One Last Look

by Linda Lael Miller

  I disconnected.

  I put away the cell phone, grateful for small favors. I was in hot water, but at least Sonterra hadn’t called while Danielle was still in the trailer, thus alerting her and Mr. Romance to my presence.

  The immediate problem was to get out of the trailer park without being seen by any of the neighbors. If they’d heard Danielle’s car, or caught a glimpse of her arrival and/or departure, they might be watching for further developments.

  The secondary challenge would be to explain my sudden penchant for nighttime cemetery visits to Sonterra. That would be tougher.

  Uselessly, I wiped my plastic-shrouded palms on the thighs of my jeans.

  I don’t think I took a full breath between opening the door of the trailer, bolting around the side, and tumbling gracelessly over the fence. Squinting through the brush, I saw the headlights of Sonterra’s SUV gleaming in the middle of the cemetery.

  I took the long way around and came out of the bushes on the other side. There, I turned on the flashlight and made my way between the headstones, thinking on my feet.

  Sonterra finally spotted me when I was about a hundred yards out and opened his door. Stood in the glow of his interior lights. I didn’t need to see his face to read his mood; even his shadow bristled.

  “Start talking,” he ordered, when I approached, silently whistling a happy tune.

  My palms felt wet again, and I realized I hadn’t taken off the gloves. Drat. Another tactical error. His gaze went right to my hands, of course. I felt his eyes ricochet to my face, and flushed in the darkness.

  “Don’t tell me,” he said.

  “Okay,” I answered.

  “You went to Micki’s trailer.” There were times when I regretted Sonterra’s keen instincts, and that was one of them. In fact, except in bed, they were pretty much a pain in the ass.

  I let out my breath. “Yeah,” I admitted. “And I had company.”

  That distracted him, but only for a few moments. “Who?”

  “Danielle Bickerhelm and some guy. I was under the bed.”

  Sonterra’s grin flashed white in the gloom. It was a temporary phenomenon, and so was his good humor. “Serves you right,” he said.

  “They boinked,” I told him.

  He laughed.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “The hell it isn’t,” Sonterra retorted, taking me by the elbow and steering me around to the passenger side. I snapped off the gloves as I went and jammed them into my hip pocket. Out of sight, out of mind.

  l hoped.

  “Who was the boyfriend?” Sonterra asked, once I was buckled in and he was behind the wheel again.

  I sighed. “No idea,” I said forlornly. “He didn’t say anything, and I couldn’t get a good look at him, under the circumstances.”

  “He didn’t say anything?”

  “Nada,” I answered.

  Sonterra put the SUV in gear with a sharp motion of one arm. “What were you doing there in the first place?”

  So much for the respite. “I was hoping to find something you missed,” I said.

  “Gee, thanks,” he said.

  “It’s been known to happen.”

  “Do you realize that I could arrest you for trespassing and a whole shitload of other things?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “I’m a lawyer, remember? But you won’t, because then everybody in town would know, and that would be bad for public relations.”

  “I’m not worried about PR right now, Clare. And I have enough to do without keeping track of you.”

  I ran a hand through my hair. God, I wanted a shower, and not because of the dust under Micki’s bed. “Then stop trying,” I said.

  “In your dreams.”

  We drove out of the cemetery, and Sonterra left the car to close the gate behind us. I used that time to consider my options but, once again, I came up dry.

  “I think we should just forget this,” I ventured when he returned.

  “I imagine you do,” he replied. No discerning if he’d mellowed, but I was guessing not, from his tone.

  “I could use an Oreo Blizzard,” I said.

  “You really freaked Emma out,” Sonterra said. Since he didn’t turn the SUV in the direction of town, I deduced that my craving was not to be indulged.

  “Emma,” I countered, feeling testy again, “is a tattle-tale.”

  “She’s adjusting to a new town and a new school. She loves you, and she’s afraid you’ll get yourself killed. How about cutting her a break?”

  “When is somebody going to cut me a break?” I shot back, but I did feel a little guilty. Emma was my niece, and I loved her like my own child. I hated being on the outs with her.

  “Not anytime soon,” Sonterra said. The SUV bumped into the driveway, came to a stop behind Loretta’s Lexus. “If you interfere in this investigation again, Clare, I will bust you for it, on general principles, and damn the fallout. Do I make myself clear?”

  No point in reminding him that after tomorrow, I’d be able to investigate just about anything I damn well pleased. I unfastened my seat belt and opened the car door. Every light in the house was on, and I could hear the dogs yapping in the entryway. “Abundantly,” I said. “And it wouldn’t have killed you to buy me a Blizzard.”

  Sonterra didn’t respond to that. He left the SUV running, opened the gate, and squired me up the walk to the porch. For all my planning, I hadn’t brought a house key, but it didn’t matter, because the door flew open, and there was Emma standing on the threshold, arms folded, flanked by the dogs.

  “Rat,” I said.

  “Great start,” Sonterra remarked. Then, to Emma, “Give me a call if she makes a break for it.”

  Emma nodded.

  “Don’t kill each other,” Sonterra said. Then he turned and strode back down the walk to the gate, still ajar, got into his rig, and drove away.

  Emma and I just stood there for a few moments, staring at each other in the eerie yellow glow of the porch light.

  Atypically, Emma was the first to give ground. She stepped back, so I could come into the house.

  “Are you mad at me?” she asked. Her tone didn’t match the question or her body language, which put me in mind of the world wrestling championship.

  “No,” I said, realizing that I wasn’t. “Do we have any Oreos?”

  Thirteen

  I wasn’t exactly at my best when I arrived at Eli Robeson’s Tucson office the next morning at ten o’clock, straight up; Emma and I had OD’d on our improvised version of cookie milk shakes the night before, so I was hungover from the influx of sugar, and Sonterra’s poor attitude lingered right through breakfast. He left without saying good-bye.

  At least I was on good terms with Esperanza and the dogs, I reflected, checking out the prosecutor’s waiting room.

  Robeson came out to greet me personally. He was even more impressive in the flesh than on television, well dressed, polished, and roughly the size of an upright freezer. He put out a meaty hand, and boomed, “It’s good to see you, Clare.” If we hadn’t had an appointment, I would have thought he was startled to find me there.

  We retired to the inner sanctum. Like most government offices, Robeson’s was short on decoration and long on paperwork. It was a tidy sort of chaos, with files stacked on every surface, the computer screen flashing, and every line on the telephone lit up.

  “Sit down,” Robeson said cordially, moving four thick folders out of the chair facing his neatly cluttered desk.

  I sat. Since the visit was his idea, I didn’t say anything, just waited until he was seated, hands folded, smile bright as headlights on high beam.

  “I need bright, motivated people like you on my team, Clare,” he said.

  I shifted in the chair. Smiled back.

  Robeson cleared his throat and dimmed a little. “Nasty business, that doctor being murdered,” he lamented. “She was a credit to the community, looking after the migrant population gratis the way she did.”

 
The image of Doc Holliday hanging from the chandelier sprang into my mind. I headed off a shudder midway up my spine. “Yes,” I agreed. Talk about understatements. “The suspect hasn’t been apprehended yet.”

  Robeson nodded solemnly. “Judging by his history with the judicial system, I’d say Bobby Ray Lombard isn’t sufficiently bright to avoid capture for long.”

  “His sister bailed him out repeatedly,” I answered. Sonterra had warned me off the case, but as a member of the prosecutor’s investigative team, I could dig to my heart’s content. I planned to start by attending Danielle’s reading group that evening. It was a safe bet that Sonterra had already questioned her about Lombard’s probable whereabouts, but he wasn’t inclined to share information at the best of times, and he was still smoldering over my visit to Micki’s trailer.

  No problem. I had a little pop quiz of my own planned for the adventurous Ms. Bickerhelm.

  “What’s your take on the situation?” Robeson asked, leaning back in his chair. He was a bulky man, but he moved with a certain graceful elegance. “Is Lombard our man?”

  “I’d bet on it,” I said. “Right now, though, I’m a lot more concerned about Micki Post and her daughter, Suzie. They disappeared from Dr. Holliday’s house around the time of the killing, and as far as I know, there haven’t been any leads.” If there were, Sonterra was keeping mum.

  Robeson tented his fingers under his several chins. “They may have been witnesses to the murder.”

  “I’m afraid so,” I agreed. My heart clenched just to think of a little girl seeing such a thing. Bad enough for an adult.

  The prosecutor pondered my response gravely, drumming his fingertips on the desktop. Then, in an instant, the political smile was back, so dazzling I nearly had to shade my eyes. “You’ll be paid a modest consultation fee,” he said. “Case by case, as we agreed on the telephone last week.”

  I had my issues, but money wasn’t one of them. I probably would have paid him to let me have this job. “I understand,” I said.

  After that, we went over a few other terms, and I signed the customary forms. As soon as I left Robeson’s office and hit the street, I called Sonterra.

  He didn’t even say hello. “Tell me you’re in Tucson,” he said.

  “Okay,” I replied, heading for the Lexus. “I’m in Tucson. I just left Eli Robeson.”

  I could almost hear Sonterra’s jaw tightening. “Right,” he said. “Did you take the job?”

  “Of course I took the job.” I pushed the button on the key fob, and the locks popped inside Loretta’s car.

  Silence from Sonterra’s end. I guess his dreams of me settling happily into the hausfrau role and learning to crochet doilies died hard.

  I got behind the wheel, relocked the doors, and started the engine, all without a word from SuperCop. “Speak, Sonterra,” I prompted. “We’re burning satellite minutes.”

  “You called me, remember?”

  “So I did.” I checked the side mirrors and rearview and popped the car into reverse. “Any leads on Micki and Suzie?”

  “No, not that it’s any of your business.”

  “I’m with the prosecutor’s office now, Sonterra. It definitely is my business.”

  “Whoopee.”

  I let the sarcasm pass. “How about the coyotes? Have you and the feds gotten anywhere with that?” I looked both ways and pulled out into light midmorning traffic. It was a beautiful, crisp day. Blue skies, smilin’ at me.

  “Also not your business.”

  “Wrong again. You bust them, and I’ll nail their balls to the floor.”

  “It’s federal,” Sonterra reminded me. “Out of your jurisdiction.”

  “Go figure,” I countered, shaking my head. I so seldom had a professional advantage over Sonterra that I wanted to relish the experience. God knew when, or if, it would happen again. “Robeson seems to think otherwise. You are aware, I presume, that I can investigate with impunity, now that I work for Pima County?”

  “I’m aware,” Sonterra bit out. “But I don’t have to like it.”

  “And you don’t have to cooperate, either, but I think you will, because you want to see Lombard, not to mention Jimmy Ruiz’s killers, in leg irons as much as I do.”

  “You’ve got me there.” I thought I heard a note of goodwill in his voice, but I wasn’t sure, and I wasn’t jumping to conclusions. “We’ve got a meeting with Father Morales at two o’clock,” he went on. “The license is already in the works. All you have to do is sign on the dotted line.”

  “You still want to marry me?” I asked lightly, glancing into the mirrors again before switching lanes. One thing about playing “it” in a deadly game of bumper cars on a dark country road—it makes a person alert to other drivers.

  “Amazing as it sounds, yes,” Sonterra allowed.

  A sedan whipped in behind me, following too close. Tinted windows, no plate in front. In Arizona, they’re required only in back.

  I tapped the brakes. I hate tailgaters.

  The sedan backed off, but not far. I heard the engine rap out. Was that yahoo about to take a run at me?

  “Clare?” Sonterra sounded too calm. Maybe he sensed danger, too, even from that distance.

  I glanced in the rearview. The sedan revved again, and the headlights flashed, bringing back some very unhappy memories. My spinal fluid chilled by a couple of degrees. “I’m here,” I said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Somebody’s riding my rear bumper.”

  “Description,” Sonterra said. Cop forever, alpha and omega, amen.

  “Blue sedan,” I answered. “Toyota, I think. Late-model, but the hood is rusted out. Crumpled, like it’s been in an accident.” The car surged forward again, with another, even more aggressive roar of the engine.

  “Plates?” Sonterra asked.

  “Can’t see them.”

  The sedan tapped the Lexus, almost playfully, like a boa constrictor nuzzling the mouse it intends to swallow.

  Fear gave way to irritation. I swore.

  “Clare,” Sonterra said.

  “He just hit me. Broad daylight, in the middle of downtown. What the hell?”

  Sonterra was all business. “Location,” he said.

  I gave him the cross streets. The sedan whacked me again, this time harder.

  “I’ll get you a black-and-white,” Sonterra told me. “Whatever you do, don’t stop. This is a classic car-jacking technique.”

  “Thanks for the crime-stoppers bulletin,” I replied.

  “I’ll be back on the line in a second,” Sonterra promised.

  “Check,” I said, put the phone on speaker, and tossed it onto the passenger seat. The sedan was backing off for another run at my bumper, and I needed both hands on the wheel.

  Other drivers stared and honked furiously as I swerved, tires screeching. Then the other car swung into the left-hand lane, whizzed up beside me. I ducked instinctively, prepared for a bullet, thinking frantically of my baby. I could hear Sonterra shouting my name from the cell phone, then the faint, welcome bleat of an approaching siren.

  I peered over the dashboard just in time to see a red light coming up. Automatically jammed on the brakes and fishtailed into the intersection. I squeezed my eyes shut, expecting either to be shot at through the windshield or crunched between oncoming cars.

  “Clare!” Sonterra yelled.

  Shaking, I fumbled for the phone. “I’m all right,” I gasped, hoping the conclusion wasn’t premature. I thought the sedan was gone, but I had no way of knowing for sure, so I ducked again, just in case there was a bullet in my future.

  Somebody pounded at the driver’s-side window, and I looked up, half expecting to see a gun barrel pointed at my head. Instead, it was a cop, peering through the glass.

  “It’s okay,” I told Sonterra. “The police are here.”

  Sonterra heaved a sigh. “Good.”

  The uniform, a tall young man, nodded for me to push the lock button. I did, and he pulled o
pen the door. “You all right, ma’am?” he asked.

  I nodded, but when I recovered the cell phone, thumbed the speaker button, and stepped out of the Lexus, my knees buckled. The officer passed me off to his partner, got into Loretta’s car, and drove it out of the middle of the intersection, so traffic could flow again. When the other cop and I reached the curb, I sat down, heedless of my panty hose and straight skirt, and concentrated on not passing out.

  The cell phone was glued to my ear.

  “Put somebody on who can talk,” Sonterra counseled.

  Wordlessly, I handed the cell to my escort. There was no sign of the Toyota. I would have put my head between my knees if I could have gotten them apart. Impossible in that skirt.

  I heard the officer talking to Sonterra, but I couldn’t make out the words. It sounded like an alien radio transmission, with lots of static.

  “We’re taking you to the station,” the other cop informed me, after he’d parked the Lexus in the lot of a corner convenience store.

  I blinked. “Am I under arrest?”

  The officer smiled benevolently, reached down to help me to my feet. “No, ma’am. Mr. Sonterra asked us to keep you in protective custody until he can pick you up. In the meantime, though, we’ve got a few questions for you.”

  A few questions.

  Two long hours later, I was in the SUV with Sonterra, headed for Dry Creek. He must have been worried about me, because he stopped for an Oreo Blizzard without even being asked.

  “What happened?” he asked, once I’d been primed with ice cream and crumbled cookies.

  “We’ve been over it a hundred times, Sonterra,” I said wearily. Automotive harassment makes me testy. “I told you, I told the whole damn Tucson PD. A blue sedan pulled in behind me, rammed me a couple of times. I didn’t see the driver or the license plate. What else is there to say?”

  “Somebody must have seen something,” Sonterra insisted. I knew he was wondering, as I was, if the two attacks were connected.

  A couple of drivers had watched the whole incident, and so had a clerk in the convenience store, along with a guy filling his gas tank at a rival company on the other side of the intersection. As far as I knew, none of them had been able to add anything useful.