by Sarah Lovett
"They didn't need to. They got him for Elena's murder and the murder of a witness. Under the state's new death-penalty statutes." Teague shrugged "Public opinion branded Cash guilty of the baby's murder, too."
"The case was tried in Hubbs?"
"Cash had a public defender. He and his sister had no money—until she married 'oil' a few years later. That's when I got involved."
"Was it a fair trial?"
"The witnesses were reliable—as witnesses go. There were no obvious procedural errors. It was straightforward. That's made it difficult to gain a foothold on the appeals." Teague hesitated, seemed to be debating something, then apparently made up his mind to continue. "Due process was served—unless you don't like the idea that a district attorney made his career on the conviction."
Sylvia leaned back in the leather chair and allowed the story to settle into her bones; there was a lot to absorb. The silence didn't seem to bother Teague. He sat quietly with his own thoughts. On one wall, a fine old train clock ticked comfortably.
When Sylvia finally asked a question, Teague seemed to have forgotten she was still in the room. She said, "I've got plenty of questions, but let's start with one. If Cash Wheeler didn't murder Elena Cruz, who did?"
"Ah, that's the pickle, isn't it?" The lawyer twined his fingers and set his elbows on his massive desk. His small eyes sparkled with intelligence.
"We were never able to get far on our only other lead. It seems there was a weird kid named Jesús. He was in love with Elena and sick with jealousy—or so Cash has always claimed. There was some evidence that Jesús disappeared in Mexico." Teague sighed. "It didn't sit well with the jury."
MATT FLIPPED A chicken breast over the hot flames and said, "State police found a Chevy Suburban, license plate KCZ 310, bloodstains on the driver's seat."
Sylvia sat up abruptly in the lawn chair. "Where?"
"Outside Columbus, near the Santa Theresa border crossing into Mexico. It was abandoned."
"So he's gone?"
"Maybe." Matt was cautious.
"You think he's still around?"
"His vehicle is four hundred fifty miles from Santa Fe. He probably is, too. From your description—and the amount of blood in the vehicle—he was in bad shape. He'd have to be superhuman to present a threat in the near future."
"But if this is about drugs, there might be other guys—"
"There might. That's why the child is where she is. For the moment, she's safe."
Sylvia sighed. Ten minutes earlier, she'd arrived home from Jim Teague's office to find Matt tending the barbecue. Now Rocko pushed his cold, wet muzzle against the palm of her hand. She scratched the terrier's head, murmuring a half-truth, "The vet says Nikki might come home soon, Mr. Rock. You'll have your sweetheart back."
What the veterinarian had actually said could be interpreted in several ways: Nikki was still in critical condition, but she was an exceptionally strong animal. There was a good chance she would recover.
The wiry mutt grunted. His muzzle quivered and his nostrils flared as he picked up the scent of grilling chicken and green chiles. The smells were too tantalizing to resist; Rocko trotted over to sit beside Matt and the rusty, well-worn barbecue. One short bark, and Sylvia saw her lover slip the terrier a tiny scrap of meat. Matt's absolute rule for dogs: no rewards for begging. He broke it all the time.
Matt prodded the cooking chicken with the tip of a long fork. "How did it go with the kid today?"
"It's getting pretty interesting." Sylvia took a sip of a very pleasing cabernet. "I told you I'm working with the scripted narrative form, using the Grimms? I think Serena's responding." She saw his eyebrows raised in query, and she shook her head, anticipating the question. "She hasn't started speaking aloud. Not yet. But she will."
"Isn't Grimms too grim?" Without appearing to, Matt watched Sylvia transform—when she went into her abstract shrink-think mode, whatever that was, she came up with some amazing stuff.
"The Brothers are fabulously gruesome and perfect for kids. The tales deal with separation anxiety, death anxiety, all the mortal fears children experience so deeply—they deal with these fears directly, offer solutions, and they work on different levels."
"If I sit in your lap, will you read me a story?"
But Sylvia was on a roll; she held up fingers, listing facts: "Serena was kept in an enclosed space, some type of controlled environment—when she's outside, she hides, she buries, her actions are obsessive. Her internal mythic motif is highly developed—it's clear in her artwork and in her response to fairy tales and bedtime stories. She's religious, spiritual—even mystical.
"I'm wondering about Serena's primary caregiver. Was it the man? Serena responds easily to maternal attention—the bathtub routine, the milk and cookies, the story." Consternation twisted Sylvia's mouth. "What if she's completely alone—"
"Then she has you." He was matter-of-fact. "One thing about you, Sylvia. You won't let her down."
Sylvia's eyes were wide with worry, but she smiled, letting the weak rays of October sunshine soak into her skin. Ivory Joe Hunter's version of "Since I Met You Baby" began to play on the portable CD player. She closed her eyes, tapping her fingers to the lazy rhythms, and suddenly the tang of green chile drifted in front of her face. Opening her eyes, she saw Matt's hand—and an edible offering. She accepted, tasting the rich flavors of wood smoke, grilled meat, and the hot bite of Hatch chile. The very last of the fresh crop for another year. There would be snow and ice, holidays, rain, mud, and one-hundred-degree temperatures before New Mexico's chile was ready for another harvest.
"Can we forget about work for a few minutes?" Matt kept his eyes on her face.
She yawned, smiled, shrugged. "Already done. I was thinking how much I love you." The aftertaste of chile was beginning to burn on her lips.
"Liar." Matt grinned. "If I know anything, you were still thinking about the kid. Or food."
She stood slowly and stretched. "I'm lucky."
"I know." He watched suspiciously as she moved slowly toward him. "Why?"
"I've got a man who's a terrific cop, a fabulous fuck, and a gourmet cook."
"Grilled chicken and chile, that's gourmet?" Matt slid his arms around Sylvia.
"Absolutely."
"Whaddaya know." He let Sylvia take his right hand in hers. She pressed against him and began to lead him in a slow dance. Matt groaned—embarrassed, secretly pleased—but he didn't resist.
For a minute, neither of them spoke. Just the two of them, alone and slow-dancing on the small wooden deck, sheltered by a coyote fence and isolation. Two lovers, a mutt, and some curious ravens on the power pole.
When the song was almost over, Matt began to talk in a soft voice that was almost a whisper. He was talking to the top of Sylvia's head, but she heard him. He said, "I want you to know something. I'm the lucky one. I know you love me." His fingers pressed against the ring she wore on her left hand—the ring that had belonged to his great-grandmother. "And you're committed to our relationship."
She started to look up at him, but he kept her pressed so close to his body she couldn't move. So she listened.
"I also know marriage scares you to death," he said. "Because of your father and all that. Marriage scares you so much I don't know if we'll ever make it to the altar." Matt gripped her even tighter. "It's supposed to be men who don't want to get married."
Now Sylvia did pull away. She lifted her chin, half defiant, half joking. "If we just live together, we'll save on taxes."
Matt gave her a gentle push, and she fell backward into the chaise. He brushed the palms of his hands together—that's that—and leaned in close. "I'm flying down to Juárez tomorrow. I'll be gone a night or two. Why don't you spend some time, think about what you want for a relationship."
She nodded, and she was quiet for a few moments. Finally she asked, "Why Juárez?"
"I've got a lead I need to follow up." Dale Pitkin had left a cryptic message on Matt's home number: "Our friend
will meet you tomorrow morning, Stanton Street bridge, Mexico side."
Sylvia swallowed her words of warning; Matt would take care of himself. "How long will you be gone?"
"That depends. I may turn around and fly back tomorrow. I may stay another day. I'll call, let you know what I find." He ran his hands under her T-shirt, along her belly.
Sylvia stretched lazily, guiding his fingers beneath the waistband of her boxer shorts, and even lower, to her thighs. The chile on his fingers stung her skin. The sensation was somewhere between pleasure and pain . . . mostly pleasure. "Since you're going to be in Mexico, can I borrow your truck?"
He nodded, his voice low, his hands busy. "Swear to me you will not speed. It's scheduled for a tune-up. And don't forget the gas gauge . . . ."
"No speedometer, no heater, no radio . . ." She bit his neck, then released him. "No defrost, and no car phone." She pressed the palm of her hand to his groin. Her eyes widened. "Whaddaya think, I'm soft?"
He raised his head just long enough to say, "Tough as nails, persistent as a hungry mosquito."
SYLVIA WATCHED CASH Wheeler's name swim in front of her eyes. She had inches of documents and transcripts on her study desk. She adjusted her reading glasses and massaged the narrow ridge of her nose. At midnight, she'd left Matt sleeping in bed next to Rocko. She needed the time to begin examining the case files on Wheeler's murder trial. Now sleep was threatening to catch up with her.
She jerked awake, only then aware she had nodded off. To refresh herself she made a pot of coffee. With a full mug of steaming French roast she sat down at her desk, tackling the pages once more. Yawning, she thumbed through the pile for something new. Her fingers settled on a worn and discolored manila file labeled: POSTMORTEM.
The autopsy photographs of Elena Cruz and the motel owner were grisly, but they weren't as disconcerting as the actual crime-scene photos. By the time a corpse had been placed on the autopsy table in the coroner's office—or the Office of the Medical Examiner, as it was called these days—there was something anonymous and sterile about the whole procedure. But crime-scene photographs displayed vivid touches of real life—personal articles, recognizable locations, human moments of a life or lives interrupted. Elena Cruz had multiple stab wounds. She'd been tortured before death. Jim Teague had been right when he said the crime had been brutal.
Without considering the hour, Sylvia picked up the phone and began to dial. Only then did she remember she needed the lawyer's phone number. She flipped through her files until she found Teague's business card. While the telephone rang, she composed the message she would leave.
Jim Teague answered with a sleepy grunt, definitely irritated.
Flustered, Sylvia identified herself.
Teague yawned. "Do you always call people in the middle of the night?"
"I wanted to leave a message. I thought I was dialing your office—"
"The call was forwarded. What do you want?"
"I need to know about Jesús."
"Who?"
"The boy you mentioned—the weird one who liked Elena."
"Oh." Teague's hand brushed the receiver's mouthpiece. Muffled voices were audible for several seconds, then Noelle Harding came on the line.
She didn't bother donning social graces but said, "Big Jim fell asleep on the couch again. He works twenty-three hours a day and forgets to go home."
Sylvia made embarrassed noises of agreement. On the couch? Whose house was this?
Noelle continued. "Jesús disappeared, vanished, and two very efficient private investigators couldn't track him down. Neither could the police."
"But there must be some information on him." There was silence, then another muffled exchange between Noelle and Jim Teague. Were they lovers? Sylvia found that unbidden thought bouncing around her brain. For some reason, she found the idea unnerving.
Noelle's voice softened. "Jesús went to school with Cash, and me, and Elena. Very briefly. The closest the investigators came to him was when they located the mother of a boy named Jesús Portrillo. She was a street whore."
"What about her son?"
"Dead. Overdosed on drugs, died in a gutter. Good night, Sylvia."
Sylvia stared at the phone, finally clicking it off. She switched on the screen of her laptop. For a long while she watched the flashing cursor against the blue screen of her computer. When that grew old, she played a round of solitaire and three games of Minesweeper. All the time, her mind was racing.
At a few minutes after one o'clock, Sylvia decided to check her E-mail, shut down the computer, and go back to bed. She logged on-line and pulled up new mail. There was a message from Harry in California.
Sylvia:
Did you inherit your mother's brown eyes? We hit it off. She was open about your dad. I'll bring you up to date when I've got a full report. Today's question: Do you ever remember him mentioning a girlfriend? Or a woman named Cora Tate? That would've been when you were twelve or thirteen.
Yours by the hour—Harry
Her response was short and to-the-point:
Dear Harry: Cora Tate? What was she, his lover or something? No, don't remember any Coras. But I do need to end this book, this saga. Find my ever-loving dad!
THROUGH ONE BARELY open eye, Matt watched Sylvia tiptoe back to bed. Her face was visible, though only for an instant, in the moonlight. Dark hair tousled around her face, pajamas rumpled. He thought she looked about ten years old—and sad. He wondered if her sadness was caused by the issue of marriage—or child? When she was settled under the cotton blanket, he sleepily flung one arm over her belly and snuggled close.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
NARCO COP BOBBY Dowd crawled back to semiconsciousness from a deep ragged tear in the center of the earth. Manic monkeys and a woman with half a face had been chasing him around for hours. Then, for some short-lived eternity, he was caught in a video-game grid; he eventually figured out the grid was nothing remotely high-tech, just the filthy, smelly orange-and-brown plaid carpet directly under his nose.
Without moving a muscle, Bobby tried to reconstruct the last few hours of his life. A shadow hovered on his brain, something about fairy tales.
Snow White.
Oh, yeah . . .
The moment Bobby Dowd got a little bit pleased with himself for his recall abilities, one of Fortuna's gangsters gave him a swift kick in the butt. In the kidneys, was more like it. The Kicker had big feet, and he was hurling insults.
He kept repeating, "¿Qué te ha dicho, Paco?" Kick. "¿Dónde están los libros?" Kick. "¡Dime el nombre!" Kick. "¿Quién compró los libros?"
Bobby groaned. Damn, that hurt. He curled up into a tighter ball, bracing himself for the pain that came with even the slightest movement. After a few moments, he rolled over and stared up at the ceiling. Well, that was some kind of progress. One step at a time.
The fog drifted from his mind out his ears, just enough so he remembered: Snow White—the feds' project.
But these guys kept nagging him about the name. Which name? The name of one of the feds' snitches . . . the name of some undercover cop . . . the name of an arbitrageur?
Bobby had helped the feds on their arbitrage project two years back.
And what about Paco? Had they found him already? Did they have him in the room next door? Were they torturing both men at the same time? Or was he dead?
If so, only Bobby had heard Paco's last words in Mexico.
With his ear and cheek to the filthy carpet, Bobby took a shuddering breath. Amado Fortuna's creeps were huddled in a corner whispering again. He listened, straining to hear—and to comprehend. He translated the fragments: move the cop . . . dump him at the warehouse . . . Amado says do him today.
Bobby rubbed his eyes and saw the kid standing over him. Fortuna's gangster boy with a dirty hypo—the blood and the cloudy drug swirling together in the cylinder, a perfect bead of milky liquid pendulous on its point.
The boy murmured, "Muera, chingado."
Bobby Dowd f
elt terror, a sting much sharper than the filthy needle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE BORDER BETWEEN the United States and Mexico shifted every day. The river known as the Rio Grande and the Río Bravo simply did what rivers do—cut back and forth between its banks. The headwaters of the Rio Grande were in south-central Colorado; the river traversed the state of New Mexico, continuing on to divide Texas and Mexico. By the time it flowed between the border towns of El Paso and Ciudad Juárez, it was little more than a polluted, international trickle encased in concrete in a desperate attempt to contain it so neither side lost ground.
Across this concrete casing, four bridges spanned the Rio Grande/Río Bravo. The bridges on El Paso and Stanton streets connected the bellies of the sister cities, providing access to older, somewhat shabby downtown neighborhoods.
Matt England checked his wristwatch; he'd been standing on the corner of Avenida Calle Lerdo and Avenida Riberena for fifty-nine minutes. His Southwest Airlines flight had landed promptly at eight-fifteen A.M. at the El Paso airport. From the terminal, he'd taken a taxi downtown to Stanton Street, then walked across the Santa Fe Bridge. Pedestrian traffic was heavy from Mexico; the stream of weekday workers trekking to day jobs seemed to stretch farther than the Rio Grande. In contrast, foot traffic from the U.S. into Mexico was moderate, customs minimal (especially for a man without luggage), and the toll was all of fifteen cents.
Such a deal.
But the decision to travel on foot had been made for reasons that had to do with anonymity and security. For vehicles crossing from the U.S. to Mexico, the border-checking system was as random as a traffic light. Green light, go ahead. Red light, pull over. Cars traveling from Mexico into the States—the usual direction for heroin, marijuana, cocaine, amphetamines—faced the possibility of stringent searches. Occasionally, those contraband searches also occurred in the north-to-south lanes—U.S. to Mexico. The main contraband moving in the southerly direction was laundered drug money, portions of the cash backlog that continued to pile up in Texas safe houses as the Department of Justice tightened its operations. Some drug lords had resorted to mobile couriers to transport loads of money across the border into Mexico. Although his chances of being stopped were slim, Matt needed to minimize the possibility of his crossing being documented.
