Alarm flared in her eyes. “Torres…”
He sighed. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
“Maybe—” he felt her swallow against his hand “—maybe you could just stick close to me on the job, especially keep an eye on Efrin. He pretty much gives me the creeps.”
“Efrin the Weasel?” Amused, Jack nodded. “I’ll watch him.”
“Thanks. It’s probably no big deal, but I’ll feel better knowing you’re—” She clasped his wrist. “Okay, Torres, I get your point. I won’t trust anybody.”
He nodded, holding her gaze. “Good girl. Now let’s go look at your car, and you can show me exactly why you think your stuff’s been messed with.”
He got to his feet, infinitely relieved that he hadn’t given in to the temptation to kiss her. If he wanted to get Rico’s killer, he couldn’t afford to get sidetracked by Meg St. John or anybody else.
Chapter Nine
Mary Frances Grover-Niles stood exactly five foot one in her high-heeled designer sandals, but Meg could detect no apparent deficit in self-esteem due to short stature. This confidence in her ability to rule central Texas with wisdom and good taste resulted, Meg surmised, from a lineage traced directly from the cattle barons of the late 1800s.
For three hours now Meg had been trotting around the estate behind the woman with no sign of slowing down—until they came upon the pathway of mosaic tiles Meg had laid in the rose garden.
Mrs. Grover-Niles halted and placed a manicured hand over her lips. “Oh, honey, you are a genius,” she gasped. “Really, you are.”
Meg blushed with justifiable pride. “I’m glad you like it.” She’d spent three days rescuing those tiles from a pile of debris from the old bathroom floor, then cleaning them and laying them in an eye-catching design. At the end of the path, Gollum the troll presided over a birdbath and a wooden bench under a willow tree. A patch of transplanted bluebonnets would pick up the indigo and periwinkle color of the tile. It was a lovely spot, and Meg had been bringing her lunch here to enjoy it.
Mrs. Grover-Niles peered at her clipboard. “We’ll have Rosalee’s bridal photos shot here. Her dress came in yesterday…”
Meg’s eyes glazed over as the drone of wedding details continued. She sneaked a glance at her watch. Lunchtime was almost over, and she needed a little time by herself. In conjunction with the church’s upcoming Fourth of July barbecue, Pastor Ramón had lined up volunteers for weekend yard work, and Mr. Crowley had agreed to donate some plant materials. Meg had promised to draw up a design for the landscaping and show it to Ramón tonight at ESL.
Ramón was big on people using their gifts for ministry.
Meg wished she could get Jack interested in coming to hear Ramón preach. The two men seemed to have hit it off three weeks ago, but Jack had been evasive about coming to church. He was always “tied up with something else.” If he was a Christian, he was an awfully faraway one.
Only to herself would Meg admit why she so hoped his attitude would change.
After the other afternoon at the Water Gardens, it had become harder and harder to keep a professional wall between herself and Jack. He fascinated her in a physical way, but she knew it was much more than that. He seemed to read and understand her better than any man she’d ever known, often anticipating her needs or meeting her eyes in shared humor.
Just this morning, Benny had made Meg repeat three times, “Missionary dating is a stupid idea.”
No doubt that was absolutely true.
But it was just as true that Meg had only to look at Jack’s big callused hands in order to feel his thumb resting on her cheek and his palm cupping her jaw. Music ran through her mind. Bad boys whatcha gonna do…
Lord, she prayed as she struggled to get her mind back on Mrs. Grover-Niles’s Princess Bride, please help me keep my eyes on You.
She had to stay focused on doing her job here at Silver Hill, and treating the men under her direction with compassion and integrity.
“So what we need,” said Mrs. Grover-Niles with a perky smile, “is a pergola beside the herb garden.”
Meg lifted her brows to keep from scowling. Rich, bossy matrons needed love, too.
“A pergola would be lovely,” she sighed.
A bank of red and yellow lights nearly blinded Jack as he fired one last time and lowered the gun.
“You got him!” shouted Tomás, pounding Jack’s shoulder. “High score for the week! You are so wicked, man.”
Jack couldn’t help grinning as he stepped away from the laser video machine in the back corner of the laundromat. He supposed there could be worse ways to conduct surveillance.
Letting Tomás take the controller, Jack propped an arm on top of the machine. Ostensibly watching the boy, he kept an ear cocked toward the conversation going on between Manny and Efrin, who sat on a folding table across the room.
Jack could just imagine what Meg would think. She’d worry about Tomás staying out so late, she’d tell Jack he was wasting his time and money, and she’d probably invite him to church again.
He wished he were in a position to do that very thing. Every time he closed his eyes, he conjured an image of Meg surrounded by falling water, the picture of abandoned worship. In a public garden, of all places.
Jack suspected there was symbolism there somewhere. Meg had something vital that he was missing, but his life would get very complicated if he couldn’t keep his distance from her.
Suddenly the door to the street opened, admitting a tall figure in dark-green uniform. The man’s face was shadowed by a big cream-colored Stetson, but Jack instantly recognized Vernon Rook’s hip-shot John Wayne stance, and the arrogant tilt of his head.
Something about the way Rook checked over the room as he entered kept Jack from calling out to him. Melting into the shadow between the video machine and the wall, Jack glanced at Tomás. The boy was so intent on his game that the President of the United States could have walked in and he wouldn’t have noticed.
Jack watched Rook approach Manny and Efrin; the border patrol agent towered over the two smaller men, thumbs hooked in the front of his belt. Both Mexicans looked up and froze.
Jack could only see Rook’s back, but the fear on Manny’s face was palpable. Jack would’ve given anything for a mike on that three-minute conversation. Rook raised a finger, pointed it straight at Efrin’s forehead, and then turned to let his gaze sweep the hot, noisy little room. The cold brown eyes passed Jack’s corner without stopping; if he saw Tomás, he didn’t acknowledge the boy. The thin mouth pulled into a straight line. Without another word, he hitched his pants up and left.
Jack stayed where he was until he was sure Rook wasn’t coming back. Laying a couple of quarters on the arcade table to keep Tomás occupied, he approached Manny.
Manny gave Jack a gallows smile, but said mildly, “You’re making my little brother a video addict. I’d better get him home to bed.”
“Hey, you’re not leaving me to pay for drying all these clothes,” Efrin protested.
Jack tilted his head toward the door. “Trouble with la migra?”
Manny shrugged. “Always the questions, just because we’re brown-skinned. Lucky you were on the other side of the room.”
“Lucky, yeah,” Jack agreed. He looked at Efrin, who didn’t seem as shaken as Manny, despite Rook’s threatening gesture. “That guy seemed to know you. Has he hassled you before?”
Efrin sneered. “He’s a big clown, but me, I’m badder.”
“No worry,” Manny insisted. “We all got good papers.”
“Still, you better watch an hombre like that.” Jack kept his tone friendly, concerned. “He’ll find a way to send you back over the border, papers or no papers. And you know Tomás is under age.”
Manny’s lips tightened. “Tomás helps feed our mother and little sisters. I wouldn’t let him stay if he had another choice.”
Jack lifted his hands. “Hey, no criticism intended. I’d just watch my back if I were you.” Jack pull
ed over a plastic chair and leaned close to Manny. “I got family in Juarez myself.”
Manny’s expression remained polite. “You’re not nativo?”
Jack shrugged. “My parents came over to work the dairy farms out in the country. They went back when I was about Tomás’s age.” He tried to gauge the other man’s expression. “I still go down to visit sometimes.”
Efrin jumped in. “Would you like to bring them back over?”
Manny gave his cousin an annoyed look, which Jack ignored. He shook his head. “They’re old, and the trip is too hard.” Looking at Manny, he injected a note of machismo into his voice. “But I have connections to help others who want to come.”
Manny Herrera could have made a fortune at poker. His stoic expression changed not by the twitch of an eyelash.
Efrin, however, vibrated like a tuning fork. “What kind of connections?”
“I have two cousins who are the best coyotes in the business. We own a safe house outside Eagle Pass, and I handle transportation.” He paused. “You know anybody who needs a good driver?”
“We’re looking—”
“Shut up, Efrin,” said Manny with a chopping motion of his hand. He frowned at Jack. “What makes you think I know anything about it?”
“I know a farmer’s co-op when I see one.” Jack leaned back in his chair. “This is a perfect hub to collect the pollos and send them north. You’re making a bundle, and I want in on it.”
Manny shook his head. “I don’t make any decisions on my own.”
“I appreciate caution.” Jack smiled.
After a tense moment, Manny’s thick mustache turned up on one side. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Okay. That’s all I ask.”
Tomás’s game ended with an explosion of electronic beeps and flare of lights. “Come on, Torres!” the boy called, dancing around the machine. “Let’s play again! I’m on a roll!”
Jack grimaced at Manny. “I think you’d better make the kid go home before he cleans me out of change.”
He sauntered back to the arcade, fishing quarters out of his pocket.
Jack yawned as he parked his bike in front of the old-fashioned brick church building. Meg’s church, he reminded himself, trying to repress a vague sense of apprehension no doubt brought on by fatigue. Ramón Santos had called yesterday and twisted his arm, promising a game of racquetball after church.
He and Carmichael had spent most of last night firming up plans for the sting on the Herrera outfit. Clearly, Manny was fairly low on the food chain, but working with him was a start toward nailing the leader.
Rolling out of bed at seven o’clock this morning had been a killer.
The sun cut sharply through an empty cloudless sky as Jack surveyed the church grounds. The steeple perched on the roof was painted a neat white, and he could smell freshly mown grass. A virulent aqua sign in the yard announced that the Iglesia Evangelica Hispana del Sudoeste—Southern Evangelical Spanish Church—met here.
On the way across the parking lot, he noticed Meg’s Mustang. The right rear tire needed some air. Realizing he was feeling entirely too proprietary about a car that didn’t belong to him, he hurried up the front sidewalk. It occurred to him that he hadn’t been to church since Rico’s funeral.
He slipped inside and found himself nearly knocked backward by music echoing off cinderblock walls and wooden floors. Just as he was beginning to feel self-conscious, he spotted Meg waving at him from a pew near the back. Benny leaned around Meg to give him her radiant smile as the two girls shifted to make room for him. Crazy, but Jack felt at home.
A young man with a battered acoustic guitar was leading a worship chorus, an overhead projector splashing the words in Spanish on the wall next to the baptistry. The tune wasn’t that complicated, and Jack watched the guitarist’s hands, trying to figure out the chords.
The song reminded him of Rico’s funeral held in El Paso just over a year ago. There had been music that day too. Hopeful music, because Rico always said he was headed for Heaven on the day he’d die.
Along with five other agents, Jack had been a pallbearer at the memorial service. During the graveside service he’d stood beside his partner’s widow, holding Rico’s son asleep on his shoulder. He’d promised himself then that he’d find the monster who’d authored this scene of pain.
Caught in the memory, Jack pondered the sunlight pouring through the window behind the guitarist. The guy was about Rico’s size and age, which was probably why he looked familiar.
Unexpected grief, hard and deep, sliced through Jack. He wanted to clutch his middle and roll over in a ball, as he had the night his friend died. Fleeing the flashing lights and wailing sirens into a nearby field, Jack had thrown himself on his knees and sobbed until his stomach ached and his throat was raw.
He didn’t realize his eyes were stinging until Meg leaned into him with her shoulder against his upper arm. Blinking, he steadied himself.
Ridiculous to get so emotional over a song.
Five minutes after the final “amen,” Meg could tell Jack was ready to leave. He’d finally come to church, but not until Ramón had run interference for her.
Doesn’t matter why he came, she told herself. The important thing was, he was here. Ignoring Benny’s raised eyebrows, she hauled Jack across the room to talk to Ramón.
Ramón shook hands with a rapid flood of Spanish welcome.
Jack responded in kind, and Meg watched him relax as his gaze skimmed the pastor’s jeans and casual polo shirt. Though she caught only the words “hungry” and “eat,” she was glad Jack seemed to be comfortable.
Catching her eye, Jack switched to English. “What about you, St. John? Got lunch plans?”
“Well…”
“Come on, the more the merrier,” boomed Ramón. “Connie will need another girl to talk to while I beat Jack on the racquetball court—”
“While you do what?” Ramón’s wife, Consuela, walked up with a little black-haired girl on each hip.
“Uh, racquetball? Is that okay?” Ramón looked abashed. “Can we make the tamales stretch a little farther, honey?”
Connie’s brows rose in momentary alarm, but she smiled, used to her husband dumping unexpected company on her. “Certainly,” she said. “You can eat three like a normal person, instead of twelve.” She poked her husband’s stocky middle. Her older daughter, sporting a new pair of tiny wire-rimmed glasses, giggled.
“I’ll stop for soft drinks,” Meg volunteered, happy to be included in the party. She tickled little Valentina, who chuckled again. “Want to come with me, sweetie pie?”
Face dripping with sweat, his gym shorts and T-shirt soaked, Jack leaned against the back wall of court number three at the seminary rec facility. To his surprise, he’d found that the preacher boy might be a foot shorter and nearly that much bigger around, but he was a dynamo on the court.
“Hey, muchacho, you got the legs left to walk over to the Union for a drink?” Santos, breathing just as hard as Jack, waggled his empty water bottle.
Jack grinned and mopped his face with a towel. “I could carry you piggyback, you sissy.”
Trading good-natured insults, the two men stepped out into the afternoon sunshine. Santos walked along, swinging his racquet and jabbering in Spanish flavored with Puerto Rican slang. He apparently didn’t care that Jack did more listening and head-nodding than responding.
“Your Spanish is really good for somebody that grew up in the States,” Santos commented as they walked up the broad steps of the Student Union.
“The education of the barrios,” Jack said dryly. He stopped and looked up into the vast atrium of the rotunda, with its marble floor and ornate brass chandelier dripping with crystal tears. An enormous leather-bound Bible rested in ancient dignity atop an antique table under the grand curving staircase.
“Have the people in your church seen this place?” Jack pictured the tiny, ’60s–era two-bedroom apartment the Santos family inhabited and the hear
ty but cheap food served by efficient Señora Santos.
“They’re proud that their pastor is about to graduate from such a fine institution.”
“And will they continue to be proud when their pastor skips on to greener pastures?”
Santos’s smile broadened. “I’m not going anywhere.” He pushed open a glass door leading into a snack bar, where he bought two large fountain drinks. They sat at a table under a broad bank of windows looking out onto a grassy field.
Jack drank deeply and sighed with satisfaction. “So explain to me,” he said, eyeing Ramón across the table, “why a man would come all the way from Puerto Rico to graduate from a place like this, and then waste it on a little bilingual mission church.”
“Same reason the Son of God came from Heaven to a desert to preach to a bunch of fishermen and tax collectors and prostitutes.”
Jack eyed Santos with amusement. “You are good, you know that, Preacher?”
Santos grinned. “So my wife tells me. I’m glad you came today, even if it was on account of Meg.”
Jack made a face. “Obvious, huh?”
“As a tick on a white dog.”
“There’s something about her all right.” Jack shrugged. “I’ve never been to a Hispanic church just like this one.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Ramón grinned. “I’d like to know what impressed you—” Santos smiled “—besides Señorita Meg.”
“I don’t know exactly. The music’s great. Never heard people sing like that.” Jack hesitated. “Who was the guy with the guitar? He’s really good.”
“Yeah, he is. Name’s Oscar de Fuentes.”
Jack sat up. “I thought he looked familiar! He played shortstop for the Rangers, I think, five years ago!”
Santos’s smile quirked one side of his mustache. “Yeah, well, two years ago he was in a Dallas detox facility. Now he’s in my music missions class at the seminary.”
“You’re joking.”
“Ask him.”
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