Before the rain, p.12
Before the Rain, page 12
Or maybe he’d already made up his mind back then, he and Alissa having talked that evening about living together, maybe joining up for private investigations after he left the service and she gained more experience on the business side. He told her the number of years on the job didn’t matter, but she said she wanted to feel like an equal, not a junior partner.
He’d understood. He grasped almost everything Alissa said because he’d had grown up with three sisters in a four-room house. Women were not a mystery.
Stretched on the lounge, the stars so close, he pulled out his private phone. His oldest sister was set up as a one touch.
“Ray?”
He didn’t know exactly what to say. He wanted to talk about Alissa.
“Tell me something, Etta. When I was away on an assignment and Alissa visited you, what did you two talk about?”
She took a second. “Mostly your genitals.”
He laughed. “Come on. I’m serious.”
“When Alissa came to see me, she talked about my health, asked questions. She was here to see how I was doing, how she could help me battle the cancer.”
“She really cared about you.”
“I know that. I loved your wife. I don’t know if I could have finished the chemo without her. And it saved my life.”
“Did she ever worry a lot about me when I was working? Was it unpleasant for her when I went away?”
“No, she was an investigator, too, remember? She understood the risks, but she also knew you were good at what you do.”
“Really? She didn’t worry?”
“Not that she talked about. I’m no mind reader.”
“I worried about her every time she had to go away. I wanted to go with her that time to Arizona.”
“Of course,” Etta said. “Men want to protect.”
Etta had been more of a parent to him than their alcoholic mother, buying and preparing his food, checking his homework. After Alissa disappeared, Etta was the one who showed him what a deadly trap his sadness and drinking had become, what a circle of despair and loss. Dragged him to his first AA meeting.
“You making any progress on your investigation?” Etta asked.
“A little.”
“Like what?”
“I can’t say, Etta. Give me a break.”
“Then why you’d call?”
“I wanted to talk about Alissa.”
Etta’s sighed. “Okay, poor baby brother. Did you know I asked her once if the two of you ever considered opening up your own private investigation business?”
“No.”
“Well, I did, and your wife said being together day and night probably wouldn’t work well for you two.”
“Really? She say why?”
“She claimed the sex was too good. She couldn’t keep her hands off.”
“Really?”
Etta laughed. “Said no wife. Ever.”
Sunny noticed him first thing when she hit the lobby for coffee the next morning. Hollywood’s long blond curls on top of those cantaloupe-size, bare shoulders were an eye-grabbing combo. Especially before breakfast. He sat off by himself in a stiff lobby chair, blue-jeaned legs in a Grand Canyon man-spread, a muscled, naked chest under the sleeveless, blue-jean, motorcycle club jacket. His attention zipped back and forth between his cell phone and the occasional motel guest arriving in the lobby for free rolls and coffee.
He was waiting for her.
When he caught her staring, he nodded and headed over. He sauntered bowlegged, like a cowboy, stashing his phone in his back pocket as he arrived beside her. Hollywood stood at least six-foot-four. His manner came across as apologetic, though, not intimidating. His face carried lines of worry.
“Can we talk a few minutes?” he said. “I have information you’ll want.”
Information? What she wondered most was how those wrestler’s arms and shoulders would feel wrapped around her. The guy was a hunk, for sure. Dangerous. She laughed at herself.
“Where shall we go to talk?” she asked.
He grinned. “How about breakfast across the street?”
“Juanita’s?”
“Yeah. I bring women there all the time for breakfast. Nobody will think I’m ratting to the Feds.”
How romantic. “I think first you should tell me your name.”
“Dennis Williams.”
She had on comfortable jeans, no bra, but her oversize pajamas, the Dodgers T-shirt, hid everything but her knees. She needed to change, but Mexican breakfast sounded good. She had time. Maybe she’d go, but two things bothered her. “Who are you going to rat out?”
“Nolan Maris told me he stole something from the Air Force, and now he’s missing.”
Verification. And Hollywood might know a lot more. But there was still one more issue she had to clear up before she’d be comfortable eating with him, even across the street.
“Tell me how you found me.”
Hollywood grinned. “There’re only two motel possibilities in Gila Bend for a working federal agent, and I know the woman on the other overnight desk.”
Sunny chewed another fork of machaca, swallowed, then sipped the deliciously thick black coffee. Dennis, AKA Hollywood, had introduced himself as an ex-US Navy Warrant Officer and concerned citizen. His motorcycle club brother Nolan had bragged of stealing and having plans to sell a powerful weapon from the Air Force. Subsequently, Maris and two of his friends—Samuel Polanco and Angel Alcides—had failed to answer telephone calls.
Hollywood also worried Nolan’s Pakistani pal could have been involved—Hamza Yasin—who maybe was the weapon’s planned purchaser. Hollywood said he didn’t want to sound like a racist, but he worried the Pakistani could be a terrorist. See something, say something, he mentioned. He gave a brief description, including the Pakistani’s penchant for brightly colored clothes and selling hashish.
Sunny nodded. “Write down your email or phone number for me. I’ll let you know if and when we have solid news on your friends. Tell me what Nolan’s wife is like. Was Jessie tough and bossy?”
“The opposite.”
“Explain.” She already knew plenty, but an essential part of any investigation was confirmation. They’d taught her that at special agent school in Georgia.
And Hollywood was so nice to look at.
She handed him a business card.
“First time I talked to Jessie, she had a black eye,” he said. He stuffed her info in his pocket, used the back of a restaurant card to write his name and phone number. He pushed his details across the table. “Another time, she had a cast on her wrist.”
Sunny dropped the card in her purse. “So Nolan Maris was physically abusive?”
“One-hundred percent. I know for a fact he broke her arm. And once she tried to fight back, he told me, Jessie ended up with a broken nose and a busted shoulder.”
“Who taught Jessie about guns?”
Hollywood blinked. “Guns?”
“There’s evidence she trained with pistols,” she said. “Was Nolan into guns and shooting? Target shooting maybe?”
“Yeah, but more when I first met him, a couple of years ago. Did Nolan get shot?”
“We don’t know what happened yet. Tell me about Nolan and his guns.”
He frowned. “I remember something he said a year ago when he sold most of his weapons. Claimed he kept one Beretta in a lock-box because he was afraid Jessie might go crazy again and shoot him. It was the again that made me remember his comment.”
“Why would she shoot him after accepting his abuse for years?”
“Nolan said she went nuts when he broke her nose last year. She tried to not sleep with him. That’s the way he put it.”
“Tried not to? You mean he made her have sex, anyway? Raped her?”
“Nolan? Oh, hell yeah. He doesn’t like really women.”
“No kidding. You think Jessie tried to kill him earlier. Or threatened him?”
“He said she went at him with a knife as revenge for breaking her nose. That’s when he dislocated her arm. He had to take her to a different hospital because it was the same day.”
Sunny could only shake her head as a familiar face walked in. Men like Nolan Maris needed to be in jail. Or worse.
Hollywood showed Sunny a warm, sexy smile. “Now me, I love women.”
“I know you do, Romeo, but that’s a conversation for another time. Here’s my new boss, headed to the table.”
Hollywood’s shoulders pivoted. “Whoops.”
Sunny waved for Ray to join them.
Seeing Sunny across a friendly table from the motorcycle gang leader made his brow pinch, even if Ray thought she’d have an investigation-related explanation. He’d trusted her immediately and instinctively, and her performance so far only reinforced that natural confidence. But Ray knew when his forehead wrinkled.
He stood by their table and kept the frown. “What’s going on?”
“We’re finishing breakfast,” Sunny said. “You remember Mr. Dennis Williams, ex-Navy Warrant Officer?”
“The man who suggested his biker brothers could have fun with you?”
Williams, who at least wore cleaner jeans than yesterday, raised both hands to ear-level. “Sorry about that.”
“You ought to be,” Ray said.
Sunny smiled. “Mr. Williams was waiting for me this morning in my motel lobby. He said he had information about his friend Nolan Maris, and since you mentioned eight-thirty, I figured I had time to listen. Plus, you know me and Mexican food.”
He offered his hand to Dennis Williams. They shook. Firm and friendly. Williams was a good actor or a decently raised man. Ray’s gaze fell back on Sunny. “Find out anything?”
“Nolan Maris has a friend named Hamza Yasin whom we need to check out. Works at a convenience store a few blocks away.”
“Anything else?” Ray asked.
“Maris bragged about stealing a government weapon, plus he and two friends have been missing a couple of days.”
“That it?”
It was Sunny’s turn to wrinkle her face. “Something up?”
“Yes. Ready to leave?”
He worried about Williams knowing Nolan Maris and the others who’d disappeared. How much did the guy really know? Williams could easily be part of the gang who’d stolen the autocannon and earlier kidnapped Alissa, the guy only trying to throw them off by acting helpful. His deceit was at least as plausible as wanting to help federal officers.
Of course, being female and attractive, Sunny wasn’t your average Fed.
But she probably didn’t trust him either, only acting to get the info.
He liked and respected Agent Hicks. Smart, educated in subjects Ray was not, and she didn’t hesitate speaking up, so far exactly when her ideas were called for. An officer who respected the truth and doing the right thing. A person Ray could admire and work closely with. A complete asset but for her inexperience.
Not a little thing. But manageable.
He tried not to make a face when Sunny tossed twenty-five dollars on the restaurant table. Williams showed no objection to her paying. The half-naked heartthrob took women out for Mexican breakfasts and made them pay.
What a bum.
Near the exit, he leaned closer as he opened the restaurant door for Sunny. “They found human remains on the Maris property. At least five separate DBs. Looks like everything Jessie wrote in that note is true. And more.”
“Hollywood gave me the names,” Sunny said. “Nolan Maris’s missing pals are Samuel Polanco and Angel Alcides. We can check them with the DNA when we get it.”
Ray shook his head as she walked past him into the brilliant, sizzling sunshine. “Did you just call that guy Hollywood?”
She nodded. “You have to admit he’s handsome.”
“I knew who you meant. But he’s not my type. Too pretty.”
Soon as they walked through the convenience store’s double glass doors, Sunny in front because Ray held the door, one of the two counter men ducked behind a wall of stacked cigarette cartons. Maybe he was retrieving goods from the storeroom, but the motion appeared surreptitious. Her pulse spiked. Ray agreed because she saw his eyebrows merge.
He guided her back outside. “Cover the rear,” he said. “Don’t let anybody leave.”
Heart thumping, she reached the side of the building in time to see a man running from the back, the guy in a total sprint. He matched Hollywood’s description of Hamza Yasin right down to clothes “like a box of crayons,” blue shorts and a yellow camp shirt printed with green palm trees.
He ran to an old red Dodge. Sunny was no car aficionado, but the automobile’s grill emblem—a five-point star surrounded by a pentagon—reminded her of a car her aunt had driven much of the time Sunny lived with her. A Dodge Omni.
She picked up her pace. Hamza was quick on his feet, and if what Hollywood said was true—that Hamza might be a potential buyer of stolen autocannons—she had to catch up and detain him. She wanted to do her job. She wanted to keep impressing Ray.
The boxy red sedan rested against the property’s fenced rear border. Beyond the chainlink, dry, brown weeds and one tall, yellow sunflower bordered a railroad spur. The tracks ran parallel to the street and the rear fence. There was no back way out for Hamza. She had him cornered.
Her fingers trembled as she unsnapped her holster. She carefully avoided touching the pistol itself. Not until she absolutely had to.
16
Sunny slowed to a fast walk as she approached Hamza’s car. Around her in the convenience store parking lot, brakes squealed and two pickups honked over the center exit lane. The desert’s powerful sunlight baked the blacktop and humans alike, her exposed arms and neck glowing in the morning heat.
Hamza started his sputtering engine with her five or six feet away. She charged her last few strides and stretched for the door handle.
The car jumped backward, out of reach.
Her momentum slammed her thigh and hip into the moving front fender, spinning her, stealing her balance and tumbling her across the ground like dice. Her vision shrunk to a thin line. The parking lot sounds stopped, replaced by a loud drumbeat, an unworldly, unsteady thumping she eventually identified as her own heartbeat.
Full of flight or fight juice, she didn’t feel the pain of her crash landing. She knew her shoulder and hip would be bruised and stiff tomorrow, but who cared. She had a job to do. Detain Hamza. Impress the boss. She was down, not out.
She scrambled to her feet. Hamza was getting away, the car backing into a K-turn, its nose pointing at the street. In the corner of her eye, she saw Ray exit the back of the store. He had his hand on his weapon. Jogging toward her, seeing that their target was escaping.
Her skin glistened with perspiration. She reached for her weapon. “Stop the car or I’ll shoot.”
Hamza glanced at her, no fear in his eyes, only determination, and he stomped on the car’s accelerator one beat later. His rear wheels squealed and spun a wisp of blue smoke.
She smelled the burnt rubber as she yanked the Sig Sauer from her leather holster. The pistol’s size and shape intimidated her sense of touch, and halfway out, her damp fingers lost their grip. The weapon slipped from her hand.
For the slimmest of a split-second, her semiautomatic floated loose, the weapon in mid-air. She made a desperate, last-second clutch before it fell to the ground, a coordinated and masterful snag, kind of, her fingers re-capturing the barrel, not the grip.
With care, she re-grasped the Sig Sauer with both hands, two thumbs on the same side, sucked a deep breath, and assumed a low-ready stance. “I said stop or I’ll shoot.”
She was bluffing, exhibiting her weapon to achieve compliance.
Hamza was a better poker player. He kept going. His Dodge bounced out of the lot and landed hard on the highway, sparks flying as the frame hit asphalt. He barely missed a passing green panel truck with ladders on top.
Ray arrived at her side. “You okay?”
She examined herself. Her pantsuit was soiled, torn at the hip and shoulder. Underneath all the material, the scrapes on her skin appeared minor. No serious bleeding.
“I’ll call in the license number,” Ray said. “We’ll have him by the end of the day.”
On the way to meet with Department of Homeland Security’s General Johannsen in Phoenix, Ray drove them north on Arizona Highway 85, along the Gila River and never-ending acres of manicured commercial farming property. During a silence, Sunny worried her new assignment with the DHS hadn’t launched well. Ray hadn’t said anything, but he must have seen her mishandle her weapon.
“Don’t worry about what to say at the meeting,” he said. “All Johannsen has time for is to shake your hand. Everybody there is crazy looking for Jessie Maris, but Eric is managing other crap as well, of course.”
Besides her clumsiness, there was something else on her mind. “Do you think Jessie’s really going to fire that cannon at somebody?”
“It wouldn’t be easy,” he said, “ but I bet she’s making plans to sell it.”
She felt Tommy Moon amble up behind her, Jessie working intently on her laptop. She’d logged into a dark website, but the onionizing tool—which covered up her identity and IP address beneath layer after layer of IDs and addresses—was complicated. Afterward, she could work almost anywhere online without being traced.
“What’re you doing?” Tommy said. “Thought you said there were more vents to open.”
She kept working, switching sites. Jessie could use a computer-aided design program—CAD for short—like a junior engineer. Before marrying Nolan, she’d spent seven months as receptionist for a Phoenix mechanical designer, and the lazy bastard taught her to input and run most of the CAD software while he drank and ate long lunches. A good job she never should have quit for Nolan.
