“So, that’s why you know so much about Broadway shows.” “Oh, yeah. I was going to be the Broadway star. I won some tap and jazz competitions in high school and was runner-up in the Miss Texas Contest, so I was pretty full of myself, and announced to Ray that I was going to conquer the Big Apple. He was wonderful. Never put up a peep. So off I went.”
“That’s amazing. How long were you in Manhattan?”
She laughs. “Seems like a hundred years, now, but I struck gold my first time at audition. Got a long-running chorus part in ‘Sugar Babies.’ After that, I wasn’t so lucky, but it was fun. I did a lot of road show re-runs. It was a great way to see the country.”
“And what about Ray?”
“He stayed here and practiced law, but whenever I called, he was there for me. Lord knows how many broken romances he loaned his shoulder over.” She gives me a gleaming grin. “That’s how I finally hooked him. I just kept crying on his shoulder until I got his attention.”
At that, I think of Duncan and how close we came to marrying. “Were you ever sorry you didn’t marry...?”
I pause, wondering how to put my question a little more delicately, but she beats me to the punch.
“A man closer my age? Never in a million years. Not one of those guys could hold a candle to Ray. But he sure was a slow learner. I bided my time until he finally grew up.”
“Speaking of guys...” She lowers her voice. “Ray tells me you were once involved with Paul Carpenter.”
Odd, coming from her. I search my mind to recall if Paul ever made any mention of Raymond Gibbs and come up blank. “That was a lifetime ago. His wife was my college roommate.”
“I never met his wife, but I did know Fanny Hansen. I dabbled in real estate a few years back and crossed paths with her a couple of times. She was a real bitch.”
“Do I hear past tense?” “You didn’t know?” “Know what?”
She glances toward the door her husband exited, then whispers, “Fanny disappeared the day Paul died. They think he killed her first, hid her body, then took his own life.”
I start to protest, wanting to explain that when I last saw Paul he was trussed like a pig, then think better of it.
“He used the same technique on Fanny,” she said, widening her onyx orbs and making a long slash with her index finger across her throat, “that he used on his wife... uh, your roommate.” She lowers her eyes to stare intently at her wine glass.
Elvira’s crude reference to Reena doesn’t concern me. “They” means Uvalde—Bill Cotton. I bury the question looping up from the back of my mind. “But, if they didn’t find a body...”
“I’m just telling you what I heard.”
“Pinning two unsolved murders on a dead man makes everything very neat and tidy, doesn’t it?”
Elvira’s expression flattens and I know for some reason I’ve hit a nerve when she rises abruptly, grabs my empty glass and begins to stick the last few dishes in the dishwasher. “It’s late. Guess we better turn in.”
Once I’m beneath the covers, Elvira’s words echo. They said he used the same technique on Fanny that he used on his wife.
Why would Bill make an official announcement without producing a body and then pin it on a dead man?
Why didn’t I listen to Duncan? I’m virtually helpless. No backup. No Nate’s protective shadow. My groan echoes my anguish as I curse my egotistical stupidity.
Then I remember my cell. I could call Duncan. Give him an update. A friendly voice. That’s all I need. A friendly voice.
I pull my briefcase onto the bed and search for the phone. Then I search again and groan. The cell is sitting on my kitchen counter in the charger.
Low voices rising from the patio below pull me from my panicky thoughts. I can’t quite make out the words but the timbre of one of the voices sends tingles through me. I leave the bed, noting that the digital clock reads 12:47, then kneel at the half-open window.
Gibbs says something, and when the other man replies, I sink weakly to my haunches. It’s Bill. I go hot, then cold, with conflicting emotions.
My first thought is to run downstairs and throw my arms around his neck, even though I know he’s a probable drug dealer and, after what I learned tonight, possibly a murderer. Still, he saved my life.
My mind is crammed with unanswered questions. Are Bill and Gibbs in this mess together? Is it the money? It has to be. It’s no secret that more than a few law officers have succumbed to the vast fortunes made from drug trafficking.
But Bill couldn’t have killed Fanny, my inner voice reasons. He was in the helicopter with me, making sure I got to a safe haven.
I rise to my knees and press my ear to the opening in time to hear Bill say, “Okay, okay, if that’s the way it has to be, I’ll do it. But I don’t like it, Ray. It isn’t safe.”
The crusty creak of the sliding glass door is followed by Elvira’s voice. “Ray? What on earth are you doing out here? It’s almost one o’clock. Come on back to bed, honey, you need your sleep.”
She pulls him into the house. The sliding door grinds shut and the lights go out, leaving me to wonder where Bill disappeared to so quickly. It was plain Elvira didn’t see him, or she would have greeted him.
I roll from one side to the other, unable to purchase comfort. The Gibbses know too much. Bill knows too much. And I shudder when I realize that I’ve blabbed too much.
I’m perched on the chair across the desk from Ray Gibbs, body tense with anticipation. The envelope has been retrieved from the wall safe and lies only inches from my hand.
“Coffee?” Ray asks for the second time in as many minutes. “No thanks.” I gaze toward the door. On the other side, Ray’s secretary, who was sullen and grumpy when she unlocked the office door for us at 4:00, is greeting someone.
I hear the response and shiver. When the door opens, I suppress a gasp. Though there are more lines in his face, the sheriff has never looked better.
When he sits beside me, I clasp my icy hands together to stop the trembling, and ask Gibbs through clenched teeth, “Are you telling me Sheriff Cotton is DEA?”
“I most certainly am,” Gibbs says. “Show Miss Armington your ID, Bill.”
He extracts a leather wallet-sized case from his back pocket, flips it open to reveal the badge and ID.
Knowing how easily an ID can be faked, I take the case from him. To his credit, the plastic covering the ID is discolored and worn from the impression of the badge, which bears the same wear. And too, the picture on the ID looks somewhat younger. Still...
“How do I know this isn’t a fake?” “You’re alive. Isn’t that proof enough?”
When our eyes lock to telegraph the same message sent almost a year before, I know nothing has changed between us.
Oh, God, I want to believe him. But what about his conversation with Gibbs last night? It’s possible Bill could be a double agent, but what about his cover? He’s blown it with me. Gibbs knows too. Probably Elvira.
His eyes beg. My “Yes” is barely a whisper.
Gibbs rubs his palms together, forcing us to turn his way. “Well then, let’s get this over.”
His joyful anticipation dulls when I say, “I wonder if your secretary would mind recording this? After all, if this is new evidence on the drug traffickers, we should have documentation and other witnesses since there is only one agent here.”
Gibbs shoots a questioning look in Bill’s direction. “Okay with you?”
“By all means. I should have thought of that myself.”
Gibbs bellows, “Hey, honey? Get in here and bring your pad.”
Once the woman is settled, Bill picks up the envelope by one corner. “Got a letter opener?”
The secretary runs back to her desk and returns with a commercial opener.
He slides the instrument across the top of the envelope, then carefully removes a hastily scribbled sheet by one corner. “If you don’t mind, Allie, we need to check for prints.”
I nod and squint a
t the dangled page. “It looks like Paul’s writing.”
I look at Gibbs’s secretary, who’s sitting with pen poised, mouth open. “For the record, I, Alice Armington, attest that these documents appear to have been written by the deceased, Paul Carpenter, and dated May third.”
She glances at her boss, who nods. “Write it exactly as Miss Armington has stated it, then read it back, please.”
After she does this, I read Paul’s letter. First to myself, then aloud.
Allie dearest:
If you are reading this, I am dead. Most probably murdered because I knew too much.
I should never have taken Reena’s Mercedes out of the garage. Whoever is in charge of the operation must have seen me and realized I knew about the setup.
They’re all in it. Fanny, Luke, even Reena. I’m positive Bill Cotton and Del are too.
This written accusation isn’t much, but it may be enough to generate some activity by the DEA. I’m counting on you to get this information to someone there. Ray Gibbs will help you. Trust him.
I always loved you and I always will.
Paul
Guilty tears burn. If only I hadn’t been so stubborn in demanding my own transportation. Why didn’t I rent? And why did Paul let me use the car Reena was supposed to have left the ranch in? It’s plain someone, maybe Reena’s murderer, saw me in her car and realized Paul was onto something.
I start at the feel of Bill’s hand on my shoulder and look up, suddenly aware that anything I say could damn me. If he and Gibbs are colluding, I now know too much and have given them every reason to put me out of the picture just like Reena, Paul, and Fanny.
He must read my mind because he says, “We wanted Paul to believe we were in on the operation. If he wrote anything else we would all be in jeopardy, can’t you see that?”
I search his face wanting to believe him and fill with hope when I see his gaze is unwavering. “I suppose that makes sense.”
“I’ll have to take the note as evidence.”
He asks Gibbs’s secretary, “Do you have a folder we can use?” Then to us he says, “I want the San Antonio lab to check this.”
When she closes the door behind her, Bill touches my arm, and pulsing heat shoots through every fiber of my being. His next words are strangely reassuring. “Paul was right about one thing. Raymond Gibbs is as honest as the day is long.”
Gibbs says, “I thank you for that vote of confidence, but you’re in this mess of alligators up to your ass and that makes you a dead man if you’re not careful.”
“Hey, Gibbs, would you mind giving us a little privacy?”
A chair scrapes and the attorney heads for the door. “If you two will excuse me?”
“How long do we have?”
“Not more than ten minutes—fifteen max. You have to be out of here before sunup and Miss Armington has to make the six o’clock flight to Houston. Otherwise, she’ll have to wait until the twelve-twenty-five and I can’t promise a safe exit for her that late in the day.”
When the door closes, neither of us moves. The tension between us is too strong to act on.
Finally, I manage, “What does Gibbs mean by safe exit?”
“It’s best no one sees you. As for me, it’s taken years to get in with the Mexicans and I can’t afford to blow my cover now.”
“You’re assignment was to infiltrate?”
“I’m the perfect candidate. Hometown boy. Not much of a past to trace.” He laughs a low laugh that sends shivers down my spine. “We’ll have lots of time to compare histories after all this is over.”
I barely hear his next words. “Nobody but Ray, his wife, and the secretary knows you’re here. You should be safe.”
“What about the evidence?”
“Don’t expect to hear anything until we break this case.”
“I heard you tell Fanny and Luke to do what they wanted with Paul.”
His concern seems genuine. “If I tried to take Carpenter, I might have blown my cover.” “But they killed him.”
“Yes. But Paul was already a goner. He had a very expensive habit and was skimming the stuff from the cartel. They’re still looking for the million plus in cocaine he stashed someplace.”
I look away as the memory of that hot spring afternoon replays and the large fertilizer-type bag Paul struggled from his saddle and into the padlocked tack room.
Bill’s voice brings me back. “The druggies were minutes behind me. That’s why I needed to get you out. If I hadn’t...”
“And Fanny?”
“I wasn’t there.”
“What about a body?”
“People disappear down here all the time. We did a routine search. Officially, she’s listed as missing.”
“Did you have my phones bugged?”
“Do you mean the DEA? No. Not us.” “Then who?”
“Probably the drug runners. I’m sure they were curious about how much you really knew. Will you promise me you’ll go back to Houston and let us handle this? Just keep a low profile and don’t talk about what went down. They are watching you. The bugs prove that.”
I’ve never wanted to believe somebody so much, but somewhere at the side of my mind lurks a nasty niggle of distrust.
“It shouldn’t be too much longer, I promise,” he says. “The minute I’m out of this, you’ll know it.”
“Do you know how to contact me?”
He grins. “I know more about you than you can ever imagine.”
It’s then I realize he isn’t going to make a move. So, I stand and say the only thing I can without betraying my feelings. “Please, be careful.”
He doesn’t answer, instead he turns and leaves without looking back.
“Ready?” Ray Gibbs stands in the doorway.
I nod and re-pack my briefcase. “I guess there’s nothing else for me to do here.”
He ushers me past the dozing secretary, then down the hall to the elevator. “I’m sorry I can’t take you to the airport myself, but I have a client. There’s a cab waiting for you in the parking lot.”
Chapter 27
THE FIRST RAYS OF LIGHT stab the horizon as I enter the waiting cab. It is still too dark to make out the cabbie other than he’s a male, but the Mexican music blaring on his radio gives me a lead and I take a crack at Spanish. “Aeropuerto, por favor.”
A muted, “Sí” precedes the rev of the motor and we pull out of the parking lot into the deserted street.
I barely notice where we’re going, still daunted and breathless from my meeting with the sheriff. Then, too, the streets that were jammed the previous afternoon are now empty and look quite different in the approaching dawn.
I check my watch, 5:30, plenty of time to make the 6:10 flight. I lean back and close my aching eyes, hoping to catch a few winks before we get to the airport.
The cab swerves, then shudders to a screeching stop, pitching me out of my doze. I fully expect to see the Continental Baggage Check-in. Instead, the muzzle of a nine-millimeter pistol is balanced on the lowered window in front of Luke Hansen’s ugly face.
“Remember me, sweetheart?”
The response I will make means life or death, but for some reason I am strangely calm as I take in the situation.
The road is clear in front of us. A second man has a pistol pointed at the driver’s head. Did the cabbie, unaware we were being followed, opt for a shortcut to the airport? At least that’s what I hope. If he’s part of it, it’s all over anyway.
I zero in on Hansen’s forehead. “How dare you stop an officer of the court. Do you have a warrant?”
The puzzled look on his face is the payoff. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“I’ve never seen you before in my life. Step on it, driver.”
Luke’s gun doesn’t waver. “Hey, hombre, turn off the fucking motor or you’re dead meat. And can that goddamn music.”
The driver shrugs and the engine dies, but the music booms until Luke’s bullets drill the dashboard into si
lence.
My door opens and Hansen gives an exaggerated bow and a flourish. “Step this way, ma’am.”
Since Hansen is being annoyingly polite, I give him a rather haughty, “No thanks. I prefer to stay just where I am.”
He looks at his accomplice. “Come here and watch the bitch while I demonstrate what Miss High ’n’ Mighty will get if she doesn’t step out of the cab.”
The man moves my way, gun still trained on the driver. “We don’t have time for this.”
“Shut the fuck up and do as I say.” Luke waits until the man has his weapon aimed at me.
When Luke moves to the driver’s side and raises his pistol, I lunge forward hoping somehow to protect the innocent.
Too late. A deafening report fills the car and the driver jerks to the right as a fine spray of red splatters across the windshield.
I scream, covering my face to escape the burning consequence of my misguided reaction.
The sting of Hansen’s hand on my cheek brings me up short. His next words start low, but by the time he’s through, he’s shouting. “If I had my way, bitch, I’d pull you into that thicket over there and show you what a real man can do, then get rid of you once and for all. But I got orders I have to follow. Now get your goddamn ass out of the fucking cab.”
He grabs my briefcase and yanks me to him. When I struggle he smiles. The stench of whiskey almost makes me gag as he whispers, “Keep it up, bitch, that really turns me on.”
“Hey.” The other man calls out. “Hold off on that stuff. We got things to do here.”
Luke whirls to face him. “Listen, asshole, I’m running this show. Get it?”
“Okay, okay, but you better tell me what to do with the body.” “Do I have to tell you everything, asshole? Put-the-fucking-body-in-the-trunk-and-pull-the-fucking-car-over-there-behind-those-fucking-mesquites. Get it, fuck-head?”
Luke pushes me toward his Bronco as the cab swerves off the road, bumps across the ditch, and disappears into a low stand of mesquite trees. Minutes later the man emerges and trots toward us.
Anacacho, An Allie Armington Mystery Page 15
