A Time of Change

by Aimée Thurlo

  “León and his wife were murdered, and the fire was set after I’d already left his warehouse. I imagine it was used to cover up the crimes,” he said, but didn’t go into the details of the murders. Instead, he told her what León had said before he died.

  “What about that ‘prueba’? Do you have any idea what he was talking about?” she asked.

  “I suspect it’s a video—well, digital recording—because of his emphasis on seeing and hearing, but I can’t be sure,” Ben said. “The only rugs that connect León and my dad are the ones sold at The Outpost. Logic tells me that the proof is in one of those, but it would have to have been one from a previous order dating back to when Dad was alive.”

  “If what León said is true, then we need to find the rug he mentioned and this prueba to put a stop to what’s been happening to us. But are we talking drugs, money, or guns, and what does any of that have to do with rugs anyway?”

  Ben tried to guess what was so special about cotton rugs that sold for less than fifty dollars apiece, but drew a blank. “Maybe somebody had drug money hidden inside those rugs. They were rolled up tight and sealed in thick plastic wrap.”

  “Or maybe small packets of drugs. But where do we look? There aren’t any rolled-up rugs from León’s previous orders in the store. I know what they look like.”

  “We have to find the evidence Dad hid. Otherwise, these people might decide to set the trading post on fire, hoping to destroy the evidence.”

  “And do to us what they did to León and his wife?”

  “Yeah. We’re a threat to them because they aren’t sure how much we know. They need to get us, or the stuff, or both.”

  “How much should we tell the staff at The Outpost and the police about this?” Jo asked.

  “Let’s find the evidence first. Then we’ll go from there.”

  Jo sat there silently for several miles, then finally decided it was time to give up her secret. Now that she knew what the killers were after, and that she could no longer protect anyone by keeping quiet, Ben deserved to know the rest of the story.

  “I got a phone call from your father’s killer the day of our grand reopening,” she began.

  Ben looked over at her. “So that’s what you’ve been keeping to yourself for so long. Let’s hear it.”

  It took less than a minute to explain, but the questions Ben had lasted almost a half hour. Unfortunately, she had no more answers beyond what they already knew. They rode in silence after that.

  Finally Jo’s cell phone rang, and she motioned toward the cup holder on the center console. “Will you get that, Ben?”

  Ben picked up the phone and identified himself. A second later, he put it on speaker.

  “This is Lieutenant Gary Ramirez of the New Mexico State Police. We’ve found the bodies of three men who fit the description of the ones who jacked you and your cargo. They’re suspected of running guns for the drug gangs in Mexico, and all three have long records. We need you to stop at the OMI morgue in Albuquerque and see if you can identify them.” He gave them the address.

  “We’ll be there inside two hours,” Jo answered, looking over at Ben, who nodded.

  As the call ended, Ben looked at her. She was gripping the steering wheel so tightly, her knuckles were white. “Are you sure you’re really up to this?”

  “I’ve got protection,” she said, gesturing to her medicine pouch, “but I don’t want to hang around that place any longer than absolutely necessary.”

  * * *

  There were no surprises awaiting them at the morgue. The three bodies belonged to the men who’d carjacked them. Word had come from the DEA that the killings were believed to have been retaliatory in nature, but that was all the police were willing to tell them.

  Jo had been allowed to verify Ben’s ID of the victims by looking through a window. That had spared her having to approach the bodies, as she had before with the men in the pickup. When it came to bodies, most Navajo had been raised with the rule of three—don’t touch them, don’t look at them, get away from them. Lately, she’d been forced to do too many things that were counterintuitive to her, and it was taking its toll.

  At the wheel, Ben glanced at her, then back at the road. Jo still looked paler than pale. What she’d been through lately would haunt her dreams for a while. Violent deaths had aftereffects on the living, and the trio at the morgue had died hard. The men’s apparent leader, shotgun guy, was full of bullet holes, and Don, the guy he’d decked with the assault rifle, was nearly decapitated, though still recognizable. The third guy, Karl, was clearly the victim of torture.

  Ben called the rental company and told them about the van he’d left back in Juárez, explaining that he’d left it behind, fearing he was about to be hijacked. Silence stretched out between him and Jo, but as the minutes passed, Ben saw that Jo’s color was returning to normal. Although he tried to hold her back at the station and get her to talk to him, Jo had just shut down. All things considered, maybe she’d been right not to lean on him. In a little over two weeks, he’d be gone again and out of her life for at least a year.

  Ben glanced over at Jo. Her seat was reclined and her eyes shut. Her hand remained over the medicine pouch on her belt. He’d rediscovered just how much she meant to him, and that connection wasn’t because they’d had sex. It was much more. Once he was gone, he’d miss her more than she’d ever know.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Safe. That’s how Leigh Ann felt when Melvin held her. There was something reassuring about his touch, and best of all, he never pressed her for more than she wanted to give. He’d never even kissed her. Now, standing on his front porch in the cool breeze, she rested her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

  She remembered the few times she’d asked Kurt to hold her. He’d get all hot and bothered and end up wanting sex. She’d learned quickly to stay away from him unless that’s what she wanted, too.

  With Melvin, everything was different. In his arms there were only gentleness and a wonderful sense of peace. His touch was light, but still all-encompassing and strong, a tree in the desert.

  Reluctantly, Leigh Ann moved out of his embrace and stepped away, still holding his hand in hers. “I have to go. I need to get to work.”

  “I wish you could stay longer,” he said. “I don’t know if I’ve helped you.”

  “You have,” she said, pressing her palm to the side of his face. “I’m stronger just having been next to you.”

  “I know you’re hurting right now, but I still think you should let Rachel stay with you, at least until you can get another boarder,” he said, squeezing her hand. “That rent money is helping you. This isn’t about her or your late husband. That’s over, done and gone—in your words. Think about what’s good for you now. That’s all that really counts.”

  “I’m glad you’re my friend, Melvin,” she said, and stepped closer, kissing him on the cheek.

  “Come by anytime,” he said, and smiled. “You’re always welcome.”

  Five minutes later, Leigh Ann was on her way to work. Had her marriage been a sham from day one? In the beginning, Kurt had seemed larger than life to her, the tall Texan with the easy smile and sexy walk. Yet as the years wore on, reality had systematically shattered each one of her illusions.

  She took a deep breath. Melvin was right: no more looking to the past. Kurt had broken her heart, but she’d never again have to listen to his put-downs or crude, sexist jokes.

  She had a brand-new life now and was free to live it as she saw fit.

  * * *

  Katie pulled up in front of the trading post well past closing time, gambling that Jo Buck would still be around. Noting a light on in the back office, she smiled to herself. Jo clearly loved this place almost as much as she’d loved law enforcement … a lifetime ago.

  She thought back to the days when she’d first joined the department, eager to start her career. She’d had so many plans for herself, ready to change the world. Then the world changed her.
<
br />   Katie got out of the cruiser and walked up the stairs to the main entrance. “It’s Detective Wells,” she announced loudly.

  There was a short pause. “Hang on. I’m coming,” a voice that sounded like Jo’s called out from inside.

  Katie watched through the glass, spotting two individuals inside moving toward the door through the darkened interior. When the latches were turned and the door opened, Ben Stuart and Jo were standing there. “I’m glad to find you both here,” she said. “I’ve got some news.”

  “We have some information for you, too,” Jo said, motioning for her to enter. “I was going to leave a call first thing tomorrow. I didn’t think you’d be working this late.” She glanced up at the clock, noting that it was close to 10 P.M.

  “Looks like neither one of us works normal hours these days,” Katie said, nodding to Ben, who nodded back.

  Jo led them to her office and offered her a seat. Ben straddled a folding chair and reached for a half full mug of coffee.

  “Would you like something to drink?” he offered.

  Katie shook her head and opened the manila folder she’d brought with her. “I’d like you to take a look and see if these look like the rugs that were stolen from you.”

  Katie set out several photos. The rugs pictured there were a muddy, stained mess. “A farmer with land adjacent to the San Juan River west of Bloomfield found these along the bank, caught on the branches of a fallen tree. There were a few more farther downriver, hung up on an irrigation gate.”

  Jo studied them, and then glanced up at Katie. “These look like the rugs we purchased, though obviously they’ve been removed from their packaging and unrolled. But why on earth would anyone go to the trouble of stealing five dozen rugs, then ruin them like this?”

  “Drugs are sometimes dissolved and soaked into fabric, in this case, the rugs. When the cotton dries, the drugs are hidden within the porous weave. Later, after being smuggled past the authorities, the rugs are soaked in water and the drugs dissolve back out. When the water evaporates, you have the drugs, in crystal form, which is then packaged and sold,” Katie said. “Got it?”

  Katie watched Jo and Ben carefully. When she’d first seen these photos a few hours ago, she realized instantly how Roberto Hidalgo had imported his drug shipments and what part The Outpost had played in that. What she still didn’t know was if Tom Stuart had been a willing part of the operation, or an innocent man who’d found out too much and become a liability.

  Either way, she now had a motive for his killing. What she needed to figure out next was how much these two had already guessed, and how she could use the information to bail herself out of the mess she was in.

  She reached down and tapped one of the photos. “So you’ll verify that these rug designs and colors match the stolen ones?”

  “Yes, and the tags should identify them as Mexican made—the Desert Mirage brand,” Jo confirmed.

  “They have that product name—and ‘Hecho en Mexico’ on the label,” Ben said, looking more closely at two of the photos.

  “Do you have a regular clientele for your Mexican rugs?” Katie asked, looking at Jo.

  “I’m not sure if they’re ‘regular’ customers or not. This was the first time I was responsible for the Mexican imports. My boss was the one who arranged the buys and handled the sales. But I do know that the rugs sold well. All of the Chinle-style rugs from this last shipment were presold. The remaining rugs would have gone to walk-in customers. If you’d like, I can give you the telephone numbers of all the customers who placed advance orders.”

  “I’ll need that, yes. Do you happen to have any more Mexican rugs here from the same vendor, or any other Mexican source?” Katie asked.

  “We just completed a storewide inventory a few days ago. We’re completely out of Mexican rugs,” Ben said. He turned to Jo. “Right?”

  Katie saw Jo nod, but she also saw what looked like a visual signal pass between the two. Neither of them had a reason to lie that she knew of, but Katie had a gut feeling they were holding out on her. Del, her informant, had already said that Ben had seemed very frustrated by her lack of progress on the case. Maybe Ben had put other things together on his own, too. If he suspected that she was on the take …

  She needed a new game plan. “You said that you had something to tell me?”

  Ben nodded. “We have reason to believe that my dad kept some form of evidence that will point back to his killer. That’s what they’ve been searching for.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did you get the information?” Katie pressed.

  “From a man on the telephone who wouldn’t give me his name,” Ben said.

  “What can you tell me about him? Where was he calling from?” Katie asked. This was the kind of information she needed to break Hidalgo’s hold on her.

  “I agreed not to say—for his own protection. If I find out anything more, I’ll pass it along.”

  Now she was pissed. “I can detain you right now for withholding evidence,” she snapped. “Or have your phone records subpoenaed.”

  “Probably, but it won’t get you anything but a list of times and places. I’ve already given you all I know.”

  Katie reached for the cuffs, planning to bluff, but then Jo spoke up. “There’s more. We’ve recently learned that the Mexican vendor The Outpost uses may have been involved with the drug cartels.”

  Ben gave Jo a sharp look, and that was enough for Katie. She was nearly certain that was where Ben had gotten his information. Even using her informants, Katie had never been able to get anything on Roberto’s Mexican drug connections. This was just the opportunity she’d been looking for, but in order to identify the supplier, or at least the conduit, she’d have to back off and give these two a little more room. “Okay. What’s your vendor’s name?”

  “León Almendariz. He has—had—a business in Juárez. We understand that he and his wife died yesterday in a fire,” Jo said.

  “But you have no idea what it is your dad hid, or where it might be?” she asked Ben again.

  “No, and we’ve searched everywhere,” he answered. “We believe that this evidence is what the murders, break-ins, and incidents have all been about, and why they keep coming back at us. The people who killed my father are worried that this can do them serious harm.”

  Katie nodded. There was something else going on here just beneath the surface, but suspecting she wouldn’t get any more answers tonight, she said good-bye, then drove away.

  A few miles east of the trading post, Katie pulled over to the side of the road and called Roberto. “I have some news.”

  “Come to my home,” he said. “Park a block away, then walk up the alley and through the back gate to my office.”

  Katie arrived at his estate fifteen minutes later. An armed guard—a slender, tough-looking Mexican thug about her age with a Bluetooth at his ear and a cigarette in his mouth—let her through the eight-foot-high, stout electronic gate. Then he swept her for bugs with a hand scanner. Ignoring her handgun, he pointed toward what looked like a mother-in-law house about fifty yards from the Mediterranean-type McMansion with a terra-cotta tile roof.

  Moments later, Katie identified herself in a soft voice as she knocked, though she knew it wasn’t necessary. The guard had already called in.

  Roberto opened the door and invited her inside. “What do you have for me?” he said, waving for her to take a seat on a white leather sofa. He sat down beside her, a little too close for comfort and within arm’s reach of her holstered sidearm.

  Katie turned to face him, placing the weapon farther away, then told him about her meeting with Ben and Jo. “They’ve made a connection between the Mexican rugs and a drug-smuggling operation, but they’ve got nothing that leads to you.”

  “I know. If they did, I’d have the DEA and state police parked across the street. The list of telephone numbers they gave you leads nowhere. Those people are fictional
, just names. But Stuart Sr. and Almendariz gathered names and dates they hoped would link me to the wrong people, and that could be a problem. They also kept one of the rugs. Then Stuart, that crazy pendejo, actually had the cojones to threaten me. If his son and that Indian puta think they’re going to do the same, they’re as good as dead.”

  “There’s no need for more violence,” Katie said firmly. “If you let me handle this, you might still be able to get what you need without attracting the attention of the INS, DEA, Homeland Security, and the FBI. Otherwise, this could blow up in your face and I’d be helpless to stop it.”

  “So, what are you planning to do?”

  Roberto didn’t have to know about her informant. “As I said, the less you know, the better. Now, tell me about the rug—the one you don’t want them to find or use against you.”

  “It’s what they call Chinle style, in black and reds and whites. It’s cheap cotton, not wool. Nothing about it will be remarkable—except what it contains.”

  “Which is?”

  “Like you don’t already know? It’s pure cocaine, dissolved into the fabric. Get me that rug and the list of names Stuart made. If you do, your service to me will be complete. I’ll turn over what I have on your boy and you can forget that you and I ever met. If not—there’s no place you can ever hide that will make you safe from my partners south of the border.”

  She nodded and stood. Roberto was lying, of course, about letting her walk away. The only reason she was still alive was because killing a cop would mobilize every law enforcement agency in the state. But if she could get that list and the rug, there was a chance she could use them to buy her way out, or at least get a really good head start.