Heaven to Betsy (Emily #1) (9 page)

My phone chimed. “Sorry,” I said. I turned off the ringer and read the text.

Collin:
Emily, you there?

Me:
If by “there” you mean New Mexico, the answer is yes.

I hit send. The answer came back immediately.

Collin:
No way! Where?

Me:
Tularosa.

I thought I was in Tularosa, anyway. I definitely wasn’t in Albuquerque. We could have been anywhere, though.

Collin:
“So you’re near Alamogordo?”

I remembered Jack’s explanation.

Me:
Yes.

Collin:
That’s where I am this weekend. How long are you there? Any chance of getting together?

Collin lived in Taos and was based out of Santa Fe. What was he doing here? And wanting to get together, now, when I was pregnant? He didn’t even know I was getting a divorce.

I typed:
I would love it. I’m here for work, just for the weekend. I’ll let you know my plans as soon as I talk to my boss. So . . . maybe.

We crossed a cattle guard and turned right onto a paved highway. I looked back at the entrance, marked with a metal sign suspended above the gate: Wrong Turn Ranch. Wind tossed it to and fro. The name sounded familiar.

“Where are we?” I asked.

Jack turned until I saw his profile and said, “Highway 70. Halfway between Bent and Tularosa. The Sacramento Mountains and Lincoln National Forest are behind us, the Sierra Blancas behind you to your right. We’ll be at my office in about ten minutes.”

I laid my head back against the seat and let my eyes close. It had been a rough few hours. Judith and Jack talked while I remembered Collin and his 501 jeans, looking as much like Tom Cruise in
Top Gun
as Tom Cruise ever had. I strolled into the dream as the Kelly McGillis character, the instructor in the leather jacket, only I had a baby bump, and Tom Cruise didn’t give me a second glance.

I must have dozed off, because when the Suburban jolted to a stop (typical Jack), it woke me up abruptly. I looked around us. We were on a broad, small-town street in a residential neighborhood. Scrubby trees and patchy yards stretched in front of stucco houses—or adobe, I guess they called it here. Jack had parked in front of a small, red adobe house with a Columbia blue door and a metal Kokopelli bear totem painted in the same color hanging beside it. The front yard was grassless and covered in small, red landscaping rocks. An aged bronze sign hung like a flag off a pole. It read Law Office.

Jack put the Suburban in park and said, “Home sweet home.”

Judith ushered me inside. “Lobby,” she said as we walked through what once was a den. It now housed an old leather couch and side chair, a coffee table with a Johnny Football-covered Sports Illustrated on top of a stack of magazines. A deer antler lamp sat on an end table between the couch and chair. Black and white photos of mountain and desert scenes adorned the walls.

“Kitchen.” She pointed to her left as we walked down a central hall. The small room had white cabinets and appliances on three sides with a wooden table and chairs in the center.

She swung to the right. “Conference room.” A large, weathered, round wooden table anchored the room. Burgundy leather rolling chairs surrounded it. A corner table held a phone. Again, landscape photography hung on the walls, these in color.

Judith took a few steps, then stopped and turned to me. “Here’s the bathroom,” she said, indicating the door on the right side of the hall. “Jack’s office.” The left. “Mine.” The right again. “He had me set an extra desk up for you,” she said. “You have your laptop?”

“Yes, I brought it.” I patted my shoulder bag. I’d even stashed my clutch in it, since I’d prepped it for airport security. It was nearly two pounds lighter and a few inches slimmer than usual. I flashed her a big smile. Her face remained still. I noticed that, for a woman of her age in such a dry climate, she sure didn’t have many smile wrinkles or laugh lines.

She stood in the doorway to her office and pointed at a bare table. “The network cable’s underneath.”

“Thanks.”

She walked in soundlessly, not so much as flinching to show she’d heard me.

Jack came up behind me, his boots noisier than Judith’s. “Everything good?”

I nodded. Judith’s cold welcome wasn’t something I would unload on him.

“What’s our plan?” I asked.

“Judith ordered in lunch for our meeting with Paul Johnson. He’ll be here at one. That’s . . .” he glanced at his watch, “in half an hour.”

I had time to brush my teeth and take a French shower, at least. “Is the car unlocked? I need to grab my overnight bag.”

He tossed me the keys—a horrible throw—and my left hand shot up and caught them as they went past my ear.

“Why don’t you come to my office when you’re done and I’ll bring you up to speed.”

“Thanks. One more thing.” I inhaled and my breath hit a wall, stopping shallow. “I have a friend in Alamogordo. Do we have time for me to go out for breakfast tomorrow?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “We’ll leave about ten a.m. Can you be back and ready by then?”

“Yes, thank you.”

I rushed through my ablutions in the ancient bathroom. It was so small that my elbow hit the rubber ducky shower curtain while I washed my face. I rubbed my face with a tear away paper towel from a kitchen-style roll, then put on some nude lipstick and mascara.
Still too pale,
I thought. I swiped the lipstick over my cheekbones and lightly rubbed it in. Better. In the mirror, I saw a photograph behind me. The photographer had captured four Native American dancers with elaborate headdresses, their bare torsos painted with white symbols, skirts hanging almost to their knees over moccasin boots. I turned to study it. It was really beautiful. The photographer had signed it in the bottom right corner. I leaned in close to read the name:
Mountain Spirits. Lena Holden
.

I thought about the name for a moment. I recognized it—and not just because of the obvious last name—but I couldn’t place it. Damn pregnancy hormones. Besides turning me into a rage monster, they’d siphoned off a fair portion of my brain function.

I took a moment to text Collin before I left the bathroom:
I can meet for an early breakfast if you can come up my way.

I packed up my bathroom bag and returned it to the car, then went to Jack’s office.

His Tularosa digs were nothing much compared to the ones in Amarillo, but it was still a nice, warm space. A rug that looked to be a Native design graced one wall, a bookcase covered another, and UNM Law and NMSU diplomas hung on either side of a large, bare window. The desk here looked much like the one in Amarillo: messy, with picture frames turned to face Jack. Two armchairs with cowhide upholstery sat in front of his desk; I took the one nearest the door. Jack had his back to me, a book in his lap. Snowflake snoozed in a bed by the door, looking awfully at home.

I cleared my throat.

Jack swiveled around and set the book on his desk and closed it. I read the title:
Spider Woman’s Daughter
. Anne Hillerman.

“New client,” he said. “Paul Johnson. Native New Mexican. Grew up in Las Cruces. Made his money in nightclubs, in New Mexico and West Texas. Started importing cheap art from Mexico. You know, like the metal chickens and geckos. Made more money. Has a ranch just east of here—gorgeous place, near Bent.”

He said this like the location would mean something to me. It rang a little bell, but I couldn’t place it.

“Not far from where we flew in this morning,” he said.

Ah. The bell rang louder. “What are we doing for him?” I asked.

“Nothing yet. He asked me for this meeting so he could explain what he’s looking for. He wants me on retainer.”

“You mentioned that his employees tend to attract negative legal attention?”

“Yep,” Jack said. “Bouncers. Truck drivers. Warehouse guards. Rough types.”

“What do you want me to do during the meeting?” I asked.

“Listen. Ask questions. Then, next week, I want you to find out everything there is to know about him.”

“That’s all?”

“And eat. I have a feeling your stomach is kind of empty.”

***

“Hello?” a girl’s voice called from the front of the office.

Judith was in the kitchen working on lunch, so I walked out to the lobby. A tall, thin teenage girl in knee-high buckskin moccasins stood there. Freckles covered her cheeks and a large, distinctive nose, but elsewhere her skin was so white it was almost blue. It was her hair that captured my attention. Somehow she’d fashioned her kinky black hair into individual locks, almost like ringlets, except that it radiated from her head, no strand longer than what appeared to be shoulder length. It was part Afro, part dreadlocks, and part finger-in-a-light-socket. I couldn’t have made a single hair on my head defy gravity like hers.

“Hell-
lo
.” She snapped me out of my trance.

I adjusted my tunic, and cleared my throat. “How may I help you?”

“My father sent me in to find out if this is Jack Holden’s office. He has a meeting with him.” She dragged out the “fa” in father and dropped an octave on “ther.” The girl didn’t like her dad much.

“Yes, this is the place.”

“He said to tell him he’s on the phone and will be in as quickly as he can.” She rolled her eyes ever so slightly. “That means don’t hold your breath.”

“Great. Thank you.”

The girl made a show of giving the place a once-over, then walked out without another word on whisper-soft footsteps that put my scouting skills to shame.

Twenty minutes later, Paul Johnson joined us in the conference room. Jack and I made small talk with him as we got situated. He didn’t look like any businessman I’d ever known. He looked like a bouncer gone to seed—with a grizzled chin and hooded eyes—who’d stolen himself some fancy cowboy clothes. He stood six foot six in his boots, and he had to be at least three hundred pounds. His buttocks and thighs strained against Cinch jeans, and his girth tested the snaps on his shirt. Despite all of that, he had a ready smile and booming laugh, so I ignored the seediness as best I could and concentrated on the fact that he wanted to bring a lot of business to the firm I worked for, however temporarily.

Judith rolled in a cart and arranged three place settings in front of us. Addressing Jack, she said, “It’s from Casa de Suenos.”

“Thanks. Good call. Best New Mexican food in Southern New Mexico.” Jack smiled at her.

“In all of New Mexico.” Paul reached for one of the two plates of enchiladas. There was red chili and green chili—he chose red.

I wondered if any of the entrees were meatless. “Thank you.” I reached for a platter of fried things. Fried appetizers were usually veggie. And anything fried was my favorite food group these days. I pushed two onto my plate.

Judith nodded at me. “Avocados Borrachos. Beer battered fried avocados. They’re good with that jalapeño ranch dressing.”

This was as friendly as she’d been to me so far, and I was so shocked I couldn’t think of a response before she turned and disappeared, leaving the door open.

I scooped some of the ranch onto my plate, then added generous helpings of rice and beans. I looked up at Jack, and he nodded at my plate and raised his left eyebrow. It rehabilitated some of the sexiness he’d lost by flying me in a small plane to a dirt runway in the middle of nowhere. I grabbed another avocado and wiggled my eyebrows back. He hadn’t put a thing on his plate. I dipped the avocado in ranch, then bit into it. I groaned, and both men looked over at me.

“Excuse me.” I coughed into my napkin. “Something stuck in my throat.”

Jack’s dimple appeared quick as a heartbeat and disappeared just as fast. “Are you okay?”

I felt my checks heat. “Yes, thank you.”

Paul dug back into his food, but he was the next one to break the silence anyway, speaking through a big mouthful as he chewed.
Raised in a barn
, I thought.

“Thanks for having me over to talk, and for the lunch,” Paul said. “I just bought some property on the south side of 70. I guess that makes us practically neighbors, Jack.”

I caught a glimpse of a half-masticated bite of red enchilada in Paul’s mouth. My gag response hovered near the surface these days, and that triggered it. I covered my mouth with my hand and pretended to cough again, averting my eyes. I saw the twinkle in Jack’s.

“You said on the phone you wanted to talk to me about putting my firm on retainer to help you when there are criminal matters impacting your business dealings.” Jack said, not acknowledging Paul’s comment about neighbors.

Paul said, “That’s right.”

This time, he showed us green enchilada, but I was able to suppress my gag. I put my fork down.

“May I ask how you found us?”

Paul popped a whole fried avocado in his mouth and said, “I read about you in the Alamogordo paper, a few years back—when you were still with the DA’s office. Then I heard on the news that you were representing that woman up in Amarillo, the one that murdered the Roswell guy, and that you had an office here, too. I said, ‘That’s the attorney I need to call.’”

Jack stuck to the subject, still talking over an empty plate. “You have employees that have been charged with murder?”

Paul shook his head and held up his hand, still chewing. Too much food crammed in his maw for even him to talk through it? That must be some mouthful. He opened his mouth and sprayed some rice on the table in front of him. I looked away.

“No,” he said, “but assault and battery. New Mexico and West Texas. You never know when a man will have to defend himself with deadly force in the kinds of work I have them doing, though.” He paused, looked at his food, then back up at Jack. “Is that what that woman in Amarillo was doing? Defending herself?”

I’d known Jack just long enough to see the change that came over him. His jaw flexed, barely perceptibly, and his pupils dilated. His nostrils flared ever so slightly. And he thumped his pen once, hard on the tabletop.

“Run me through your businesses and where you operate. Then we’ll need to go over your past legal troubles, and what you’re facing now. See if I can help, and how.”

I pushed my sadly full plate back, opened my laptop, and started taking notes.