03_Cornered Coyote

by Dianne Harman

  Cornered Coyote

  By

  Dianne Harman

  Copyright © 2014 Dianne Harman

  www.dianneharman.com

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form without written permission except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Website, Interior & Cover design by Vivek Rajan Vivek

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9889349-8-6

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I want to thank all those who have read Blue Coyote Motel and Coyote in Provence. You are the ones who encouraged me to write another book in the series. I’m constantly asked, “What happens to Maria?” I believe Cornered Coyote answers that question.

  As always, I could not have written this without the help of my husband, Tom. He has become a master chef and gardener, as well as king of the laundry! Thank you!

  To Vivek, Michelle, Noelle, Jackie, Stephanie, and all the rest of you who so willingly helped me and gave me feedback, thank you! Your support and friendship are greatly valued by me.

  And to all of you who have read my books and taken the time to contact me and give me your input, please know how very much it’s appreciated.

  And to my dear readers, none of this would be possible without you.

  Thank you!

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  ABOUT DIANNE

  CHAPTER 1

  The silver bird gleamed in the blue sky as the early morning sun bathed it in soft golden hues. Flight 714 was on the last leg of its journey, having burned close to fifty thousand gallons of jet fuel on its trans-Atlantic flight from Paris to Los Angeles.

  The intercom sprang to life. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Armand speaking. We have been given permission to land and we are starting our final descent into LAX International airport. The temperature is 61 degrees with 65% humidity, bright sunny skies with no clouds. We hope you had a pleasant flight and we hope you’ll fly with us again. Thank you."

  Maria looked out the window. Her breathing became shallow and her tongue dried out. Her body had goose bumps all over it. She couldn’t believe she was coming back to the U.S. She’d thought she would never return to the United States, but a strange twist of fate had brought her back. Memories of the last few years overwhelmed her and she began to sob silently, sobs that shook her delicate frame.

  As the giant A380 prepared to land, the undercarriage opened, and the landing gear swung out harmoniously, like the arms of a conductor leading an orchestra. The eight hundred and fifty thousand pound bird came to a slow roll in less than sixty seconds… a miracle taken for granted, in a world that had little time for gratitude.

  As she prepared to disembark from the plane, Maria retrieved her black roller bag secured with a red Velcro belt from the overhead bin. Exhausted and suffering from jet lag as a result of the long trip from France, she was oblivious to people looking at her. The stunningly beautiful woman had become immune to the stares she received wherever she went and now they didn’t even register.

  She looked nervously at the swirling mass of humanity hurrying to get through immigration and customs. People came to Los Angeles from all over the world; some with faces the color of the darkest black of the African jungles, while others had pale skin which had never been touched by the sun. The scene in front of her was a kaleidoscope of colors: bright tribal clothing from Africa and the Mid-East; sedate colors that people from the northern European countries seemed to prefer; and everything in-between.

  She’d thought of little else but Jordan and called him on her cell phone as soon as she landed. Her spirits soared when he assured her once again that he’d made arrangements with law enforcement authorities and there was nothing to worry about. She would breeze through immigration hassle free and soon they could start their new life together.

  Maria wore a red wrap-around dress which hugged her curves and dipped down between her breasts, allowing onlookers a view of her generous cleavage. Large gold earrings and a bracelet played against her pale olive skin. It hadn’t been easy, but she’d lost the twenty pounds she’d deliberately gained when she went to Provence in an attempt to escape being detected by the police. All she wanted now was to lose herself in Jordan’s embrace.

  She had been terrified of being identified as "a person of interest" by the ferret-faced woman at the security podium in France. She was wearing a starched white blouse and black slacks, and her menacing laser like eyes bore into Maria. She’d held Maria’s passport a little longer than necessary, looking back and forth, between it and Maria. But that was nothing compared to the fear she was feeling now as she got ready to go through U.S. Immigration.

  When her turn came, a surly fat immigration officer was seated behind the counter. As he scanned the RFID tag on her passport, his computer screen flashed a red alert. He deftly pressed a button and then turned his attention towards Maria. With his yellow-stained teeth and Cheshire cat-like smile, he made her feel like she was nothing more than a piece of Swiss cheese. She’d forced herself to smile at him instead of openly shivering with revulsion. Every second seemed like an hour.

  He returned her passport to her and she stepped away from the counter. Less than a minute later an immigration officer approached Maria from behind, startling her. "Ma'am, please follow me."

  She went weak in the knees and could barely walk as she followed him, trembling with fear. Her hopes for a happy future with Jordan came crashing down. Whoever had told Jordan she was free to travel under the name of Maria Brooks must have misled him.

  The immigration officer led her to a small detention room and asked her to take a seat at a table. Seated across the table from her was a man who identified himself as a detective assigned to the homicide unit of the Riverside County Sheriff’s Office. Stone-faced and in a voice as cold as steel he said, “You’re under arrest for the murder of Jeffrey Brooks. In a few minutes you’ll be taken to the Robert Presley Detention Center in Riverside County,” and then he got up and left abruptly.

  Maria was stunned when she heard those words. She went into a state of shock, wondering how this could have happened, and thinking how naïve it had been for her to return to the country where she had killed someone… her husband.

  CHAPTER 2

  As soon as the doors to the police car were securely closed, Lt. Ganz turned to Mari
a to advise her of her legal rights under the famous Miranda Supreme Court case. She saw the hungry look he gave her. She’d seen it on almost every male’s face since she’d been twelve years old. He took a small card from his wallet that had the Miranda rights printed on it. He slowly read Maria her rights and when he’d finished, he asked her if she understood them. Sobbing, and in a barely discernable voice filled with fear and despair, she whispered, “Yes.”

  Lt. Ganz changed positions, adjusting his large belly so it fit under the steering wheel, and drove the police cruiser away from the curb, merging into the heavy traffic created by travelers and drivers who were coming and going from one of the world’s busiest airports. Maria sat in the back seat of the police car between two uniformed and intimidating deputy sheriffs and silently cried. She pressed her eyes tightly together, willing the tears to stop, and gulped. When she felt that she could control her voice, she asked, “What’s going to happen to me now?”

  The fleshy faced lieutenant looked at her in the rearview mirror and said, “I’m taking you to one of the county jails. Since the murder of your husband occurred in Riverside County, we have jurisdiction to investigate and file charges in connection with the crime. You’ll be booked for murder, your prints and mug shot will be taken, and they’ll run you through the national criminal identification database to see if you’ve got a record. You better get a lawyer if you can afford one. You’ll be arraigned day after tomorrow. At the arraignment you’ll plead guilty or not guilty and see if the judge will grant you bail. That’s probably not an option since you’re being charged with murder. Oh yeah, you’ll get to make one phone call when we get to the jail.”

  Maria looked out the window at the palm trees lining the street. I wish I'd never met Jordan and come back here. I don’t know any lawyers. Jordan probably does. If they let me see him, I’ll tell him to hire one, and then I can use my phone call to call my parents and tell them. I don't want them to hear about it on TV. I suppose the good news, if there is any, is that I didn’t see any cameras when I was arrested.

  * * * * *

  Jordan was pacing in the upper level arrival area, waiting for Maria to clear immigration and customs and walk up the long ramp. “She should have been here by now,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s been an hour since the plane landed.”

  He was intercepted by a young brown-eyed woman wearing a black burkha. "Excuse me, sir, you must be Jordan Kramer. I’m Mahsa and I work for Darya Rahimi. She wanted to welcome Maria back into the United States with these flowers. I know Maria landed an hour ago, but it always takes so long to go through immigration and customs."

  Jordan stared at the bouquet of pink and white roses wrapped in green floral paper she was holding. "Please thank Ms. Rahimi, but my gut feeling is that something has gone terribly wrong. Maria hasn’t come up the ramp and I spoke to her just as she landed.”

  His ringing cell phone stopped him from saying anything further. “Jordan Kramer here.”

  He listened for a few minutes, hung up, and looked at Mahsa. “That was a police detective. Maria’s been arrested and is on her way to the Robert Presley Detention Center in Riverside. Maria told him I was waiting for her and he felt sorry for me.”

  Mahsa saw the rage in his eyes and took several hesitant steps backward. "I'll call Ms. Rahimi immediately and advise her of this development."

  "You do that and while you're at it, ask her if she knows what in the hell happened. I know she’s been in touch with Maria. I called Maria ‘my little coyote’ because she was a loner in Provence. I can’t even imagine how the coyote will do now that she’s been captured,” he said bitterly. He turned on his heel and headed for the parking lot.

  Mahsa sat down on a nearby stone ledge surrounding the luggage carts and took her phone out of her purse. Cars and people made it almost impossible for her to hear anything. She punched in Darya Rahimi's private cell phone number.

  "Miss Rahimi, it's Mahsa. Something terrible has happened. Maria’s been arrested and taken to the Robert Presley Detention Center in Riverside. I spoke briefly to Mr. Kramer. I’ve never seen anyone so angry. He was red in the face and looked like he wanted to kill someone. He asked if you knew anything about this. Obviously, I didn't have a chance to give her the roses."

  "Oh my God!” Darya exclaimed.

  “I can’t hear you. There’s too much traffic noise here at the airport. Can you speak up?”

  Darya said in a very loud voice that Mahsa could barely hear, “I thought she'd been assured it was safe for her to return to the United States. She must be frantic. I'll make some calls and try and find out what’s going on. Go home. It's late. I'll see you in the morning."

  * * * * *

  As soon as Darya hung up, she called the one person she thought might be able to help Maria - Slade Kelly, the private investigator she’d used over the years. If anyone can do something, Slade can, she thought.

  Slade looked at the screen on his phone and saw that it was Darya. "Hi Doll. Whatcha need? How was Mexico?"

  "It was fine, but that's not why I'm calling. I need your help."

  "Doll, whatever you need. I'm yours. What's up?" he asked, picturing her sitting behind her desk, jet black hair brushed up in a chignon, wearing a tailored designer suit, and peek-a-boo Jimmy Choo shoes on her feet which were usually crossed at the ankle. He knew she’d be twirling a strand of her hair while she talked to him, an unconscious habit of hers when she was nervous. He found it utterly charming and feminine considering she was one of the most powerful female business executives in the country.

  "A dear friend has run into a brick wall. Any chance you could meet me at my house about 5:00 this afternoon to talk about it?”

  "Sure. Was getting ready to pour myself a cold one, but you usually have the good stuff, so I'll jes’ wait 'til I get there. See ya’ at 5:00."

  CHAPTER 3

  Slade stood for a moment in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of his condominium. He looked down the steep cliff that began just a few feet off of his colorful plant-filled back patio and ended below at Pacific Coast Highway. Beachfront multi-million homes fronted PCH on one side and looked out at the smooth sandy beach on the other side.

  It was just before twilight, the time of day when the sun began to set over the ocean, creating pink streaks in the sky, and then slowly turning into the blue of night. He could make out the lone figure of a woman throwing a stick for her dog as they walked along the surf line. When the weather was warmer the beach was filled with “hotties” in all types of skimpy bikinis. However, the longer he knew Darya, the more the “hotties” paled by comparison. He briefly thought about his ex-wives. Both of them definitely qualified as “hotties,” but neither had the ability or cared enough to find out about the man behind the street jive. The only things important to them were a place to call home, beer in the refrigerator, and plenty of sex. Women like them were far more interested in having someone appreciate their “store-bought” silicone breasts, which was what had originally attracted Slade to them in the first place.

  No one but Brad, his number one man, knew about Slade’s expensive condominium in the gated Malibu community known as “Pacific Sun and Surf.” After he left his third wife, Slade made a vow never to marry again and preferred spending leisure time at his home which he’d made into a showcase for his treasured art and glass collections. He’d started acquiring them years earlier, but he didn’t want his ex-wives to know the extent of his assets, so he kept the collections in rented storage spaces under different names. Neither of them had been able to afford to hire a lawyer with enough smarts to go behind the façade Slade had created and find the secret collections.

  When people thought of Slade Kelly they thought of a seedy looking gumshoe that probably lived in a run-down one bedroom apartment in West Covina. What they didn’t know was that Slade had a master’s degree in criminology as well as a law degree. Long ago he’d discovered that people judged one another by language, dress, and manneris
ms. When they thought someone wasn’t too bright, they tended to let their guard down. He’d found it to be a very effective tool in his private investigation business.

  Slade activated his state-of-the-art home security system and got in his battered old grey sedan, looking every bit like a down and out private investigator that could barely eke out a living. He glanced over at the red and black Porsche Boxster Spyder parked next to him, and thought how surprised people would be to know he owned such an expensive machine.

  Darya lived a few miles south of him in the exclusive oceanfront Malibu colony. He’d only been to her home once before, the night she’d hired him because of threats being made against her life. He’d called one of his men, Lou, that very night to act as her bodyguard and make sure her house and cosmetic company were secure from potential attacks by Muslim terrorists. Although it had been several years ago, she still had Lou and his relief bodyguard, and she still received threats. There were a lot of people who took issue with a Muslim woman who didn’t wear a burkha, had a doctorate in chemistry, owned a multi-million dollar cosmetics company, and was the author of a bestselling book. The book dealt with the topic of female genitalia mutilation, still a common practice in some Muslim and African countries.

  “Hi, Lou,” he said a few minutes later. He wore his sandy hair in a short-cropped military haircut. Lou looked like the guy next door, but he’d been a member of the Green Berets. After he’d left the military, he’d spent several years in the Far East perfecting his martial arts skills. The man was a walking killing machine.

  “Take five. I got a little business with Doll. There’s a good Italian restaurant a coupla blocks north of here on the ocean. Why dontcha take yerself a little break? See ya’ later.”

  “Thanks, Boss. I know the restaurant and while Pierre’s a great chef, sometimes I like plain old spaghetti and meatballs.”

  When Darya employed Slade, he’d insisted she hire a personal chef so there would be no chance that her food could be poisoned, particularly when she traveled to Afghanistan. He’d suggested Pierre Yount, a chef who had worked in some of the finest restaurants throughout the world. Not only did Darya pay Pierre well, but every few months he was able to accompany her to France and visit his aging parents who lived there.