Fade the Heat (12 page)

Luz Maria, too, picked at her dinner, occasionally sneaking a glance his way, but looking down whenever their gazes collided. Other than “Pass the salsa,” she said nothing until later, when the two of them teamed up to do the dishes while their mother took a call from her sister in Galveston.

Jack kept his voice low. “When did you find out?”

Luz Maria plunged her hands into the hot dishwater. “Two days ago.”

Was that why she’d seemed so distracted and upset yesterday? “Did you tell him last night?”

On the kitchen window in front of her, one of the Virgin of Guadalupe candles flickered, shifting the shadows as it moved.

She shook her head. “I wanted to. I meant to, but he was so distracted. And then I got to thinking, what kind of position is he in to be a father?”

“Don’t you think you should have thought about that sooner? Didn’t you have sense enough to use protection?”

Though she continued washing, Luz Maria nailed him with a look.

“All right, all right,” he said, drying a platter. “Forget I asked. Doesn’t make much difference anyway now. Do you know how far along you are?”

That shrug again, the one that broke his heart. “Six weeks, maybe. No more.”

He took a deep breath. “Have you decided what to do?”

Be the doctor, not the brother
, he tried to tell himself, but when he thought of an abortion, Father Renaldo’s words set up an ancient echo in his brain:
a mortal sin, amoral sin, immortal sin.

Yet it was not his right to judge, nor could he tell Luz Maria what to do with the baby if she chose to have it. He could only be there to support her choice. And he would, he realized, for no matter what she’d done to him, she was still his baby sister.

“I won’t end the pregnancy, I know that,” Luz Maria answered. “I just can’t imagine doing it, living with that decision either. But, God, Jack. I don’t know…”

Her tears splashed into the dishwater, each one setting off a chain of ripples that disappeared into soap bubbles.

“No matter what, you’re still going to have to speak to the authorities before they come looking for you. They will, too. From what little I could gather, there’s a lot of pressure on this task force. They need to hang someone for BorderFree’s crimes. Don’t let it be you, Luz Maria. And don’t let that baby suffer for it, either.”

For several minutes, she said nothing. The house went so still, they could hear their mother in her bedroom speaking rapid-fire Spanish on the telephone, telling all she knew about Jack’s situation. What would she say when she learned of her daughter’s?

“We’ll call my lawyer. ‘Genius’ or not, he really does seem to know his business,” Jack said. “And then we’ll go see the investigators from the task force.”

When his sister looked up at him, there was panic
in her eyes. “I have to see him first. I have to talk to Sergio.”

Jack shook his head. “No way. I know it’s hard, but you need to cut your ties now.”

Cut your losses
, he was thinking, but he had the good sense not to say it.

She shook her head, her expression half disgust, half pity. “You don’t know a thing about love, do you? I’ll go with you, I swear it—but not until I talk to Sergio about the baby. I don’t care what you think of him. He’s the father, and he deserves to know.”

“He deserves a fist down his damned throat,” Jack told her. “for what he did to you, for what he’s done to me. For what he’s cost a lot of other people. Besides the bombing in San Antonio, I can tell you the authorities are thinking BorderFree’s involved with last night’s—”

“I told you it wasn’t Sergio who set that fire. It wasn’t BorderFree at all—” She flung out her hand, splattering him with drops as warm as tears. “Never mind about that. Just lend me your rental, will you?”

He was instantly suspicious. “My rental? Why would you want Paulo’s car instead of Mama’s?”

“The supertanker needs gas, for one thing, and I don’t want to stop.”

He pulled the keys from the pocket of his jeans, but he didn’t give them to her. “You sure that’s the only reason? You aren’t planning to take off, are you? Because that would mean big trouble, and not only with the authorities. Paulo…well, I don’t have to tell you Paulo’s reputation. For dealing with people who abuse his trust.”

He saw the spark of fear, gave it time to catch, and welcomed it, if it would make her think twice about driving off into the sunset with Sergio Cardenas. She
had to understand that his way was the only way. She had to think smart, so they both could survive this. “It’s nine now. I’ll need you back by midnight—or I’m calling the head of the task force and giving them everything I know about your boyfriend.”

The truth was, Jack knew precious little. A name and Sergio’s involvement with both BorderFree-4-All and Luz Maria. He had no idea where Sergio lived, what he did for a living. In retrospect, Jack saw that his sister had been vague from the start about the details.

She looked him in the eyes and held his gaze. “I’ll come home soon. I promise.”

Handing her the keys, he said, “Be sure to keep your phone turned on, too.”

She nodded, then stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you for trusting me in this, Jack. I won’t forget it. Maybe—maybe while I’m gone, you should call your lawyer. I’ll want to talk to him when I get back.”

After grabbing only a small purse—no packed travel bag, thank goodness—Luz Maria slipped out the back door. Jack stood at the back window, watching her and fighting the compulsion to run out and stop her.

Later, he would wish to God he had.

The Firebug might have his areas of expertise, techniques he’d perfected over a decades-long career, but the driver of the beat-up green Ford was no slouch either. Experience was fine as far as it went, but it took another kind of mind entirely to see the potential in new shit and adapt it to purposes the brainiacs who made it never dreamed of.

Take GPS, for instance. From what he’d seen in a story on the news, he’d learned that fishermen had been using Global Positioning Systems to locate exact spots on the open ocean. As it got cheaper, the new technology spread to regular Joes who considered stopping to ask directions about as manly as sitting down to take a piss. What the story neglected to mention was that you could also use it to find just about anyone, as long as you could get that person to carry a transmitter.

Or as long as you could stick one under the bumper of the target’s car. In this case, a year-old black convertible from the Cheap Wheelz lot off Telephone.

Now that the media was barking up the right tree, it was time, he thought, to stop playing with his quarry. Time to finish this shit, tell the Firebug his story, and get ready to enjoy the kind of life he deserved.

A life where he could stop imagining the pungent smell of gas and kerosene…and the satisfying crackle of the flames as they devoured a man’s corpse.

Standing six-two in stiletto heels, Miss Peaches leaned her heavily made-up face so close that Reagan had to fight the urge to draw back. Whatever her neighbor’s surgical and hormonal status (
not yet and extra-estrogen-with-cherries-on-top
, respectively), Reagan was never quite sure what to make of her.

But then, even if Peaches had remained James Paul Tarleton of Amarillo, Reagan suspected that knowing her—or him, as the case might be—would remain a unique experience.

“I still can’t believe that precious boy did that,” said Peaches.

Reagan fingered the bruised swelling on her cheekbone, which she knew had long since peeped through the foundation she’d used to disguise it earlier. No one at the Rozinski home had remarked on it—in fact, no one had said much of anything to her—but it was possible they hadn’t noticed. Or if they had, they must have figured that, sick or not, she’d gone back to the gym for a little sparring practice.

Peaches’s tone turned naughty. “I may just have to take that young man over my knee and give him nine kinds of what for.”

Whatever Reagan’s current feelings about Beau, this was not a mental image she liked to contemplate. So
she turned back to the task of opening the bottle of merlot Peaches had brought over to share.

Frank Lee’s ears pricked toward the sound of the cork popping, and an astringent, grapy scent perfumed the air. Reagan poured a glass for the blonde, but left her own empty.

Her neighbor frowned, sinking onto a barstool and crossing a pair of shapely legs barely hidden beneath the sparkly skirt of an emerald-green dress. While Reagan meant to crawl into bed as soon as she grabbed a late-night snack and called Jack about the phone he’d left here, Miss Peaches was only getting started for the evening. “You aren’t going to join me in a glass? The goddess knows you need to wind down, after the day you’ve had.”

Reagan shook her head and pulled a bowl down from the cupboard. “Don’t think so. Besides, red doesn’t go with P’Nut Crunchies.”

When she took a box of the sugary kids’ cereal out of the pantry, Peaches splayed the scarlet nails of one hand across her chest dramatically. “No, no, no, Miss Reagan. This will not do—not when I would bet my best push-up bra that you didn’t eat a bite all day at Miz Rozinski’s.”

Reagan didn’t argue when Peaches rose from the barstool and snatched away the bowl, then marched to the freezer and dug out a container of frozen vegetable-beef soup from the batch Reagan had put up a few weeks earlier. Peaches popped it into the microwave, then started it defrosting.

Reagan let her. At forty-seven, Miss Peaches might be pushing the envelope of club-hopping vampdom, but she’d always done a creditable, if somewhat mind
boggling, mom act. And like a lot of mothers, Peaches had a knack for reading minds. Between the time Reagan had spent at the FBI field office and the hours she’d spent helping Donna Rozinski take phone calls, coordinate arrangements for Monday’s memorial service and Tuesday’s private funeral, and act as a buffer when the flow of visitors grew overwhelming, Reagan had had no time to eat anything more substantial than the apple she’d snagged from a fruit basket. Besides, eating a real meal would have meant stopping and sitting, maybe even thinking about the captain, or what Beau had said when she’d reached him on the telephone this morning.

“
All these months, we’ve been hanging out, talking all the time and going places, having a great time—and—and I was just waiting for the perfect moment to take things to the next level. I mean—I know you’re a few years older than me, but we’re so damned right together. Can’t you see it?
”

She closed her eyes, trying to tune out his words and listen to Peaches chattering about some transsexual she knew who’d gone ahead and had the surgery before an attractive woman convinced him—or her—to become a lesbian.

“Confusing,” Reagan murmured, but what really baffled her was how she could have missed both Beau’s violent temper and his shifting feelings toward her. At twenty-eight, she really wasn’t so much older than he, but to her mind, they were worlds apart. And had he really thought of playing paintball as some kind of a date?

“
And then to find you were screwing that—that son of a bitch, Montoya—only a few hours after Joe died…
”

In spite of her denials, Beau had gone on from there, talking about how he’d like to smash Montoya’s
face in, how he’d kill the guy and anyone else involved with the fire that had cost the captain his life.

“It’s all talk,” she told herself, repeating what she’d thought when he said it.

The microwave dinged, and Peaches asked, “I know very well you haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said. So what is it that’s ‘all talk’?”

“Beau, carrying on about what he’s going to do to everybody. The big jerk’s just running his mouth.”

Peaches arched a brow that had been tweezed to within an inch of its life. “You mean, the way he was when he hit you? Did he even apologize for that?”

“Not exactly. Come to think of it, all he did was list his reasons,” Reagan said as Peaches set the bowl of soup and a spoon in front of her. The beef, tomato, and oregano aroma smelled far better than stale cereal. She lifted the first bite to her mouth.

“Those are called
excuses
,” Peaches told her. “My ex-wife was full of them.”

Swallowing hard, Reagan did a double take. This was a revelation, one that, from the sly look in Peaches’s brown eyes, had been dropped purposely as a distraction.

Even though Reagan realized that, she couldn’t resist the bait. “Your ex-wife?” she echoed.

Peaches favored her with a calculating smile. “Eat your soup, sister. Then we’ll talk.”

Reagan hurried to comply, as much because the soup’s flavor had awakened her appetite as out of curiosity. As she ate, she found she had to focus on the mechanics of raising her spoon, chewing, and swallowing. Otherwise, she could not keep thoughts of Joe Rozinski, Donna, Beau, and Jack Montoya from choking her.

Once the bowl was empty, Peaches poured her a glass of merlot. But before Reagan could take a sip or ask about the mysterious marriage, the cell phone lying on the kitchen counter rang.

Jack’s cell phone, which he’d called earlier to ask about.

“That’s not mine—” she started, but it was too late. Peaches was already launching into her routine.

“Reagan ‘Hellcat’ Hurley’s line. Manager Peaches Tarleton speaking.”

Reagan grimaced, and the room’s temperature zoomed up to sweltering in an instant. How many times did she have to tell her neighbor that she despised that sexist nickname and she didn’t need a manager?

But behind Peaches’s mask of makeup, her skin was going gray. White rimmed her wide eyes, and the hand holding the phone appeared to spasm.

Reagan rushed around the counter, her training convincing her that her neighbor was suffering a heart attack, maybe a stroke.

“Peaches,” she said sharply. When there was no response, she tried, “James Tarleton.”

“Who—who is this?” Peaches stammered. “What—what can I do?”

Something in her voice made Reagan grab the cell phone and press it to her ear. “This is Reagan Hurley,” she said, “are you calling for Jack—”

But her words were interrupted by the caller’s sobs, a loud crash, and a shrill, truncated scream.

Halloween wouldn’t take place for another week, but the big strawberry blonde who answered Reagan’s door looked enough like Ginger from
Gilligan’s Island
that Jack wondered if she was on her way to or from a costume party.

She didn’t appear to be in a party mood, however. From the way her forehead crinkled and the dampness gathered in her wide-set eyes, she looked as if she was about to burst into tears.

She stood there looking at him with a deer-in-the-headlights expression until Reagan, who was standing in the living room some ten feet behind her, said, “Come in, Jack. I have to talk to you.”

She set the cordless telephone on the lamp table by the sofa.

“Do you have my phone?” he asked her.

But as he edged past the tall woman, he got a clear view of Reagan’s face. “Jesus, Reag, what happened?”

A purple contusion had bloomed along her cheekbone, the mark standing in stark contrast to the sweaty pallor of her face. She seemed unsteady on her feet, too, as she moved toward him.

The white greyhound pressed close by her side, his ears pinned back and his tail tucked far between his legs.

When she didn’t answer, Jack took Reagan’s hand. “Did someone hurt you? Was it that guy this morning? Beau?”

He thought that was what she’d called the guy. The firefighter had been furious, but Jack had been certain that by leaving, he could defuse the situation. Had he instead abandoned Reagan to the bastard’s fury?

Reagan shook her head. “That’s not important, not now. A few minutes ago, someone called your phone here.”

With a shaking hand, she gestured toward the open doorway to the kitchen, where he could see it lying on the countertop.

“I think—I’m almost certain—it was Luz Maria.”

“What do you mean you’re almost sure?” he asked. “She didn’t say?”

“She was screaming, Jack, screaming that she was scared. And then there was this horrible noise, a crash and—”

An electric jolt of panic shot through his system. “Did she hang up? Is the connection still good?”

Reagan shook her head. “It cut out. I’m so sorry—”

“I picked up the phone,” the Ginger clone said. Her voice was deep, throaty, thickened with emotion. “She was crying and shouting, ‘He’s right behind me. I can’t shake him.’ ”

“Oh, God,” Jack said, running shaking fingers through his hair. “I need to call her. Let me use your phone right now.”

“We tried,” said Reagan. “It rang and rang, but there was no answer. The number on the screen matched the one stored in memory under ‘Luz Maria’s cell.’ I—I called 911 to report what we heard. I even spoke to a police supervisor, but because there’s not a live call, there’s no way to pinpoint her location. I’mnotevensureifshewasathomeorinacar.”

“Probably, she was driving. I let her take my rental just a few hours ago.” He fumbled with the keys to his mother’s Buick as he dragged them out of his pocket. “I have to find her.”

Reagan grabbed his hands and held on to them tightly. “Listen to me, Jack. The dispatch supervisor and the firefighters in telemetry will be listening for accident reports. If something happens—if they find her, we’re going to get a call here.”

“But what if they don’t find her? She could be anywhere.”

“You don’t have any idea where she was going? If we can narrow down the location—”

“I don’t know.” Why hadn’t he made her tell him? Why had he let her go at all? How could he have been so stupid as to imagine she’d be safe going to Sergio? “I have to find my sister. I—I’ll go and check the hospitals.”

“You’re not thinking straight, Jack. You should stay here. We can contact the hospitals on your phone.”

“Not my phone. Luz Maria could call back any minute.”

“Then we’ll use my cell,” she said. “When I dropped it last night, a piece snapped off, but it’s still working. That way, we’ll leave the landline open in case the dispatcher calls back.”

“I can’t just wait around,” he said. “I’m the one who let her go. I never should have—”

“Your sister’s a grown woman,” Reagan interrupted. “I doubt she needs or wants your permission to go anywhere.”

“She damn well needed my car.” Even as he said it, he could almost hear Reagan thinking what an idiot he’d been, after the apparent attempt on his life only yesterday. And she didn’t even know the worst, about the kind of man her sister had been on her way to see.

But the father of her baby wouldn’t hurt her…would he?

“I’ll drive over to Memorial Hermann, then to Ben Taub,” he said, naming the two big trauma centers. “She could be en route now, in an ambulance, but maybe by the time I get there—”

Before he could react, she snapped the keys out of his hands. “Yesterday you knew enough to keep me from driving. You don’t need to be behind the wheel.”

“Damn it, Reagan.” He reached for the keys, but
she’d stepped back, looking far calmer than she had moments before. She was pulling herself together for his sake, he realized. Either that or drawing on her experience in emergencies.

“If you have to go, I’ll take you.” Turning to the taller woman, she said, “Peaches, I know you had other plans, but could I get you to stay here? Then if anyone calls, you can either take a message or give them the number to my cell phone.”

The woman stepped out of a pair of extra-large stilettos. “After that call, I couldn’t go out anyway. Not with that poor girl out there somewhere. Frank and I’ll stay here and hold down the fort.”

Reagan gave her a hug. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”