One Last Look

by Linda Lael Miller

  Robeson had already won, and he knew it. He exuded self-assurance; it came snaking right through the phone lines into my ear. “Shall we say Tuesday?” he asked smoothly. “I’ll tell my secretary to expect you at ten o’clock.”

  I pretended to check my DayTimer. Tuesday was a blank, except for Danielle’s book club meeting, which I would probably attend because one, I was still curious about her, and two, I am a glutton for punishment. “I think I can make it,” I said moderately.

  To Robeson’s credit, he didn’t laugh again. “Good.” He gave me the address—as if I didn’t know it already—and we rang off.

  I finished my sandwich in a daze.

  Five minutes later, Sonterra called. I put him on speaker.

  “He’s out,” he said.

  I was setting my plate in the sink, and it almost slipped out of my hands. “Lombard?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

  Sonterra’s voice sounded heavy. “A judge set bail, and Big Sister wrote a check. As of now, Bobby Ray is a free man.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment, absorbing reality. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. “Shit,” I said, thinking of Micki and her daughter. Restraining order or none, they were very much at risk. I wondered if Robeson had already known Bobby Ray had made bail when he called to offer me a place on his staff.

  “I’ve warned your client,” Sonterra went on, “but we don’t have the manpower to protect her, and she knows it.”

  “This sucks,” I said. I wanted to smash the plate against the nearest wall, but it would scare the dogs and, besides, it was part of a luncheon set that once belonged to Sonterra’s mother.

  “Yes,” Sonterra agreed with a sigh. “It does. I called Dr. Holliday. Micki and the little girl are going to stay with her for the next few days. You know something, Counselor? Sometimes I really hate being a cop.”

  It was all I could do not to call Robeson back and sign on as an investigator then and there.

  “Any breaks in the coyote case?” I asked, though I knew by Sonterra’s mood that there hadn’t been.

  “Zip,” he said. “Nothing on the pickup that bashed into you, either. If I look at one more paint-chip comparison, my eyes are going to cross. Are you packed for the trip up to Scottsdale?”

  I wasn’t. “Yes,” I answered. Jeans, a couple of Tshirts, underwear, and a nightgown. And, of course, a black suit for the funeral. Not a big deal.

  “Okay,” Sonterra said. “We might as well leave early, then.”

  “Right,” I said.

  We ended the call, and I sprinted up the back stairs to throw my stuff into a suitcase. When Sonterra pulled in, five minutes after hanging up, I was just snapping the catches on my weekender.

  I heard the back door open and some clumping of feet, then he was standing in the bedroom doorway. I blushed guiltily, still standing over the suitcase. He grinned.

  He took the bag, without a word, collected his own hardsider, already packed, from the floor of the closet, and headed out again.

  I followed him down the steps. “Two things happened today,” I said hastily, anxious to prove myself a truth-teller. “I hired a housekeeper—her name is Esperanza Lopez, and she’s starting on Monday—and Eli Robeson offered me a job. Kind of a freelance gig.”

  Sonterra paused in the middle of the stairway, looked back at me, over one shoulder. “I’d say there were three things,” he said. “Is that Loretta’s car blocking the driveway?”

  I nodded. “She’s lending it to me until she gets back from New York.”

  “Great,” Sonterra said, and descended into the kitchen. The dogs were waiting at the back door, ready to travel.

  “What do you think?” I prompted.

  “About what?” Sonterra countered. “The housekeeper, the job, or Loretta’s car?”

  “The housekeeper and Loretta’s car are done deals,” I said. “If I accept the job with Robeson, I get to work out of Dry Creek, except for the odd staff meeting at his office in Tucson, and Bobby Ray Lombard’s bad ass is mine on a platter.”

  Sonterra made it as far as the middle of the kitchen floor before he set down the suitcases. “Suppose I said I’d rather you didn’t mess with Lombard?” he asked too quietly.

  “I’d say your opinion matters to me,” I hedged. “I understand that he’s dangerous, Sonterra. I got a good look at his handiwork when Micki came in to file charges against him.”

  “Do you understand? You have a proven history of getting in over your head. Should I start listing examples?”

  “No, but I still need to do something. The next thing you know, I’ll be watching daytime television.”

  Sonterra didn’t speak. He just stood there, looking ominous.

  “I promise I’ll be careful. Double-dog, hope-to-spit, swear.”

  “What exactly would you be doing?”

  “Robeson wants an investigator.”

  “Shit,” Sonterra said. He shoved a hand through his hair, then huffed out a sigh, probably of resignation. “Take the dogs and get in the car,” he said, picking up the suitcases again. “I’ll lock up, then load these in back.”

  We were going to let the whole investigator subject ride, then. Probably a good idea. Give us both a chance to get some perspective.

  Sonterra might even get me to change my mind before my meeting with Robeson on Tuesday.

  And Elvis might be deep-frying Twinkies in some Southern diner, at that very moment.

  “I’d like to talk to Micki before we leave town,” I said when Sonterra joined Bernice, Waldo, and me in the SUV. “Make sure she’s okay.”

  Judy Holliday’s house, like her office on the other side of town, was modest: a little cement-block affair with a rock yard and an ancient, half-decayed cactus out front. A child—Suzie Post, I presumed—watched us pull up, curious but not afraid. Probably six or seven years old, she wheeled her pink bicycle off the walk and waited. She was delicate as a rose petal, with Micki’s brown hair, and when Sonterra got out of the SUV, she smiled, not at him, I suspected, but at Waldo and Bernice, who were on their hind legs at the back window, longing to make her acquaintance.

  “Hey,” Sonterra said easily, stopping at the gate, respecting what she’d no doubt been taught—beware of strangers.

  “Are you Suzie?” I asked, stepping up beside him.

  She nodded. “Who are you?”

  Just then, the front door of the stucco house opened, and Micki stood on the threshold. “Clare,” she said, and broke into a smile. For Sonterra, she spared a brief nod. “It’s okay, Suzie. I told you about Miss Westbrook. She’s my lawyer. And that’s Mr. Sonterra, the chief of police.”

  Suzie looked us both over. “Can I pet the dogs?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Sonterra said. He glanced up at Micki’s face, which was healing, but still swollen and bruised. “If it’s all right with your mom.”

  Suzie checked with Micki and, at her mother’s nod, sprang forward to open the gate. Sonterra let Waldo and Bernice out of the car, and the little girl crouched, laughing as they licked her face.

  At Micki’s beckoning gesture, I moved toward the house.

  “Come in,” she said. “Doc’s in the kitchen.”

  I followed her into a small entryway, looked up at the huge, wrought-iron chandelier overhead. It was incongruous in that tiny, austere cubicle of a house.

  Micki chuckled, following my gaze upward, to the light fixture. “One of the Mexicans gave it to her,” she said in a confidential whisper. “For setting his son’s broken arm.”

  I nodded, just as Judy Holliday stepped into view from what must have been the kitchen. She looked pleased, and a little relieved, to see me. Her trim, wiry body fairly vibrated with controlled tension. Had she been expecting Bobby Ray?

  “Clare,” she said. “It’s good to see you. Come in and have some coffee.”

  “I can’t stay long,” I replied. “Sonterra’s outside with the dogs. I wanted to let you know that we’ll be out of town for t
he weekend. Make sure everything was all right.”

  Judy’s smile slipped a little. Her shirtsleeves were rolled up, and there was a dishtowel tied around her waist for an apron. “I guess we’ll just have to depend on the deputies,” she said.

  Micki lowered her head. “I ought to take Suzie to her dad, over in Bisbee,” she said. “I would, if I wasn’t afraid Dan wouldn’t give her back.”

  I put an arm around Micki’s shoulder, felt her shrink away slightly, trembling. Given her life experience, it was no surprise that she wasn’t the touchy-feely type. Neither was I, except when it came to Sonterra.

  “If you want to, you can ride up to Phoenix with us,” I told her gently. “You and Suzie both. You might feel safer there. We’ll find you a place to stay.”

  Judy gave her a hopeful look. “That’s not a bad idea, Micki,” she said. “Bobby Ray wouldn’t know where to look for you.”

  “Bobby Ray always knows where to look for me,” Micki whispered miserably, ducking her head again as if to escape some unseen fist.

  We passed through a minute dining area, decorated with diplomas and family photos, into a little kitchen.

  “You have my cell number,” I reminded them both, when a silence fell.

  Judy took a mug from a rack on the wall and held it up.

  I shook my head. “No time,” I reminded her.

  She nodded, and her shoulders stooped for a moment.

  “We’ll be back Sunday night,” I said.

  Nobody seemed reassured.

  Stay, urged a voice in my mind.

  I didn’t. It’s not the things we do that we regret, according to popular wisdom. It’s the things we don’t do.

  This was certainly a case in point.

  Within ten minutes or so, Sonterra and I were on the road, barreling north. I couldn’t get Micki and Suzie and the doc out of my mind.

  “I think Robeson’s going to swear me in and give me a badge,” I commented.

  Sonterra’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, and his jaw looked hard, but he didn’t glance my way, and he didn’t speak.

  “Say something,” I said.

  “What good would it do?” he snapped back.

  I slumped back in the seat and drifted off.

  We were just outside of Phoenix when my cell phone played the familiar riff.

  “He called!” Micki gasped. “Bobby Ray, I mean.”

  I glanced at Sonterra, but he hadn’t mellowed in the time I’d been napping. He was still ignoring me.

  “Did he threaten you?”

  That drew a quick glance from Sonterra.

  “Not in so many words,” Micki answered. “I think he just wanted me to know he knows where we are.”

  “Are you and Suzie still at Dr. Holliday’s place?” I asked.

  Micki gave a bitter, high-pitched laugh. “Yes.” She was nearly hysterical, and the fear spilled out of her in a dark litany. “First thing Bobby Ray’s going to do is trash my trailer, so I won’t have any place to go. We can’t stay with Doc forever and, besides, Bobby Ray thinks she’s a lesbian. He might hurt her, just for that.” She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was small, barely more than a whisper. “Sometimes I wish he’d just kill me and get it over with.”

  “Whoa,” I said, sitting up straight again. “Don’t talk like that, Micki. What would happen to Suzie if you weren’t around?”

  Sonterra darted another look in my direction, his eyebrows raised.

  “Maybe she’d be better off.”

  “Micki!”

  “Well, her daddy’s remarried. He’s got a nice house and a good job. Maybe I’ll call him. Have him come pick Suzie up.”

  My heart fell apart in two bleeding chunks. This was what it was like to be Micki, and a few million other women just like her. I wanted to find Bobby Ray Lombard, rip his gizzard out, and dip it in battery acid.

  “It might be a good idea to send Suzie to stay with her father,” I said carefully. “And you need to get out of Dry Creek, too. At least until Lombard is behind bars for good.”

  Micki started to cry. It was a bleak, thick sound, a hopeless snuffling. I could picture her bruised and stitched face all too easily. “I’ll be dead before that happens,” she said. “When Bobby Ray finally goes down, it’ll be on a murder charge, and I’ll be the one he killed.”

  “Promise me you’ll get out of Dry Creek, Micki. Tonight.”

  She sniffed. “It won’t do any good.”

  “Listen to me,” I said firmly, struggling to keep my cool. “This is no time to feel sorry for yourself. You’ve got to pull yourself together.”

  She hung up on me.

  Sonterra pulled into a convenience-store parking lot, and I filled him in on Micki’s part of the conversation. He listened, got out his cell phone, and called Deputy Rathburn. Gave the order for round-the—

  clock surveillance on Micki, Suzie, and Dr. Holliday. Rathburn was to call in the State Police if he needed backup.

  “Feel better?” Sonterra asked when the call ended.

  “No,” I said.

  I’m a smart woman.

  I ought to listen to myself more often.

  Eleven

  T he back of the SUV was crammed with stuff from my office, our suitcases, and half of Emma’s earthly belongings. She sat quietly in the backseat, with the dogs, Sunday-night tired, jamming to the hip-hop flowing into her ears through a pair of headphones.

  It had been a long, hectic weekend, and Sonterra and I hadn’t had much time to talk, between Jimmy’s funeral and the packing. While I worked at the office, with Shanda’s help, he’d spent time with Eddie Columbia, who would be getting out of the hospital in a few days. Eddie’s ex-wife, Jenna, had eloped with the boyfriend, and they were honeymooning in San Miguel de Allende.

  When it rains, it shits.

  I’d called Judy Holliday’s house several times, and been reassured by either her or Micki, but I was still uneasy.

  We’d managed to make a few concrete decisions in Scottsdale, at least. Sonterra and I would be married in Dry Creek, as soon as Loretta got back from New York, with his whole family in attendance. I would forget about leasing the barbershop and starting a new practice, and accept Robeson’s offer, on a trial basis.

  Sonterra and I had discussed the wedding, and said as little as possible about the new job with the prosecutor’s office. If I’d had to guess, I’d have said he was thinking about Jimmy Ruiz, the coyotes, and/or whoever it was who totaled my Escalade on that lonely country road and almost snuffed me in the process. I remember clearly that I was wondering if Micki and Suzie were still all right, and whether or not I should ask Sonterra to stop at the supermarket so we could lay in some groceries, or wait and send Esperanza for provisions in the morning.

  Sonterra’s cell phone bleeped, and he answered curtly.

  “Christ,” he said, after listening for a few moments.

  I turned to him, waiting to be filled in. Every small hair on my body stood upright, like wire, all systems screaming, Trouble.

  “Handle it,” he went on, ignoring me. “I’ve got my family with me, but I’ll get there as soon as I can.” Another grim pause. “Just secure the scene. If the press shows up, keep them out.”

  He paused, listened. His jaw was hard. “Where the hell were you when this went down?”

  My stomach did a free fall.

  Sonterra hung up with a curse and a jab of his thumb, and shoved the phone into a nook on the dashboard.

  “Talk to me, Sonterra,” I said, as we rolled into Dry Creek.

  He glanced back at Emma, and so did I. She was still blissed out on her music.

  “Judy Holliday is dead,” he ground out. “Micki and the little girl are gone.”

  I put a hand to my mouth. Holliday’s house was only a few blocks off the main drag, and I saw the flashing lights of the squad cars as we started past the turn onto her street.

  “Stop!” I yelled, flinging off the seat belt and shoving open my
door, just in case Sonterra thought I wasn’t serious.

  I knew he’d planned on taking Emma and me home before heading to the crime scene, but it was plainly a lost cause. “All right,” he said. “Shut the door before you fall out.”

  I did what he asked and he made the turn, pulling in behind the squad cars. He swore as I jumped out of the SUV and ran toward the house, and I heard him order Emma to wait in the car.

  Deputy Jesse was hurling up his socks in the yard.

  I was through the front gate and onto the porch before Sonterra caught up with me. My face was wet with tears.

  Sonterra grabbed me by the upper arms and turned me around. “Stay here,” he said.

  I nodded.

  Sonterra’s face was terrible, in the bug-spangled porch light. “Think about the baby,” he said calmly. “Think about Emma.”

  My knees wobbled.

  He let go of my shoulders and went inside.

  I followed on his heels.

  Judy Holliday’s dead body dangled from the wrought-iron chandelier, spinning slowly to the left, then to the right, with an eerie creak of the yellow plastic rope digging deep into her neck. Her hands were duct-taped behind her, her face was purple, and her tongue protruded from one side of her mouth.

  Dave Rathburn stood gazing up at her. When he looked at Sonterra, I saw a veil go down behind his eyes, and a flush rose under his jowls.

  “Did you call the ME?” Sonterra demanded. He was pale.

  Rathburn nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, putting a slight and surly emphasis on the “sir.”

  Sonterra’s words were swift and clearly differentiated, like bullets. “Who found the body, and when?”

  Rathburn’s flush deepened, but his eyes were cold. “I did. Jesse and I were changing shifts. I figured it would be okay if we stopped by the diner for a decent meal. That was at about five o’clock. When I got back, just after six, the front door was open. I came inside to check things out, and here she was. I called Jesse right away, but he hasn’t been much help. One look at this, and he started gagging. I sent him outside, so he wouldn’t puke all over the crime scene.”

  Sonterra went still. “I told you I wanted somebody keeping an eye on this place at all times,” he said carefully. “Even if that meant calling in the State Police.”