by J. J. Cagney
“I wanted you to know,” Susan said, her voice quiet, “I’ve talked to J.R. and changed my will. If something happens to me, my estate goes to your church.”
Cici blinked, the shock coating her skin. “But . . .”
Susan smirked a little. “I’m hoping it’s incentive to keep me alive until I come to my senses and spend all that glorious cash on amazing trips and expensive whiskey. I do like whiskey.”
“I don’t want your money, Susan. I want your shining face in my congregation.” Cici waved Carole in. She settled the large bouquet of flowers on a small nightstand.
“How are you feeling?” Carole asked.
“Like I was stabbed in the back,” Susan replied. “Probably J.R. sent those. He’s been so good about checking up on me. Since Donnie’s death.”
“I’ll let the church members know you’re awake.” Carole bustled from the room.
“Why were you trying to break into Miguel Sanchez’s car?” Sam asked.
Susan’s face lost color and she focused on the blanket near her hand.
“Susan,” Cici said. “That’s—”
“Necessary when you see a strange person inside the car at five in the morning,” Susan snapped. “Just after Miguel went in and to bed. And, no, I don’t have a description. It was still fairly dark and the person wore dark clothes and one of those beanie hats the kids prefer these days.”
Susan’s final words sounded defensive. Cici glanced up to see how Sam was reacting to this information, but he had on his detective face and she couldn’t read his expression.
Cici rested her hip on the edge of the bed. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“I found a key and some . . . what I suppose are drugs. Some white pills in a little bag. They were under the car. Near the driver’s side door.”
“Where are they now?” Cici asked.
“I have no idea. I got stabbed before I managed to pick them up.”
“It was a warning,” Susan said, her voice holding a raspy edge of fear. “To keep my nose out of Donnie’s death. I think . . . I think that’s why that woman called in Donnie’s death. So I’d think the worst of my husband.”
“Good thing Juan’s dogs scared off your attacker,” Sam said. “You’re very lucky your wound isn’t worse.”
Susan scowled but inclined her head.
“Want to tell me why you don’t like Miguel?” Sam asked, his voice gentle.
“I’m just not much of a fan of men who threaten my husband or me,” Susan said, her voice and body stiffly upright.
“When did that happen?” I asked.
“Before you came to start the church, dear. He told me I was a rich gringa who didn’t know half of what my husband had been involved in. Like he could have dirt on Donnie.”
Sam and Cici locked gazes and an understanding passed between them.
“Did he?” Sam asked.
“Yes,” Susan snapped.
“What was it he thought he knew?” Cici asked, her voice softer.
Susan huffed. “I’d rather not . . . I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Susan,” Cici started.
“I’m tired and need to rest. Please.” Her lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears. Cici grabbed a few tissues and offered them to Susan.
“You’d tell me if you thought it would help the case?” Sam asked. “I don’t want to postpone your trip, but you need to be honest with me. You’ve been stabbed. Miguel is full of heroin and Narcan. Donald’s dead, as is Anna Carmen and Miguel’s son and wife. We’ve lost a lot of people to this killer. I don’t want to lose anyone else.”
Susan dabbed her eyes with one of the tissues. It turned black with mascara. She wadded it into a ball, her hand fisting around it.
“Oh, fine,” Susan said. “He’d go to the prison. Once a week. He visited Ernesto Espinoza.”
“I know that name,” Cici said, her brow wrinkling as she tried to remember a face, a connection.
“Justin’s uncle,” Sam said. He didn’t look happy. Nope, not with the way his eyes blazed and his lips compressed. Whatever else Sam knew about this Ernesto was not good.
“He’s in jail?” Cici asked, shocked.
Sam began to pace the small confines of the room. “Was. Federal prison. For drug trafficking.”
Yeah, not good. Cici settled on the edge of the hard hospital mattress.
“He was supposed to get out around the time your . . . ,” Susan said, her voice quiet as if she was admitting to a sin. Perhaps she was. She looked down at her lap and shredded the tissue. “He left the prison a year and a half ago. I’d say within a week, maybe two of when Rosalia Sanchez died.”
“Who picked Ernesto up from the prison, Susan?” Sam’s voice was coaxing but also full of authority.
A thrill shot through Cici. This was Sam at work. At his best. He wanted to solve this crime—to stop more unnecessary deaths, of course, but because the evidence would lead to who killed Anna Carmen.
It would lead to justice.
Cici struggled to focus around the thick, heavy weight of grief and regret that wrapped around her. She’d thought justice would bring peace.
It wouldn’t because Anna Carmen would still be dead.
Susan no longer tried to swipe at the tears and mascara running down her face. “Donnie picked him up. Brought him into town.”
“Miguel thinks he murdered Rosalia?” Sam asked.
“He doesn’t think,” Susan muttered, obviously miserable. “He says he knows. Ernesto told him.”
14
Men should be what they seem. — Shakespeare
“Why?” Sam asked, finally coming to a stop right next to Susan’s bedside.
“Donnie was his—Ernesto’s—lawyer. He delivered the sealed envelope to Miguel.”
“Why didn’t Miguel press charges?”
Susan’s face crumpled further. “He wanted to. But then . . . then his son died. And Anna Carmen died just a week later.”
“Hush killings,” Sam growled.
“What?” Cici asked, her head seeming to float a full second behind her ears.
Whatever Sam meant by that upset him. He rose, his body taut, his face set in unforgiving lines. Susan peeked up at him but dropped her gaze back to her lap.
“But . . . but he’s dead now. Ernesto,” Susan whispered as she wiped her eyes. “He died in a boating accident off the coast of Cabo.”
Sam made a deep guttural sound in his throat. This was the information he’d wanted to bring Anna Carmen’s killer to light. To have the person be dead . . .
Even for Cici, who hadn’t spent so much of the last year dedicated to this aspect of her sister’s murder, the information Susan provided was anticlimactic. Wrong.
“Before you ask, yes, I’m sure it was Ernesto. He was identified. And he left all his money, everything, to his wife. None of that money came back stateside.”
“How can you be sure?”
Susan opened her mouth. Shut it and frowned. “I guess . . . I guess I can’t. But Justin is Ernesto’s only living relative, and he doesn’t have any money. He works for the police, for God’s sakes.”
Like working for the police equated to menial labor. Cici guessed when you amassed the kind of wealth Susan enjoyed, police work did seem menial.
Cici made herself a promise—well, more of a reiteration of a promise: she would never, ever consider hardworking people beneath her.
“But the drug ring didn’t end,” Sam said.
Susan shook her head. “I guess not.”
“Susan,” Sam said, his voice holding an edge that sounded dangerous. He looked collected except for the tautness of his shoulder—the strain in his neck muscles. “Be straight with me now. This is information you’ve withheld for over a year. Enough for us to have solved this crime then.” He didn’t say the phrase but it seemed to float around the room: obstruction of justice.
“I tried to stay out of Donnie’s dealings. I just wanted the security of our lifestyle.
”
Sam scooted closer, but it was Cici who spoke. Her voice was shrill and just as sharp as Sam’s had been. “My sister died. You knew who did it. Or at least who was involved. You and Donald should have stepped forward, should have made sure no one else had to suffer like me, like Miguel and Juan.” Cici dropped her voice. “Like you’re hurting now. We’ve all hurt like that. It’ll hurt forever when someone in your family’s murdered. All the way to your soul.”
Susan gripped the sheets, her knuckles white. “I didn’t know then.” She raised her wet, red eyes to Cici’s. “I didn’t know.”
More like she didn’t want to know. Cici crossed her arms over her chest as she tried to hold in the pain from Susan’s revelations.
“Donnie didn’t tell me. But he was upset. Real upset. Then, a few months ago, he seemed better.”
“Why?” Sam asked.
“I don’t know,” Susan leaned back against the pillows, her eyes heavy and her face slackening with fatigue. “He didn’t tell me.”
“Fine,” Sam said, but his voice said it wasn’t. “What about Anna Carmen? She came to see Donald.”
“She knew Marco didn’t . . . didn’t overdose,” Susan whispered. “That young man was murdered.”
Cici couldn’t breathe. Killing a teenaged boy. Killing her sister. To keep Miguel silent?
“A child? Whoever . . . killed a child?”
15
Hell is empty and all the devils are here. — Shakespeare
Cici couldn’t breathe. Sam touched the back of her hand with two fingers—just a brief sweep, but it helped her focus.
“I’ll check the drug. I bet it’s the same one they gave Miguel. Or same signature in his blood stream,” Sam said. “We have the pathology report for Marco on file.”
Sam scrubbed his palms over his face and into his hair. He looked up at the ceiling. Silence built.
“I’m going to need you to sign an affidavit,” Sam warned. “I need this in writing.”
Susan collapsed deeper into the bed, yelped when her stitches pulled. Cici took a step toward her, then paused. All this time, Susan knew details about the person who killed Anna Carmen. She knew and said nothing.
Donald knew—an elder of her church, one of the founding members—and worked for and released the man who killed her sister.
Cici turned on her heel, unable even to look at the woman again. She needed to scream. She needed to keep screaming and . . . and . . . hit something. Instead, Cici stalked out of the room.
She put one foot in front of the other. When she slammed into a person—large, white coat, probably a doctor—she leaned against the wall and shut her eyes. But her knees didn’t want to support her now that she’d wobbled. She slid down and let her forehead fall forward onto her thighs.
The tears of loss burned up her throat, burned her nose, but her eyes remained dry.
Someone settled on the ground next to her. The scent of Sam’s soap tickled her nose, settled some of the fury and grief roiling through her.
“You think it’s true?” Cici gasped, trying not to break the last restraints. If she cried now, she might not stop. Ever.
Aci.
Their mother kept a picture of the two of them on the refrigerator. The babies were less than a day old, holding hands. Anna Carmen had always been Cici’s best friend.
Part of her died that day, with Anna Carmen. Cici didn’t have words to explain the phenomenon, but when Anna Carmen’s consciousness faded, so did part of Cici’s.
Sam pulled her into his embrace, his large palm encircling much of her shoulder. “I don’t know. It’s a convenient explanation.”
Cici lifted her head. “Why is it convenient?” she cried. “My sister died.”
Sam pulled her even tighter into his embrace. “Because we can’t touch Ernesto Espinoza. He’s allegedly dead. And as a drug trafficker, he’d have the ability to silence people.”
“But . . . ,” Cici said, searching Sam’s troubled eyes.
“But . . . it’s so clean, Cee. And it doesn’t explain now. I mean, this week. Who took over, why kill Donald. Who attempted to stab Susan?”
“Maybe Miguel did,” Cici muttered.
“You think that? Really?”
Cici dropped her gaze back to the linoleum between her spread legs. “No,” she said after another long moment of silence. “I don’t. But . . . why would Susan lie?”
Sam stood and pulled Cici to her feet. “We pushed her for an answer. She was scared.”
At least this newfound rage swept away the urge to cry. “Of what?”
Sam kept hold of Cici’s chilled hand as he tugged her back toward Susan’s room. “Not what. Who.”
Sam didn’t seem surprised that Susan no longer occupied the space. He glanced around the room, his eyes landing on the flowers. He searched them for a card, but there wasn’t one.
Sam dug deeper into the flowers. He cursed, low and vicious.
He pulled something buried deep between the foliage.
“What’s that?” Cici asked, mesmerized by the small bits of wire.
“Transmitter.” He dug further. He pulled out a tiny microphone.
Sam yanked Cici down the hallway, barking questions at the nurses and other medical staff. None had seen Susan Johnson—or would admit to seeing her leave.
After another call to the station where Sam patiently went over the situation not once, but twice, a uniformed officer showed up to escort Cici home.
“Go on with Kevin,” Sam said. “I’m going to be tied up here for a while.”
“But . . .” Cici looked around. The hospital room now crawled with the forensics team. Justin snapped pictures on the far side.
“What about Susan?” Cici asked.
“I have an APB on her, an officer out front of her house. Best thing you can do, Cee, is let me do my job. And do not, under any circumstance, go to Susan’s house or warn the Sanchezes.”
“But . . .” Cici huffed a breath.
“Any circumstance,” Sam repeated, his eyes narrowed and angry.
“All right. I’m ready to go, Officer Loomis.”
Kevin escorted her from the building, sticking closer to Cici’s side than allowed her to be comfortable. But she didn’t question him. At least she had a trained professional there with her who’d try to keep her safe.
“Sam’ll go by the state pen, I bet,” Kevin Loomis rumbled.
“Why would he do that?” Cici asked.
“To cover all his bases. Sam’s real good at his job.”
Cici turned to stare out the car window. She didn’t understand how mortal enemies like Donald Johnson and Miguel Sanchez could sit in nearby pews each Sunday.
Nothing she considered, no way she looked at that problem made sense.
When they arrived at Cici’s place, Kevin, her current babysitter, said he’d stay in his car to keep watch. Once she locked her door and looked out the window at him, she shook her head as he bent his head over his phone.
After wandering through the house for a few minutes, Cici sat back down at her computer that she’d picked up from the police station, pulling her sermon notes closer.
The intense heat broke as low, thick, gray clouds rolled in over the mountains. The air sizzled with ozone. An early-afternoon thunderstorm quenched the hungry land’s thirst and caused Cici to jump at each of the rumbles of thunder.
After another hour spent on forums and leafing through her large, worn family Bible, Cici shut the book and drained the dregs of her second latte. She didn’t even shudder at its icy temperature nor did she focus on her still-empty document that was supposed to hold this week’s sermon.
She walked to her room and changed into her hiking shorts and boots.
“All right, you two,” she said to her dogs. “Let’s walk.”
Cici pulled up Sam’s last text and let him know she’d be on the Dale Ball trail system. Not too far. I know it’s getting late. He didn’t text her back, probably because he was interrog
ating one of her parishioners.
That’s the part Cici hated—that more of her churchgoers were being pulled into this insidious web. She couldn’t sit here and just . . . well, wait.
The dogs needed to move. So did Cici. She wanted to run and never stop.
Since she couldn’t do that, she’d settled for a strenuous hike with her dogs.
After ensuring she had enough water for all three of them, she clipped the dog’s leashes to their harnesses and loaded them in the car. Kevin Loomis wandered over.
She let him know her plans. He looked unhappy.
“Sam said for you to stay home,” Kevin said.
“I can’t.” The keys jingled in Cici’s hand. “I won’t go far, but I need . . .” The dogs tugged at their leashes, slamming into each other. “I’ll be with my dogs. You can come, too.”
Those were the best concessions Cici could make.
Still, Kevin tried to get in touch with Sam. He didn’t answer, so Kevin reluctantly agreed. Cici drove to the trail turnout, and Kevin followed at a respectable distance. Once parked, Cici shoved in her earbuds before unloading the dogs in a flurry of happy barks and plumed tails.
“Coming?” Cici asked.
Kevin looked around. He shook his head but went to stand near the trail head. “Not too far,” he warned.
Cici nodded.
They headed up the trail while old grunge pounded into Cici’s ears. Not quite God’s music, but it was Anna Carmen’s favorite and it suited her mood.
They rounded the mile marker, and Cici’s body was slicked in sweat and her breath puffed from her parted lips thanks to the punishing pace she’d set. She stopped to slug back water from her canteen.
In that moment, between one song and the next, Cici’s neck iced, as though frigid fingers slid across it. Without conscious thought, she dropped to the ground while Mona and Rodolfo stiffened, eyes facing down the trail, growling. The dogs’ hackles rose as they lunged toward a stand of trees to Cici’s left. She yanked the earbuds from her ears, just able to make out the quick patter of running shoes on the trail through that copse.