by Kit Frazier
As we passed, I looked into those empty eyes and for one gut-cramping moment my heart leapt to my throat.
Their heads remaining eerily still as their glare followed us, and each of them seemed to vibrate in place.
They wore University of Texas ball caps backwards, tilted, sideways and every other way they could think of that didn’t include bill in front.
I shivered.
Texas Syndicate. I’d had run-ins with them before and wound up with a stab to the ass for my trouble.
I looked around for Soliz’s officers and didn’t see them, which didn’t mean much - they could be anywhere, but they were watching over Avril Rodriguez, not me.
I reached over to make sure my door was locked, a largely useless gesture, since anyone with a pocketknife, a switchblade or a can opener could slash through the canvas top and carjack us in less than sixty seconds.
A not-so-distant memory of an earless homicidal maniac jumping into my Jeep and driving me into the lake sent my heart pounding.
“I wonder where the cops are,” I said, glancing nervously at the vatos.
“Hey,” Mia said. “I grew up in this neighborhood. Abuelita had a house two blocks from here.”
I flinched, feeling like my own kind of Dirt Clod. “I’m sorry, I just meant…”
“I know what you meant,” she said and she leaned over and gave my arm a light squeeze. “You are such a gringa.”
“If Avril Rodriguez is as frightened as Soliz says she is, I don’t know why she’d hole up in Texas Syndicate territory,” I said.
Mia shook her head. “If she’s down with the Syndicate, this is the safest place for her to be. What you saw back there was a board meeting.”
“Hm,” I said, unease nipping at me with sharp little teeth. “If that’s the case, then Clark was right - though something tells me he’s not.”
We pulled into the circle drive that led to a high salmon-colored adobe wall that surrounded a casita and courtyard. Red and green jalapeno Christmas lights twinkled along the top of the wall, and a plastic, lighted Madonna and Child greeted visitors at the entryway.
A small, tasteful wreath hung on a heavy, wooden Cantera door. We pulled up to the house, parked and went to the door.
Two security cameras were set at the gate - one scanned the driveway, the other scanned the courtyard and exterior of the house.
The massive door had a peephole centered in the wreath.
I know you can’t see dick when you look into the wrong side of a peephole, but it never stops me from trying.
“I can’t see anything,” I said, squinting through the small hole.
Since we were trying to be nonthreatening, I had the folder with the arrest report and photos tucked away in my bag, and Mia left her camera under the seat in the Jeep.
“Dios mio,” Mia muttered, elbowing me out of the way, lifting to her tiptoes. “Let me see.”
She stood with her eye pressed to the small hole, and we both yelped when the door swung open to reveal a small, slender, middle aged woman.
“Hola, Senora Santos, mi nombre es Marina Conchita del Santiago,” Mia introduced herself with her whole name - something she rarely does - as a sign of respect an lineage. “Dan Soliz nos envio.”
“I know who you are,” the woman said as she yanked us both inside the gate.
I had a teacher who’d had her sense of humor surgically removed at birth yank me like that once. Judging by the woman’s iron grip, I was thankful she hadn’t gone for our ears.
Still with our arms in a death grip, she rushed us through the twinkle-lit, manicured courtyard and into the pink adobe house, where she slammed and locked the door behind us.
She swung around and poked me in the chest.
“If something happens to Avril…” she warned.
“We’ve cleared this with Sergeant Soliz,” I assured her. “We just have a couple questions.”
Her dark eyes seemed to peel my skin back, looking for deception, then she looked at Mia and back to me. She must have decided we were with the good guys - or good enough - because she nodded, and led us through the wide foyer.
Somewhere down the hall, a television droned, and Natalie Wood was chanting “I believe, I believe…” as a miracle was happening on 34th Street.
And someone was softly sobbing.
It was getting late, and I was no closer to finishing my Christmas list, I still didn’t know who John Doe was and odds of making Tom Logan fall in love with me were getting short. And nothing short of a miracle on Eleventh Street was going to help.
Isabel Santos led us across the terracotta-tiled floor and into the kitchen, where the sobbing was louder, the sound of fear and grief at odds with the rich, comforting scent of Mexican hot chocolate and the licorice-laced smell of anise-spiked Christmas wedding cookies.
My stomach rumbled like Logan’s big Dodge and I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since I’d split a strawberry Pop Tart with Marlowe at 9 a.m. Nothing like a murder and trying to track down a John Doe to kill your appetite.
Inside the tidy kitchen, a very small, very pregnant Avril Rodriguez sat at a rustic-chic pine table, a plate of powdered sugar-dusted round cookies formed in a pyramid in front of her. There were no cookies missing, and no telltale trace of powdered sugar lining her lips.
Her dark eyes were wide and red rimmed, and she stared at me, unblinking, like I’d just pulled a gun.
” He-e-ey, estas bien?” Mia caroled in her most soothing voice. She came around the table and put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Esta bien, todo va a estar todo bien…”
Avril didn’t respond to Mia’s assurances that everything would be all right, and I could see the pulse thumping more wildly at the base of the girl’s neck. Her enormous belly began to quiver.
“Hey,” I said, sliding a chair next to them. I put my hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” My gaze dropped to her burgeoning belly. “Do you need a doctor?”
She shook her head. “I-I saw a doctor at the hospital,” she quavered in perfect, unaccented English.
So much for Clark’s theory that Avril Rodriguez - the only living witness to a murder - didn’t speak English.
“Have you spoken with Detective Clark?” I asked and she shook her head.
“No,” she said. “Medics took me in the ambulance and they took the…bodies…” her voice trailed off and tears streamed down her cheek.
“I am so sorry,” I said, and waited until she got her breath under control.
“He, he was so nice to me,” she said. “He saved my life, and that man.”
Her entire body heaved on a sob. “They-they shot him.”
I nodded, remembering John Doe charging to the rescue.
And then I remembered him talking to the girl as he whipped off his belt and tied up Thug One. Even without audio on the recording, I could tell through body language he was comforting her - trying to calm her down as he checked her vital signs and those of her baby.
“The man spoke to you,” I said and she nodded, her lips quivering.
“When he spoke to you,” I said. “Did he speak in Spanish?”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “He just said I was going to be okay. That everything would be all right.”
I nodded. “Did he say anything else? Like his name or where he was from?”
“No,” she said, then her sobs subsided a little. “Wait,” she said. “He told me his name was Calvin Hobbes and that the good guys were on their way.”
I blinked. “He said his name was Calvin Hobbes? Like the comic strip?”
Her gaze was blank as she stared at me and nodded.
I tried to hide a smile. A superhero good Samaritan named Calvin Hobbes? The Clod was wrong about Avril Rodriguez not speaking English, and odds were that he was wrong about John Doe dealing dope, despite the video of The Shooter removing what looked like a hunk of cocaine.
Avril nodded, thinking to herself, and after a long moment, she said, �
��That’s not his name, is it?”
“No,” I said. “Probably not.”
Chapter Eight
“Where are you?” Logan said when I answered my cell phone.
The truth was, I was on the verge of a full-blown anxiety attack.
I was mentally and emotionally exhausted talking to Avril, and while I hadn’t learned who John Doe was, I did learn that Clark was completely off base.
But none of what I learned, or didn’t learn, got me any closer to finishing up my Christmas list. Not only had I not learned John Doe’s identity,
From the passenger seat Mia hollered, “Hey, Logan!” and then broke into a little riff of Feliz Navidad.
I squinched my eyes to avoid the headache coming on. When I got off the phone I had to remember to turn down the dang volume.
“Headed back to the office to drop Mia,” I said. “Mama gave her a list, too.”
“How’s the John Doe ID coming?” he said.
I shushed Mia and said, “We went to talk to Clark.”
I left out the part about the boob brushing, the asshole arrogance and my visit with Avril Rodriguez. After all, I’d promised Avril I’d keep her whereabouts a secret. And mentioning the boob brushing would just cause problems with Logan. And if he and Cantu found out, it’d be a rush job to see who punched him in the nose.
“Uh huh. How’d it go with Clark?”
“Um,” I hedged. “We found out what we needed to know.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I heard.”
I took the phone away from my ear and stared at it. “What did you hear?”
“That Clark’s a dick and he manhandled you and Mia.”
“He didn’t manhandle Mia,” I said truthfully, and Mia yelled over the console, “He didn’t manhandle me. He called me Cauley’s little friend!”
I thought I heard Logan stifle a laugh.
“Hrrmh,” he cleared his throat. “I talked to your mother…”
My eyes crossed so hard Mia reached over and took the wheel.
“I got it,” I snapped. And to Logan I said, “Now what?”
“She had some things to add to my list,” he said and I nearly ground the enamel off my back molars.
“You told her I gave you my list?”
“No,” he said, “I told her I took half your list. She wanted to know if I had a costume and asked if I had something I wanted to do for the Soiree.”
My heart crashed down to my stomach.
Number Four on my list was dying a slow, painful death.
“What did you say?” my voice dripping with dread.
“I said I had to talk to you first,” he said, and the breath I’d been holding flew out in a relieved whoosh.
“Here’s the thing,” I said. “She’s going to want you to wear a costume - if you wait ‘til the last minute, she’ll give you a Santa hat. I was hoping because you were new she wouldn’t make you do a number.’
“A number?”
“Yes,” I grumbled. “If you don’t come prepared, she and Clairee will assign you something.”
“Like charades?”
“No,” I said. “Like a Rockettes-Vaudeville-burlesque kind of thing.”
There was a long silence, and Mia was practically bouncing in her seat. “Oh! You should see what we’re going to wear!” She shouted to Logan.
I glared at her and hissed, “You know what we’re going to wear?”
She shrugged and said, “I went by Beckett’s yesterday and he showed me.”
I wanted to scream.
Logan said, “So if your mother wants costumes, should I wear my Santa suit?”
I blinked. “You own a Santa costume?”
“I have three nephews and a niece in Fort Worth,” he said by way of explanation.
I cringed as I right-turned into the parking lot.
“Oh, Lord. You didn’t tell Mama that, did you? If you tell my mother you own an actual Santa suit she’ll be mentally fitting you for a tuxedo all night.”
I heard a smile in Logan’s voice and he said, “And what’s so wrong with that?”
I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it.
Mia hopped out of the Jeep before I parked, whooping the news about Logan’s Santa suit all the way into the office.
The phone beeped and I told Logan I needed to go.
“I’ll pick you up in an hour,” he said, and then he was gone.
Chapter Nine
“His name’s Ben Rayburn.” Dr. Emily Marshall said into my cell phone. Her voice sounded tired.
“His prints were on file?” I said.
“Yeah,” she said. “DPS. He was released from Huntsville six months ago.”
For a moment I was speechless.
“He was in prison?” I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut. “You’ve seen the report?”
“Not all of it,” she said and I heard paper rattling. “Enough to get the ID.”
“What was he in for?”
“Possession with intent to distribute.”
My throat went tight and a wave of nausea rolled in my stomach. Clark had been right. My mysterious good Samaritan was a drug dealer.
“Any priors?” I said and my voice sounded small.
“Didn’t see any,” she said. “I’ll send you what I’ve got. I’m about to call it a day.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”
“You, too,” she said. She paused. “And try not to take this too hard. I know you wanted this guy to be a hero.”
I sighed. “I’m an obituary writer bucking for a spot on the City Desk. You’d think by now I’d be used to disappointment.”
“Cauley,” Dr. M said and her voice was kind. “You are a hopeless romantic and there are damn few of us left. I’ll tell you what my daddy always told me - Don’t let the bastards get you down.”
Easy for her to say. She was spending Christmas with the love of her life and was heading home to her two perfect children.
Sullen, I pulled into my drive, walked over to Beckett and Jenks’s house and picked up the enormous box marked “Soiree” that I assumed held our Christmas costumes.
At least I could mark two things off my list - pick up costumes and identify John Doe.
Although there was something about John Doe, or Ben Rayburn, that was bugging me, despite the fact that he’d been in prison and that I’d seen video evidence of his drug possession. But I’d also seen evidence of his kindness and bravery. And his sense of humor - I wish I’d met the man who called himself Calvin Hobbes.
Juggling the big box back over to my house, I fumbled the knob.
Inside, I flipped on the lights in my little Lake Austin bungalow to stave off the dismal gray sky, and zapped on the television to stave off my dismal dark mood.
I flicked on the twinkle-lights on my spindly little Charlie Brown Christmas tree, and dumped the big box beneath the rangy lower limbs.
I’d left It’s a Wonderful Life in the player, and it flickered on just as Jimmy Stewart was yelling at his family.
I shook my head. For more than half the movie, it should have been called It’s a Sucky Life.
I thought about Ben Rayburn, and wondered who would be missing him tonight.
I grabbed the big stack of half-finished Christmas cards and chunked them on the floor in front of the tree and pulled out my new iPad, courtesy of Aunt Kat, to find my address book. If I could get the envelopes addressed and in the mail tonight, they’d at least be postmarked by Christmas Eve.
I plopped down in the middle of the pile and booted up the pad.
Muse, Aunt Kat’s cranky little calico, stalked in from the bedroom, bitching her little cat blues. She rubbed up against my knee, turned three circles, then made a nest among the envelopes.
“Give me that,” I said as she sharpened her claws on one of the cards. I pulled the card out from beneath her fluffy butt and nearly burst into tears.
It was the card I’d made out for Logan.
I
missed Marlowe and I missed Logan and he wasn’t even gone yet.
“Oh, cat,” I said, and Muse crawled into my lap, purring until she slobbered.
The message light pinged on my laptop, and I opened the message and found three photo attachments from Ethan - one of Ben Rayburn’s original tattoo - the shield with Texas Syndicate sword with a snake, and two shots of layers he’d isolated from the original.
I hit the zoom and looked more closely. “It’s not a shield,” I said to Muse. “It’s an arrowhead. With three lightning bolts.”
I squinted, and realized there was some kind of mathematical equation…30.32-97.72…
I stared at the lightning bolts, and realization struck.
The Colonel’s friend Lane Butler had a tattoo like that.
My breath caught and my fingers flew over the keyboard in a Google search for military tattoos with three lightning bolts, and there it was.
“Army Airborne,” I whispered to the cat, looking at my screen.
Ben Rayburn had been Army Special Forces.
Did that mean he wasn’t a drug dealer? No.
But it did make it a whole lot less likely.
I Googled Ben, Benjamin and Bennie Rayburn and got the generic Facebook stuff, something about fairies and vampires, one about superheroes and about 13,000 sites for some truly disturbing porn.
I ruled out the porn, the fairies and the vampires, although, I was pretty sure the superhero-thing wasn’t far off the mark.
Undaunted and with a fresh streak of excitement, I tapped into the Sentinel’s search engine and came up with Ben Rayburn. His last known address was at Camp Fallujah, one of the forward Army bases in Iraq.
A crash sounded at the front door and Muse took off like a shot.
The door swung open, and there was Marlowe.
He came flying across the room like he hadn’t seen me in four weeks, let alone four hours, slipping and sliding on my unaddressed holiday cards.
“I thought we were locking the door these days,” Logan said, grinning as the dog whipped into a full-blown frenzy, leaping and capering between me and Logan.
Logan stood in the doorway, and he was tall and dark, and the winter wind whipped at him from behind.
My breath caught.
And that was it.
I burst into tears.
