Robert’s cell phone rang as he left the drugstore with the small brown bottle in a plastic bag swinging from his fist. He recognized Harlan’s phone number.
“Woodman, you have news?”
“Not sure, but I don’t want to deal with your sourpuss face if it turns out to be viable.”
“So what is it?”
“There was a shooting today in Santa Fe on Cerrillos Road. Happened around three at a strip mall. The only victim was a blue sedan, a rental registered to a Jane Johnson, whom authorities haven’t located yet.”
“And the DEA is involved because . . . ?”
“The description of the shooter matched Salazar Sanso.”
Robert exhaled and mentally ran through all the reasons why Sanso would be in this area. “There are plenty of Latino men who’d fit a similar description walking around this town.” Robert climbed into the cab of his truck and slammed the door.
“He was driving a silver Escalade, which they found ditched out of town, south of Route 66. It’s registered to a Callista Ramirez.”
Robert paused with his key in the ignition. Ramirez was long thought to be an associate of Sanso’s, though she kept a low profile. The one time she had been apprehended, she was released in a few hours for lack of evidence to charge her.
“You think he’s on my trail?”
“Why else would he head for Santa Fe?”
“I’m not worth his time. I’m an annoyance from his point of view.” Robert wanted this to be true, though it apparently wasn’t. For Katie’s sake. If he’d led Sanso to her doorstep . . .
“Maybe. Maybe not. We’re sending some agents up there to poke around. Should arrive first thing in the morning. If you’re looking for something to do . . .”
“What’s the address of the shooting?” It was only seven thirty. On the off-chance that he might get firsthand info from an eyewitness who was still there, he decided to drive over and satisfy his own show-me tendencies.
It took Robert about twenty minutes to cross town and find the strip mall Harlan had described. The car in question had been towed, but a dusting of fresh glass between two orange parking lines indicated where it had been parked. Robert stood in the slot and checked the shops most directly behind it. A liquor store. A bookstore. A hair salon. A vacuum and sewing machine repair shop. The repair shop was closed, but lights still shone out of the other three.
The cashier at the liquor store hadn’t been on duty when the incident happened, but she gave him the number of the store manager, who had apparently seen the whole thing and would be glad to tell his story again. She’d heard it enough times to give a summary version to Robert.
He stepped out onto the concrete walk, planning to go into the bookstore next, when he saw a woman exiting the salon, keys jangling from a spiral band on her wrist as she prepared to lock up.
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
She looked at him, her eyes judging in a flash whether he was danger or mere stranger. He pulled out his DEA identification and her cautious gaze turned fatigued.
“You guys have been around here all day. Haven’t you asked enough yet?”
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you”—he looked at her name tag—“Carol. But I’m from a different agency. If I could ask you a couple questions.”
Carol leaned her heavy frame against the storefront window and pulled out a cigarette, then her lighter. “What’s another twenty after two thousand?” she said.
“I’ll be as quick as possible. You saw the shooting today?”
“Plain as day. I was standing at the cash register when it happened.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder.
“Tell me about the shooter.”
“Not bad looking. Latino maybe, middle-aged, tall, wavy hair. Real pretty hair. Still nice and thick; you don’t see that much. Graying at the temples. If I could touch up those locks—mm-hm. I bet I could take off ten years. Oh, and he had a beard.”
Robert asked her questions about the shooting that she had likely been asked all day. Her answers were immediate and mechanical, having been uttered multiple times, and he didn’t learn anything Harlan hadn’t already told him.
Until he caught her off guard with a new question.
“The sedan was rented to a woman named Jane Johnson. You know anyone by that name?”
“Jane Johnson? Must be hundreds of women named that in this country. But no, I don’t know any of them. Had a client in here today named Jane though.” Carol took a drag on her cigarette and frowned. “Is that right? Or maybe it was something similar. Janet. Janice. It all runs together.”
The name revived Robert’s attention. “Did she have an appointment?”
“Sure she did. Cut and color.”
“What time?”
She shrugged. “Around noon.”
“Would it be possible to check her name?”
Carol sighed and took the keys off her wrist. “Come on in then. We almost done?”
“Yes. Would you describe the woman to me?”
“She was one of those super skinny chicks. Too thin to enjoy life if you ask me. I did her up real nice in a whole new look—cute short hair. She was a redhead, wanted to go dark. It turned out.”
Carol turned on a light and went behind the reception desk to the appointment book. She ran her finger down a column and paused.
“Janice. I guess my memory’s running out for the day.”
“You have a last name?”
“Nope, just Janice. She paid cash.”
“Did you see which car she got into when she left?”
“A car? Oh no. She must have had a ride here. Took a cab when she left.”
Robert’s stomach plummeted. He checked his watch. Almost eight thirty. If he raced, he was looking at another forty-five minutes back to the Desert Hope House.
Where some woman named Janice had lured Salazar Sanso, who was about to stumble onto Katie Morgon, sitting in the dark, alone.
Back in her room, after Robert had dodged her in the hall, Janeal broke into silent tears. Why? Why? Why, after Milan and Sanso and a handful of other men she could have as she wanted, did she feel this longing for someone who had buried her with the rest of his past?
She had never felt more dead than she did in that moment. How could she feel this way, if her love for Robert was clearly so alive?
She needed to stay focused on the task at hand. The conversation she’d overheard between Katie and Robert in the garden room had revealed nothing of significance except that they didn’t connect Janice to Janeal. At least Robert didn’t. As for Katie . . .
Thieving, lying, self-righteous, smug Katie. Janeal couldn’t read that woman’s mind.
Janeal spent five minutes practicing a deep-breathing exercise her doctor had recommended for the headaches. As her mind settled, she recalled that all her personal items were still hidden in the bathroom. She jerked back into an alert state, hoping Lucille hadn’t already gone fishing for her things after finding out about Janeal’s money.
While the other women who lived on her hall watched Survivor reruns in the common room, Janeal retrieved the collection and returned to her private space. For the time being she would rip a twelve-inch seam out of the side of her cheap mattress and stuff everything in there, then cover it all with the fitted sheet. Not original, but short of burying the stuff in the dry clay outside, it would have to do.
The phone vibrated in Janeal’s hand as she slipped it through the gash in the polyester. She pulled it back out and glanced at the number. Not one she recognized. The area code was unfamiliar as well. Certainly no one from New York or D.C. She risked answering it.
“Yes?”
“Janeal Mikkado,” a woman’s voice said.
Of all the people who had this number, none of them would have known her previous name.
“I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong—”
“Callista Ramirez. It’s been awhile.”
Janeal recalled with some surprise the blond woman who’d visited her on the mesa with Sanso all those years ago. The one who’d drugged her.
She lowered her voice and pointed it away from her roommates’ walls. “How did you get this number?”
“Does it really matter? Jane, Janice, Janeal—Salazar Sanso gets what he wants. He knows where you are and enjoys the game of making you think otherwise.”
“Why are you calling?”
“He’s on his way to pay you a visit.”
“Then he must also know that Robert Lukin is here.”
“He does.”
“He enjoyed his hospital stay, did he?”
“Look, Janeal—”
“What do you want?”
“I want Salazar back in Mexico, and walking uphill to pound on the DEA’s door isn’t going to get him there.”
“Obviously. You’re talking to the wrong person then.”
“No, I feel pretty confident about this. I don’t know why your boyfriend picked that particular place for his little victory R&R, but I guess you wouldn’t have followed him there if you weren’t hoping for some sweet reunion yourself. Where is Robert now?”
With Katie, probably. “How should I know?”
“Listen to me. This is the only time you and I will ever have a goal in common. We do not want Salazar on that mountain. But he’s coming up there with Robert in his crosshairs.”
Bitterness rose in Janeal’s throat. “He always was a little extreme in his view of revenge,” she said. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”
“You can convince him Robert’s left and that he tipped off his colleagues to Salazar’s whereabouts.”
“You want me to tell Robert that Sanso’s coming? That’s not the way to get him back to Mexico, dear.”
“Don’t be smart. That’s not what I said. All I’m asking you to do is lie.”
Janeal decided to drop the sarcasm. “Sanso won’t believe me.”
“He doesn’t believe many people, but you seem to be an exception to the rule.”
“What’s to keep me from tipping off the DEA before Sanso arrives?”
Callista laughed. “I call your bluff. You can’t talk to them without implicating yourself. In fact . . . that’s interesting. Nothing like a little matter of a million dollars to stand between you and Robert. Does he know?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You still love Robert, don’t you?” Callista asked.
“After all these years?” Janeal faked.
“Some loves never die. I’m going to bank on it.” The older woman sighed. “Unfortunately, I have to.”
“Don’t you know by now?” Janeal said. “Hate is more powerful than love, Callista.”
“Maybe. I don’t care whether you love Robert or hate Salazar more. Find a way to get Salazar back down that hill and I’ll guarantee you Robert’s safety for as long as I’m alive.”
“What about my safety?”
“He wouldn’t harm a hair on your pretty little head.”
“He was ready enough to let me burn to death.”
“That changed forever when you turned the tables on him. Are you so blind?”
Katie’s the blind one. Katie, who is not Katie, but is . . .
Janeal slammed the lid on that recurring, disturbing thought. This entire mess was Katie’s fault. Katie was why they were stuck in this house for losers. Katie was why Robert had fallen out of love with her. Katie was why Janeal felt like she was losing her mind.
Janeal was not entirely sure why Callista had made this call. It wasn’t as if Janeal had refused to help Sanso; in fact, based on their latest encounter, she believed that Sanso had interpreted her demands as a type of cooperation. Maybe Callista was operating on her own with this phone call.
Maybe she was worried about something else.
Losing her coveted spot as Sanso’s right-hand woman?
Yes, Janeal decided, this was a power play.
She was a pro at such games herself, and happy to participate.
“You can count on me, Callista. Can I count on you?”
“I’ve been doing this longer than you have, Janeal.”
Janeal disconnected the call first to make her point.
The conversation, though pointless in Janeal’s mind, had raised an interesting idea. If it was possible that hate was more powerful than love, maybe the answer to her crisis could be found not in loving Robert, which would only frustrate her desire, but in hating Katie.