by J. J. Cagney
“Nope. I hate blood. And getting shot at. And almost dying. How do you handle it?”
Sam was quiet for a long time. “You know how I planned to be a lawyer back in high school?”
Cici made a humming noise in her throat because she was busy sucking down a big gulp of the latte she needed. Sleep hadn’t been easy to wrestle. Her body ached and her chest remained heavy with dread. Even in her own home, thanks to the peek-show two nights ago, Cici struggled to relax.
“I hate the death and pain people cause each other,” Sam muttered. “But I can’t let it go unchecked. Back then? I thought making money was the most important option. That way I could provide for my family. Even with the death and nasty side of life, I feel like I’m doing work Anna Carmen can be proud of. Hopefully, you, too.”
“She would be,” Cici said past the lump in her throat. “I’m so proud of you, Sam. Anna Carmen would say the same.”
“Good. That matters. Now, I need you to come up to the precinct.”
Cici chewed the inside of her cheek. “I’m trying to write my sermon.”
“And I need to know you’re in one piece.”
“You saw me just hours ago.”
“C’mon, Cee. Don’t argue. Just bring your laptop up here if you think you’re really going to get anything accomplished.”
“And what about the phone calls or if I’m needed at the hospital?”
“You have a prayer chain and the retired reverend in your congregation—what’s his name?”
“Gordon Sommers.”
“Right. He’s fielding those calls today and tomorrow since you’re dealing with a personal issue.”
“When did you talk to Carole?”
“’Bout half an hour ago.”
“She is scary effective,” Cici mused.
“Good thing she’s working for God and not the criminals,” Sam said.
Cici laughed. “Amen to that.”
Cici drove her now-cleaned car to the police precinct. She needed to thank Justin for getting her car detailed.
Not that she wanted to be at the precinct. Not that she wanted to realize how deep she’d slid into the ugly underbelly of criminals in less than a week.
Finding Donald on that rock in Santa Fe National Forest opened the wound of losing Anna Carmen, sure, but it also changed Cici’s life. Instead of hiking and considering her next sermon, as she normally would, Cici swung her legs back and forth as she leaned back in the curved plastic chair next to Sam’s desk.
“Hey, Rev,” Justin said as he stuck his head around the corner where Sam’s desk sat. Sam positioned it well—away from the hub-bub of the uniformed officer’s main bull pen. “Want some coffee? We got us one of those Keurig machines this year. It’s bribery for slashing our budget by five percent next fiscal year.”
“The city’s slashing your budget?” Cici asked. She eyed the coffee with longing but shook her head. “I’m already four cups deep this morning. My legs won’t stay still.”
Justin’s smile curved fully, his eyes lighting up as they landed on her legs. He cleared his throat and met her gaze.
“Well, yeah. The governor swept all agencies and departments, clearing out their rainy-day funds. She’s giving back a pittance of the stash and using the rest to fund . . . who knows what? More drunken pizza parties?”
Cici glanced around, her heart rate speeding up a little more—this time not related to the copious amounts of coffee she drank.
“I thought police folk liked the governor.”
Justin raised his brow. “Not when she’s slashing our budget and making it harder to keep the community safe.”
“I didn’t deal with this when I lived in Jamaica Beach.”
“Bet your property taxes were a lot higher up there near Boston. So . . . coffee?”
“Sure,” Cici said, giving in to her craving. “Thanks, Justin.”
He ambled off—the same slow procession he’d used for all the years she’d known him. That attention to detail made him an exceptional forensic photographer but also made him annoying whenever she tried to play a board game or some pickup softball against him.
“Sorry about that,” Sam said, hustling back into the cubby space. “Got some more reports I wanted to go over.”
Cici waved her hand. “No worries. Justin stopped in. He’s bringing me coffee.”
Sam peered at Cici over the white sheets of paper. He dropped his gaze back to the words therein when Justin came in with a Styrofoam cup, steaming with some substance that smelled vaguely coffee-like—but more like the old laundromat on St. Michael’s Drive.
Cici tried not to wrinkle her nose as she accepted the cup with a smile.
“Got anything to help you figure out who’s dealing the drugs through the post offices all over the state?” Justin asked.
“I’m not sure we have a drug ring being run through post offices,” Sam said, not bothering to look up.
“Huh. I heard from my buddy you were talking to the sheriff’s department down in Madrid about that.”
“I went to Madrid last week to get a gift for Jeannette. Met up with Cici at a café. Had a drink.”
Justin gripped the back of Cici’s chair. Sam still didn’t look up, which made Cici’s legs bounce faster. Her stomach began to ache from the tension rising in this small corner of the building. Sam wasn’t sharing his information with Justin. In fact, he’d just lied to another member of the police force about his activities.
“You didn’t tell me that,” Justin murmured into Cici’s ear.
“A lot has happened since then,” Cici said.
Justin straightened.
Sam continued to peruse his papers.
She picked up her cup and brought it to her mouth, but her stomach rebelled and she was unable to take a sip.
Sam’s phone rang and he answered it with a gruff, “Chastain.” He listened for a moment, his cheeks going slack before his lips firmed. “Two? Both? Just one. Where? Got it.”
He hung up as his scowl blackened. “Let’s go, Cee. Seems we have two more folks with the same signature.”
“I’ll come with you,” Justin said.
Sam’s shoulders tensed but he kept walking.
“Why do you say that?” Cici asked as she trotted after Justin and Sam, trying to keep up with their longer strides.
“Signature?” Justin asked. “Because that’s what it is.”
“What does that mean?”
Neither man answered her.
Cici sighed. “Where are we going?”
“New Presby hospital,” Sam said over his shoulder.
“Um . . . why?” Cici replied, picking up her pace to a trot.
“Because we have a potential overdose from opioids and a stab wound,” Sam said. He glanced back and caught the look on Cici’s face. “No one was dead when we got the call,” Sam continued, his voice gentling.
“Narcan administered?” Justin asked.
“Dunno.”
“You want pictures of the survivor?” Justin slid into the front passenger seat and Sam into the driver’s seat of Sam’s city-designated sedan. Thank goodness it wasn’t a typical police car because then Cici would have to sit in the back in “the cage,” as the officers called it. Now that would be embarrassing for a reverend—pictures of her in the prisoner section would be all over social media and possibly the Santa Fe New Mexican. Not the kind of press she needed, even if her church was young and growing.
Sam slowed down for the light at Camino Carlos Rey. He glanced back at her in the rearview mirror before refocusing on the road. What was with the constant looks? Did he expect her to disappear?
Sure, Anna Carmen pretty much fell off Sam’s radar for those last couple of years, which probably accounted for why Cici and Sam began to talk more consistently and plan to get together when they were both in Santa Fe—an uncommon occurrence what with Cici finishing her master’s. But, by then, Anna Carmen had been deep into a relationship with Evan, and between spending time with him and he
r demanding work schedule, she rarely spent time with Sam.
The realization made Cici start. Anna Carmen told her the Monday of the week of her death that she expected Evan to propose. In all of their conversations within six months before her death, she’d talked Cici’s ear off about her grand wedding plans.
If that relationship was going to wedding bells, then . . . well, it was time to visit slick lawyer Evan once again and find out what he was hiding about Anna Carmen. Because the man should know more than he’d told her.
Especially now that Evan told Cici her twin was spending time right before her death with none other than Donald Johnson—a married man—and potential opioid-addict. Both women developed strong opinions about marriage and monogamy when the girls’ father cheated on their mother, the last time with a wealthy widow, KaraLynn. Fifteen years Frank Gurule’s senior, the elegant woman promised to open doors for Frank professionally and politically.
KaraLynn had, and Cici’s family fell apart.
Which made Anna Carmen’s time with Donald even stranger.
“Before she died, was Anna Carmen happy with Evan?” she asked.
Sam turned onto St. Michael’s. His hand clutched the steering wheel tight enough for his knuckles to turn white.
Not a good sign, especially from the man who’d been Anna Carmen’s best friend. But Cici had long suspected there was more going on between Sam and her twin than just shared interests and senses of humor.
Maybe the paradise Cici had heard about Anna Carmen and Evan every other day—most every day—back then was a lie, like the partial truths Cici told Anna Carmen about her relationship with Lyndon.
Maybe it had been concocted so that Anna Carmen had something interesting to tell Cici next time they spoke. Something as fascinating as the life Cici embellished for her sister living in the hometown she grew up in, unable to think of something else to pass the unending evening hours.
“She and Evan seemed pretty cozy,” Justin said, craning his neck back to look at her. “Why?”
Cici shrugged. For some reason, she refused to delve deeper into her sister’s personal life right now. Sam’s hand eased on the wheel.
When they arrived at the hospital, Cici stumbled to a halt to find Carole in the waiting room, comforting Juan and another teenager—Jaycee. Justin hovered in the doorway as Cici and Sam hurried into the room.
“We’re so glad you came,” Juan said, almost bowling Cici over as he hugged her in his big arms.
She patted his back as best she could with her arms pinioned to her side. Her wide eyes sought Carole’s, who dipped her head toward Juan. Cici closed her eyes as the pain of what she’d hear next began to rip through her.
“How’s your father, Juan?” she asked.
He sniffled and stepped back. Cici blinked in surprise at the big grin that lit up the young man’s face.
“He’s doing okay. Dr. Van der Veen expects a full recovery.”
“Wow,” Cici whispered, shocked. “Really?” Cici’s voice grew stronger and this time she launched herself at Juan. “That’s the best news.”
“Yeah, I know.” Juan blew out a breath. “But I don’t get it. My dad isn’t into drugs. If Jaycee hadn’t found him . . .”
Juan inclined his head toward the girl with long reddish blond hair who’d stood from her seat, looking nervous.
“Blessings, Jaycee. I’m so glad you were able to help Mr. Sanchez.”
“Me, too,” she said in a soft voice. “If I’d come over later, it might’ve been too late.”
“A happy accident you arrived when you did,” Carole said, coming to join the group. “Me, too, really. I’d just dropped off some chile at the Durants across the road when Jaycee came out of the house, shrieking.”
Jaycee dropped her eyes to her scuffed boots, clearly not liking the reminder of how she’d initially handled the crisis.
“I thought you said something about two people,” Cici said to Sam.
He shrugged.
Justin clapped Juan on the shoulder. “Really glad your pop pulled through, man.”
“So, who’s the other person here, then?” Cici asked, still trying to get her bearings.
“Oh. Um,” Carole backed up, her lips compressing in a thin line.
Cici turned toward Sam, who stood uncharacteristically quiet. He shuffled his feet and didn’t want to answer her question. Cici turned toward Justin.
“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “I came along to document.” He lifted his camera.
“Susan Johnson,” Sam said, his voice clipped.
What was his problem?
“Donald’s wife, Susan?” Cici asked, her stomach hitting some place too low for a body to hold all the organs.
“Yeah. She’s . . . well . . . it’s not drugs.”
“Oh?” Cici asked, confusion and worry warring in her chest.
“She was . . . she was found next to Miguel’s car.”
Cici’s eyes sought Juan’s, and the boy stared back in stony silence.
“Did you know about them? I mean, were Susan and your dad an item?”
Juan shook his head. “None of that makes sense. None of it.” Juan’s voice shook. “My dad doesn’t like Donald Johnson or his wife. Calls ’em snooty gringos.”
Not unusual for the locals to say about incoming wealthier Caucasians, especially the Texas and California transplants.
“He would never be caught near Mrs. Johnson, Rev. And he’d never shoot up. Not after it killed Marco.”
“What are you saying, Juan?” Sam asked.
Juan glanced at Cici, probably trying to figure out if she’d shared the information he’d given her the other day with the other adults here.
“No way my dad took heroin, Detective Chastain,” Juan said, his eyes pleading. “No way. He’d lose his job.” Justin’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the wall across the waiting room. “Still might,” he mumbled.
Cici gripped his hand. “I’m here for you, Juan. For your father and grandmother. I’m happy to talk to your father’s boss. Whatever you need.”
“Coming to see you was a big mistake, Rev,” Juan said. He scrubbed his palms over his eyes, causing them to look even more bloodshot when he dropped his large hands.
“Come on, Juan,” Jaycee said, still unable to meet any of the adult’s eyes. “You need to walk a bit.”
“But . . .”
“Come on,” she gritted, tugging his arm. Her eyes skittered toward Justin before landing back on the floor.
She and Juan disappeared down the hallway, his head bent down to whatever she whispered in his ear.
13
Presume not that I am the thing I was. — Shakespeare
Cici turned to Carole. “Will you please notify our congregation that we have two members in the hospital? I’ll stay here until I speak to both.”
Carole looked like she wanted to argue, but she just sighed before she dipped her head in a brief nod.
“You’ll make sure she gets some rest?” Carole asked Sam. “Last time we had someone in the hospital, Cici didn’t leave for two full days.”
“Sure,” Sam said.
“All right. I’ll do that before I go to my evening yoga.”
“You sure we want her as an assistant?” Justin muttered after Carole left the room.
Cici swung toward him, shocked by his words. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Justin crossed his arms over his chest, gaze still on the door where Carole exited. “She’s . . . bossy.”
Cici mimicked his stance. “She’s also organized and gets tons of stuff done, which is why we’re able to function with just the two of us on staff full-time.”
“Doesn’t make her any nicer,” Justin muttered again as he turned toward the lobby. “Since you don’t need any photo documentation, I’ll get a ride back to the precinct,” he called over his shoulder to Sam.
He sauntered down the hall, following Carole and the kids.
Cici and Sam settled
back into the chairs and waited.
Sam had an issue with a warrant he wanted to pursue, related to Donald Johnson’s properties—though Cici was unclear as to what the problem was exactly. Something about another ongoing investigation, she decided. When she asked, Sam chose not to answer her question, probably because Carole returned with Juan and Jaycee in tow.
A few minutes later, Susan awoke.
“Thank goodness for my silver belt,” she said with a nod toward the thick-disked-chain. One of the links appeared bent and covered in dried blood.
Cici took her shaking hand and squeezed gently, noting Susan must have been stabbed in the back. In the back. Like Donald, like Anna Carmen. Cici forced her fingers open, releasing Susan’s when the older woman winced.
“Miguel Sanchez didn’t stab me, Cici,” Susan said, her voice low but her eyes alert. They scanned the room, paying special attention to the doorway behind Cici’s chair.
“Why do you say that?”
Susan had the grace to blush. “One, I waited until Miguel was inside to go over to his car.”
“You sure he didn’t come back out?” Cici asked.
“Yes, and I smelled perfume. I was turning, anyway, because Miguel locked the car and I couldn’t get into it.” She scrunched her eyebrows, dissatisfied with the turn of events. “I’ve smelled it before, the perfume,” she murmured.
“I have some questions about you trying to enter Miguel Sanchez’s vehicle, Mrs. Johnson,” Sam said.
“I’m sure you do. I’ll answer them.”
“You’re sure you smelled perfume?”
“One hundred percent. I wish I’d heard the voice of the woman who called in, pretending to be me the day Donnie died.” She sighed, closing her eyes as tears leaked out. “Maybe I was too quick to judge.” She opened her eyes. “Maybe he did love me?”
Cici cradled the older woman’s hands in hers again. “He looked at you with devotion.”
Susan sniffled then grimaced. She glanced up toward the doorway where Carole hovered, holding a large bouquet of flowers.
“I was on my way out when a nurse signed for these for you,” Carole said. “I offered to bring them up so you could enjoy them now.”