by Aimée Thurlo
Tony stood absolutely still and listened, hearing only the vague hum of the shiny stainless steel refrigerator. After a while he could even hear the ticking of his watch, it was so quiet.
Good, nobody was here, not even a cat or dog. He’d been watching the leggy blonde come and go for a few days now and knew her routine, and that of her roommate. They always left the house no later than 6:45 A.M., and didn’t return until six thirty or so in the evening.
He took another look at his new watch, with its fancy turquoise and silver watchband. Tony never let it show around Roberto. He’d know where it had come from, and there’d be hell to pay.
Taking it and that money clip had been stupid and risky. No one with a brain ever kept a souvenir from a man he’d killed. Yet he’d acquired a taste for the finer things. The dead didn’t need a watch anyway. They had all the time in the world. He might as well enjoy it. The police would never be able to use it against him, because they’d never catch him alive. He’d go down fighting before he spent a day behind bars.
He glanced around, trying to decide where to start. It was 9 A.M. and he’d be here for hours, if necessary, searching for that special rug, the one with the distinctive design. He hadn’t found it in the trading post, not yet, nor at the Indian woman’s home—not that she’d be stupid enough to hide it there. More likely it had been placed in the care of someone who had no idea of its value. Here, maybe.
He decided to start upstairs, in the woman’s bedroom and work his way down, but he’d have to be extremely careful not to leave any trace of the search. Roberto had insisted on that and if he messed up here, Roberto would cut off his cojones and jam them down his throat.
Tony had his pocket flashlight out and was looking under the bed when he heard a car pull up outside. Jumping to his feet, he looked out the window, careful to stay behind the thin curtains. A tall, slutty-looking red-haired American woman in tight shorts was climbing out of a red BMW parked in the graveled driveway. The roommate. Except for her hair color, she resembled the owner, close enough to be her sister. Both women had small breasts but great legs, and with this one, they were out there for anyone to see and admire.
Tony put away his flashlight and reached for his long folding knife. If long and leggy came inside, there was no way he could race to the end of hall, then downstairs and out the back. The open space between the two doors left little cover except for that kitchen island.
As he heard the sound of the front door opening, Tony inched down the hall, hoping to find a hiding place in a spare room.
“I’m at Leigh Ann’s, Mona,” the woman below said, her heels clicking across the oak floor.
Guessing she was on her cell phone—most Americans had one glued to their ear nowadays—Tony tried the first door to his left. He peered inside but all he saw there was carpeting and deep impressions that revealed where a bed and furniture had once stood.
Stepping back out, he closed the door, but he moved too quickly and the mechanism clicked loudly.
Shit! Tony nearly said aloud.
“Hold on, Mona. I think she’s here. Leigh Ann! You up there, sis? It’s Rache.”
Hearing footsteps on the hardwood stairs, Tony moved back into the bedroom, closing the door halfway. Taking a quick look around, he decided on the closet, which had louvered doors.
He stepped inside the lavender-scented enclosure, pulling the door shut, and brushing up against the woman’s garments. One silky blouse caught against the rough stubble on his chin and he brushed it away.
He could see out into the room through the angled slats, but hopefully, because it was dark in the closet, Rache—probably Rachel—couldn’t see him.
“Leigh Ann?” the woman called out again, this time from down the hall. The clicking of heels came closer, and Tony saw mostly hips and legs as the woman stepped into the bedroom. Rachel was tanned and beautiful, at least the parts he could see. Cheap but expensive, he thought, knowing she’d have never given him a second look on the street.
“Damn,” the woman muttered. “It smells like a locker room in here.” She sniffed the air, then opened the window.
“There. That’s better.” The woman walked over to the dresser, opened the top drawer, and looked inside. After a moment she shut the drawer and checked the next one down.
“Sis, where do you keep your scarves? The closet?”
Tony’s mouth was dry, but his body was covered in sweat. If she opened the door, then what? Kill her? He’d never hurt a woman, though he’d never hesitated when a man needed to be killed.
It had started with his father. He’d been sixteen back then, and his youngest sister, María, twelve. People had always claimed that María was loca, but she’d never hurt anyone. She’d sit for hours playing with the dancing shadows cast on the floor by sunlight filtering through the leaves of the tree outside. One evening his father, drunker than usual, had kicked her out of his way, then kept on roughing her up, forcing María into a corner. Then he’d touched her.
For the first time in his life, Tony snapped. He’d pushed his father away from her, grabbed a pencil off the table, and stabbed him in the neck. He’d enjoyed seeing the son of a bitch die. The feeling of power that act gave him had been more of a high than what those druggie idiots got from their heroin or cocaine. He’d known then where his future lay.
The family had stood back and watched until the old bastard stopped twitching. Then they’d all helped dig a hole and dropped him inside, wrapped in an old blanket. They’d walked back and forth over the surface of the makeshift grave, packing the ground, then left and never looked back. To this day, Ramón Gómez was probably still buried in the alley behind their house next to the trash.
Tony had left home the following morning with twenty U.S. dollars in his pocket and never returned. He’d known a guy who knew another guy, and with his particular skills he had risen to the top of his profession in no time at all. It was easy, the pay was great, and he liked it. What more could a man want?
The American woman came right up to the door, close enough for him to smell her perfume. His heart was beating so hard, he was afraid she’d hear. As she reached for the doorknob, he held his breath.
Suddenly she turned away. “I remember, the bottom drawer, next to the bed!” Rachel walked over to the nightstand, opened the drawer, then pulled out a yellow scarf with lavender butterflies—or maybe they were flowers.
Tony watched as the redhead put the scarf around her neck, then stood in front of the dresser mirror, adjusting it in several ways. He watched her eyes, afraid she’d see him there, frozen like a statue. But her focus was on the image in the mirror. From the heels, the heavy makeup, and her well-toned body, Tony decided the woman thought a great deal of herself.
“Perfect!” She closed the drawer, checked herself once more in the mirror, then walked out of the room, leaving the door in the half-closed position.
Tony didn’t move a muscle until he heard the car driving away.
* * *
Jo sat back and finished her last doughnut. She’d had a total of four today. She’d have to jog and maybe skip lunch to get rid of those calories.
After she finished copying the accounting records into the flash drive, she walked over to Tom’s old office and placed the backup into the safe. She was just closing the handle when she caught a whiff of a familiar citrusy-scented cologne. Startled, she jumped halfway out of her skin as she turned to look. It was Ben.
“You scared the hell out of me. I’m going to put a bell around your neck,” she said.
“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. Moving quietly helps keep my head on my neck overseas.” He plopped down in his dad’s desk chair, then glanced at the large shoe box on the desk filled with handwritten receipts. “Please tell me that’s not the way we do our bookkeeping around here.”
She laughed, sitting down in a second chair against the wall. “It seems insane, I know. The problem is that too much paperwork, or fiddling with a BlackBerry makes our Trad
itionalists nervous. They don’t trust those business rituals, and that could cost us some of our best artists.”
“Carrying around a couple thousand in fifties isn’t a good idea either. You could get robbed and killed out in the middle of nowhere.”
“How do you know how much cash I was carrying?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.
He pointed to the ceiling corner. “Cameras, remember? I was working on the field of view when you pulled out that wad of bills.”
“Then you also saw me divide it into smaller amounts and noticed that I don’t carry it all in the same place. Your father did the same thing.”
“Considering that we’re low on cash reserves, should we be making any big purchases right now?”
She sighed, a bit annoyed that her judgment was being questioned. Then it occurred to her that maybe he had something else in mind. Either way, she owed it to him to explain.
“Ambrose’s jewelry is great for our high-end customers, but we need more midrange merchandise on hand for local traffic and impulse buyers. With the state fair just around the corner and the weather cooling off, we’ll get lots of people passing through, and we need to have a wide selection on hand. Otherwise, they’ll wait and go to the big pueblo shops or to the Plaza in Santa Fe, or Albuquerque’s Old Town.”
“Yet I heard Leigh Ann mention to Regina that you didn’t buy that much this time. How come?”
“Business has been slow, but let me save you some time in case I’ve guessed where you’re headed with this,” Jo said. “I understand you think someone was blackmailing your father, but that’s just crazy. Your dad wouldn’t have put up with anything like that.”
“Okay, then let’s say someone was demanding protection money, and threatening The Outpost. I’ve seen that racket at work all around the world. If that’s what was going on here, they’ll try to squeeze you, too.”
“So you still think I was making some kind of payoff?” When he didn’t answer right away, she sighed. “First of all, I came back with nearly a thousand in cash, which I returned to the safe. Secondly—and addressing your point—I’m definitely not paying protection or any other kind of blackmail. If someone were leaning on me, I’d call the sheriff. I’ve got them on speed dial now, as you can well imagine. I’ve been on edge ever since your father died.”
“Which brings me to another point. There’s very little progress being made on his case, including everything that’s happened to us since then—you mostly. Just how much do you trust local law enforcement?”
She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “The deputies are spread out a little thin, but I think the department as a whole does its best, and the deputies have been sharing reports on the incidents, apparently. Has something specific happened that bothers you?”
“I spoke to Ethan Sayers yesterday. It turns out that Detective Wells hasn’t even spoken to him. In my book, interviewing one of my dad’s oldest friends should have been one of her top priorities.”
“Maybe she had other leads.”
“Something about this is just … off. I feel it in my gut.”
“Why don’t you pay the detective a visit?”
“Yeah, maybe, but the direct approach won’t work. If I’m not sure I can trust her, everything she says is going to sound like just another excuse. She’s also paranoid about anyone else getting involved in the investigation.”
“It’s possible she only wants to make sure no evidence is compromised. Give her the benefit of the doubt for a while longer.”
“I’ve learned to stay alive by doing the opposite. Besides, I’m running out of time. It won’t be long before I’ll be heading out for more mountain training, then Afghanistan a month or so later.”
“I know that you’ve been under a lot of stress since you got home, Ben. Things aren’t at all what you expected them to be, but don’t automatically assume everyone around here’s your enemy,” Jo said.
“‘Enemy’ might be too strong a word, but I’m not completely among friends either,” he said. “Let’s face it, Jo. Even you don’t really trust me.”
“In some ways, you’re still a stranger to me. You’re not the kid I knew anymore, and I don’t really know the man.”
He gave her an outrageous grin. “Know me in the biblical sense? I can fix that.”
“That’s your Bible, not mine,” she said, laughing.
“I thought Traditionalists believe that sex is like any other human need. It’s not bad or good, it just is,” he said.
“First, I’m not a Traditionalist, I’m a New Traditionalist, but more to the point, your needs and mine are obviously different. I see no reason to get all hot and sweaty just for entertainment purposes.”
“Think of the fun you’re missing.”
“What you really mean, is think of the fun you’re missing.” She stood up. “How did we get so sidetracked? I’ve got business to take care of.”
“I’m going to the station to see if Detective Wells has come up with any new leads. I’ll also try to talk to people there and see if I can get a better handle on her. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
Jo went back to work at her desk in the break room. Paperwork—who knew there’d be this much to contend with?
* * *
Hours passed and Jo made progress. She was almost ready to take a break when Leigh Ann came in.
“Hey, you’ve been doing paperwork all morning. How about a coffee break and some good old-fashioned gossip?” Leigh Ann said.
Jo smiled. It was weeks since she’d had time to just talk, and she missed being part of the good-ole-girl network. Sometimes women just needed other women.
They took the last doughnut and split it.
Leigh Ann licked her fingers. “That hunk of manhood can sure cook.”
“Yeah, who knew?”
“Ben’s got a lot of layers to him, doesn’t he? I saw him as a tough guy when he first arrived—strong and silent. Now I’m not so sure.”
“You mean because he cooks a mean doughnut?”
Leigh Ann laughed. “No, not just because of that.” She paused for a long moment. “You should have seen him with Ambrose. They were like long lost brothers. A lot of straight men are uncomfortable around Ambrose and go out of their way to act like pigs. For some reason, they think it makes them less manly if they show him any respect.”
“Ben’s always made his own choices when it came to friends, and if he liked you, it didn’t matter what other people thought or said. He’d stand up to them.”
“From what I saw, he’s still that way, just more so.”
“By the way, how much did we pay for Ambrose’s jewelry? I didn’t see any paperwork, except for the receipts on his pieces,” Jo said.
“Ambrose left the merchandise with us on consignment.”
“No way!”
“It was because of their friendship. You should have heard Ben and him laughing and talking over old times.”
Hearing the phone at her desk ringing, Jo reached for the receiver. “Looks like our break is over.”
Jo answered and heard Ethan Sayers’s voice on the other end. She greeted him warmly, and before he asked, explained that she’d written his check a little late, but that the money was on its way.
“Ben and I had a long talk the other day, and I understand you’re having cash flow problems right now. Tom and I go back a lot of years, so if you need me to extend you some credit, just say the word. We’ll work something out.”
“Did Ben ask you for that?”
“Ben didn’t have to, and neither do you, little lady. Just remember the offer.”
As she placed the phone down, she stared at the wall, lost in thought. Ben had made several business decisions without consulting her, but at the same time had managed to get great results. The trading post could certainly use some extended credit, and, clearly, Ambrose hadn’t gone away unhappy.
Yet she still didn’t like the fact that Ben hadn’t consulted her, or even told her about it
afterwards—and that wasn’t just her bruised ego talking. The trading post was primarily hers, and she needed to be kept current on all its business dealings.
They needed to talk—soon. As much as she appreciated Ben’s help, to work together harmoniously, they’d have to find balance. Serving as a sergeant in the military, Ben was used to a chain of command and the responsibilities that went with it. Hopefully, he’d see her point or, at the very least, respect it.
Deciding what she needed to do next restored her harmony. Jo left her office and joined Leigh Ann, who was standing behind the counter, checking out a line of customers. “Once Ben comes back, let me know, okay?” she whispered.
“Sure, hon. No problem.”
Jo smiled at the customers, two of whom she recognized as regulars. She was happy to see that there were more people in The Outpost today than there had been since Tom’s death.
The rest of the day became a blur as Jo pitched in to help at the registers, then restocked perishables along with Del and Regina. New seasonal displays were set up, too, between surges in traffic, showcasing their pottery and Navajo-made rugs.
At closing, Jo thanked each staff member for their tireless efforts. As she went around, locking up, she wondered what had happened to Ben and how his meeting with Detective Wells had gone. The only thing she’d noticed today was the big truck from a local charity group parked in Tom’s driveway, apparently hauling away some of the furniture. It made sense that Ben was making the place his own now.
She’d just returned to her desk when she heard a pickup circling around the back of the building. Jo went to the window and saw Ben pulling up in his dad’s white Chevy. Maybe it was a good thing that he’d taken this long to come back. With the staff gone, she’d be able to talk to him without feeling rushed.
