Chapter Eighteen
Special Agent Frank Drebin helped make the bust himself. His analytical mind couldn’t pin down why he’d become so attached to the people in Mariposa, but he was. Maybe it was just the unsolved mystery that drew him. Whatever it was, he found himself looking into the case with every spare moment of his time. Yesterday his wife had accused him of being obsessed.
He was certainly something, he reflected with a wry grin, weapon drawn, waiting behind the SWAT team members assembled outside an upscale waterfront warehouse in San Marcos.
The Justice Department had marked the money in Samantha Henning’s Gucci bag in an effort to catch and convict one Carlotta Henderson, a.k.a. Carlos, on the street. She’d been smuggling and selling Microsoft and Intel chip knockoffs since the big PC boom years ago. Her contacts in Mexico and South America had guaranteed a handsome profit with almost no overhead. Add to that the fact that she used beautiful women as her pigeons and it was a picture-perfect little business with a touch of prostitution thrown in on the side for extra profit.
The Justice Department had been trying to get close to her for some time with dismal results. Carlotta had always been very choosy when it came to picking her girls, almost paranoid as a matter of fact, which made the JD’s job that much harder. She trusted her ladies with her life or she trusted them with nothing. Samantha had been one of the first, and from what Drebin could tell from the Justice Department investigation, her predatory nature had made her one of Carlos’ early favorites.
The JD’s lucky stroke had come when a Mexican “fishing trawler” had capsized just off the coast of San Diego. The Coast Guard and a nearby Navy destroyer had answered the distress call and found one very swamped boat with fifteen illegal aliens hanging on for dear life. The seamen had managed to save the boat and the passengers, and were just ready to turn the living cargo over to the Immigration and Naturalization Service when one of the crewmembers began to tell an interesting tale.
The crewman, claiming he would be killed if sent back to Mexico, told a wild tale of picking up a strange cargo before they went to sea…tiny boxes that held the power of the world. The INS agents had scoffed at the man’s obvious ploy for political asylum, but the Coast Guard took him at his word.
The cases of microchips found concealed beneath a fetid cargo of fish were grade-A. Promising resident alien status to the captain and the crewman, they’d instructed the men to deliver their cargo as originally contracted.
Compromising the receipt “agent,” one Samantha Henning, had been easy, almost too easy. They’d kept the chips and told Samantha to return to Carlos, giving them the evidence they needed to take Carlos into custody and the grounds to perform a search of the warehouse she used as a headquarters.
If only they had researched Samantha Henning as carefully as they’d examined Carlos. Unfortunately the agent in charge of the transfer had been thinking with his little head rather than his big one. He made all of the correct procedural moves. The serial numbers on the cash were annotated and Samantha’s car was equipped with a location transmitter. Then he took one look into those big blue eyes, never seeing the cunning calculation behind them, and made one gigantic mistake. He didn’t have her followed. She’d disappeared, totally and completely.
Until Drebin had mentioned the money as a sidebar to his primary investigation of the murders in Mariposa, the agents had been at a standstill. Both Carlos and the Justice Department had had their ears to the ground, but Carlos had one advantage, Samantha Henning’s cell phone.
Drebin rolled the facts over in his mind as the team dropped into place. How Samantha Henning and Arden Jones had come out of the same womb was a puzzle to him. From what he’d seen and heard of Arden Jones, the word “integrity” should have been stamped across her forehead in big, bold letters. Samantha, on the other hand, seemed to be the type of person you watched your back around, and all the time.
The steel door of the warehouse exploded inward under the immense pressure of the battering ram and the raid was over almost as quickly as it had started. No shots were fired, and Carlotta “Carlos” Henderson was quietly led away. The SWAT members who had wagered their money on whether or not “Carlos” was actually a woman were glumly forking over their stakes in a dark corner of the building while investigators prowled the empty floor.
Drebin’s request for a ride-along with the prisoner had been granted, and he found himself face-to-face with Samantha’s employer, even if it was through the thick mesh of the barrier between the front and back seats of the cruiser.
“Hello Carlos. I’m Special Agent Drebin with the FBI.”
The woman’s voice was clipped, matter-of-fact, cultured. “If you must speak to me, please address me as Carlotta. Other than that, Agent, I have nothing to say to you. My attorney will be speaking for me as soon as we reach the police station.”
“Certainly, I understand completely. I’m not really here in an official capacity. I just wanted to meet the person who was ballsy enough to put out a contract out on a United States Air Force officer.” Drebin sat back, waiting to see if his ploy would work. For a moment he didn’t think he’d succeeded, then she bit.
“What are you talking about?” she asked disdainfully. “I never put any contracts out. I don’t even know any Air Force people.”
“Well, I’m sure our vic will be happy to hear that. A female assassin tried to cap her, and strangely enough, the shooter was tossing your name around. And even better, she named her connection to you. Samantha Henning ring any bells? Half a mil in cash? Her sister, Arden Jones?” Drebin watched casually, carefully gauging her reaction to his barrage of facts.
She was either very good or had no idea what the hell he was talking about. Drebin wasn’t sure which path to take, so he straddled the middle and forged ahead. “I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but the US government doesn’t take very kindly to having its soldiers assassinated while they’re on holiday. Shooting at each other in a war is one thing, but this lady was on vacation for God’s sakes. And you know the most ironic thing, Carlos,” he paused for a long moment, rolling the name off his tongue with a Mexican flair, leaning into the screen. “We would’ve never even gotten the warrant if it wasn’t for that soldier. Do you understand? You fucked up. You should have left Arden Jones alone and concentrated on Samantha. Now we’ve got you, and we’ve got you cold.” Giving her a triumphant look, he swiveled his big body forward on the bench seat of the squad car, staring out the window as life in Silicon Valley forged onward.
* * * *
Two days later the ‘nonexistent’ contract on Captain Arden Jones’ life was withdrawn. Carlotta Henderson claimed to have never ordered such an extreme action, and Drebin believed her, almost. Since the only person who could actually tell the whole tale was dead, it seemed a moot point anyway.
Her name had been Teddy Reynolds, and she’d been one of Carlotta’s ‘special’ girls for some time. The women in this cadre were used for more than the usual tasks of courier and hooker, they were confidants, movers and shakers, and in some cases, lovers. Samantha had been an integral part of this elite group, which sought Carlotta’s trust and affection with an almost religious fervor. From what Carlotta said, Teddy must have had seen this as a chance to even the playing field and solidify her position within the organization.
With that, Frank’s interest in Carlotta and her whole organization waned. Arden Jones and her safety had been his primary concern. While he would still puzzle over the man who had made a life out of using the Wiccan religion as a reason for killing, he had a gut-deep feeling that reign was about to end. In fact, he had no doubt about it with Bill Ashton on the case.
Chapter Nineteen
He lounged in the deep shadows of the porch, taking a rare vacation from the job, the glowing tip of the monstrous cigar he smoked highlighting his face in a homey, gentle radiance. Sighing contentedly, he propped his bare feet up on the weathered railing surrounding the deck, pushing himself even f
urther back in the luxurious comfort of the battered old armchair.
Boomer, lounging next to him, lifted a curious ear at his movements, then settled gratefully back into doggy slumber. Bats swooped back and forth in the gloaming, their high-pitch squeals audible every so often. Crickets sung by the millions, competing with the burgeoning stars for nature’s attention. The gentle scent of night-blooming jasmine wafted across the warm evening air, turning the balmy Friday night into a peaceful, comforting companion.
Bill was satisfied. Well, almost. The telephone call he’d just finished with Special Agent Drebin put him in a very good mood, and the call he was about to make would top off the evening nicely. Wrapping his hand around the cold neck of the microbrewed ale he was nursing, he took a swig, savoring the tangy bitterness of the beer.
He let his hand drop, swinging the bottle between two long fingers and just listened to the night. The whining squeal of the hinges on the south door of the barn reminded him it was time for some much-needed maintenance on the outbuildings. Jimmy was great with the animals, but his carpentry skills sucked, to say the very least. In fact, it his attempt at maintenance that had screwed up the barn door in the first place.
Smiling contentedly, he nestled the bottle back into his lap and picked up the cordless phone, dialing Los Angeles.
* * * *
Arden was cleaning the toilet when the phone rang. Rather than race to the stereo to turn down the John Mellencamp currently blasting from the speakers, then to the answering machine to hear yet another telemarketer hang up, she continued to mindlessly swirl the toilet brush around the rim of the bowl. Her mind drifted, latching onto the gritty guitar licks. They floated through the air like dust motes, disassociating her from L.A., putting her back in the heartland, placing her in a land of simple people and simple dreams. She found herself listening more and more to music that reminded her of home, of family. She didn’t know whether to attribute it to her recent brush with death or the fact that thirty-five was just around the corner. Maybe it was a combination of both. Whatever it was, she’d found herself uncharacteristically emotional since her return to L.A. Her outburst on the telephone two days ago only confirmed it. She’d become a basket case.
The tale of Jack and Diane concluded with John Cougar’s raunchy voice becoming nothing more than a whisper. And just beneath that whisper and the sibilant hiss of speakers turned up entirely too high she could hear the answering machine and Bill Ashton’s smooth, rich voice.
Racing down the short hallway she managed to not only trip on the Portuguese throw rug strategically placed to detract the eye from the paint job, but to catch one corner of her favorite photo of the Azores with the strap of the shoulder harness immobilizing her arm. She skidded to a stop in front of the small desk, her shirt ripped, shattered glass behind her, and the sound of a dial tone on her machine.
“Shit, shit, shit.” She played back the message, rubbing her shoulder through the rip in the thin cotton of her tee shirt. Yeah, she grimaced; this was just the way she wanted to spend her Friday night. Cleaning the toilet when the man of her dreams calls, then leaving a path of destruction throughout her own home. It was certainly a glamorous life she led. Playing back the message she wrote down the Sheriff’s home telephone number, then saved the message just so she could hear his voice if she wished. When she realized her unconscious action she plopped down into the antique rocking chair next to the phone.
“What the hell am I doing? After one kiss I’ve made this man into something much, much bigger than he is.” Wryly shaking her head, she laughed at herself. “Shit. In my mind right now, Superman couldn’t hold a candle to Bill Ashton. And to top it off, I’m sitting in an empty house talking to myself. Not good Jones, not good at all.” Still chuckling at her own perceived insanity she made the short trip to the kitchen and pulled a dusty bottle of Portuguese red from the wine rack. If she was going to act nuts, she might as well enjoy the experience.
Expertly opening the wine, she decanted it into one of her favorite garage sale finds, an ancient glass carafe in the shape of Tigger. His tail curved into a perfect handle and the mouth of the carafe was just wide enough to let any vintage breathe properly. She remembered the day she’d found it. She had been tickled pink thinking it was the perfect kitsch. Unfortunately Tom hadn’t felt the same way, and Tigger had been relegated to the bottom of a storage box to collect closet lint.
On the day her divorce became final he had come out of that box and now held a place of honor on her sideboard, regardless of where in the world she was.
Arden puttered around the kitchen, deciding how and when she would return the good Sheriff’s telephone call, and Mr. Mellencamp began to wail about walls a tumblin’ down. The combination of raw, raucous bass licks and extreme volume charged her mood, switching her into high gear as she began to bop in the middle of the tiny kitchen, celebrating life and the certain justice of good, down-home guitar work.
She knew she made quite a picture, grooving to an eighties beat in the middle of the faded linoleum of her kitchen, one arm flapping in it’s restraints, looking like a deranged chicken. She finished her dance, poured herself a glass of wine, and then strolled to the stereo, turning it down to a conversational level just as the CD changed. She drifted toward her rocking chair as the classic but nouveau blues of Jonny Lang cried out of the speakers, slowing, mellowing the pace, and sliding her into a different frame of mind.
She needed to think rationally, to pin down exactly what she felt when it came to Bill Ashton. Twirling the balloon glass between her fingers she looked into the rich burgundy depths of the wine and thought. And analyzed. And came up with squat.
She couldn’t sum up the fusion of sexuality and good, gentle warmth that seemed to settle in the pit of her stomach whenever she talked to the man. He made her feel both sexy and comfortable, a combination she would never have dreamed was compatible. In her experience, the two were seldom connected. The kicker was, it was something he seemed to do without any effort, any guise. And he managed to affect her the same way over the telephone, for goodness sakes. He didn’t even have to be in the same room for her to picture what they would be like together, and how good it would be.
Arden Jones wasn’t the type of woman who jumped headlong into anything, but both her heart and her hormones were leaning dangerously in Bill Ashton’s direction. It scared the crap out of her for the simple reason that nothing about the two of them fell into her neatly planned outline of her future. And that was only the beginning.
While she couldn’t discount her obvious attraction to the Sheriff, she had to keep reminding herself why they had met in the first place. Samantha was missing, and presumably in the hands of a serial killer. There was little doubt of that now, with the discovery of the sigil in her car. How could she, in good conscience, pursue anything with Ashton? It just wasn’t right, it wasn’t proper, and she was afraid. Afraid deep down in her bones that nothing she or the Sheriff could do would be good enough or fast enough to save Samantha’s life.
Then what? Regardless of her past relationship with Samantha, she was still her sister, and if Arden’s fears became reality, she would never stop until the man responsible for harming her was dead. Not brought to justice, not put on trial. Dead.
Where, under those unbending conditions, did the Sheriff fit? Nowhere.
It was a worst-case scenario for them both, and for them to play with the fire that would surely erupt between the two of them was both foolhardy and irresponsible.
So, Arden decided, that is that. And with that decision she locked away her burgeoning affection for Bill Ashton, putting it right next to the memory of Samantha and herself playing as little girls, putting it in that chest where she, like so many people, kept her fondest memories and deepest regrets.
Chapter Twenty
“Josie, I’d like you to meet Dr. Adam Porter. Dr. Porter, Josie Galloway, our resident expert.” The Sheriff made the introductions over the long oaken table in the school
library, curious as to how the good doctor would react to meeting the town’s self-proclaimed Wiccan High Priestess. He was pleasantly surprised.
“Good morning Ms. Galloway. What a pleasure to finally meet you. Your reputation precedes you.” He leaned forward, reaching across the table to grasp her hand in his. “While there are those in this community who frown upon your choice of religion, be sure that I am not one of them. In my line of work you can never be skeptical of any person’s beliefs.” In Porter’s eyes, Bill saw the frank male speculation and appreciation that seemed to light up every man’s face in the county when Josie entered a room.
Josie, for her part, wasn’t exactly being shy in her own perusal of the tall, handsome doctor. Adam Porter was well known, not only by the women in his home of Mariposa, but by females across the country.
After receiving a Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology from Johns Hopkins, he’d set off on a whirlwind global tour, prying into the mind and motivations of the female species the world over. As a result, he’d written three best selling, critically acclaimed books on the inner workings of a woman’s mind. Psychologists hailed his work as groundbreaking, and women the nation over plunked down their $29.99 at Waldenbooks and B. Dalton and Amazon.com to take this marvel home to their significant others with an ultimatum…read this and begin to comprehend me.
Understandably, this had made him the bane of many a husband’s existence. The fact that he was movie-star handsome, had brown eyes the depth and color of fine Swiss chocolate, and the body of a running back had not lessened their loathing.
No one was really sure why he’d selected Mariposa to settle in. His almost fanatical desire for privacy had proved an effective barrier to almost any line of questioning when it came to his personal life. Still, his ingrained reserve, courtly mannerisms and desire to remain below the dating radarscope made him the number one catch in the county and the source of intense speculation amongst the local gossips and matchmakers.
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