Hide and Snake Murder (22 page)

Twenty-Six

Sunday morning dawned partly
cloudy and found me at the Rabbit Hole. JT was off to play a little catch-up at the cop shop after weeks of being gone. Kate was on a well-deserved day off, and Dawg sprawled upside-down, sound asleep on his bed in the corner of the café. There was no shame in his game. The breakfast crowd had dwindled to a trickle, and Eddy and I stood behind the counter chatting.

Rocky had bussed tables through the morning rush, and once things quieted I sent him off to Eddy's living room. I'd set up my laptop and pulled Facebook up so he could talk to his flower—or rather, Tulip—during down times. I swear I was never going to remember her name. And thanks to Eddy, he was also the proud owner of a brand-new stuffed rattler from the Hands On Toy Company. He named it Doodlebug Two. Creative, Rocky wasn't. Dear, he was.

The front door swung open, the attached bell chiming merrily. I broke into grin at the sight of our latest patron.

JT walked up to the counter, leaned over, and planted a big one right on my kisser.

Eddy came around the counter and held her arms out to JT, who dutifully gave her a hug. Eddy gently patted her cheek. “What are you doing in this dive, stranger? It's been a while.”

“Yes, it has.” JT smiled. “I hear I can't leave without you getting into trouble.”

Eddy nodded. “You can say that again, child.”

The door opened and bells jangled again. This time Agnes bustled through the door.

“Yo, Aggie,” Eddy called.

“Yo, yourself,” Agnes said as she approached. “When are you going to stop talking like those rascal kids?”

“I'll stop talking like the kids when my bones are too old to move.”

“Aren't they already?”

I cleared my throat. Loudly. “What can we get you to drink, Agnes?”

Before she could reply, JT waved a hand at me. “Hang on, Shay, just a second.” She leaned conspiratorially toward Eddy and whispered something in her ear. Then they high-fived each other.

Agnes peered at me in question. I leaned my hip against the counter and shrugged.

Eddy stepped behind me, untied my apron, and yanked it off.

“Hey!” I made a grab for it and missed.

Eddy poked me. “Skedaddle. I'll stay here and take care of things.”

I shook my head. “It's Sunday, and it—”

“Shush, you.” Eddy grabbed my arm and dragged me around the counter. “I got Rocky in the back, and Agnes will be here to help. Won't you Aggie?”

“Why not? I got real good making those little shot things the last time—”

“Are you kidding?” Eddy pushed me toward JT but looked at Agnes. “You pulled those espresso shots and drank 'em all. You were so wired—”

“I can't help it I have no tolerance for caffeine.”

“Vodka, neither.”

I allowed JT to lead me through the café, between tables of amused customers, and out the door.

Her forest-green Durango was double-parked. Very cop-like.

“Into the back you go,” she said.

“Where—” I stopped cold when I saw Coop sitting in the front passenger seat, looking rumpled, like he'd just been awoken and dragged from bed. Baz was in the rear, a scowl on his face, arms across his chest like a petulant child. Kate was beside him looking very Kate-like.

I crawled in next to Kate as JT settled herself and started the engine.

“All right. What's going on?”

Coop twisted around to look at me, eyes bloodshot. “No idea. The devil woman showed up at my door and wouldn't leave until I got in the car.” It looked like he'd had a few late nights, probably celebrating the fact that he wasn't dead. And from the smell of cigarette smoke that wafted from him, he'd lost his latest battle in the war to quit smoking.

I said to Baz, “And what about you?”

He seemed to be wearing a permanent scowl. “Pushy, isn't she.”

A laugh burst unbidden from deep in my chest. “She has her moments. Kate?” I elbowed her.

“Your woman showed up and asked me to go away with her. I would've gotten excited if I hadn't been all wrapped up and cozy with Lane.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Lane?”

A dimple in Kate's cheek deepened. “Yep. Remember the FBI agent who took me home?”

I did.

“She hasn't left yet. Unofficially, of course.”

I laughed. “Of course. Way to keep a secret, there, lady-killer. You need a couple more days off to rest and recover?”

Coop turned around and said, “It's a good thing the girl's an FBI agent so she has the stamina to keep up with you.”

Man, he was snarky today.

Kate's lips curled into a smirk, and she simply sat there looking like the cat who swallowed a whole tank of tasty goldfish.

I gave her a leer, then said to JT, “Really, what are we doing?”

She caught my eyes in the rearview mirror, her expression impassive. “Sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.”

Forty minutes later, a few miles somewhere south of Shakopee in a densely wooded area, JT turned into a gated drive. The privacy fence around the property had to be ten feet tall, made of white planks with medieval, spear-like extrusions running along the top edge.

JT pressed a button on the call box. It squawked. She said something, and the estate gate slowly rolled open. We followed a curvy drive a quarter-mile or so through a thick stand of trees. Even with most of the leaves dropped for the winter, I couldn't see the house or any other buildings until we crested a small hill. The trees gave way to a sizable single level ranch house and three-car garage. The top of a small red barn with white trim and a couple of other buildings were visible behind the house.

The drive circled a white, two-tiered fountain that would probably be back in business soon, once the threat of one last freeze dissipated.

JT put the car in park and cut the engine. “Come on.” She exited the SUV and marched toward the front door. We trailed along behind.

She rang the bell, and after a moment, the door swung open.

A short, round woman with gray-black hair wrapped up in a bun and rosy round cheeks stood beaming at us. She wore a yellow peasant dress with poofy sleeves and colorful embroidery along the edges. Black slip-ons encased her feet.

“
Buenos días
!”
She clapped her hands once and beamed. “Please, come in. We have been expecting you.” Her voice was heavily accented.

Expecting us? Even this cuddly grandmother-type knew more than we did. If she was another cartel leader, I was going shoot JT with her own gun. On second thought, maybe I'd take Baz out first, and then shoot JT.

We followed the woman from the spacious entry down a hall. Interior beams were exposed high above, giving the large house a roomy Southwest feel. We trod on rust-colored tiles through an arched doorway into a living room. Colorful handmade pottery artistically arranged on glass shelving rested against one wall. A huge picture window overlooked the front yard. A burnished piece of metal artwork stretched across another wall, composed of a sun setting behind two saguaro cacti, with the impression of low mountains in the background.

“
Por favor
,”
she said, clasping her hands to her chest. “Take a seat. Please.” A huge smile nearly squeezed her eyes shut. “I will return in a moment.”

The woman swooshed from the room. I shot JT a look, but it was like trying to read a rock. A couch and love seat squared off across a low, multi-color tiled coffee table. Padded leather wingback chairs flanked either side. The furniture looked like it had been hand-carved. Thick cushions were covered with red and brown upholstery that resembled a Native American blanket I had as a kid. I sat with JT on the love seat, and the boys each settled in one of the wingbacks. Kate took one corner of the sofa.

“JT,” I asked, “What exactly is going on?”

“Just wait.” She put a calming hand on my leg and gently squeezed.

I sat back with a disgruntled sigh and crossed my arms.

A couple of minutes later, footsteps echoed in the hall. Then the woman returned, assisting someone behind her. Then she stepped out of the way.

I blinked. Holy shit. The dead was walking.

“Luz?” Coop breathed, poised to spring from his chair.

Baz sat stiffly, his forehead puckered and his mouth open in a ridiculous O.

I shot JT a look. A proud and satisfied expression was written all over her face.

Luz, or Zorra, or whoever this woman was, slowly entered the room. Her left arm was immobilized against her body, and white gauze covering the wound in her left shoulder peeked out from under a pink tank top. Turquoise sleep pants covered her legs, and she wore thick knit socks.

Luz shuffled to the couch, and the woman helped her to the cushions.

“
Gracias,
Mama,” she said with a grimace. “This is my mother, Estella,” she added to no one in particular.

Estella straightened and asked, “Can I get you all something to drink?”

After taking stock of our hydration needs, Estella bustled out of the room.

Luz looked me square in the eye. “I suppose it is only fair to tell you the truth of what's going on.”

I wasn't sure if I was relieved, pissed, curious, or confused. Probably a little of each. This woman ordered our executions, held us at gunpoint, and prodded me and Baz in the head with the muzzle of her pistol, for cripe's sake. I could still feel the impression of the barrel on my forehead. But, then she freed us and tried to help us escape. And then she was shot dead. This was serious mass of fucking contradictions. How on earth did JT know that, a) Luz was alive, and b) where she was? And did she also know who had been crammed into Fletcher Sharpe's ridiculous desk?

I leaned against the back of the couch. As Rod Serling was fond of saying, “You've crossed over into the Twilight Zone.” Now we just needed the eerie music to go along with it.

Luz (I just couldn't think of this woman as Zorra) tucked her legs awkwardly under her. “First of all, I want to thank you.” She gazed from me to Kate to Coop. “You saved my life.”

Kate, ever honest, said, “No we didn't. That guy shot you. We didn't stop him in time.”

Luz closed her eyes at the memory. “No—well, yes, he did shoot me. Twice. Thank goodness for Kevlar. But Tomás is nothing if not thorough. He'd have made sure I was dead if you hadn't attacked him.”

Estella returned at that moment with our beverages and doled them out. She set a full pitcher of reddish-purple liquid on a side table. She'd offered up homemade sangria as one of the options, and we'd all taken her up on it with the exception of my always-in-control cop and the bullet-riddled bad girl on narcotics.

I took a sip, nodded in appreciation. Nothing like a little happy juice in my empty engine. Breakfast had been some time ago. “Estella, this is really good.”

The others murmured their agreement.

“You talk.” Estella's gaze settled on her daughter. “And thank you for allowing
mi hija
to return to me.
Gracias.
” She retreated.

Luz inhaled quickly and blew out long. “Let me start from the beginning.”

“Good idea,” I muttered.

“My father and mother—who are good, kind, hard-working people—came here to Minnesota from Monterrey, Mexico, in the late sixties. They were undocumented but wanted a better life than they'd be able to have in Mexico. They got good jobs, worked hard, and my father started a cash-only furniture company, selling by word of mouth. He made this furniture.” Luz waved a hand at what we were sitting on. “He was very good. Anyway, I was born in Minneapolis. And always getting into trouble.”

Somehow, I could buy that.

Luz continued, “When I was thirteen, I took a little joy ride in a neighbor's car. For the third time. And was busted. For the third time. A now-retired Minneapolis detective realized I was a decent kid with a wild streak. He took me under his wing.”

My cup runneth empty. I corrected that and sat back down, my attention riveted once again on the not-dead dead woman in front of me.

“With his influence,” Luz said, “he found ways for me to funnel excess energy in less-illegal avenues. As I grew older, I became interested in a career in law enforcement. When I graduated from college with a double major in politics and Mexican studies and a minor in criminal justice, the FBI was on my doorstep, waiting to sign me up.”

I asked, “So you are really FBI?”

Luz nodded. “I am. Or I was. I'm officially retired. And I'll explain. You see, the glitch hit during my background checks. It came out that my parents were not in the country legally. A high-ranking FBI agent offered to fix the situation and allow them to stay in Minnesota as citizens if I agreed to infiltrate the Reynosa Cartel. The cartel was vulnerable because the leadership kept killing each other off. There was so much unrest, the essence of the organization was threatened by neighboring cartels who would have loved to take it over.”

Damn. That was a lot to put on a kid.

Baz asked, “Why did they think you'd be able to do it?”

“Because,” Luz explained, “I was the right mix. The right mix of Mexican, stubborn, and native Spanish speaking. At least that's what they told me.”

JT's hand was back on my leg, but she'd eased up on her grip. I think she was no longer afraid I might attack Luz.

“I agreed to the FBI's terms. My parents had done everything they could to make my life better than they'd had. I couldn't let them be sent back. So I went through training at Quantico.” She looked at JT. “Where you just were, I heard.”

“Yup.”

Luz nodded. “I made it through boot camp and was sent off to specialty training. I learned to alter my facial appearance with high-tech prosthetics provided by the movie industry and improved upon by FBI forensic scientists. The alterations were subtle but effective. Soon I was a master of disguise. I accomplished the infiltration faster than anyone expected.”