by Style, Linda
At that point the man behind the counter came over with two glasses of water. He wore an apron that looked as if it had done a stint in an E.R. room, a hair-net that covered his Donald Trump comb-over and a name tag on his shirt that read Dave. “I make the best hamburgers in town. Best chili, too.”
Crista was tempted not to order anything and just have coffee, but she wanted to keep Diego here as long as she could. “I’ll have the chili and a cup of coffee.”
Diego set down the menu. “Same here.”
Dave left and an awkward silence ensued. How should she start? He was the one who’d wanted to talk to her, so it made sense that she let him go first.
The waiter/cook brought them two coffees and a small creamer. “It’s not cream. It’s milk,” he said. “The rest is comin’ up in a minute.”
Crista poured a liberal amount of milk into her coffee, then finally said, “I hope you’re getting settled okay.”
Diego raised his chin. “I’m doing all right. Nobody’s knockin’ at my door to give me a job, but I didn’t expect anything different.”
Every time she looked at Diego, her chest hurt. He had such potential and it was all going down the tubes if he didn’t change his life soon. If only she could do something to help. If only he’d let her.
He’d always been proud, even as a boy, unwilling to take help from anyone. “No one ever came to my door, either. I’ve had to work hard for everything I have.”
Eyes narrowed, his sharp gaze cut into her. “Why’d you disappear?”
She cupped her coffee tightly with both hands. Should she tell him? As a boy, Diego had idolized Trini, and after seeing them together last week, things obviously hadn’t changed. If she told him what had happened between her and Trini, would he even believe her? It might alienate him even more.
“It didn’t work out between me and Trini. I couldn’t stay. It—it’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
“Maybe you should tell me first why Marco and Trini were at your place?”
“They’re my friends.”
“Well…” she said. “In my opinion, you keep the wrong kind of friends.”
His chin came up again. “No one asked for your opinion.”
“Maybe not, but I’m giving it anyway. You could do so much if you tried. Your paintings are wonderful, you could exhibit them somewhere. Sell them. You can’t throw all that talent away just because you had a bad start in life.”
Surprise registered in Diego’s eyes. His attitude seemed to soften a little. “I care about you, Diego. I want what’s best for you.”
As she spoke, the cook brought their chili and some crackers, and Diego, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation, dug right in as if he hadn’t eaten for a week. But he didn’t look hungry or deprived. Physically, he looked just the opposite. Despite ten years in the worst prison in Texas, Diego was the picture of good health and fitness.
She gazed at him with wonder. It felt so good to see her little brother again. Talk to him. Even if their relationship was strained, it was better than not having a relationship at all. As she watched him eat, she made a commitment to herself that she would help him turn his life around—whether he wanted her to or not.
But lecturing him wasn’t the way to start. “I guess the chili’s good, huh?”
He glanced up. “Better than what I’ve had recently. Try it.”
“Okay.” She tasted a spoonful. “Umm. Very good.”
“You hurt a lot of people by disappearing like that. Mami, Trini…”
The chili lodged in her throat. He didn’t say he was hurt, too, but she could tell that Diego had been hurt the most. Why else would he be so bitter about it?
“I’m sorry, Diego. I really am. I had good reason to leave, and even better reasons not to tell anyone.”
“Did it have something to do with Hank?” His knuckles tightened as he grasped his spoon.
Her stepfather. He’d been an ugly part of both their lives. She’d married Trini to escape Hank, but Trini was the reason she’d fled Houston. But since she didn’t know how involved Diego was with Trini, she couldn’t tell him.
“Yes,” she finally admitted. “Hank was a big part of it. And I’m sorry, I can’t talk about the rest right now.”
“So what else is new?” The sarcasm was back in his voice.
There was no point trying to change his mind, so she decided to take another tack. “What else is new? You asking me here. That’s definitely new. Why don’t you tell me why I’m here?”
He glanced around, then his gaze came back to her. His irises suddenly seemed huge, his eyes as black as onyx. He leaned across the table and said so softly it was almost a whisper, “I wanted to tell you to be careful. You have no idea what you’re getting into and—” He stopped midsentence. “Just…just be careful.”
He was concerned about her. A tiny bud of hope blossomed. Maybe their relationship was salvageable. “I’m a cop, Diego. I’m trained to be careful.”
His eyes penetrated hers. “Your life could be in danger.”
“I appreciate the warning. Very much. But, I have a job to do. I can handle whatever comes.”
“Your life could be in danger and you’re telling me you can handle it?”
“I do it every day.”
“This is different.”
“Why is that? Do you know something specific? Someone who wants to hurt me?” It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. More than once someone she’d put behind bars had threatened her life. That was part of the job, too.
“You’ve been asking too many questions in places where people don’t like anyone asking questions.”
“What people? Marco? Trini? Some gang leader? The Pistoles?”
He slouched against the back of the booth. “The Pistoles take credit for their jobs. They mark their territory and they don’t do it with colors.”
It definitely sounded as if Diego knew more than he was saying. “Tell me who you’re talking about so I can do something about it.”
Shaking his head, he said, “All I can say is that you’re searching in the wrong place.” With that, he finished his chili, gulped down the coffee and stood to leave.
“Wait a sec,” Crista said, getting up herself and laying some money on the table to pay the bill. Diego stopped till she caught up with him. “Thanks,” she said. “I appreciate your concern. I really do.”
He glanced away. “No big deal.”
“Yes, it is. And I will be careful.”
At that, one side of his mouth quirked up. A hint of a smile, maybe?
“Diego,” she added on impulse, “why don’t you come over and spend Thanksgiving with me next week?”
The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. His expression went blank, as if she was a stranger who was getting too personal. But she knew he wasn’t as remote as he wanted everyone to believe he was. He cared about her. That’s why he’d asked to meet her—warned her.
“Why?”
Crista shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Because you’re my brother.” She glanced away, then back to Diego. “We’re family.”
Diego stared at her for a few seconds, pivoted and headed for the door again. Her heart sank. She’d pushed it. Gotten too familiar too fast. Damn.
But halfway out the door, Diego turned and said, “I’ll think about it.”
Surprised, but delighted that he’d even think about coming to her place, Crista couldn’t hold back a smile. She wanted to say something more to convince him, but then he was gone.
Just as well. She had to be at Alex’s for dinner in a few hours. The thought of dinner with Alex and Samantha made her smile again.
Not good. It wasn’t a social event. It wasn’t a date, even though she felt a little like it was. Having dinner together was meant to make Samantha comfortable before Crista talked to her about the drawing.
She had to remember that.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CRISTA CHANGED from her work suit into a swingy burgundy skirt with a hemline that hovered around her knees. Her pale pink sweater went perfectly with the skirt. Not too dressy, but not jeans-casual, either.
Slipping her feet into black, strappy heels, she thought about the approach she’d take with the child. Nothing direct. Nothing directive. Nothing that would set the child back emotionally. Nothing that would upset Alex.
She had to do things right. She’d been on edge ever since taking the Encanto case and now Englend’s edict that she make a collar regardless of the facts had her wondering about her ability to do the job. She’d become a cop to uphold the law, to help people, not do the bidding of a captain who wanted to make his department look good.
The drive-by at her apartment and what Diego had said this afternoon about the Pistoles not marking their territory with colors made her wonder about her objectivity. Was she pursuing the Pistoles angle because of her brother’s former involvement with the gang? Did she want them to go down so he wouldn’t get involved again? That would be as bad as Englend wanting her to make a collar just to have a suspect in custody. Maybe worse.
But beyond all that was the knowledge that her interest in Alex was becoming personal. Hell, it wasn’t becoming personal, it was personal. And because of it, her professionalism was seriously at risk.
She had to distance herself. Had to think about the job. Only the job. Her career hinged on what she did with the Encanto case.
An hour later, Alex greeted her at the door and swept her inside, taking her coat and leading her into the family room where Samantha was sitting on the couch watching a children’s show.
“Elena tells me dinner won’t be ready for about twenty minutes,” Alex explained.
“Hi, Samantha,” Crista said, sitting beside the child. “What are you watching?”
“Something she shouldn’t be watching,” Alex answered for Sam. “She’s supposed to be helping set the table.”
“I was waiting for you,” Sam said to Crista, totally ignoring her father. “You can help me set the table if you want to.”
“I’d love to help.”
Holding Crista’s hand, Sam led her to the dining room. “We don’t eat in here except when we have company and on special days like Thanksgiving and Noche Buena.”
“It’s a lovely room,” Crista said. Glancing around, she took in a large rectangular table made of some heavy dark wood, eight matching chairs covered in gold and red damask, and a mammoth chandelier in an old world style. Crista felt a little awed. This place was like something from a television show about the homes of the rich and famous.
“You can do the plates while I do the silver.” Sam pointed to a buffet against one wall where everything was laid out.
“But first, let’s put on the tablecloth,” a woman’s voice said in Spanish.
Crista turned and saw the grandmother coming into the room.
“Hello, Miss Santiago. We’re happy you can join us tonight.”
The woman spoke in her native language and Crista responded in kind. “Thank you, Mrs. Reyes. This is a real treat for me. I don’t often get a home-cooked meal.”
“Please, call me Elena,” she said, and Crista suggested she call her by her first name, too.
“Grandma makes yummy food,” Sam interjected.
“I’ll bet she does.” Crista reached for one end of the gold damask tablecloth Elena held and together they spread it over the long table.
“You can do the napkins, too,” Sam said after her grandmother left.
Crista glanced again at the buffet. A stack of cloth napkins sat next to the plates. Gold damask napkins, just like the tablecloth. She felt a twinge of uncertainty. Did the napkins go on the right or the left side? Or on top of the plate?
“Perfect,” Alex boomed.
Crista jerked her head up to see Alex ruffling Sam’s hair as the child set the silver just so on each side of the plate.
“I made the sharp sides of the knives turn the right way, too,” the child said.
Alex smiled proudly. “I see that. Good job.”
A tiny feeling of discomfort skittered through Crista—a feeling that hung on through each course of the meal Elena brought in. She was an outsider. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong in Alex and Samantha’s world. Except when she was doing her job.
When it came to doing her job, she knew what to do. The thought comforted her, and she was glad when they went back into the family room to talk. She and Alex had discussed when and where Crista should conduct the interview and that Alex would be there, too.
“You want to come to my room? You can see Snuffy,” Sam piped up, obviously unaware that her father and Crista had other plans.
The most important thing at the moment was gaining the child’s trust, so Crista said, “Sure. I’d love to see Snuffy.”
At that, Sam preceded Crista up the stairs and Alex followed.
“See. There’s Snuffy. He likes to be on my bed ’cuz it’s comfortable.”
“It looks very comfortable,” Crista agreed.
Sam jumped up on the bed next to Snuffy.
“Here, you can hold him. He might remember you since you gave him back to me.”
Crista took the stuffed animal and sat on the bed next to Sam. This would be the perfect time to ask a couple questions. She glanced up to see Alex hovering by the door.
“I wanted to thank you for the lovely picture you drew for me,” Crista said. “I brought it along so you could tell me a little more about it.”
“Okay,” Sam said, taking Snuffy back and placing him on her pillow. “He needs a little rest now.”
“That’s good. And while he’s resting, I’ll go downstairs and get the picture.”
“I’ll get it,” Alex said, which surprised Crista since he’d been so adamant about staying with them while she talked to Sam.
“Thank you. I left it next to my coat.”
Alex returned within seconds and handed her the picture. Crista laid it on the bed between her and Sam.
“That’s the moon,” Sam offered.
“Yes, I can see that. And who are these two people?”
“Two men.”
“Real men or people you made up?”
“Real men,” Sam said, a little indignantly. “I saw them out the window when I got hurt.”
“And what’s this?” Crista pointed to the line coming from the box that was supposed to be the car.
“I don’t know. A gun I think. Like on TV.”
Crista glanced at Alex, knowing he’d never let Sam watch movies with any kind of violence in them. He hadn’t told her that, but Crista knew it nonetheless, and she saw the concern in his eyes, too.
“Where’d you see something like that on television?” he asked.
Sam looked down, as if she’d done something wrong. “I don’t know.”
“It’s okay, honey,” Alex quickly added. “I just wondered, that’s all.”
Sam hung her head. “I sneaked up on abuelita when she was watching a movie in her room. I shouldn’t have done it ’cuz I scared her.”
Alex grinned. “I’m sure abuelita forgave you for scaring her. She loves you very much.”
“I know.” Sam smiled happily. “I love her, too.”
“So,” Alex said. “Maybe you can finish telling us about your picture and then we can have some dessert.”
Crista and Alex exchanged glances as if on the same wavelength. If Sam overheard the TV show, she could’ve overheard Alex and Elena talking about the shooting. She could have drawn the picture because that’s what she thought she saw. Alex shifted his stance. He was uncomfortable, Crista realized, and decided to finish this up as soon as possible.
Sam glanced at the drawing still lying on the bed between her and Crista. “That’s the grass. That’s the car, and that’s the moon. This is our house and that’s me in the window.”
Crista hadn’t noticed the dot of a figure in the window before since it was obscured by
the coloring Sam had done over it. And from the urgency in Sam’s voice, Crista suspected the child was more anxious to get to dessert than explain the drawing. “It’s a lovely picture, and I’m so happy you drew it for me. Can you tell me one more thing about it?”
Sam nodded.
“When you were standing in the window, did you see the people in the car?”
Alex’s face paled.
Samantha nodded again. “Kind of. But not really ’cuz it was dark.”
“I think it’s time to go downstairs,” Alex stated. His gaze bore into Crista. “We can talk about this some other time. In private.”
End of conversation. “Okay,” Crista said and stood to go, picking up the picture to take with her. She glanced at Sam, who reached out for Crista to help her jump off the bed. She helped the girl and then stepped away, trying to maintain some distance, but as they descended the stairs, Crista felt a small warm hand nestle inside hers.
Her heart squeezed, and she couldn’t stop the sudden rush of emotions that washed over her.
Don’t! Don’t get involved. But it was far easier to say the words than to do it. Leaving now before she got dragged in any further would be best. She’d done what she came here to do and now it was time to go.
“I’m glad you finally came back,” Elena reprimanded when they entered the dining room. “It’s time for dessert. Come now.” Her words brooked no argument and Crista knew if she were to leave right then, Elena would feel insulted. Her own grandmother had been much the same in that respect. Hispanic culture was chock-full of tradition and unspoken rules.
Sam scooted up onto her chair. “Yummy,” she said. “Do you like flan, too?” Her big brown eyes peered up at Crista.
“Uh-huh. It’s one of my favorites.”
“We’re going to have more on Thanksgiving. Can you come and have Thanksgiving with us?”
Silky as the flan was, Crista almost choked on it.
“Great idea,” Alex said. “We’d love it if you could join us.”
Crista swallowed another spoonful of flan, quickly searching for words to decline the invitation and yet not hurt Sam’s feelings. “That’s a wonderful invitation, Sam. And I’d love to come, but I’ve already invited my brother to have Thanksgiving with me at my home.”
