Anacacho, An Allie Armington Mystery (32 page)

IT’S BEEN A BUSY MORNING, mainly because my latest
deal in California is on very shaky ground and needs immediate
resuscitation.

When the phone bleats its seventh complaint,
I realize my secretary has left her post, slam down the California
contract, and grab the receiver. “Alice Armington.”

“
Guess you’re busy.” It’s
Duncan and he doesn’t wait for a reply. “No bugs. What do you make
of that? Could it be you’re being surveilled some other
way?”

His voice fades as a small, nondescript man
in a rumpled suit materializes out of nowhere.

“
May I help
you?”

He doesn’t crack a smile. “You Alice
Armington?”

Duncan intrudes before I can answer. “Earth
to Allie? Earth to Allie?”

I reply sotto voce behind my hand, “Hold
on,” then cover the mouthpiece. “Yes, I am Alice...”

Mr. Nondescript whips a folded document out
of the inside pocket of his coat and slaps it on the desk in front
of me.

I stare open-mouthed as the man shoves the
paper across my desk until it touches my hand, then he disappears
through the door.

I almost hang up the phone, then remember
who’s on the other end. “Sorry about the hold, but I’ve just been
served.”

I scan the document, gathering the pertinent
facts, then read them aloud. “Two weeks from next Monday I’m to
appear as a witness for the United States Government versus Raymond
Talavera Gibbs. My God, Gibbs lived. Federal District Judge
Marshall Good will preside. Seven hundred East San Antonio Street,
El Paso, Texas.”

Duncan says, “Damn. They must have known you
were being served today. This is serious. We need a strategy. Meet
me for dinner at The Capitol Grill.”

My answer is to hang up. The initial thrill
at finally being subpoenaed is sullied by a jumble of
emotions—fear, front and center.

Duncan pops up from a far table, waves me
over, and pulls out my chair. “I took the liberty of ordering our
usual.”

It feels good to hear “our usual” again,
nice to share time with Duncan. I take a sip of the martini and run
my tongue across my upper lip. “Pure heaven.”

Duncan gives me an especially endearing
smile before he raises his glass to his mouth. “It is good. In fact
I’d forgotten just how good it is to be with you.” He gives my hand
a gentle squeeze.

Warmed by the martini and the feel of his
touch, I amuse Duncan with the description of the summons
server.

He sobers. “I want to come with you.”

At that, one antenna rises. Duncan is
climbing into his protective mode. My lungs tighten as I watch him
pull his date book from inside his coat and search the pages.

His face clouds. “Damn the luck. I’m
scheduled for trial then.”

I look toward the ceiling. Thank you, Lord.
He’s tied up. I can breathe again. “Oh, Duncan, please don’t bother
yourself over this. It’s my problem. I’ll handle it.”

He doesn’t seem to get my drift because he
wags a finger in my face. “No way, José. This time you definitely
need someone to go with you.”

Air turns to lead. I’m smothering. I try to
keep the anger out of my voice and fail. My words strain through
clenched teeth. “Thank you for your concern, but I don’t need a
nanny. I can take care of myself.”

He snorts. “Oh, right. Just like last April?
I tried to warn you then, but no—you and your cockamamie idea of
women’s independence got you into a big pile of you-know-what.”

I struggle to remember that Duncan cares for
me and is doing only what a caring person would do.

Diversion. Isn’t that what the experts
recommend? When a child is acting out, change the venue or
introduce a new subject?

Since Duncan is in child-mode, I take one of
the menus and open it. “Oh, goody. They have Dover sole tonight.
Just what I was hoping.”

His mouth drops. “How can you give a damn
about Dover sole when your life is in danger?”

I grin. “Because I feel like a dangerous
soul.”

He shakes his head. “Cut the lame humor,
will you? This is too damn serious to joke about.”

He jams the calendar back inside his jacket,
stares at the ceiling for a few seconds, then snaps his
fingers.

“
I’ve got the perfect
solution. Just tell them you’re in the middle of a crucial deal and
can’t leave the city—or something. Ask to dictate your deposition.
Request that someone from the U.S. Attorney’s office come
here.”

The man is clueless. I’m an instant short of
a sharp retort when I recall the comfort of Duncan’s arms around
me. Instead, I take a sip of my martini, and let out a long breath
before I answer with a restrained, “I’m not in the middle of a
crucial deal.”

Now it’s Duncan who bristles. “For Pete’s
sake, Allie, everybody lies a little to get out of a situation. Why
are you being so stubborn?”

That’s it. We’ve been around this track
before. To hell with the comfort of his damned arms, he’s not going
to run me.

When I grab my purse and stand, his mouth
forms a surprised O. “Ladies room?”

“
Home. I’ve had enough.”
“Enough? Are you mad?”

“
Just tired of being
micro-managed.” Before Duncan can respond, I am gone.

The drive back to the apartment gives me
time to wind down and examine my actions. Maybe I blew things out
of proportion. After all, I was the one who called Duncan. He was
only trying to be helpful and I took his head off for no good
reason. God, I’m a thankless bitch.

I pull up to the entrance to see Elton the
doorman in the lobby. After peering at me through the double glass
doors, he beckons me in.

When I enter, he raises a box. “This came by
FedEx.”

My knees turn to aspic. When I start to
crumple, the firm grasp of a hand at my elbow, and Duncan’s, “I’m
here” are the last things to register.

I’m laid out like dinner on one of the lobby
couches, a cold compress over my eyes. Duncan is busy assuring
someone that I’ll be just fine in a few minutes.

The edge of the compress lifts and Duncan’s
beady-browns look into mine. “How’s it going?”

I manage to mumble through trembling lips,
“Not so good.” “You’re white around your mouth. Sick to your
stomach?”

I nod.

“
I getcha. Just make
yourself comfortable until you feel better.” Then he clucks, “You
didn’t have any food. Just that martini.”

“
I’m sorry I was such a
bitch.”

He pats my arm. “Hey, what are friends
for?”

It’s almost ten by the time Duncan, FedEx
box tucked under one arm and me glued to his body with the other,
gets me upstairs.

I flop on the couch and watch him place the
box on the coffee table in front of me.

“
What’s in the
fridge?”

The mere mention of food makes my stomach
roll, but I rise to my usual gracious hospitality level and croak,
“I don’t remember, but help yourself. Open some wine. I’m sure you
could use a drink after all this. None for me though.”

Duncan disappears into the kitchen, leaving
me to stare at the FedEx. My stomach gives a sick lurch as sweat
films my face and I fall into the back pillows.

Footsteps signal his return and I crack one
lid. He’s fixed himself a sandwich and poured a glass of red. “Nice
Merlot.”

When I manage a weak “Thanks,” he points to
the package. “Do you want me to open it?”

“
Eat first. It can
wait.”

He makes short work of the sandwich between
swigs of wine, then rises. Dishes clatter, water sprays, and the
dishwasher door clanks shut before the cushion moves again and
Duncan grabs my hand.

“
I know you’re scared. You
have every right to be, but we need to open this
package.”

“
What if it’s a
bomb?”

“
I don’t think they’re
that stupid. They just want to scare you. May I?”

I nod, still refusing to look.

He rips open the box. Paper crinkles and
Duncan gasps. Despite the spinning head, I lean forward and gasp
myself. It’s my Beretta.

Duncan scans the note and hands it to me.
“If you show up at the trial, you’ll need this. This is your final
warning.”

EL PASO, TEXAS

“
AND YOU CAN DEFINITELY identify
the defendant as the man who was driving the Suburban that rammed
your plane?”

I look beyond the defense attorney into Ray
Gibbs’s steely stare. The once-silky-white hair is pasted to his
head. Gray, sallow skin hangs from his cheeks and neck. Surviving
three bullet wounds to the chest has left a hollow of a man in a
wheelchair nervously attended by a worn Elvira.

There are no doubts left about Gibbs’s
border heritage. That was established the first day of his trial
when the prosecution claimed that Ray’s mother was the only sister
of Ramón Talavera’s father, making the two cousins cohorts in
crime.

I nod. “Yes.”

“
Please point to that
person.”

When I do, the U.S. Attorney says, “For the
record, the witness has pointed to the defendant, Mister Gibbs.” He
turns toward the bench. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

I sit back and let out my breath, pleased my
testimony has gone so well. The attorney led me through the meeting
with Rámon and has established Ray’s connection to Adelena’s death.
But there’s the upcoming cross-examination to face.

Neither Jed nor Bill have shown their faces
and for some reason I feel relief instead of my anticipated
disappointment. Maybe we were only a passing item. Maybe.

“
You may step down, Miss
Armington.” The Judge’s voice booms above me. “As I have several
documents to sign, we will recess for the afternoon. Miss
Armington’s cross-examination will begin tomorrow morning at eight
o’clock.”

I hear the bailiff ’s, “All rise” just as I
lock onto Elvira Gibbs. Her stare glitters hate that is echoed in
the rigidity of her body. She frowns, whispers some epithet
obviously meant for me, then turns her attentions to her handcuffed
husband.

“
Fine job, Miss
Armington.” The U.S. Attorney extends his hand for a shake. “Just
stick to the facts tomorrow and you’ll be fine.”

I nod, then follow the waiting deputy to a
side corridor and down the back stairs.

The ride to the motel where the witnesses
are stashed is a short one. The government is taking no chances.
Working in concert with the Mexicans, they have managed to
extradite Ramón, whose trial will follow that of his cousin.

The deputy escorts me to my room on the
second floor, lined with other officers stationed at strategic
points.

“
Room service again,
ma’am?” “That will be fine. About seven?”

“
I’m right down the hall
if you need me.”

I insert the card into the key slot of my
stuffy little prison, shove the door into the half-darkened room,
and a hand covers my mouth. I jam my hand into my purse to release
the safety on my Beretta, then I smell the Kryptonite.

To feel Bill’s arms around me and his lips
on mine is pure heaven after seven long months. When we finally
come up for air, he cups my face with his hands. “I couldn’t stay
away.”

It’s then I notice he’s not in uniform. “Is
it really over? Are you free at last?”

“
I suppose you could say
that. I’m through in Uvalde.” “What does that mean?”

“
Officially, I had to
resign when the DEA ‘discovered’ my connection with the
cartel.”

“
But it was because of you
they were able to get Ramón.” “Yeah. I did my job, but for obvious
reasons, I can’t show my face around those parts ever again.” “It’s
not fair.”

“
Double agents never get
to play the hero.” “Then you’re not testifying?”

He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t even be
here, but some of my DEA buddies are romantics at heart and let me
make a detour.”

I remember his wound and touch his left
shoulder.

“
All healed,” he says.
“Stiff in the morning, but it doesn’t interfere much.”

“
What happens to you
now?”

“
I’m on my way to
Washington. New assignment.” “Can you say where?”

“
I don’t know myself. But
I had to see you one last time.”

We stand locked together in this airless
cell, passion dimmed by the grim realization we will probably never
meet again.

Bill’s voice resonates through his chest.
“You’re safe. You have my word.”

I cling to him, not wanting to let him go. I
want to beg him to come back to Houston with me. Have children
together. Live a nine-to-five life. But deep in my heart, I know it
would be hell for both of us. He’s been a loner too long.

“
I love you, Bill. I
always will.”

He touches my cheek, his eyes memorizing
mine. “I love you, Allie. If only...”

I turn away, still clasping his hand.

The door opens. His hand slides from mine.
Then, he’s gone.

I abandon my memories of the previous
evening to look at Gibbs’s attorney. He’s smooth all over. Smooth
face. Smooth slicked-back, black hair. Smooth black pinstriped
Brooks Brothers suit and matching shiny-smooth tassel loafers. And,
dammit, a smooth cross-examiner.

“
You say you saw Mister
Gibbs behind the wheel of the Suburban that destroyed the Piper
Cub?”

I stare him down a moment before I respond.
“No.”

He smiles, then flips through his notes.
“Right. It was only later that you saw Mister Gibbs at the Darden
house?”

“
I saw him, then saw his
Suburban. The grill was a mess. The hood was still hot.”