East of the Sun

by Trey R. Barker

  Jace shook her head. “I’m sure the detectives will look at him—”

  “Damn it.” The man clenched a fist. “I should have let him approve that inhaler. Frankie was an extraordinary doctor, deputies; he was more than capable of approving those. I had great plans for him when the new contracts get finalized. Supervising doctor at any jail he wanted. Or a regional supervising doctor if he wanted.”

  Jace frowned. “Dr. Wrubel wanted a bigger job?”

  Cruz shook his head. “Not at all. He told me over drinks at a Zach JuCo basketball game last week that Cruz Medical was getting too big. Too corporate. He wanted to get back to pure medicine. That was my plan. I would take care of all the paperwork and regulatory garbage and he would do nothing but doctor. Heal the sick and hurt.”

  “That sounds exactly like him.”

  “Yeah.” Cruz blew out a long, tired breath. “Damn, I’m going to miss him. He was a good man and a good doctor.”

  “Then why couldn’t he approve the inhaler?” Jace asked. “Seems like that would have avoided the entire problem.”

  Cruz looked at Jace, his head cocked slightly. His left thumb, back and forth and back again over his fingertips, stopped suddenly. “That was my judgment. I am, ultimately, the man responsible for every medical decision; therefore we will proceed how I believe best.” He lowered his head. “But also? Because I’m a control freak. These—” his arm swept the breadth of the jail. “Are my patients and I find it extremely difficult to give them to someone else’s care. It took me three years to even decide to hire another doctor.” A deep red flushed his cheeks. “I’m still working on letting go.”

  “Doc Wrubel said you guys had a difference of opinion on medical things,” Rory said.

  Surprised at Rory’s disclosure, Jace kept her eyes on Cruz. The man nodded immediately.

  “Sure. Ask any two doctors about a single issue and you’ll get ten opinions. We all have huge egos and quite a bit of narcissism, and on a great many things we have a difference of methodology.”

  This time, Jace spoke up. “He also said you weren’t getting along too well.”

  The man’s eyes filled with hesitation. “Well, we’d go up and down, you know? Today, we hate each other. Yesterday, we were best buddies. Tomorrow, who knows? Nature of our relationship. We were still friends, though, don’t doubt that. He’s been to my house I don’t even know how many times for dinner. Been to basketball games together and more than a few bars.”

  “But he had some problems lately?”

  With a dismissive shake of his head, he said, “Nothing, Deputy Salome. Just adjusting badly to working overnights. That’s a tough schedule. So . . . Mercer? That’s our guy, right? Because of the inhaler?”

  Jace hesitated, caught Rory’s eye. Rory shook her head slightly.

  “Well, like I was saying, I’m sure the detectives will want to—”

  “Right, I know, but who would you arrest?”

  “Well, I don’t know if—”

  “It’s bad in most jails, deputies. Twenty years ago, just before I started working in jails, the smaller jails dealt with drunks and maybe the occasional pregnancy and sometimes bipolars or maybe a schizophrenic.” He looked at the line of lockers along the wall. “It’s every day anymore. Psychotics, paranoids, withdrawal from massive drug use, heart conditions from massive drug use, alcoholics, deliriums, STIs on an unimaginable scale.” When he looked back at the women, his face seemed more haggard.

  “Yet you keep working the jails,” Jace said.

  He smiled, half-embarrassed. “I do. Just because they’re inmates doesn’t mean they’re not people. Some of them are bad and should be locked away forever, but some of them made a mistake and are just trying to get it back together. Unfortunately, the medical staff has been lied to so many times, we have to stick to the rules unless it’s a life-threatening emergency, you know? A guy comes along and says he needs asthma medicine, but the catch is, he demands his medicine specifically. He’ll say his doctor ordered it special or something. He doesn’t want our meds. Why do you suppose that is?”

  Rory snorted but it took Jace a second to see it. “Yours is the medicine it’s supposed to be.”

  “And theirs frequently isn’t. You’re exactly right. It’s one of the ways illegal drugs are smuggled into jails. Look, inmates are allowed—and I even encourage them—to bring their own meds. Saves us and Zach County money. Whatever they bring, we don’t have to pay for. So we have protocols in place: has to be in a prescription bottle with the inmate’s name on it, has to be current, has to have the doctor’s name on it. We check all that stuff and check the pills in the bottle against the PDR, but sometimes illegal drugs make it inside. Brought by guards or officers, by administrators.” He shrugged. “Even doctors and nurses, sometimes.”

  “Good money, though; all these county and city contracts? Sounds like some happy coin.”

  Cruz shook his head. “You’ve been listening to the wrong people, Bogan. Not anywhere near as much money as people think. Every agency I deal with believes they know better than me. They also believe I charge them too much when I’m cost cutting every day. I’m so close to the bone now I’m afraid the back of Cruz Medical’s going to break. But the money’s not why I do it. I do it because I’m a doctor. Just so happens I’m a good administrator. The more jails I can get under contract, the more people I can help.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m bringing a few administrators through this afternoon. I’m pretty sure it’s already a done deal, but they want to see systems in action.”

  As he spoke, Jace noticed his right hand for the first time. It was oddly misshapen, with at least three of the four fingers bent upward just a little. Cruz noticed her looking and held the hand up in front of his face.

  “Childhood accident. With a car door. I don’t remember much about it except it hurt like hell.”

  “I apologize for staring, Doctor; that was rude of—”

  He waved it away. “I’ve come to grips with it, Deputy, trust me. It was a long time ago and I’m just fine.” He touched the manila folder he carried. “Only have one of the initial reports, from a road deputy, and he obviously doesn’t have any idea who might have killed Frankie.”

  “I have no idea about any of that. Like I said, I was ordered to—”

  “Control access, yes, you said that. What I’m wondering is, what do you think? Mercer?”

  “Ain’t our gig, Doctor,” Rory said, with just a hint of annoyance. “That’s the detectives’ thing. Mine and hers, right now, is to get some stress relief. I know that sounds awful, but that’s what we do. Then, tonight, when we come on duty, we’ll have to deal with Detective Von Holton so he can do his report and get a debrief about how the jailers handled it. But right now . . . we’re done with a terrible shift and we’d like to go home.”

  Cruz blew a long, hot breath through his nose. “Right, right, I understand. Sorry about all the second degree, I just . . . There is no reason Frankie should be dead.” He ran his bent fingers through his thinning hair as his brows knit in a tight frown. “God, sometimes I really hate this job. Sometimes I really do.”

  “I hear you,” Rory said.

  “Please,” he said. “Do everything you can to help Detective Von Holton. I want to know who killed my friend.”

  “Absolutely,” Rory said.

  “Absolutely,” he repeated as he walked away. His shoes clicked, then the sound disappeared when he slipped through the door.

  “Seems nice enough,” Jace said.

  Rory shrugged. “He’s always been kinda pushy, but I’ve never had a problem with him.”

  “He’s pretty upset, though.”

  Rory fixed an eye on Jace. “That’s some high-powered observational skill you got there, Worm.”

  “Years of practice. Someday, if you apply yourself, you might be—might be—this good.”

  “Call me Jace Junior. Hey, you’re going to come with me to Rooster, right? To make the bust? Stop the van, make
the bust? From Shelby’s information?”

  They headed down the hallway and were outside in just a few steps. Two incoming office staff wore Santa hats and Christmas sweaters.

  “Merry Christmas,” Rory said.

  One guy flopped his hat. “You, too,” the other said.

  At their cars, Jace shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, but that’s not my thing. I’m not interested and even if I were, I don’t have the training.”

  Rory snorted. “Hah. Traffic stops are easy. I love ’em.”

  “Cops get killed on traffic stops.”

  “Not this cop. I love ’em; I could do ’em all day long. Look, I-20 runs right through Rooster. This’ll be easy. “Jace opened her mouth to protest, but Rory waved it away. “Don’t spoil my fun, Jace.”

  “Silly me, not wanting you to get killed.”

  “Good call, sister.”

  Jace climbed into her car. “You do what you want, but it’s probably too dangerous to do alone. A highway stop, a drug dealer, and the information coming from a dealer who we know has a penchant for violence. Make sure you’ve got some backup.”

  “Penchant?”

  “It means a taste for violence.”

  “Ah. Nice word.” Rory winked. “So do I.”

  “That’s what scares me.”

  CHAPTER 7

  A half hour later, Jace and Rory strolled into Alley B’s in sloppy jeans, T-shirts with the sheriff’s office logo, and light coats.

  Alley B eyed them. “I’m guessing you want one of your nasty breakfast sundaes. Your mamas wouldn’t be happy ’bout your nutritional choices.”

  Rory snorted. “Mama’s who taught me to drown the troubles of a shitty shift in ice cream.”

  “Nutritional choices?” Jace sniffed loudly and crinkled her nose at the fetid odor of greasy eggs and fatty bacon. “Are you sure that’s the lecture you want to give?”

  Alley B glared pleasantly. “Ain’t nobody ever died in my place.”

  Rory pointed toward the parking lot. “They die out there. Why do you think there’s always a tow truck lurking in your lot? Waiting to hook up a car for a grieving family.”

  Alley B chuckled. “Kiss my ass, bitches. And Merry Christmas.”

  Normally, Saturday morning crowds were thick but this was Christmas Day so there weren’t many people, mostly the same single business people who drowned their lives beneath the weight of 24/7 business deals. They looked uncomfortable in their weekend attire, as though they weren’t themselves unless clad in their tailored suits of armor. They jabbered away on cell phones or furiously tapped out text messages.

  Within minutes, the ladies were deeply into their sundaes. Vanilla ice cream and bananas, layered with fudge and nuts, whipped cream, and a handful of Skittles on Rory’s. But the sundaes didn’t come close to covering the taste of the night. They ate silently and when she was done, Jace stuck her spoon into the last of the banana. It stood straight up like a mythic sword stabbed challengingly into the dirt.

  Alley B sidled up to them. “You guys okay?”

  “Right as the rain.” Jace nodded.

  Alley B glanced out the window. “Rain? This is west Texas, honey; it don’t rain here.”

  “Who’s the new boy?” Rory asked, nodding toward a small boy behind the counter. “Looks like he’s about twelve. You pick up some slave labor off of Craig’s List or somewhere?”

  “He’s ten and he’s my grandbaby. Thinks he wants to be a chef.”

  “So you hired him here?” Jace grinned. “You don’t do any chef-ing here.”

  “Short order is still cooking.”

  “Well . . . sort of,” Rory said.

  Finished with her breakfast sundae, Rory tossed an eye toward the busboy. He zipped to the table and grabbed the empty bowl, but Rory held it tightly until he looked at her. “You tell your grandmother you need a raise.”

  His eyes brightened. “Yes, ma’am, but you know how she is.” Then he dashed into the kitchen.

  The ladies sat in silence awhile, as though each was afraid to broach the subject. Jace hadn’t known Wrubel particularly well, but he and Rory had been friends. Jace had seen a few deaths in her life, of friends and relatives, and just wanted to wait her friend out. Maybe she’d want to talk, maybe she wouldn’t.

  “Sooooooo,” Rory finally said. “Selling drugs to johnnies.”

  “Yep.”

  “And Cruz saying he had problems at the end.” Rory blew out a hot breath and shook her head. “I know he smoked his weed. Damn it, maybe this didn’t have anything to do with an inhaler.”

  Rory banged a hand hard against the table. Alley’s grandson looked up, mimed eating another sundae. Rory shook her head. He went back to wiping down tables. “You think he was selling drugs to inmates?”

  “I don’t know, Rory, but this is not what I wanted for Christmas morning.”

  A man appeared at their table, his face red. “No? And what would that be?” He coughed into his hand. “It is impolite to overhear conversations and that was not my intention. I apologize.”

  The man had a rugged face that was, though softer, much like the sheriff’s. Both were lined with age and worn by wisdom both good and bad. But this large man, looming over their table at probably better than six feet, was heavy where the sheriff was thinnish, and where the sheriff seemed perpetually tired, this man, his green eyes holding her and Rory tightly, seemed melancholy.

  “Dr. Vernezobre.” Rory stood formally. “How are you?”

  “Miss Bogan, I am well, though I am tired these days.” The man bowed slightly to both women and offered his hand, in turn, to each.

  “Dr. Vernezobre, you’ve been tired as long as I’ve known you.”

  “Which has been quite a number of years now, has it not?”

  Teeth, tinged yellow but perfectly straight, peeked out when he smiled, but Jace felt another wave of sadness wash across her.

  “It has, sir. This is my friend, Jace Salome. She is a jailer.”

  “Another of Zachary County’s finest. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Salome.” She rose and when he took her hand—unexpectedly—he kissed it without a trace of sexuality. “An interesting name, I would think, given its heritage.”

  “I’ve had a few comments about it.”

  “Are you the dancing woman from the book of Mark?” He grinned. “Or Wilde’s femme fatale?”

  With a smile, Jace took her hand back.

  “Well, she doesn’t have the looks or the brains for that whole femme fatale thing,” Rory said. “But she probably does dance some. Mostly on tables. Nude. Drunk. Like that.”

  He chuckled and when Rory indicated the booth, he sat only after the women had. Alley B’s grandson immediately appeared with a glass of water. “Thank you, my boy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The doctor, a giant of a man but with such gentle edges that Jace couldn’t help but feel comfortable with him, turned his gaze upon her. “I must confess, Miss Salome, I know your abuela. She is a fine woman.” He winked. “Though a bit of a warrior when she plays her dominoes.”

  Jace startled. “You know Gramma?”

  “Indeed. I have for many, many years. She and I once frequented the same social club, a lovely place which many nights had Cuban jazz. Your abuela was quite a lover of jazz, if I remember correctly.”

  “You do, sir. My mother was a jazz fan, too. She danced.” Jace’s face flared with hot blood. “She used jazz in her routine, I mean. ‘Embraceable You,’ ‘Sophisticated Lady.’ Gramma and I still go hear jazz whenever we have the chance.”

  “Alas, not often in Zachary City. Perhaps, next time there is an opportunity, both of you ladies will accompany me?”

  Jace nodded, color flushing her cheeks. “That would be lovely.”

  He smiled but remained silent and in that silence, Jace clearly heard his labored breathing. Eventually, he focused his eyes on Rory. “Dr. Wrubel. It is extremely sad.”

  “You heard already?”


  “Indeed. I know them both. It is, after all, a small medical community, Miss Salome.”

  “Please, sir. Jace is fine.”

  With a pleasant grin, he winked. “As you wish . . . Miss Salome. Miss Bogan, do you know what happened?”

  “I don’t, sir. It doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

  “It was in your facility, was it not?”

  “Yes, sir, but it’s a big jail. I was somewhere else. Miss Salome was there, though.”

  His deep-set eyes, so full of sadness, moved to Jace. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “I’m not sure anyone can at this point, sir.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Certainly, I apologize for asking. It is, of course, none of my business. Perhaps I can venture this question: Did my friend suffer?”

  Jace hesitated and knew he saw it. She touched his hand. “Sir, I don’t believe he did. I believe it was quick and painless.” She felt like a fool for telling a doctor that stab wounds with a ragged homemade shank to the chest were quick and painless but she didn’t know what else to say.

  “You are quite a good liar, Miss Salome, and I mean no offense by that. In your line of work, I should think that would come in handy.” He took a deep breath and it amplified his somber face. “I know he was in pain. More than that, I suspect he hurt. Lately his demons had gotten the better of him.” He drained half of his water glass in a single swallow. “It has been many years since his mother passed. His father took his own life after fighting the depression of the loss of his wife. His older brother wrestled with methamphetamines as Jacob wrestled with the angel.”

  “I do believe Jacob won, Doctor.”

  “Well, it is a nuanced story, but this time, Miss Salome, Jacob did not get his blessing. Francis was alone, and he worked with the inmates to bring them a peace his brother never found. I think helping them also brought him a measure of peace. A peace that for a while he even tried to find in self-medication.”

  “He was addicted?”

  Rory and Vernezobre both shook their heads.

  “Just the weed,” Rory said.

  “And I’m not sure I would say . . . well . . . I don’t want to say he was addicted to anything. He and I never discussed it. I broached the subject two or three times but he did not respond.”