Queen of Humbolt

by Tagan Shepard

  She never forgot how Marisol had used her and lied to her, but her stomach had fluttered with anticipation each time the file returned to her desk. She certainly hadn’t expected to be moved, but the bleak tale would be enough to move anyone. There wasn’t much about her early life apart from a few minor shoplifting and pick-pocketing offenses. References to her association with a prostitute ended when the woman had been found dead in her cheap hotel room. Detroit PD had dragged Marisol in for questioning, and, reading between the lines, had suspected she knew something about the crime.

  Sloane reminded herself, while she watched Marisol drop to take another mouthful from the bowl, that she’d lived a hard life. Working the case back in her office, Sloane had thought she was little better than a ticking time bomb. Seeing her adapt to the incredible situation they found themselves in here, she realized how heartless that assessment had been. Then there was the story about Marisol saving her life. Apparently repeatedly. She still hadn’t worked out whether she believed it. Or whether she believed any of the rest of it.

  The moment the last of the rice was in her mouth, Sloane dropped the bowl, letting it clatter against the beaten earth floor.

  “Are you really a spy?”

  “I wouldn’t be a very good spy if I blabbed about my work to the first pretty face, now would I?”

  Sloane chose to ignore the flirting since it was so obviously a trick. “That’s not an answer.”

  “No,” Marisol said as she straightened and tried to flex her shoulders. The ropes prevented most of her movements and she winced. “It isn’t.”

  “You’ve lied to me before.”

  “And I’ll probably lie to you again.”

  This was going nowhere and Sloane growled her next question, “Why have you saved my life so often? If you really have.”

  Someone pounded on the door, making Sloane jump. Shouting outside seemed to indicate that they were being too loud. She got up and moved across the room on tiptoe. She may not like Marisol’s company, but it was preferable to Hulk.

  “Answer my question,” she said in a whisper, kneeling next to Marisol.

  “If I answer you this once, will you stop asking?”

  “No.”

  Marisol laughed, deep and throaty and they were so close that Sloane swore she felt the vibrations of it. “You’re an exasperating woman, Brin.”

  Sloane held her body very still. Leave it to Marisol to take a liberty she had neither asked for nor been granted. As the holder of one of the most esteemed offices in the nation, few people dreamt of calling her by anything but her last name or title. She had come to think of herself as Sloane when she thought of herself at all, and those occasions were increasingly rare. None of her friends even called her Sabrina. No one but Marisol had ever called her Brin, and that only once but she had to admit she found the name beautiful. It was the sort of nickname she might like to have if she ever allowed herself space to be someone other than her job. To hear Marisol speak to her so familiarly, especially after all they’d shared so long ago, made her stomach flip.

  “The night before your Inauguration I was…working on something else.”

  “Spying?”

  “I told you I’m only answering one question.”

  She didn’t like the evasion, but she’d interviewed enough witnesses to know she often got more if she let them speak freely.

  “I found some documents. Maps, schedules, diagrams. They all had the official police seals.”

  “Impossible.”

  “You sure about that?”

  The more she thought about it, the less sure she became. She hadn’t made many friends during her time in the Prosecutor’s office. Powerful men didn’t like being challenged and, in many cases, prosecuted by, a woman. Particularly a gay woman who wasn’t impressed by them, whether they wore a suit or a badge.

  “I can’t imagine someone in the State Police hated me enough to kill me.”

  “Not state. Chicago PD.”

  Sloane’s stomach dropped. It couldn’t be true, could it? The day had been such a blur, but, if she focused, she could remember a few things were out of the ordinary. Whispered conferences at the periphery of her vision. State Police and Chicago Police officers shouting at each other, squaring off in that aggressively masculine way that usually indicated powerlessness. And during her speech, right in the center of the crowd at her feet, Marisol with her arm around her on-again, off-again girlfriend. Had she really been fresh from the murder of potential assassins?

  For a long, heart-stopping moment, Marisol stared into her eyes. There was an honesty in her gaze, a look that Sloane knew should make her wary. She kept quiet, pleading for answers with her silence, but the moment shattered and clouds of deceit rolled back across Marisol’s eyes.

  “We should take his advice,” Marisol said in a low, even tone. “Get some sleep.”

  Sloane nearly said she wasn’t tired. She nearly shouted in frustration. She nearly reached out and shook Marisol by the shoulders, demanding answers. Instead, she squeezed her hands tightly together until her fury receded. It was the feeling of helplessness that annoyed her as much as Marisol’s dodge. Neither of them would be helped by a temper tantrum. So she nodded and backed up several feet, lying down at a respectable distance from her fellow prisoner.

  Rather than lie down herself, Marisol rolled onto her back and worked her booted feet around the rope binding her hands. Her hands now in front of her, she hopped to her feet with surprising agility and prowled the perimeter of the room, stopping for a long moment to listen at the door and even longer to squint through one of the holes in the exterior wall. When she arrived at an alcove in the far corner, she sneered and swatted at the air, thick with flies. With a sigh she delved into the closet-sized room, her face even more disgusted when she emerged a short while later, buttoning her pants.

  “I wouldn’t trust the water in the sink, but at least the toilet flushes.”

  Suddenly Sloane was very happy she’d been escorted to the airplane’s bathroom because she had no intention of using the facilities here. Marisol gave the room one last, searching look before stepping back through her bonds. Sloane almost asked why she’d do such a thing, but even she could recognize the benefits of hiding how easy it had been for her to gain some freedom.

  She watched Marisol lie down, face first in the dirt and try to adjust her body to as natural a position as her bonds allowed. Within moments she was fast asleep, the rhythmic rise and fall of her back and the darting movements of her eyes under closed lids proof that this, at least, was no act.

  Sloane watched her for a long time. The lines of weariness and pain slowly smoothed out until she almost looked like a child. A little girl at peace. Remembering Marisol’s file and the cold, matter-of-fact information Mother: unknown. Father: unknown. Siblings: unknown. Next of kin: unknown, Sloane realized for the first time that this woman had never been an ordinary little girl. The thought made her want to cry, but she forced herself not to.

  More than pity, more than fear, the sight of Marisol at peace made her heart thud. Now that she had time to study the lines of that extraordinary body, the feelings she’d fought since waking up in bed next to this gorgeous woman wearing a cocky half-smile bubbled to the surface again.

  She finally admitted to herself that it was not just Marisol’s beauty. It was one thing when Marisol was a criminal. A killer. Now there was a chance Marisol was more than that, something better, and Sloane found herself both terrified and excited by the prospect. Whole new possibilities opened up.

  Possibilities, yes, but not exactly new ones. Sloane had been told once before that Marisol was more than just an outlaw.

  Chapter Nineteen

  2019

  Leaning on the railing of the second-floor balcony, Sloane did her best not to sneer at the sight below her. The Grand Ballroom of The Drake Hotel was bursting with tuxedos and diamonds. Just Sloane and nine hundred of her closest friends drinking ridiculously expensive champagne
paid for by the reelection fund her campaign manager had started the day after her landslide victory.

  A particularly loud burst of laughter carried through the room. Sloane groaned as she recognized her campaign manager’s fake laugh. She’d thought she’d be able to take a break after the campaign was over. She had been naïve. If anything, the campaigning had only just begun. The thought left a bitter taste that couldn’t be washed away with the glass of delicious Chardonnay she was nursing.

  In truth she didn’t really know these people and she certainly didn’t like them, but they’d believed in her message enough to put her in office and she owed them a night of fake smiles and glad-handing. She didn’t have to like it though. If it were up to Sloane, there would be no party. The parade this afternoon and the speeches after her swearing in had been bad enough.

  She had already begun the work of being Governor, despite the protests of her friends who’d insisted she’d have enough long nights in the coming four years. She had work to do cleaning up the state government. As far as she was concerned, that job had started the moment she’d been elected, and it didn’t require a black tie gala. It required long hours and hard work.

  A waft of something that may have been cologne or may have been perfume caught her attention as she felt the heat of another person close behind her. Too close.

  “You look like you need a friend.”

  The voice was familiar, but it took her a moment to place. The magnetic presence was far easier for Sloane to identify. She turned and had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping. It had been four years since she’d deposed Marisol in the Willow matter, ten since their weekend together, but Sloane’s mind had been on her many times since. Now Marisol stood before her in a perfectly tailored tuxedo and thin black bow tie that somehow managed to be entirely feminine and entirely, deliciously androgynous at the same time. The sight of her was a thrill, but the echo of her voice was nothing short of mesmerizing. Like honey-laced whiskey.

  Sloane allowed herself ten or twelve seconds to drink it in before turning away. “Not from the likes of you, Marisol Soltero.”

  Sloane felt the woman’s deep chuckle more than heard it. “I’m honored you remember me, Governor.”

  “I keep tabs on all the lawbreakers in my town.” The answer was smooth enough, but Sloane cursed herself for letting that slip. It wouldn’t do her former office any good for Marisol to know she was being watched. “Which makes me wonder how you got into my party. I don’t recall inviting any criminals.”

  With a sneer that matched Sloane’s, Marisol came and stood next to her, surveying the crowd.

  “You’re fooling yourself if you think that. But you’re too smart to really believe they’re all upstanding citizens.”

  Sloane’s gaze was drawn to a man moving through the crowd below her. A defense attorney of the worst sort. He knew his clients were guilty and used every nasty trick he could to have them acquitted. They paid him in blood money and he cashed every check without remorse. She’d investigated him but couldn’t find anything unlawful. It was men like him who had inspired her to run for office and close the loopholes they walked through every day. Sloane had to admit his presence proved Marisol right.

  Marisol raised her glass and Sloane’s nostrils filled with the mingled scents of rich, musky cologne and smoky, well-aged tequila. She was reminded that Marisol had expensive tastes. Tastes that were funded by activities far more obviously criminal than the attorney’s. She stood up and turned to face Marisol.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “I have an influential friend.”

  Dominique Levy. Of course. The actress had been very supportive of Sloane’s campaign. She was also involved with Marisol again if the tabloid pictures of the two of them were any judge.

  “Then you should rejoin that friend.”

  Marisol moved closer, bringing the musky cologne and her heat with her. Sloane’s senses swam as Marisol brought her lips to within inches of her face. She could smell the tequila on Marisol’s breath, but it wasn’t the alcohol that made Sloane’s mouth water. There was something of the liquor in Marisol’s eyes, too. Her pupils were wide in the balcony’s low light.

  “I am capable of keeping more than one friend happy, Governor Sloane.”

  Sloane hated herself for the heat that spread across her cheeks and even more for the images that raced through her mind. She forced herself to replace those images with others. Photographs of crime scenes attributed to this woman. Hate burned away the lust. It gave her voice a sharp edge.

  “You are a criminal. A killer. Probably a pimp. The idea that I would lower myself to…”

  “Thinking of lowering yourself, eh?” Marisol pressed her body forward, so close barely a particle of air could squeeze between her tailored tux and Sloane’s shimmering, floor-length gown. “I had a little something else in mind. You see…”

  Sloane didn’t trust herself to hear the end of that suggestion. She spun on her heel and marched away with as much dignity as her watery knees would allow. Marisol’s low, throaty chuckle followed her down the stairs. Sloane didn’t dare turn around, even to level a warning glare, since she knew her cheeks were burning redder than ever.

  She made straight for the women’s bathroom, slamming the heel of her palm into the carved mahogany door. It swung easily on well-greased hinges, revealing the plush red chairs and settees of the sitting area. The moment the door swung shut behind her, she vented her anger with such force she nearly spilled her wine.

  “Of all the insufferable, arrogant…”

  Sloane stopped dead when she saw a pale calf peeking out from the slit in a pearl grey evening gown. Dominique Levy sat on a low stool in front of a vanity, a tube of bright-red lipstick hovering halfway to her lips. She had the elegant poise of a classic movie star paired with the confidence of an older woman who knew herself. There was a twinkle in her eye as she finally applied the lipstick and Sloane knew her embarrassment showed plainly on her face.

  “I’m sorry. I thought I was alone.”

  Dominique dropped the lipstick into her clutch and snapped it shut before swiveling to face her. “Not at all. I think perhaps I’m the one who owes you an apology.”

  “I don’t know what you…”

  “I take it you’ve met my ‘plus one.’”

  “We… Yes. I ran into her.”

  She laughed and the sound was like church bells ringing in the distance. “You must forgive Marisol. She is…very confident.”

  Sloane let a million responses die on her tongue. All she could think of was the smoke and pepper from tequila on Marisol’s breath. Anger flared unexpectedly and her words burst out before she could stop them.

  “How could you associate with that woman? She’s…She’s…”

  “She is quite special, I agree.”

  “I was going to say unbearable. Crass. Despicable.”

  In a fluid movement that defied her sky-high heels Dominque rose to her feet. She showed no hint of annoyance at Sloane’s characterization. She smiled languidly, not unlike Marisol. Sloane found herself wondering if they’d developed the similar expression over lazy mornings in bed and a spark of jealousy flared before she could douse it.

  “Marisol is a woman of great honor. She simply…expresses it differently than we might,” Dominque said as Sloane emptied her glass. The wine had warmed considerably and the bouquet of butter and honeysuckle bloomed in her mouth. “You may come to hold her in as high esteem as I do one day.”

  Sloane lowered the glass, snorting into it at the thought.

  “I doubt that very much.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Gentle fingers ran through Marisol’s hair. She didn’t remember her dream, but there was a lingering sweetness in her mind that was stoked by the caress. She tried to remember the last time she’d received such an intimate touch and came up blank. She kept her eyes closed and let herself believe it was Sloane touching her like this.

  The
happy bubble of hope burst when Jordan whispered in her ear. “Marisol? Wake up.”

  “I wasn’t asleep.”

  “Shh!” Jordan’s fingers pressed against her lips. “I don’t want her to wake up. I want a minute alone with you.”

  Marisol opened her eyes to find Jordan’s face alarmingly close. She’d lain next to Marisol, the lengths of their bodies almost touching. The daylight glowing through the holes in the walls was gone and the room was much colder. She tried unsuccessfully to hold back her shiver.

  “Just hear me out,” Jordan whispered.

  She looked quieter. Calmer now they had landed. For a moment in the muted light from the bare bulb overhead, she looked like the young, relatively innocent woman Marisol had taken to bed all those years ago. The stench of dirt and old blood reminded her pointedly that Jordan was not, in fact, that woman.

  “Start talking,” Marisol growled.

  “My boss’ll be here soon. You know who he is?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “He’s not a nice guy.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Around here they call him El Obispo.”

  Her earlier guess confirmed, she decided to play dumb and get as much from Jordan as she could. “The Bishop? He’s a priest?”

  “God, no,” she hissed, her eyes darting around the room. “He likes to wear those starched collars so he looks like a priest, but no one would ever confuse him for someone holy. Around here, when anyone sees him coming, they start praying.”

  Marisol swallowed hard. She’d heard the stories. Not from Jordan or those in Washington, but from women in The Hotel. Most of them spoke about him in terrified whispers, the way Jordan was now, but she wasn’t crying. And had no scars.

  “Why would you work for a man like that?” Marisol asked. “I never asked you to…”