by Robena Grant
“Don’t break down. Don’t blow a tire. Don’t—” She shook her head, and then glanced in the mirror again. Nobody followed. Had she let her imagination run wild?
Rachel eased up on her speed and eyed the door of the glove compartment; Grandpa always kept a loaded gun in there. She stretched. Damn, her reach wasn’t long enough. She thought about slowing down, stopping even. Not yet. A few other vehicles were about. The Indio PD was only five miles north. And Dave would be here soon.
She hesitated a moment, then highlighted Debbie’s number and pressed send.
“Hello?” Debbie’s voice sounded soft and weary.
In the last trimester of her pregnancy, Deb never seemed to sleep well. Rachel felt a twinge of selfish guilt for having called her best friend.
“Ah, Deb, is Jack there?” Rachel asked.
“He’s on a case. What’s up?”
“I, ah, I was held at gunpoint down at the Sea—”
“Ah, Jesus…Rachel.”
“I know, I know.”
“Did you call 911?”
“Yeah…and I called Dave. I know I shouldn’t have, and now he’s on his way but you know…I’m still in Indio. I kind of don’t want him to get into trouble.”
“What happened?”
Rachel filled her in on the holdup, the camera, the chase. “At least, I think I’m being chased. I called you in case the man catches up with me, and…”
“Dave is on his way. You’ll be fine. Stay with me, keep talking. Why had the nasty man wanted the camera over money and credit cards? It doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“I know,” Rachel said, and glanced in the mirror. “Me neither. Maybe I photographed something illegal. I got all choked up, kind of crying a bit. I don’t know what the hell I photographed.” She wished Jack had been at home. He was a former DEA agent turned PI. He knew all about the weirdos and the druggos of the world.
“Aw, honey. I’m so sorry. First your grandpa goes missing, and now this?”
“I know…strange, huh? Maybe the guy intended to get the camera, and then kill me. You know, leave no witness. No evidence.”
“Stop it,” Debbie said. “That’s crazy talk. There has to be a better explanation. Let me think this through, and I promise I’ll talk with Jack the minute he gets home. Tell me, had you seen the guy earlier? Or ever seen him around town, or perhaps in your bar?”
“No. He’s never been to Cliffs. You know how I am with faces. And I was alone on the beach today.”
“Do you have a description?”
“Late thirties. Latino, light-skinned, and I think light eyes. Maybe about five nine, stocky build. Light brown hair I think, but he wore a knit cap.”
Rachel knew Debbie would be taking notes. Jack had trained her well, and even though she didn’t technically work for the firm of Cabrera and Fischer, being married to a PI had rubbed off on her. Rachel looked into the mirror again. Nothing.
She eased off the accelerator. “I’d been there since five.”
“Why on earth?”
“The white pelicans.” Rachel swallowed hard. “We expected them to arrive this week.”
She supposed it had been dumb, not telling anyone of her plans. But she’d been going to the Sea since she was five years old, and more than enough times had stayed there alone. Hell, she’d slept in Grandpa’s cabin with the doors unlocked and the windows open. He’d never been afraid of anything or anyone. And while he knew a lot of sketchy characters who drifted in and out of the area, everyone knew and respected him.
“Grandpa and I had chosen a date when we thought the pelican’s would arrive,” Rachel continued, and her throat tightened. “I wanted…I wanted to honor—”
“Oh, honey,” Debbie said. “I’m so sorry.”
Rachel’s eyes stung from the soft sympathetic tone in Debbie’s voice. Damn it. She couldn’t cry now. She rapidly blinked her eyes, took in a deep breath and blew it out. The traffic light ahead turned yellow, she floored the truck and dashed through. The horn from a nearby SUV blared at her rudeness.
“Rachel? Are you okay?” Debbie asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I had to focus on the road for a bit.”
“Stay with me. Stay on the line until Stanton gets there, okay?”
Deb never chastised her, or advised. And Rachel knew how tough it must have been through the years, with her always getting into some scrape or another. She wasn’t called Rabble-Rousing Rachel for nothing; the nickname was given to her, somewhat affectionately, by Dave and Debbie and the now mayor of Rancho Almagro, back in their elementary school days.
She took a quick look in the rearview mirror. A chill ran up her spine, and she squinted hard but couldn’t make out the color, or the vehicle, only the glint of sun on the windshield. She heard the wail of a police car siren close by, and another somewhere north of her.
“Oh, dear God,” she whispered, and floored the truck.
“What?” Debbie asked loudly.
“Hummer’s gaining on me, but I can hear the cop sirens. Got to go, need both hands.”
She tossed the cell phone onto the seat, slowed the truck, stretched toward the glove compartment, and pulled out Grandpa’s pistol. He’d taught her well. She’d fired a gun at the firing range, and had even taught Debbie how to shoot. Tin cans she did well, but she’d never shot at a human target. She sat tall and calmed herself by taking several deep breaths. With the gun wedged between her thighs, her dog on the passenger seat, and the Hummer gaining on her, she prayed for help. With Grandpa gone, and maybe even dead, no way in hell she’d let Ralph become an orphan.
“We’ll be okay, baby,” she said, and her voice didn’t even crack. She kept her gaze on the road ahead, and prayed Dave would reach her before the bad guys did.
****
Detective Michael Delaney made a quick call to the Indio PD. The Salton Sea was in their jurisdiction. He reeled off his police identification, and then added deep undercover.
“There’s a man on the beach, injured, adjacent to the old bait shop. There were shots fired. I’m on the tail of one of the guys, old white Chevy truck. One, Bravo, Delta, couldn’t get anything else on the plate. Last seen heading north on the eighty-six.”
He closed the cell phone and cursed. He’d lost the skinny guy in the baseball cap and windbreaker, the one pretending to be an early morning wildlife photographer.
Yeah, right. More like a drug dealer. Who the hell else would be hanging around the cold, deserted beach at dawn? He’d seen all types in his career. But now, with a new undercover assignment and working with the Indio PD, he needed to prove himself all over again. He felt like a damn rookie. It really pissed him off that the dude had gotten away.
He’d tracked the constantly moving Suarez brothers for a week now. He knew they were back in the area. His case meant finding them and flushing them out before they got their revenge on the ex-DEA agent. If this skinny guy wasn’t one of the brothers, he could be a go-between, and Michael wanted every ounce of information he could squeeze out of the little weasel. And if he proved to be one of the brothers, he sure as hell wanted him.
He made a careful three point turn, ready to return to the beach and assist with the injured man. He had questions to ask him. Up ahead, a puff of dust caught his attention, and a vehicle sped off. Someone was in one hell of a hurry. He’d passed that turn a few minutes ago. He was too far away to determine if it was the white truck. But, it was too big of a coincidence.
There are no coincidences. He gave a dry laugh, floored the Hummer, and roared down the highway, turning sharply onto Airport Boulevard, noticing the tire marks in the sand. Yeah, the dude is moving. It had to be his man.
He zipped past Jacquelaine Cochrane Regional airport, but couldn’t see the truck. A small airport for such a big name, he thought, with a quick shake of his head as the sign flashed by. Nothing bigger than a Cessna, or a Comanche Piper, flew out of the airport. But it gave air support to the Indio PD. And it had a fire station on t
he grounds. He hadn’t checked out the place yet, and slowed.
Would the truck have pulled in there to hide amidst other vehicles? Nah. No detours. Follow your first instinct. He pressed down on the accelerator, and minutes later saw what he thought might be the old truck up ahead.
“You can’t outrun the Hummer,” he murmured, and patted the steering wheel.
He liked to use the Hummer for surveillance. Any man worth his salt could detect an undercover cop’s car. For the past couple of nights he’d been a drugged out rocker; wastrel son of a wealthy doctor; a stoned singer in a two bit bar. He even had his guitar on the back seat.
He patted the gun in his shoulder holster. A siren sounded in the distance. He didn’t want to scare off the guy in the truck, or make him do anything crazy. But then again, it was all good because he’d have back-up. Another siren sounded to the north of him.
Up ahead, a black and white took the corner of a side street on what looked like two wheels, its lights flashing and siren squealing as it drove toward him. Then it pulled to the side of the road. The truck pulled over, and came to a stop, facing the cop car. What the hell?
Michael braked, and watched in surprise as a deputy climbed out of the cop car and went to the truck. Half of the cop’s body seemed to lean into the driver’s side window, his butt hanging out into the highway.
What the hell is going on?
He slowed the Hummer to a crawl as he watched the scene unfold, and eased up behind the truck, cut the engine, and reached for the door handle. The door ripped from his hand, and a gust of cold morning air swept inside. He pulled back a little, startled by the action, and looked into the angry, red face of a cop. One who held a gun pointed at his chest.
“Get out of the vehicle. Slowly,” the cop said. “Put your hands above your head.”
The deputy’s name, on the uniform pocket, was Stanton. The guy was about to go bat shit on him. Michael slid off the seat, his feet hitting the road, and straightened, hands raised.
“Indio PD,” he said softly, so the man in the truck wouldn’t overhear. “Undercover.”
“Right,” Stanton said. “Sure you are. Get on the ground. Face down, spread your legs, hands on the back of your head.”
Michael followed orders. Well, he knew he looked like hell. Even his own mother wouldn’t believe his story. He had dark jaw bristles, hadn’t washed his hair in days, and his eyes were about to fall out of his head from lack of sleep. His jeans were muddy, and the torn Nickelback t-shirt he’d worn for three days straight reeked of sweat, and it had splotches of food stains down the front of it. Mustard, mostly. He supposed the beaten up leather jacket didn’t help much, and figured he looked worse than most of the criminals he dragged in for questioning.
He felt the cuffs, heard the snap, and the chant of his rights.
“ID is in the front right pocket of the jacket,” he said, his voice muffled from his position on the road. “I’m armed, and the gun is in the left side shoulder holster.”
A woman’s voice sounded nearby, and he tried to get a look, but the cop touched the pistol to the back of his head as he straddled him and patted him down. She must be his partner.
“Stay over there, babe, while I get his ID.”
Babe? Damn red-necked cops. Riverside female officers would have his ass kicked all over town for a comment like that. Michael tried not to show his annoyance. There’d be time for explanations. Stanton’s hot breath huffed on his neck, and he felt the man’s weight as he leaned on him to remove the gun from its holster, the ID from his pocket. Michael remained still and quiet during the process.
The whoop-whoop of a chopper, as it came in across the low lying mountain range, bought him a sense of relief. A minute passed. Nobody spoke, but Michael sensed the non-verbal communications and almost smiled.
“Ah, sorry,” Stanton said, and eased the gun away. He took the cuffs off. “Doing my job. You can get up sir, and, and—”
“It’s fine. No need for apology,” Michael said, drawing his aching body up and resting on his knees for a second or two. He used the top of his arm and the leather sleeve of his jacket to brush away the sand. Above his head, the helicopter’s circles were narrowing, and the noise had increased. Stanton had followed protocol. Michael understood. He glanced up at the chopper. Even if the guys at the Indio PD gave him a good ribbing, he’d get over it. Finally upright, with his back pressed against the closed door of the Hummer, he eyed Stanton up and down.
“Aren’t you out of your jurisdiction?” he yelled above the noise.
“Yeah…well see…I got this call, and—”
“He held me at gunpoint,” a woman’s voice said. “And then he shot at me when I ran.”
“What? Who?” Michael asked and turned.
A slight figure stepped out from behind the cop and peeled off the baseball cap. A wild mass of red curls in a ponytail tumbled to her shoulders. She shoved one hand against her narrow jean-clad hips. “My camera and equipment were stolen.”
Michael tried not to flinch. He was seldom wrong. He always got his man, except this time it was a woman, and a victim, not a perpetrator. She looked at him with cool hazel eyes, and he dropped his gaze to the sprinkling of freckles over her small nose. She tilted her nose higher, unafraid, or unimpressed, with his status.
“What did the thief look like?” Michael asked.
“He had a Spanish accent, but he spoke English. Well, at least the few words he said.”
“Yeah,” Stanton said, and nodded. “A drifter, most likely.”
“I don’t think so,” the redhead said, with a quick toss of her head. “Too well-dressed, and he only wanted the camera.”
Michael really tuned in to the conversation, alerted by the description. Well-dressed?
Could she have run into one of the Suarez brothers? He doubted it. But Pedro was known for his fastidiousness. Right down to his manicured nails. Ricardo, the older brother and the former drug Kingpin—if the underground rumors were correct—was injured. He narrowed his eyes at the woman. If she’d run into Ricardo she wouldn’t be alive to tell the tale, but Pedro. Pedro was a possibility. “What do you mean by well-dressed?”
“He had creases in his Chinos.”
“Oh,” Michael said, and blinked rapidly a few times. Sand was in his eyes and on his lips. He wanted to spit, but didn’t think the lady would approve. Although she had just led him on quite a chase and she wasn’t quaking in her sneakers either, so probably spitting would be okay. He swiped at his mouth instead. It intrigued him how, even under the duress of being held at gunpoint, she’d noticed such telling details.
“What else?” he asked.
“New sneakers…and I think he had light eyes, and light hair, there were tufts sticking out from beneath his beanie,” she said, and waved her arms about. “You know, one of those tight knitted wool caps.” She frowned. “Black. He had a light olive complexion. Oh yeah, and he had a mean mouth…and I’m sure he would have killed me, weighted me, tossed my body into the sea—”
“Hold it,” Michael said, and raised one hand to ward off the barrage of words. Geez, did she ever stop for a breath? “You’re fine now. You’re safe. We’ll get your report at the station.”
“One last thing,” the redhead said, leaning a little closer. “He was a professional. I could tell by the way he advanced…the way he held the gun.”
“A professional?” Michael asked, and frowned.
“Yes. Either a hit man, or a gangster, or a cop,” she said, shoving a hand against her hip.
Stanton stood to one side, his lips pressed tight. Michael didn’t quite approve of being lumped in with the hit man, or the gangster, but he wasn’t about to get uppity with this chick. And Pedro, the compound’s business manager, was no professional. His older brother would fit the profile, but he never did the dirty work. And he was injured.
“And, Detective Michael Baxter Delaney,” the redhead said with emphasis, as she leaned even closer to him. “Don’t f
orget, I was subjected to a harrowing chase on the highway.”
Michael raised a hand and took a step backward. She’d looked like she was about to jab him in the chest with one of her pointy red fingernails. Damn. Nothing seemed to bother her.
“I apologize, ma’am.”
“Rachel. Rachel Copeland.”
He nodded, and looked up at the helicopter, which hovered right above them. Stanton went to his car radio to communicate with them. When Michael turned back to Rachel, she’d unzipped the windbreaker and he noticed the gun sticking out from the waistband of her jeans. Much as he’d like to ask her if she had a permit to carry a weapon, he kept his mouth shut. There’d be time for questions later, in the safety of the department. Michael closed his eyes for a second, and gave his head a good shake. Then he opened his eyes to find she still watched him.
“I suggest we go into the Indio PD right away,” he said. “While the assault took place at the Salton Sea, it is governed by Indio, and not Rancho Almagro.” He cast a quick glance in Stanton’s direction. “I’ll have one of our guys write up a report on your missing items.”
“So, what were you doing down there?” she asked.
“Driving through. Heard the shots.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Stanton hurrying back toward them. A dog barked nearby. The copter dipped low, and then took off.
“Is there a dog in the truck?” Michael asked.
Rachel nodded. “Ralph…my protector.”
“My shift’s over,” Stanton said. “I’ll give the PD a call. I’ll follow you in, Rachel.”
“Ah, I thought I’d take her in the Hummer.”
“It’s not like she’s about to skip out on you,” Stanton said, his brow creasing. “I can vouch for Rachel.”
Rachel narrowed her eyes. “Besides, I’m the victim in this scenario. And, I want to make a report. Plus I can drive myself, and I already called 911.”
“Well, okay then,” Michael said.
She smiled up at Stanton, and Michael wanted to say something to make her smile at him. Then he recalled his condition. He’d been on surveillance, hiding in the rocks a bit south of the old bait shop, since four this morning. Plus, he’d played music with a bunch of deadbeats until midnight. He shouldn’t be checking out the local talent; most likely married, anyway.