by Robena Grant
“Let’s go.” Dave nodded toward the stretch of sand that jutted out into the water.
Michael figured he’d probably fished here before. “Ah, I’m not much of a fisherman.”
“You’ll learn.” Stanton strode to the water’s edge. He took a rod, opened the tackle box, baited the hook, cast out and stuck the pole deep into the sand.
Would he be expected to do the same? Michael watched for a moment. He could fire at a human being if someone else’s life was in danger. Yet he couldn’t thread a live worm on a hook. Stanton frowned, grabbed the second rod out of Michael’s hand and wordlessly repeated his steps. Then he squatted in the sand between both poles.
Rachel spread out a blanket that Dave had provided. She sat a short distance from them, on the sandy beach, the wind whipping her hair. Michael watched her hold down one corner of the blanket with the small freezer box that contained lunch, and place a large rock on each of the other three corners. Her camera lay in the center. He wished he could stay with her.
“Ralph and I are going to sunbathe,” she called out.
Michael looked up at the pale wintry sky. “Good luck on that,” he yelled back. She laughed, and stretched out full length on her stomach, facing the sea. Ralph lay down beside her.
Stanton lit another cigarette, his back to the visitor center and Rachel.
“Back in a sec,” Michael said. He hurried to Rachel. “Stanton’s really into the fishing. We might have our backs to the parking lot for the whole discussion. Can you face that direction, and keep an eye out for anyone who might come this way? If you see anyone, stand up and call out that lunch is ready.”
“Absolutely,” she said, and repositioned herself.
Michael walked back and sat on his haunches beside Stanton. “I hate fishing.” He shrugged. “Absent father…well, not really absent, but away a lot.”
“A city slicker?”
“You could say that. I never got a chance to explore nature as a kid.”
Stanton gave a curt nod. “Probably why you like the work you do.” He turned and grinned. “You can stay out in the field and not bathe or shave for days, and you’re the only person you got to prove anything to, right?”
Michael nodded. Stanton got him. He’d been putting himself in danger and defying his upbringing for as long as he could remember. Not that he liked scaring his mother, but she understood. The old man was another story altogether.
“Here’s the deal,” Michael said. “I’ve been undercover at the sea for a week. SIB, working out of Riverside. There’s a rumor that the head honcho of a Mexican drug cartel, toppled by a couple of agents here in the valley, is out for revenge.”
“Revenge?”
He’d noticed Dave’s instant glance of approval when he’d mentioned the special investigative bureau, and nodded.
“Why attack Rachel? She had nothing to do with that.”
“I’m not sure,” Michael said. “I was hoping you could shed some light on that.”
Stanton frowned and toyed with his fishing rod.
“You worked that case with the DEA and the FBI.”
Stanton said nothing.
Michael shrugged. Alrighty then. “This is what I’ve got so far: a couple of Latinos, matching the description of the Suarez brothers who had escaped that raid on their compound, have been smuggled across the border. They’re said to be hiding out near the Salton Sea. I tracked them here, and then lost them about five days ago. I’ve since learned that Henry Copeland photographed wildlife within a two mile radius of his cabin. He’d sit out there for hours, hidden from view. I’m thinking he photographed someone, or something. Could have been killed, or taken hostage.”
“Maybe so.”
Michael shot Stanton a quick sidelong glance. Stanton’s gaze fixed on the cold, gray water of the sea. His jaw jutted out. Lips pressed tight.
“The time frame is more than coincidence. The Suarez brothers were first sighted here about a day before Henry went missing.”
When Stanton said nothing, Michael continued. “When Rachel came back here yesterday to take photos, a man, fitting the description of the Suarez Kingpin’s brother, attacked her. I believe they’ve circled back to the Salton Sea believing it to be safe again. The guy wanted Rachel’s camera. Nothing else. Last night, as you know, her house in Rancho Almagro was ransacked. Obviously, the man is still looking for something, lost film, another camera, or he’s trying to scare her away. I’m not sure—”
“Coincidence.”
Michael wanted to shake him. But he continued. “We were locked inside Henry’s darkroom by someone who had a key.”
Stanton’s head shot around, his eyes going hard as he glared into Michael’s face.
“It wasn’t an easy escape.” Michael shrugged. “He could have burned the cabin down.
“Fortunately, he didn’t. We think he waited for the negatives to dry.” Michael shrugged again. “Anyway, I have an informant, and I’m expecting photographs of the Latinos he says are holed up in one of the buildings.”
“What happens next?”
“Rachel and I are going back to a bar in Desert Scapes to meet up with my guy, tonight. I think the Suarez brothers might be holding Henry hostage.”
“They did a sweep of all the abandoned buildings,” Stanton said. “Every house, business, hell…even every run down caravan, or motor home was searched.”
“Yeah, I know. But, I’m thinking the guys doubled back after the all clear. Maybe they’re in the old bait shop, or nearby, and using it as a location to keep track of activity on the beach, or getting information from someone in town.”
Stanton held his gaze for a moment, his cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. “Then let’s go get them. What’s the hold up?”
“They’ve evaded capture for almost a year.”
Stanton nodded slowly.
“I need proof before I call in a swat team.”
“Yeah.”
“I need evidence, and I know they’re armed. Besides, the chief wants me to move slowly on this, to observe, and document.”
“Yeah, you’d look like a real ass if you were wrong.”
Michael chose to ignore him. He knew as well as Stanton did that one false move, and he’d be dead, or the laughing stock of the department. He was no better than a rookie these days, trying to prove himself to old guys who thought they should have had a chance at his position. Instead, the department had taken in an outsider. Why they did that he had no idea, other than his reputation for never giving up, never giving in.
“I don’t have any proof that they’re in there,” Michael said softly. “I’m following my gut, and as you’ve said…it could be coincidence. But that was the only thing Rachel photographed that morning, besides Ralph’s rear end, and a flock of Canadian geese.”
“Where do I feature in this fairy tale?”
Michael shook his head. What a pistol. But he knew the guy wanted in. He could tell by his posture, and by his bravado. He was saving face, that was all. “I need backup for tonight. Rachel completes my cover at the bar, she makes me more credible. But I don’t want to put her in danger, if I have to move fast.”
“So,” Stanton said, and peered at him from lowered eyelids. “You two an item?”
Michael gave one quick nod of his head. “And, she’s hell bent on finding Henry. I’m afraid if I leave her unattended, she’ll go looking for him.”
“Tell me about it.” Stanton held the cigarette between two fingers, leaned back, and blew a puff of smoke toward the pale blue sky. “She’s as stubborn as a mule.”
Michael grinned. “It’s not her stubbornness that I worry about, it’s the spontaneity. She doesn’t think things through.”
Stanton closed his lips tight. He gave a curt nod. “Okay, I’m in. So what’s the plan?”
Michael gave silent thanks that Stanton was man enough not to comment further on his and Rachel’s relationship. And from his silence, he gleaned that the deputy understood his e
x-girlfriend’s spontaneous, take action now, think later, attitude. The man rose in his estimations.
“We go separately to the bar,” Michael said. “I’m a rich white kid, high on drugs. I sing and play guitar.” He ignored the turn of Stanton’s head and the narrowed gaze. “You’ll come in as a patron. Your clothing today is perfect. But there are a ton of locals who’ll spot you as a stranger and might get suspicious.”
“What’s the name of the bar?”
Michael told him, and had barely gotten the name out, when Stanton roared laughing. He slapped his thigh. “Shit,” he said. “I’m a regular.”
“Good.” Michael felt the hair on the nape of his neck tingle, and reached back to give it a rub. “Here’s the rest of the plan—” He heard Rachel’s voice and turned around. She waved at them, but he couldn’t make out her words. She moved off the blanket, stepping toward them.
She cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “Are you guys ready for lunch?”
He raised a hand and nodded. “Be right there.” He casually scanned the area. Walking along the parking lot was a skinny figure huddled into a thin black hoodie. The guy wore dark glasses and turned slowly every now and then to look over his shoulder.
The guy stopped walking, stared straight at Michael, and then walked toward the sea wall and straddled it. From his quick prancing steps, Michael thought it could be Mantis. But how had he known where to find him? And why had he shown up now, instead of tonight? And how long had he been up there, hiding in the shadows, watching them?
Michael strode along the shore intending to casually meet up with the man.
“Wait up,” Stanton called out.
Michael glanced over his shoulder. Stanton reeled in his fishing line. How much time did he have to make contact alone? He trusted Stanton but didn’t want to risk exposing Mantis. He’d do anything to keep his informant’s identity secret. Besides, Mantis could be damn skittish.
The guy stood and raised the newspaper slowly, tucked it underneath his arm and slid over the low sea wall, disappearing from view.
Michael broke into a run and removed his holstered gun. By the time he got to the blacktop, the hooded figure was bicycling down the highway. He stood, catching his breath. What the hell had that been about? If it was Mantis, what did he want? How did he know where to find him? And, why did he run?
He thought back over the past five minutes, and recalled his letter from the chief had been delivered in the same newspaper like a message. Mantis had raised the newspaper before slipping away. Did he have a message? If so, where would he deliver it? And when? Tonight, at the bar?
Stanton came to a stop beside him. “Who was that?”
“Nobody I know.”
“He looked kind of like a guy I know, Fernando. He’s local riff-raff.”
Michael steeled himself and kept his gaze lowered. So that was it. Mantis had recognized Deputy Stanton. It didn’t seem like the right thing to do, to tell Stanton that Fernando was his informant, although if they were going to work together he should disclose everything. Not yet. It was a gut level warning and he always followed those.
“Let’s eat, and then get out of here,” Michael said.
He tried to act casual, and strolled toward Rachel. But his adrenaline was pumping and his heart pounding. He’d wanted to give chase, but if Stanton knew the guy, and insisted on showing up on his doorstep—in the unlikely event that Mantis had a doorstep—it could totally spook him. Mantis would just fade off into the distance never to be seen or heard of again. And hell, he needed him.
Damn. He wanted whatever news Mantis had. And he wanted it now.
Tonight couldn’t come soon enough.
Chapter Twelve
Rachel swiveled around on the bar stool and sipped on her beer. She still thought the place stunk worse than the Salton Sea, but she’d vowed to keep those comments to herself. From now on she’d work with Michael, and not follow her own crazy ideas. Michael knew what he was doing.
A rush of guilt flooded her thoughts. Was she relying on him too much? She always liked the next shiny thing whether she wanted or needed it, or if it was good for her. Grandpa had told her about that failing many times. Men, huh, they always thought they knew what was best for the women in their lives. She gave another slight huff, took a sip of beer, and shuddered.
“Excuse me,” she said, and beckoned Fred. “I’d like a chardonnay.”
He grinned. “Didn’t think you were into the suds.”
“It showed, huh?” Rachel laughed. “I tried to impress Dingo.”
“Yeah, well, we know where that gets us. Be yourself. You should know that from Cliffs. You’d see all kinds of fakes there.” He slid a stemmed glass of white wine toward her.
Rachel grimaced. “I do.” She dug ten dollars out of her purse, and slid it across the bar. “Keep the change.”
Fred grinned and walked down the length of the bar, cleaning up, refilling glasses, and chatting amiably as he went. The odor that rose up, and seemed to form a cloud above the dance floor, almost made her gag. At least with the sweetness of the wine on her tongue she could suffer in silence.
She glanced toward Dave Stanton. He gyrated around his dance partner, giving his best version of the redneck’s overbite, and the busty female played up to his every move. Good Lord. Had she and Dave looked that pathetic as a couple? She smiled, probably so. But Dave was good folk. A touch of tenderness washed over her. They would always be friends. No matter who, or what, came between them. After another sip of wine, she casually eyed all of the dark corners of the room. It had gotten late, and there’d been no sign of the praying-mantis-on-crack as Michael liked to refer to his informant.
A youngish woman who had obviously fallen on bad times, dressed in washed out black from head to toe, slid onto the barstool next to her. “Bourbon, on the rocks,” the woman called out to Fred, the words rattling from her throat like iron grating on iron. “My friend here is paying.” She gave a slight tilt of her chin toward Rachel.
About to protest, Rachel felt a hand clamp down on her knee.
She glanced into the eyes that a moment before had looked guarded, and now had widened and shone with the intensity of an unspoken message. The woman’s eyes lowered briefly as she looked toward Rachel’s knee, and Rachel followed her gaze. The woman’s hand, although small and bony, pressed with urgency against her knee. A small piece of paper was wedged between the woman’s hand and Rachel’s jeans, only one end of the note evident.
Rachel looked back up at Fred, who now stood stomach pressed against the bar and scowling at the thin woman. “Sure. Old buddies here,” she said cheerfully. “Order whatever you want, hon.”
Fred glanced from one to the other, shrugged, and walked over to the liquor bottles. Rachel figured he wanted the sale and therefore asked no questions. She took the note, and deftly slid it into her jacket pocket. She opened her wallet, drew out a twenty dollar bill and placed it on the bar. The dark bar, and the twirling blue-starred strobe light, didn’t allow for reading. Besides, she wanted privacy.
“I’m going to the restroom,” Rachel said to the woman. She hadn’t uttered another word but sat beside her rigidly, her chest barely moving, as she eyed the liquor bottles and waited for the drink. Rachel hesitated a moment. The woman looked painfully thin. Maybe she should offer to buy her a hamburger.
The woman looked up and glared, as if to ask, “What the hell you lookin’ at?”
Rachel slid off the barstool and moved away. Maybe she’d feed her when she returned from reading the note. The least she could do was offer. Michael looked her way and continued with his song. She didn’t break her step, or wave.
Stanton danced close by. “You leaving?” he asked, and grabbed at her elbow.
“Nope. Ladies,” Rachel said, and shucked off his sweaty hand. His entire face and neck were damp.
“You should dance,” the busty young woman said, and then flashed Rachel a smile.
Stanton worked his
moves, and the woman seemed to be having a good time. If she raised her arms any higher though, those babies were going to pop right out of her dress; if you could call the strapless mini a dress. Hope she brought a coat. It would be cold at midnight. And she knew Stanton wouldn’t be leaving with the woman because he had a date with Michael. Rachel stepped back from all that sweaty energy and pointed down the narrow hall. “Got to go.”
Dave nodded, twirled his partner in an awkward movement, and then grinned at Rachel. “You’re next.”
She smiled and gave him a flip of a wave. “Sure,” she muttered, and hurried away to read the message that threatened to burn a hole in her pocket.
****
Michael strummed the guitar. He belted out the lyrics, on auto pilot, while he watched the back of Rachel turn down the hallway. Mantis had not shown up yet. He wondered about that.
Was his informant in trouble? Had he been detected? Sweat beaded his brow and his upper lip, and his damp t-shirt clung to his chest. In part because he’d given a favorite number everything he had, but mostly because he worried for Mantis’ safety. He’d noticed the slight interaction between the skinny chick and Rachel. And Fred hadn’t looked too happy about the woman fronting up to his bar. Why had Rachel paid for her drink? Did they know each other? He could still see the top of Rachel’s head. She didn’t stop at the telephone. Damn.
The woman tossed down the brown liquid in her glass, shook the ice cubes and drained the last few drops. She stood, tossed what he guessed was a dollar bill on the bar, pocketed Rachel’s change, then darted through the crowd to the main entrance. She was so skinny she could be Mantis’ sister. And the way she grabbed that change…
Michael pulled in a deep breath. The tune finished, and he leaned closer to the microphone. “Take a break, you crazy dancers. I’ll be back in five.”