by Robena Grant
“Thanks for coming to my rescue,” Rachel said, to Stanton.
Michael cleared his throat, and then shook off his leather jacket. Rachel gave him another once over, but at least she didn’t hold her nose. He slid into the front seat of the Hummer and put the passenger side window down.
Stanton held Rachel’s arm as he walked her toward the truck.
“See you at the station,” Michael said, ducking his head and leaning across the seat to speak through the open window. “I’ll call ahead. But you had better come in too, Stanton.”
Stanton nodded. Rachel ignored him. Then he inched the Hummer along the shoulder of the road, waiting for some kind of farewell. Rachel reached inside the truck and lifted up a small white fluffy dog, and whispered something. Her protector? Michael widened his eyes, eased back onto the road, and carefully drove away.
About a mile further down the road, he raised an arm and took a sniff at his pit, winced, and then pressed down on the accelerator. He was beyond ripe, in fact, he might be fermenting. He inched a little above the speed limit, but not enough to draw unwanted attention, and then drove up a side street.
Try as he might, he couldn’t shake off the thoughts of Rachel smelling him this way. First thing to do is take a shower. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard; one minute from home. He dialed the watch commander and gave him a heads up. He knew Stanton would fill in the details.
“I’ll be there in five. I need a quick shower and change of clothes.”
He made a fist and rubbed his knuckles against his whiskers. His mother’s words of wisdom, “You only get one chance to make a first great impression,” played loud and clear in his thoughts.
Chapter Two
Pedro Suarez moaned as he rolled onto his side. Firing at the woman had been a huge effort and he’d collapsed again.
The wildlife, startled by the gunshots, had taken off for a while, but now the birds circled again as everything had gotten quiet on the desert floor. Their noise was almost unbearable. He raised a shaky hand to his temple. Sticky, warm blood trickled down the side of his head, and dampened his fingertips. The familiar metallic scent filled his nostrils. He leaned forward, body shaking like a leaf in a high wind, and threw up his breakfast.
A few minutes later, Pedro sat back on his haunches and looked out across the sea. Eyes watering with pain, he kept seeing gold and dark circles of light in front of them. He wiped them gently with the sleeve of his jacket. The geese honked loudly, and he knew he had to get moving.
“¡Basta!” he yelled. “¡Silencio!” He’d had about as much as he could stand of their noise. But he realized he’d gone loco, yelling at the stupid birds. He shook his head and a shiver of pain ran up his spine. After a moment or two, he looked down onto the sand, relief flooding through him. His brother would be pleased.
He slowly bent down, grabbed the camera and straightened, stirring the blood into the sand with his foot. He kicked some more sand over the vomit. Clutching the camera to his chest, he picked his way across the beach, weaving like an old drunk. Except for the odd drumming in his head, he felt fine.
The injury had taken the wind out of him. He’d suffered his fair share of injuries in his youth, but until recently his adult work had been inside. In an air-conditioned office, running numbers and balancing books. He’d gotten soft. He focused on the palm trees up ahead. At first they shimmered, but then he could recognize the trunks, the fronds. If it wasn’t for Ricardo’s life and freedom—the fact that they were still in hiding and being hunted like wild animals in Mexico—then he wouldn’t have come here, wouldn’t have brought him to this hellhole in America. Only for Ricardo…my brother.
They’d been safe enough in the area, until the last couple of weeks. They’d moved around a lot since. There were amigos in Los Angeles, but you couldn’t trust a city. Every second homeless person turned out to be an undercover agent, or a snitch. And some of those so-called amigos would sell their own mother for twenty dollars American.
He had to move faster. Someone could have heard the shots and called the cops. He felt gingerly around his temple and hairline, and then inspected his fingertips. The blood had started to congeal. Good, good, bueno.
He knew enough about developing film and there was a darkroom in the old man’s cabin He toyed with that idea. He could destroy the camera, and the roll of film, or toss them into the sea. But he wanted to see why the woman had been taking photos. See what she’d seen. The old man had denied knowing her. But both he and Ricardo had heard the sharp intake of breath, had seen him clutch at the left side of his chest. He knew. The old guy’s cabin had been cordoned off for a week, but no cops had been around in three days, so they’d circled back to hide out again in the bait shop. His cousin had told him the case had stalled. No clues. Word on the street was they figured the old man was dead.
Pedro knew he couldn’t risk taking the film to a one hour photo place. If his cousin would do it that would be fine, but it would mean he’d have to wait several hours. His cousin couldn’t risk Pedro being in his apartment, or his work place. So it meant waiting in the car. To linger on the streets in Indio was not wise. He had the keys to the cabin. Should he just go there? He’d already gone there twice, once to follow the old man, and the second time to raid the pantry.
He stumbled beneath the date palms to where he’d hidden the car. They had no electricity in the bait shop. He had to charge his cell phone in the car. Using it was something he reserved for emergency. But he did have to report to his cousin. He pressed the numbers.
“Mi amigo, I need help.”
His cousin rattled off a barrage of questions in rapid Spanish: were they in danger? Did they have to move? Had the cops come?
“No, no.” Pedro calmed him. “Ricardo, even with his injured leg, went to the door when he’d seen the old man’s distress. The old guy had been looking out the window.”
“The woman, she took pictures?”
“Si. I saw the flashes…two…three. I went immediately. I got the camera. I know how to develop.”
“No. Bring it here.” His cousin went quiet for a minute. “The woman, how does she look?”
Pedro described her.
“íEso es! Red hair…the granddaughter…I will find her. I tell you before, I know this old man. I know the woman. This is not good. Call when you get here.”
His cousin slammed the phone down, and Pedro winced. He sat still for a few seconds. Who’d have thought of anyone being on the usually deserted beach at five in the morning? He’d gotten the two men down from the attic, made them go outside to urinate, and to walk around to stretch their legs, and in the process of giving them coffee, the old guy had gasped. Did the granddaughter have proof of what he’d tried to hide?
If she’d seen them, he’d have to get rid of her, and not just the roll of film in the camera. He touched his head wound gently. At least she wasn’t an undercover agent working with the DEA agent they were trying to flush out. The woman could be trying to find her grandfather. He knew all about family loyalty. Ricardo’s infected leg wound flashed through his thoughts. His brother couldn’t withstand another move. The bait shop was clean and dry, and it had the advantage of an attic, with a window. Also, it pleased him now that they’d let the old man live. They had one bartering tool should the woman alert the cops.
They’d also stockpiled ammunition. They could fight it out. And in the meantime, to hell with his cousin, he’d develop the damn film.
****
Rachel sat in the outside office of the PD and waited for Stanton to come back. She’d already called Debbie and reassured her that she was still alive, and safe. She’d repeated the entire story to Jack. Although she’d had to assure him many times that she felt fine, and finally convinced him to stay out of any investigations. Then she’d placed a call to Manuel. She was thankful she’d trained him as her back-up, and had even allowed him to open and close the bar a few times in recent months. There weren’t many employees at Cliffs who
she totally trusted.
Manuel didn’t pick up. Knowing he might be in the shower she waited five minutes, and then redialed. Neither he nor his roommate answered, but they worked the late shift, so they could be deeply asleep. This time she waited for the message to finish.
“Manuel,” she said, when the machine gave a beep. “It’s Rachel.” She waited a second, thinking he might pick up. “Sorry to call so early. Let me know when you get this message, please. I got involved in an altercation down at the Salton Sea. I’m at the Indio PD giving a report. Everything’s fine, but you’ll have to open for me. Okay? I’ll make it up to you.”
She turned off the cell, slipped it into her pocket, craned her neck, and peered down the long empty hallway. Stanton had said he’d only be a minute in locating the detective. She eyed the clock. Twenty minutes had come and gone. Tired, angry, and more than a little bit hungry, she nestled Ralph tighter into her lap and he snored noisily.
Rachel stretched out her legs carefully, so as not to disturb the little guy, and caught sight of her wet, sand-covered sneakers. Both she and Ralph were a mess. The white fur of his belly had turned brown and scraggly, and he had sand stuck in his paws. She wondered if in all that anxiety and fear she’d started to smell. She never bothered to shower before going bird watching.
I mean what would be the point? She must stink. She grinned. The too-cute detective didn’t have a handle on well-groomed either. But even though he was grungy, and kind of on the lean side when he shed that leather jacket, he still seemed like a bit of a stiff shirt. All business, all career. Rachel shrugged. She tilted her head back resting it on the top of the hard chair and watched the lazy blades of the ceiling fan.
There’d been a glimmer of light in his eyes when she’d shaken out her hair. Ah, who cares? He stinks anyway. Still, she hadn’t missed the little spark of interest. They’d both recognized it. Not that she planned on pursuing it. She had to focus on finding Grandpa Henry.
She pressed her lips tight. No more cops. She’d decided months ago never to date another guy in uniform, unless he worked for UPS or something. She and Dave would be friends forever; the best way to be with a cop. Those guys were devoid of real emotion.
“Miss Copeland?”
Rachel dropped her chin to her chest, and straightened. “Yes.” She glanced up at the detective. He’d showered and shaved, and put on gray slacks and an open-necked, long-sleeved blue shirt, which made his pale blue eyes even bluer. He probably knew it too. She leaned forward, and almost burst out laughing. “Cut yourself shaving,” she said, scooped up Ralph, and stood.
He’d nicked himself twice on the chin and had stuck little pieces of tissue paper on the bleeding spots like Grandpa used to do. And like Grandpa, he’d forgotten to take them off. A perplexed look crossed his face, then his eyes widened as his hand moved to his jaw. He recovered instantly and held the pieces of tissue between two fingers.
“Occupational hazard.” He allowed a faint smile. “Come with me, please, Ms. Copeland.”
“Rachel,” she said, reminding him of her given name. “Where is Stanton?”
“I’ve sent him home. This won’t take long, and he didn’t need to be here.”
“Oh. I wanted to leave Ralph with him.”
Detective Delaney looked puzzled.
“My dog,” she said, and indicated the white fluff ball poking his head out from beneath her left arm. Ralph didn’t even bark at him. He panted happily and drooled on the arm of her long-sleeved t-shirt.
“He’ll be fine with us. Won’t you, boy?” He ruffled the top of Ralph’s head.
Rachel shot another hopeful glance around the department. She’d hoped Dave would stay. Give her some moral support. Most of the cops in the Coachella Valley came in and out of her bar and restaurant. She’d dated some, known many. She didn’t know either of the guys on desk duty. She reminded herself she wasn’t under investigation. She didn’t need moral support, or legal advice. At least she didn’t think so. Please, don’t let Grandpa be mixed up in anything criminal. Please.
“Follow me.”
She regrouped, and did as the detective said. Halfway down the gray narrow hallway her heartbeat started pounding, and her tongue seemed to stick to the roof of her mouth. She licked her lips, then rubbed them together. She only had to give a report. So, why did she feel such trepidation in following Detective Michael Baxter Delaney to an investigation room?
****
Michael had given Rachel her privacy, but figured the report would be completed. He ran a hand over his smooth jaw. Stanton could have told him about the tissue. He smiled.
Payback. Not that Stanton had been chewed out or anything. They often crossed city borders to help out a fellow officer. They had to do that down here because cops were at a minimum. The small incorporated towns hired support from the Riverside Sheriff’s Department. He stood in the doorway and nodded at the young cop. He could enter, could take over, but his actions would embarrass the man and not gain him any points with Rachel. And he had other reasons for staying out of the case.
“I’m all finished,” the deputy said.
Michael nodded. “Thanks.”
“That wraps up your report on this morning’s crime, Ms. Copeland. I appreciate your cooperation.” The deputy stood. He shook her hand. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you,” Rachel said.
“I sincerely doubt we’ll see any of your camera equipment again.” Michael felt her gaze sweep over him as he rounded the desk. “Unless it turns up with other confiscated items from—”
“Like if you bust into a crack house or something,” Rachel said, with a nod of her head.
Michael frowned. “What?”
“You see it all the time on TV.”
“Don’t pay attention to those cop shows.” He grinned, and relaxed back against the hard chair. “Our work is not nearly as…ah…exciting and romantic.”
Her eyes gleamed. “We see it played out on the local news. They always show the busts,” Rachel continued. “It’s a big deal here in the Coachella Valley, especially when the SWAT teams are involved. Guess it’s because we’re so close to the Mexican border, and—”
“Which brings me to the second part of this interview,” Michael said, cutting her off.
Romantic? What the hell had gotten into him? He switched to business mode, compensating for his prior lapse. Business he could do well.
“Second part?” Rachel moved forward, and frowned. “I thought we were done.”
He looked up, and then pressed his fingertips together, forming a steeple, and steeled his expression. He presented her with his serious work face. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions about the history of the Salton Sea. I’m new to the area, and it could be helpful to your grandfather’s case.”
She nodded, but looked skeptical.
“I’m off duty now…and kind of hungry,” he said, and eased back in the chair, relaxing his posture. “Can I treat you to breakfast? We could talk, off the record…”
“Sure. I’m half-starved.”
“I’ll drive,” Michael said, and then jumped up. “We can leave the truck here.”
Rachel picked up her backpack and gave him another glance. She seemed about to say something, then called to Ralph, who’d sniffed out every corner of the investigation room like it was the local park and all his buddies had left messages of importance. Michael smiled. He liked the dog. Even though small and fluffy, and not exactly a guy’s dog, Ralph had attitude.
“Would you…would you mind doing me a favor?” Rachel asked.
He picked up Ralph, and with both arms extended, handed the dog to her. “What do you need?”
“The truck is acting up. If I leave it at the service station down the street, could you drop me at home after breakfast? I mean, if it isn’t going too far out of your—”
“No problem.” He buttoned his jacket, and then cleared his throat. “Where do you live?”
“W
ell, locals refer to it as Almagro…Rancho Almagro. The jacket isn’t necessary,” she said, with a tilt of her chin. “It’s going to be warm today, and the diner is super casual. But the food is great, and they have a patio, and they allow dogs. They love Ralph.”
“Perfect. I’m glad you live in…ah…Almagro. I want to drive by a house for rent. That’s where Stanton is stationed, right?”
“Yeah. We went to school there. Where do you live now?”
“I’m in a studio apartment. Month to month rent. Every house I’ve looked at so far is either too large, or too modern and cold.”
“Good.” She shot him a quick glance. “It sounds like you’ve done your homework.”
“What?”
“My grandfather…it’s obvious you looked into my family background.” Her shoulder’s stiffened and her chin tilted upward.
“Yes. And I’m so sorry about Henry. I just had a quick glance at his file,” he said, and shook his head. They continued to walk toward the exit doors. Then seeing her slight thaw, he smiled softly. “Maybe you can fill me in on a few details.”
“And, Detective Delaney, I’ll even fill you in on the history of Almagro,” she said, matching his stride. “There’s not much I don’t know about these parts.”
“Call me Michael.”
She looked up at him. “Okay, sure, Michael. Oh, and can you lose the gun…and the holster? Put it in the glove compartment or something? I mean, it’s breakfast.”
Her cell phone rang, and she glanced at the number of the incoming caller. “Excuse me a moment. I need to give Manuel some work instructions.”
Michael heard her explain how she needed to put the truck in for service, a few other things about office work, and something about lemons, and peanuts. He walked too close to be able to block out the conversation entirely, but he tried to concentrate on other things and give her some privacy.
