by Style, Linda
After checking the rest of the apartment, she began to wonder if she’d simply imagined hearing something.
Then she glanced at the door. It wasn’t locked.
She checked the door. No evidence of a break-in. Whoever had opened it was a professional. Then she saw that the window near the fire escape was open. The intruder hadn’t come through the front door—but he went out that way. Or vice versa. And whoever it was got out of here when he heard she was home.
She checked the window. No evidence of forced entry there, either. Had she left it open? She couldn’t remember. Damn. She hated that she was second-guessing herself. She had to report this. It would be backup evidence in case something else came up in the future. Still, she felt stupid reporting it. An unlocked door didn’t make for a break-in and neither did an open window. Nothing was out of place, and she knew from experience the police could do nothing with it—except take the information.
Still shaky, she called it in anyway just to have it on record. A couple of cops came out, guys she didn’t know, thankfully, who took the information and apologized on their way out that they couldn’t do anything. She assured them it was okay. She knew the drill.
She’d called a locksmith while they were still there and within the hour, she had another new set of locks on her door and on her window. That made her feel a bit safer, but not secure, and she was glad she’d decided to go to Galveston with Alex and Sam.
But before she left town, she had some things to clean up. Dressed inconspicuously in jeans, a fuzzy blue cowl-neck sweater and one of her older jackets, she hit the road with a list of addresses and people to interview.
Marco was first. He lived in the East End but in a different section than Diego. It was a part of the neighborhood she hadn’t been to before, and she quickly discovered the streets crisscrossed and dead-ended, with no rhyme or reason to how they were laid out. And none of the streets matched the map spread out on the seat next to her. Several bad turns and a lot of blue words later, she managed to find Galena Street, which ended at St. Mary’s Church. According to the map Crista had printed out from a Web site, Marco’s place was two blocks behind the church and three streets over.
Finding Jacinto Avenue and the house number, she pulled into a parking spot in front. There wasn’t much activity on the street because it was still early, and she was glad for that. Any time a police officer went into the hood, there was potential for trouble. Or if trouble broke out, she couldn’t ignore it, even though she was off duty.
The house looked more like a shed, and the yard like a used car junkyard. Rusted-out vehicle parts were practically stacked on end, and near the pile was a For Sale sign. Was that how Marco supported himself? There was nothing in his record that gave any indication he worked at anything, which was sometimes the sign of a drug dealer. But if he was, he wasn’t very good at it, or he wouldn’t be living in such a ram-shackle place.
Picking her way through the tires and hubcaps, she reached the door and knocked. She wasn’t nervous because Marco was her brother’s friend, and he would respect that. But she was always careful, and always prepared.
The door swung open. Marco stood there shirtless and shoeless, clad only in black boxer shorts. His hair was disheveled and he smelled of alcohol. He squinted against the brightness of the early morning sun.
“Beunos días,” she said.
“Bueno.” He seemed confused at seeing her there. “Is Diego okay?”
She guessed he thought the only reason she’d come to his place was if something had happened to Diego. “Diego’s fine. Can I come in?”
He shrugged. “It’s not clean.”
She stepped inside. He was right about that. Beer cans and pizza boxes littered the room and the bitter scent of stale alcohol was overwhelming. No sweet scent of drugs however. The one-room shack had a mattress in one corner and a table with a hot plate in another. She couldn’t imagine living like this but was all too aware that many people did.
“I’m not here for an inspection. I just want to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“About Diego?” he asked again.
“Sort of,” she said, realizing that was the best way to start.
Marco mumbled something and then stumbled over himself, trying to find a clean spot for her to sit. He pulled out a wooden chair from a tiny table, brushed it off, and indicated she should sit. He went into the bathroom and came out wearing a pair of ratty jeans, pulled up a stool and then sat next to her.
“¿Qué pasa?”
Lord. Where to start. “Nothing is going on with Diego, and that’s the problem. I want to help him get on his feet, but he refuses to let me do anything. I thought maybe you might help me convince him it’s not a bad thing to get help if he needs it.”
He frowned.
“He’s your friend, Marco. Don’t let him get involved with the Pistoles again.”
Marco gave an indignant humph. “I don’t do gangs anymore. I got a good thing going here with a legitimate scrap business. I asked Diego if he wanted to work with me, but he said no.” He shrugged. “Diego is his own man. I can’t make him do anything.”
Surprised to hear Marco say he wasn’t with the gang anymore, she hesitated. Usually gang members were members for life. Even if they didn’t participate when they were older. But he seemed sincere about it and about his business, too. “I understand. Maybe you can help me with some other information.”
His eyes narrowed. He pulled out a cigarette and offered her one.
She shook her head. “No, gracias.”
“What kind of information?”
“I’m looking for a boy named Tommy Ramirez. I heard you might know where he lives.”
He dragged on his cigarette. “What’s he done?”
“Nothing. He’s been hanging around the new center being developed in Paloverde, and the director thought he might want to join one of the programs,” she lied. Well, it wasn’t entirely a lie. Alex would let him participate if the boy was doing okay in school. “But Tommy hasn’t been in school or around the center for a week or two and the director is worried about him.”
Marco gave a snort of a laugh. “Tomás can take care of himself.”
She had no doubt that was true. Most kids in the barrio learned how to survive early on. “Do you know where I can find him? I heard he hangs with the Pistoles.”
He frowned, then stood up. “He’s too young to be a Pistole. If he hangs around, he hangs around.” He paced a couple steps, then, as if suddenly angry, he came toward her and shook his finger in her face like a parent reprimanding a child. “You know, you shouldn’t be down here asking questions. You could get yourself in big trouble.”
His concern surprised her. “Yes, I know that. But I’m here with you. I’m not out there.” She tipped her head toward the door. “Do you know where Tommy lives? It’s important.”
He turned, and with his back to her, said under his breath, “Tommy hangs out near Gulfgate and sometimes by the Pierce Elevated.”
He swung around. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”
She knew what he meant. “It’s between you and me.”
“Good. Now I have to go someplace.”
Buoyed by the information she’d just received, Crista said thank-you and headed straight for her car. The mall was a hangout for teens, some known gang members. But why he’d be hanging out at the Pierce Elevated, she didn’t know. The area underneath the freeway was a port for the homeless. As far as she knew, Tommy wasn’t homeless, though Alex had said the boy had family problems.
She climbed into her Jeep, locked the door and fastened her seat belt. It was still quiet in the neighborhood and she doubted that anyone had seen her. Feeling good about what she’d accomplished, she glanced in the side mirror to pull out.
The reflection of a black truck appeared in the small square of glass. She gasped. Fear and anger knotted inside her. Okay. That’s it! She checked her gun, ready to find out once and for all who was stalking
her. If it was Trini, his ass was grass.
She had her hand on the door handle when she heard a motor roar to life and… Oh, God! The truck was accelerating straight at her. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She gripped the gun tighter and turned sideways, ready to use it, but the truck sideswiped her Jeep. She jolted forward into the steering wheel like a rag doll, her head hitting the window. Her vision blurred. She tried to get a fix on the license plate. There wasn’t one. Within seconds, the truck careened around the corner and out of sight.
Gripping the wheel with one hand, she turned the key in the ignition with the other, hoping to catch the truck. The motor made a grinding sound. She slumped back. Dammit. The side mirror was gone and the door bashed in. Her emotions seesawed between rage and more rage. Pain pounded in her head.
She glanced in the rearview mirror to see the damage. Blood spurted from a small cut on her forehead. She grabbed a tissue and put pressure on it to stop the bleeding. If Trini was stalking her again, she was going to take him down. She called for an APB on the truck, but couldn’t give a license number or make on it, and she didn’t know the direction the vehicle was headed. It was a futile call, and she felt foolish for making it.
Her adrenaline still pounding, she turned the key again. This time the Jeep sputtered to life. She pulled out and jammed her foot on the gas, hoping she might still be able to catch a glimpse of the truck. But after turning the next corner and winding around a couple streets, she realized it was hopeless. The truck was gone.
Okay. What next? Now was not the time to find Tommy. She decided to go home and regroup—watching her back all the way there. By the time she pulled into her parking space, she’d regained some semblance of control. But the incident had unnerved her, more than she could ever imagine.
Getting out of town for a couple days was looking better and better.
CRISTA WATCHED Houston disappear as they cruised down I-45 in Alex’s plush Lincoln Navigator. Soft music played from a CD Alex had inserted a few minutes before, and Sam slept in back, securely fastened in her car seat. Crista touched her head where the cut was hidden under her hair. She hadn’t told Alex about the truck because she needed to talk to Englend about it first. As much as she hated a confrontation with the captain, she had to tell him what evidence she’d collected. As far as she was concerned, the truck incident was confirmation that she was getting too close to finding her suspect. A warning maybe—telling her to back off.
Despite what had happened this morning, she felt good about the trip. She hadn’t told anyone she was going to Galveston with Alex. Not even Diego.
After the phone call Mrs. McGinty had received, Crista hadn’t been comfortable leaving Calvin there any longer. When she told Alex she didn’t have anyone to watch the bird, he’d suggested she leave him with Elena, who was delighted to have the company.
Her head against the back of the seat, Crista hummed along with a Sarah McLachlan song. Galveston was only an hour from Houston, but Crista felt as if she were going to an exotic island. She’d only been to the beach town once before as she passed through on her way to find another life. Fourteen years ago.
At the time, even in her terrified state of mind, she knew it was a place she wanted to return to. And now she was back—with Alex and Sam.
Maybe spending a weekend with Alex wasn’t the best decision of her life, but all things considered, it wasn’t the worst, either. “I love how the scenery changes from city to bayou,” she said.
Alex glanced at Crista and then back to the road. “When I first moved to Houston, I was surprised to learn the city had been built on a swamp.”
“They don’t call it the Bayou City for nothing,” Crista joked. “Most newcomers are surprised. They think New Orleans and Florida are the only places with swamps.”
Alex laughed. “Before I moved here, I thought Texas was all cattle ranches and cowboys.”
“I thought California was the place where all the fruits and nuts went to live.”
“Just goes to show how wrong assumptions can be.”
“I’m not totally convinced I was wrong.”
“Yet.” Alex winked at Crista. “I guarantee you’ll think differently after this weekend.”
“Are we there, yet?” a small voice came from the back.
“Just about, Samita,” Alex said.
Crista liked Alex’s easy way with Sam. She liked that he wasn’t afraid to show his affection. A child needed to know she was loved. Crista couldn’t think of anything more important.
“How much longer? I need to go potty.”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“How long is that?”
“Not long.”
“About as long as a cartoon,” Crista chimed in.
“Do you want me to stop now?” Alex asked.
“No, I think I can wait.”
“How about if we play a game?” Crista said.
“What kind of game?”
“A car game. I’m not sure what it’s called, though. One of us thinks of something we can see and the others have to ask questions and guess the answer.”
“I know that game,” Sam said with excitement. “I spy with my little eye.”
“That’s right.”
“Are you going to play, too, Daddy?”
Alex glanced at Crista and shrugged. “Sure.”
“Can I go first?” Sam asked, her voice singing with excitement.
They had time for only three questions before Alex pulled into the Royal Gardens Hotel. “I picked this place especially for you, Sam. There’s an aquarium, a paddle-wheel boat and a rain forest where you can see jungle animals and exotic birds.”
“Will I see a parrot like Calvin?”
“I think so. And there’s lots of other stuff to do, too.”
Alex pulled up to the entry, which was surrounded by tropical trees and brightly colored flowers, and gave the keys to the valet to park the SUV. A bellhop loaded their luggage onto a cart and led them into the marble-floored lobby where Alex stopped at the registration desk. As they waited for him, Sam slipped her small hand into Crista’s, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Crista’s heart swelled.
Twelve floors later, they walked into their suite. Crista had never stayed in such an opulent hotel and, glancing around, she felt a little out of place. Or maybe she realized just how many worlds apart she and Alex were.
As a teen she’d desperately wanted to fit in and had practiced her English over and over, learning how to speak without any accent at all. At the community college, she’d taken classes in art history and even one in etiquette, but nothing changed the way she felt about herself until she’d mastered the mental enlightenment of Wing Chun. When she learned she was in control of her life, she felt confident in most any situation.
While she couldn’t change the things that had happened to her, or what might happen in the future, she had control over how she responded to them. She could wallow in self-pity and feel worthless, or she could embrace life and all its vagaries. She’d chosen the latter. But for some reason her insecurities seemed to be resurfacing. When she was with Alex, she didn’t feel in control at all.
“I like this place,” Sam said. “It’s pretty.”
“It is beautiful,” Crista agreed, glancing around the living room. Two white couches with puffy pillows faced one another with a monster-size coffee table of glass and mahogany between them.
The bellman pulled open the window coverings. “And you have a beautiful view of the beach,” he said with a wide smile.
The setting sun splayed magenta and purple across the horizon like an oil painting. It glinted off the clear water and tinted the fine, white sand a pale pink. The winter breeze that ruffled the palm fronds seemed to also carry away Crista’s worries.
It was more than beautiful. It was magnificent. Magical. She felt as if they’d landed on a fantasy island.
“There are two bathrooms, one right over here.” The bellman pointed to a powde
r room near the entry. “And another in the bedroom.”
Crista turned to Alex.
“My room adjoins yours,” Alex said, and motioned toward a door on the other side.
As Alex tipped the man, Sam yanked on Crista’s hand and said, “If we get scared at night, Daddy is here to protect us.”
Crista glanced at Sam, then knelt down to the child’s height. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, sweetie. But it’s good your daddy is here, just in case.”
“And remember,” Alex piped up after shutting the door and locking it, “Crista is a police officer. She’s good at protecting people. That’s her job.”
Crista was surprised at Alex’s response. It was almost as if he approved. Had his opinion about women in law enforcement changed? Or was he simply making Sam feel better?
Sam’s eyes widened. “But policemen get hurt, too. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I’m not going to get hurt, sweetie. I have lots of training.”
“Do you have a gun?”
Alex glanced at Crista aghast.
“I have one. But I don’t have it with me. I only carry it when I’m working.” That was partially true. While she carried most of the time, even when she was off duty, she hadn’t brought the weapon on the trip.
Relief settled in Alex’s dark eyes.
What had he thought? That she’d take her gun along when a four year old would be sharing a room with her?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE NEXT DAY after breakfast at the Rainforest Café, and a ride on the paddleboat, Crista stretched out on a beach blanket watching Alex and Sam play near the water. Sam skipped toward the shore and when the water lapped closer, dashed back to Alex again. The water was too cold to swim in, but the sun was warm and it felt almost like a summer day. She smiled as she glanced at their shoes, all lined up together at the edge of the blanket. Alex’s, Crista’s and Sam’s tiny sandals. So far, the weekend had gone better than Crista could have imagined.
She felt content. Happy.
Last night after dinner in the hotel restaurant, they’d stayed up late watching a Disney movie on pay-per-view TV and munched popcorn and peanuts out of the minifridge. When Alex said good-night and left, Sam hadn’t wanted to sleep in her big bed all alone, so she’d climbed in with Crista, handed her a book to read and then snuggled in next to her.