by Robena Grant
“My friend would like a—” He glanced at the woman and raised an artificially darkened eyebrow. Then he smiled.
“Appletini. Thanks, but I’ve already ordered.” She leaned her boobs on the bar and yelled down the length of it. “Manny, honey, I’ll take my drink up here.”
Something is wrong with Michael’s teeth.
Rachel looked from Michael to the woman, back to Michael, but he’d stopped smiling. She turned to her barman. Manuel hated being called Manny. His name pin spelled his full name.
If this woman gave him the slightest annoyance, she’d already been tagged as one who would be easily cut off. And if he sensed she was a prostitute he’d have her skanky butt out of here before the woman knew what was going on. That pleased Rachel. She made eye contact with Michael again. He and the woman had their heads close together talking softly.
Rachel attended to customers and then moved back up the bar toward Michael. For a skinny guy he sure did have well developed biceps. And this disguise of his made him look older, more weathered. He looked up, his eyes alert. She gave a tiny shake of her head. There was nobody in the bar that she didn’t know, and nothing suspicious going on—except for him and the skank. She was under surveillance for no reason at all.
But damn it, she still had his Hummer parked in her garage. Thinking about that made her feel better. She smiled. He was going home with her.
Chapter Four
The following morning, Michael settled into the car seat. It felt good to let someone else do the driving, plus the cooking. Rachel had made a damn good breakfast.
He’d done surveillance of her house and neighborhood, after he’d explained his need to get to know the local women. Rachel had looked skeptical on that subject but had finally conceded he might be right. He knew the local women had a wealth of knowledge on anyone new in town. It tickled him that she’d seemed jealous; interesting, but totally the wrong time.
Refusing the offer of the couch, he’d instead had her leave the Mustang parked at the curb beneath a shady tree. He’d taken a blanket and a pillow and spent the night there.
This morning, after driving her car to his place and cleaning up and switching back into his standard day job attire of slacks and a blazer, he’d returned. The only thing he had not done was shaven. Tonight he’d be under cover. He’d be the drugged out guitar playing bad boy. Then somewhere between returning her car and car keys, a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon had been slid across the table. They’d eaten, and talked, and argued, and then talked some more, and he’d decided to accept her offer of checking out Henry Copeland’s cabin.
“I don’t look the part for our fake fishing expedition,” Michael said, averting his gaze from the speedometer and concentrating on his neatly pressed slacks. “You do.”
“Yeah,” Rachel said. “I always dress crummy to go down there.”
He watched in the side-view mirror, checking for a dark blue Honda. They were the only vehicle on this side of the highway. Rachel gave him a quick once over, and then looked straight ahead, hands on the steering wheel, talking to him without looking in his direction.
“You’re about Grandpa’s size. We’ll find some sweats or something.”
“Great.”
Michael caught occasional glimpses of the Salton Sea to the east. The Santa Rosa Mountains created a ring of soft blue toward the west. Not much to look at but miles and miles of desert and tumbleweeds in between. Nobody tailed them. The entire area seemed to slumber.
He knew the small town of Desert Scapes was up ahead, then further on, the bigger town of Salton City, and almost at the Mexican border, the city of Brawley. But even they were small communities by his standards. They’d be shit-out-of-luck if he needed back up. He’d get it, but it’d be a long time coming.
“Haven’t been fishing in a while,” he said. “Is there a boat, or do we fish off a jetty?”
“You get to choose.”
“It might not be a bad idea to take out the boat. It’ll be a good opp to use binoculars and check out the shoreline, and some of the buildings. Raise less suspicion, less intrusive.”
She smiled but kept her eyes on the road ahead. “Grandpa would hike for two or three miles on land, in either direction of the cabin. Otherwise he’d take the boat out, and then he’d pull in close to shore and take photographs. I often went with him. Maybe we’ll find some clue.”
She stopped speaking, her smile fading.
Maybe she’s right, and the old man is alive. He glanced out the window. He hoped so. If he could, he’d try to find him. But his first obligation was to his undercover assignment. He’d been transferred over from the Riverside Sheriff’s Department of SIB. Special Investigations Bureau, drug enforcement. The Coachella Valley had become a hot bed for drug trafficking, and the back roads from the border via the Salton Sea had been the latest route. The Saurez brothers knew the area well. If the two cases connected, it would be all for the better. That is, if the old man wasn’t working with them.
“Does Ralph like the boat?” He looked down, and Ralph looked up and wagged his tail.
“You’re kidding, right? Boat!” she yelled, and Ralph barked and wagged his tail. She glanced in the rear vision mirror, checked the side mirrors, and then switched lanes. “The dog goes everywhere with me.”
“Even to work?”
“You bet.”
She kept her eyes on the road ahead, and hadn’t seemed to notice his reaction. He studied her profile. She was a good driver, even if she had a lead foot. And a businesswoman, and from what he’d seen yesterday, a damn good one. He’d been wined and dined at Cliffs on his first day in the area. Someone at the department had said the owner was engaged to a cop. He watched her even closer.
“Cliffs is great,” he said. “I had dinner there a week ago. It came highly recommended.”
“Yeah. Most of the cops know my place. They’re regulars.”
“Do you ever date any of them?”
“What’s this, twenty questions?”
She laughed then and he realized how much he liked her laugh, and how he’d probably sounded like a wounded teenager. Damn it, man. She’s trouble with a capital T.
“Do you mind if I close my eyes for a bit?”
“Go for it,” she said. “You must be tired.”
“Yes. A long night.” He closed his eyes, and rested his head back on the seat headrest. She would drive like a maniac whether or not he stayed awake; might as well grab a few minutes of shut eye, and nurse his wounded ego.
“Dave Stanton.”
“What?” Michael opened one eye.
“I dated him, off and on, for about a year. We split up three months ago. We both knew it wasn’t ever going to develop into anything significant.”
“Oh,” he said, and closed his eyes tight.
Stanton? His skin prickled with annoyance. Maybe she dated a lot of cops. Well, it wasn’t his place to ask. Besides, if she wanted a life partner he shouldn’t shine any spotlights on his own head. He’d been career driven. He’d passed right over significant. He’d concentrated on quick and meaningless. And yeah, he liked it that way.
He turned his thoughts back to his case. Everything that had happened down here in the past week danced around in his tired brain. There were thoughts of Deputy Stanton, the Salton Sea, then drug dealers, Kingpins, murderers, and finally they were all having dinner at Cliffs.
He half opened his eyes. They were still on the highway. Hell, he hadn’t fallen asleep, had he? He looked into the mirror scanning for a tail, none, one white Lexus up ahead.
A truck or two passed them going up the other side of the highway. He closed his eyes tight again. Did Rachel’s grandfather have anything to do with the drug trade in and out of the lower desert? He didn’t want to think negative thoughts about the old man, but somehow he sensed Rachel could be more involved than even she knew.
There’d been a murder last year, in Almagro. Everything had pointed back to a drug cartel in the Sierra
Madres. The authorities in Mexico, and in the US, had been trying for two years to access that compound. Then the FBI agent from San Diego, and the agent from DEA in LA, blew it all apart in one weekend. They’d scored big on the raid of the Saurez compound providing information to the Mexican Government.
The drug Kingpin, his brother, and one cousin had escaped, but everyone else was killed or captured. Then those three men disappeared. Recent rumor through the underground had the Kingpin suspicious that the DEA officer lived in the Southern California desert, and after escaping Mexico he and his brother were hiding out in the U.S. looking for revenge. And it would be a horrific revenge if they ever caught Jack Fischer.
Jack had never violated his cover; he got the job done, and then walked away. But he had retired here in the Coachella Valley and had married a local woman. Michael had no doubt the Kingpin would rebuild his empire once he’d gotten his revenge; revenge runs high in the cartels. His stomach tightened at the thought of the torture his fellow officer would undergo.
His assignment: Take out the Suarez brothers. It would be a major coup. Major. He opened his eyes and stretched, and then glanced over at Rachel.
“What’s up, Michael?”
“How about a compromise?” He stretched out his legs to give Ralph more room in his lap. Odd how the little guy had taken to him. “I know I said you could bring me here but not get involved. You can work alongside of me, but you take direction from me.”
She smiled softly, and kept her gaze on the road ahead, and said nothing.
****
“It’s a simple place,” Rachel said, slowing the car and letting it idle in front of Grandpa Henry’s cabin.
She wasn’t apologizing for Grandpa’s lifestyle, more preparing the detective for one he might not recognize. She glanced over at his neat appearance. He’d probably grown up in a two-parent household with a dog, and a white picket fence. He was well-educated, a stickler for the rules, and had most likely lived in a posh high rise before being sent to the stinky crotch of Southern California.
Rachel parked the car underneath the one-car carport. “There’s only one bedroom. I sleep on the couch when I stay over.”
“I like it,” Michael said.
She watched his face crease into a smile. He climbed out of the car and walked around, looked at the side garden, then stood back staring up at the screened-in front porch.
“I really like this.”
“There’s a verandah out back too,” Rachel said, feeling a flutter of connection. Anyone who “got” this place had to be a neat human being. She scooped up Ralph and her backpack, locked the car, and met Michael at the front steps.
“Grandpa likes to be outside more than inside. He hates mosquitos.” She found the key on her key ring and opened the door onto the screened-in porch.
“Me too, in liking the outdoors.”
“It must have been windy,” she said, and brushed at the fine sand covering the outdoor furniture. “He’s fussy about this space.”
“We can clean it up.” Michael pushed the loveseat, hung by chains to the beams of the roof, and it moved leisurely back and forth.
“Yeah, it wouldn’t take long.” What a nice suggestion. She turned the key in the front door and switched on the hall light, and then let him walk in ahead of her. She locked the door behind them. “Let’s go to the darkroom first.”
“Sure,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the interior of the cabin. “Lead on.”
Rachel stopped at the open doorway to the darkroom, her thoughts running wild, and her pulse kicking up a notch. Something didn’t seem right. Grandpa was adamant about dust, and he always closed the door behind him; rule number one of the darkroom. Michael stood close behind her.
“Anything wrong?” he asked.
“Someone has been here,” Rachel said, as she entered the room and turned on the overhead light. “And recently.”
“How can you tell?” Michael peered through the doorway.
“The door was left open. Everything seems neat and in order.” Rachel shoved a hand against her hip and grimaced. “Grandpa is messy.” She waved a hand around, assessing the small room. “The three developing trays are spotless.”
She took stock of everything. The enlarger, safe light, fan, and then she put a hand on the front of the film drying cabinet. Could it be her imagination? Was it warm?
“It has never, ever, looked this organized.”
“Maybe he’d done some house cleaning, and—”
“Nope. A photographer can’t allow dust in a darkroom. That’s why the door is always locked. He’d clean the equipment, the tub, and the floor after every use, but the room got messy with stacks of photos and boxes and bottles of stuff.”
“Maybe the cops took those?”
“I don’t remember that. Besides, look at Ralph.” She nodded toward Ralph who sniffed the floor, and made small guttural sounds.
Above the old chipped tub were several clothes lines stretched end to end, and wooden clothes pins were clipped to the front line. “Grandpa uses these,” she said, touching a line. “He clips up the negatives and the photographs he favors.” The lines were empty but for the clothes pins. “There’d always be photos here. Sometimes a favorite photo would hang here until it yellowed with age.”
“Maybe the cops took them,” Michael said.
Rachel blinked back the sudden threat of tears, and backed toward the door, knocking her elbow into Michael’s chest. “Sorry. Um…I want to get the view from back here. I know something isn’t right, but I can’t tell what.”
“No problem,” he said, and moved further out into the hallway.
Rachel checked the room again. What the hell could it be?
Grandpa had boarded up the one window, layered it with sheets of dark plastic and used tape around the edges. Not even a pinpoint of daylight could filter through. Around the door he’d added thick rubber strips at the top and bottom. Everything was intact. Her heart pounded. What is wrong? A basket of apples sat on the floor in the corner. Sadness flooded through her. He’d often lunch on an apple, and a pot of coffee, so excited with his photographs he’d forget to eat properly. There were a half dozen apples in the basket, left over from when they’d gone to the orchard in nearby Julian a few weeks back, and they still looked pretty good.
She walked over, picked one up and felt the hardness. The cool, darkroom must have kept the apples from going soft. She put it back in the basket. So wouldn’t that mean the door had been closed until recently? Grandpa’s rubber boots stood neatly to one side. He’d never leave without those. Another oddity, he usually washed them off outside and left them to dry on the back verandah. She bent down and a strong odor tickled her nostrils. She kneeled, and sniffed at the floor.
“I think this floor has recently been cleaned. It smells like bleach.” She stood, slapped her thigh, her heart pounding even harder. “Come on boy.” Ralph ran to her and she backed out of the room, causing Michael to back up a bit.
“Did it look this way when you came here with the police investigation crew?” Michael asked.
“I’m not sure.” She hurried out into the hall, shrugged, and then looked away. “But I’m certain I would have closed the door before leaving the cabin. It’s, you know, a reflex.”
Michael put a hand on her shoulder and rubbed gently. “It’s okay. You were upset on that day. Maybe later on you’ll get a clearer picture.”
“They use bleach to erase blood…don’t they?” she whispered.
Michael turned her to face him, and held her tight, her head resting against his chest. She could hear the steady beat of his heart. It felt good to hear life. It felt wonderful to be held and comforted, and while she had good friends who had tried to support her, she’d also spent too much time alone in the past two weeks. But she was still scared for Grandpa, and for what could have happened to him. She eased back a little.
“Don’t let your thoughts run wild,” Michael said, leaning down a bit and peering i
nto her eyes.
“I can’t help it, it’s—”
“I know. It’s scary.” He took a step backward, but continued to lightly rub her shoulders and back. “I promise I’ll go over his case with a fine-tooth comb when I get back to the department. You can count on it.”
Rachel pulled in a rickety breath, almost crying. Anyone who helped her, or tried to help her, caused the same reaction. It seemed nobody in the department in Indio had Grandpa high on their list though. She blinked rapidly for a few seconds, not wanting to cry and leave big wet splotches on Detective Michael’s freshly ironed shirt.
She stepped away from him, and looking up, gave him a watery smile. “I’m okay now, thanks. It’s probably my overactive imagination. Let’s get coffee.” She indicated Michael should go ahead of her. And when he did, she swiped at her eyes with the hem of her t-shirt. Thank goodness she hadn’t put on mascara.
“Kitchen is the first door on the right.”
Ralph trotted beside her, but she pulled up short, and turned to look back toward the darkroom. Had Grandpa been murdered, in there? Had the floor been this way when the cops came to investigate his disappearance? She started to sweat, feeling the beginnings of panic. She still couldn’t remember how it had looked on the day of the police investigation. Or what they’d done, or what they’d asked her.
There had been no evidence of him being attacked in his home. She took some calming breaths and put her right hand to her forehead and squeezed. If only she could remember the rest of the details. It seemed the cops thought he’d wandered off somewhere.
“Are you okay?” Michael asked, and took hold of her hand as she walked into the small kitchen. He looked anxious, which made her feel worse.
“I’m a little dizzy. Could be from the smell of the bleach,” she said. “Or the memories, you know.”
“Sure. But listen, the floor wouldn’t smell like bleach from two weeks ago. If that’s where your thoughts had headed.”
