“I’d hug you,” she said as she swiped at her eye. “But the guards told me not to.”
Gabriela approached slowly. This was wrong. She shouldn’t be here. Inside her mind, a shard of primordial instinct slipped into her consciousness—should she run? Scream? Fight? Why was Tamara Price here? How did she know where Gabriela was? What did she want?
“Gabbie? What’s the matter?” Tamara didn’t move, and, somehow, that drew Gabriela closer. “What happened to your arms? Were you hurt?”
Gabriela struggled to pick an answer. Her head was a jumble of truths and lies and questions. Then, one thought snuck past the rest. “I was.”
“Did that happen when—”
“My arms are the least of my problems.” Gabriela managed to keep her voice low.
“Your last twenty-four hours would’ve flattened me.” Tamara’s voice was fragile, yet in control of itself, despite the tears wandering down her face. “I have so many questions.”
“Me too.”
“Did you sleep?” Tamara asked. “Are they feeding you? Did you want—”
“Why is Hildon blaming me?” The words came out of Gabriela before she knew they were there. This wasn’t her. She was possessed. The sleeplessness or the fear—something had taken hold of her. She was so far from her meek center, she was out of her body.
An inmate’s face turned Gabriela’s way. She moved closer to Tamara to keep their conversation out of other peoples’ ears.
“Blame you for what?” Tamara’s eyes grew wide. “You don’t think Hildon is trying to convict you for what happened?”
“Murder is rough on business. Hits the stock price in a bad way. My whole person reflects on the company, right?” Gabriela stopped at the table. She laid her hands on the back of the chair opposite Ms. Price. “A judge may take my person out of this jumpsuit, but in a lot of eyes, I’m wearing it the rest of my life.”
“Honey, you’re tired. You’re not making any sense. Would you please sit down for a minute and talk with me?” Tamara motioned at the chair Gabriela rested her hands on. “I’m worried about you, Gabbie. You’re not made for a place like this. You’re acting paranoid.”
Gabriela sat, though she didn’t want to. “There aren’t people in that boardroom of yours who want this over as quickly as possible?”
“They want you back. Humanity was robbed of a brilliant man and they want justice for him. Gabriela, you haven’t slept, you’re in a new place—”
“I’m in jail.”
Tamara’s lips puckered. “You think Hildon is out to get you?”
“It makes sense. I don’t know.” She shrugged.
“Be clear-headed, Gabbie. Think for a second. None of this makes sense. The way you’re talking right now makes the least sense of all.” Tamara’s eyes darted side to side, then she reached across the table, letting the smallest part of her fingertips brush against Gabriela’s balled-up knuckles. “Are the guards telling you things?”
Gabriela was being paranoid. God in Heaven, what was she doing? Why would she be so rough with Tamara?
She combed her hair back from her face and bit her lip to keep herself from crying. All these emotions swirling inside her were going to tear her apart. Tamara Price was the only person at Hildon to have a relationship with Gabriela outside of work; the only one to meet Flor. What about the Thanksgiving they’d spent together? Would the woman who made candied yams and a turkey just for the three of them turn on Gabriela?
Across the table, Tamara’s expression forced Gabriela to avert her eyes.
This was all wrong. “They said someone at Hildon contacted the detective working my case. Why would anyone do that?”
“That’s why you’re upset? Honey, the person who contacted Detective Collat was me.” Tamara let out a ragged breath and relaxed her body. “After the meeting at work, I had to find you. The police hadn’t processed you yet, Gabbie, so I called a contact, who called someone else, who got me in touch with Detective Collat, who told me you were here.”
God help her, how had Gabriela become so lost she couldn’t tell her friends from her enemies? Tingles played under her eyes. Before she knew it, she was crying. She wiped them away with the sleeve of her jumper.
“No one at Hildon is out to get you,” Tamara said. “I’m here, meeting you, with Rachel Little’s blessing. She knows how much you mean to me, and I’m doing my best to get you a great lawyer on Hildon’s behalf. We take care of ours. You’ll get out of here, and you’ll be with Flor before you know it.”
The tears stopped, but the ruts they’d cleared across Gabriela’s skin remained hot and sharp. She was out of her mind. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Shhhh…” Tamara reached for her but pulled her hands back. “One of the cops told you Hildon was coming after you. Am I right?”
Gabriela nodded.
With a sigh, Tamara pushed her hair back from her face. “They’re all the same everywhere, aren’t they? Just looking to blame somebody and move on.
“You know, back when I was a kid, growing up in East Point, my brother was taken in for something one of his dumb friends did.”
Gabriela picked her head up. Tamara Price had always kept her past at a distance—that much had become obvious to Gabriela at the Thanksgiving dinner at Tamara’s. Since she wasn’t spending the holidays with family, Gabriela was certain of some past trauma. Maybe a relative with bad habits or an abusive parent. At least, that’s why Gabriela never visited family. She’d left them in the Dominican Republic so as not to see her father again. He’d kicked her out at seventeen.
“Don’t get me wrong; my older brother had a juvie rap sheet as thick as a Bible, and he was taken in later, on his eighteenth birthday, but this particular time, he was clean. That didn’t stop the police from trying to trick him into believing things that didn’t happen. Saying his friends gave him up, or they had tape of him, or somebody saw him. There’s no lie they won’t tell just so they can get you to confess to something you didn’t do and make their conviction rates .01 percent better. They’re going to play on every fear of yours they can find.”
Officer Oliveria had done just that, hadn’t he?
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Be fearless.” Tamara laughed.
She couldn’t say what was funny about that, but Gabriela laughed too. Then an uncertain feeling settled between them.
“I’m sorry I came at you the way I did,” Gabriela finally said. “The truth is I’m scared like I’ve never been. I’m scared for Flor. But more scared that when I get back to her, I won’t be able to trust anymore, and I won’t be the same person.”
“You can trust me.” Tamara leveled her eyes on Gabriela. “You know you can.”
“I know.” That might’ve been the only thing Gabriela felt certain about since she’d been dragged into Bayamón.
Tamara’s eyes shifted away from her. “There is one thing I have to know about the night before last. They found your car totaled at the Markel’s house. How did you get home? Did you walk?”
Gabriela should’ve known she’d have to discuss some part of what happened. And, considering the vulnerable position she’d placed herself in by coming here, Tamara deserved to know the truth. Not only that, but she also had to tell someone about Jerry, someone she could trust to keep an eye on him.
“A man took me home,” she said. “Someone I’d never met before. He showed up at the Markels’ that night, pulled me out of my car, took me back to his boat, patched up my arms, and he’s been helping me ever since. He and his wife took me on their boat to San Juan so I could pick up Flor.”
“Sounds like you found a good Samaritan.”
“God has a hand in it all. Jerry was there by chance, investigating the murder of that journalist, Luc Baptiste.”
Tamara’s eyes went wide. “The guy Ms. Little hates? The one that tried to dig into her ex-husband’s finances?”
Gabriela nodded. She’d never mentioned the bad blood
between Luc Baptiste and Rachel Little to Jerry. Just didn’t seem important. Rachel Little had nothing to do with the journalist being killed.
“What’s his name?” Tamara asked.
“Jerry Snyder.”
“And he’s a cop.”
“I don’t think so. At least he’s not La Uniformada.”
“Private eye?”
“I don’t know,” Gabriela said. “He has money. And a partner, I think. They’re crazy enough to do what they do for fun. I’m not sure. They both used to be in the military.”
“And Flor is with this man now?”
“She is,” Gabriela said.
“Do you want me to check on her? How do I find this man?”
Gabriela couldn’t answer. She didn’t have Jerry’s number, or his address. She’d only ever been to his house in the dark and couldn’t pick it out—she wasn’t entirely clear what part of St. Thomas he lived in. Suddenly, she felt much less assured about leaving her daughter with the Snyders.
Then, she realized how Tamara could find them.
“Collat,” she said. “Detective Collat knows how to reach him.”
After a night spent banging around the inside of Reel Fun, The Club Nautico de San Juan felt downright cavernous. At least, it had the prettiest bar DJ Martin had ever seen in a marina. Sitting at it made him feel like a wart on Mona Lisa’s nose.
His sweaty, bare arms stuck to the polished ebony wood bar top. A dribble of Medalla Light rolled down his goatee, until it let go and swan-dived on the spit-shined brass rail, dead-center between his crusty New Balance shoes.
The big window behind the bartender let in a stirring western view of San Juan Bay past the marina docks, where Reel Fun, bathed in the pure mid-morning light, fit in a helluva lot better than DJ did at the bar.
That was the problem with San Juan: he didn’t know where the good dives were, so he had to settle on whatever he could find through the internet, which wasn’t much.
“Another one, sir?” the bartender asked. DJ was fairly sure the bartender had on the same outfit DJ had worn as a groomsman in his brother’s wedding a few years back.
“Yeah, man. Hit me with a fresh pair.” Stuffy as the place might be, the beer was cold. Took the edge off just as well as the cans opened in fishy dives.
The bartender slid the cans to DJ just as a lady in a floppy-brimmed sun hat came up on his right and ordered a mojito. She looked clean as a bird colonel’s boots. That pretty hat alone probably cost twice as much as DJ’s wardrobe.
DJ gave her a smile and nod, just like he’d do to any other woman he met at a bar. She responded by pretending not to notice, even if he was close enough to crank his arm around her liposuctioned waist. As the bartender put a napkin under her glass and slipped it across the bar to her, she gave him a side eye.
“I don’t smell that bad, do I?” Self-deprecation always broke the ice.
Except she wasn’t having it. She walked back to her booth, where a few yuppie-types in pastel shirts and fresh-out-of-the-box deck shoes were yukking it up all afternoon.
DJ sniffed his armpit. It wasn’t the worst, but it wouldn’t get turned into a scented candle. He guzzled down the rest of his open beer.
“Mr. Martin, would you care to look at our menu?” the bartender asked, as he took DJ’s empty can and tossed it in the trash. A nice way of saying DJ was stinking drunk and on the verge of running business off. Either sober up or get out.
“Coupla’ brews is all my body needs right now, my man, but I thank you for your concern.”
“Would you care for a complimentary bottle of Perrier, then?” As he asked, the bartender dipped his hand into the cooler, twisted the cap off the sparkling water and set it in front of DJ before he could say no.
“Appreciate the hospitality.” DJ tilted a beer can toward the bartender, cracked it open, then took a deep drink. Without thinking, he closed his eyes. By God, they were shut a half-second longer than a blink when he saw Blunt’s face puckered up and blue, his eyes receding into his flesh, like old buckshot stuck in a tree trunk, sinking deeper every season.
DJ slammed the can down and hid his eyes under his hands.
What the hell was he gonna do? DJ had never been a spiritual man. Maybe there was something out there, a God, or a Spirit, or a big mass of fire and dust out in space from which all things were spat—but what was he going to do? Pray to it? That’d be like a termite praying to him, rolling on its back, and beseeching an indifferent God who would just as soon ignore it as inadvertently squash its little body and send it reeling into oblivion.
Nothing would exorcise the flashes of Blunt zipping around behind his eyelids. If a man could leave behind a ghost, or a psychic impression, or whatever some yahoo with a few nice-sounding prayers believed, Blunt’s manifestation was within DJ, feeding on him.
And Blunt’s spirit would keep coming back, keep tearing off the edges of DJ’s mind until he fed it the offering it craved—blood.
Prayers were wind. Prayers could not pool in your hand. Prayers would never run through a man’s fingers. Prayers would never feed the Earth, or run sticky down your legs, furiously pumping out of you while you begged your brothers for help.
On the bar, next to DJ’s hand, his satellite phone rang. He inhaled sharply, like he’d cried without tears, then picked up the phone and answered.
“Make this worth my time,” he said.
“It’s Chip.” The analyst from Armstrong. Same guy who’d traced Purple Haze back to Blunt’s marina on Culebra. DJ’s hand tightened on his beer.
“What did you get?”
“The address you asked for. I just… are you with Jerry Snyder? Because you told me you two are normally partnered together for assignments, and he just called me, asking for a cybersecurity contractor—and now you want this San Juan address, and…”
The kid was getting too nosy for his own good. He knew something was off. He’d probably report any irregularities to the higher-ups at Armstrong unless DJ threw him off the scent.
“It’s all right if you’re suspicious. You’re just doing your job, but keep it on the hush, alright?”
“Alright,” Chip said.
“Normally Jerry and I are together,” DJ said, careful not to raise his voice loud enough for the bartender to hear. “But he and I had a sit-down last night. There’s a lot of ground to cover with this one, and not enough time for us to do it all together. We both know it’s counter to the way Colonel Stockwell wants to run the show, but it’ll all come out in the wash. He’ll be okay with it as long as we catch the bad guys.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“Trust Jerry, son. He may be new to Armstrong, but he’s a real sleuth,” DJ said. “Now, you got that address for me?”
“Yessir.” Keyboard keys clacking came through Chip’s end of the call. “Are you ready?”
“Go ahead.”
“99 Calle B, Dorado, Puerto Rico.”
DJ repeated the address in his head. “You’re sure that’s the right place?”
“Ninety-percent confidence,” Chip said. “Since our call last night, I was able to get a few pieces of information about PRP officers with the last name Dos Santos. From my research, the name Dos Santos traces back to three officers in the Puerto Rican Police Force. One, a captain that worked in the force around 2002—I found him through a news article that quoted him as a newly minted FOP regional manager working a charity soccer tournament. So, I counted him out.
“The second was a woman who worked as a parole officer in 2015. I was able to figure all that out by chasing down her LinkedIn profile. She moved to Florida in late 2016 and started work for a private prison corporation.
“That left the man I believe to be your guy: Adrian Dos Santos. He gave a statement to the media three months ago when he was part of a PRP-DEA joint raid. His picture matched the description you gave me, so it’s my belief that he’s your guy.”
DJ straightened up in his chair. Got you, you son of a bi
tch.
“So that’s 99 Calle B, Dorado, Puerto Rico,” DJ said.
“DJ, I want to stress my ninety-percent confidence level: could be there’s another Officer Dos Santos out there, so please bear that in mind as you proceed.”
“You know I will. I just want to talk to this fella, and I’m not about to say anything stupid before I know who he is.”
“Why’d you want his home address anyway? Can’t you meet him at his station?”
“No, that’s too risky,” DJ said. “Keep this on the hush, but Jerry and I believe somebody in his department killed the victim we’ve been looking into. I don’t want nobody to see me talking to him. Understand?”
“Yessir, I understand.”
“You’ve done a good thing, man. Thanks for all your help.” DJ ended the call before Chip had a chance to respond.
No time to waste. DJ hopped off his barstool. The floor rolled under his feet, but he grabbed onto the edge and kept from going ass-up and embarrassing himself.
“I wanna settle up,” he announced as he got his legs under him.
“Please drink your water before you leave, Mr. Martin.” The bartender slid a bowl of pre-packaged crackers to DJ. “And would you consider some crackers? Are you planning on driving or boating anywhere?”
Normally, DJ would have scarfed down as many crackers as he could stand. But there wasn’t a normal thing that had happened to DJ Martin in the last three days. Still, he could use a little food in his belly. He put a few packages in his pockets for later.
“Yeah, man—but how about my tab?”
“I’ll get it right away, Mr. Martin.”
Once the bartender returned with a receipt, DJ signed it, gave the man a hundred bucks for a tip, and decided to get out of Dodge. Those yuppies at the booth eyeballed him as he wobbled to the exit.
“Don’t mind me,” he said, knocking his prosthesis into the wooden corner of their booth. “I usually walk like this.”
They didn’t say anything. Too busy being mad that somebody like DJ would have the nerve to not sit quietly.
DJ spilled out of the front door into the piercing sunlight. Once he remembered where he’d left her, he meandered toward Reel Fun, and was back in the salon, digging in a floor compartment for a tool bag. This particular bag was a surplus GI duffle bag he’d picked up from an Army/Navy store in Fort Myers, Florida.
Wayward Sons Page 29
