“Can I go home?” Kari asked.
Special Agent Nolan nodded. “For the time being, we’ll have an unmarked car stationed outside your residence. If you need to leave the house, we ask that you notify our officers. We also recommend that you rent or borrow a different vehicle because your van is so easily recognizable.”
Kari didn’t want to see that deathmobile ever again, let alone drive it, so she accepted the agent’s terms without complaint. “What about my sister’s autopsy? I need to make funeral arrangements.”
“Her remains should be released today.”
When Nolan inquired about Maria, Kari handed him her cell phone, watching him listen to the barely audible message. “I’ll have the number traced,” he promised, thanking her for the information.
She set the phone aside. “Have you heard anything about Adam?”
“Adam?”
“Officer Cortez. He was shot yesterday.”
“Oh, right. The CBP officer. No, I’m sorry. I haven’t been updated on his condition.”
She rode home in a squad car, feeling numb. The first thing she did was head straight to the shower, tearing off the clothes she’d never wear again. When she felt clean, she donned her robe and threw the garments in the trash.
Going back to sleep was out of the question, so she made a fresh pot of coffee. Then she stared at her cell phone, willing it to ring. If Adam was alive and conscious, he had no excuse for not calling.
Maybe he was dead.
Or maybe he was just done with her. He’d seemed pretty cold-blooded at the border. What had he told her about handling no-strings affairs? Kiss the person goodbye, say you had a nice time, and walk away.
Hands trembling, she picked up the remote control and turned on the news. Sure enough, yesterday’s shootout was the top story. They flashed a mug shot of Chuy Pena, looking like a bulldog, along with a surveillance photo of Moreno. Even from a distance, he was lean and handsome. If he ever went to prison, he’d have plenty of lonely, troubled women writing to him. Bastard.
Kari wanted to throw her coffee at the screen.
The next picture was of Armando Villarreal. He was barely recognizable in sunglasses and a windbreaker, his inelegant face turned to the side. Black hair, dark skin, medium build. Half of the men in San Diego fit that description. Including Adam.
The newscaster said that Armando had been found in a ditch near the border. He was in critical condition.
“Good,” Kari muttered, sipping her coffee. Of the three men, she hated Armando the least, but she wasn’t going to cry a river for him.
There was almost no information about the two officers who had been injured in the melee. According to the report, both had been working undercover and were hospitalized at an undisclosed location. Their identities were not revealed.
“Damn it,” she said, switching off the TV.
This was bullshit.
Setting her coffee aside, she snatched her phone from the counter and dialed Adam’s cell phone number. His voice mail picked up, crisp and controlled. “If you’re alive, fuck you,” she said after the beep, her voice shaking. “And if you’re not—”
She ended the call, appalled by the sob that rose up in her throat.
“If you’re not, fuck me,” she whispered. She couldn’t handle her sister’s death or Maria’s disappearance. Being kept in the dark about Adam was an additional torture. She wanted him alive so she could hate him.
Her sister was dead.
Leaving the coffee behind, she went into the bedroom. Heart aching, she crawled under the blankets, cradling the phone beside her.
* * *
When Maria came to, she was slumped in the backseat, her arms tied behind her back.
She lifted her face from the leather seat, smothering a moan as the interior of the car spun out of focus. Her mouth tasted awful and her stomach roiled with nausea. Squeezing her eyes shut, she took a few steady breaths, hoping she wouldn’t throw up.
After a few seconds, the dizziness passed. She opened her eyes and looked around again, trying to orient herself.
She didn’t recognize her surroundings. They were parked on a dirt road in front of a ramshackle house. It was a rural area, probably the hills of east Tijuana.
The car door was open and Chuy Pena stood outside, his back to her. Two other men were with him. They appeared to be waiting for someone. Judging by Chuy’s defensive stance, his feet braced wide, it wasn’t going to be a pleasant meeting.
A silver Mercedes came to a stop behind the vehicle she was in. The man who climbed out was angry. His lips curled into a grimace as he strode forward, clenching his hand into a fist. His greeting for Chuy was a punch in the mouth.
This was Carlos Moreno.
Chuy fell down to his knees in the dirt. He spat out blood but didn’t retaliate in any way. Instead of getting up, he stayed there. Although he was obviously not top dog, his posture didn’t indicate submission. He reminded her of a mongrel who would wait for a better time to bite. After he was fed, perhaps.
Moreno didn’t seem to think Chuy’s demeanor was respectful enough, either. He kicked him in the face, snarling.
The other men stepped back, giving Moreno more room to play.
Chuy rolled over, pressing a hand to his flayed cheek. The first blow had merely insulted him; the second really hurt. “I’m sorry,” he said, breathing heavy. “Give me a chance to explain.”
Moreno’s bunched shoulders relaxed a little, but he didn’t offer Chuy a hand to get up. “It better be good.”
Chuy maneuvered into a sitting position, resting his shoulders against the wheel well. “Armando is a rat.”
“Bullshit,” he said succinctly.
“He was working with an undercover agent. Some guy named Foster.”
“How do you know?”
“I caught him on the phone, talking about the shipment.”
“This Foster was a customer of yours, I assume.”
Bracing himself for another blow, Chuy nodded.
“Who shot Armando?”
“I did. He was running away from me. The fuckup at the hotel was his fault. As soon as I pulled the trigger, his cop buddy came out of nowhere.”
“I heard a woman was killed.”
Chuy stared at the ground, swallowing. He didn’t have to pretend that this detail bothered him. “She got caught in the crossfire.”
“Do you remember what I told you the last time that happened?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“Why should I keep you alive?”
“Because I’ll even the score,” Chuy said, meeting his gaze. “I’ll make Armando pay for betraying you.”
Moreno crouched down, fisting his hand in Chuy’s shirt. “You should have done that yesterday, you stupid fuck. When you shoot a man like him in the back, you’d better make sure he stays down.”
“I’ll find him,” Chuy promised.
“Too late, cabrón,” he said, giving him a hard shake. “He’s already been found. According to the news, he’s in the hospital, comatose.”
Maria couldn’t hold back a tiny gasp of distress. She was glad Armando was alive, but appalled that Chuy would lay all of the blame at his former partner’s feet. If Moreno believed Chuy’s outrageous lies, he was a fool.
The boss glanced into the backseat of the car, noticing her prone form. Maria stared off into space, feigning semiconsciousness. “Who’s that?”
“A maid from the hotel. She helped Armando get away.”
“If he was a rat, why would he try to get away from the police?”
“I don’t know. I think he was working with los otros as well.”
Moreno shoved Chuy down in the dirt, disgusted. “You’re a fucking liar,” he said, straightening. “He’d never go back to his old crew after what they did to his wife.”
“I have proof.”
“Where?”
Chuy removed Armando’s letter from his pocket, handing it to Moreno. He re
ad the message, his expression skeptical. “This doesn’t prove anything,” he said, keeping the envelope. But perhaps the letter hinted at Armando’s divided loyalties, because he dropped the subject. “You’ve got some balls to bring a beaten woman here, Pena. Are you incapable of taking direction, or do you enjoy taunting me?”
“Armando likes her. So does Foster. I thought she might be useful.”
“You thought she might make a statement to the police, you mean.”
He inclined his head. “Yes. But I can take direction, jefe. If not for your orders, I would have just gotten rid of her.”
Pulse pounding, Maria closed her eyes. She felt Moreno’s dispassionate gaze wander over her slack face. “Even you wouldn’t waste such a pretty one,” he said. “Bring her in until I decide what to do with her. And if you lay a hand on her, or anything else, I will cut your fucking dick off, comprendes?”
Chuy said he understood. One of his comrades pulled her out of the backseat and carried her into the house. She was taken to a basement or wine cellar, some kind of underground room. The man cut her bonds and left her on a dirt floor. Before she could get a sense of the place, the only door slammed shut, casting her new world into darkness.
21
Over the next two days, Maria searched every inch of the cramped cellar for an escape route or an impromptu weapon.
To no avail.
The amenities consisted of a thin sleeping mat and single blanket. A large bag of tortilla chips and a small bag of oranges offered sustenance. She’d been given a gallon of drinking water and a plastic bucket.
Although the walls and floor were dirt, it was hard-packed. She had no tools to dig with and no way to pick the lock. She was stuck.
Listening to the men was her only form of entertainment, so she spent hours on the stairs, looking through a sliver of space under the door. She could hear muted conversations and watch their booted feet pass by.
She wanted to signal Moreno somehow, to tell him that Chuy was lying. He seemed more sympathetic to women, less likely to kill her. But he was never alone and she didn’t want to risk Chuy’s wrath by shouting out his secrets at the wrong moment.
An opening came during the third afternoon of her capture. It was Friday, by her estimation, although the meager light made it difficult to keep track of time. The claustrophobic conditions didn’t help. She felt like she’d been trapped forever.
Last night the men had sat at the kitchen table and played poker until late. The tension in the room was palpable, underscored by the clinking of liquor bottles and taut silences. At one point Moreno accused Chuy of being high. Chuy denied it but Moreno pushed the table over anyway, sending the cards flying. “Fucking heroin,” he’d said, furious. “I didn’t want to dirty my hands with it, so I let you take over. Worst mistake of my life.”
When he stormed out of the kitchen, no one said a word. Chuy and the rest of the men picked up the mess and resumed their poker game.
Maria assumed they were sleeping off hangovers, because she hadn’t heard any footsteps since they retired. After an endless day of lying on the stairs, drowsing on and off, she noticed Moreno’s telltale shuffle. He wore expensive tennis shoes like an American. She held her breath, watching under the door while he looked in the refrigerator and sat down at the table. He rolled an object along the surface, back and forth, back and forth. When it fell over the edge, clattering to the floor, she saw that it was a syringe.
Maria shoved her fingers through the space under the door, wiggling them frantically. She was afraid to make noise but desperate to speak with him.
Moreno rose to pick up the syringe and approached the cellar door, standing close. “What do you want?” he asked in Spanish, his voice flat.
She leapt to her feet, pressing her cheek to the door. “Don’t do it.”
After a long moment he opened it, just a crack. The eye she could see was bleary, bloodshot. “Don’t do what?”
“That,” she said, gesturing at the syringe.
“Why not? Quitting didn’t help.”
“You have to stay alert. Chuy is lying to you.”
Moreno rubbed a hand over his scruffy jaw, unsurprised by the charge. Or perhaps unconcerned was a better word. “This is a business of liars.”
“Not Armando,” she insisted, her pulse racing. “He didn’t betray you. I overhead Chuy tell Sonia that Kari was a decoy. I was the one who told Foster about the shipment. When Chuy tried to shoot me, Armando stopped him.”
Moreno processed this information without reacting. “Did you see Armando get shot?”
“Yes. I helped him walk to an animal clinic. He thought the vet might fix him up.”
“Where was he hit?”
“In the side.”
“The bullet went through?”
“I think so.”
“Hmm.”
“Let me out,” she begged.
“Not yet. I have an errand to run.”
Maria tried her luck by shoving against the door, but he was blocking it. “Please. Chuy will kill me.”
He locked her in again, extinguishing her last ray of hope. But a moment later, he slid the unused syringe under the door. Maria would rather have a knife or her trusty pepper spray, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Wait,” she said, her lips almost touching the door. “Can I have Armando’s letter back? He asked me to deliver it.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he slid the envelope under the door.
“Gracias,” she whispered.
“Por nada,” he returned.
She put the letter in her pocket, along with the secret weapon, and crept down the stairs, praying for the opportunity to escape.
Kari still hadn’t heard from Adam directly, but she’d received a cryptic text message about his condition from Ian Foster.
According to Foster, Adam was recovering in an undisclosed location and unable to contact her for professional reasons. Foster stressed that this was very sensitive information, not to be shared with anyone. He also expressed Adam’s condolences for Sasha’s death and asked for an update on Maria.
Kari had no word on her friend’s whereabouts. An officer had traced Maria’s last call to a pay phone at a Tijuana bus station. Kari could only guess that Maria was traveling back to her family and would get in touch as soon as she arrived.
The hours passed by in a blur. She couldn’t stop worrying about Adam and she didn’t understand why he hadn’t contacted her in person. Whatever the reason, she’d never forgive him for leaving her hanging. Unless he was in a coma or wrapped in bandages from head to foot, he had no excuse for not calling.
He might be alive and well, but he was dead to her.
She’d been sleeping a lot since she came home, which felt odd. Insomnia and hyperactivity were more her style. She prided herself on being a workaholic, a clean freak, an exercise enthusiast. Type A all the way.
But she could hardly drag herself out of bed since Sasha’s death. The sense of loss was enormous, oppressive. Carrying it exhausted her. After a few minutes of wandering around the house, she needed a nap.
Along with the sadness, she felt a tremendous amount of guilt … and an almost equal measure of relief. For years she’d failed her sister, and enabled her, and worried about her. An awful, ugly little part of her was glad the fight was over.
She’d never spend another sleepless night wondering when Sasha would overdose.
The final toxicology results would take a few weeks, but the initial autopsy report suggested accidental death, with no indication of foul play. Sasha had died by her own hand and been dumped in the back of her van by Moreno’s men. There were multiple track marks but no signs of a struggle.
Kari made funeral arrangements quickly and quietly, seeing no reason to delay. Her parents were dead, and none of her far-flung relatives would be able to attend. She wanted to get it over with. The service was scheduled for this morning. Maybe, after taking the weekend off, she could go back to work, her
only sanctuary.
An hour before the service, she riffled through the contents of her closet, listless. The navy business suit was somber enough for the occasion, but she reached for the burgundy silk gown Sasha had encouraged her to buy. It wasn’t appropriate for a funeral. She dropped her towel and turned to the mirror anyway, holding the dress up to her body. Sasha’s raspy, irreverent voice told her to wear it.
She put on the gown, along with sedate underwear and a pair of simple black pumps. Because she wasn’t as daring as Sasha, even when delirious from grief, she added a black wraparound tunic. It was thin and lightweight but offered decent coverage, camouflaging the dress’s plunging back and low neckline.
Her wan face didn’t match the outfit, so she stood at her vanity mirror and applied makeup with an unsteady hand. Eye shadow, waterproof mascara, lip gloss. She stepped back to study her appearance. The accessories toned down the sexy gown without making her appear matronly. Sasha would approve.
Grabbing her purse, she went outside and climbed into her rental car, nodding at the officer parked across the street. He knew where she was going. She’d been assured that there would be a police presence at the funeral.
Not that anyone figured Moreno would be stupid enough to show up.
The parking lot at the funeral parlor was almost full, which surprised her. Maybe another service was wrapping up. As she walked toward the entrance, she realized the crowd was there for Sasha. Friends she hadn’t seen in years had gathered to offer their condolences. Sasha’s wacky New Age health care providers were milling about, along with her favorite hair stylist and the disgruntled nail technician. Even Kari’s ex-boyfriend, Brendan, had come to pay his respects.
She was touched by the outpouring of support. In the waiting area, there were flowers everywhere. Someone had set up a table for pictures. A dozen dazzling photos smiled up at Kari, reminding her that Sasha had loved to strike a pose. She’d been brash, irrepressible, and impossible to dislike.
Warm hugs and polite handshakes greeted Kari as she made her way through the crowd. The funeral director, whom she’d met once before, guided her to a seat in the front row. There were no other blood relatives in attendance. Kari felt awkward, sitting there by herself. After a moment, Sasha’s best friend from high school came to fill the space. Beth was married now, with two young children and a frazzled-looking husband.
Caught in the Act Page 23