by Odell, Terry
“I can save you the trouble,” Elle said. “Her name is Trish—Patricia—Sheridan. She’s from Santa Monica, California—”
Consuela held a hand up. “No, still you do not understand. Senór Aguilar arranged for your sister to go to Mexico City.”
“Yes.” Elle’s stomach still churned at the trade she’d negotiated. “I promised he could have me in her place.”
“Senór Aguilar would not have his name connected to a sick American woman. One who might have more Americans searching for her. He would have used a new identity for her. He does this often, and well.” Her lips curved in a wry smile. “I do this well, too, but he must not know.”
Elle’s stomach whirled like a washing machine on spin cycle. She’d be traveling under false papers, which didn’t bother her, but she had to know Trish’s identity. Hospitals weren’t keen on handing out information if you didn’t know who you were asking about.
“It is a long drive. It will be morning before you can get there,” Consuela continued. “I will try to make arrangements. A place to stay near the hospital.”
“I’m sure I can find a motel.” Although if Elle had her way, her place to stay would be at the hospital, not near it, preferably in Trish’s room. “Getting me the ride is much more than I expected. I’m ready to go.”
“No, you must be patient a little longer. Eating will make you feel better.”
Elle wasn’t sure her stomach agreed, but she went to the kitchen where Consuela busied herself portioning scrambled eggs, sausage, and tortillas onto two plates. The aroma of coffee added to the mix.
A man—her ride, Elle assumed—was drinking coffee from a thick yellow mug. He gave her a quick glance from behind a pair of cheap plastic-framed glasses, nodded, and resumed drinking his coffee.
Consuela put a plate in front of him and the other across the table. “And now I will… how does Diego say it?—do my networking.” She patted Elle’s arm again. “You must be patient.” With a brusque nod to Elle’s tablemate, she picked up the box she’d brought with her from the basement and left the room.
The man's bulldog-like jawline was dark with stubble that didn’t hide a scar running from cheekbone to chin. A battered straw hat hung from the back of the wooden chair. He seemed oblivious to all but the meal in front of him.
Elle took her seat and forked up a bite of the sausage. The heat warmed her from the tip of her tongue all the way down to her belly. She thought of Jinx—probably too spicy for him. She wondered where he was, what he was doing. But she couldn’t dwell on that now. They’d had a frantic few days, earth-rocking sex, but she couldn’t see a long-lasting relationship. He had his job, she had hers—maybe. She needed someone who’d have her back, who’d be there for her—not like a cop, but for all the little day-to-day things people talked about at dinner.
Over a second cup of coffee, Elle thought about what she did. Arrested johns and hookers. Nine times out of ten, they ended up right back on the streets, and she’d arrest them again. She had a feeling her transfer with its accompanying promotion was never going to happen. According to the force, her skills were best suited to Vice. Ironic, wasn’t it? Because she did her job well, that’s where the brass wanted to keep her.
There had to be a way to help the women before they got trapped in the cycle. She thought about what Dalton had told her, about his girlfriend working in a halfway house. Could Elle do that if her promotion didn’t come through? Or maybe volunteer. She knew of several places in Riverside—she’d referred women there but had never thought much about it beyond giving them an address.
Before the thought could gel, Consuela returned with a small wallet. “This must do.”
Elle looked inside, finding her face staring out from a Mexican driver’s license. Her name was Elena Velasquez and she lived in Tecate. Also in the wallet were pesos. A lot of pesos.
“This is too much,” Elle said, extracting some of the bills.
Consuela flapped her hand, refusing them. “Cash speaks. If Diego brings you here, I know you will repay.”
“By donating to your charity. Right. I will.” With interest. A lot of interest.
“There is also the name and phone number of a woman in Mexico City who can help.”
Elle figured she’d have better luck getting in touch with someone in the States, but it couldn’t hurt to have a local contact.
The man scraped his chair away from the table. He carried his dishes to the sink and rinsed them with an informality that said he’d been here before. Elle followed suit.
“We must go,” the man said. Consuela hadn’t introduced them, so Elle didn’t ask his name. What she didn’t know, she couldn’t tell anyone.
“My sister?” she said to Consuela. “Her name?”
“I am still working. I will find it and tell the person on the paper.”
They walked through the kitchen to a small service porch. Consuela held the door for them. “Vaya con Dios.”
The man walked along a narrow brick-paved path to a nondescript pickup truck parked in front of a small garage. He opened the door for her, and she set the bag and the thermos between the seats.
They bounced along through the darkness, eventually hitting the highway. She’d have to trust her taciturn new best friend was taking her to Mexico City, to the hospital where she’d find Trish. The minutes ticked away, the miles slipped by. She leaned against the window, struggling to stay awake. Elena Velasquez she mouthed over and over, trying to get comfortable with the name. She knew the pronunciation would never sound right. Maybe she could pretend she was mute so nobody would expect her to speak Spanish.
After an hour with the hiss of the tires on asphalt playing a lullaby, she couldn’t fight her body’s demand for sleep any longer. She closed her eyes. What seemed like minutes later, the truck stopped and bright lights assaulted her.
A hand touched her shoulder. She started. “What?”
“We need gas. Good time for a pit stop, too,” her companion said. In perfect, unaccented English.
“Who are you?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.
He smiled, softening his features, and extended a hand. “Name’s Nate Wilson. Appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone. Meanwhile, I’ll gas her up if you need to use the restroom.”
He was snagging the receipt when she came back. She waited in the truck while he used the facilities, and they were on the road again.
Awake now, she learned Nate’s parents had come to the states as migrant workers and were the rare exception to the poverty cycle. He’d been born in Texas, but by the time he was three, his parents had changed their name from Ortega to Wilson, moved to Palo Alto, where his father ran a chain of dry-cleaning stores. They’d done well, and Nate had gone to UC Berkeley.
He touched the scar on his face. “Did a stint in the Army. Zigged when I should have zagged. Came home, figured I ought to try to work to give others the opportunity my parents had.”
“Does Consuela know?”
“Yes, but as far as anyone else knows, I’m good old Pancho, a little on the slow side—invisible to most, the way she is. I’m an errand boy, trusted because nobody thinks I have the wits—or the balls—to do anything that would go against the cartel.”
“I heard you and Consuela arguing,” she said. “I hope I’m not screwing up your plans.”
He glanced at his wristwatch. “No, we’re fine.”
“And you’re not going to tell me what your other errand is.”
“’Fraid not.”
They drove on. Elle dozed off and on. Dawn broke, turning the sky pink and orange. Strains of Beethoven’s Fifth jolted her out of a doze. She zeroed in on the source of the tone.
A cell phone. Nate had a cell phone. Why the hell hadn’t she thought to ask?
He answered, grabbed the gasoline receipt from the console along with a pen. The phone tucked between ear and shoulder, he wrote something down. “Gracias.” He set the phone into a pocket on the driver’s door. “That was Cons
uela. Your sister’s using the name Patricia Torres.” He handed her the paper. “I suggest you memorize it and get rid of the note.”
“I hope I don’t have to swallow it.”
He laughed.
“Can I use your phone?” she asked. Maybe her contacts on the force would be able to pull strings, although she didn’t hold much hope for that. But it was worth a shot. Or maybe she could call Blackthorne and see what had happened to everyone. Better yet, she should start calling to get replacement ID and credit cards sent to her. The sooner she was operating on her own nickel, the better.
“Sorry, but that’s not possible,” Nate said. “Too much of a chance the call might be traced.”
“I understand.” She’d have to buy a disposable phone.
It was almost eight by the time they reached the hospital. “You can drop me off,” Elle said. “I appreciate what you’ve done, and I hope everything goes well on your other errand.”
Without waiting for a good-bye, she raced up to the main entrance and approached the desk inside, rehearsing the Spanish Nate had taught her on the drive. But when she got there, all she could say was “Patricia Torres, por favor.”
Praying that was enough and the clerk wouldn’t rattle off a bunch of Spanish, Elle waited.
The clerk tapped the computer. “Si.”
Elle mimed writing. The clerk lifted her eyebrows, but gave Elle a piece of paper with B-307 written on it and pointed to her left.
“Gracias.” Elle raced for the elevators. Bouncing on the balls of her feet until a car appeared and the door opened, Elle felt the first glimmer of optimism since she’d arrived in Cabo.
She mashed the button for three and willed the car to move faster. The doors slid open and Elle stepped into a hall that shouted Sick people are here. Ignoring inquisitive stares from doctors and nurses, she followed the numbers and pushed the door to 307 open.
Almost as white as the sheets, Trish lay in the bed hooked up to machines. Elle’s breath caught. In addition to the IVs, and monitors that bleeped out her pulse and respiration, Trish’s legs were affixed to a mechanical contraption that kept them moving up and down—to prevent clots, Elle assumed. But the beeping seemed steady, and Trish’s chest rose and fell in an even rhythm.
Careful not to disturb any of the tubes, Elle took her sister’s hand. “I’m here, baby girl. I’m not leaving you.”
Trish’s eyes flickered, then opened. She blinked twice, and Elle swore she smiled before closing them again. She dragged a bedside chair closer and sat beside her sister, still holding her hand as hot tears spilled down her cheeks.
Chapter 41
Exhaustion and relief made it impossible to keep her eyes open. Elle pushed the chair closer to Trish’s bed and rested her head on the mattress. Without letting go of her sister’s hand, Elle dozed in fitful stops and starts, awakening at the visits by a nurse or a doctor checking on Trish. All they would say was her condition was satisfactory. Either that, or they didn’t speak enough English to elaborate.
“Are you sure she’s okay?” Elle asked the next time a nurse came in. “She doesn’t seem to know I’m here.”
“This is not unusual. Recovery is slow,” the nurse said. “She will be here a week, ten days, I think.” She wrote on her chart, and left.
Elle wished she could get Trish to a hospital in the States. Not that she thought the medical staff here wasn’t competent. She’d learned this was a teaching hospital, and had an excellent reputation. But she longed for doctors who were more fluent in English.
Her thoughts turned to Fozzie, envisioning him and Matilda, his trusty helo, with Jinx dangling from a rope, swooping from the sky to take them home.
Like that’s going to happen. They don’t give a damn about you. With all their super fancy equipment, you’d think they’d have let you know what was going on.
She pictured Jinx walking through the door. And how she’d tell him where he could go. All that crap about having her six—it really was her ass he was interested in. She’d been less than twenty feet away in that hotel room and he couldn’t take two seconds to tell her he was leaving?
Of course, if he had, she might have shot him on the spot. People didn’t leave people. In her life, that was the code, and heaven help anyone who violated it.
“Elle?”
Trish’s voice, weak and hoarse, snapped Elle from her negative thoughts.
“I’m here, baby girl.”
Trish’s mouth curled in a faint smile. “You’re never going to stop calling me that, are you?”
Elle leaned over and kissed Trish’s forehead. “Not on your life.”
“Glad you found me,” Trish murmured, and promptly fell back to sleep.
Elle glanced at the clock. Nearly eleven. Had it only been three hours? It felt like three days. Her back and neck ached. What would she feel like after ten days? Maybe the hospital had a cot. Something more comfortable than a thinly padded chair with wooden armrests, or she’d end up being hospitalized for a wrenched spine.
But Trish had smiled. With a smile of her own, Elle settled into the chair, squirmed in an attempt to get comfortable, and closed her eyes.
And opened them what seemed like seconds later when the door opened. But instead of a doctor or nurse, Jinx appeared.
Time froze as he stood there, the expression on his face hesitant. Wary. Then he rushed forward.
“Elle. Thank God I found you.” He reached for her, grabbed her shoulders.
She stiffened. Pulled away. He recoiled as if she’d stabbed him. Which—seeing him in the flesh, smelling the soap mixed with Jinx, taking in the new clothes—she seriously considered, but the KA-BAR was long gone. She’d expected him to come in bruised and battle-worn, which might have evoked a little sympathy. But he looked clean, fresh, and well-rested.
“Yes, you did. And, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your voice down.” She kept hers low and even. No need for him to hear it crack. “My sister needs her rest.”
“She’s all right, then?” he asked, keeping her gaze fixed on hers.
She refused to break eye contact. She was not going to fall into his arms, a weeping basket case. She’d stared down her share of creeps on the job. She was good at it. She wasn’t sure the words would get past the tightness in her throat. She swallowed and forced them out. “Yes, she is, no thanks to you. And now, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave us alone.”
“But—”
She stood and walked toward the door, careful not to get too close. Afraid to breathe, lest she inhale his scent. “She needs me. It’s going to be a long recovery period. I need to devote all my time and energy into helping my sister get well. I don’t have time for anything—or anyone—else. Thank you, and Fozzie, and Dalton for all they did. I’ll take it from here.”
“But—” he said again.
She shook her head and held the door open. “Please. Go. It’s better this way. It’s not meant to be. Get on with your life.”
“Elle—I can ex—”
“Go.” Steeling herself, she turned away and went to her chair. When the door closed behind him, she allowed the tears to flow.
Jinx staggered down the hall a few paces before bracing himself against the wall, afraid his knees would give way without the added support. Of all the reactions he’d anticipated, Elle’s response to his arrival was so far down the list of possibilities, it was in a different book.
She’s upset. She didn’t mean it. She’ll come around once her sister is okay.
Did he believe it? Deep down inside, his gut told him she’d meant what she’d said. That they’d had a danger-induced fling, but the reality was, they had no future. He had two more days’ leave. Elle said Trish might need weeks of recuperation.
He stiffened his shoulders and marched to the elevator. If Elle didn’t need him, Blackthorne, Inc. did.
Jinx buckled himself into his seat on the plane. He told himself he was lucky to get a last-minute seat at all, even if it meant he was by th
e lavatories, sandwiched between a man who needed a seat-and-a-half, and an elderly lady almost as large, who kept sniffling and dabbing her nose with a tissue.
He folded his arms, made himself as small as possible, closed his eyes, and did his best to shut out the world.
He tried to push the images of Elle’s face out of his mind. The hurt, the anger. Women. He never had figured out how they were wired. His computers did what he told them to. You didn’t start a program and have it change its mind. If it didn’t behave the way you thought it should, you could find the bug and fix it.
Women—Elle, especially—were too unpredictable for him to deal with. At least now. Maybe one day he’d have the good fortune Harper, Dalton, and Fozzie had found. Given his lifestyle, someone who got her jollies with guns and altercations probably wasn’t the sort of woman he should be meeting, and a covert mission wasn’t the place to find someone right for him.
But for now, finding another woman held no appeal. He’d stick with the anonymity of gamer sites for companionship.
The next thing he knew, the loudspeakers announced the routine seatbelts, seatbacks, and tray tables litany, and he was landing in San Francisco.
Once he’d made his way off the plane and out of the terminal, he sucked in a lungful of damp, cool air. This was home. Empty, but home.
Hiding in the comfort of his job, Jinx had lasted four days respecting Elle’s wishes to break up. Break up? They’d never gone together. How did that qualify for breaking up?
But whether or not they had been “going together” for those few days, there was nothing unusual about worrying about someone you cared about, was there? And if you worried about someone, you followed up, tried to make sure they were all right. And if you happened to have the advantage of technology and contacts, why not utilize them?
Jinx slammed his Red Bull onto the desk. If he came up this empty gathering intel for an op, he’d be fired. Riverside PD was stonewalling him. The hospital in Mexico City was adamant about not sharing patient information. In two languages. His calls to Elle’s home phone yielded a “this number is no longer in service” message.