by J. J. Cagney
Cici’s brows knit tight. “Why?”
“This was the day Anna Carmen died. Before. I wanted to talk to her about it. I called her.”
“I know.” Cici didn’t mention she knew because she’d dreamed it. She didn’t think Evan would appreciate her being privy to that much personal information.
“What happened, Evan? I need to understand.”
“You’re sure?” He asked, his voice cracking. “I was the one she considered her soul mate?”
Anna Carmen’s eyes in the white bird’s face flashed into Cici’s mind again. The sheer emotion in Anna Carmen’s eyes caused Cici’s to water. She sniffled.
“I’m one hundred percent positive. I thought it was so strange when you mentioned Aci met with Donald—like you thought there could be something there when you were all she saw, all she wanted.”
Again, Evan had to swallow. Cici understood how that ball of emotion ripped into the throat.
“The firm was Gladstone and Associates.” Evan’s voice was hoarse.
Cici couldn’t breathe. How hadn’t she known that? In all their conversations, Anna Carmen never said what firm Evan planned to work for . . . and now she knew why. Because Evan planned to work for their father’s former lover, KaraLynn.
“I’d been offered a pretty great deal there and I’d accepted it, in writing. They had to pay me the signing bonus after they rescinded the offer.”
“That’s KaraLynn’s personal team.”
“Yeah. KaraLynn Gladstone.”
“KaraLynn as in my almost-step mom. She and my dad split earlier this year. Amicably, which means she was seeing someone else and he caught her, I’d bet.” Cici swallowed. “That kind of money and power is never split amicably.”
“I work in tax law. I never understood why they wouldn’t want me there.”
“I don’t think it had anything to do with you. I think KaraLynn and my father knew about one of Donald’s clients.”
“Who?”
“Ernesto Espinoza.”
Evan’s breath fractured into the phone. “The drug trafficker?”
“Yeah. That guy. Donald Johnson represented some of his interests. At least according to Susan.”
“Shit. Damn. Shit. Sorry, Cee. How didn’t I know that?” Evan muttered.
“It was all hushed,” Cici said. “That’s what money does. It buys silence. And compliance.”
“You think . . . you think Anna Carmen talked to Donald and then . . . then . . . because of the drug lord . . . she’s dead,” Evan said.
Evan sniffled. This was the man Anna Carmen had loved—the one who could finally mourn her and, when he was ready, move on. Cici’s eyes began to fill with tears at the thought of Evan finding someone to spend his life with. That’s part of what her sister wanted—her great love to be happy.
Oh, Aci, I don’t know if I’d have that grace in me.
“I thought she was seeing Justin Espinoza,” he said. “She’d been spending time with him and Donald. She wouldn’t tell me why. Cici, if you’re right, then you have to bring in Justin. He’s an accessory to Anna Carmen’s murder.”
Cici blew out a breath. “Sam’s questioning him now. Back then . . . when Anna Carmen died . . . wasn’t Justin a new police recruit then?”
“Yes, fresh out of the academy. Why?”
“I’m not sure. Just something about the timing seems important.”
Evan cleared his throat. Cici heard a tapping. Maybe a pen on his desk.
“She got in Justin’s car the night before she went to the pilgrimage,” Evan said. “I stopped by her work, wanted to see if she was okay about Marco’s death . . . I saw him kiss her.”
“You were there?” Cici asked, gripping the phone tighter. “Who else did you see?”
Evan made a frustrated sound. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.”
“Do. And call me,” Cici said.
“You really don’t think she was having an affair with Justin?” Evan asked again.
Anna Carmen’s regret when she thought of Evan in her last moments made more sense. By playing a secretive game, Anna Carmen got herself killed and broke her lover’s heart.
“You were her every thought, Evan. At least all the good ones.”
Evan hung up after promising again to call if he thought of anything else. Cici walked back down the hall, past the officer toward Sam’s desk.
Sam was still on the phone, so Cici nodded to Jen.
“Can you find me Officer Loomis?” Cici asked.
“Sure,” Jen said. She trotted back to her desk and made a couple of calls.
Cici headed back to the corridor with the conference rooms. She waited for Kevin outside the door, peeking in to see Justin slumped at the table.
“Will you come in here?” Cici asked Kevin once he got close enough to where she stood. “I’d like to have another person in the room while I talk to Justin.”
“Okay,” Kevin said.
Cici smiled a little. She’d known his curiosity would get the better of him. A police employee brought in for questioning in an ongoing investigation would be the talk of the precinct for months, maybe years.
“This is over the top, you know,” Justin said on a sigh. “I didn’t hurt Anna Carmen.”
“I need to apologize to you,” Cici said.
Officer Loomis strolled over behind her chair. Cici patted the chair next to her, but he remained a tall, silent presence behind her.
Justin blinked rapidly, clearly surprised by this turn of events. “Thanks, I guess.”
She watched Justin for a long moment, taking special care to focus on the eyes he refused to keep trained on her face.
“I honestly didn’t think you had it in you to call my father.”
He jerked as though he’d been struck, his skin paling below his tan.
“What do you mean?” Justin croaked.
“Frank Gurule enjoyed blackballing his future son-in-law, I’m sure. That’s what he gets off on most—power. And since the pedigree of the law firm here in Santa Fe wasn’t as perfect as Evan believed it to be, that leaves me curious.”
Cici leaned forward, her hands splayed flat on the cool wood table. The outlines of the abrasions on her hands stood out starkly on her normally pale skin. At least this way her hands appeared steady. Like she was in control.
“About two things. First, how did you know Donald Johnson represented Ernesto Espinoza?”
Justin paled further. “I’m not answering that.”
Cici cocked her head as Justin shifted in his seat.
“All right,” Cici said, her voice neutral as if they were discussing the weather—not the decisions that led to her twin’s murder. “I’m sure Susan or even one of the clerks at the office will find that information eventually. The other piece I don’t understand is what, exactly, my father promised you in exchange for helping him destroy Anna Carmen’s happiness.”
Silence. Justin didn’t move. Kevin Loomis shifted behind her, clearly uncomfortable with this line of questioning. Cici waited.
Justin raised his gaze for a second and Cici smiled with gentle assurance.
“Because that’s what he did, you know. With your help.” She leaned in, closer. “Frank Gurule destroyed Anna Carmen. Might as well have stabbed his own child in the back.”
Again, she waited. Justin swallowed hard enough for his Adam’s apple to bob deeply.
“I hope what you got out of the deal was better than Anna Carmen’s reward,” Cici said.
Justin mumbled toward the table.
“What was that?” Cici asked.
“He got me a place on the police force,” Justin muttered.
“How?” Cici asked.
Justin’s face contorted with fury. “Because I should have failed one of my classes, okay? School was never easy for me.”
“Investigation,” Cici murmured. “You said you were bad at investigation. But you found out something . . . about Ernesto. Or was it about Donald? Is that
why you brought him in to meet Anna Carmen?”
He stared at her, his eyes haunted but his lips compressed tightly.
“She’s dead. I can’t bring her back,” Cici said, her voice soft. “But telling me can help me save lives.”
Justin crossed his arms over his chest. “And cost me mine. I’m willing to do a lot for you, Cee. I’ve told you things that’ll probably land me in jail. I . . .” He blew out a breath and pain etched across his face. “I deserve that. But I’m not willing to die for you.”
“Not even now that we know your lack of testimony might well be the reason my sister, the woman you profess to have loved since high school, is dead?”
“Your sister died because she insisted on sticking her nose into a drug lord’s business!” Justin shot back. “She signed her death warrant as soon as she took the first picture. She and that Sanchez boy.”
20
The tempter or the tempted, who sins most? — Shakespeare
Cici froze. Juan’s older brother who was found in a bathroom, face blue, eyes open. She’d asked Sam for the details.
Now, she wished she hadn’t.
“What picture?”
Justin sighed, closing his eyes. When he opened them, they were bloodshot. Grief ravaged his face, causing him to look ten, maybe fifteen years older.
“God. I shouldn’t have said that.” He shook his head, his lips trembling.
“What happened to the pictures Anna Carmen took, Justin? And just how deep into this investigation have you been?”
Justin dropped his eyes back to the table where his hands were clasped loosely together. “Enough to know saying another word is going to cost me my life.”
Sam yanked open the door to the room, his face a milky mask against his too-dark eyes.
“Let’s go,” he said, scowling.
Cici winced when Sam caught her hand and tugged her from the chair. His sense of urgency pounded against her skin, the heat of it causing Cici’s heart rate to rage in her chest.
“Sorry,” he murmured, softening his grip. “Forgot about the cuts. Hurry.”
“Oh, no,” Cici groaned, her worst nightmare coming true. “Who’s dead now?”
Sam’s scowl built darker. “No one’s dead. We found Susan Johnson. She’s at her house. She wants to talk to you.”
“What about Justin?” Cici asked, jogging to keep up with Sam’s larger strides.
“Officer Loomis will keep an eye on him until his shift ends. I asked my boss to assign someone else. It’ll probably be Damian. He’s on probation and gets all the shit assignments right now.”
“What did Damian do?” Cici shook her head. “Never mind. More pressing matter: Aren’t Justin and Damian related?”
“We live in a town of less than a hundred thousand people,” Sam said, exasperation building in his voice. “That’s been around for over four-hundred years. Most of us who’ve been here for any length of time are related or at least know each other well.”
“But—”
“Damian will do his job,” Sam snapped. “He has to, and the chief is involved now because this whole situation with Justin makes his department look bad.”
“Especially when it comes out who helped Justin get his job with the police department,” Cici murmured.
“I heard that,” Sam said. “You make one helluva good detective, by the way.”
“I don’t want to be one,” Cici responded.
Sam stopped at the doors and turned back to look at her. His eyes remained stormy and his mouth pulled down in frustration and concern. “Yeah. I get that.”
“How’d you find Susan?” Cici asked as she climbed into the white, American-made sedan. At least this vehicle had been parked in the large parking garage, so entering the car didn’t lead to immediate and near asphyxiation.
Only people who didn’t live here considered Santa Fe summers a joke—but when the city was in the middle of a heat wave (as it was now), the temperatures were on par with Phoenix and just as nasty.
“She came home about an hour ago. I spoke with her on the phone, and she asked to speak to you, specifically.”
Sam, whose second career should be NASCAR driving, pulled up in front of the large, stately home a few minutes later. Cici exited the vehicle, hand to stomach, feeling ill and not just because of Sam’s driving.
She tottered up the steps to the Johnson’s large, beaten-wood front door. She knocked.
No one answered.
Cici knocked again.
The door swung open a little, giving them a glimpse into the opulent rotunda-style entry. Small tumbled-marble and glass tiles decorated the floor in a variety of murals, each centered around the Zia, the New Mexican symbol of the sun.
Sam pushed the door open farther, his gaze cautious as he kept Cici behind him. After another moment, he sighed and plucked his phone from his pocket. He spoke into it slowly, carefully, to describe exactly what was happening.
A loud, low “poof” ripped through the house, slamming into Cici’s ears. Another low, dead thud. Then another and another, followed by tinkling glass.
Sam shoved Cici back onto the porch, where she tripped over a potted plant and landed on her hands and knees. Pain lanced through her right elbow as it took the brunt of her weight. Almost immediately, more pain shot through her left knee where she caught some rough material, ripping her skin.
“Shots fired. Repeat shots fired. Address 392 . . .”
Sam disappeared into the house, pistol drawn, phone shoved into his pocket.
Cici rolled away from the door, unsure if Sam or whomever fired the weapon—at least she assumed the sounds she’d heard were a gun—ran out the front.
She leaned against the side of the rough stucco wall for a long moment, trying to quiet her pounding heart and ease the rush of blood through her ears. After a few shaky breaths, Cici stood, using the wall for support. She winced at the cut on her knee but tottered toward the door.
“Cici!” Sam called.
“Yeah?”
“Come here! Office. Follow my voice. Now.”
Cici hurried forward. Susan lay on the floor, blood seeping through her white silk blouse, the loose bow tie around her high collar completely undone and now crimson.
Cici sank to her knees, uncaring about her own small injury.
Sam leaned over the older woman, applying pressure to the wound, his face chalky, his eyes too large and haunted.
“Is she okay?” Cici whispered.
“No,” Sam said.
“Cee,” Susan panted. “Cee. Need to tell you . . . some things. Donnie had . . .” Her breath rattled wet, thick, became more labored. “A safe. Back of his closet. Another at the office. He was . . .” She paused her face paling as her eyes darkened.
“Shh. It’s okay. You can tell me more once the paramedics help you,” Cici said, her voice catching.
“No.” Susan’s voice was strident, angry. “No time. ’S how I found out about all this. Went through the safe here.”
Her breath grew thicker, like a barge that’s sucked up the incorrect mixture of liquid and air. Cici gripped Susan’s chilled hand as she tried to swallow down the panic bubbling over.
“They followed me. I want it to end.”
“What needs to end?” Sam asked.
Sam adjusted his grip on the towel he’d found. Cici swallowed as she watched the red seep against the light blue.
Susan tried to lift her body up to see him but gave up quickly. Sam placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Easy,” he said. “Hold tight. I called an ambulance.”
“The threats. The fear.”
Susan choked, tried to cough. A thin trickle of pink-tinged saliva slid past her lips.
“Donnie worked . . . with the DEA. After Anna Carmen’s death . . . he wanted to fix it.”
“Why now?” Cici asked.
“They . . .”
Susan struggled, her chest unable to expand. Her face contorted.
“
Stopped. Had a baby. Moved. Donnie kept an ear out. Passed along what he could.”
“I thought he was taking opioids, using the post office in Madrid to funnel those meds.”
“He did,” Susan rasped. “That’s how it started. Drugs, blackmail.”
Her lips tinged blue. This time, more blood dribbled across her lips.
“Ernesto wanted . . . trade. His expertise . . . not implicated . . . not killed.”
Susan closed her eyes. Cici gripped her hand, thinking of her father, KaraLynn.
“When you’re considered one of the city’s elite, your reputation matters,” she murmured.
“True. But Donnie . . . he tried to talk Anna Carmen into . . . dropping the questions. She . . . wouldn’t. Not once Rosalia . . . was murdered.”
“Why was she?” Sam asked.
“Rosalia was . . . friends . . . with Ernesto’s . . . wife. Her hairdresser . . . knew . . . their plans . . . wanted a . . . cut of money.”
Cici blew out a breath. Greed and power. Two of the oldest—and ugliest motivators in human history.
“Why didn’t Anna Carmen go to the police?” Cici asked, the anger she’d felt at her sister building inside her again.
“She . . . did.”
Cici froze. Slowly, she raised her eyes to Sam, who shook his head slowly, mouth set to a thin slash.
“SFPD has no record,” Sam said.
“She did,” Susan insisted. “Donnie . . . worried . . . about that.”
“Enough to tell Ernesto?” Sam asked, his voice flat and cynical.
Susan’s eyes dimmed. Her lips and cheeks lost color so she looked more like a waxy model than an actual person.
“Yes.”
“But . . .” Cici shook her head. “Why work so hard to get me to come back here? To donate to the church?”
Cici recoiled as the thought slithered through her. No. No, she didn’t want blood money.
Susan tried to squeeze her fingers, but she didn’t have the strength.
“A type of restitution,” Susan rasped. “Anna Carmen . . . feel badly over that.”
“You helped finance our building. My salary,” Cici yelped, her nose burning with tears as she remembered her dream from last night.