Caught in the Act

by Jill Sorenson

  “No,” he said quickly. “She always shops in Mexico. I’ll take a look at her shelves and come back.”

  Kari walked toward the register, picking up her newest catalogue. “Many of the skeleton figurines are shown here, and I have a bigger selection online,” she said, flipping through the glossy pages.

  He didn’t glance at the catalogue, but another display caught his eye. Between the Day of the Dead memorabilia and the impulse items at the front counter, there was a wicker basket full of baby gifts. Tiny little socks, alpaca wool mittens, soft knit caps. Grandmothers couldn’t resist such adorable things.

  “What’s this?” he asked, fingering a colorful silk-blend garment.

  “It’s a rebozo,” she said, moving forward to demonstrate. She draped the fabric around her neck, fashioning a sturdy knot at one shoulder and leaving a little pouch over her belly. “For a baby?”

  He nodded, recognizing the traditional infant carrier as soon as he saw it on her.

  “Some women wear them on their shoulders, as a shawl,” Kari explained in a rush. “It can also be used in many different ways.”

  His gaze met hers, curious. Her cheeks heated under his examination. She’d been self-conscious before; now she was squirming. There was something unbearably intimate about modeling an infant sling. She felt more exposed than she had been yesterday, as if her secret desires were written all over her face.

  He seemed intrigued by her discomfort. “I’ll take it.”

  Kari removed the sling with care, untying the knot and folding the garment neatly on the glass-top counter. Maybe he was picturing his wife or girlfriend in the rebozo. Although he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, that didn’t mean he was single. He might be happily married, the proud father of a half-dozen children.

  “Would you like it gift-wrapped?” she asked in a formal tone.

  “Sure,” he said, his mouth quirking into a smile. “It’s for my sister. She’s expecting.”

  “Oh,” she said, smiling back at him. A pregnant sister was much less disturbing to her conscience than a pregnant wife. She ducked below the counter, where she kept the tissue paper, and tried to squelch a tingle of excitement.

  “Is this her first?” she asked.

  “No, her third. She has a boy and a girl already.” He said this with affection, his eyes crinkled up at the corners.

  Kari’s heart melted at the sight. She put a bow on the gift bag and turned to the cash register, ordering herself to stop staring at him. One of the reasons she’d been attracted to Brendan was because he’d seemed like excellent father material. She saw some of the same qualities in Officer Cortez. Heroic job, athletic physique, rugged good looks. He appeared to respect his mother and love his sister.

  She named the price, and he took a wallet out of his front pocket. It was black leather, like his belt, embossed with an eagle. He placed two crisp bills in her upturned palm and she processed the transaction, watching him put the change away. His hands looked strong. She wondered how they would feel against her skin: callused or smooth, rough or gentle.

  Blushing, she pushed the gift bag across the counter. “Have a nice day.”

  He picked it up, glancing around the store. She thought he might ask her another question about the figurines, but he didn’t. “You too,” he said, putting his sunglasses back on. Carrying the package under one arm like a football, he left.

  Kari wasn’t sorry to see him go. At any other time, she’d have enjoyed the attention of a good-looking guy. Right now Cortez was a dangerous distraction. She couldn’t afford to keep company with a border protection officer.

  Her sister’s life was in danger.

  When her pulse slowed and her breathing returned to normal, she picked up the phone to call Sasha.

  Maria entered the hotel’s front lobby, studying her surroundings while the receptionist gave a key card to an amorous couple.

  The man palmed the woman’s backside, giving it a firm squeeze.

  Cheaters, she guessed, dropping her gaze. Only newlyweds and teenagers groped each other in public like that. But these two weren’t young, and this place was no honeymoon getaway.

  The Hotel del Oro had “good bones,” she believed the term was in English. It was Spanish-style colonial with an open courtyard and stucco exterior. The exposed beams and arched entryways were a nice touch, but there were also signs of corruption and disrepair: chipped paint, broken tiles, outdated light fixtures.

  Maria felt right at home. She’d worked in hotels like this before.

  After the couple paid for their room—by the hour, she noted with an inward shudder—Maria stepped up to the front desk.

  “Can I help you?” the receptionist asked in Spanish, a bored look in her eyes. She was young and pretty and glamorous, trapped in an easy, dead-end job she felt was beneath her. Maria imagined that she wanted more from life. Her name tag said Sonia.

  “I’m Maria, the new maid.”

  “We’re not hiring.”

  “I spoke with Señor Pena yesterday,” she explained. “He told me to come in.”

  Sonia gave Maria another once-over, her smooth brow furrowing. Maria got the impression that she was summing up the female competition. Perhaps she was Pena’s girlfriend. Maria slouched a little, trying to look unattractive. Dismissing her as a threat, Sonia picked up the phone to check out her story.

  Maria relaxed a little, glad for the “disguise.” This receptionist might have turned her out on her ear had she looked halfway decent, and Maria needed this job. Kari seemed to think she could convince her sister to leave Carlos Moreno, but Maria was skeptical. She had a backup plan—to collect dirt on Moreno’s men. They didn’t know she understood English. Maybe, while she was cleaning up after them, something would slip.

  At the very least, she could earn money to send home.

  Sonia hung up the phone and busied herself with paperwork, not bothering to tell Maria her fate. After a few moments, an older woman in a blue smock appeared. She had sturdy black shoes, a round face, and graying hair.

  Maria stepped forward to introduce herself.

  The head housekeeper, Irma, was no friendlier than the receptionist. Ignoring Maria’s greeting, she led her away from the lobby to a laundry room that was overflowing with sheets and towels.

  Irma handed Maria a uniform shirt, gave her a supply cart, and took her up to the second floor. Then she lit a cigarette, gesturing for Maria to get started. “You’ve worked in a hotel before?” she asked in Spanish.

  Maria nodded, her arms full of cleaning products.

  “You should take off your hat.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  Irma shrugged, puffing on her cigarette. She didn’t care.

  Maria went through the motions quickly, collecting the dirty sheets and towels, emptying the trash and ashtrays. When the room was spotless and stocked with the meager amenities available, she stuck her head out the open door.

  “Finished?” Irma asked.

  “Yes.”

  She inspected the interior, offering no praise or criticism. “Bueno,” she said finally. “You’re responsible for this entire floor.”

  Maria didn’t complain, although it was a huge amount of work. There were ten or twelve more rooms that needed service, from what she could tell, and it wasn’t even checkout time yet. She’d have to move fast to keep up.

  “Don’t poke around anywhere else,” Irma continued. “Put your trash in the dumpster, and do your own laundry.”

  She only had one question. “When do I get paid?”

  “Friday.”

  Irma left her alone and Maria got down to work. By noon, she was sweating, resenting the itchy baseball cap on her head and the voluminous T-shirt under her smock. She didn’t stop cleaning for lunch, but she drank plenty of water.

  At the end of the day, when the work was done, she felt drained but satisfied. After returning her cart to the laundry room, she trudged across the courtyard, almost bumping into a man who’d wal
ked in off the street.

  “Excuse me,” he said in a low voice, going around her.

  He was tall, dark-haired, sort of rough-looking. His T-shirt was dingy, his jeans were torn, and his goatee was scraggly. He seemed on edge and a little scary. Not the kind of person she wanted to stop and chat with.

  And yet she did stop. Because … she knew him. His appearance had changed dramatically, but she knew him. When he glanced back at her, their gazes locked for a moment. She’d never forget those eyes, a calm hazel, fringed by dark lashes.

  This was the last place she expected to see him. The man who’d saved her life.

  4

  Maria.

  It was almost as if Ian’s subconscious recognized her first. He’d noticed the slight figure in the baseball cap but he hadn’t studied her closely. His job was to focus on the men who came and went here. Chuy didn’t have any female customers.

  He was aware that she’d stopped in her tracks, which was odd. These days, women crossed the street to avoid his path. Sensing her stare, he’d glanced back. Their eyes met for a split second before she turned and kept walking, her head down.

  Maria Santos.

  What the hell was she doing at the Hotel del Oro? Cleaning rooms, apparently. There was a pale blue smock slung over her shoulder.

  Ian didn’t think she remembered him. He hardly knew his own face in the mirror anymore, and years had passed since she’d seen him. She’d also been only semiconscious during most of their interactions. She might have fuzzy memories of a clean-cut border agent, but he doubted she could reconcile those images with the man he appeared to be now.

  Maybe she’d paused to size him up as a possible safety threat. Or, worse, a messy hotel guest.

  No worries on that front. Unlike Chuy, he didn’t live here.

  Ian was almost certain she hadn’t recognized him, but he felt pretty confident in his identification of her. Even with the hat pulled down low on her forehead and a shapeless T-shirt disguising her slender curves, he knew her. He knew the shape of her face, with its fine features and dramatic eyebrows.

  He’d memorized every detail.

  The last time he’d visited her, the bruises on her neck were fading and the swelling on her cheek had gone down. He remembered holding her hand, rubbing his thumb over the delicate bones in her wrist.

  Ian shook his head, impatient with himself. He’d done this before. There were thousands of young, pretty Hispanic girls in San Diego. More than once he’d thought he’d seen Maria, only to realize his mistake when he got closer.

  That’s all it was. His imagination. A remnant of a dream.

  As hallucinations went, this was the most disturbing to date. If it was her, his cover might be blown.

  Brushing the matter aside for now, he continued through the dilapidated courtyard, toward Chuy’s apartments. The dealer inhabited two rooms on the first floor, a manager’s suite and small office. It was a cover for his real business, which included distributing black tar heroin to a variety of buyers.

  Chuy’s partner, Armando Villarreal, did most of the dirty work. A jack of all trades, Armando managed the seedy hotel, watched Chuy’s back, and provided a bit of extra muscle when the situation called for it.

  At the moment, Armando was leaning against a stucco pillar outside Chuy’s office, whittling a small figure out of wood. His movements were quick, silent, precise. He had a sharp knife and a good eye for detail.

  “Don’t fuck with the maids,” Armando said, not glancing up.

  Ian realized he’d been caught staring. It wasn’t a big deal—most men noticed attractive women. Damned if he was going to apologize for it. He nodded vaguely, wondering if Armando had staked a claim on her.

  A few seconds later, the office doorknob turned, and Sonia Barreras walked out, straightening her pencil-slim skirt. She had little bumps on her knees from the carpet. It was a telltale sign, like her worn-off lipstick.

  Ian felt a twinge of envy. He hadn’t had a blow job in ages.

  Sonia avoided his gaze, but he saw the hard glint in her eye. She was the kind of woman who enjoyed the reward, not the task. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that Chuy didn’t care what women liked.

  Both Ian and Armando watched her go, appreciating the view. Armando didn’t bother to issue another warning; only a man with a death wish would touch Chuy’s property. Armando lifted his chin, gesturing for Ian to enter the office.

  Chuy was sitting behind the desk, sweat dotting his forehead, his face languid with satisfaction. Lucky bastard. “What do you want?”

  “The usual,” Ian said, tossing a wad of cash on the surface of the desk.

  Chuy didn’t rush to fill the order, and the wait was nerve-racking. Ian never knew if he would end up looking down the barrel of an AK. Undercover officers got killed in the line of duty all the time. Whenever Ian made a buy, he was risking his life.

  But he was also collecting useful information. Earning trust. Practicing mannerisms, playing his part. An anxious cop and a craving addict would exhibit some of the same behaviors, so he didn’t bother to hide his natural reaction to the stress. Chuy expected him to fidget, sweat, and stutter his words.

  Ian had been raised by a junkie, immersed in a world of chaos and dysfunction, so he knew what dopesick looked like. For his mother, every day revolved around getting high. Ian had been surprised to discover straight people as a child.

  Now he lived in a hovel apartment like a hard-core addict, under conditions similar to those he’d known as a kid. It would have been a nightmarish existence for anyone, and it was especially hard on Ian, but he had to stay strong.

  He chose this. He liked living on the edge.

  Finally Chuy handed Ian a small balloon, which he shoved into his pocket, not having to feign impatience.

  “I’m getting a new shipment in soon. Some primo shit.”

  Ian moistened his lips, torn between wanting to get the fuck out of there and needing to hear the scoop. “What kind?”

  Chuy smiled lazily, his eyes half-lidded. Maybe he’d been chasing the dragon himself this afternoon. Either that, or Sonia did a lot better work on her knees than in the front lobby. “Blanca nieves.”

  Snow White.

  White powder heroin was unusual in this area, where black tar ruled. Some addicts believed that one type was stronger than the other, but it really depended on the batch. All users were tempted by a unique mix that might take them to staggering heights.

  A shipment of nieve could also be traced back to its source more easily. Different drugs meant new connections, new alliances … new leads.

  “When?”

  Chuy laughed at Ian’s eager expression. “You junkies are all the same. Freaking slaves to the high.”

  Ian let his face go blank. “I prefer black myself.”

  “Okay,” Chuy said, leaning back in his chair. He could bluff, too. “No problem.”

  “My customers might want a sample,” Ian conceded.

  Chuy shrugged, making no promises. “We’ll see.”

  Muttering his thanks, Ian left the office. Armando was putting the finishing touches on a fist-sized wooden donkey. The animal was often referenced in the dealer-buyer relationship. Coyotes ran mules across the border, backpacks loaded with drugs.

  Armando glanced up at him, arching a brow.

  Ian’s mouth twisted at the implication. Chuy had just insulted him, and now Armando appeared to be suggesting that he was a stupid animal. If Ian didn’t feel the same way about drug slingers, he might have been offended.

  “Later,” he said to Armando, walking away.

  Of the two men, Ian would much rather wrangle with Chuy. He was a ruthless son of a bitch, straight up. Chuy Pena would shoot you in the face. Armando was quieter, harder to read. He’d slide a knife between your ribs and you’d never see him coming.

  Ian went “home,” his steps heavy. He didn’t want to dwell on the possible Maria sighting. Maybe he was cracking under pressure. His appetite wa
s down due to low activity and high anxiety. He hadn’t been this lean since he was a teenager.

  He felt weak, physically and mentally. Working out was his favorite stress reliever, but he couldn’t look too fit for the role. Most addicts didn’t lift weights, and the only time a junkie went running was when the cops were after him.

  The apartment building Ian lived in consisted of standard, economical units. There were a few decent people here, trying to save money and get ahead, but many of the residents were addicts. On the outside, it was basic, cheap-looking, and worn down. Inside, the conditions deteriorated sharply. It wasn’t unusual to see a group of kids smoking pot or a prostitute taking a john up the stairs.

  He locked the door, shutting them out, and lay down on his unmade bed. Staring at nothing. Thinking of Maria.

  Kari didn’t get in touch with Sasha until late afternoon.

  Her sister ignored most of her calls, and sometimes they went weeks without speaking. Kari was careful not to leave too many messages or hint at any trouble; Sasha avoided emotional drama like the plague.

  When Sasha finally picked up, her voice was scratchy from sleep. “Hello?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” Sasha mumbled. In the background, cellophane from a cigarette pack rustled, followed by the flick of a lighter. “I have a headache.”

  Kari’s spirits plummeted. Her sister complained of frequent migraines and often stayed in bed for days. So much for getting together right now. “I’d like to see you,” she said anyway. “Are you free tomorrow?”

  Sasha took a drag of her cigarette, mumbling something about being tired. She was always tired—or busy. For a girl who didn’t work, go to college, or have any meaningful hobbies, she managed to stay very busy.

  “I thought we might have dinner, do a little shopping.”

  Sasha was quiet for a moment. “Shopping?”

  “Yes,” Kari said, struck by inspiration. “I need a new dress.”

  “For what?”

  “A date,” she said, fingers crossed.

  If there was anything Sasha was still interested in, besides shopping, it was Kari’s sex life. Or lack thereof. Whenever Kari expressed disapproval about Sasha’s relationship with Moreno or concern about her dangerous habits, Sasha was quick to criticize Kari’s solitary existence in return.