“What the …?” the guy muttered under his breath. I heard him, of course, because meta hearing. His phone dinged again, and he said, a little louder, “What the f—who the hell is Cassidy?”
That perked my ears up.
The phone dinged again. “What the—what the actual—what—”
I decided it was time to intervene, and popped my door open gently. “You almost done back there?” I asked Angel, purely as cover for what I was about to do.
“Yeah,” Angel said, voice thick with suspicion that probably ran along the lines of, I thought you were going to stay in the car and keep a low profile, why are you bopping out to ask me about something so stupidly trivial as whether I’m done pumping gas? Or something like that. I assumed.
The guy’s phone dinged three times in rapid succession and he was furiously tapping out a text in reply. “You’ve got...the wrong … number,” he muttered.
“Trying to ditch a weird girl who’s stalking you?” I asked, putting a little humor in my voice.
The guy glanced up at me, forced a strained smile, then looked back at his phone, instantly dismissing me but answering anyway out of distracted politeness. “Some chick has got the wrong number. I don’t even know a Cassidy.”
“Maybe she’s looking for a friend for the night?” I tried to be a little suggestive, but really I was just attempting to open him up to tell me what the damned message said, since I was pretty sure it was for me.
He paused, taking in this new, possibly pertinent to him information. He looked like a clear-cut dude-bro douchebag, manscaped to the nines and always looking for female company. He considered my suggestion, and I saw it all play out across his face in real time. “Maybe,” he said, “she does say to come by. Over and over, same message …” He started tapping away again at his next reply.
I had a feeling it wasn’t going to get him anywhere.
“Well, good luck,” I said, getting back in the car and shutting my door quickly, before he could offer any more interesting information.
Angel was only a few seconds behind me in getting into the car, heading right back after paying the attendant at the window. As soon as she got the door closed, she asked, “What the hell was that all about?”
“I know where we’re going next,” I said as she started the engine. “Richfield. Head south.”
She only stared at me with a weird look for a minute. “Okay,” she finally seemed to decide, putting the car in gear and easing us out of the parking lot and toward the southbound entrance to the freeway. “Care to tell me why?”
“In days of yore,” I started, figuring I’d have a little fun with my explanation, “people who were worried about the future or their course of action would consult an oracle. So that’s what we’re going to do.”
Angel’s face showed her confusion, but she still steered us onto 35W South and accelerated up to speed. “We’re … going to consult an oracle?”
“The modern-day equivalent, yeah.”
“And this oracle lives in Richfield, Minnesota?”
“Presently, yes,” I said. For reasons that escaped obvious classification. “I’ll tell you how to get there. For now, just … drive south, then take 62 west.” I found myself smiling, pleased that we’d gotten a little break in our case.
Because it was me, of course, and breaks … didn’t seem to come my way all that often, unless they were the type that happened to my bones.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Angel
Four Years Ago
“Jorge,” Angel said in surprise as Jorge came in through the glass door of her restaurant, a few men trailing behind him wearing suits and dark sunglasses. She was running front of house as well as cooking until her hostess showed up at 11:30. She didn’t have the budget to pay another staff member when hardly anyone showed up earlier.
“Hello, Angel,” Jorge said, leaning in and giving her a peck on the cheek like they were old friends, instead of two people who’d only met a couple days earlier. He still wore that charming smile, which was a dramatic contrast to the two men with him. They were both Caucasian, suited up, and looked thoroughly humorless. “These are some business associates of mine. Would you mind giving us the best table in the house?”
“The ‘table d’hote’?” Angel managed a smile though her nerves spiked. It was one thing to serve her cousin’s boyfriend in a pleasant, familial setting—and nearly burn her restaurant down in the process. Now he was bringing his colleagues in. A strange pressure pushed in on her, almost stealing Angel’s breath for a moment.
Don’t screw this up. Don’t screw this up.
But to the men in front of her, she only squeezed out a smile, ignored the pressure as best she could, and murmured, “If you’ll follow me …?”
The restaurant was a simple square; this was the tricky part of front of house. Some people—attention seekers, Angel considered them—preferred to be in the center of the room, where all the action was. Others would prefer a quiet table in the back. This was a split decision; Jorge felt like an attention seeker, but his friends? Quiet table in the back, all the way.
She split the difference and put them along one side of the room in the middle of a row of booths. That way they’d have plenty of room to spread out, but also be a little off the beaten path.
“Perfect,” Jorge said, oozing charm.
Angel let out a breath of relief. “I can take your drink order if you’d like, to start.”
Angel had a fleeting vision of them requesting drinks that would baffle a mixologist, let alone the substandard bartender she’d hired (who wouldn’t be arriving until 11:30, if she was lucky), but they ordered waters all around, which made it easy She dodged off to fill their water cups, sticking a lemon slice carefully on each rim and delivering them back just in time for the bell above the door to ring again.
“I’ll be with you in just a moment!” she called across the restaurant to the dark-haired woman standing by the hostess stand. To Jorge and his two dining companions, she asked, “Can I take your order?”
Two lunch specials and a round of chimichangas for Jorge. “They were so good,” Jorge said, handing her back the menu as he finished, “I couldn’t resist.”
“I’ll go get those started and bring you out some chips and salsa,” Angel said, already turning away. Fifteen minutes and her employees should start showing up, which would let her concentrate on the business of cooking instead of running around handling everything. Starting this business on a shoestring certainly did make things tough.
She was halfway to the kitchen when she remembered the other guest who was waiting at the entry. Turning around, she hurried back through the rows of tables to the hostess stand and found the woman waiting quietly for her there. Brownish hair, shoulder length, coiffed in a slight bob that went nicely with the very slight wrinkles that hinted she was middle-aged; the woman’s eyes burned with a quiet, watchful intensity as she stared at Angel.
“Table for …?” Angel asked. There was probably a more formal way of asking, but Angel had never really spent much time front of house. She preferred the kitchen and was only hostessing because paying an employee to just stand around between 11 and 11:30 seemed like a waste of money.
“Just me,” the dark-haired woman said smoothly.
“Perfect,” Angel said, quite content to deal with one person rather than a party of eight or something that’d be trickling in over the next ten minutes while she was trying to cook and cover all else. “If you’ll follow me …?”
She led the dark-haired woman to a table in the corner. Her quiet nature, the conservative cut of her grey suit … she cried out for a table off the beaten path. Once she was seated, Angel offered to get her a drink.
“House margarita on the rocks will be fine,” the woman said, never once smiling. Then she went back to looking at the menu.
“I’ll get that mixed up immediately,” Angel said, checking her watch. At least ten minutes until Gabe the bartender/relief wa
iter showed up. If he was on time … which Gabe seldom was. With a sigh, Angel headed for the bar, making a quick stop in the kitchen to dump a load of tortilla chips into the fryer for Jorge and his friends. It was already hot, fortunately.
Angel crossed the restaurant as she hurried to the bar. Lunch for Jorge and his associates would have to wait until she finished making this margarita, but fortunately, once this was done, she could get started on their meal, and Luisa, the hostess/waitress, would be along right on time in ten minutes, reliable as a watch. Then Angel could get Jorge and co.’s meals fired and—
Making a margarita, was, fortunately, not as complicated as many other drinks. This, Angel could do in her sleep, almost. Tequila, Triple Sec, lime juice. Add some ice, salt the rim, done. She stirred it slightly, then hurried across the restaurant to deliver it to her patron. Patroness? Angel shrugged. It didn’t matter.
Angel had barely started away from the woman when a quiet, pointed, “Miss …?” stopped her in her tracks. Angel turned, and the woman favored her with a half-smile. It didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s very good,” the dark-haired woman said.
A sigh of relief threatened to escape audibly. “Thank you,” Angel said, and hurried for the kitchen. She had cooking to do.
Prep was done, fortunately, enough ingredients sliced to feed twice the lunchtime diners she expected. It was a shame to waste food, but it’d be a bigger shame if she didn’t have enough and customers complained about a terrible dining experience in the form of a Yelp! review.
She pressed on, ignoring the building worry in the back of her head. Fortunately, the front bell didn’t ding over the door, and she was able to concentrate fully on the cooking.
This was the fun part. This was the part she enjoyed—putting in the time, taking the meat and vegetables and spices and combining them in wondrous portions to create something magical out the other side—sustenance, nutrition, sure, but also … wonder. To see someone’s face light up in surprise, savoring what she’d done …
The money was just a fringe benefit. The idea of making a living doing what she truly enjoyed?
That was a heady magic all its own.
She finished quickly, plating the chimichangas and the specials, and set them at the pass, not daring to try and go through the swinging door with them, though she was usually capable. The mere thought of accidentally dropping them and having to re-fire now, when she was so close to taking the next customer’s order—
Well … it didn’t bear thinking about.
She stopped at the pass and picked everything up, hurrying over to Jorge’s table carrying three plates carefully. It wasn’t that Angel was klutzy, but—well, yes, okay, she was a little klutzy. It didn’t happen all that often, but it didn’t take it happening often for her to work herself into a nervous frenzy anytime she did the waitressing bit and delivered plates.
Taking her time, Angel slid between the tables cautiously, making her way up to Jorge’s table as he and his colleagues were deep in conversation. Minding her footing, Angel barely heard the conversation tail off as she approached.
“—distribution over the border,” one of the men sitting across from Jorge said as she came up alongside the table.
“Lunch is served,” Angel said with a flush of triumph. She’d made it, and Luisa would be here in minutes, sparing her from delivering any more piping hot plates. “Two specials and the—”
“What did you hear just now?” Jorge asked, staring at her as Angel set his plate in front of him.
Angel puckered her brow. Steam rising off the chimichanga. Her hair was frizzing. “Huh?”
There were looks exchanged, strange ones, baffling ones. Angel tried to ignore the bizarre undercurrent as she placed the specials in front of Jorge’s dining companions. “Were you listening to us just now?” Jorge asked, his mien darkening a few degrees as he stared at her.
Angel stood back up, all her plates delivered. “I didn’t hear anything, sorry,” Angel said. “I’m not usually a waitress, and if I have two left feet when I dance, you can kind of imagine how I do trying to carry a bunch of hot plates in my hands and in the crook of my elbow—”
Jorge lashed out and hit the plate of chimichangas, sending them flying past Angel and shattering against the side of the table behind her.
Angel screamed and took a step back, her mouth falling open but shock rooting her to the spot.
Jorge rose out of the booth, putting his face right up into hers. He whispered, “What did you hear just now?”
Angel’s mouth froze open and her legs felt like jelly, barely holding her up, causing her to wobble in place, threatening to tip over like a tower. “I … I didn’t hear anything … I was … just delivering your … lunch …” Her gaze slid to the wreckage of the plate, the chimichangas a splattered mess all over the tile floor, like someone had vomited up brown and orange and white.
Jorge put a finger in her face, poking it into her nose, his eyes on fire and his lips a thin line. “You better not be lying to me, puta.” And he shoved the finger into her nose, causing Angel to gasp, not from pain, but from the shock. With a wave of the hand to his colleagues, Jorge gestured to the door, opened his wallet, threw out a few bills, and the three of them stalked out quietly.
Leaving Angel just standing there, unmoving, next to the destroyed plate of chimichangas.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, though she was having to force the air into her lungs. She still wobbled on her legs, moving back and forth, until finally she collapsed into the booth where Jorge’s dining companions had been sitting.
“What … did I do wrong?” Angel asked herself, gaze coming to rest on the destroyed chimichangas.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” the brown-haired woman said. Angel hadn’t even heard her approach, but there she stood in her grey suit, margarita half full clutched in her hand. “Men like him … you don’t have to do anything wrong for them to lose their temper.”
Angel could barely catch her breath, and she hadn’t done anything to exert herself. Only frozen—again.
“I think you need this more than I do,” the woman said, sauntering past her, turning her body away for a second. She seemed to reach into her suit for a second, though when she turned back, her hands weren’t in a position to have done any such thing. It was almost as though she moved too fast for the naked eye to see, but Angel dismissed it. One stunning thing was enough for this morning, after all. The woman set the margarita in front of her. “Have a drink. Settle your nerves.”
Angel stared at the margarita. Her hand was shaking, held in place only by the table, which was leaning against. “I—I shouldn’t. I have a whole shift—”
“How well do you think you’re going to be able to do your job if you’re focused on this all day?” the woman asked.
That logic was irrefutable, and there was a strange sense of pressure as the woman looked down at her. Angel took up the margarita glass carefully and tipped it back, taking a solid drink. It was pretty good—properly sour. She closed her eyes and let it slide down, hoping the chill would soothe her rattled nerves. There was a slightly chemical aftertaste that burned along with the tequila, something a little off. Maybe the Cointreau had gone bad. Still, it was good overall.
She opened her eyes again. The woman was now sitting in the booth next to her, where Jorge had been moments before. Before—
“What’s your name?” Angel asked, the last sour vestiges of the margarita lingering on her taste buds.
The woman seemed to think about it for a minute. “I go by Sophie.”
“Whatever you want for lunch is on the house,” Angel said, “and I’ll get you another margarita here in a minute—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I’ll pay,” Sophie said, not even moving her eyes off Angel. “This is a start-up restaurant, and I’m just a visitor to town. You can’t build your reputation on me, and I won’t say anything about this.” She nodded at the broken plate and wasted chimichanga. �
�Take my money. And his,” Sophie said, nodding at the crisp hundreds on the table that Jorge had thrown out.
Angel closed her eyes for a moment. “Thank you.” She did feel the distant pang of gratitude for what Sophie had said, what she was doing. But there was a distant concern, a different one …
“What’s on your mind?” Sophie asked, and when Angel opened her eyes, the older woman was still sitting there, just watching her, calm as … death, almost. Especially given what she’d just witnessed. She’s probably seen some shit in her time, Angel thought.
“That was my cousin’s new boyfriend,” Angel said, having another sip of the margarita. There was that chemical aftertaste again. A little funky. Definitely needed to check the Cointreau. And maybe the tequila, too. It wasn’t terrible, but it was distracting. Angel put her face in her hand. “How am I supposed to tell her that …?” She didn’t know how to finish that sentence.
“That her new beau is in the drug trade?” Sophie wasn’t smiling. She was as steady as she’d been thus far, watching Angel, unblinking.
Angel snapped her head up, blinking furiously in contrast to Sophia’s calm expression. “Drug trade …?”
“And carrying a few personal demons along for the ride, it looked like to me,” Sophie said, still watching her. “Probably not a fun thing to have to break to your cousin.”
“I don’t know that he’s in the drug trade,” Angel said, putting her head back in her hand. “He could just be …”
“Intemperate?” Sophie asked. “I heard his conversation across the restaurant …” Angel turned her head; the restaurant was not that small, and Jorge hadn’t been talking that loud … had he? “… they were discussing cross-border distribution.” Sophie’s eyes shone, a dark blue.
“He’s in the sewage business,” Angel said, feeling the dim creep of even greater worry. Had that really been what they were talking about? Drug running? “In Latin America.” God, that sounded lame even to her ears, now.
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