Each time she met someone new or found herself immersed in a crowd, she feared she would turn into that scared little girl again. The one who had felt broken for so long. Talk therapy and antidepressants were recommended treatments for her phobia, but she didn’t need to pop pills or talk to a shrink to improve her ability to interact with others. She used some of the same techniques she used to control her stutter: relaxation and breathing exercises. When those failed, all she needed to make things right was a ticket to her next destination and a chance to explore it at her own pace.
She rubbed the small tattoo of Woody Woodpecker on the inside of her left ankle. Her attempt to repurpose something that had once been used to put her down and make her feel small. Now the image gave her strength instead of taking it away. Because it reminded her that the life she had now was far better than the one she had left behind.
She took another deep breath, stretched, and got up to pour herself a cup of coffee. As she sipped the strong brew, she wondered how Luisa would react if she knew about her past. Would Luisa be empathetic or would she turn tail and run?
When she told people about her speech disorder, some were overly sympathetic, and most opted to take the inspirational route by giving her a list of famous people in history who had overcome their impediments to do great things. Actor James Earl Jones, Prime Minister Winston Churchill, King George VI, and so on and so on.
Finn had finally stopped mentioning it because she didn’t want to become an object of fascination. She didn’t want to play the waiting game during a conversation. Her listener waiting for her to stumble over her words while she prayed she wouldn’t.
“The fantasy is always better than the reality,” she said under her breath as she watched the sky turn from gray to pale blue.
Except she couldn’t quite manage to convince herself to believe it. Not this time. Because being with Luisa, even for a few hours, had felt like a dream come true. And she didn’t want the dream to end.
❖
Luisa was going to be late for work. A regrettable occurrence on most occasions, but an absolute no-no on her first day. She had left her apartment with plenty of time to spare, but Ines Villalobos, her neighbor across the hall, had cornered her before she could make it to the stairs.
She had seen Mrs. Villalobos peeking at her through the peephole in her reinforced door when she moved in on Saturday, but the elderly woman hadn’t tried to start a conversation then. She had waited until Luisa didn’t have time to talk instead. Now she wouldn’t shut up.
“I saw you moving all those big boxes up the stairs a few days ago,” Mrs. Villalobos said. “You’re stronger than you look. But why didn’t you have your boyfriend or your husband do some of the heavy lifting for you?”
“I’m not married, Mrs. Villalobos.”
The old woman’s thinning gray eyebrows shot up inquisitively. “Are you spending time with anyone?”
“No.” Luisa glanced at her watch. She didn’t have time to apologize for the terseness of her response or to go into more detail. She needed to get to work. Her hopes of making a favorable first impression were fading fast.
“You’d be perfect for my grandson, Javier. Come on. I’ll show you his picture while we share a morning coffee.”
Luisa had picked up her weapons and uniform on Saturday so she wouldn’t have to perform the time-consuming tasks today. Now the only obstacle in her path was a talkative octogenarian trying to play matchmaker.
“Some other time. I really must be going.”
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Villalobos latched ont o Luisa’s arm with surprising strength and pulled her inside the apartment. “There’s always time for coffee. Have a seat while I pour you a cup.”
Luisa sighed in defeat as Mrs. Villalobos ambled toward the kitchen. The woman reminded her of her paternal grandmother, may she rest in peace. Small in stature but endowed with an indomitable will. A silver-haired spitfire whose deeply lined face belied an impish sense of humor.
While Mrs. Villalobos puttered in the kitchen, Luisa looked around the living room.
The furniture was clean and relatively new. The overstuffed cushion on the armchair in front of the TV had already molded itself to match the shape of its diminutive owner. The chair in front of the window was similarly branded. Luisa suspected the perches allowed Mrs. Villalobos the perfect vantage points to keep track of what was happening both in the world at large and closer to home.
Potted plants lined the windowsill, their trailing vines curling toward the floor like a floral waterfall. Nearby, several candles, trinkets, and amulets arranged on a semicircular table formed a shrine to Our Lady of Guadalupe, the patron saint of Mexico.
Luisa reflexively crossed herself, then turned her attention to the dozens of photographs lining the walls. The oldest had turned sepia with age. In the photos, Mrs. Villalobos aged from a fresh-faced bride to the wizened woman she was today. Her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren populated the other pictures.
“That’s Javier.” Mrs. Villalobos set a cup and saucer on the side table next to the broken-in armchair and pointed a gnarled finger at a photograph of a smiling young man with a bowl haircut, delicate features, and gentle eyes framed by long, curling eyelashes. “He’s a good boy. Smart, trustworthy, and good with his hands. He owns and operates a souvenir stand near Chichén Itzá. All the items he sells are hand-carved and only one dollar. Practically free.”
“Did he make those?” Luisa indicated the string of wooden animals lined up on the coffee table. A lion, a leopard, and a jaguar, the creature their Mayan ancestors revered the most.
“Yes, he did. Those, too.” Mrs. Villalobos pointed to the wooden masks adorning one wall. “He makes good money in his souvenir stand. Tourists love his work. Would you like to meet him?”
Luisa nearly choked on her coffee.
“Too hot?”
“No, too much tequila.” Luisa waved her hand in front of her mouth to douse the flames.
“I must have given you my cup. I take a little nip of Don Julio each morning to get my heart started. At my age, I need all the help I can get.”
If Luisa had to take another sip of the potent brew, she thought her heart might stop altogether. Mrs. Villalobos switched cups, took a sip of the spiked coffee, and sighed in satisfaction.
“That’s better.” She eyed the insignia on Luisa’s uniform shirt. “Now tell me what a nice girl like you is doing getting mixed up with the Federal Police.”
“You don’t approve?”
Mrs. Villalobos pursed her thin lips. “It seems like dangerous work for a woman.”
Luisa had grown immune to the arguments of pigheaded men who tried to convince her she would be happier barefoot and pregnant instead of chasing bad guys, but she couldn’t understand the reasoning of women who felt the same way. No matter how old or set in their ways they might be.
She placed the cup and saucer on the coffee table and pushed herself off the lavender-scented couch. “Thank you for the coffee, Mrs. Villalobos,” she said, resting her hand on the Glock holstered to her hip, “but I have to get to work.”
“Come back when you can stay longer.” Mrs. Villalobos followed her to the door, her huarache-clad feet shuffling across the brightly colored area rug. “I’ll have to have you over for dinner some night. I could make chilaquiles and invite Javier so you two can get to know each other. Javier loves my cooking. If things work out between you, I’ll give you my recipes.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Villalobos. I’m not much of a cook.”
“No? Then how do you expect to catch a man?”
“Through good police work.”
Sweat dampened the collar of Luisa’s black uniform shirt after she ran down the four flights of stairs and jogged to the parking garage under her apartment building to retrieve her car. She locked the duffel bag containing her AR-15 A3 Tactical Carbine battle rifle and her Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun in the trunk and slid into the driver’s seat.
She showed her badge to the guard just inside the door. “Officer Luisa Moreno. I have a meeting with Director Chavez.”
The guard waved her forward. “Check your weapons with me. I’ll return them after I compare the serial numbers to the ones on my list.” Luisa handed over her service weapon and duffel bag. “Walk through the metal detector. These will be waiting for you on the other side.”
Luisa walked through the machine designed to prevent unauthorized weapons from entering the building.
“Here are your weapons,” another guard said after Luisa passed through the metal detector without incident. “Go see the receptionist at the front desk.”
“Thank you.” Luisa tried not to rush as she headed for the desk, behind which a plump woman wearing half-moon glasses held court. “I’m Officer Luisa Moreno. I have a seven o’clock meeting with Director Chavez.”
The receptionist lowered her chin and stared at Luisa over the top of her glasses after taking a pointed look at the clock suspended on the far wall.
“You’re late. Director Chavez is a busy man. In the future, please exhibit a bit more respect for his schedule than you did today.”
“I intend to.”
“See that you do.” The receptionist punched some keys on her computer and spoke into her headset. “Luisa Moreno to see you, sir.” She listened for a moment, nodded, and said, “Director Chavez will see you now. He’s in the Anti-Drug unit on the—”
“I know where it is. Thank you,” Luisa said as she rushed toward the elevator.
“Officer Moreno,” the receptionist said in a singsong voice while Luisa frantically pressed the Up button.
“Yes, ma’am?”
When Luisa turned around, the receptionist’s pinched glare of disapproval had been replaced by a warm smile.
“Good luck. It would be nice to have another woman around here.”
Luisa stepped into the elevator and nodded her thanks before the doors slid shut. She pushed one of the numbered buttons, and the elevator car began to rise. The Scientific Division, the Department of Federal Forces, the Center for Intelligence, and several more federal agencies were housed in the building, but she was headed for one of the most harried—the Anti-Drug Division, whose personnel were tasked with combating drug-related crime.
Luisa felt giddy, her nerves offset by adrenaline. When the elevator doors opened onto a floor bustling with activity, she felt like she was exactly where she belonged.
Arturo Chavez, a barrel-chested man with thick black hair and a mustache like Tom Selleck’s circa Magnum, P.I., stepped forward to greet her.
“Director Chavez.” Luisa dropped her duffel and snapped off a crisp salute. “Officer Luisa Moreno reporting for duty, sir.”
“Let’s dispense with the formalities and head into my office so we can talk in private.”
The other officers watched her—some openly, some surreptitiously—as she followed Director Chavez to his office and he closed the door behind them. Exactly the kind of lukewarm welcome she was expecting.
“Before we begin, I apologize for being late, sir, and I assure you it won’t happen again.”
“I’m sure it won’t.” Director Chavez leaned back in his leather chair, his dark eyes examining her face. “I’ve spoken to several people about you, Officer Moreno. Some sang your praises. Others were rather harsh in their criticisms. Tell me whom I should choose to believe.”
“Let your eyes be the judge. I wouldn’t be on the force if I couldn’t do the job. And I wouldn’t be sitting here in front of you if I didn’t think I could excel at it.”
His deep rumble of a belly laugh sounded like a yawning grizzly bear waking up from hibernation.
“I’ve seen your file, Moreno. I know what you can do. You don’t need to prove yourself to me. But you do need to prove yourself to the people outside that door.” He pointed toward the officers who had eyed her with a mixture of suspicion and distrust. “They want to bring down the narcos as much as you do, if not more, but they need to know you’re willing to be a team player, not a one-woman army. I advise you not to let your dedication lead to recklessness. Doing so could get you or someone else killed. I trust my people. If one was dirty, I would know it even before they did. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. I’m not looking to point fingers at anyone. I just want to do my job.”
Director Chavez nodded in apparent agreement. “That’s why the narcos are gunning for you. None of them have officially ordered a hit on you, as far as I know, but it’s too dangerous for me to put you on the street until I know for sure.”
“Are you asking me to chain myself to a desk?” Luisa couldn’t think of a worse punishment.
“I’m asking you to put your investigative skills to work so you can do what your predecessor couldn’t: help me identify the leader of the Jaguars so I can put him away and rip his organization apart before he takes over the whole country.”
Carlos Ramos was the man whom Luisa had been hired to replace. He had disappeared under mysterious circumstances several months ago, but his body had never been found. Some said he had taken a payoff from the Jaguars and gone into hiding. Others theorized he had been kidnapped and murdered for getting too close to uncovering the Jaguars’ secrets. Luisa didn’t know him well enough to ascertain which scenario was more likely to be true, but she did know one thing for sure: she didn’t plan on following in his tragic footsteps.
“Will you help me bring down the Jaguars?” Director Chavez asked.
“Sir, it would be my honor.”
❖
Finn squeezed past the dancers and mariachi singers warming up for tonight’s Cinco de Mayo celebration and headed to the front desk in the lobby so she could open a resort account. The gift shop, spa, and excursion office didn’t accept cash or credit cards. Everything had to be paid for via an internal account guests set up by tying a credit card to their key card.
Finn handed her credit card to Sebastian, the resort employee on duty, and watched as he ran a four-hundred-dollar authorization.
“Sign here, please,” Sebastian said after he returned her ID, credit card, and key card. Finn balked when she saw five thousand dollars printed on the receipt until she realized the authorization had been run in pesos instead of dollars. “Thanks. You’re all set.”
Finn slipped her cards into her pocket. She’d stash her ID and credit card in the safe in her room later. She needed to get to the excursion office before it closed. She had missed out on today’s trip to Chichén Itzá because she had gotten dragged into a welcome luncheon for first-time SOS Tours travelers. Thursday was the last day the trip would be offered this week. If she didn’t make it to the office today, the roster might fill up before she had a chance to add her name to the list.
On her way through the main bar, she noticed a long line in front of the How to Make the Perfect Margarita station. Aurora waved her over.
“Are the drinks really that good?” Finn asked. “It’s standing room only in here.”
“They are the bomb, but they’re also the only game in town. The bartenders, towel girls, servers, maids, security guards, and groundskeepers are on strike. They walked off the job half an hour ago. Brilliant strategy, really. The hotel’s completely full. If the manager wants to keep the guests happy, he has no choice but to cave to the employees’ demands. This
disruption had better not last long. Otherwise, we’ll have to fend for ourselves.”
“We’re lesbians,” Finn said. “We’re used to that. The police officers in attendance can handle security; the doctors, nurses, and paramedics can run the infirmary. I haven’t run into a bartender yet, but I’m sure we could find plenty of volunteers to fill the position.”
“What can you do?”
As she mentally ran through the list of jobs that would need to be done in the workers’ absence, Finn realized she wasn’t qualified to fill most of them. Her skills were creative, not practical.
“I’m only good for providing comic relief.” Often at her own expense. “Or maybe I could be the staff photographer.”
“Every lesbian with a digital camera wants that job,” Aurora said, “me included. Think about it. You spend three months in paradise—or however long these gigs usually last before the resort owners ship you off to your next assignment. You wander around taking pictures of beautiful, half-dressed tourists all day, put the pictures in a keepsake package, and sit back while people pay you through the nose for capturing their vacation memories while they were having too much fun to do it for themselves. Girl, we got this. The workers can strike as long as they want.”
“When life hands you lemons, make lemonade, right?”
“I’d prefer a lemon drop martini, but to each her own. And this will do in a pinch.” Aurora took a sip from her salt-rimmed glass. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”
“But hopefully not here,” Finn said. “I need to get to the excursion office before it closes. Or are they on strike, too?”
“The excursion group has a separate contract with the hotel. You should be fine. Which trip are you thinking about signing up for?”
24/7 Page 6