Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series (Book 4))

by Schwartz, Jinx

  “Yeah?” I snuffled.

  “Yeah. And I have even better news. Here,” she shoved her cell phone into my hand, “Jenks wants to talk to you.”

  Could this night get much worse?

  I gave Jenks a quick rundown on what just happened, swearing on my saintly grandmother’s grave that I had done absolutely nothing to bring the nutcase to my doorstep. Jenks, while sympathetic, didn’t come across as convinced of my innocence, but did say he loved me and missed me and that counted for a lot. Our conversation was cut short by the arrival of yet another law officer.

  Topaz Sawyer, a diminutive deputy with a head of hair which closely resembled that of a shaggy German Shepherd, led me to a dining room chair, asked if I’d like some water, and calmly began asking me questions. What I really wanted was a stiff shot of anything but water.

  Jan had been escorted by a second officer into my office. My guess is they separated us to see if our stories of the night’s events matched.

  After another round of questioning, some of it repetitious, Ms. Topaz asked, “Do you make it a practice to leave your garage door open, Hetta?” We were practically bosom buddies after a half-hour in each other’s company.

  “Absolutely not. It was closed, and I locked the door into the pantry, as well. I am very security conscious.”

  Another deputy approached. “Looks like he tried that door, didn’t work, so he bumped the front door.”

  “Bumped?”

  “As in bump locked it.”

  “Bump locked? What the heck is that?”

  Topaz wrote something on the growing incident report. “It’s a master-type key you can buy on the Internet that, inserted into the lock and then bumped with a special tool, allows the key to turn. Takes a few seconds. We’ve seen a few break-ins we suspected were bumps, but this is the first time we caught the guy with the key.”

  “Yeah,” another said. “Not only that, he evidently had your garage door opener, but thanks to a better locking system on the fire door into the house, he couldn’t bump the lock. We found the opener next to his SUV.”

  “Was it white? His car?”

  “Yes, why? Do you know someone with a white SUV?”

  “I saw one earlier today when I was sitting in the courtyard. I heard a car, and the neighbor’s dog was barking, so I looked out. She only barks at strangers, so I knew it wasn’t her owner or his family. A white car was leaving, headed down the road. We don’t get much traffic, since it’s a dead end.”

  Jan, who’d joined me at the dining table, opened her mouth, but slammed it shut at my warning look. She’d give me hell later for not telling her about the white SUV, especially in light of the one that chased us. On top of that, I thought we owed Ted a call before giving away the fact that my garage door opener was last seen on my VW’s visor at his winery, so for now we needed to clam up.

  “Well, the dude must be a moron,” I said, “or can’t read. There is an ADT sign outside, and stickers on all the windows.”

  “Truth is, a lot of folks have fake security signs. Maybe he thought no one was home, so even if the alarm went off, he’d have time to grab some stuff before police arrived. One thing for sure, I don’t think he was expecting you to be armed.”

  Jan grinned. “Hetta’s almost always armed. It’s one of the reasons I hang out with her.”

  I shrugged. “Hey, my daddy always said some folks’ll think you’re paranoid if you carry a gun, but if you have a gun, what the hell do you need to be paranoid about?”

  Topaz smiled. “So we can assume you have other firearms in the house?”

  “Only a .38 revolver, which is in the office, a 30-30 in the hall closet, a .22 automatic in my bedroom, and a pellet pistol in the garage, for pigeons. I hate pigeons. Oh, and, uh, a .9mm Springfield XDM.” I was reluctant to admit owning the semi-automatic with nineteen in the clip and one in the chamber, but figured I’d better come clean since they’d probably find it anyway.

  “An XDM? Why didn’t you use it, instead of a shotgun?”

  “Truthfully? I figured XDM’s were banned here, like in California.” I also didn’t want to admit I’d acquired it illegally in California. I have friends in low places.

  “Nope. Hell, I wish I had one.” Her smile widened. “Why rock salt and bacon rind in the shotgun? It works very effectively at close range, but won’t do much otherwise.”

  “The second round is a double aught, and the last three are slugs. My grandmother says that’s the way to load, you know, just in case.”

  “In case of what? That the guy is still in one piece? You must have some family,” Topaz said, but again, there was a note of humor. “I’d say the guy got very lucky the first round nailed him, and even luckier he got out the door. If you can say stumbling right into the loving arms of a border patrol agent lucky. You called the Border Patrol after you dialed 9-1-1?”

  “A gal cannot have too many armed men about. I called everyone I could think of. There is almost always a Border Patrol vehicle close by, so I figured they might respond first. Looks like I was right.”

  “They were Johnny on the spot. Any idea who this guy is?”

  “Since I still haven’t seen him, nope. I’ve only lived here for a few weeks, and I don’t know a lot of people yet. You think he might have actually been after me?”

  She shrugged. “It’s a possibility.”

  “More like a probability,” Jan mumbled under her breath.

  “Excuse me?” Topaz asked.

  Jan, cowed by my glare, said, “Nothin’.”

  After everyone left, we jammed a chair under the doorknob, even though the dead bolt was working fine again after being bumped. The next day, I planned to replace it with a new bump-proof model and charge the cost to the owner.

  Jan and I had a glass of wine to calm our nerves and went back to bed for what was left of the night. I couldn’t sleep, and gave up at six, even though it was still dark. Jan didn’t fare any better in the sleep department, so morning found us jangled with caffeine, and generally grumpy. It was into this atmosphere that the hapless property manager bungled. Evidently, bad news passes fast in this small community.

  When I opened the door, he was inspecting the door lock. Luckily I’d already mopped up the blood spatters in the hall and out in the courtyard.

  “What now?” I growled.

  “May I come in?”

  I threw the door open, he stepped inside as though entering a viper pit.

  Jan moved between us, whispering out of the side of her mouth, “The man is just doing his job, Hetta.” To him, she asked, “You want some coffee?”

  He eyed me warily. “Uh, that would be nice.”

  “We’re out on the verandah. Go on out, Hetta will bring your coffee, won’t you, dear? Cream and sugar?”

  “Black.”

  I couldn’t find any rat poison, so I left his coffee black and joined them outside. A foursome was on the green already, enjoying a morning that dawned surprisingly warm for their tournament. Little could they guess that just a few hours ago my house was the scene of crime, fear, and violence. My stomach did its twentieth flip-flop of the morning as the night’s events rushed back.

  “Are you all right, Miss Coffey?

  “Yeah, Hetta, you look awful pale.”

  “I’m fine, or as fine as someone can be after being terrorized in the dark of night.”

  The property manager put his cup down. “Understandable that you are upset. After all, you shot a man.”

  Jan’s eyes bugged out and she scooted her chair away from him, as though dodging the line of fire.

  “Listen to me, you twerp. I am not upset because I blasted a piece of vermin who broke into my house in the middle of the night. I am upset because I didn’t kill the bastard. And I am very upset that you rented me a house with unsafe locks on the doors.”

  The poor dude leapt to his feet, mouth hanging open in shock. “Now look, you can’t possibly blame me, er, the owner, for this.”

  Jan
read where I was headed and joined the fray. She hasn’t studied at the side of the master for nothing. “Yeah, if it hadn’t been for Hetta being here, your owner’s stuff would probably be in Mexico by now. You should give poor Hetta a freakin’ reward.”

  Atta girl, Jan.

  “However, I’ll settle for new locks. And not being evicted,” I told him, doing my best to sound wronged. I would have added a sniffle, but thought that was overdoing it.

  Scurrying for the front door, he said, “Someone will be here today to change the locks, and I’ve already informed your lawyer that she was correct, and you can have as many short-term visitors as you like. Sorry for your trouble.” With this, he escaped.

  We dissolved into giggles, drawing a frown from a golfer trying to sink a putt.

  “Miss Coffey, I am Sergeant MaGee from the Cochise County Sheriff’s department, Investigations Division. Do you mind if I come in and ask a few questions?”

  I sized up the tall blonde dude at my front door. Covering most of his hair was a woolen cap, with, of all things, two blue earflaps. He was handsome, in an Irish Wheaton terrier sort of way. “Please. Want some iced tea?” Or a dog biscuit?

  “No thank you, ma’am.”

  Jan tittered softly. She knows I loathe being addressed as ma’am. Every woman in the world probably remembers when it first happens, because from that day forward you are no longer a girl.

  I bit my tongue and asked, “You gonna tell us who that jerk was last night?”

  “First, I have a few questions.”

  That didn’t sound good. I looked past him. He seemed to be alone, a good sign, as I doubt he’d come solo with intent to arrest. After all, they knew there were guns in the house. Still, my heart sped up.

  I guided the investigator out onto the verandah, where brilliant sunshine superheated the concrete. He removed his cap, explaining he wore it to protect ears prone to both sunburn and chill. We made small talk about the golf course, where he played regularly, how we liked the area, stuff like that. I was relaxing a bit, taking a sip of tea, when he dropped the bomb. “Miss Coffey, what exactly is your association with known Mexican gang members?”

  I spewed iced tea—luckily not all over the officer—and simultaneously managed to suck some down the wrong pipe. I was gasping for air and Jan rose to whack me on the back when I managed a breath and waved her off. Remembering to breathe through my nose, it was still three or four minutes before I regained control. “Sorry. What was the question?” As if I didn’t know.

  He repeated the question and I did what all guilty people do; I answered with a lame, “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you shot one of the them last night, and even though he’s not talking, we don’t think he was here to steal the flat screen.”

  “Oh, shit,” Jan groaned, “was it Paco?”

  It’s a good thing for her I’d put the guns away.

  “…then this other guy,” I told the riveted MaGee, “who we think might either be a drug lord or a US undercover agent of some kind, shot Paco, and we left them on the beach. Haven’t seen either of them since.”

  The investigator never interrupted, but his head swayed as if watching a tennis match as Jan and I team-tagged our story. Our sentences tumbled into each other as we recounted our Mexican adventure, meeting Nacho and his fellow homies, then saving a village on the Baja from some druggies running a meth super lab, which Nacho blew up. We left out a few minor details, like our stealing Nacho’s truck, Nacho subsequently kidnapping us, and what we considered his involvement in a huge border drug bust and a shootout between the Mexican federal police and a bunch of Zetas.

  “So, as you can see, to answer your question, yes, we did sort of meet a gang member, a guy named Paco, but Nacho said he was ex MS-13, and we thought Nacho killed him,” I explained, thinking I sounded quite logical.

  At the mention of MS-13, the cop, who was glazing over a bit, sat bolt upright. “MS-13?”

  “Yeah, but I think he switched to the Zetas at some point. I don’t know much about gangs, just what I read in the paper. Anyhow, that’s what Nacho told me. If you want some backup on my story, I can put you in touch with Marty Martinez, a retired Oakland homicide cop who was with us for part of the showdown.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “I think I’ll have that tea now.” Barely had those words been uttered when the front door burst open and Craig rushed in, with Chino right on his heels. He spotted MaGee and said, “Oh, looks like you’ve already heard.”

  “Heard what?” we all asked in unison.

  “Those guys that stole your car and tried to hijack the plane? They are friggin’ Zetas!” he bellowed.

  Oops, I guess Jan and I forgot to tell Deputy Dawg that part of the story.

  The afternoon became a virtual marathon of interviewers, who chugged down pitcher after pitcher of tea and gallons of coffee while talking with all of us. Seems the Sheriff of Cochise County has a keen interest in anything related to Mexican drug cartels. Craig knew little of interest to the various cops, but Chino was on scene for the Christmas Eve debacle. It was, after all, a search for his missing grandmother—whom, it turned out, was simply shacked up with a villager—that lead us to our fateful encounter with Paco.

  Jan and I, of course, were grilled like salmon fillets. Cell phones aplenty stayed busy as agencies exchanged information with their home bases, and each other. Ted and Nanci were called again and again, probably tiring of repeating the same story to different people. Marty Martinez, my retired cop buddy, got a call or two at his home in Baja. I also picked up on enough of one conversation in Spanish to know the caller was conversing about some shadowy liaisons on both sides of the border.

  As the hours dragged on and more information surfaced, one thing became abundantly clear; the common denominator in the whole complicated mess was none other than Miss Hetta Coffey.

  It also became clear that no one knew why, including moi.

  This probably would have been an ideal time for me to share that cryptic message from Nacho to mind my own business and stay away, but why open yet another can of worms? I was the only one, aside from a marina employee, who knew about that email, and for now I planned to keep it that way.

  As soon as everyone left, though, I’d call the marina, see if by chance Nacho left a contact number they forgot about? Oh, sure, he probably left a business card reading:

  Lamont “Nacho” Cranston

  Shady undertakings our specialty

  www.nachomuchomacho.com

  Se Habla Espanol

  Yeah, Quando pigs fly.

  Chapter 34

  When all the cops finally left, I called San Carlos.

  The gal at the marina office wasn’t the one who was there when Nacho showed up, but miracle of miracles, she told me my boat would be ready to launch in a week or ten days.

  Shocked at such rapid progress, I called Arturo, my new boat blister guru and, second miracle of the day, he answered. Turns out my blisters were superficial and in a week he would have Raymond Johnson ready to splash. I hung up and did a victory dance. It was about time I got some good news.

  Chino, Craig, and Jan went out to dinner, but I opted to stay put, grateful for time alone to ponder what in the hell was happening, and why.

  After checking, then re-checking that all windows and doors were locked, and setting the alarm—which, like any borderline OCDer, I re-re-checked—I then bump-key proofed exterior doors, all five off them, by jamming chairs under the knobs.

  Satisfied that Fort Knox had nothing on me, I then barricaded myself in my bedroom with my computer, a ream of paper, all five guns, a bottle of wine, and two family sized bags of potato chips. Hetta’s last stand.

  Sitting in the middle of the bed, I compiled a chronology of events, people, and places, beginning with the last time I saw Nacho.

  Agua Fria, Baja, December 24: Nacho gunned down that psychopath, Paco, who was intent on slitting my throat. Saved from a nasty end, I returned to my boat where Jenks
and I made a hasty exit. Since then, had I not received that stay away message, I wouldn’t have put Nacho into this latest mix, but now he could be a major player. But how? Nacho warning me to stay away: What did it mean, and from where?

  The mine: I took a job at the mine. Okay, but how on earth was that connected to Nacho, and thereby gang activity? Was my job at the mine somehow stomping on gang toes? Seemed a stretch, but if so, how does old Rat Face figure in? I didn’t like him, but the only suspicious activity I could pin on him was some kind of relationship with the Xers, and the Xers reeked of dirty.

  The Xer’s: How dirty, and in what capacity? Other than my gut feeling, I had nothing on them, but they are here, and there is trouble. I don’t believe in coincidence.

  White SUV: First spotted at Rancho Sierra Coronado, then at the river ford. Same one that chased us up the Ruta Rio Sonora, and then brought the thug to my house? Another stretch.

  The winery: Almost hijacked, car stolen. Again, my intuition screamed that two such insults upon my sweet self could must be joined at the hip, but were they?

  Paco: If he is indeed dead, as we assumed when we left his sorry bullet-ridden bod on the beach, then who would hold enough of a grudge, or have a motive, to come after me? Paco, dead or alive, kept popping up as my prime suspect. Even dead, he could be the problem. Nacho told me Paco had ties to MS-13, and no slight to one of theirs was ever forgiven. MS-13 wipes out entire families in brutal revenge for a simple insult to a member of their gang, so I suppose getting him killed might be construed as a dis, as they say in gang slang? As a bare bone fact, Paco might be alive today had I not been involved, peripherally as I was, in his demise.

  So, if not revenge, then what? What had I bungled into this time?

  Was it simply that I dialed 9-1-1, ratted out a group of human smugglers I encountered on my road and that set off this whole chain of events? Nah, too extreme.

  My head ached from more questions than answers.