Sweet Hearts (26 page)

She hung the garments on the
closet doorknob and felt the familiar fatigue of the end of a long day. She
washed her face and brushed her teeth in a stupor and crawled under the heavy
comforter, falling asleep in moments.

A black grill with headlights
came out of the dark, reeling down upon her, sending Sam diving for the side of
the road. She looked around, confusion reigning as one side of the road seemed
to be out in the country, the other side part of a six-lane freeway. Vehicles
came at her and she tried to run but her legs wouldn’t work. The muscles were
frozen. She pressed herself against a concrete barrier and squeezed her eyes
shut, waiting to die.

She awoke spread-eagled on her
bed, her hands gripping at the sheet beneath her. Her eyes were tightly closed,
her breathing coming hard and fast.

When her eyes popped open she
realized it had been a nightmare.

Country road or high-paced
expressway. The message became clear. Tonight, it was the same SUV that had
nearly run her off the freeway in Albuquerque a week ago. She closed her eyes
and worked to bring back the picture. Scraps of detail emerged. A white license
plate that started with the letters PDX. A male driver, muscled arms. Strings
of blue designs on the arms. Tattoos. But that didn’t make sense. The SUVs both
had darkened windows and she’d not seen the drivers. Tattoos belonged to the
scary man in the alley and the guy in the red car who’d almost hit her several
days ago. But the more she tried to concentrate on details, the more she lost
clarity and the picture faded.

Sam sat up in bed and hugged the
warm covers to her. She’d gone to Albuquerque to ask questions of the supposed
other woman in Tito’s life, Lisa Tombo. No one unconnected with Tito should
have known Sam was in town. At the time of the freeway incident she’d chalked
it up to a crazy driver. Again, tonight, she’d chalked up the near-miss to
someone drunk or nuts. How likely was that? Very.

How likely that both vehicles had
similar plate numbers? Miniscule.

Names went through her head: Lisa
Tombo, Javier Espinosa, Harry Cole, Bill Champion. Not to mention the two
government men, both of whom seemed overly secretive.

Had Lisa Tombo or one of Tito’s
other co-workers called someone, told them Sam was asking questions? Why would
they do that? To warn Sam away from the case?

She rubbed at her temples and got
out of bed, putting on her robe and heading for the kitchen. The clock said it
was barely past midnight but she knew sleep was a long way off now. She heated
milk and made hot chocolate.

*

By four a.m. Sam felt as if she’d
only slept a couple of hours and she decided to get a head start at the bakery.
When her employees began to arrive at six, she’d already baked three cinnamon
coffee cakes, scones in four flavors, an assortment of cookies and there were
three dozen muffins in the oven.

“I love coming to work here?”
Sandy said, sniffing the air. “The smell is so wonderful?”

Cathy rolled her eyes. Sam got
the feeling that of the two temporary hires, Cathy would be the one happiest to
leave the job and her somewhat-irritating co-worker behind. Sandy would
probably continue her strangely obsequious behaviors, but it would be somewhere
else after today. Sam let them know that she would write their final paychecks
before she left for the Fresques funeral at one o’clock.

While her employees stayed busy,
keeping the oven filled and the customers happy, Sam checked her orders for the
coming week and organized her workload. This afternoon and evening would be
tough, being with a dying woman who was laying her only son to rest.

She stacked her small sheaf of
order forms neatly and set them in the basket at the corner of the desk. It
only took a few minutes to write the paychecks for Sandy and Cathy before she
turned to the rack of chocolate cupcakes that awaited her attention. Piping
thick buttercream frosting onto them and experimenting with various sprinkles
and other decorator touches occupied her hands but not her mind.

The close call last night on the
highway seemed to cap it for her—the pain of watching Marla’s condition worsen,
the knowledge that Sam had not been able to find the missing son in time, the
sight of that young girl who would soon have no remaining family, and her own
ambivalent feelings about her cancelled wedding plans. Her chest constricted and
Sam took a deep breath, shelving the thoughts once again. Sunday was her only
day off and she felt herself holding the entire week’s emotional tide at bay,
waiting for the one day when she could let herself release it all.

Meanwhile, there was nothing so pressing at the bakery that she
couldn’t spare a little time away. It was only ten o’clock. She shed her
baker’s jacket, put on her winter coat and went out the back door to her van.
Beau had involved her in this case. She would damn well stick with it now.

She arrived at the Sheriff’s
Department to find Jonathan Ernhart and Rick Wells there when she walked into
Beau’s office. They appeared to be in that chitchat phase of the meeting,
before getting down to business.

“Samantha, darlin’, come on in.”
Beau waved her through the open door.

Ernhart greeted her, but when
Beau pulled up a chair for her the two agents didn’t say anything. Two deputies
were working at desks in the squad room, but only Denny Waters had momentarily
looked up before turning back to his paperwork.

“Sam has been in on this case,
even before we officially reopened it,” Beau explained. “She’s talked to
several of Tito Fresques’s old co-workers and might be able to contribute
something today.”

Wells nodded, although Sam remembered
both men’s earlier hesitancy at sharing information. They took seats around
Beau’s desk. Beau leaned back in his chair as Wells began speaking.

“You both know that Tito’s job at
Bellworth in Albuquerque was merely a cover. He’d been with Drug Enforcement
since he got out of the Navy, and DEA regularly sent him into Mexico where he
had infiltrated one of the cartels.”

Beau nodded.

“That particular gang had strong
ties in northern New Mexico, even here in Taos. Of particular interest to us
was a man named Javier Espinosa. You’re familiar with him?”

“The name has come up. Locally,
he’s one of those with a mile long record of minor offenses—possession
mainly—gang ties. Every town has ’em. What’s his connection to Fresques?”

“Tito had gathered hard evidence
of Espinosa’s connections with Mexico, details about supply routes, names of
underlings who moved the bulk of the stuff around. We’re talking cocaine by the
truckloads and marijuana in the tons. Taos is ideally suited because we’re on
the back roads leading to Colorado and from there they can cover all the Rocky
Mountain states and channel the stuff to either the Midwest or the west coast
without traveling the major interstate highways.

“Things were heating up. Tito
assured me that he had enough evidence to put away Espinosa, plus at least two
dozen others here in the States, and to grab some of the Mexican leaders as
well. The raids were being set up, warrants would be issued as soon as Tito
sent us his report. He vanished before it was ever received.”

“But DEA knew he had evidence.
You couldn’t go ahead and make the arrests?” Sam asked.

Jonathan spoke up. “The law
doesn’t work that way. A judge isn’t going to issue warrants without cause and
even though we knew what we had, we needed the proof— spelled out. We could
have pulled in most of these guys on suspicion and we might have gotten enough
information out of them to put a few of them away. But the ones at the top,
especially the Mexicans, they hide behind so many layers—we’d never have gotten
them without the whole chain of evidence.”

“So . . .” Beau said, “rather
than take the chance of spooking them, you wanted to wait.”

“Exactly.” Jonathan leaned
forward in his chair and lowered his voice. “We also had reason to believe that
we had a mole inside one of the agencies. Every time we got close to one of
these higher-up dealers something would jinx the deal. He’d leave the state or
he’d have an airtight alibi. After it happened several times, it was more than
coincidence.”

Beau let out a low whistle.

“Tito was the only person on my
team that I felt a hundred percent sure about,” Wells said. “We’d worked
together for a lot of years. He was just one of those genuine guys, you know.
The type that you know is being straight with you.”

“And you had no idea who this
mole was,” Sam said.

“Still don’t know for sure. After
Tito disappeared I watched everyone like a hawk. I looked for anybody who acted
like they knew what really happened to him, anyone who seemed relieved that he
was gone . . . that sort of thing. No hints at all. Whoever did it was good.”

“
If
they did,” Beau
reminded. “Tito may have left voluntarily and no one else was responsible at
all.”

“I believe he did leave
voluntarily. But there was a reason. And there had to be a damn strong reason
for him to stay out of touch all those years. I think he wasn’t sure who the
mole was, so he felt like he couldn’t trust anyone. Maybe not even me.
Otherwise he would have found some way to contact me and get me the evidence
he’d gathered.”

“Makes sense,” Beau said. He’d
picked up a pen and made a few notes. Now he tapped the pen restlessly against
the pages in the folder.

Sam excused herself to go to the
bathroom, mulling the information as she walked down the hall. Deputy Waters
was coming out of the men’s room wafting an air of hand soap, rolling his
sleeves down as he walked and he nearly ran into her.

“Oh, sorry Ms Sweet. Didn’t see
you there,” he mumbled.

The man was like a fly, an
irritating distraction that she wanted to swat out of the way. But she didn’t
say so. Maybe she’d not given herself a chance to learn whether he actually had
a personality.

“Nice art,” she said, with a nod
toward the colorful marks on his arms.

“Uh, thanks.” He seemed more
weasel-like than ever as he slunk back toward his desk.

Okay, be that way
, she
thought as she pushed her way into the women’s bathroom. By the time she got
back to Beau’s office it looked like the three men were wrapping up their
meeting. Ernhart stood near the door with his overcoat on and Wells had
wandered into the squad room. Beau closed the Fresques file.

“Do we have time for lunch
somewhere?” Beau asked as they watched the two federal agents walk away.

Sam checked the clock on the
wall. “If it’s a very quick one. I obviously have to get home and change into
something more appropriate for the funeral.” She looked up into his ocean-blue
eyes. “I’m really not looking forward to this.”

“I know.”

“It’s been devastating for Marla,
this news, on top of her own health problems.”

They ended up taking both of
their vehicles, eating a quick burger at McDonald’s and then heading their
separate ways, with a plan to meet at the funeral home at a quarter to one.

*

The service was small and
typical. Doleful music that brought tears before a word was spoken, a closed
casket with an American flag draped over it, a large portrait photograph of a
smiling Tito with a dated haircut. The congregation consisted of Marla’s
neighbors whom Sam had already met and a scattering of younger people.

Marla looked like a ghost. Diane
Milton’s husband wheeled her chair up the aisle and parked it beside the
front-most pew. During the ride, Marla’s eyes never strayed from the silver box
at the front of the room. Jolie, in a burgundy dress and matching coat, sat
next to her grandmother. The other neighbors took seats nearby, a little
cluster of comfort. At least Sam hoped so, for Marla’s sake.

Sam and Beau, feeling out of
their ordinary milieu in dressy clothing, had taken seats near the rear of the
group and she found herself gripping his hand. Jonathan Ernhart and Rick Wells
arrived at the same time, just as the organist struck her final chords.

The priest, mercifully, kept his
message short and Sam was thankful that Marla had opted for the memorial
format, rather than a full-blown Catholic mass. The older woman was clearly
losing energy as the minutes ticked slowly by. At the end of the formal part,
the priest announced that a graveside service would take place, but in light of
the cold weather it would be very short. Then Jorge and Camille stood and
announced that everyone was invited to Marla’s where they had prepared a meal
to share.

Sam chided herself for not
thinking ahead and baking a special cake. As the mourners filed to the front,
stopping to hug Marla and Jolie, she thought quickly. She could pop by the
bakery and assemble a nice tray of cookies. She whispered as much to Beau,
suggesting that she could meet him later, but he offered to drive her.

They arrived at the cemetery in
time to hear the closing prayer. The small crowd was already beginning to
disperse, Diane and her husband helping Marla and Jolie into their roomy Honda
SUV. Sam noted that neither of the government men were there—they must have
needed to return to Albuquerque. A few figures that she didn’t remember from
the service stood off to one side—three men in casual black clothing, with
shaved heads and visible tattoos. The encounter in the alley sprang to mind.
The guy in the middle could be the one. She wasn’t sure.

She reached out to get Beau’s
attention, but he had moved a few feet away and was speaking to one of the
young couples they’d seen at the funeral home. When Sam turned her attention
back to the three rough-looking men, they had already moved to the cemetery
gate, toward the parking area behind a stand of evergreens.