“Is that smart?” Cici asked.
Sam blew out a breath. “No. It’ll piss off the chief and Martins.”
“Then don’t do it,” Cici said.
“You want me to just let him sit on the file? On Anna Carmen’s death?” Sam demanded.
“No.”
Could today be any harder? Any worse? Breaking it off with Lyndon cut her. The job offer buoyed her. But this conversation . . . the not knowing gutted her.
Sam had continued talking, and Cici once again had to snap back to the present. “And, well, I guess it’s time to go home.” Sam cleared his throat. “Time to face everything I left behind.”
She glanced around her apartment once more. She nibbled her thumbnail as she considered her talk with Brandon and then with Donald. She sank back down onto her sofa. Sam, too. His words seemed to confirm that.
Cici had always wondered. But if he was willing to give up his life, the prestigious job in Denver, then Sam must love Anna Carmen, too.
“I’ll be home in May.”
13
Cici
Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none. —Shakespeare
Cici leaned her chair back and gazed up at the white ceiling of her church. A thrill tingled up and down her spine. Her church.
Her move took longer than Sam’s, mainly because she wanted to finish out the last few weeks at the Boston-area church, telling all the congregants goodbye. Brandon continued to play her champion, helping her navigate some difficult conversations and never wavering in his belief Cici made the right choice to take the job offer in Santa Fe. His belief in her kept her buoyed through the long, late nights spent packing and missing her sister.
Through her friends and with the help of the church’s leadership, Cici had a house secured and ready for the minimal furniture she planned to move in with. Cici had wanted to move into Anna Carmen’s house, but it sold within days of hitting the market, and Cici barely managed to collect the few items still there on a whirlwind weekend into town just before the closing date. Those items, including her sister’s motorcycle and some furniture, were now settled in Cici’s small casita, surrounded by boxes she’d yet to unpack.
Now was the first of June. A day of golden sun, bird song, and huge blue skies. She’d given her first sermon the past Sunday to a full sanctuary. Her girlfriends had bought her lunch and they’d laughed the afternoon away.
While maybe not happy, Cici found moments of joy.
This afternoon, she and Sam planned to hike up Sun Mountain.
He met her at the base of the trail, sunglasses on and a decided negative tilt to his lips.
“Hey, Sam.”
“Hey. So, I have some news.”
“On Aci’s case?” Cici asked, her chest going tight.
Sam scowled. “No. Martins is keeping me out of that one. Won’t even let me see the file.” Sam’s obvious anger and disgust bled into each word.
They turned in tandem and headed up the trail.
“Good news is he has another couple of months until retirement.” Sam’s face hardened. “I’m taking over the case then.”
Cici wanted to ask if that was smart, but Sam had moved back to Santa Fe specifically to help solve Anna Carmen’s death. Requesting him to leave it to someone else, especially after his continued frustrations with Detective Martins, seemed ridiculous—and went against Cici’s continued drive to find justice.
“Well, maybe something will happen. You said he’s investigating,” Cici said, her voice a little timid.
Sam shook his head. “He’s out of the office a lot. But . . . investigating. No, I’m not sure he’s doing that.”
“But that’s his job,” Cici said, confusion and anger causing a thick knot to form in her chest.
“And he’s within weeks of retirement and golfing buddies with the chief. I’m going to have to wait him out.”
They walked in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Cici knew, because Sam had told her, that the longer the case went without witnesses or leads, the harder it was to go back and follow the trail. Anna Carmen died at the end of March, so already, multiple months had passed, probably narrowing the number of people who’d have clear memories of that day, let alone details that might help the case.
“And there’s nothing you can do now?” Cici asked.
Sam speared his fingers through his hair. It had grown since March, no longer in the conservative style Sam used to favor. He looked . . . a bit shaggy.
“I’ve asked. I practically begged. Martins in the most senior guy in the department. Chief says he has no reason to pull him. So, I have to wait.”
“All right,” Cici said, mainly because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
They walked on, moving steadily up the mountain. The early evening air had cooled to a pleasant temperature but Cici was still covered in a sheen of sweat, thanks to the exertion of the uphill scramble.
They reached the top a while later and took a moment to stare down at the valley below. While still a couple of hours until sunset, lights had begun to turn on across the city, creating a warm glow from the large basin that housed Santa Fe. Cici looked beyond, down toward Sandia Mountain and Albuquerque. She glanced north, toward the Plaza. She wondered if Evan knew she was back in town. If he cared. If he was still as disturbed by their last words at Anna Carmen’s funeral as Cici was.
From what she’d heard, Evan had buried himself in work, rarely appearing at a social event and never at anything Cici had been invited to. She worried he grieved as she did, but, at the same time, she was so angry with his callous, hurtful words, she couldn’t bring herself to reach out to him again.
“So, my news,” Sam said, breaking her reverie.
“What’s that?” Cici asked, distracted.
“It’s about Gidget.”
Cici smiled. “Oh, that’s great. What about her?” Cici had planned to head up to Taos this weekend to see if she could say hello to Gidget.
“They have a couple of kids, Cee.”
“Who do?”
“The ranchers who took in Gidget. The kids are really attached.”
Cici’s shoulders fell. “Oh.”
Sam pulled out his phone and pulled up a picture. He showed her one of two small children, arms wrapped tight around Gidget, who appeared to smile for the camera.
“Yeah. Well, I guess that’s the end of that dream,” Cici murmured, handing back Sam’s phone. She shoved her fists into her shorts pockets. Would any of this get any easier?
“She whelped a litter. Eight puppies. I asked for one.”
Cici took the piece of paper Sam handed her. It had a phone number and name. She ran her fingertips over them.
“I’ll call. I want a puppy.” Cici’s breath caught.
Sam cupped her shoulder and pulled her in for a hug.
“I reserved the pup for you.”
Cici smiled up at him, thankful when the hard glint in Sam’s eyes softened. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll get two.”
“They’re going to be big, Cee,” Sam warned. “And full of energy.”
“I miss someone to come home to,” she murmured. “I just . . . I need to feel . . .” She sighed.
“Yeah,” Sam said. He turned, gesturing for her to lead the way back down the trail. “I get it.”
14
Cici
Ambition should be made from sterner stuff. —Shakespeare
June slid into July, and July faded in slow, hot, dry increments. August brought much-needed rain and Cici the ability to sleep with more consistency.
Her church was growing, and each day she spoke with potential new members or current members who wanted to start a group or a club. Cici and the church committee hired a full-time secretary.
Carole was an immediate gift of organization and companionship. The two women worked well together: Carole was more than happy to defer to Cici’s title while Cici was thrilled to have someone sitting in the front office, willing to play gatekeeper when n
eeded.
Over the weeks, Cici fell into a nice rhythm. She and Sam hiked each Monday. Cici trained to join the search-and-rescue volunteers. She visited Gidget in Taos, playing with the tiny, wriggly puppies. She smiled as the ranch kids ran around in the dirt, shrieking as Gidget bounded after them, the puppies trailing and tumbling behind.
Cici brought home two relatively small white fur balls. Sam came over to admire them.
“Got names?” Sam asked before taking a sip of his beer.
“Mona and Rodolfo,” Cici replied.
“From the opera?”
Cici started. Sam paid attention. He remembered details. Clearly, that’s what made him a good detective.
“That’s right,” Cici said. “You didn’t want to go to Detective Martins’s retirement party?”
Sam shook his head. “No. The bastard tried to give Anna Carmen’s case to another detective.”
“Oh,” Cici said, her body flooded with a mix of emotions and a jumble of thoughts she couldn’t quite grasp.
“Yeah.”
“So . . . how did that go?” Cici asked.
Sam glanced over at her, his gunmetal irises flashing again in the late afternoon light. One of the puppies barked. Cici knelt and placed the puppy back in the small patch of grass. He sniffed the base of the tree and trotted back over to find his sister. They flopped together in the shade, sighing with contentment.
Cici wanted to, too. Except . . . the weight of her sister’s case settled on her chest.
“I have the file,” Sam said. “I grabbed it as soon as Martins signed his last form for retirement after his shift today.”
“Will you get in trouble for that?” Cici asked, worrying her lower lip.
“Nope. I told my boss my coming back was contingent on getting that case. It’s part of my employment file. My old boss—I mean at the task force up in Denver—helped me set that up so I didn’t get screwed. Seems like Martins had other plans for me.”
“Any idea why?” Cici asked.
“Martins wants to screw me out of the case? My best guess is he sat on it.”
Dread pooled in Cici’s stomach, a deep weighty ache she hated. “But . . . why?”
Sam bent down and petted the dogs again. He was silent for a long moment, no doubt enjoying the soft fuzziness of their baby coats. The two dogs jumped up, licking his hand. Both pups ended up in his lap, trying to climb their way up Sam’s chest.
So when Sam spoke again, his words caused a deep, searing rip—an ugly dichotomy to the sweetness of puppy pleasure.
“Probably because he didn’t like where the investigation was leading.”
15
Cici
I must be cruel only to be kind;
Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind. —Shakespeare
Sam’s words haunted Cici for the rest of the week and deep into the next, but she was kept busy with her puppies and setting up a knitting group, a generational women’s group, and yoga classes at her church.
She’d prepared her sermons for the next few weeks, needing something to focus on that brought her a level of peace. Because, once again, Cici wasn’t sleeping well.
She’d tossed and turned between getting up to let the puppies out to do their business in the grass. The cool night air caused her to shiver and wrap her arms around her for warmth and a sense of comfort still missing since her sister’s death.
As she stood in her yard, well past midnight, she thought again about Evan’s cruel words at Anna Carmen’s funeral. His lack of communication hurt—just not as much as his disdain for both Cici and her sister.
She didn’t understand.
Which was why part of her wasn’t surprised when Sam called her late the following afternoon. A Friday—almost end-of-day.
“I have a potential lead.”
“That’s great!” Cici said, cradling her phone against her cheek as she shut down her computer. Carole waved goodbye, which Cici returned.
The older woman collected her things and trotted out the door toward the parking lot.
“Cee.”
Sam’s voice caused every hair on Cici’s body to stand upright. “What?” she whispered past stiff lips.
“We’re looking for a man. A man believed to have picked Anna Carmen up from work after school the Friday before she died.”
“What?” Cici breathed. “It’s not . . . it’s not Evan?” Cici asked. “Evan was so angry at the funeral.”
Cici sat silent for a long moment. Evan’s stiff posture, his comments at the funeral . . . But Anna Carmen loved Evan. And he . . . Evan loved Anna Carmen.
None of this made sense.
“This is why,” Cici managed to say.
Evan’s anger was beginning to make sense now. Cici’s neck iced over. Oh, no. The police must have spoken to Evan before the funeral. No wonder he’d been so cold and cruel.
But . . . why wouldn’t he talk to her before that? When she’d first called . . . had Evan known her sister was cheating even then?
No. That felt wrong. Like Cici couldn’t see the entire picture.
“If Anna Carmen was seeing another man—”
“You don’t believe that!” Cici exclaimed.
“If she was,” Sam continued, “that gives SFPD a possible motive.”
“I don’t understand,” Cici murmured.
“I wanted to let you know, I’m going to talk to Evan.”
The world seemed to dip as the reality of Sam’s words slammed into her. “Evan? You think Evan . . .” She couldn’t state the words. “But didn’t Detective Martins already . . . I mean, I don’t understand.”
“I have to start over. Look at everything. Every single detail. And I’m starting with the man who had a motive. Evan.”
16
Sam
The fiend gives the more friendly counsel. —Shakespeare
Sam tossed the manila folder on Evan’s desk. The older man looked at it with distaste before raising his brooding gaze to Sam’s.
“What’s this?”
“A friendly chat,” Sam said, lowering himself into the chair across from Evan’s impressive wooden desk. It gleamed with a soft, understated sheen much different from Sam’s thirty-plus-year-old battered metal desk in his small cubicle off the main bull pen floor.
“Why don’t you just tell me why you’re here?” Evan asked, leaning back in his expensive leather chair, crossing one ankle negligently over his other knee, looking for all the world a sharp-dressed playboy. “Because we both know the only friend that connected us was my deceased girlfriend.”
“According to Detective Martins, you were at La Casa Sena when Anna Carmen died.”
Evan’s eyes slid shut and a look of intense pain flashed over his features. “True.”
“My question is—why weren’t you with her?”
“She wasn’t supposed to go,” Evan whispered.
“Go where?”
“On the pilgrimage. It was a spur of the moment decision. She’d been . . . distracted, upset about something.”
“What?” Sam asked, leaning forward.
Evan’s eyes shuttered and his face turned into a stiff mask. “She didn’t tell me. Clearly, she didn’t tell me lots of things.”
Sam pulled out a small notepad and a ballpoint pen. Talking about Anna Carmen like this caused his chest to ache. He wished she’d confided her worries in him, in Cici, even in Evan. “Like?”
“I don’t know,” Evan growled. He flicked his finger against the edge of the manila folder. “Detective Martins was shit at his job, which is why you’re working from nothing.”
“You could help me,” Sam said.
Evan closed his eyes. When he opened them, they blazed with anger and pain. “I can’t. Anna Carmen is dead and there’s nothing—not one thing—I can do to change that.”
“Would you want to? If you could?” Sam shot back.
Evan slammed his hands on the clean desk and stood, leaning forward so that he and Sam were nose
to nose. “Yes,” he bit out. “With every fiber in my body.”
Sam shut his notepad and stood, forcing Evan to stand up and back off enough for both men to have some space.
Sam turned toward the door.
“You forgot your file,” Evan said.
“No, I didn’t. I left it for you.”
“Why?” Evan asked. For the first time, he sounded perplexed. A bit of that sadness seeped into his voice. The anger was still there, but only in the background.
Good. She’d deserved a man who loved her.
“Because I think you can help me with this investigation,” Sam said, turning to face Evan from the doorway.
“You think . . .”
“Anna Carmen trusted you. More importantly, she adored you. Which means you know something.”
Sam must have overplayed his hand—or Evan really thought Anna Carmen was having an affair. He buttoned his suit coat. Sam’s heart rate increased and acid burned up his throat.
“As I said before, I obviously didn’t know her as well as I thought. She had a secret. I told Martins that.”
“You’re going to leave me without anything on the man in the car, aren’t you?” Sam muttered.
“Yes,” Evan said. “Do your damn job and stay out of my office.”
“Be a sight easier if you’d help.”
“Would have been happier to help if I had faith in the police,” Evan snapped back.
Sam turned again. This time, he walked down the plush, carpeted hallway toward the elevator. He pressed the button and waited, walking in and turning to face the closing doors.
As they slid shut, he caught a glimpse of Evan, standing in the door of his office, face haggard by devastation and grief, hands shoved into fists in his slack pockets.
* * *
Sam walked back into the police headquarters an hour later. As he neared his desk, he heard his name. Turning, he faced his boss.
Identical Death Page 6
