by Aimée Thurlo
“I wasn’t looking directly at her,” Jo argued. “She must have a sixth sense or something.”
“Did you notice what she seemed most interested in?” Seeing Jo shake her head, he added, “When she took photos, they were of the rugs first, then the layout. At least two of the shots were directed toward the storeroom and the back door. Let’s find out if any of the staff recognized her.”
“I’ve worked here longest, and I don’t remember having seen her before,” Jo said. “Leigh Ann lives nearby and knows a lot of locals, so let’s ask her.”
Leigh Ann listened, then shook her head. “No, I have no idea who she is. She was pretty enough, though. I guess that’s what got your attention,” she said, giving Ben a wink.
“I wasn’t—,” he began, then stopped. “Wait a sec. You just made an excellent point, Leigh Ann. A woman like that is too attractive for any real surveillance work. She’d get noticed by any male over the age of six. That means she wasn’t a professional thief.”
“Which makes her an amateur—what?” Jo asked.
“I don’t know. I’m going to call Detective Wells and see if she’ll run the plate.”
“Good idea,” Jo said. “Use the phone in my office. It’s got a better speaker.”
* * *
Ben made the call. Moments later, Detective Wells answered, and Ben put the phone on speaker. While Jo listened, he described what he’d seen.
“Let me get this right. Unlike it was with the robbery, neither of you actually saw her steal anything or create any problems—vandalism of any kind or like that?”
“No, but why would anyone want to take photos of the security mirrors, layout, and basically the entire interior?” Ben said.
“And you know for a fact that she was doing that?” Wells, countered, sounding bored, or tired. “You said she spent most of her time around the rugs.”
“Well, that’s true,” Ben said. “But she was also working that cell phone camera and trying to conceal the act by pretending to be talking to someone.”
“For all you know, she might have been sending photos of what she saw as a quaint old trading post to her friends in New Jersey,” Wells said. “Did you catch her doing anything at all that looked like shoplifting?”
“No, but something was off,” Ben insisted.
“The woman paid before leaving, correct?”
“Yes, but her behavior was suspicious,” Ben said, holding his ground.
“What’s normal nowadays?” Wells said. “Let’s tackle this from a different direction. What made you notice her?”
“Training. Cell phones are used by insurgents posing as civilians to trigger IEDs and car bombs—and to provide surveillance images.”
“You’re also a man. Was she attractive, wearing revealing or sexy clothing, anything like that?”
“Good-looking, yes.”
“Maybe she knew you were watching her and that altered her behavior,” Wells said. “It’s not unusual for a soldier back from a combat deployment to be a little … cautious. And after yesterday’s incident, it’s natural to overthink someone else’s behavior. That man parked outside the restaurant last night, for example, was a Farmington salesman making a pitch on his cell phone. All we did was make him late getting home.”
Jo spoke up. “Okay, but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious, especially after all that’s happened. Now let’s get back to that woman today. The fact that she was sneaking the photos while pretending to be talking is what made it suspicious. Also, when she realized that I was watching her, she was quick to leave.”
“She also kept her head down and wore oversized sunglasses to help hide her face,” Ben said. “Believe me, Detective. She wasn’t just checking out the rug and documenting a trading post, she was casing the place. I gave you the license plate. Will you at least run it for us?” Ben asked. “It was a blue SUV—a Chevy, I think.”
“I can’t just run a plate just because you’re curious. Citizens have a right to their privacy,” the detective said.
“True,” Jo said, “but keep in mind that the trading post’s former owner was killed recently and we don’t know if the killer was a man or woman. There have been other incidents linked to this place, too, as you well know. Ruling out this person as a possible suspect at the risk of a little intrusion on their privacy, something they’d never know about unless you tell them, seems like a fair trade-off. But if you’re still uneasy about it, I can call the county sheriff directly. Or maybe I should talk to the tribal police. I know several officers there who I’m sure would be willing to help me.”
“No need, you’ve made your case. Just hang on for a minute while I run this on my MDT,” Wells said.
Ben raised an eyebrow. “You play for keeps, don’t you,” he whispered.
Before Jo could answer, the detective came back on the line.
“That plate is assigned to a Dodge Ram pickup. Didn’t you just tell me it was an SUV?”
“Yeah, it was,” Ben answered. “Maybe the plate was stolen.”
“I’ll contact the pickup’s owner and see where it goes from there. Meanwhile, if your hottie in sunglasses comes back, give me a call.”
Once the conversation ended, Ben looked over at Jo. “You handled things with Detective Wells like a pro. At the beginning, she wasn’t listening to what we were telling her. I think she resents our involvement in what she sees as her case.”
“It may be her case, but we all have a stake in the investigation, and so far she hasn’t shown us any results, not with your father’s murder, the break-in, or the robbery. We did nothing wrong by taking some initiative.”
“Now that sounds more like the Jo I knew. You never leaned on anyone. Control was always a priority to you.”
She stared at him for a moment, eyebrows raised.
“You don’t see it?” he asked her after a beat.
“No, not at all. I was forced to rely on myself because there really wasn’t anyone else I could count on at home. When something needed to be done, I’d do it myself, not so much out of choice, but out of necessity.”
It was clear to him that she believed it, but maybe she didn’t know herself as well as she should have. The Jo he’d known had never asked anyone for help, though she’d accepted it from his dad from time to time. Yet when others needed her, she’d always stepped up to the plate.
“There’s one thing I see hasn’t changed about you,” he said. “For you, logic and persuasion work better than confrontations. You do your homework and back your arguments with facts and sound logic.”
“Neither of us could force Detective Wells to do anything, so our options were few,” she said, going back to the floor to resume their inventory work.
As he followed her, Ben felt a mixture of admiration and healthy distrust. Jo was smooth and disarming, and had kept her cool with Detective Wells. Even as he’d struggled to keep his own temper in check, she’d never deviated from her goal, despite the pressure.
One thing was clear. Jo was a formidable woman, and Trouble with a capital T.
TEN
Detective Katie Wells rubbed the back of her neck. She hadn’t been getting much sleep lately. She loved her son, Brent, more than life itself, but he was slowly breaking her heart.
Where had the years gone? Was it really sixteen years since she’d woken up to her baby’s cries, and had found Doug Wells’s cryptic note on the pillow beside her?
I’m not meant for this. You’re better off without me.
With that, he’d stepped out of their lives forever.
At first, she panicked. She’d had no idea what to do. Back then she had no job, no training, and no education past eleventh grade. With one hungry baby to feed, she’d clawed her way out of a bottomless pit of desperation, found work as a waitress, and earned a GED. Eventually, she’d applied to join the sheriff’s department, a better paying, often physical job she was equipped to handle. The hours sometimes sucked, but with a full-time law enforcement job, she had health
insurance and a retirement plan. Her future seemed assured.
Though her job had plenty of ups and downs, she loved it from day one. She’d given it everything, and somewhere along the way, Brent had grown up.
Though Brent had never known his father, Katie could still see the similarities between them. Physically, the resemblance was there, and as it had been with Doug, Brent also attracted trouble.
Katie’s partner, John Sanchez, an overworked, overweight detective only a few months from retirement, came up to her desk. “Hey, Katie, I’m cutting out early today.”
“You don’t look so good. Are you okay?”
“Sure. I just haven’t been getting much sleep. Bobby’s had a hard time of it lately.”
That reality check put things back into perspective for her pronto. John’s son, Bobby, had leukemia and waged a life-and-death battle each day. “I’ll cover, don’t worry about anything. How’s the little guy doing now? Are the new meds helping?”
“It looks promising, Bobby’s stopped losing so much weight. But right now my wife’s away on a business trip. When Ruth’s gone, it falls on me. Sometimes sleep’s hard to come by.”
“If you need anything, give me a call.”
“Thanks,” he said. “What about Brent? Is he staying away from those punks?”
Brent’s gang connection seemed so inconsequential in comparison to what Bobby Sanchez was going through. “For now,” she said, praying it was true.
As John tossed his Windbreaker over his arm and headed for the substation door, Katie leaned back. Things could be a lot worse. Although at the moment she had that walking piece of garbage, Roberto Hidalgo, blackmailing her, she’d eventually find some leverage to use against him. He thought he could control her by threatening her kid, but what he’d really done was turn her into an implacable enemy who wouldn’t rest until he went down. She’d get his sorry ass and nail it to the wall. All she needed was a little more time.
She reached down, looking at her nine-millimeter Glock. Or maybe she’d find a way to take him out permanently.
Her cell phone rang and the distinctive ring told her who it was without having to look. “Don’t ever call me here,” she snapped. “Leave a text if you must.”
“So you can have a record of it? No way.”
Roberto always used a prepaid cell phone. She’d tried tracking the calls once, anything to build a case against him, but all she could get was a cell tower in the middle of the city.
Katie stepped outside into the parking lot, where she wouldn’t be overheard or have her lips read. “I don’t know why you waste your time and mine asking me to help you,” she said, her back to the security camera. “I told you all about the layout at The Outpost, but you couldn’t let it go. First you had one of your men lock up the employees and rob the place in broad daylight. And the very next day you sent some woman to take pictures. The owners made her within five minutes. Now they not only have a description, they’re likely to upgrade their security. Unless you’ve got what you want now, your people screwed up again.”
“Watch your mouth. Just follow orders. Clear?”
“Abundantly.”
“What’s going on with your investigation?”
“I talked to the ME on the phone. There’s no way the OMI is going to list the death as a suicide. The bullet that killed Stuart was fired from at least three feet away, but you probably already know that,” she said. “Also there was no powder residue on his hands or stippling around the wound. The ME found abrasions and rope fibers on Stuart’s wrists, and toxicology has revealed that he was drugged with sodium thiopental, which is commonly used in interrogations to make the subject talk. The evidence proves that this was no random break-in gone sour, not only that, but whoever went after Stuart had done this kind of thing before.”
“I’ve been told you were the first detective on the scene. Why didn’t you clean up the place—do something?”
“How was I supposed to know it had something to do with you and your business? I’m no mind reader. The more you and your people get involved, the harder it’ll be for me to bury this situation.”
“I have an interest in The Outpost. Do what’s necessary to keep law enforcement from digging any deeper. If nothing else, stall.”
“It’s my case, but if I keep dragging my feet, the sheriff will assign it to another officer.”
“Make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“That’s out of my hands.”
“Then find someone off the street to take the fall. Just make sure The Outpost doesn’t come under any additional police scrutiny between now and the end of this month. After that. you can sell Stuart’s death as a robbery gone bad, or whatever. Just keep me and my people out of it.”
“Maybe I can blame it on someone looking for drugs,” she said, mostly to gauge his reaction.
“That’s precisely what you should not do, guapa,” he said, using the Spanish word for “beautiful.”
Katie stiffened. Roberto’s attempts to flirt turned her stomach—the asshole.
“Just remember that there are no bad guys in this, mujer, just people trying to take care of their families,” he said, his voice softened to a whisper.
Katie heard a door open and the sounds of a child running into the room.
“Papi!”
A cold chill ran up Katie’s spine as she heard the child’s laughter, followed by a click. No bad guys … just evil unchecked.
* * *
Roberto Hidalgo looked down at the four-year-old girl hugging his leg with both arms. “Marisol, I’ve told you not to come into my office without knocking first.”
“But, Papi, there’s ice cream. Mami bought the really good kind.”
He lifted her into the air, loving the way she laughed. “Then we have to do our part … by eating all of it!” He set her down, then reached to tickle her. She giggled, then twisted away. “Hurry, okay?”
As she ran out, Roberto stared at the throwaway phone on his desk. The police detective thought they were so different, but Katie Wells was only kidding herself. It all came down to love—for family and for lifestyles carved out of nothing but dreams, and paid for in blood—in his case, that of his enemies.
As he always did when the walls began to close in on him, Roberto went to the bookshelf and reached for the hand-carved wooden box he kept there. Inside was a small silver Saint Christopher medal. It had belonged to his cousin, who’d been gunned down by a rival gang near the border. His death had allowed Roberto to escape and take the drugs into the United States. With that delivery, he’d started down a path that had eventually brought him every comfort money could buy. The death of Primitivo had become his own salvation.
He was now respected by the community and feared by his enemies—those who were still alive. He was no longer a beggar, stealing bread and fruit from vendors to fill his stomach. He didn’t follow the rules—he made them. That’s the way it was going to stay. He’d earned everything he had the hard way, and he’d fight to the death to keep it. Everything came at a price, power most of all, but he’d made his peace with it.
* * *
Katie sat in front of her captain’s desk. Frank Tafoya was tall, middle-aged, and as hard as they came. He also had a stare that could tear holes through you. Katie forced herself not to react.
“I know that you’ve been carrying both your share of the work and Sanchez’s, Katie, but incidents along the tribal boundary are on the rise, and that trading post is getting more than its share lately. Are you sure you can handle the load?”
“I’m fine, sir. Sanchez is there when I need him, and after he retires, I’ll have a new partner to break in.” That delay would work in her favor, too. Right now she didn’t need an experienced deputy looking over her shoulder. She had enough trouble covering Hidalgo’s ass.
“With the hiring freeze, I may not have anyone I can assign to you right away after Sanchez leaves,” Captain Tafoya said, sorting through a folder while he spoke. “Get
used to watching your own back out in the field. Don’t go into situations where you’re likely to get your nuts shot off.” He’d been looking down at the paper, then stopped, looked up and smiled. “Or other crucial parts.”
She smiled and waited. There was a reason she’d been called in and, with luck, he’d get to it sooner rather than later.
“We got some intel from the DEA this morning.” He slid a printed dispatch across his desk for her to read. “Activity among known dealers suggests that there’s a big shipment of cocaine on its way in from Mexico. If they follow previous smuggling routes, it’ll be passing through the New Mexico conduit into the Denver area. The feds are hoping to intercept the load, so keep your eyes and ears open. If you get a lead, it’ll need to be passed on to the DEA. They want to handle it.”
Katie nodded, knowing now why Hidalgo was feeling the pressure. “I haven’t heard a word about this until now. Any idea how they plan to smuggle it in? Mules, low-flying aircraft?”
“No one knows,” he said, and shrugged. “You’re working the Stuart murder case and the break-in attempt the day of the victim’s memorial servicel? Correct?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Other than a possible robbery gone sour, I haven’t found any motive that might explain why the trading post owner was killed. The guy was well liked and he apparently wasn’t dating anyone. Stuart’s record is squeaky clean, too, no gambling or drug problems. The break-in’s probably unrelated to the murder—a target of opportunity, considering everyone at the business was supposed to be at the memorial service.”
“You said robbery is a possible for Stuart’s death. Do you have any idea what was taken?” the captain asked.
“No, unfortunately, which doesn’t make sense unless somebody’s lying. Yesterday, too, a punk with a toy pistol locked the staff up and stole the contents of a cash register.”
“That’s all he took?”
Katie nodded. “He also found some cash in a back office, but gave up before attempting to break into their cash box. All he got was around two hundred bucks.”