“I suppose I do.” Her tone hadn’t been hostile, just honest. Having met Kenneth Warner, Jack could appreciate her concern.
“And for the record, I don’t appreciate you calling me ‘kiddo.’ I’m twenty-five years old.”
At that he laughed out loud. “Okay, Grandma, point taken. Why don’t you tell me about the job we’re taking on.”
Wrinkling her nose at him, she did so with an enthusiasm that grabbed his interest and made him realize how the past year’s events had aged him beyond his years. He had to force himself not to look at her in fascination.
Keep your mind on business, Torres.
Meg St. John was off-limits for anything except information.
Bareheaded in the broiling late-afternoon sun, Jack straddled a four-foot-deep hole in the ground while steadying a red maple tree in its center. Every stitch of clothes he had on was soaked with sweat. He’d known this assignment would be physical, but he hadn’t put in this many hours of backbreaking labor since he’d worked on a roofing crew in college.
He covertly assessed the two undersized Mexicans shoveling dirt around the tree. Mustachioed Diego could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty; Tomás looked to be about sixteen but was probably younger. Though six-foot-four Jack towered over both of them like Gulliver in Lilliput, he had to make an effort to keep up. Blending into this crew wasn’t going to be easy.
And it wasn’t just his height. St. John kept glancing over her shoulder at him. He couldn’t help wondering what she saw.
She was crouched in one of the front beds, setting out pots of pink-and-white flowers that would be dead within six months. Jack considered trees useful: shade, fruit, lumber. Flowers were a big waste of time.
When the maple was steady, Jack let go of it and pulled a bandanna out of his pocket to wipe his face. He tied it around his head to keep the sweat from running into his eyes, then picked up a shovel. The sooner they got this tree planted, the sooner they could all take a break.
He spoke in Spanish to the older man, Diego. “So who’s the real boss around here—your nephew or the lady?”
Diego didn’t look up. “They work together.”
“She know what she’s doing?”
Tomás paused with his shovel braced in both hands. “You treat her with respect.” His angular chin jutted, and Jack noted a few hairs sprouting there. Maybe the kid was sixteen after all.
Jack glanced at Diego. “What’s the big deal?”
Diego shrugged.
“She’s a nice lady,” Tomás muttered, his shovel biting deep. Stringy muscles bunched in his upper arms.
Jack filed away the fact that the men liked their pretty boss and would protect her. They seemed to regard her in the light of minor royalty.
As he worked, Jack kept an eye on Meg. She moved around, emptying pots and filling holes with practiced efficiency, occasionally flipping her thick red-brown braid over her shoulder when it got in her way. She had on a baseball cap embroidered with the Sunset logo, and she wore the same olive-green uniform pants as the men. But the crew all wore green shirts, while her white one was a stark contrast to the brick wall and dark earth beneath her. Her forearms were warmly tanned, slender but sturdy, with neat wrists and those deft, strong hands. Yeah, she knew what she was doing.
She caught his eye.
Rising in one lithe motion, she took off her gloves and approached as Diego tied the tree to its last stake.
“Good job, guys. I think we’ll get through today after all.” St. John stood relaxed, hands on hips, looking more like a twelve-year-old boy than a crew chief.
Jack knew that he would be better off to keep his distance, but her utter lack of self-consciousness made him want to shake her up.
“Then how about a break? Ma’am,” he added teasingly. He’d seen her wince every time one of the Mexicans addressed her that way.
“Don’t call me ma’am,” she muttered, grabbing the radio clipped to her belt. “Hey, Manny, take a break for a minute, will ya?”
The radio crackled. “Sí, coming, ma’am.”
Herrera appeared around the corner of the building. The five of them headed for the orange cooler in the back of the equipment trailer parked on the street. Jack followed St. John, watching her braid sway against her slender back. Nothing boyish about that walk.
She was the first to reach the stack of plastic Texas Rangers cups, but to Jack’s surprise she filled one and handed it to Tomás with a smile. The boy grinned, said “Gracias,” and moved to sit in the shade of the newly planted maple tree. Jack hung back, watching as Diego and then Manny each received a cup and joined Tomás.
Meg filled the last cup and looked around, cheeks glowing and sweat beading in the deep bow of her upper lip. Suddenly he realized that she was holding the cup out to him, and that he was staring.
“I’m not taking the last of the water,” he said gruffly, embarrassed. Good thing his glasses covered his expression. “Drink it yourself.”
“Oh, come on, Arnold, lighten up.” Her grin revealed pretty teeth, white and crooked enough to be charming. “You gotta be thirsty. I don’t mind drinking out of the hose.”
He frowned. “Arnold?”
“You know—‘Hasta la vista, baby,’” she intoned with a deep Austrian accent.
He looked away because her eyes sparkled so brightly and it had been so long since he’d felt anything remotely like humor. “You drink it,” he repeated. Ignoring the cup in Meg’s outstretched hand, he walked off toward the hose attached to an outside spigot. He could feel her puzzled gaze on his back. After a deep drink he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned off the water. When he looked around, Meg had her back to him, studying a blueprint. There was something defensive about the set of her shoulders.
Jack sat on his haunches, feeling guilty and resenting the guilt. Maybe he wasn’t even capable of normal conversation with a beautiful woman. If only he could somehow manage a real time warp—go back a year, to humor and friendship and satisfaction in his job. All of that lost in one disastrous decision that had cost him his best friend.
In spite of the bright sun, black depression all but overwhelmed him. He pushed it away, knowing he’d better take advantage of every opportunity to get answers. Come on, Torres, you can ask questions without getting personal.
He walked over to Meg and reached across her shoulder to flick a finger across the blueprint. He was careful not to touch her. “How much left to do?” he asked.
She avoided his gaze. “The front is done. Manny’s been marking the back, so we’ll all move around there and finish up.”
“We’d be done by now if the crew hadn’t been scattered, wouldn’t we?”
She sighed. “Yeah.”
“Does that happen often?”
“You mean the border patrol roundup?” She looked thoughtful. “They swarmed all over us until a few months ago. They’ve kind of left us alone lately.” She shrugged. “At least until today.”
Now that was worthwhile information. “Must be frustrating to get a job half done and have your crew disappear.” She clearly had only a vague understanding of the way the system worked.
Jack could have explained it to her in four words. Illegals in, illegals out. Employers going for cheap labor and willing to take the consequences when they got caught. Sometimes even greedy enough and power-hungry enough for murder.
For the hundredth time, Jack reminded himself it hadn’t been his greed or his grab for power that had killed his partner. His only fault had been staying on duty longer than necessary. He and Rico had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The Border Patrol Department of Investigations had turned up leads indicating that somebody with nationwide contacts in the construction industry had hooked up with a network of “coyotes,” or guides, and transportation facilitators. Evidence suggested the hub of the ring was in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex.
Jack was pretty sure Ted Crowley—or somebody in his em
ploy—was involved. And he was going to prove it.
“What about these guys?” He gestured toward the three men lounging in the shade.
Meg frowned. “What do you mean?”
“How come they didn’t run?”
The question seemed to upset her. “Manny and his family have worked for Sunset for five summers. Nobody’s ever sent them back.”
Jack lifted his hands. “Just curious. Why do you think border patrol suddenly showed up again today?”
“I don’t know. But I’m glad you came along.” She looked at him as if she were trying to decipher him. “I didn’t know what to expect, but you’ve been working like three men.”
Silence ticked between them as Jack absorbed the unexpected sensation of sincere praise. “De nada,” he finally said, taking a step backward. “You’ve got a good team here.”
Meg smiled. “I do. But we’d better get back to it if we’re gonna wrap it up by dark.”
“Okay, guys, that looks great,” said Meg, surveying their handiwork with satisfaction.
While Manny supervised the last-minute adjustment of the sprinklers, Meg picked up an armload of rakes and staggered to the equipment trailer. One more bag of mulch would have put her flat on the ground. They’d all worked straight through the long afternoon with only a slug of water every hour or so and a fifteen-minute supper break. The sun was a faint pink strip on the horizon, but they’d managed to finish on time.
“Thank You, thank You this is over,” she breathed, barely aware of Torres, who followed her with the heavy gas-powered auger slung across his shoulder.
She could feel his gaze as he strapped the auger to the trailer with a bungee cord. “I assume that wasn’t addressed to me.” A faint smile curved his lips.
She shook her head, surprised to hear his deep voice. His questions at the water cooler had gotten her thinking, and she’d watched him all afternoon. He always seemed to be where he was needed, doing more listening than talking. “Just giving credit where credit is due.”
Torres reached to help Meg with the hand tools.
“Thanks,” she said, yawning and leaning against the side of the trailer, draping her forearms across the top rail. She’d never met a man with such a contradictory personality. Rough masculinity housing a deep, innate courtesy; hard, self-protective reticence that would occasionally lift to reveal unexpected humor. He conversed as fluently in Spanish as he did English, and she’d heard no swearing—which, unfortunately, she’d gotten used to in her years of working with men.
She wondered what her roommate would think about Torres. Bernadette had an uncanny knack for character discernment.
Meg felt an attack of nosiness coming on and went down without a fight. “I think you could do without the moon-glasses now,” she suggested, resting her chin on her folded arms.
Torres vaulted down from the trailer and gave her an amused look. “St. John, you are something else.” He yanked off the glasses. “No bionic eyes, I promise.”
No, they were dark, almond-shaped, exotic. “Are you part Asian?” she asked, fascinated. Why would he look so self-conscious?
“I’m American,” he said firmly. “My mother was Mexican, and who knows what my father was. Frankly, I don’t care.”
Meg felt her smile falter. “I just wondered…I think family trees are fascinating.”
“With a name like St. John, yours probably helped build the Mayflower.”
Meg straightened. Her curiosity had hurt him somehow. “I’m sorry—”
“For what?” Torres slammed the tailgate of the trailer, hailing the other three men. “Let’s head to the house, muchachos. I got things to do tonight.”
Kenneth Warner loved his office, particularly the massive cherry desk that backed up to a plateglass picture window looking out on Sunset’s immaculately landscaped front lawn. Tonight, however, at eight o’clock in the evening, the view was completely dark. This perfectly suited his mood.
Enthroned in his leather executive chair, he tapped a Montblanc pen against the blotter and stared at his reflection in the black window. His phone—the land line, not his cellular toy—was clamped to his ear.
“I thought we had agreed,” he snarled into the receiver, “that there would be no more interference with our crews.”
The voice on the other end of the line was countrified, but the words precisely chosen in the way of law enforcement officers. “Our agreement was that funds would be released punctually on the first of every month. Punctually, Mr. Warner, means on time.”
“I know what it means,” Warner said, cursing. He wheeled the chair around to glare at a matted and framed photo of himself and Tiger Woods, standing on the first tee at last year’s Colonial golf Pro-Am. “You’ll get your money when I get mine. The last shipment hasn’t paid off yet.”
There was a deep chuckle in Warner’s ear. “Cry me a river, Warner-boy. The first rule of business is, the job don’t get done if you don’t pay up.”
“Look, after that royal botch-up down at Eagle Pass last year it’s been nearly impossible to get the system rolling again.” Warner hated working with this man, but the relationship ran too deep to throw it away. This was worse than a bad marriage—another institution with which he was intimately acquainted. “By the way, has the investigation calmed down in the last few months? What about the partner of the agent who was shot?”
“He left the agency.” Tension thickened the slow voice. “Losing a partner is more than some guys can handle.” Then more quickly, “But the situation’s back under control on my end. You take care of your part—the money.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Warner choked out, then ground the phone into its cradle.
Headlights suddenly poured into the driveway leading to the equipment sheds, drawing his attention back to the window. Undoubtedly Meg St. John returning from her day’s adventure. He wished he could catch her alone, just once. But the Mexicans protected her like she was the queen bee. He wished he knew what she found so fascinating about a bunch of ignorant Mexicans who couldn’t even speak English.
Disgusted, he turned once again to the computer and pulled up a report of accounts due.
“Let’s see what we can do,” he repeated, scrolling down the list.
Ted Crowley was a creative genius when it came to making money, but he wasn’t so good at managing what he made. During the last two years Crowley had been slowly turning over the financial reins of the business to Warner until, as chief financial officer, he pretty much had control.
Okay, Wolf, I’ll get you your money.
Chapter Three
“‘I got things to do tonight,’” Meg muttered to herself as she stepped out of the shower. Her little dachshund, nesting in a pile of Meg’s discarded clothes, looked up with a question in his big brown eyes. “That’s what he said, Gilligan. He’s probably knocking back a few longnecks down at the Stockyards, huh?”
She’d been pondering the enigma of Torres since they’d parted ways in the parking lot, where he’d gotten on a wicked-looking Harley and roared off in the direction of the interstate with nothing more than a wave and “See you Monday.”
“I guess this is one more thing that’s not my concern,” she said, toweling her hair.
When she’d finished high school as a babyish seventeen-year-old, choosing a career had been a simple matter of skimming a college catalog for ideas. Landscape architecture had seemed a perfect blend of her two “best talents,” growing flowers and drawing, so she went for it. Her parents had taught her to believe that she could accomplish anything.
But nothing in college had prepared her for the reality of dealing with the problems she was now facing. An ego-driven executive with the management skills of Fidel Castro. Trying to breach the language barrier between herself and her crew. And now encountering a man who frightened her and piqued her curiosity at the same time.
As she pulled on an oversize red nightshirt featuring Woodstock the bird, Torres’s words ricocheted
around in her brain.
You think I been in prison?
She’d apologized for jumping to conclusions, but she still thought it was a strong possibility. She grimaced at her sunburned face in the bathroom mirror. “‘Yanking your chain, kiddo.’” Well, that was nothing new. Her family constantly teased her about her gullible streak. “‘Constitutionally incapable of leaving people alone, too.’” That was her brother’s favorite line.
“Are you talking to me, Meggins?” her roommate called from the adjoining room.
“No,” Meg said, combing out tangles as she walked into the den, “but somebody needed to give me a lecture, and you were busy.”
Bernadette Malone, seated cross-legged in the wicker Papasan chair with her computer on her lap, looked up and smiled. In a white eyelet nightgown, with her black hair spiraling around a dark, flowerlike face, she looked more like a Hawaiian princess than a seminary student hailing from Vancleave, Mississippi.
“I’m never too busy for a lecture,” said Benny, closing the lid of the computer. “Want me to start with working by yourself after dark with all those men?”
Benny had a deeply cynical side, particularly toward men.
“Manny was there,” Meg said. “You know I’d trust him with my life.” She curled up on the sofa, and Gilligan hopped into her lap.
“Yeah, but you could’ve called me so I wouldn’t worry.” Benny’s soft voice was gently reproving.
“I thought you’d be at the library.” Meg combed her hair over her face to avoid her roommate’s sharp gaze, then started working on a snarl at the back of her head. “You’re the only person I know who can be as practical as a toaster one minute and discussing Hebrew declensions the next.”
Benny was not to be distracted. “We both have cell phones.”
“All right, Professor, I confess.” Meg parted her hair and made a face at her best friend. “I let the battery run down again.”
Under Cover Of Darkness Page 3
