by Robena Grant
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Robena Grant
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
A word about the author...
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The Blue Dolphin
by
Robena Grant
Desert Heat, Book Two
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Blue Dolphin
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Robena Schaerf
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2013
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-792-2
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-793-9
Desert Heat, Book Two
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Robena Grant
THE BLUE DOLPHIN, DESERT HEAT, BOOK TWO
Winner, Second Place, Romantic Suspense
2010 SOLA Dixie Kane Contest
DESERT EXPOSURE, DESERT HEAT, BOOK THREE
Finalist, RWA's 2012 Golden Heart Contest
You’ll also want to read
UNLOCK THE TRUTH, DESERT HEAT, BOOK ONE
available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Dedication
To my author pals:
Lynne Marshall, Gina Bono, Dee J. Adams,
Trish Albright, Melissa Jarvis, and TJ Bennett.
Chapter One
Debbie’s high-heeled boots clicked on the tile floor of the quiet spa and she smiled, liking the sound. Dressed in her best skinny jeans and a white aesthetician’s coat to keep her clothes neat, she hummed and did a couple of dance moves as she pushed the supply cart.
She loved being alone in her spa on Saturday evenings. It was the perfect time to re-stock for Monday. Afterward, she was supposed to head over to Cliffs. The bar would be hopping by seven, and Rachel, who owned the place, would be dispensing drinks and wisdom as she always did. Rachel had insisted that she show up tonight, and she’d threatened her with all manner of dire things if she went home to watch a movie on Lifetime. Again.
Debbie grinned. Okay, so she would go. Not that she expected to meet anyone exciting. How long has it been since I’ve been on a date worth repeating?
She shrugged and looked into the dolphin therapy room, her latest expenditure to make her health spa different to others in the area. She was beyond broke now. But this month her seasonal clients would return to the California desert, and she was optimistic that the room would soon pay for itself. A quick appraisal of the stock of essentials that stood on a shelf at the far end of the room told her that refills were necessary. She did her and Rachel’s beauty treatments in there. She brushed a hand over the bed as she walked past it, her chest swelling with pride and a touch of longing. That undulating bed had relieved many a day’s stress, but no time for that now.
Seated on a leather padded stool, she methodically filled the bottles of aromatherapy liquids she used for clients, and then reached for her personal bottle of rubbing balm.
A shrill scream cut through the quiet, followed by another.
“Aiyeeeee! Help!”
Debbie jumped off the stool, almost knocking it over. A cold shiver slid through her and her entire body trembled, splashing rubbing balm. She looked around, knowing she’d left the small window in the back room open, and guessed the noise had come from the alley. Everything had gone deathly quiet. With shaking fingers she put the bottle back on the cart, and then brushed at the liquid seeping through her coat.
“Ugh.” She pulled off the coat and looked down. The jeans were fine.
It would be stupid to go outside. But it had sounded like a woman’s scream, and thoughts of her daughter Janelle, living on campus, flooded her mind. She forced herself to move and grabbed a broom. Yeah, like this will deflect a bullet, or prevent a knife from plunging into my chest. With a quick shake of her head, she peeped out the back door.
Nothing but the date palm trees moved. The shadows and the stillness sent another shiver through her. Light suddenly glimmered halfway down the alley. Joe Barnes stood in the back doorway of the Almagro Pizzeria and his wife looked over his shoulder.
“What happened?” he yelled.
“Not sure,” Debbie called out, as relief flooded her. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she glanced around. A dark shape lay on the ground near the open dumpster that pressed up against a wire fence. She quickly scanned beyond the fence where a vacant field was used for overflow parking whenever there was a special event. Her heartbeat quickened. “Can you bring a flashlight? And call 911. There’s a person, a body on the ground.”
“Don’t touch it,” Joe yelled back. “I’ll be right there.”
Debbie swallowed hard, her throat dry. There were no sounds of running feet or cars squealing out of the parking lot. The attacker had disappeared. Wind still howled from an earlier storm, palm fronds thrashed overhead, and trash skittered along the empty alley. She glanced at the slightly built, crumpled figure, dressed in dark clothing. Should she at least try to find a pulse?
She looked toward the pizzeria. Joe had said not to advance. He’d know what to do. He’d been an army medic and that sort of learning stuck with a man. She looked up and down the alley at the dark rear doorways of other stores. Most owners had closed up shop and gone home. There were a few restaurants and they’d be doing good business, but they were on the opposite side of the main area of the outdoor mall and faced the front door of her spa. It seemed nobody else had heard the scream.
“The wife’s calling it in,” Joe yelled, as the pizzeria back door slammed behind him.
The wide arc of his flashlight swept over the dark corners of the alley, making the place look even creepier than it had before. He held something over one arm, his long white apron stretched tight across his protruding abdomen and it flapped against his trouser legs as he ran the short distance.
The light fell on the body.
“Oh.” Debbie clamped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my, I think it’s Betty Blue.” She looked back toward the designer boutique. The door was closed.
Joe kneeled, felt for a pulse. “Poor old gal, she’s out cold. Breathing’s fine though. Got a bump on her head. The ticker’s still good.” He covered her gently with a red and white checked tablecloth and stood up. “Didn’t have a blanket,” he said with a shrug.
Debbie nodded. She shiver
ed and wished she’d grabbed her leather jacket. What happened to Betty? She looked around, not wanting to think of a bad person waiting to jump female shop owners as they emptied their trash into the dumpster. “Do you think someone hit her, took her keys and is inside the boutique?” She looked back at the shop.
“Nah.” Joe shook his head. “Bump is on her temple. From the fall. Keys are in her pocket.”
“Maybe she had a scare and fainted. Probably one of those dumpster rats…they scare the hell out of me,” she said, and shivered again. “Have you seen the size of them? They’re bigger than tomcats.”
Joe stepped closer to the open dumpster and shone the flashlight over it. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he said, and stumbled backward.
Debbie moved up behind him, and stopped suddenly, her knees buckling at the sight of blood and severed body parts. She shut her eyes and felt herself sway. Joe grabbed her elbow. He half walked her, half dragged her, to the seat where the busboys took a smoke at the back of the pizzeria. Her legs had turned to rubber and her stomach felt queasy.
“Big deep breaths,” he said, and shoved her onto the bench. He sat, emitting a muffled groan, and then gently pushed her head down. He rubbed little circles on her back.
Debbie’s eyes smarted, and her stomach did a couple of unusual churns. She’d seen a lot as a volunteer with the domestic abuse counselors, driving to situations with an officer in the dark of night, but never anything like this. It must have been a dreadful shock for Betty. She’d have opened the dumpster and been looking inside, ready to toss in her trash, whereas Debbie had only caught a glimpse before Joe had blocked her vision and backed her away. Not that she wanted to see more. She concentrated on deep breathing, trying to block the images that pushed their way back into her memory.
Sirens pierced the quiet. Debbie kept her eyes shut. The emergency vehicles were still a mile or so away. She gripped tight to one of Joe’s hands, feeling the fine dusting of flour on it, and smelling the coffee scent of his breath as he murmured comforting words. She sank her face against the bib of his apron. Their little desert town of Rancho Almagro had changed. Being a two hour drive from Los Angeles, she’d always imagined they had a crime-free spot. Not anymore.
She tried to concentrate her thoughts on pleasant things. Like dolphins and Hawaii and Cancun: anywhere with sparkling blue water and white sandy beaches. Joe cupped the back of her head and held her tight to him, rocking her like he would a small child.
“I called 911,” Joe’s wife said.
Debbie eased up and opened her eyes. She tried to speak to Joe’s wife, who leaned against the door jamb. No words came out. The sirens sounded closer. Damn it, she hated that crimes like this were happening.
“Two murders last year, but at least that guy is behind bars. But now this,” Joe said, as if he’d read her thoughts. He got up. “I’ll check on her.”
Debbie grimaced. She still couldn’t find the words to express herself, but she silently vowed to do everything possible to keep Rancho Almagro safe. And it wasn’t only about convincing Janelle to move home after graduation. She sucked in a deep breath and looked down the alley. She loved this town. Her entire history was in this place. Janelle would be home on Tuesday for Thanksgiving break and she prayed the cops would find the killer by then. The first prickles of anger tickled the nape of her neck.
Joe came back and reached for his wife’s hand, grabbed it, and drew her nearer. “The person on the ground is Betty Blue. She’ll be okay. There’s a body in the dumpster. Cut up real bad.”
“Oh geez,” his wife said, and plopped onto the bench.
Debbie took another gulp of air. She slipped an arm around Joe’s wife’s shoulders. They had to fight, to do this together.
“Tomorrow,” Debbie said, and cleared her throat. “I mean on Monday, I’ll call the mayor’s office. I’ll demand an emergency meeting. We need more cops. And more street lights.”
“Yeah, that’s for sure,” Joe’s wife said.
Joe nodded as he squeezed between them on the bench. “I’ll back you up. I’m betting on a drug deal gone bad…real bad.”
“I’m going to petition the business owners,” Debbie said, sitting up straighter, her anger getting her fired up. She set her lips tight for a moment. “If we get enough signatures…”
The fire truck pulled up, lights flooding the dark alley, the siren waning. Other emergency vehicles followed, and a Riverside County sheriff’s vehicle from the Indio PD, squealed to a stop near the pizzeria. A few people hurried around from the restaurants on the other side of the mall, all chattering loudly.
“Who called it in?” one cop asked, as he climbed out of the vehicle.
“We did,” Joe said, and stood.
An Almagro black and white pulled up. Rachel’s significant other, Deputy Stanton, climbed out of the driver’s side of the vehicle. As usual, he didn’t have a partner. Stanton liked to be his own man, do things his way.
“Dave,” Debbie yelled, relief flooding through her. She didn’t know the cops who were stationed out of the Indio PD, and it felt good to see a familiar face. “I mean, Deputy Stanton. There’s a dismembered body in the dumpster.”
“You find it?” he asked, hurrying over and squinting down at her.
She nodded. Stanton gave her arm a comforting squeeze. He walked her back to the bench and eased her down. “Wait here.”
“Crime scene. Back away,” he yelled, waving his arms at the growing crowd.
Stanton’s tone of voice was firm, his frown deep as he urged the onlookers back.
Debbie’s eyes smarted, and she quickly blinked the tears away. She prayed that Betty would be fine. The cops would be all over this case. They’d figure out what had happened. But as soon as she could she’d call Dena and Zeke Cabrera. They ran a PI firm she had recently had the good fortune to moonlight for. They were both very intuitive.
Stanton looked over his shoulder. “Call Rachel, and tell her to come get you. She can take you in to the PD. I’ll get your report there.”
Debbie nodded and took a couple of deep breaths, trying to stop her body from shaking. She knew that was a benefit of living in a small town. There was trust between the cops and the citizens. Was she cold from shock, fear, or the fall night air? She’d been fine five minutes ago when she’d been planning how to fight this type of crime, warmed by her heroic thoughts, no doubt. She looked around at the lights, the men, the bizarre scene. The area was being cordoned off by one of the Indio PD cops, and now she couldn’t wait to get out of the alley.
“Um, Dave,” she yelled. “I need to lock up and get my purse and jacket.”
“Stay there. I’ll do that.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed at her upper arms. Soon she’d be away from here. And on Monday, she and Rachel would circulate that petition. They’d do everything they could to have this deranged murderer caught.
****
On the Friday after the murder, Jack Davis dropped his tan cowboy hat onto the bar at Cliffs and roughed up his hair. Going undercover to find his ex-partner’s killer was not high on the agenda of his chief at the Los Angeles DEA’s office. He’d given the department an ultimatum: one week’s leave without pay or his resignation. His boss had relented. Exhaustion and frustration swamped him. He’d come up empty handed. Not even a whiff of a clue.
The young barmaid looked up. “Same as last time?”
He nodded. It had been two days since he’d identified Juan’s body and almost a week since his old partner had been brutally murdered. Thanksgiving had been a cold turkey sandwich and a pickle. Not that he cared. He’d had worse meals. He had five days left to find Juan’s killer or he’d be out of a job. Not that he cared much about that.
It had taken a while for him to learn Juan was missing from his home in Mexico, and that his business had been ransacked. He thought over the words his old partner had screamed over the cell phone last Friday night: delfin…azul…Almagro. There had to be a clue. What was
Juan trying to tell him? Jack kicked at the brass rung on the barstool. If he’d known sooner…gotten down here last weekend….
He grimaced in frustration. He now knew that Juan had called him from Rancho Almagro the night of his murder, but Jack had thought that night that he was in Cancun, or at least somewhere in Mexico. Why hadn’t he said anything about coming to California? And why the hell would dolphins be in the desert? And dolphins were gray not blue, as far as he knew.
“Jack. Catch,” the barmaid said.
Jack stuck out a hand and stopped the frosted beer glass that whizzed along the top of the highly polished bar. She gave him an impish grin. Janelle, her name badge said. And she’d remembered his name. He took a long swallow of the cold bitter brew, felt his tired body begin to relax, and half-listened to the raised voices as Janelle argued with a staunch Cowboys fan about which team would make it to the Super Bowl.
He wasn’t in the habit of drinking pre-noon and didn’t want to show up at the town hall meeting smelling like beer. But when you work undercover you have to do a lot of things you wouldn’t normally do; anything to befriend the natives and gain information.
Jack pulled the glass closer and wrapped a hand around it. He’d have to nurse this one. Janelle laughed and he looked up. She seemed too young to bartend, and she reminded him of a pixie, but seemed good at her job. She’d said she was home on break and helping the owner during the holiday. She knew everyone by their first name and never asked a second time about their drink preference, even if it was a fancy mixed drink. Small town bars were like that. He’d known a few. She’d probably have a wealth of information on the locals, but he wouldn’t rush her. Gaining information was like fishing, it required patience.
With his glass in hand, he spun around on the barstool, and propped his feet onto the brass rung and stared down at his thighs. He could get used to wearing boots and jeans every day. They sure beat a three-piece suit, but he’d even take the suit over his last undercover case. He’d been a drifter living off the streets of L.A. and hated having to be so smelly and ragged. And not just ragged clothing, his nerves had taken a beating also. Soon he was getting out of the biz…real soon. He’d suffered extreme burnout over that last case. It had lingered too long. Ah, but what the hell else would he do with his life if he did take a hike?
