by Mari Manning
He thrust his cell into her hand and pushed through the door just as the burglar sprang over a chain link fence into the next yard. Rafe followed, clearing the fence, but tearing his uniform trousers and losing his flashlight as he hoisted himself over the top.
Blinded by the rain, his damn knee beginning to ache, Rafe brushed the water from his eyes as he half-ran, half-limped after the intruder. They cleared two more fences. The boy leapt over each one like a show horse, and Rafe fell farther back. The chain-link openings were too small for him to gain a toehold, and the tops were sharp enough to slash palms when he grabbed them. He flipped on his radio and tried to call for backup as he ran, but his words came out as soundless huffs. After he cleared the third fence, he gripped the gun. This time is going to be different. But when he tried to pull it out, his hand refused to move. Not yet, not yet, not yet. The words looped through his head.
Then, his luck finally turned. In the next yard a five-foot stockade fence loomed. He picked up his pace. He was going to get this little sucker.
“Police. Drop your weapon!” He managed to holler the words without sounding breathless.
The intruder sped up, flung himself over the last chain-link fence and barreled toward the five-foot barrier as if it was a mirage.
“Stop! Police.”
Still running, the black figure lifted his arms and raised his gloved hands. The knife gleamed from a leather thong around his waist. A few feet from the fence, he sprang up, flinging himself on top, then executed a graceful somersault before disappearing.
That little sucker! Mentally Rafe rifled through the list of local criminals. Grizzled barflies, punks, and petty criminals made up El Royo’s jailhouse regulars. None could have outrun him, much less executed that last move. A chill ran down his back. This guy had targeted Dinah.
There was not much crime to fight in El Royo, which suited him just fine. No gun required. As he called in the incident to the station, he wondered if his luck had run out.
…
The rain had eased to a drizzle. Dinah waited on the back steps, enjoying the cool, misty air against her skin. She stepped forward as Officer Morales came into view, dragging himself over the back fences. He breached the final fence and limped toward her, mud-spattered and rain-soaked, his pants torn and bloody. His misery and frustration were palpable.
Sympathy welled up in her, and she opened the back door for him. “Looks like you got banged up out there. Better come on in.”
He pushed dripping hair off his face and shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
There was something about wounded creatures that got to her every time. “Sit down and rest a minute, Officer Morales. I’ll get you a bandage for your leg and a washcloth for your hands. They look a little scratched up.”
He snorted impatiently, then surrendered and pulled up a chair. “Only if you call me Rafe.”
“Call me Dinah.”
He studied her through sputtering candlelight.
“Of course, you can call me The Notorious Dinah Pittman, if you prefer. Everyone else around here does.”
She meant it as joke, but he didn’t crack a smile. “Why do they call you that?”
“You must not have been around when my daddy got hauled off to jail.”
He shook his head. “I heard about it from my sister, and my ma. What your daddy did is on him, not you.”
Dinah turned away. Esme had been her best friend, and his ma, Miss Peppie, like a second mother. The emptiness inside her throbbed.
“Besides, Dinah is a fine name. Be a shame to ruin it with all that nonsense.” He winced and clutched at his knee.
“Bad knee?”
He shrugged. “Football injury. It just aches now and again.”
Yeah, right. Turning away from him, she rifled through the cabinets for bandages. She hated cops, so why did she want to help this one? Behind her, he shifted in his seat, and the atmosphere in the kitchen grew heavy with melancholy. That’s why.
“When did you lose your nerve?” She spoke gently so she wouldn’t upset him.
“Huh?”
She pulled out the bandages and iodine and wet the washrag by the sink. “I’m an ex-cop’s daughter. I know a little about the game. You walked into two dangerous situations tonight without drawing your weapon.”
He took the washrag from her and dabbed at the nasty-looking gash on his thigh before scrubbing his palms. After setting the bandages and iodine down, she sat and waited for him to answer. Through the tear in his pants, she could see a firm, tan leg feathered with dark hair. She averted her eyes.
He finished cleaning his wound and stuck the bandage over it. “Thanks for the supplies. I better get along.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
His dark eyes met hers, and for a moment she was positive he was going to tell her. Then he grinned. “It’s complicated.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off.
“And not very interesting. Can I drive you somewhere?”
“I’m staying put.”
The chase had taken the fight out of him. “Be sure to lock up after I leave. I’ll drive by and check on you later.”
Chapter Four
The dead body in the creek bed sent noxious fumes skyward. Rafe wiped the sweat off his forehead and tried to breathe through his mouth. He really needed a cup of coffee. Make that a gallon of coffee. Iced.
On a day like this, he regretted coming home to El Royo. Five freaking police officers for twenty-thousand people. Barely enough even with backup from the county sheriff. Coming off a double shift yesterday—and a brutal second shift—he was running on empty. Plus his leg stung like a son of a bitch, and his shoulder muscles ached from throwing himself over a half-dozen backyard fences. Maybe he wouldn’t be hurting so bad if that sucker hadn’t gotten away.
“Hey, Morales.”
Rafe glanced up from the yellow police tape he was roping to a withered sapling. A tall, skinny cop with heavy lips that never stopped moving, pale eyelashes, and permanent sunburn loped in his direction. His kickass day was complete. Officer Derek Swope.
“What’s up, Swope?”
“Got an I.D. on the body?”
“Teke Cruz.”
“The old guy who ran the garage in town?”
“Seems like it.” Rafe tied off the plastic tape and pulled on plastic gloves, then began his visual inspection, inching forward slowly as his eyes scanned the thick buffalo grass for evidence.
“Must have gotten a belly full at the Beer Hut and taken a tumble off the bridge,” said Derek.
“Someone went at his throat with a knife. Medical examiner thinks it could be murder.” Rafe bent down and studied an empty vodka bottle lying in the grass.
“Think the perp left that?” asked Swope.
Rafe straightened. “Nah.” He nodded at the bridge. “Teke took a tumble off the bridge. That’s where we found his blood and a piece of his shirt that tore off when he went over. Don’t think the perp would hang around and get drunk at the crime scene.” Still, he wouldn’t mind talking to whoever was drinking in the park last night. Might’ve seen something. He snapped a picture of the bottle and popped it into an evidence bag.
“Thought you said it wasn’t evidence.” Swope sounded pissed.
“I said I didn’t think the perp left it. Doesn’t mean it’s not evidence.” Rafe returned to his inspection, and Swope stayed on him.
“Sheriff’s office said you had some trouble a few miles from here last night. Could the two incidents be related?”
Rafe had been wondering the same thing, especially since the kid had a knife. What if he’d shot the kid when he’d had the chance? Would Teke Cruz still be alive? The breakfast burrito he wolfed down an hour ago soured in his stomach. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat and grit off the back of his neck. Forget the coffee; he needed a drink. Preferably whiskey, straight up.
He sure as hell wasn’t sharing with Swope. “
The old Pittman place had a break-in, that’s all.” Rafe made the next corner and headed down the crime scene perimeter with Swope barking at his heels.
“Heard the Pittman girl was back.”
“That’s right.”
“So what happened last night? Did the perp run or what?”
“Read my report.” Rafe quickened his pace. He could see exactly where this conversation was going, and he was sick of taking Swope’s shit.
Two joggers slowed their pace and pressed against the tape to get a peek at the body in the riverbed, but it was obscured by the M.E.
Swope waved them on. “Unless you’d like to make a statement, keep moving along, folks. This is a crime scene.”
Speaking of which. “I got this, Swope. Don’t need any backup.”
“Seems like you could have used some last night.”
Here it comes.
“Should’ve called me. I’d have sent my baby sister over. She could use some target practice.”
Rafe had deep-down hated Derek Swope since Swope caught him at a stolen vehicle stop. Department rules required officers to approach a felony suspect with a drawn weapon, but Rafe couldn’t pull his revolver out of the holster. The perp was unarmed and surrendered without incident, but Swope had seen enough to smell a rat. Maybe it was fortunate Swope was the kind of guy who’d probably tortured small animals when he was a kid. He should have reported Rafe to the chief. Instead he’d been on Rafe about it ever since.
Rafe’s patience was growing thin. He stopped and got up in Swope’s face. “You have a problem with me?” Rafe used every bit of his three-inch advantage and thirty pounds of muscle to jump down Swope’s throat.
Swope’s pale blue eyes bulged nervously. “Not me,” he said, stepping back.
All hat, no cattle. That’s Swope.
“Well, better get back to my patrol.” Swope grinned stiffly, baring his yellowy teeth, and tipped his Stetson. “Maybe I’ll stop by the old Pittman place. Heard that gal was hot and easy. Like to get me some of that.”
As he watched Swope’s back disappear across the lawn, Rafe’s fists tightened, then he shook them loose. What did he care? If Dinah wanted to screw every guy in El Royo, it was nothing to him. He was going to get himself a sweet girl and settle down. He was. He just needed more time to work through a few things. He turned back to the tape.
Swope shouted across the park. “Hey, Morales, how about we get together at the shooting range next week. Bet you got yourself a sharp eye.”
Rafe didn’t look up until Swope’s cruiser pulled away from the curb. What could he say? Everything Swope said was true.
“Rafe? Can you come down?” It was the M.E.
Rafe pushed past a knot of gapers. They’d gathered beside the roped-off bridge where they had an excellent view of the stewing corpse and the M.E. As he hurried past them, a sweet voice called out to him. “What happened?” Rafe turned. A pregnant girl he’d never seen before pressed against the tape. She wore pink shorts and a thick Dallas Cowboys jersey. Probably a high-school kid.
Rafe addressed the small crowd. “The body of Teke Cruz was discovered this morning in the gulley. Were any of you here earlier? Did anyone see anything suspicious last night or earlier this morning?”
A wiry man with a long, greasy ponytail stepped forward. Lonnie Bigsky. He fidgeted with a heavy chain attached to the collar of a narrow greyhound. “I was with him last night over at the Beer Hut.”
“Did you see him leave?”
“Nah. I went home first. But he was real nervous all night. Told me someone was watching him. I wish I’d paid more attention.”
“Did you see anything suspicious when you left? A strange car or maybe someone loitering around the Beer Hut?”
Lonnie shook his head. “Don’t recall. But I’d had a few drinks, so maybe I didn’t notice.”
Rafe handed him a card. “Call me if your memory comes back.”
Lonnie stared at the card but didn’t take it from Rafe. “Think this has something to do with Ben Pittman dying?”
“Don’t know, Lonnie. But we’ll be investigating every angle, including that one.”
Lonnie pushed the card away. “I don’t remember anything.” He patted the greyhound’s head. “Come on, Daisy, let’s go home.” He forced his way out of the knot of gapers.
The M.E. had finished his field inspection and was pulling off his rubber gloves as he climbed the embankment. He was a heavyset, older man who’d been sent up from Austin to investigate. Despite his broad-brimmed hat, his face was perspiring and red.
“Hot out here, ain’t it?” said the M.E. His dark blue shirt was damp and sweat ringed the armpits.
“Yeah.” Rafe pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at the back of his neck again. “Thought the weather might break with the storm last night.”
The M.E. dropped his gloves in a biohazard bag. “Looking forward to my air-conditioned car.”
So was Rafe. “What do you think?”
The M.E. shook his head. “Didn’t even break a toe in the fall. That’s the benefit of a few drinks. Relaxes you.”
“So what killed him?”
“Someone nicked his carotid artery. The victim probably got knocked unconscious in the fall and bled out.”
“What was the time of death?”
“I’d say after midnight. Maybe one, maybe two. Not much later, though. From the spread of blood on the ground, I’d say it took awhile for him to die, maybe an hour or so.”
“Anything else?”
The M.E. nodded at the bridge with his chin. “The victim has wood slivers in his belly and chest area as well as the hands. It would indicate someone pushed him.”
Rafe nodded. “Fibers?”
“Some black wool in the victim’s hair. Could be the killer wore a ski mask.” Sweat poured down the M.E.’s cheeks and dripped from his jowls. He swayed in the hot wind like a Texas Blue Bonnet. “If he was, he had to be hotter ‘n hell.”
Rafe didn’t want two bodies on his hands. “Let me walk you back to your car.”
He crossed the park beside the M.E., piecing together a probable chain of events. The killer could be anyone, but it felt like the intruder from last night, and the motive for the burglary and this murder were linked. The link was Dinah. Was she an innocent victim, or had she knowingly put in motion the actions that led to Teke’s murder?
They’d reached the M.E.’s car, and the M.E. was patting his pockets for the keys. His hands stopped. “Oh, I almost forgot. Found this in the victim’s back pocket.” He reached into his kit and pulled out an evidence bag with a pink flyer inside. He handed the evidence bag to Rafe.
Rafe held the bag up and inspected the crumpled paper inside. It was a Tarot Card Readings by Shira notice. Someone—probably Teke—had written across the top Dinah is back and underlined back twice.
Chapter Five
“Stop! Come back here,” Dinah hollered.
A young girl in pink shorts was trotting down the street with a sack of Dinah’s precious groceries. Dinah’s eyes went to the two vulnerable bags still sitting in the trunk, then to the vanishing strawberry-blond ponytail and plastic grocery sack.
“She’s got my peanut butter.” Bounding off her front porch, Dinah went after the grocery thief. She’d spent nearly everything Teke gave her on utilities, and the remainder—about fifty bucks—on food. She wasn’t going to let ten dollars run off without a fight.
“Stop! Someone stop her. She stole my groceries.” Unfortunately, the neighborhood appeared to be deserted except for a butterscotch tabby that arched its back and hissed when Dinah slapped by in her flip-flops.
The girl veered off the sidewalk and slipped behind a blue bungalow. Dinah’s legs pumped harder, fueled by one all-consuming goal—get her peanut butter back. She closed in on the blue bungalow, angling over front lawns, then ricocheting off a magnolia tree. Hurdling into a narrow walkway beside the bungalow, she nearly tripped over a pair of torn sneakers. “Gotcha, you litt
le varmint.”
The girl, huddled against the house and raised her head to Dinah. Her blue-green eyes were round and frightened, and a delicate spray of freckles stood out against her pale skin. Her mouth, a pale slash under a turned-up nose, was hard. She’s hiding something.
The girl held the bag out to Dinah, her hand curled into a tight fist around the handle. “Is this yours?”
Dinah snatched the bag from her. “Of course, it’s—” She swallowed her words. The girl was pregnant. A lot pregnant. Dinah’s indignation softened and shifted.
She followed Dinah’s gaze down to her belly. “Got knocked up.”
Hunkering down by the girl, Dinah studied her mud-streaked legs and stained, oversized football jersey. “I can see that. How old are you?”
“Almost nineteen.”
“What’s your name?”
“Hollyn. Holly with an ‘n’ on the end. People always get it wrong.”
“Do you have a last name?”
Annoyance flickered across Hollyn’s face, then her expression smoothed. “Hollis.”
Hollyn Hollis, huh? Not likely.
“My name is Dinah. Dinah Pittman.”
“Sorry about taking your stuff.”
“Forget it. Do you live around here?”
“No.”
“Where are you from?”
Hollyn buried her face in her hands. “Nowhere.”
“You have to be from somewhere, don’t you? Unless you fell out of the sky.”
“Then I fell out of the sky,” she muttered.
“Come on, you can tell me. I’m a great listener. Besides, I’ve had lots of crappy things happen to me, so I’d never judge anyone else. Swear.”
Hollyn raised her head. “Like what?”
This girl sure wasn’t from anywhere close to El Royo if she had to ask. “Like when I was your age my dad robbed an armored car and went to prison, and my mom ran away.”
Hollyn studied her. “You don’t seem very sad about it.”
Dinah turned away and stared at the street. Heat was already rising from the pavement in shimmering waves, and it was barely eleven o’clock. A car door slammed, and she thought of the vulnerable groceries sitting in her trunk and how when she was growing up here, she’d never guessed her life would become an exhausting, never-ending scramble for food and shelter. She met Hollyn’s eyes. “Why should I be sad? It happened eight years ago.”