by Robena Grant
He eyed the lounge for a few moments then eased back around. The young guy seated next to him took a swig from his beer bottle but kept his eyes glued to the television. ESPN showed a replay of a Lakers game.
“Yeah,” the guy yelled. He pumped the air with a fist, lifted his rear from the barstool and slapped the bar. “Thirty seconds, it’s in the bag. Kobe’s back. Best fuckin’ player—”
“Hey,” Janelle said, and shot a look that subdued the guy.
“Sorry.” He raised both hands and shrugged. Then he gave Jack a bleary-eyed grin. “Had to work and missed the game.”
Jack gave a slight tilt of his glass toward the TV. “Exciting stuff.”
“Yeah.” The guy eyed him up and down. “You here for the Thanksgiving holiday?” He tried to sit up straighter, stared at the hat on the bar, and then slumped back down. “You’re a cowboy, right?”
“I’ve got property in Montana, but I’m looking to buy here—”
“Hang on…commercial’s over…last thirty seconds.”
Jack nodded. As a rule, he avoided engaging in conversation with those who couldn’t hold their liquor, but at this stage of the game he’d talk to anyone. He watched the replay, slapped the guy a high five when the Lakers won, even though he’d seen the full game and knew the outcome. The guy stuck out his hand. “Larry Trigg. Most everyone round these parts calls me Trigger or Trig.”
“Jack Davis.”
“Montana’s great country,” Trig said, and released Jack’s hand. “Never been, but I’ve heard tell. So, Cowboy, why are you looking to move here?”
“It’s warmer.”
Trig nodded and his eyes narrowed for a split second. “Saw you writing in a notebook coupla nights ago.” He jerked his chin up and toward the back corner booth of the lounge.
Jack gave a short laugh and faked bashfulness. “I’m writing a novel.”
“Really?” Janelle said. She beamed at him and moved closer as she wiped the top of the bar. “I’m writing a mystery…well, in my spare time at college.”
“Great.” Who would’ve guessed that? He’d sweated bullets over every college paper. He continued to smile and nod, and then took a sip of beer. Maybe he could sway this topic back toward sports.
“We don’t have cattle spreads like in Montana,” Trig said. He snickered and almost fell off the stool. “Too damn hot for cows.”
“Have you lived here all of your life?” Jack asked, thankful for Trig’s focus on ranching and not writing. Yet, he sensed a cat and mouse game going on.
“Yeah.” Trig nodded his head a couple of times.
One minute the guy seemed drunk and the next sober and sharp as hell. Jack wouldn’t risk a deep discussion on farming versus ranching, or writing a thriller vs. a mystery, in case Janelle or Trig knew more than he’d had the chance to study about either subject. Always best to ask the questions, that was his motto.
“It’s a good community, right? Safe for families, good schools, not too much crime.”
“It’s safe.”
Jack took another sip of beer. “I read about the gruesome murder. That one last week or so.”
“Nothing to do with us,” Trig said, and bristled. “A drifter.”
“Oh. I hadn’t heard that. I wondered.”
“Yeah.” Trig nodded and looked around the room.
Janelle moved to the other end of the bar and attended to a young couple who had just walked in. Trig angled his lean body toward Jack and lowered his voice. “It might make a good novel. Drug related.”
“Are drugs a big problem in this area?”
“Along the borders. Cali, Arizona, Texas. Arizona border is considered HIDTA.”
Jack almost nodded, but caught himself in time. “What does HIDTA mean?”
Trig’s eyes registered his surprise. Jack had guessed right. The guy was quizzing him under the guise of being a friendly, harmless drunk. He tossed the acronym out there to trip him up. Have to get up darn early to trap me little brother. Jack took a swig of beer and tilted back on the bar stool.
“High intensity drug trafficking area. The drug cartels have become more daring, even been resorting to kidnappings lately.” Trig shrugged. “It’s been in all the papers. Even small time drug dealers are held for ransom until they pay up to the big-time-lords over the border. Threats of dismemberment…that sort of stuff and—”
“So you think the order to murder came from some head honcho of a drug cartel?”
“Nah, that’s not the Kingpin’s M.O. They left the dude’s ID on him.”
Jack frowned, leaned forward. It seemed the guy knew a lot about the case. He’d have to play even dumber. Could be he was another undercover agent. He’d known a lot of undercover guys who deliberately put themselves out there as highly colorful characters bringing attention to themselves in a reverse psychology way. But then again, could be he was involved in something nefarious. He deepened his frown.
Trig laughed, raised both hands, and wriggled his fingers. “His ID…fingers…his hands. You know, fingerprints.”
“Oh,” Jack said, with a nod. He lifted his glass and noticed Trig’s bottle was half empty. “Can I buy you a beer?”
“Nah, but thanks. Got work to do.”
“So, you’re guessing they wanted the man’s death to be known?”
“Yeah, or they were stupid. Probably a small operation, weed, date drugs. They could have been sending a message to other dealers. We’re close to the border and there are miles of sand surrounding us. All kinds of deals can go down.”
Trig took another swig from the beer bottle but his eyes never left Jack’s face. Jack kept his expression bland. Trig wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, took a glance up at the television, and then looked back at Jack. “Weird shit though, that body cut up and left in a dumpster.”
Jack pressed his lips tight and nodded a few times. “That bothered me—the vicious attack—it didn’t sound like a small town drug-related crime.” He shrugged. “But then again, I don’t know much about those. Nothing like that happens where I live.”
“Yeah, most small-time drug stuff is handled clean.” The younger man laughed, showed a mouthful of crooked teeth and cocked his thumb and pointed his index finger against his temple to imitate a gun. “Pop! A drive-by shooting and it’s all over and done with.”
“Is there a gang problem out here?”
“Not too bad. Most of the tough gangs are in Riverside and San Bernadino.”
Jack sat back. Trig swallowed the rest of his beer, and put the bottle down on the bar. He seemed to straighten again and his speech cleared for a moment.
“I’ve been reading up on this. The Mexican government has shifted its focus from eradicating crops to seizing loads near the borders and targeting the Kingpins.”
Trig sounded well-informed and better educated than his appearance belied, and not as drunk as he’d first seemed. Jack observed him for a few seconds. Who the hell is he? And is he trying to find out who I am? As Jack framed another question in his mind, Trig almost slipped off the bar stool, readjusting back into his sloppy half-drunken state.
“We’ve got Latino—” He belched noisily. “’Scuse me, Latino farmers and their families out here…hard working guys. There’s good farming, date and citrus.”
“That’s why I’m looking around at land.”
“You might buy, huh?” Trig pushed out his lips and nodded. He indicated to Janelle she should close out his tab, and he pulled out a cheap vinyl wallet from his back pocket. “Don’t let that murder scare you.”
“Thanks. I won’t.” Jack took a sip of beer. He’d nursed it for over thirty minutes, and it was disgustingly lukewarm. “Thanks for the information…very helpful.”
Trig nodded. “She’s a looker, our Janelle.” His eyes roved over her small body as she walked to the cash register.
Jack’s eyes narrowed at the gleam in the other man’s eyes. “Yes, a nice young woman.”
“She’s only home for the
holiday.” Trig slapped a few bills on the bar. “Pity. See ya, Janelle,” he called out loudly. Then he nodded at Jack. “Catch you later, man.”
“Yes. I’m sure I’ll be back.”
Trig crossed the room, all loose-limbed walk, and somehow he managed to skirt the people who filled up Cliffs Bar without causing injury. Jack jiggled his shoulders and squinted. He’d have to keep his eye on young Trigger. He’d been giving him a coded message, but exactly what was it? I’m on your side? I’ve got your back? Or back off? Something didn’t seem quite right about him or their conversation.
Chapter Two
Debbie jogged up the wide steps into Rancho Almagro’s City Hall, late as usual. A goody two-shoes is never late for an appointment. She gave a short laugh. Maybe her rusty halo needed a polish. Still, the mayor had called personally, and he’d stressed the importance of her attendance. So despite the fact that the spa was busy and she was short staffed, she had to attend.
Anyway, the meeting would start on Almagro time—ten minutes late. She skidded to a stop at the auditorium door, trying to remember if she’d left the pistol Rachel gave her in her purse. What if there was a security check point inside the doors? It wasn’t registered to her. Her chest constricted and her lungs told the truth with a whistle of a wheeze. Darn, do I have asthma? Or is it stress?
She bent forward, pulled in a gasp of air, and the door opened wide. Dark gray lizard skin boots, the worn hem of blue jeans, and long, well-muscled thighs greeted her as she slowly raised her head to meet the dark scowl of a stranger.
“Watch it. You could have been hurt,” he said, and strode outside with his cell phone pressed to his ear.
Debbie let out a faint huff and smoothed her hair. She took in a long deep breath and composed herself. He should have apologized for almost knocking her onto her butt.
Still bristling, she stepped into the auditorium where the city manager stood at the lectern. She’d momentarily forgotten about the gun and breathed a sigh of relief that there was no check point.
“Ms. Williams, Debbie,” a female voice called.
Betty Blue’s daughter, Wendy, beckoned and the gold bangles at her wrist jangled.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” the city manager said into the microphone. “It is indeed a pleasure to introduce Rancho Almagro’s Mayor Valenti.”
“I’ve saved you a seat,” Wendy said in a hoarse whisper. Her entire body seemed to move, her hands fluttered, her long dangly earrings tinkled, her bangles clanked.
Applause for the mayor broke out. He walked to the mic and cleared his throat with a loud, “Ahem.”
With a quick smile at Wendy, Debbie shook her head and raised a finger to her lips. She wouldn’t move now, not as the mayor was about to speak. Besides, she hardly knew the young woman. After her mother’s accident last week, Wendy had come home to help run the boutique, but her mannerisms were odd, her attempts at conversation were strange, and she continued to be a bundle of nervous energy. Debbie doubted the woman had ever completed a sentence in her entire life. It was emotionally draining to be around Wendy, and she wasn’t sure she could handle that today.
“Good afternoon and welcome,” Mayor Valenti said loudly. His ruddy face creased into a familiar smile. “It has been brought to my attention…”
Debbie let the mayor’s words float in and out of her awareness. She stood on tiptoes and searched the auditorium. Her best gal pal, Rachel Copeland, sat in the third row beside Joe Barnes and his wife. There was a spare seat beside Rachel, and Debbie was certain she’d saved it for her, but she wouldn’t disturb the talk and walk down there. Every other seat had been taken, except one in the first row, but she was fine with that. She pressed her back up against the rear wall.
The stranger came in, amidst the applause, and glanced her way. “Sorry,” he whispered.
He strode down the aisle to the front row, the overhead lights shining on his dark, slightly too long hair. Had he apologized for the earlier encounter, or for walking inside once the talk was underway? She’d give him the benefit of the doubt, and reclassified him from arrogant to okay. Definitely a looker, but he knew it, and she averted her gaze.
Wendy stared her way again. Ever since the murder and managing the boutique, she’d clung to her like ivy to a brick wall, and she visited the spa daily to chat. She wanted something but didn’t know how to ask. Debbie sighed. She’d have to find the time to engage the woman fully, but not here, today.
“—and, our thanks go to Debbie Williams, the owner of The Healing Center. Where are you, Debbie?” The mayor shaded his eyes with one hand and looked out into the crowd.
Debbie raised her hand in a quick wave and smiled. Heads turned. She drew the black blazer tight, glad it covered her work T-shirt and blue jeans. The Mayor hadn’t mentioned he was going to acknowledge her. If she’d known…well, if the truth be told, she’d probably still have worn her work clothes. Rachel—like a good friend—stood, waved, and clapped. Debbie widened her smile. The dark-haired stranger swung his long jean clad legs into the aisle and turned his broad shoulders around.
“Thank you for organizing the neighborhood crime prevention meetings, Ms. Williams,” Mayor Valenti said. “Citizens like you—proactive members who rather than complain take action—help to make this city a wonderful place in which to live.”
The stranger’s eyes swept over her. Her body heated up and a burst of lust rocketed up her spine. It had been a long time since she’d felt anything like that. Unnerved, but covering her reaction, she glared at him. His mouth tweaked into a lopsided grin. She focused her attention on the mayor and breathed deeply to restore her heartbeat to its normal rhythm.
“This community cannot tolerate another shock like Betty Blue had,” Mayor Valenti said, and thumped one hand on the lectern.
No kidding. Betty had screamed so loudly she’d fainted and almost suffered a heart attack. Many of the attendees turned sympathetic glances in Wendy’s direction and a soft murmur of voices filtered through the auditorium. The stranger wrote on a yellow legal pad. He’d been seated in the front row, prime seating. Debbie found her eyes kept straying his way. He seemed out of place in this meeting, and for some reason, she saw him wearing a suit and tie instead of cowboy gear. Bet he’s a reporter.
“I vow to do my best to prevent these violent crimes,” Mayor Valenti said, his voice rising. “And thank you for your partnership in working to eradicate this unsavory element.”
Deputy Stanton stood to one side of the dais, next to the American flag. He watched the room, like the “unsavory element” would leap out from behind the heavy drapes at any second. He kept one hand on his holster. Debbie smiled. She’d give him his due; he was a good cop, and he’d gotten her out of many a scrape, or given her a warning when he should have given her a ticket. But that was years ago, when she was a harried young mother. She was much more responsible these days.
The town needed more cops like Dave, and she’d rallied the other store owners to petition for reinforcements. He scowled at the stranger, and Debbie followed his gaze, even more intrigued than before.
“Detective Quimby of the Riverside Sheriff’s Department will conduct this meeting,” Mayor Valenti said, extending his hand toward the man. “I’ll turn the microphone over now.”
Another dark shadow crossed Dave’s face. Almagro had a small police sub-station and contracted with the Sheriff’s Department in Riverside, the county seat. But still, Dave could have handled this meeting. She sensed unease in his posture, shame perhaps.
The silver-haired detective began his power-point display. The words Working in Partnership with Your Local Police Department flashed across the screen. There were soft groans from the attendees. Debbie couldn’t believe that the mayor had ignored their main reason for grouping. As usual, he’d turned the agenda to suit himself. He hadn’t broached the subject of hiring more cops.
“Let’s get started,” Detective Quimby said.
Debbie’s feet ached and
her calf muscles were tight. She’d started to jog again. It helped her to concentrate and not dwell on murder and murderers, but her muscles were sore and stiff today. Tomorrow she might even try the sunrise hike at the top of the cove. But she’d remember to stretch. Stretching is important.
She frowned when the detective pointed to the screen. They all knew this stuff. Then she reminded herself that she loved her hometown, would never live anywhere else, and she wanted it safe for her daughter. Maybe the detective would come up with a few pointers she’d missed, and that would be great because her determination to put the murderer behind bars had increased. She looked at the back of the stranger’s head. Not that she thought he was bad. But, there was always that chance.
Five minutes later, Debbie’s cell phone rang, the old Sonny and Cher song “I Got You Babe” blasting into the auditorium. Darn it, she’d forgotten to mute the phone. As she rushed outside, she blamed the stranger. He’d crashed into her and she’d gotten sidetracked.
“Are you going to that meeting today?” Janelle asked, and yawned loudly.
“It just started.”
“Sorry.”
“No problem.” Debbie sucked in another quick breath and pressed the phone harder against her ear.
“You shouldn’t be messing with that stuff, Mom. Leave it for the city officials to work out how to get more cops. You’re stressed out over this.”
“Right.” She bit at her lip, unable to tell her daughter that their livelihood demanded she make the town safe. Not that she feared for her own life, but she did fear that her clientele might leave. They might switch over to the plusher salons in Palm Desert or Palm Springs if they thought the Old Town mall had become unsafe. And then who would be chipping in toward grad school? She sucked in a quick breath, trying to tamp down that thought.
“I wondered if you’d swing by after work,” Janelle said.
