A Pilgrimage to Death

by J. J. Cagney

  “Seems too convenient,” Sam said on a scowl. He dunked a tortilla chip into the salsa and crunched through it.

  “Didn’t say it wasn’t convenient, Sam-o. And I really wish you’d be more open to the option that Anna Carmen’s helping. Not everything in life has nefarious underpinnings.”

  Cici picked up a chip of her own and broke off a small piece, dipping it into the creamy green guacamole. The flavors sung over her tongue as she chewed. Seriously best food in town.

  “I have been open to Anna Carmen helping. I told you that back at your place.”

  Cici simply bit into her tortilla chip.

  “Fine. I think it’s weird, but I guess it’s as likely for you—being identical—as those psychics.”

  Cici sat back in her chair and glared at Sam. “I’m no psychic.”

  “I know, which is why I tend to believe that Anna Carmen is trying—poorly, I might add—to help us from beyond the grave. The least she could do is use that twin-speak you two used to have down.”

  Cici licked her lips, her face taut.

  “It’s not like that,” she whispered. “That level of connection severed when she died.”

  Cici’s lip trembled, so she picked up her iced tea and took a long swallow.

  “Cee, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Sam reached for her hand. Cici let him grasp her fingers because they were cold and she was tired of feeling so alone.

  “But . . . there’s something. It’s . . . I don’t think she ever left. Not completely. But, she’s muted.”

  Sam leaned back, letting go of her hand. “Muted?”

  Cici nodded. “She’s doing what she can, Sam. Through dreams. Through . . . this sounds crazy. But she’s the reason I maneuvered away from the truck last night. I . . . I felt her.”

  Sam’s gaze searched her face, held her eyes for a long, painful moment. He dipped his head.

  “All right.”

  Cici sagged back in her chair, relieved for his acceptance.

  “You have a key and notes, you said. Can I seem ’em?” Sam’s voice turned brusque. He didn’t like the idea of communicating with the dead.

  Cici pulled them from her jeans pocket and handed them over. Sam studied each note carefully. He flipped over the ripped pieces of paper to check the backs. He spread them out on the table and took pictures of them on his phone. “I’m assuming you did the same?” he said, motioning to the lens on his phone

  “Of course. I saved the images to my computer and then sent another copy to my church email account.”

  “Covering your bases,” Sam said with approval.

  Cici saluted. “I’ve learned from the best.”

  Sam tilted the pages in different directions, studying details Cici didn’t even begin to know about.

  “I want to take these to the station,” he said. “Get them looked over.”

  Cici nodded as she finished her chip and picked up her glass of tea.

  Sam swiped the key off the table and studied it. A number, barely legible, shone against an old piece of peeling Scotch tape.

  “We’ll head on over after we eat.”

  “Head where?”

  Sam tapped the key on the table. “The one on Pacheco first. It’s the largest post office in town.”

  “But the one at DeVargas would have been closer to the Sanchez’s trailer.”

  Sam pursed his lips. “We think someone’s using the Pacheco Street post office to dump drugs.”

  “We do?”

  Sam scowled. “Yes. The SFPD does. Now we do.”

  Cici crossed her arms. “Fine. How long do you think this person’s been using the post office?”

  Sam’s gaze slid from hers back to the table, a frown building between his brows. Cici closed her eyes and shook her head.

  “Oh. Really, Sam? Since Santa Fe Art and Design. What’s that? More than a year?”

  “That’s my best guess,” Sam said, his mouth turned down as he stared at the key.

  “And no leads?” Cici asked.

  Sam held up the key and then the papers. “You just handed two to me. I called in a search warrant request to one of the judges on-call.”

  “When?” Cici asked. Yes, she was aware Sam hadn’t answered her question—but he had, in a way, when he’d brought up the opioid ring in Madrid earlier this week.

  Sam appeared amused. “While you were telling that big oaf of a dog ‘goodbye’.”

  The waiter dropped the fajitas at their table and Cici eyed Sam’s posole hungrily. He passed her the dish without comment as he began filling one of the thick flour tortillas—his favorite.

  “You’re welcome,” Cici said just before she shoved the spoonful of sinfully-spiced corn and pork into her mouth.

  Sam chewed his bite and wiped his lips with a napkin. “So are you. And just for the record, Jeannette thinks I like chimichangas.”

  “You two talk about her relationship with Donald?” Cici asked, her voice hesitant.

  Sam took another bite of his fajita. He glanced up and shook his head. An intentional decision not to answer her question verbally. Fine, he didn’t want to talk about his relationship with Jeannette. Fair enough.

  “Why does she think anyone likes chimichangas?” Cici asked, wrinkling her nose. Those things were gross.

  “No idea. But I can’t tell you how many of those nasty things I’ve put away over the past year.”

  Laughing with a friend never felt so good.

  After lunch—where Cici scraped out every bit of deliciousness from the posole bowl and Sam groaned his way through all the fajitas—they settled back in the car and headed back down St. Francis toward St. Michaels. A quick right turn led them onto one of the main thoroughfares through the heart of the city and Sam moved into the left lane to turn onto Pacheco.

  The post office was a block up on the left. For some reason, Cici tensed as they made the turn onto Pacheco.

  That cool touch. This time to her cheek closest to the window. Cici shivered, glanced over and caught the glimpse of a large, black truck in the side mirror.

  “Don’t pull in,” Cici said, gripping Sam’s wrist hard enough for him to grunt.

  “What the hell’s gotten into you, Cici.”

  “Just drive down toward Siringo,” she snapped, her hand wound tight on the door handle. That little brush on her cheek seemed stronger. The black truck was definitely closer.

  Sam scowled but did as she asked. He made the right turn onto Siringo.

  “Cut back to the church there.” Cici pointed, not because she’d planned to or even wanted to—because her mind just knew that was the best course of action. Aci? Cici asked.

  No answer.

  Cici wanted to growl in frustration. But she refrained, mainly because the black truck closed the gap between the vehicles. Cici clutched the door handle, bracing for imminent impact.

  “Why are we doing this?” Sam grumbled.

  “A feeling.”

  “A feeling?” he snapped.

  But Sam drove toward that parking lot. As he turned in, a large black truck with illegally dark windows shot past them so close, Sam and Cici jerked forward when the vehicle clipped Sam’s SUV’s bumper.

  Cici yelped while Sam cursed. The loud rumble of the truck died as it sped back toward St. Francis Drive.

  Sam unclenched his hands from the steering wheel. “Close call there.”

  “A warning,” Cici said. “Same truck we saw in front of my house the other night. The one that tried to mow me down off my Harley.”

  Sam pulled into a spot and pushed the gearshift into park. “You get the license plate?”

  Cici shook her head as she clasped her shaking hands in her lap. “Wasn’t one on the front bumper.”

  “You sure it was the same truck?”

  “Yes,” Cici said.

  “Well, now we know it’s a Dodge Ram.”

  “You sure?” Cici asked.

  “Yeah. That’ll narrow down the search. But why’s the
driver getting bolder?”

  Sam pursed his lips but apparently chose not to question her further. Instead, much to Cici’s unease, he reached over her legs to unlock his glove compartment. From there, he drew his police issued pistol and brown leather shoulder holster.

  After calling in the near hit-and-run, Sam and Cici worked their way back to the post office. Cici’s skin seemed to pull taut as she clutched at the door handle, waiting for the slam of a large, fast-moving vehicle into theirs.

  Nothing happened. No vehicle came close.

  Cici sighed with relief as she and Sam climbed from the SUV and walked toward the entrance’s sliding doors. As they entered the large, white atrium, she noticed the parking lot was nearly empty—in large part because it was a mid-week afternoon, no doubt. Cici’s heeled sandals clicked over the dirt-tinged tiles and she shivered as she and Sam approached the bank of silver post office boxes. No one else was there. She glanced through the other set of glass doors and saw a line of about eight people waiting with packages. A couple were on their phones, two stared at her through the glass, boredom and irritation mixing in their expressions.

  “Which number?” Cici asked, her light voice reverberating around the empty space.

  Sam pointed and then handed Cici the key. She held her breath as she inserted the key into the lock. It turned smoothly, and he opened the metal rectangle. The inside was pitch black, and they both bent forward to get a better view.

  Cici reached forward just as a loud, high-pitched whine slammed into Cici’s ears. She flinched. Sam slammed the box door shut and plastered his back to Cici’s front, pressing her tighter against the cold metal behind her as he yanked the key from the lock. With his left hand, he reached across his body and unholstered his gun.

  Faster than Cici could catch, Sam pocketed the key and placed both hands on his gun. The sprinklers turned on, soaking them both in a fine sheen of frigid water. Screams and yells came from the other room as people ran out the main sliding doors, their packages now over their heads as water dripped down the boxes and wet T-shirts.

  Cici’s heart slammed hard against her ribs as the patrons’ curses and shoes thudded through the building puddles.

  “Dial 911.” Sam’s clipped words remained low, his head turning in an active sweep as he sought the unknown target. Was the person escaping with the crowd?

  That would be smart.

  Cici fumbled her phone out of her pocket, and, bending her head over it as protectively as she could to reduce potential water damage, she placed the call.

  “Sh-shots fired,” she managed to get past her chattering teeth. “Pacheco p-post office. M-multiple sh-shots.”

  “We have two units dispatched to your location, Cici. Hold tight. Both you and Sam,” Jen, the dispatcher said. “Stay on the line, ’kay? Don’t hang up. The cavalry is on its way.”

  “Should we leave?” Cici asked Sam.

  “No,” Sam barked. “We’re easy targets through the sliding door, and I want to be here, by the box.”

  “I didn’t see anything in it,” Cici said.

  “It’s empty.”

  12

  Conscience doth make cowards of us all. — Shakespeare

  Cici pushed at Sam’s back, but the man didn’t budge. He outweighed her by a good ninety pounds of muscle and had an additional eight inches in height.

  “Why am I standing here, dripping wet, if there’s nothing in the box?”

  “One. Shut your mouth. I need to hear intruders.”

  Cici slammed her mouth shut and pressed her cold cheek against Sam’s much warmer shoulder blade.

  Sirens blared and a trio of police cars sped into the parking lot, their colored lights reverberating off the dingy tiles and metal lockers.

  “They’re here,” Cici said to Jen, who seemed to crumple through the phone.

  “Thank goodness,” Jen muttered. “Be safe.”

  Cici clicked off the phone and continued to shiver. Sam waited until the officers entered the building and the sprinklers turned off before turning partially toward her. He kept his gun at his side, pressed against his sodden pant leg.

  “Two, I said the box was empty, not that there was nothing in it,” Sam continued as if there hadn’t been a long lull in their conversation.

  Who did that?

  Cici’s teeth chattered so hard, her entire body shook.

  “There’s a difference?” she managed to stutter.

  “I hope so.”

  Sam took in her body-wracking convulsions. Without a word, he holstered his weapon and asked one of the patrolmen to bring in a blanket or jacket or something for her. Cici smiled her thanks when a female officer named Lorena Hammel brought her a dry uniform shirt. She tipped her head back, clenching her jaw against the waves of chills still wracking her body.

  “I’ll walk with you to the next bank of boxes so you can change out of your wet top,” Lorena said.

  “That’s where the shots came from,” Sam said.

  “And it’s been cleared by two officers,” Lorena said. “Back door is unlocked. Perp probably ducked out that way. If he or she didn’t run out with the stampede.”

  Sam frowned even as he nodded.

  Cici trotted toward the back of the building, holding the shirt out in front of her to keep it dry. Once in the relative privacy of the space, Cici stripped off her wet blouse and sighed as the dry, if scratchy, polyester slid against her skin. After buttoning the too-large shirt, she bent down to pick up her ruined blouse.

  She paused as her eye caught on one of the lower boxes that sat slightly ajar. “Um, Lorena?” Cici asked.

  “Yeah?”

  Cici pointed to the open door, her hands still shaking, but not with cold.

  “Detective Chastain?” Lorena called as she crouched down, peering at the box’s door before squinting to see inside.

  Sam popped around the bank of metal lockers, eyebrows raised. Lorena gestured toward the box.

  “She found it,” Lorena said in an accusatory voice. “And I guess she found out why you two were shot at here.”

  “I can’t leave you alone for two minutes, Cee,” Sam said on a sigh.

  “I’ll bag her blouse since she dropped it in front of the locker,” Lorena said, already reaching into her back pocket, probably for a freezer bag used for evidence.

  She turned to Cici, a faint smile playing on her lips as she bagged up Cici’s sodden blouse.

  “The detective said you’re a good-luck charm. Guess he’s right.”

  “If you think it’s good luck to be shot at,” Cici grumbled.

  Another uniformed patrolman poked his head around the corner.

  “Get me a drug-sniffer,” Sam said on a sigh. “And we need a camera to document this so I can request a warrant for the entire facility.”

  Cici stared at the wet, white substance glopping from an opened plastic bag.

  “That post office box is registered to Donald Johnson,” Sam said into the phone.

  “Which one?” Cici asked as she cradled her phone between her shoulder and ear. She set down her coffee mug next to her laptop, barely managing to keep it upright when Mona shoved it with her nose.

  “The one you found with your blouse. The other one’s still registered to Rosalia Sanchez.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. She’s been dead a long time.”

  “But her husband had to know about it to close it.”

  “Oh. Don’t they just change the lock or whatever if your invoice is overdue?” Cici asked.

  “That’s the kicker. The bill’s all paid up.”

  “And her husband, Miguel, didn’t pay it?”

  “Says he didn’t know about it.”

  Cici ran her hands up and down her arms, trying to distill the shivers building there.

  “That’s creepy, Sam. I don’t like this.”

  Her sermon for this Sunday was coming along about as well as last week’s had—which was a problem considering the number of emails and calls
she’d fielded about her previous performance. Still, for all that, Cici was glad to be at home, working.

  Sam wanted Cici to come back to the station with him, but she’d declined. Cici needed to process what happened today—the gift Anna Carmen offered in the form of a mailbox full of opioids. Why it was open, Cici couldn’t guess—except that divine intervention was alive and well.

  At least in the form of a spectral Anna Carmen. Cici sent her sister a telepathic hug, but, as was usual when it didn’t involve life and death situations, nothing came back.

  Cici swallowed hard, wishing for the millionth time that day Anna Carmen was alive, sitting next to her. She would get such a kick out of Cici working with Sam. For some reason, Anna Carmen liked the idea of Sam and Cici spending time together—and their current successes at policing would have tickled her bright pink with happiness.

  When Sam suggested she get a full-time shadow to track her every move, Cici declined that level of personal space invasion. Okay, so not her every move so much as to keep an eye out for the freaky person in black who’d scared her so badly . . . and who seemed to be running a drug ring out of the post offices in the area.

  Her sermon cursor flashed like a tiny beacon of how much Cici had failed at multiple aspects of her life. Like keeping her sister safe and alive.

  “True,” Sam said. “But we did ask for an autopsy.”

  What was he talking about? Right, Miguel Sanchez.

  Cici lowered her head to the edge of her desk and banged her forehead there. “To see if Donald died from an opioid overdose?”

  “Bingo,” Sam said. “Though I don’t think he did, but we may get the substance in his bloodstream—if we’re lucky.”

  “And the drugs we found were his next shipment?”

  “Seems like an educated guess,” Sam said. “Lot of ’em, though. Heroin. High-quality from what I heard. You’d make a good investigator, Cee.”