Wearing one of their trademarked desert camo hoods, the spokesman for BorderFree-4-All stood, fist raised, before the camera. When he spoke, his deep voice boomed out an accent more reminiscent of upper-crust Mexico City than the penniless border-runners he claimed to represent. “We will never allow the martyrdom of Dr. Joaquín Montoya to go unheralded, nor will we allow the tyranny of bureaucratic oppression to go…”
The words faded as the news show segued into images from last May’s INS bombing and the broadcasts that had made BorderFree-4-All both a despised presence and a household word.
“This is all I need—” Jack’s words choked off, and his eyes widened as he recognized one of the unhooded faces in the background of the story.
It was Sergio. His sister’s boyfriend.
“Son of a bitch!” Jack swore. “Luz Maria’s going out with that guy, the one in black, with the long ponytail.”
Paulo shook his head scornfully. “That punk? Your sister’s got no taste, man. I asked her out a few times, but she never gave me half a chance to—”
“I have to go talk to her,” Jack said, a terrible suspicion overwhelming his surprise that Paulo would hit on the much-younger Luz Maria. “Which car do I take?”
After switching off the television and locking up behind himself, Paulo led Jack to the nicest vehicle on his lot, a jet-black Mustang convertible that couldn’t have been more than a year or two old.
Jack shook his hand. “Thanks, Paulo. I promise you, I won’t forget this.”
“I’m counting on it, compa.”
Paulo’s smile as he spoke was wide and bright and friendly. But as Jack started the car, he couldn’t help wondering: Did small fish see that same expression before the shark’s jaws split to swallow them alive?
“Joaquín, you did not call me,” Jack’s mother accused the moment he walked in the front door of the little purple house on Waverly. Just beyond the entry, the dining room was lit with at least thirty Our Lady of Guadalupe candles, which were meant as a plea for miracles—no doubt, on his behalf. In case Guadalupe wasn’t up to the challenge, Mama had also dragged out the wrought-iron-framed portrait of Saint Jude, her collection of tiny lucky plastic skeletons found over the years inside loaves baked to commemorate the Day of the Dead, and a lime-green rabbit’s foot, which she stroked continuously with her short fingers.
Never let it be said that his mother didn’t cover all the bases.
“All day, I cannot go to the yerbería because I worry for you. I worry and I worry, so much I am shaking—see?”
When she raised a spastic hand in evidence, Jack decided he had seen less expressive grand mal seizures. “You should get that looked at,” he said dryly. “It might fly off any minute.”
Both of her hands stopped shaking and fisted at her hips. “What is the use of leaving messages if you never listen to them?”
Jack used two fingers to rub the bridge of his nose. The last thing he needed was one of Candelaria de Vaca Montoya’s legendary it’s-all-about-me attacks. Yet as much as he wanted to plug his ears and walk past her, he did owe her an explanation—and an apology as well. With her still-black, short curls deflated, her favorite purple pantsuit wrinkled, and her spiky black lashes clumped with moisture, she did look genuinely distraught.
He encircled her with his arms and let her lean into his embrace. Tiny as she was, the top of her head barely reached his chest. “I’m sorry, Mama. The interview ran later than I thought, and I never got your messages. I lost my phone somewhere, maybe at Reagan Hurley’s last night.”
He should have called Reagan from the station when he had realized it was missing. But this morning’s run-in with her coworker had made him hesitate. Whatever her health status, Reagan was a firefighter. And the firefighters were clearly closing ranks against him.
Though he’d used a pay phone to call Paulo about a car, Jack realized he’d only delayed the inevitable. With his home—and home telephone—destroyed, his cell was the only means his answering service had of reaching him if one of his patients needed him. Though he wasn’t on call this weekend, he couldn’t in good conscience remain out of touch.
His mother pulled away to look at him. “I still cannot understand why you would not come here last night. I could have shooed away all those reporters. Did you see when you drove up? They all went away this morning, after I show them your pictures. Such a sweet baby you were, how could anybody think you would do those bad things they are saying?”
Jack winced and breathed a silent prayer that his bare-bottomed niĊo-on-the-rug shots weren’t gracing the airwaves as they spoke. Now that he owned virtually nothing, his last scrap of dignity didn’t seem too much to covet. But it didn’t surprise him that the media hadn’t bothered coming back. Knowing Candelaria, she had lined up everyone from old priests to his kindergarten teacher to legions of her faithful customers to vouch for his good name. Like Luz Maria, their mother had a tendency to bludgeon obstacles until they were bloody pulp beneath her size-four feet.
“You’re a wonderful mother,” he said, and meant it. Embarrassing and hypercritical as she could be at times, he could at least count on her to defend him to outsiders. And unlike the attorney she had recommended to him—the “genius” son of a favorite customer—his mama wasn’t charging him a dime.
She beamed and touched his cheek before a worried look crossed her expression. “Now, about this Reagan Hurley. If you ask me, this young woman is in too much of a hurry to start giving me nietos, with this inviting you to spend the night in her house.”
Jack rubbed his aching forehead. “I told you this morning, you don’t have anything there to worry over. Reagan was just being kind to an old family friend, that’s all. Believe me, after the situation with her captain, romance was the last thing on her mind.”
But the thought sliced through him that sex had not been, that the pain that put her in his arms could as easily have put her in his bed. Remembering the way she’d kissed him, the way that lean, fit body felt against his, Jack turned sharply from his mother and walked into the kitchen, where he grabbed a can of cola from the fridge. Partly because he needed the sugar-and-caffeine boost, but mostly to get his mind off Reagan’s tight curves before his body’s reaction to the thoughts disgraced him.
“Is Luz Maria here?” he asked to change the subject.
As eager as he was to confront his sister about Sergio, he realized she was unlikely to be at home. The last time Luz Maria had spent a Saturday evening home alone, she’d been sick with an acute case of strep throat.
But his mother nodded. “She is in her bedroom, doing who-knows-what on that computer. She says she is upset about your problems, but I think she have some kind of fight with that boy, Sergio. I told her he was no good. A man who never speaks of his past, who will say nothing of his family—how could such a person make a husband?”
Under other circumstances, Jack might have figured that Sergio did not enjoy playing Spanish Inquisition with his girlfriend’s mother. But the news video pointed to a far darker explanation. “I’ll go and speak to her, then.”
“You would talk to Luz Maria and not tell me about why these questioning people must keep you all day?”
Tired and stressed as Jack was, he knew his mother well enough to sidestep her landmines in his sleep. “As soon as I finish with Luz Maria, nothing would make me happier than to get your advice about my troubles—unless I could do it while eating some of your good cooking.”
His mother beamed, apparently satisfied for the moment. Jack kissed her cheek, then started down the hallway, his soda in hand.
He hadn’t made it to Luz Maria’s room before the phone rang and his mother called him. Coming down the hall, she cupped her hand around the mouthpiece of the cordless. “A lady for you—and she is Senor Mayor’s personal assistant. She says it is muy importante. And unlike my only son, this busy lady has been calling here all day.”
With that, she thrust the receiver toward him. “Here. You talk to h
er now. Luz Maria can wait, but this lady, she has other important things she must do for her important job.”
Her voice dropping to a whisper, his mother added, “She is single, too, this woman—and no boyfriend either. I asked last time she call.”
Staring at the telephone, Jack sighed. He didn’t care whether this woman represented Mayor Youngblood or the president; he didn’t want to take the call.
But his mama had him cornered, and he realized that in less than the time it took to explain his reluctance to her, he could easily brush off one of the mayor’s flunkies.At least dealing with Darren Winter’s barrage all week had taught him something useful…
Accepting the cordless, he said, “I’ll take it in your room,” mostly because that was the location of the other extension. Otherwise, his mama would most likely hurt herself in her rush to pick it up to eavesdrop. No one was as impressed by titles and the trappings of power as good old Candelaria. She would be telling her customers for weeks, Jack figured, of how she’d spoken to Senor Mayor himself—even though, if pressed, she wouldn’t be able to come up with Thomas Youngblood’s name.
“Jack Montoya,” he told the caller, quietly closing his mother’s bedroom door behind him.
“Sabrina McMillan.”
A current of sensuality rippled through the syllables, and instantly Jack recalled the woman from her frequent television interviews. No mere assistant, this was the woman the mayor had brought in from her last position in Atlanta to resurrect his faltering campaign—a campaign in which he’d spent far more time shadow-boxing an officially undeclared opponent than his official, and hopelessly outmatched, rival. Sometimes known as “the politician’s secret weapon,” Sabrina McMillan had worked all around the country, where she had racked up an astounding twelve-year winning streak.
She was a hired shark, pure and simple, but one given to wearing killer heels and form-fitting suits cut to showcase generous curves. When Mayor Thomas Youngblood first hired her, there had been quite a few jokes about the nature of her qualifications for the job, but within weeks of her arrival from Atlanta, Sabrina McMillan had lived up to her reputation as a shrewd political player.
Whatever the stated purpose of her call, Jack knew it had but one goal: to somehow reel in more votes for her boss.
“What can I do for you?” he asked her.
“Oh, it’s not what you can do for me, Jack. It’s what I—I mean Mayor Youngblood—can do for you.”
Her laughter, rich and knowing, sent a frisson of awareness along his nerve endings. But for some reason, the face that popped into his mind was Reagan Hurley’s.
“What are you talking about?” He was too intent on confronting his sister—and far too battered by the events that had taken place since yesterday—to want to play Double-or-Nothing Entendre with a strange woman, no matter how sexy her voice.
“We wanted to let you know that Mayor Youngblood has personally ordered both the police and fire chiefs to take an active role in the investigation of any hate crimes perpetrated against members of our Mexican-American community, whether they are legal or illegal residents.”
Suppressing a sigh, Jack said, “And you’re calling here to tell me this because…?”
“Because Mayor Youngblood believes that no federal investigation should target any Houston citizen because of pressure from certain radio personalities or—”
“Hold it, Ms. McMillan. Are you saying that I’m being targeted by the task force because of Darren Winter’s bullshit?”
“I’m saying, Dr. Montoya, that perhaps you and I should meet. It seems to me the two of us might have some common interests.”
Jack could see it all now, the mayor trotting him up to some podium like a dog on a leash, then making some long-winded speech that boiled down to “I’m not Darren Winter. Here, see? I love Mexicans—we’re real amigos. So those of you who can vote, vote for me.”
As much as Jack hated Winter, he’d be damned if he would resort to playing the token brown guy on the stage—not even if it was the price he’d have to pay to get clear of suspicion. Besides, Youngblood would drop him faster than a flaming habaĊero if he figured out just how flagrantly Jack had violated the laws limiting the medical treatment of illegal residents. The mayor would have to distance himself to keep from being embroiled in a debate of Darren Winter’s choosing: the question of whether public dollars should “reward” his city’s uninvited—but economically essential—guests.
Jack rubbed his temples, trying to assuage the headache building like a bank of storm clouds. “I’m sorry, Ms. McMillan. This isn’t about politics.”
That suggestive laugh again, then: “Really, Jack. If you’ll only open your eyes, you’ll see that everything’s political, in one way or another. I’m sure if we could get together—”
“I’d tell you the same thing. Thanks for calling, though. And you can tell the mayor I appreciate his stance against hate crimes.”
“If you change your mind, I can guarantee you’ll see—”
“Sorry, have to go now,” he said. “I’m getting another call, and it may be my service.”
Though this phone line didn’t even have call waiting, he broke the connection.
On his way out of the bedroom, he grabbed two over-the-counter, extra-strength migraine tablets from one of the many bottles crowded together on the nightstand. And for the first time he could remember, he thanked his lucky stars that his mother was a hypochondriac.
Downing the pills with a swallow of cola, Jack dealt with one headache and braced himself for what he feared would prove a worse one—the conversation with his sister about the man she had been seeing.
When she didn’t respond to either his knocking or her name, Jack cracked open the unlocked door and peeked into the room. “Luz Maria?”
A small dresser-top lamp was on, illuminating a room still decorated with the white furnishings, fuzzy throw rugs, and yellow walls she had favored as a teen. Aside from the addition of a computer sitting atop her student desk, and a couple more colorfully painted Oaxacan wooden animals in her collection, nothing had changed; even the pile of unfolded laundry lying on her rocking chair looked suspiciously familiar.
Though the PC was turned on, Luz Maria wasn’t in front of it. Instead, she lay atop her floral comforter, turned away from him. A black wire snaked along the curve of her back and disappeared beneath her wavy, loose, black hair. About the same time he spotted the headphones on her ears, he made out the muted notes of the Tejano ballads she lived for. No wonder she hadn’t heard his knock.
“Luz Maria,” he repeated, touching her gently. Only to feel her shoulder shake beneath his hand.
“Please, Mama. I said I needed to be alone a while,” she complained, scooting away without turning over.
He lifted one side of the headphone off her ear. “I need to talk to you. About Sergio.”
Slowly she turned, until he could see that her eyes were wet and her face blotched with crying. Sitting up, she pulled off the headphones and said, “Jack,” then threw her arms around his neck.
He pulled her arm away from his throat so he could breathe. “Mama thinks you had an argument. Have you two broken up?”
“They’ve got it all wrong.” She flung a quick gesture toward the screen of her computer.
Following her gaze, he saw that the page was displaying a news site. On closer inspection, he recognized his own picture in the corner. He recognized it as a copy of an employee ID photo from the hospital system, one he’d always thought made him look like some sort of criminal.
But even so, Luz Maria’s distress surprised him. All week, as the reporters bore down on him, she’d expressed anger about the “stupid law” he had ignored, but very little real concern about the likely consequences. This morning, when she had come to pick him up, she had been more practical than emotional about his situation.
He grabbed her desk chair and spun it around. “Let’s get back to my question. What’s going on with your boyfriend
?”
And what the hell do you know about his ties to BorderFree-4-All? Yet he held his tongue for now, convinced she’d clam up if he came on too strong.
When Luz Maria glanced at the open door, Jack walked over and closed it, even though he could plainly hear their mother working in the kitchen.
Before he could sit down again, Luz Maria said, “He didn’t tell me anyone would try to kill you. He said…he said it would make people pay attention to the cause.”
Her words plunged into his gut like a switchblade. The room spun around him, and Jack grabbed at the desk with one hand, trying desperately to keep his seat.
She pulled a wadded tissue out of the pocket of her jeans and blotted puffy eyes. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this. They were supposed to talk about the law, but the real issue is getting lost in Winter’s campaign. Everything’s turned on us—on you.”
His little sister was involved. Not so long ago, he’d tied her shoes and read her stories. Proudly watched her first communion. Escorted her to her quinceaĊeras, the rite of passage celebrating a fifteen-year-old girl’s ascent to womanhood. And finally, over these last few months, their work situation had helped him get to know his sister as an adult.
Or at least he’d thought he knew her. But how could he, if she could hide something this huge from him?
He turned away, unable to look at her. Yet somehow, he forced words past the razor wire tangled in his throat. “You copied the Elena Suarez file, didn’t you? You were the one who passed it on to Winter.”
Her silence drove the switchblade deeper. Unconsciously his hand swept across his stomach, some part of him expecting to feel the hot gush of fresh blood.
“Say it, Luz Maria. Tell me what you did.” His anger bounced the words around the small room. The mirror above her dresser trembled with the sound, so that in its depths, the house appeared to quiver.
Their mother’s footsteps clicked down the hall. A rap at the door followed, and then: “You mustn’t fight, you two. I will be finished with the flautas soon, and some borracho beans, too.”
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