wouldn’t last ten minutes with the committee.
“Jaramillo lives on a dirt lane in a little town called Corrales, just about six or seven miles from here. I can draw you a map if you’d like.”
A huge smile spread across Brad’s face. “I would like that very much.”
Val Sheridan sat in his rental car by the curb and stared at the low, sprawling newspaper plant before him. In Albuquerque, things seemed to be built out, not up, so there weren’t many tall buildings blocking the view to a blue-skied forever. He kind of liked it.
The local field office had just sent the info sheet on Ruben Jaramillo to his phone. Apparently, this reporter was a decent guy, a local boy, no political activities, parents killed in private plane crash, well-respected in his work, a homeowner with clean finances and no criminal record. It seemed some of the agents knew him personally and even liked him.
So what was Janey O’Connor doing with this guy? It made no sense to him, no matter how he turned it in his mind.
His phone rang. It was Special Agent John Lofton from the Albuquerque Field Office, who’d gone to the local police with pictures of Janey O’Connor.
“We’re on our way to you,” Lofton said. “I’ve got two Albuquerque Metro detectives with me and I think you’re going to want to hear what they’ve got to say.”
Ten minutes later, the caravan was off again – Bradley Rowe in the lead, Sheridan, Lofton, Salazar and Chisolm three cars back, and the two young men in suits bringing up the rear.
“I think we better call Philadelphia,” one of the young men said. “I’m not sure how we’re supposed to whack Brad Rowe in front of what looks like a goddam task force.”
This was a shot in the dark and Ruben knew it, but he couldn’t just sit at home hoping Brad Rowe wouldn’t find Janey. He couldn’t live with himself if anything happened to her.
He threw a change of clothes and a packed lunch onto the front seat of the Taurus and headed out. The geese continued to squawk at him. They’d been screaming the whole time he was at his house, as if he were burglarizing his own home. Stupid things.
Ruben had seen enough blood and guts to last a lifetime, but Uncle Frank had taught him to shoot, and right now Ruben was thinking how good it would feel to send bullets through the tiny brains of every last one of those birds and make himself a fine down comforter from the leftovers.
As he turned out of the drive he screamed at them, “Shut the fuck up!”
“Temper, temper,” Chisolm laughed. “He’s alone. Anyone else notice that Jane Doe isn’t with him?”
“I noticed,” Salazar said. “Looks like Jaramillo got himself dumped.”
The car full of law enforcement officers waited patiently as Brad Rowe scampered from his hiding place behind the little adobe house, jumped in the car hidden behind a neighbor’s fence, and resumed his chase.
“Well boys, here we go again,” Sheridan said, putting the car in drive. “At least we had a chance to take a whiz.”
An hour later, the two young men in the last car were out of patience. How many gas stations was this clown in the red Taurus going to visit? How many times would he stop for a chat and pull out that piece of paper? He was looking for somebody, obviously, but who? And why did Bradley Rowe care? What was Rowe even doing here in New Mexico?
Couldn’t they just shoot Rowe and put everyone out of their misery?
“Apparently not.” One of the young men ended a call. “The committee thinks our boy is double-crossing them with a group out here. Our mission is now to follow him and find out who, and the committee will give him a real warm welcome when he gets back.”
“So we just keep driving?”
“Yeah. And they can’t locate Lawrence anywhere. They think Brad might have killed him after he found out Lawrence was sent by the committee to keep an eye on him.”
“No way.”
The two young men sighed. This meant they had no choice but to tail Rowe as he tailed the guy in the red car all over Northern New Mexico, from one Texaco to another, from one mom-and-pop convenience store to the next, where he asked about a picture on a piece of paper. And then, at the end of it all, they weren’t even allowed to kill him.
“The poor guy is pissing in the wind,” Agent Lofton said from the back seat of Sheridan’s car. “This is too painful to watch.”
“I think it’s kind of fun,” Salazar said.
Chisolm roared. “Yeah. We don’t get to see that cock-sure little bastard sweat very often, so let us have our thrill, okay?”
Sheridan grinned at Chisolm. “Does Jaramillo give you guys a hard time?”
Chisolm sighed, keeping an eye on Ruben’s car. “Naah. He’s actually the best of the lot. Whad’ya think, Leroy?”
“Yup. He’s real good,” Salazar said. “He gets most stuff right and he don’t give up. It’s just that lately, he’s been sticking his nose into something he don’t understand. He thinks he does, but he don’t. And he’s gonna compromise a real important case if he don’t back down.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Chisolm added. “I don’t know how he gets people to tell him shit the way they do, but I’ve seen him work magic on people. Look at him right now.”
Ruben was nodding and laughing with an old man in a white cowboy hat pushed far back on his head. They slapped each other’s backs, shook hands, and parted like old friends.
“He’d probably make a good cop,” Lofton said.
Salazar grinned at him and snapped his gum. “Probably would, if he wasn’t so goddammed sure of himself. We all know that’s the fastest way to get yourself killed.”
“So what does he know about Liberty Path, do you think?” Sheridan had shared just enough about his ca
se to determine if the detectives had anything that might help him.
“Hell. Everything. Nothing. I have no idea.” Chisolm rubbed his chin. “But I still think he’s not after a story. I saw him hanging around like a lovesick puppy at the hospital. I think he’s just after the girl.”
“What’s your theory about Janey O’Connor’s bra full of cash,” Sheridan asked.
The detective grinned. “Well, the only reason we were called in was because of the possibility it was drug money. You know Albuquerque is the drug-runner’s Main Street USA, right? With Interstate 25 coming from Mexico and Interstate 40 running from California to the East Coast, we’re the epicenter for illegal ground transport. What’s the latest figures these days, Lofton?”
“About $40 million in narcotics makes it through the city limits on any given day,” the agent answered.
“Holy shit,” Sheridan said. “I had no idea it was that much.”
“I think we all agree that Janey O’Connor didn’t kill anybody,” Chisolm continued. “And I don’t think that cash was drug-running money. I think it was plain old running away money, the poor kid. I think she was scared to death and ran.”
Sheridan nodded quietly, lost in his own thoughts. He’d had no choice, he told himself again, no choice but to lie to her back in Philadelphia. She’d been too scared to help him out without a good reason–a real good reason. So he gave her one.
What was he supposed to do, let the most important case of his career slip through his fingers? It was one little justifiable lie.
By the time the scattered caravan inched their way to La Cienega just southwest of Santa Fe, it was after three P.M. The four cars had been at this crawl for more than three hours, and Ruben showed no signs of altering his course.
Ruben pulled into a Circle K convenience store near at the junction of Interstate 25 and the 599 bypass and immediately hooted with joy when he saw it. His crumpled little truck was parked two spots away in the parking lot.
Could she really be here?
Ruben sat in the car and peered through the glass windows of the store. He didn’t see her. No shiny blond hair. No long, slim legs. He watched two yokels walk out with coffees and burritos and head toward his truck.
Ruben took ten seconds to think this through – Janey said she’d get the truck back to him, right? Could she have asked these guys to do that for her? Or had these two men hurt her and taken the truck?
He got out of the car, deciding to catch them off guard and see how they reacted. He’d know instantly if something were wrong.
“Afternoon, gentlemen.”
“Hey.” The older man said.
“This is my truck.”
Jake Apodaca stared at Ruben in silence, his burrito held in mid-air. “I doubt that,” he said.
“Let me guess.” Ruby noted how the man looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and worry and knew he hadn’t hurt Janey. “A beautiful blonde with a great smile and a cast on her right arm told you to drive it down to Albuquerque, right?”
Nothing.
“Am I right?”
“Look, I don’t want trouble,” Jake turned worriedly to his brother, Cappy. “I was just doing somebody a favor. The lady told me to take it to the Albuquerque airport and leave it to be picked up. I didn’t ask no questions.”
Ruben sighed. “I just want to make sure she’s all right.”
“I don’t know nothing about nothing.” Jake started to get inside.
“Just tell me where she is. That’s all.” Ruben gently placed his hand on the man’s forearm. “Please.”
“Can’t help you there.”
“Inside my glove compartment is the registration. It says the truck belongs to Ruben A. Jaramillo, Star Route 15, Corrales. I’ve got a spiral-bound street map of Albuquerque in there, too, and a tape recorder, a pack of Big Red gum, a couple clean notebooks. I’ve got a Foo Fighters CD in the player right now unless you changed it.”
Jake Apodaca looked at Ruben with wide eyes as his brother rooted around in the glove compartment.
“Wrong,” Cappy shouted proudly. “It’s Wrigley’s Spearmint.”
Ruben shrugged.
“But he’s right on everything else, Jake.”
Ruby grinned. “And back behind the seat, I’ve got some spare clothes, a bunch of newspapers, and a pencil drawing of a guy’s face. And my ID badge should be in there somewhere, unless Janey kept it.”
“That’s not her name,” Jake said, frowning at him. “Nice try, though.”
“Oh really?” Ruben laughed. “Then she’s using an alias.”
Jake’s eyes flashed. “Look. I promised her. She just wants her privacy.”
“How much is she paying you?”
“Two-fifty.”
“I’ll double it. Just give me my truck, fellas, and I’ll follow you back.”
Jake shook his head. “Man, I promised her. She wants to be left alone.”
“I just need to check on her, Jake, help get her settled, you know? Five-hundred dollars. It’s real important to me.”
Jake scowled at him. “What are you, her husband or something?”
Ruben nearly blushed. “One day I hope to be.”
“Hey! Here’s his ID badge, and the letter she wanted sent is addressed to him, too.” Cappy held the items out the opened door to his brother. “This is his truck, all right.”
Jake looked confused. “You’re not married? But she said her real name was Zia Jaramillo.”
At that moment, Ruben believed he was capable of doing one of those little jumps he’d seen Janey do, where his feet would flutter together like moth wings and carry him away.
“Zia Jaramillo,” he whispered to himself. “Awesome.”
“What the hell is that little pecker up to?” Chisolm suddenly sat up ramrod straight in his seat, looking through the binoculars. “Hey Leroy, isn’t that his truck?”
Salazar craned his neck. “How many times have we seen that thing pull up to a crime scene? Of course it is.”
“What’s he doing?” Sheridan asked. “Who are those other two guys? Who does the other truck belong to?”
“Hell if I know.” Chisolm replied. “But his truck is as beat-up as the newspaper car. Looks like Ruby needs to stop banging into shit.”
They watched Ruben ditch the maroon Taurus for his little Nissan pickup and follow the battered Chevy two-ton that pulled north onto the Highway 599. Brad was right behind him.
“I’ll run a trace on the Chevy plates,” Agent Lofton said. “In the meantime, I think we’re actually headed somewhere now, gentlemen. Those guys must know where she is.”
So the convoy was in motion again, bigger by two men and one vehicle. Jake and Cappy Apodaca were out front, $750 dollars richer and lot guiltier. Ruben was right behind, elated that in less than two hours he’d be in the arms of the woman he loved. Salazar, Chisolm, Sheridan and Lofton were next, four cars back, finding out the truck was registered to a Jacob Apodaca from El Cuento, near the Colorado border. And the young men in business suits were three cars behind the cops, thoroughly exhausted, bored and confused.
In his rental car, Brad Rowe seethed with rage. His fingers were white against the steering wheel as he tallied up the body count in his mind. Janey and Jaramillo would have to die first, of course. And those two traitorous pool boys in cheap suits sent by the committee? They would be slaughtered too, and without an instant of hesitation. It would serve the committee right. Did they think he was an idiot?
And the sedan full of cops?
Dead. Every last one of them, dead.
It was strange, but Brad could almost feel something snap in his skull, setting him free. It was a weightless, untethered sensation. He felt he floated far above practical concerns. Never in his life had he been more certain. Never in his life had he been more focused.
If there was no way out for him, he would take everyone else with him.
A few years before, Ruben wrote a story about the making of crime statis
tics, and he interviewed experts in the field of probability mathematics who, with no small amount of glee, danced all over the idea of fate.
Everything, they said—absolutely everything—be predicted with the right mathematical formula. Did you want to know what your chances were for being murdered in Albuquerque in the month of May? How about being struck by lightning while riding the Tramway to the top of Sandia Peak? Just do the math.
Our limited human understanding sought out more divine reasons for occurrences, they said, when math, correctly applied, would always do the trick.
Ruben smiled to himself. And how about the way he and Janey met? What were the astronomical odds of that?
Old Gallegos would probably call it the way of the spirits. Uncle Frank would call it blind luck. His father would have called it God’s loving hand.
Ruben was never one to dwell on deeper meanings. Life was just life, and in that respect he understood where the math geeks were coming from.
In his experience, if you put the facts together, saw things for what they were and grabbed what you needed, you’d get by just fine. And the approach had always worked for him—until eleven days ago, when he smashed into love.
How close had he come to never meeting Janey O’Connor? How close had he come to never knowing love? A little shiver went up his spine and down into the fingers now gripped on the steering wheel.
Ten seconds either way, and she would’ve been just some girl on a motorcycle who made him do a double take. It was too horrible to consider. Surely, a man’s whole life hinged on something more than whimsy and chance, right? Who cares how or why he found her? All that mattered is he had, and now he would get her back.
He hadn’t been up near the Colorado border in more than a year, and Ruben tried to imagine how strange it must seem to Janey here, where the detached Southern Rockies stabbed two-and-a-half miles into the sky. Philadelphia, it ain’t, not that he’d ever seen Philadelphia. Not that he’d ever been much of anywhere outside the American Southwest.
Collision Course: A Romantic Thriller Page 19
