Desert Exposure (3 page)

“You can’t outrun the Hummer,” he murmured, and patted the steering wheel.

He liked to use the Hummer for surveillance. Any man worth his salt could detect an undercover cop’s car. For the past couple of nights he’d been a drugged out rocker; wastrel son of a wealthy doctor; a stoned singer in a two bit bar. He even had his guitar on the back seat.

He patted the gun in his shoulder holster. A siren sounded in the distance. He didn’t want to scare off the guy in the truck, or make him do anything crazy. But then again, it was all good because he’d have back-up. Another siren sounded to the north of him.

Up ahead, a black and white took the corner of a side street on what looked like two wheels, its lights flashing and siren squealing as it drove toward him. Then it pulled to the side of the road. The truck pulled over, and came to a stop, facing the cop car.
What the hell?

Michael braked, and watched in surprise as a deputy climbed out of the cop car and went to the truck. Half of the cop’s body seemed to lean into the driver’s side window, his butt hanging out into the highway.

What the hell is going on?

He slowed the Hummer to a crawl as he watched the scene unfold, and eased up behind the truck, cut the engine, and reached for the door handle. The door ripped from his hand, and a gust of cold morning air swept inside. He pulled back a little, startled by the action, and looked into the angry, red face of a cop. One who held a gun pointed at his chest.

“Get out of the vehicle. Slowly,” the cop said. “Put your hands above your head.”

The deputy’s name, on the uniform pocket, was Stanton. The guy was about to go bat shit on him. Michael slid off the seat, his feet hitting the road, and straightened, hands raised.

“Indio PD,” he said softly, so the man in the truck wouldn’t overhear. “Undercover.”

“Right,” Stanton said. “Sure you are. Get on the ground. Face down, spread your legs, hands on the back of your head.”

Michael followed orders. Well, he knew he looked like hell. Even his own mother wouldn’t believe his story. He had dark jaw bristles, hadn’t washed his hair in days, and his eyes were about to fall out of his head from lack of sleep. His jeans were muddy, and the torn Nickelback t-shirt he’d worn for three days straight reeked of sweat, and it had splotches of food stains down the front of it. Mustard, mostly. He supposed the beaten up leather jacket didn’t help much, and figured he looked worse than most of the criminals he dragged in for questioning.

He felt the cuffs, heard the snap, and the chant of his rights.

“ID is in the front right pocket of the jacket,” he said, his voice muffled from his position on the road. “I’m armed, and the gun is in the left side shoulder holster.”

A woman’s voice sounded nearby, and he tried to get a look, but the cop touched the pistol to the back of his head as he straddled him and patted him down. She must be his partner.

“Stay over there, babe, while I get his ID.”

Babe?
Damn red-necked cops. Riverside female officers would have his ass kicked all over town for a comment like that. Michael tried not to show his annoyance. There’d be time for explanations. Stanton’s hot breath huffed on his neck, and he felt the man’s weight as he leaned on him to remove the gun from its holster, the ID from his pocket. Michael remained still and quiet during the process.

The whoop-whoop of a chopper, as it came in across the low lying mountain range, bought him a sense of relief. A minute passed. Nobody spoke, but Michael sensed the non-verbal communications and almost smiled.

“Ah, sorry,” Stanton said, and eased the gun away. He took the cuffs off. “Doing my job. You can get up sir, and, and—”

“It’s fine. No need for apology,” Michael said, drawing his aching body up and resting on his knees for a second or two. He used the top of his arm and the leather sleeve of his jacket to brush away the sand. Above his head, the helicopter’s circles were narrowing, and the noise had increased. Stanton had followed protocol. Michael understood. He glanced up at the chopper. Even if the guys at the Indio PD gave him a good ribbing, he’d get over it. Finally upright, with his back pressed against the closed door of the Hummer, he eyed Stanton up and down.

“Aren’t you out of your jurisdiction?” he yelled above the noise.

“Yeah…well see…I got this call, and—”

“He held me at gunpoint,” a woman’s voice said. “And then he shot at me when I ran.”

“What? Who?” Michael asked and turned.

A slight figure stepped out from behind the cop and peeled off the baseball cap. A wild mass of red curls in a ponytail tumbled to her shoulders. She shoved one hand against her narrow jean-clad hips. “My camera and equipment were stolen.”

Michael tried not to flinch. He was seldom wrong. He always got his man, except this time it was a woman, and a victim, not a perpetrator. She looked at him with cool hazel eyes, and he dropped his gaze to the sprinkling of freckles over her small nose. She tilted her nose higher, unafraid, or unimpressed, with his status.

“What did the thief look like?” Michael asked.

“He had a Spanish accent, but he spoke English. Well, at least the few words he said.”

“Yeah,” Stanton said, and nodded. “A drifter, most likely.”

“I don’t think so,” the redhead said, with a quick toss of her head. “Too well-dressed, and he only wanted the camera.”

Michael really tuned in to the conversation, alerted by the description.
Well-dressed
?

Could she have run into one of the Suarez brothers? He doubted it. But Pedro was known for his fastidiousness. Right down to his manicured nails. Ricardo, the older brother and the former drug Kingpin—if the underground rumors were correct—was injured. He narrowed his eyes at the woman. If she’d run into Ricardo she wouldn’t be alive to tell the tale, but Pedro. Pedro was a possibility. “What do you mean by well-dressed?”

“He had creases in his Chinos.”

“Oh,” Michael said, and blinked rapidly a few times. Sand was in his eyes and on his lips. He wanted to spit, but didn’t think the lady would approve. Although she had just led him on quite a chase and she wasn’t quaking in her sneakers either, so probably spitting would be okay. He swiped at his mouth instead. It intrigued him how, even under the duress of being held at gunpoint, she’d noticed such telling details.

“What else?” he asked.

“New sneakers…and I think he had light eyes, and light hair, there were tufts sticking out from beneath his beanie,” she said, and waved her arms about. “You know, one of those tight knitted wool caps.” She frowned. “Black. He had a light olive complexion. Oh yeah, and he had a mean mouth…and I’m sure he would have killed me, weighted me, tossed my body into the sea—”

“Hold it,” Michael said, and raised one hand to ward off the barrage of words.
Geez, did she ever stop for a breath
? “You’re fine now. You’re safe. We’ll get your report at the station.”

“One last thing,” the redhead said, leaning a little closer. “He was a professional. I could tell by the way he advanced…the way he held the gun.”

“A professional?” Michael asked, and frowned.

“Yes. Either a hit man, or a gangster, or a cop,” she said, shoving a hand against her hip.

Stanton stood to one side, his lips pressed tight. Michael didn’t quite approve of being lumped in with the hit man, or the gangster, but he wasn’t about to get uppity with this chick. And Pedro, the compound’s business manager, was no professional. His older brother would fit the profile, but he never did the dirty work. And he was injured.

“And, Detective Michael Baxter Delaney,” the redhead said with emphasis, as she leaned even closer to him. “Don’t forget, I was subjected to a harrowing chase on the highway.”

Michael raised a hand and took a step backward. She’d looked like she was about to jab him in the chest with one of her pointy red fingernails.
Damn
. Nothing seemed to bother her.

“I apologize, ma’am.”

“Rachel. Rachel Copeland.”

He nodded, and looked up at the helicopter, which hovered right above them. Stanton went to his car radio to communicate with them. When Michael turned back to Rachel, she’d unzipped the windbreaker and he noticed the gun sticking out from the waistband of her jeans. Much as he’d like to ask her if she had a permit to carry a weapon, he kept his mouth shut. There’d be time for questions later, in the safety of the department. Michael closed his eyes for a second, and gave his head a good shake. Then he opened his eyes to find she still watched him.

“I suggest we go into the Indio PD right away,” he said. “While the assault took place at the Salton Sea, it is governed by Indio, and not Rancho Almagro.” He cast a quick glance in Stanton’s direction. “I’ll have one of our guys write up a report on your missing items.”

“So, what were you doing down there?” she asked.

“Driving through. Heard the shots.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Stanton hurrying back toward them. A dog barked nearby. The copter dipped low, and then took off.

“Is there a dog in the truck?” Michael asked.

Rachel nodded. “Ralph…my protector.”

“My shift’s over,” Stanton said. “I’ll give the PD a call. I’ll follow you in, Rachel.”

“Ah, I thought I’d take her in the Hummer.”

“It’s not like she’s about to skip out on you,” Stanton said, his brow creasing. “I can vouch for Rachel.”

Rachel narrowed her eyes. “Besides, I’m the victim in this scenario. And, I
want
to make a report. Plus I can drive myself, and I already called 911.”

“Well, okay then,” Michael said.

She smiled up at Stanton, and Michael wanted to say something to make her smile at him. Then he recalled his condition. He’d been on surveillance, hiding in the rocks a bit south of the old bait shop, since four this morning. Plus, he’d played music with a bunch of deadbeats until midnight. He shouldn’t be checking out the local talent; most likely married, anyway.

“Thanks for coming to my rescue,” Rachel said, to Stanton.

Michael cleared his throat, and then shook off his leather jacket. Rachel gave him another once over, but at least she didn’t hold her nose. He slid into the front seat of the Hummer and put the passenger side window down.

Stanton held Rachel’s arm as he walked her toward the truck.

“See you at the station,” Michael said, ducking his head and leaning across the seat to speak through the open window. “I’ll call ahead. But you had better come in too, Stanton.”

Stanton nodded. Rachel ignored him. Then he inched the Hummer along the shoulder of the road, waiting for some kind of farewell. Rachel reached inside the truck and lifted up a small white fluffy dog, and whispered something.
Her protector
? Michael widened his eyes, eased back onto the road, and carefully drove away.

About a mile further down the road, he raised an arm and took a sniff at his pit, winced, and then pressed down on the accelerator. He was beyond ripe, in fact, he might be fermenting. He inched a little above the speed limit, but not enough to draw unwanted attention, and then drove up a side street.

Try as he might, he couldn’t shake off the thoughts of Rachel smelling him this way.
First thing to do is take a shower.
He glanced at the clock on the dashboard; one minute from home. He dialed the watch commander and gave him a heads up. He knew Stanton would fill in the details.

“I’ll be there in five. I need a quick shower and change of clothes.”

He made a fist and rubbed his knuckles against his whiskers. His mother’s words of wisdom, “You only get one chance to make a first great impression,” played loud and clear in his thoughts.

Chapter Two

Pedro Suarez moaned as he rolled onto his side. Firing at the woman had been a huge effort and he’d collapsed again.

The wildlife, startled by the gunshots, had taken off for a while, but now the birds circled again as everything had gotten quiet on the desert floor. Their noise was almost unbearable. He raised a shaky hand to his temple. Sticky, warm blood trickled down the side of his head, and dampened his fingertips. The familiar metallic scent filled his nostrils. He leaned forward, body shaking like a leaf in a high wind, and threw up his breakfast.

A few minutes later, Pedro sat back on his haunches and looked out across the sea. Eyes watering with pain, he kept seeing gold and dark circles of light in front of them. He wiped them gently with the sleeve of his jacket. The geese honked loudly, and he knew he had to get moving.

“¡Basta!”
he yelled.
“¡Silencio!”
He’d had about as much as he could stand of their noise. But he realized he’d gone loco, yelling at the stupid birds. He shook his head and a shiver of pain ran up his spine. After a moment or two, he looked down onto the sand, relief flooding through him. His brother would be pleased.

He slowly bent down, grabbed the camera and straightened, stirring the blood into the sand with his foot. He kicked some more sand over the vomit. Clutching the camera to his chest, he picked his way across the beach, weaving like an old drunk. Except for the odd drumming in his head, he felt fine.

The injury had taken the wind out of him. He’d suffered his fair share of injuries in his youth, but until recently his adult work had been inside. In an air-conditioned office, running numbers and balancing books. He’d gotten soft. He focused on the palm trees up ahead. At first they shimmered, but then he could recognize the trunks, the fronds. If it wasn’t for Ricardo’s life and freedom—the fact that they were still in hiding and being hunted like wild animals in Mexico—then he wouldn’t have come here, wouldn’t have brought him to this hellhole in America.
Only for Ricardo…my brother.