by Kristen Lamb
The scene finally cleared a half hour before lunchtime and it appeared safe to pack my trunk and leave. I slipped into my Honda and tried to get my head back in the game. Maybe going home was a good thing. Maybe Bisby could change my fate, and I could right some of the wrongs from my past and get my future on track.
Sure. And maybe I was a Chinese jet pilot.
I drove out of the Casa Linda parking lot, a little sad that I’d never return, but, then again, I’d said that about Bisby, too.
I had to fuel up, but there was no way I was stopping in my neighborhood. I was itching to see what Ed had given me and I needed to be someplace safer. I drove down East Berry and crossed I 35 and continued on down West Berry until I got to the 7 Eleven across from Texas Christian University. Normally this area was stuffed with gaggles of leggy blonde students driving Mercedes and Porches, carrying handbags worth more than my car, but it was summer and most of them were off in Europe or the Caribbean. TCU was where the cream of the Texan crop went for education and social adventure. I’d like to say I missed going to school there, but truth was I only remembered the library and the desperate want to fit in.
When I studied the new student buildings complete with Starbucks and fancy balconies, I felt a flicker of jealousy then sadness. I missed my good life, when everything hadn’t been so hard. I willed myself not to look at the taco joint that once was a college bar. I used to go dancing there on Wednesdays before work, because it was Ladies’ Night and there was no cover. It was where Phil and I’d met and it had been love at first sight. My heart hitched a little and I shoved Phil out of my mind, regretting I couldn’t shove him out a window instead.
I swiveled my legs out the door and then reached in my pocket for Ed’s gift. When I saw the thick wad of hundred-dollar bills I gasped. Heart pounding, I counted out three thousand bucks. Panic gripped me. I couldn’t take this money. It could be illegal gains. In fact, I could have cocaine all over my fingers. These hundreds could have been used to snort hashish.
Wait? Did people snort hashish? My heart hammered. I couldn’t take this money. I had to give it back. But how? I had no idea where to find Ed’s bar, and I needed to get on the road. I was suddenly very angry with Ed for putting me in this position.
Willing myself to calm down, I folded the cash and stuffed it in a secret compartment in my purse. Not so much a secret compartment as a hole in the lining, a tear that made a nice little pocket invisible to the naked eye. I’d watched my mom do it years ago when she cleaned houses. She used the torn lining of her purse to hide her cash and keep the other maids from stealing her pay. I eased the money into the hole and tried to regain my composure. But then I felt like a jerk. Why was I assuming Ed was a bad guy? Sure, he drove a motorcycle and was part of a biker gang, but that didn’t mean anything. He also worked a legitimate job as a bouncer. My pulse started to calm, and I perked up. Even if the money was illegal, I’d done nothing wrong aside from possibly killing a gang-banger, calling in a false report of a fire, and then fleeing a crime scene.
I was so screwed.
I reasoned myself out of hysteria. Who knew how much money passed through our fingers every day that could be loaded with smack, juice, candy, or Special K?
What is wrong with me?
I peeled off a hundred-dollar bill and then locked the car to prepay. I noted a black Suburban parked near the ice machines and hesitated. For a second, I thought the driver was staring at me, but then he resumed talking on his cell. The SUV’s windows were tinted, but I could tell the driver had strong features, dark sunglasses, and looked very serious. I hadn’t seen dudes like that since the parking lot of Verify. FBI and Secret Service. They’d questioned all of us, but after weeks of questioning hysterical employees, I guess they figured we were innocent. The Verify thieves had taken everything from everyone, right down to the cleaning crew. There was a special level of hell for the Verify scum.
I stepped into the 7 Eleven and scooped up a small basket then plopped in fresh fruit, cheese, and a package of ham. I grabbed four bottles of water, a couple packages of gum, and a portable cooler. I used the ice machine to put ice in the cooler then filled up my 42-oz. cup with Mountain Dew. I ached with fatigue, but had no time to waste. If I waited to leave, I knew I’d chicken out. Had it not been for the whole Cesar debacle, I doubted I’d have made it this far. The Mountain Dew would give me the boost I needed for the drive.
“Know where to find a tire place nearby?” a voice asked from behind me.
When I turned, it was the guy from the Suburban. “Do I look like Google maps?” I said.
Maybe my Texan friendliness was a tad rusty. But despite my curtness, the man said, “Name’s Sawyer. You have a really low tire. Rear right. It’s why I asked.” He smiled in a boyish way that made me slink low in my shoes.
“Oh.”
“Wouldn’t want you to have a blowout,” he said, and I noted he had a very Roman nose and nice strong jawline like G.I. Joe. I’d always had a crush on G.I. Joe growing up. Always felt Barbie was settling with Ken. Also, as of age eight, I was never certain Ken was straight, whereas G.I. Joe? All man.
“Great.” I sank into my sneakers, feeling like an ass and wondering if I’d ever get on the road. “Sorry.” I tipped my head to the windows. “It’s hot and my AC’s broken.”
He tipped his head graciously. “No worries, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” I made a face.
“You won’t tell me your name. Though I guess I could call you Supergirl.”
“Huh?”
He pointed to my shirt.
I felt like an idiot. “It’s Romi. I mean, my name.” I ran a worried hand through hair that had fallen from my bun. “Only tire place nearby overcharges.”
“Good to know. Nice to meet you,” he said and pointed to a can of something on the shelf. “Grab a can of that and you should be just fine until you can get the leak fixed. And you’ll need one of those gauges. The PSI is on—”
“The side of the tire I got it,” I said and added two cans of Fix-A-Flat to my bulging basket.
“Self-sufficient. That’s good,” he said, his gunmetal gray eyes studying me.
Though I hated to admit it, I was enjoying the attention. Creepy Burney, the pervert two doors down who liked to flash me every morning, had been the closest thing I’d had to a date since the whole Phil disaster. This Sawyer was the kind of man they used to make action figures. He wore a black 5.11 polo shirt and khaki tactical pants and a black 5.11 windbreaker. Why the hell was he wearing a jacket in this heat? I wondered.
“I take it you’ve used this before,” he said with a whisper of a smile that seemed strange on his strong features.
“Don’t like to.” I frowned.
“Why’s that?”
“Prefer to plug the tire myself. Once you use a can of that stuff, you’re committed to buying a new tire.” I shrugged and dug through a pile of Ritz cracker snack packs that were on sale. “Can keep plugging a tire so long as no dry-rot and the hole isn’t in the sidewall.”
“Sounds like you’re somewhat of an expert.” He offered a crooked smile and I accepted.
“Let me help.” He didn’t wait for me to answer and took the basket from me.
“Uh, thanks.” I felt the blood rush back into my forearms and I rubbed the red mark on my arm. As we made our way to the front of the 7 Eleven, I added a portable CD player, batteries, and a Texas map to my purchase. Almost as an afterthought, I snagged a Fort Worth Star Telegram. Needed to check if Cesar made the news.
Sawyer set my basket and cooler on the counter and politely stood there waiting on me. A Sikh cashier rang up my goodies and I handed him the hundred-dollar bill. “Put the rest on the car on pump 9. The Honda,” I said, embarrassed to admit that the Bond-Oed heap covered in bumper stickers for all the local Spanish radio stations belonged to me.
I reached for my bags of groceries, but Sawyer beat me.
“I’ll get those,” he said.
“Sui
t yourself.” I pushed back outside into the withering haze of heat and headed for my car. I opened the map and folded it where I could see south Texas and a tiny dot I knew was Bisby. I used to know the area better than anyone, but if it had been so long since I’d been there I might get lost, and fortune favored the prepared. Once I had the map folded the way I liked it, I set it on the console and packed the cooler with snacks and water. Before I could stop him, Sawyer used the Fix-A-Flat on my tire and started pumping my gas.
“Why are you helping me?” I asked.
“Because you need it,” he said in this no-nonsense way that I liked and continued to fill my tank.
“Oh.” I felt my face turn red and it had nothing to do with the triple-digit heat. Was this guy hitting on me? I figured my junker car would have been a road flare marking the train wreck of my life.
Sawyer topped off the tank. “You need to get your change. Little over twenty dollars.”
“Okay,” I said as I ripped the CD player out of the plastic anti-theft packaging. In a world full of iPods and iPhones, I might as well have been toting around a record player on my shoulder.
Sawyer dipped a squeegee in some dingy water and washed my windows as I stuffed AA batteries into the CD player and tested it for sound. He even crouched down and washed my headlights.
“Why are you washing those?” I asked.
“Because they’re dirty.”
“Dirt’s the only thing holding this thing together.”
He ignored me and kept scrubbing. “From the map, I gather you’re taking a trip. Dirty lights make it hard for you to see at night,” he said and dropped the squeegee back into the brownish gray water. He slipped on a pair of Ray-Bans then said, “So, Romi. How’s Phil doing these days?”
I nearly dropped the new CD player. “Who?”
“Phil. Your fiancé.”
His words were a punch in the face. I suddenly felt like I’d been strapped to a Tilt-A-Whirl and had to lean against my car for support. “Who the hell are you? Did Mark Cunningham send you?”
He didn’t answer, but his demeanor remained neutral, face unreadable. Just like the agents who’d questioned me for weeks. “Where’s Phil?” he asked again.
My mind tried to process the shift from handsome stranger to someone who was hunting Phil. “How the hell am I supposed to know?” I stammered. “And why did you ask my name if you already knew it?”
“Special Agent Benjamin Sawyer.” He showed me his badge. “You are Phil Gerald’s fiancée, right?” he said, his voice matter-of-fact.
“Was. I was his fiancée. Do you see a ring on this finger?” I waggled my fingers in his face.
Sawyer stepped closer and I caught a glimpse of his sidearm under his windbreaker and now felt extra stupid. “FBI really wants to find your boy.” His alpha apex body language was strangely unsettling.
“Join the club.”
“We’ve seen this before. Con man cleans out a lot of good people. Leaves the wife or girlfriend so she can lay low and pretend she’s been a victim, too. When the heat dies down? She takes off for the border for a little secret rendezvous. We know the game plan, and it isn’t nearly as clever as your fiancé thinks it is.”
“You don’t know anything.” I grabbed the empty cans of Fix-A-Flat and momentarily thought about lobbing them at Sawyer. Instead I dropped them very theatrically into the trashcan. I was not a thief and definitely wasn’t a litterbug.
“I know you moved out of your apartment less than an hour ago,” he said leaning casually against the pump.
“Because I’m broke. They don’t let people stay at Casa Linda for free. Okay, granted some people they do. Just not me.” My heart started to race. If he knew about me moving out, was he in on the investigation last night with Cesar? Was I being hauled in for questioning? FBI didn’t work local crimes, did they? I needed to keep cool.
God, I was ready to puke.
“I notice the map is folded to the Mexican border,” he said. “That and your hands are shaking.”
I knew the best defense was a good offence. “The map is folded to the Mexican border because that’s where I am from. I’m broke and going home, and if you had to move in with the former guests of the Jerry Springer Show, your hands would be shaking, too.”
“Why do it then?” He shrugged.
“Was either move home or take a bottle of sleeping pills and hope the Catholics were wrong about hell.” Parry.
“Broke people don’t usually pay with crisp Benjamins.” Thrust .
“Last I checked it wasn’t against the law to be in possession of cash.” I was mad as a hornet, but noticed he hadn’t yet mentioned Cesar. “Phil ruined my life and trust me, if I knew where he was I sure wouldn’t tell you.”
“Why not? Still love him?”
“No. I wouldn’t tell you, because then you’d arrest him before I could stake him naked over a fire ant hill wearing a pair of Krispy Kreme underwear.” I shoved past Sawyer and slipped into my Honda before my window to freedom closed. When it came to Phil, he had no cause to hold me. Cesar? Eh, that could get me in trouble, and so could my mouth.
I desperately wanted to roll down the window to let out the heat, but then I wouldn’t have a barrier between Agent Jerkface and me. I shifted into first and tried to turn on the car, but the engine refused to cooperate. I kept trying, but the Honda made a pathetic chugga chugga sound. After a minute or so I finally had to crack the window before I cooked to death.
Sawyer leaned close and slipped a card inside my window. “If you turn yourself in and give up Phil’s location, I can get you a deal. I really am trying to help you.”
I spit out my gum onto his card and folded it in half without even glancing at it, and rolled the window all the way down. “I’m innocent,” I said.
Curls stuck to my forehead and neck and I felt like I’d sweated clean through my shirt. The 108° air outside felt cool after sitting in the convection oven of my car.
Sawyer removed his sunglasses and bent down into the window to stare me straight in the eye. I wanted to look away, but I met his stare. Then he leaned closer, his voice low and taunting. “Oh, Romi, we both know you are far from innocent.”
I swallowed hard and felt woozy, but willed myself not to speak and to not break eye contact. This was all a head game. I had to remember that.
Sawyer winked. “You know, we will catch Phil and he’ll spend a long time in prison. You’re awfully pretty and smart. Why spend the best years of your life in a cell?”
“At this point, federal prison would be an upgrade,” I said through clenched teeth.
“This is my last offer to go easy on you. Come on, Romi. Help me help you.”
“You’re wasting your time, Jerry Maguire. I have no idea where Phil is. He stole all my money. And if you know I moved out, then you’ve been following me, so you’re aware that Casa Linda is Spanish for ‘smells like pee.’”
Oddly, he laughed and nodded.
Nonplussed I pressed on. “Look at this car. Who would drive this other than someone completely desperate and broke?”
He slipped his sunglasses back on. “Someone who wanted to fool others into believing she was desperate and broke. Your fiancé and his buddies stole over a half a billion dollars. That’s a lot of money.” He whistled low. “Seen people kill for far less.” He stared at me, but I no longer could see his eyes because of those damn glasses and I didn’t know whether to be relieved or unsettled.
“Believe what you want, but where’s your evidence?” I said.
“We know you’re dirty.”
“Who isn’t?” I said, thinking of Cesar. “And doesn’t matter what you know, only what you can prove,” I said. The car finally started and Sawyer patted my trunk as I drove past him. It took everything for me not to slam on the brakes and back over him. When I checked my rearview mirror, I saw him waving and making his fingers into the shape of a phone. “Call me,” he mouthed.
“I’ll call you. Call you a bastard
.” I shot out into traffic and wove my way down West Berry to the highway. How dare he pretend to be nice to me? Ugh, and why was I thinking he might be flirting? I was such a moron. I’d thought he was cute. Worse, I’d thought he was cute and that he thought I was cute, too. How could I be so bad at judging men?
The better question was how could Phil still be wrecking my life? I hadn’t seen him in over a year and yet he was still hurting me. I had no job, no home, could possibly be a suspect in a homicide, and now the FBI’s hunting dog, Sawyer, was after me. Sawyer’s words, Oh, Romi, we both know you are far from innocent kept replaying in my mind and I wondered how long I’d remain free.
Chapter Four
The heat became bearable once I finally merged onto the highway and gained some speed. Dread slithered into my gut, especially once I spotted the black Suburban behind me.
I had a few hundred miles of driving ahead, and needed some tunes. I patted around my glove box for the only CD that hadn’t been stolen, Henry Mancini Classics. Go figure. Gangbangers weren’t into show tunes. I put in my ear buds and set my new portable CD player to repeat Moon River.
I loved this song. It always made me relax. My mind drifted to the months right before everything went so wrong. When I’d sold so much software that I’d made Club and was treated to an all-expense-paid vacation to Monte Carlo. In retrospect, I now realized the generous trip to reward Verify’s top producers was an elaborate cover for high-tailing it to Switzerland with all the company money. Boy, did we all feel dumb coming home to the company’s front doors chained shut, our parking lot full of feds.
