Anacacho, An Allie Armington Mystery

by Louise Gaylord

  He snorts. “Oh, right. Just like last April? I tried to warn you then, but no—you and your cockamamie idea of women’s independence got you into a big pile of you-know-what.”

  I struggle to remember that Duncan cares for me and is doing only what a caring person would do.

  Diversion. Isn’t that what the experts recommend? When a child is acting out, change the venue or introduce a new subject?

  Since Duncan is in child-mode, I take one of the menus and open it. “Oh, goody. They have Dover sole tonight. Just what I was hoping.”

  His mouth drops. “How can you give a damn about Dover sole when your life is in danger?”

  I grin. “Because I feel like a dangerous soul.”

  He shakes his head. “Cut the lame humor, will you? This is too damn serious to joke about.”

  He jams the calendar back inside his jacket, stares at the ceiling for a few seconds, then snaps his fingers.

  “I’ve got the perfect solution. Just tell them you’re in the middle of a crucial deal and can’t leave the city—or something. Ask to dictate your deposition. Request that someone from the U.S. Attorney’s office come here.”

  The man is clueless. I’m an instant short of a sharp retort when I recall the comfort of Duncan’s arms around me. Instead, I take a sip of my martini, and let out a long breath before I answer with a restrained, “I’m not in the middle of a crucial deal.”

  Now it’s Duncan who bristles. “For Pete’s sake, Allie, everybody lies a little to get out of a situation. Why are you being so stubborn?”

  That’s it. We’ve been around this track before. To hell with the comfort of his damned arms, he’s not going to run me.

  When I grab my purse and stand, his mouth forms a surprised O. “Ladies room?”

  “Home. I’ve had enough.” “Enough? Are you mad?”

  “Just tired of being micro-managed.” Before Duncan can respond, I am gone.

  The drive back to the apartment gives me time to wind down and examine my actions. Maybe I blew things out of proportion. After all, I was the one who called Duncan. He was only trying to be helpful and I took his head off for no good reason. God, I’m a thankless bitch.

  I pull up to the entrance to see Elton the doorman in the lobby. After peering at me through the double glass doors, he beckons me in.

  When I enter, he raises a box. “This came by FedEx.”

  My knees turn to aspic. When I start to crumple, the firm grasp of a hand at my elbow, and Duncan’s, “I’m here” are the last things to register.

  I’m laid out like dinner on one of the lobby couches, a cold compress over my eyes. Duncan is busy assuring someone that I’ll be just fine in a few minutes.

  The edge of the compress lifts and Duncan’s beady-browns look into mine. “How’s it going?”

  I manage to mumble through trembling lips, “Not so good.” “You’re white around your mouth. Sick to your stomach?”

  I nod.

  “I getcha. Just make yourself comfortable until you feel better.” Then he clucks, “You didn’t have any food. Just that martini.”

  “I’m sorry I was such a bitch.”

  He pats my arm. “Hey, what are friends for?”

  It’s almost ten by the time Duncan, FedEx box tucked under one arm and me glued to his body with the other, gets me upstairs.

  I flop on the couch and watch him place the box on the coffee table in front of me.

  “What’s in the fridge?”

  The mere mention of food makes my stomach roll, but I rise to my usual gracious hospitality level and croak, “I don’t remember, but help yourself. Open some wine. I’m sure you could use a drink after all this. None for me though.”

  Duncan disappears into the kitchen, leaving me to stare at the FedEx. My stomach gives a sick lurch as sweat films my face and I fall into the back pillows.

  Footsteps signal his return and I crack one lid. He’s fixed himself a sandwich and poured a glass of red. “Nice Merlot.”

  When I manage a weak “Thanks,” he points to the package. “Do you want me to open it?”

  “Eat first. It can wait.”

  He makes short work of the sandwich between swigs of wine, then rises. Dishes clatter, water sprays, and the dishwasher door clanks shut before the cushion moves again and Duncan grabs my hand.

  “I know you’re scared. You have every right to be, but we need to open this package.”

  “What if it’s a bomb?”

  “I don’t think they’re that stupid. They just want to scare you. May I?”

  I nod, still refusing to look.

  He rips open the box. Paper crinkles and Duncan gasps. Despite the spinning head, I lean forward and gasp myself. It’s my Beretta.

  Duncan scans the note and hands it to me. “If you show up at the trial, you’ll need this. This is your final warning.”

  Chapter 42

  EL PASO, TEXAS

  “AND YOU CAN DEFINITELY identify the defendant as the man who was driving the Suburban that rammed your plane?”

  I look beyond the defense attorney into Ray Gibbs’s steely stare. The once-silky-white hair is pasted to his head. Gray, sallow skin hangs from his cheeks and neck. Surviving three bullet wounds to the chest has left a hollow of a man in a wheelchair nervously attended by a worn Elvira.

  There are no doubts left about Gibbs’s border heritage. That was established the first day of his trial when the prosecution claimed that Ray’s mother was the only sister of Ramón Talavera’s father, making the two cousins cohorts in crime.

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “Please point to that person.”

  When I do, the U.S. Attorney says, “For the record, the witness has pointed to the defendant, Mister Gibbs.” He turns toward the bench. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  I sit back and let out my breath, pleased my testimony has gone so well. The attorney led me through the meeting with Rámon and has established Ray’s connection to Adelena’s death. But there’s the upcoming cross-examination to face.

  Neither Jed nor Bill have shown their faces and for some reason I feel relief instead of my anticipated disappointment. Maybe we were only a passing item. Maybe.

  “You may step down, Miss Armington.” The Judge’s voice booms above me. “As I have several documents to sign, we will recess for the afternoon. Miss Armington’s cross-examination will begin tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.”

  I hear the bailiff ’s, “All rise” just as I lock onto Elvira Gibbs. Her stare glitters hate that is echoed in the rigidity of her body. She frowns, whispers some epithet obviously meant for me, then turns her attentions to her handcuffed husband.

  “Fine job, Miss Armington.” The U.S. Attorney extends his hand for a shake. “Just stick to the facts tomorrow and you’ll be fine.”

  I nod, then follow the waiting deputy to a side corridor and down the back stairs.

  The ride to the motel where the witnesses are stashed is a short one. The government is taking no chances. Working in concert with the Mexicans, they have managed to extradite Ramón, whose trial will follow that of his cousin.

  The deputy escorts me to my room on the second floor, lined with other officers stationed at strategic points.

  “Room service again, ma’am?” “That will be fine. About seven?”

  “I’m right down the hall if you need me.”

  I insert the card into the key slot of my stuffy little prison, shove the door into the half-darkened room, and a hand covers my mouth. I jam my hand into my purse to release the safety on my Beretta, then I smell the Kryptonite.

  To feel Bill’s arms around me and his lips on mine is pure heaven after seven long months. When we finally come up for air, he cups my face with his hands. “I couldn’t stay away.”

  It’s then I notice he’s not in uniform. “Is it really over? Are you free at last?”

  “I suppose you could say that. I’m through in Uvalde.” “What does that mean?”

  �
�Officially, I had to resign when the DEA ‘discovered’ my connection with the cartel.”

  “But it was because of you they were able to get Ramón.” “Yeah. I did my job, but for obvious reasons, I can’t show my face around those parts ever again.” “It’s not fair.”

  “Double agents never get to play the hero.” “Then you’re not testifying?”

  He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t even be here, but some of my DEA buddies are romantics at heart and let me make a detour.”

  I remember his wound and touch his left shoulder.

  “All healed,” he says. “Stiff in the morning, but it doesn’t interfere much.”

  “What happens to you now?”

  “I’m on my way to Washington. New assignment.” “Can you say where?”

  “I don’t know myself. But I had to see you one last time.”

  We stand locked together in this airless cell, passion dimmed by the grim realization we will probably never meet again.

  Bill’s voice resonates through his chest. “You’re safe. You have my word.”

  I cling to him, not wanting to let him go. I want to beg him to come back to Houston with me. Have children together. Live a nine-to-five life. But deep in my heart, I know it would be hell for both of us. He’s been a loner too long.

  “I love you, Bill. I always will.”

  He touches my cheek, his eyes memorizing mine. “I love you, Allie. If only...”

  I turn away, still clasping his hand.

  The door opens. His hand slides from mine. Then, he’s gone.

  I abandon my memories of the previous evening to look at Gibbs’s attorney. He’s smooth all over. Smooth face. Smooth slicked-back, black hair. Smooth black pinstriped Brooks Brothers suit and matching shiny-smooth tassel loafers. And, dammit, a smooth cross-examiner.

  “You say you saw Mister Gibbs behind the wheel of the Suburban that destroyed the Piper Cub?”

  I stare him down a moment before I respond. “No.”

  He smiles, then flips through his notes. “Right. It was only later that you saw Mister Gibbs at the Darden house?”

  “I saw him, then saw his Suburban. The grill was a mess. The hood was still hot.”

  He looks down at his notes again. “So you made the assumption then?”

  “No. Not until Mister Gibbs asked Mister Darden if he’d recently heard a small plane fly over.”

  “And Mister Darden replied that he had not?” “Yes.”

  “Since you didn’t see Mister Gibbs behind the wheel of the Suburban that wrecked your plane, isn’t it possible that his Suburban could have met with an unfortunate accident someplace else?”

  I shrug.

  The Judge leans over the bench. “You have to answer for the court reporter.”

  “I suppose.”

  Smoothy’s teeth gleam like a wolf on his prey. “And that Mister Gibbs was only paying a neighborly call? And it’s entirely possible he and his Suburban were never near the airstrip? And that you’re only supposing the conversation between my client and Mister Darden was related to your accident?”

  The federal prosecutor jumps up. “Objection, Your Honor, Counselor’s badgering the witness.”

  “Sustained. Counselor. One question at a time.”

  “My client never referred to the accident, did he?” “No.”

  He raises his hand and smiles his smooth-toothy grin. “No further questions for this witness, Your Honor.”

  Damn him. He’s left me twisting in the wind. I check the twelve men and women to my left. Most have their heads bowed taking notes.

  Panicked, I look to the prosecutor, who stands. “Redirect, Your Honor?”

  When the Judge nods, he picks up a large poster board and places it on an adjacent easel. It is the diagram of the airstrip, the Darden ranch, and Anacacho.

  He traces the dotted line representing the dirt road that runs from the hangar and airstrip, behind the Darden Ranch, to the Anacacho barns. “The distance from the airstrip to the Dardens’ barn taking this back road is approximately?”

  “One mile. Maybe a little more.”

  Smoothy jumps in. “Objection, Your Honor, we’ve already been through this.”

  “Background, Your Honor, that directly pertains to and lays the predicate for this witness’s testimony.”

  “Don’t take too long. Overruled.”

  “And from the Darden barn to the Darden back door?” “Half a mile at the most.”

  The federal prosecutor then points to the exit from the airstrip to the county road. “And if one were to travel to the Dardens’ on the county road, how far would that be?”

  “It’s at least a mile down the airstrip road to the county road, then maybe a mile and a half to the Darden gate and almost another mile to the house.”

  “That’s approximately three and a half miles?”

  “Objection.” Smoothy jumps up. “Puleese, Your Honor. We’ve heard all this before.”

  “Overruled.”

  “Now, Miss Armington, in your previous testimony you told us that the Suburban backed away from the wreckage of the plane and exited down the paved road to the county road. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you said that when you discovered the two other people inside the plane were badly injured, you set off on foot on the back way to the Darden ranch.”

  “Yes.”

  “It took about half an hour or so to make the distance.” “Yes.”

  “Very well. Now, once you arrived at the back of the Darden house. You told us...”

  The federal prosecutor flips through the yellow pad and reads, “I went back down the steps and proceeded up the side of the house to the front steps. Then I saw the Suburban. I went over, saw the condition of the grill and felt the hood.”

  “Your Honor? Who’s testifying here?” Smoothy’s face is jammed with exasperation.

  “Overruled.”

  The federal prosecutor shoots me a smile before he continues. “And I went back to the living room side of the house. The windows were open. I could hear Mister Darden talking with his guest.”

  He looks at me and I nod. “That’s right.”

  “Then you said you immediately recognized the guest’s voice.”

  I nod vigorously. “Oh, yes. It was Mister Gibbs.”

  Smoothy starts to rise, but the Judge motions him to sit.

  “And you said, ‘Gibbs said he saw their lights and decided to take advantage of the Dardens’ hospitality. I remember being startled that he said such a thing. It’s impossible to see those lights from the road.’”

  Smoothy jumps up. “Objection. Hearsay.”

  “We will corroborate in Mister Darden’s testimony, Your Honor. He’s to be called next.” “Overruled.”

  The federal prosecutor flicks his free hand in Smoothy’s direction. “In his cross, Counselor suggested to you that Mister Gibbs might have been paying the Dardens a neighborly call.”

  I nod. “He did.”

  “What do you term ‘neighbor’ to mean?”

  “Someone who lives next door, or down the street.”

  “But, as we know, some Texans will travel miles to visit a neighboring ranch. Is that not so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Knowing where the Dardens live, would you consider Mister Gibbs a neighbor?” “No.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Mister Gibbs lives in Laredo.”

  I see Gibbs redden. He’s forgotten about my little visit. The prosecutor grins as his brows arch. “I believe you were once an overnight guest of Mister Gibbs and his wife.”

  I smile. “Yes. April of this year.”

  If Elvira could shoot, I would be dead.

  Smoothy’s mouth pops open, then he leans into Gibbs, his back to us. He shakes his head, then turns to write something on his legal pad.

  The prosecutor glows a “we-got-him” look. “Thank you, Miss Armington.” He smiles at the jurors as he passes in front of them and
resumes his seat. He turns to the defense. “Your witness.”

  Smoothy doesn’t look up from his scribbling. “No further questions.”

  “Thank you, Miss Armington. You may stand down.”

  I nod and make my way down the center aisle toward the exit to the hallway as the bailiff calls Del to the stand. Just as I push through the swinging doors, Del meets me and gives me a “thumbs up” look as we pass.

  As I head for the room that’s been designated for the U.S. witnesses, talons clamp my arm, and I look into Elvira Gibbs’s anger.

  She mutters, “Paul Carpenter is dead. You can thank yourself for that.”

  My heart falls away as my last hope dies, but I recover enough to spit back, “I’m not surprised. Paul was dead the minute he sniffed his first line.”

  Her eyes widen, then narrow as a mean smile begins. “You’re a tougher bitch than I thought. But don’t think you’re done. If my man goes to prison, you will pay.”

  I smile back. “Oh, he’ll go and so will his cousin. And if the Feds can get some more goods on you, you’ll be next.” With each word I speak, her talons relax.

  When she turns to go, I grab her arm and pull her toward me as I jam my right hand into my purse and close it over the grip of my Beretta. “Don’t move quite yet. I have a message for you to deliver.”

  She pales as I push the concealed barrel into her ribs and whispers, “You’re crazy. You wouldn’t dare shoot me in here.”

  I step away. “Of course not. I just want you to thank Ramón for returning my weapon. Tell him I plan to carry it with me. Always.”

  Elvira studies me for a few seconds, then brushes by, leaving me to enjoy my small triumph.

  One of the guards touches my shoulder. “Miss Armington? The car is waiting to take you to the airport.”

  The author wishes to acknowledge:

  Virginia Abercrombie and Guida Jackson Laufer, who first believed in me. With a special nod to my paternal grandmother, Alice G. Brogniez, whose handwritten manuscript became the 576-page published novel And Yet They Were Brothers.