Over the Line

by Kelly Irvin

  Good people who involved a college kid in gun smuggling.

  “How do you sleep at night, knowing the assault rifles you sell kill innocent women and children, kill police officers who are outgunned and outmanned?” Eli shut his mouth. He supported the Second Amendment. People who abused it, on the other hand, were a pain in his backside.

  Gonzalez snorted. “You’re a cop. You know better. Guns don’t kill people. People do.” He turned back to the computer, the stony look on his face making it clear the conversation was more than over.

  “Good luck with the Feds.” Eli grabbed Gabriella’s elbow and tugged her through the aisle.

  Outside, he spat on the sidewalk, knowing full well it was a habit she despised.

  She scooted away from him as if his aim might be bad. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Guys like that get to me. He knew Garza wasn’t starting a collection or going hunting with that kind of firepower. How can he even say that with a straight face? It irritates me.”

  “Yeah, I know. Want me to drive?” Obvious desire in her expression, Gabby eyed the Charger. She loved a fast car. Most of the time she drove like an officer involved in a high-speed chase. Fat chance she’d get her hands—sweet as they were—on his wheels. “Uh-oh.”

  “In your dreams.” He followed her gaze. “What is he doing here?”

  Deacon Alder leaned against the Charger, both thumbs punching a smartphone. He didn’t seem to notice Eli’s approach. “You apparently have a death wish, Alder. Do not lean on my car.”

  Alder looked up with exaggerated slowness. He straightened and moved an inch or two. “Oh, there you are. I was just coming in.”

  “What are you doing here? Are you following us?”

  Gabby sounded as surprised as Eli felt. Like she hadn’t encouraged the guy with the interview at the scene. Just like she’d been encouraging him with New York strip steaks, homemade onion rings, and key lime pie at the restaurant. Of all the guys to latch on to her.

  “He’s fishing for a story, that’s what he’s doing.” Eli checked the beautiful midnight-black paint job on the Charger. If Alder scratched it, he’d be paying—through the nose. “He doesn’t care that putting this stuff in the paper could hurt innocent people.”

  “I’ve read his stuff. He’s pretty responsible.” Gabby shrugged. “Besides, he doesn’t have enough to write a story.”

  “Which is why he’s here.”

  “You know, I am standing right here.” Alder waved his phone toward the sporting goods store. “I admit it. I’ve been following Detective Cavazos. You’d think a cop would notice that. Maybe you’re just a little distracted by your personal relationship to Gabriella. Maybe they should take you off this case. Give it to someone more objective.”

  The guy was actually angling to keep them apart.

  “Please don’t make this personal.” Gabby stepped in front of Eli. He considered forcibly moving her so he could get to the jerk. “We’re leaving now. Eli’s giving me a ride, that’s all.”

  “Careful. It’s never good practice to lie to a reporter. You’ll always be found out. I’m going in now to interview Mr. Gonzalez—yes, I know his name—my sources at the ATF know his name too.” Alder inched into Gabby’s space. She didn’t back away. “This is the part I love about my job. Putting all the pieces together like a giant jigsaw puzzle. I’m just sorry it somehow involves you and your brother, Jake.”

  He already had too many pieces. Eli relaxed his fists and tried to negotiate instead of pounding the guy’s face into dog meat. “Writing a story about this before we figure out who killed the victim could put a lot of people in jeopardy. The cartel doesn’t mess around.” Eli glanced at Gabby. “It could put innocent bystanders in danger. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  Alder had the grace to look uncomfortable. “There are risks, but it’s my job to let the public know what’s going on in their city. I’m the watchdog, so citizens can be informed and participate. That’s the role of the fourth estate. That’s what makes the system work.”

  “You just keep telling yourself that.” Eli nudged Gabby toward the car. “Let’s go. It’s noon already. We don’t have time to waste.”

  “Where are you headed?” Alder had the audacity to look as if he expected a straight answer. “Just out of curiosity.”

  “To Laredo.” Gabby spoke before Eli could tell the guy to take a hike in the Sahara. “To find my brother. If you learn anything from your sources, will you call me?”

  “I will. I promise.” He patted her hand. “Be careful.”

  “She will be. It’s my job to make sure.” Who did this guy think he was? Obviously the connection between them had grown. Eli gritted his teeth and opened Gabby’s door for her. She avoided his gaze and slid in. He shut the door and glared at Alder. “Back off, Alder. I’m not kidding. If somebody has to get hurt, I’d rather it be you than her.”

  “Same here.”

  He was still standing on the sidewalk when Eli glanced in his rearview mirror and pulled from the curb. Alder didn’t look so happy now.

  Chapter 7

  Deacon shoved his reluctance in his pocket along with his reporter’s notebook. He sat in his SUV outside the Benoit house, giving himself a pep talk. Interviewing Gabriella’s sister felt wrong. Gabriella was a friend, but he had no choice. The job demanded it. A job he might lose if he didn’t produce a knock-’em-dead story. Rumor had it there would be another round of layoffs in the coming weeks. The newsroom was a ghost town already. Not surprising considering newspapers were dinosaurs in a digital world. Reporters were like rotary landline phones.

  With law enforcement stonewalling, his only lead at this point was Jake Benoit’s family. Natalie Benoit Ferrari was a respected psychologist who’d worked with children who were victims of crime. She would make a good interview in a pinch. If she came to the door.

  A brutal sun beating on his back, he strode up to the house. Sweat soaked his shirt. He wiped at his face and rapped on the door of Gabriella’s Spanish-style two-story adobe house with a red tile roof that matched the red roses trailing from the arches in front. A metal ramp covered with a thin black rubber tread wound its way to a wraparound porch and an arched rustic door that featured a hummingbird in a stained-glass window.

  “All right. All right.” Either Natalie Ferrari had a deep, gravelly voice of a smoker, or she had company. “Give me a second.”

  Fumbling sounds followed by latches releasing served as a preamble to the opening of the door. The man staring out at Deacon was in his late twenties. He had a military-style buzz cut, a muscled physique, an eagle tattoo on both arms, and a high-end, obviously expensive prosthesis that substituted for his right leg. “What?”

  Deacon peeked over the guy’s shoulder. No females in sight. He introduced himself and held out his hand. The man ignored it. “What do you want?”

  “I’d like to talk to Dr. Ferrari. Is she here?”

  “Why?”

  This guy was annoying. “That would be between Dr. Ferrari and me.”

  The door started to shut.

  “Marty!” A voice that sounded vaguely familiar emanated from the hallway. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Deacon Alder from the Express-News. Is that you, Dr. Ferrari? I’d like to talk to you for just a few minutes.”

  The woman handled her wheelchair with practiced ease. She was thin, but her arms had the muscles of a person who worked out. Deacon was too busy staring at her face to see much else. Gabriella was a pretty woman. Her sister, on the other hand, was stop-the-presses gorgeous. Auburn hair, peaches-and-cream complexion. Blue-rimmed glasses magnified gray eyes. A beautiful mouth. Belatedly, he shut his own mouth. She stared up at the man. “Marty, please don’t manage me.”

  “He’s a reporter, Nat. You don’t want to talk to him.”

  “You’re Gabriella’s reporter.” She smiled at Deacon. A high-wattage, blinding smile. “My sister talks about you a lot. You’re the dessert fanatic.”

&n
bsp; “That’s me. I’ve gained five pounds since I started eating at Courtside. Gabriella is wasted on those lawyers and cops. She should be cooking for presidents and kings. There’d be no more war—”

  Marty’s snort stopped him dead. Stupid thing to say. The guy had Afghanistan vet written all over him.

  Dr. Ferrari eased her chair a little closer, a simple barrier between Deacon and her apparent bodyguard. “I’m sorry. Deacon, this is Martin Little, our neighbor.”

  Deacon again offered his hand. Nothing little about this muscle-bound giant. This time Marty took it. His grip crushed a few bones. Deacon tried not to wince as he turned back to Natalie. “I’d really like to ask you a few questions about your brother.”

  She shook her head. “If this is about the murder victim. I’m so very sorry for his family, but I have no idea how that connects to Jake or his work. None of us do.”

  Deacon peeked into the interior and caught glimpses of dark wood and warm, earthy Southwest colors. A dog woofed. Cool air brushed his face. “You know, it’s hotter than blue blazes out here. Do you mind if I come in?”

  Bicep muscles bulging in her arms, Dr. Ferrari wheeled her chair around. “I can only give you a few minutes. The kids are upstairs deciding what to take to Marty’s house while I’m gone.”

  “Nat—”

  She frowned up at Marty. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to leave. Thanks for the offer to take care of the kids. And the pets.”

  His expression grim, he nodded. “Call me or send Cullen over.”

  Marty brushed past Deacon and disappeared through the door. He handled the prosthesis well, his gait smooth.

  She was going to Laredo. Why not go with her sister? Gabriella didn’t want her to go? More family dynamics. He quickly moved to the living room before she changed her mind. A bulldog raised his head, looked Deacon over, and went back to sleep. Deacon laid his mini-digital recorder on the coffee table. She glanced at it but didn’t say anything. Deacon hurried to fill the awkward pause. “You can’t tell me what your brother was working on?”

  “I haven’t talked to Jake since last week.” Her hands fluttered in the air in an expressive gesture, then dropped to a book on her lap. “And when we did talk, it wasn’t about work. He’d call to tell me a joke. That was his shtick—tell Gimpy Girl a joke, make her laugh, once a week, without fail. He never told—never tells the same joke twice.”

  “Sounds like a good guy.”

  “The best.” An obese cat eyed the doctor’s lap and then settled at her feet, obviously too heavy to make the leap. “He acts like nothing has changed.” She slapped the arms of her chair. “Like I’m still me. I’m still the same person.”

  He’d read the articles about the car accident and the death of her husband. “You are the same person, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, trapped in a body that doesn’t work and missing the 180 pounds that belonged to my husband, but yes, I’m the same person.”

  “How long has your brother been with the ATF?”

  Slowly he drew her out. She told the story of a young guy who enlisted out of high school, did two tours in Afghanistan, finished college, joined the ATF, and never stopped cracking jokes.

  “You think that’s a defense mechanism?”

  Her beautiful lips curved in a smile. “You’re a smart man. Our family . . . Gabriella is the glue that has held us together through some monumentally bad . . . I’m sorry. This really doesn’t have anything to do with anything, Mr. Alder—”

  “Deacon.”

  “Please call me Natalie.” She laid the book on the table that separated them. “My family history is no more tragic than the next family’s. Did you get what you came for?”

  Movement behind her caught his gaze.

  What the—? Gun barrels . . . big ones . . . men . . . camouflage . . . At least three of them filtered into the room in seconds without making a single sound.

  Deacon shot to his feet. The bulldog barked. The cat echoed the high piercing sound and burrowed under the couch. Too late, Deacon realized he’d stepped on it.

  “Natalie, look out!”

  Natalie didn’t have a chance to turn around. The barrel of a semiautomatic weapon pressed against her neck. She froze, her pewter eyes wide, staring at him. Her hands gripped the wheelchair. She didn’t seem to breathe.

  Deacon started forward.

  “You want the lady to get hurt, do something stupid, señor.”

  A man dressed in fatigues, a bulletproof vest, and spit-shine Army boots spoke through a black ski mask. His accent suggested a border town.

  Deacon halted, hands in the air.

  “Señora, turn around. Slowly. Gently.” The gargantuan man eased the gun from her head.

  Natalie obeyed. “What do you want?”

  “Information.”

  Natalie backed her chair up and stopped at Deacon’s side. Her gaze caught his. Anger overshadowed fear. The woman was Gabriella’s sister in more than one way. Her fingers grabbed his. He tightened his hand around hers, offering her the only lifeline he could.

  “You could’ve knocked on the door and asked.” Her tone was crisp. “That’s how civilized people ask for information. What would you like to know?”

  Camouflage Man approached. His weapon bore down on them. “You are Natalie Ferrari?”

  “I am.”

  “Where is the other sister who lives here, Ms. Benoit?”

  “Not here.” Natalie’s voice had a breathless quality as if she’d been running. Right. Running. Glancing down at the thin, jean-clad legs in the wheelchair, Deacon considered his chances of scooping her up and diving out a window before a bullet found its way into the soft tissue of his back.

  Not without her children.

  “And the phone?”

  “What phone?”

  “Alberto Garza’s cell phone.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Natalie let go of Deacon’s hand. “You’re in the wrong place. My sister’s not here, and there’s no spare phone lying around.”

  The man’s soft growl sent a chill revving up Deacon’s spine. “You don’t want to lie to me.”

  Natalie lifted her chin “I don’t lie—”

  “You’re Jake Benoit’s sister. Alberto Garza was his snitch. He gave his phone to your sister. She brought it here. This phone is very important to my employer.” He spoke to the other men in Spanish. Deacon understood the gist of it. Search the house. “Cooperate and everyone will be fine. It serves no purpose to struggle and bring harm to yourself or someone else.”

  “If Gabriella had the phone, she wouldn’t bring it here. She would give it to the police.”

  “It is my sincere hope that she did not. It is your only hope of getting your brother back alive.”

  “I’m sorry. There’s no phone.”

  “Lay your phones on the table.”

  They had no choice but to comply. Natalie’s sparkly purple encased phone next to Deacon’s black one.

  “Passwords please.”

  A short, fat man squatted and examined them, one by one. He shook his head at Camouflage Man.

  Natalie’s chair started forward. Deacon grabbed the handles and held on. He admired her guts, but if ever there was a time for restraint, it was now.

  The other men rifled through magazines, opened drawers in the desk in the corner, and examined books on the shelves. All in an orderly fashion at odds with the guns and masks. In the meantime Camouflage Man approached Natalie. Her expression didn’t change. Their gazes held. He bent over. The tip of his weapon touched her cheek. “I need to know where your sister is.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You do know, and you’re going to tell me.”

  “Mommy! Cullen took the tablet. I want the tablet. He’s not giving it back!”

  The high, aggravated voice preceded light steps on the stairs.

  “Oh no, oh please, Ava!” Natalie revved her chair forward.

  “No, no.” Camouflage M
an flung himself in her path. He turned toward the stairs. “What do we have here, una chiquita? Qué bella.”

  He met a little girl who was the spitting image of Natalie at the bottom of the steps.

  She stopped, her petite face frozen with uncertainty. “Mommy?”

  “Ava!” Natalie’s scream said it all. Deacon darted forward. Camouflage Man whipped his weapon out so the barrel pointed at Deacon’s face. “No, no, no.”

  Deacon stopped. His heart slammed against his rib cage. Blood pounded in his ears. The sensation like ocean waves rising and falling in his lungs made it hard to breathe. “Come on, dude. She’s just a little girl.”

  Camouflage Man swooped the girl up with one arm. “Why don’t we call this Cullen downstairs too, m’hijita, while tu mama decides whether to tell us where your tía is?”

  Chapter 8

  Gunshots. A sharp jerk on the seat belt jolted Gabriella from semi-nightmarish dreams that echoed with gunfire. The car had stopped. “Are we there?”

  Eli eased the Charger into Park. “We’re in Dilley.”

  Rubbing sleep from her eyes, Gabriella straightened. After a few seconds she focused on her surroundings. They weren’t just in the tiny town of Dilley, a small blip on the highway between San Antonio and Laredo, they were at the Dairy Queen. Her pulse did an erratic tap dance. Her breath caught in her throat. “Oh no. No, you don’t get to do this. Start the car. Now.”

  Eli’s grin said fat chance. “I’m hungry and we never drive to Laredo without getting a Dilly Bar in Dilley. Remember, ice cream is a—”

  “Food group, I know. We are not taking a stroll down memory lane. We’re going to Laredo to find my brother. Every minute counts.” She shoved her door open. A whoosh of air steamed by afternoon sun seared her face. “If you don’t get this heap moving right now, I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  The engine revved. She slammed the door. The car ripped back, and her head banged against the headrest. “This is not a heap. The drive-through it is, then. It’s almost two, and you haven’t eaten today. It won’t slow us down, and you don’t have to enjoy it.”