Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 4) (22 page)

“No thank you, ma’am.”

Jan tittered softly. She knows I loathe being addressed as ma’am. Every woman in the world probably remembers when it first happens, because from that day forward you are no longer a girl.

I bit my tongue and asked, “You gonna tell us who that jerk was last night?”

“First, I have a few questions.”

That didn’t sound good. I looked past him. He seemed to be alone, a good sign, as I doubt he’d come solo with intent to arrest. After all, they knew there were guns in the house. Still, my heart sped up.

I guided the investigator out onto the verandah, where brilliant sunshine superheated the concrete. He removed his cap, explaining he wore it to protect ears prone to both sunburn and chill. We made small talk about the golf course, where he played regularly, how we liked the area, stuff like that. I was relaxing a bit, taking a sip of tea, when he dropped the bomb. “Miss Coffey, what exactly is your association with known Mexican gang members?”

I spewed iced tea—luckily not all over the officer—and simultaneously managed to suck some down the wrong pipe. I was gasping for air and Jan rose to whack me on the back when I managed a breath and waved her off. Remembering to breathe through my nose, it was still three or four minutes before I regained control. “Sorry. What was the question?” As if I didn’t know.

He repeated the question and I did what all guilty people do; I answered with a lame, “Why do you ask?”

“Because you shot one of the them last night, and even though he’s not talking, we don’t think he was here to steal the flat screen.”

“Oh, shit,” Jan groaned, “was it Paco?”

It’s a good thing for her I’d put the guns away.

“…then this other guy,” I told the riveted MaGee, “who we think might either be a drug lord or a US undercover agent of some kind, shot Paco, and we left them on the beach. Haven’t seen either of them since.”

The investigator never interrupted, but his head swayed as if watching a tennis match as Jan and I team-tagged our story. Our sentences tumbled into each other as we recounted our Mexican adventure, meeting Nacho and his fellow homies, then saving a village on the Baja from some druggies running a meth super lab, which Nacho blew up. We left out a few minor details, like our stealing Nacho’s truck, Nacho subsequently kidnapping us, and what we considered his involvement in a huge border drug bust and a shootout between the Mexican federal police and a bunch of Zetas.

“So, as you can see, to answer your question, yes, we did sort of meet a gang member, a guy named Paco, but Nacho said he was ex MS-13, and we thought Nacho killed him,” I explained, thinking I sounded quite logical.

At the mention of MS-13, the cop, who was glazing over a bit, sat bolt upright. “MS-13?”

“Yeah, but I think he switched to the Zetas at some point. I don’t know much about gangs, just what I read in the paper. Anyhow, that’s what Nacho told me. If you want some backup on my story, I can put you in touch with Marty Martinez, a retired Oakland homicide cop who was with us for part of the showdown.”

He rubbed his forehead. “I think I’ll have that tea now.” Barely had those words been uttered when the front door burst open and Craig rushed in, with Chino right on his heels. He spotted MaGee and said, “Oh, looks like you’ve already heard.”

“Heard what?” we all asked in unison.

“Those guys that stole your car and tried to hijack the plane? They are friggin’ Zetas!” he bellowed.

Oops, I guess Jan and I forgot to tell Deputy Dawg that part of the story.

The afternoon became a virtual marathon of interviewers, who chugged down pitcher after pitcher of tea and gallons of coffee while talking with all of us. Seems the Sheriff of Cochise County has a keen interest in anything related to Mexican drug cartels. Craig knew little of interest to the various cops, but Chino was on scene for the Christmas Eve debacle. It was, after all, a search for his missing grandmother—whom, it turned out, was simply shacked up with a villager—that lead us to our fateful encounter with Paco.

Jan and I, of course, were grilled like salmon fillets. Cell phones aplenty stayed busy as agencies exchanged information with their home bases, and each other. Ted and Nanci were called again and again, probably tiring of repeating the same story to different people. Marty Martinez, my retired cop buddy, got a call or two at his home in Baja. I also picked up on enough of one conversation in Spanish to know the caller was conversing  about  some shadowy liaisons on both sides of the border.

As the hours dragged on and more information surfaced, one thing became abundantly clear; the common denominator in the whole complicated mess was none other than Miss Hetta Coffey.

It also became clear that no one knew why, including
moi
.

This probably would have been an ideal time for me to share that cryptic message from Nacho to mind my own business and stay away, but why open yet another can of worms? I was the only one, aside from a marina employee, who knew about that email, and for now I planned to keep it that way.

As soon as everyone left, though, I’d call the marina, see if by chance Nacho left a contact number they forgot about? Oh, sure, he probably left a business card reading:

Lamont “Nacho” Cranston

Shady undertakings our specialty

www.nachomuchomacho.com

Se Habla Espanol

Yeah
, Quando
pigs fly.

When all the cops finally left, I called San Carlos.

The gal at the marina office wasn’t the one who was there when Nacho showed up, but miracle of miracles, she told me my boat would be ready to launch in a week or ten days.

Shocked at such rapid progress, I called Arturo, my new boat blister guru and, second miracle of the day, he answered. Turns out my blisters were superficial and in a week he would have
Raymond
Johnson
ready to splash. I hung up and did a victory dance. It was about time I got some good news.

Chino, Craig, and Jan went out to dinner, but I opted to stay put, grateful for time alone to ponder what in the hell was happening, and why.

After checking, then re-checking that all windows and doors were locked, and setting the alarm—which, like any borderline OCDer, I re-re-checked—I then bump-key proofed exterior doors, all five off them, by jamming chairs under the knobs.

Satisfied that Fort Knox had nothing on me, I then barricaded myself in my bedroom with my computer, a ream of paper, all five guns, a bottle of wine, and two family sized bags of potato chips. Hetta’s last stand.

Sitting in the middle of the bed, I compiled a chronology of events, people, and places, beginning with the last time I saw Nacho.

Agua Fria, Baja, December 24: Nacho gunned down that psychopath, Paco, who was intent on slitting my throat. Saved from a nasty end, I returned to my boat where Jenks and I made a hasty exit. Since then, had I not received that
stay away
message, I wouldn’t have put Nacho into this latest mix, but now he could be a major player. But how? Nacho warning me to stay away: What did it mean, and from where?

The mine: I took a job at the mine. Okay, but how on earth was that connected to Nacho, and thereby gang activity? Was my job at the mine somehow stomping on gang toes? Seemed a stretch, but if so, how does old Rat Face figure in? I didn’t like him, but the only suspicious activity I could pin on him was some kind of relationship with the Xers, and the Xers reeked of dirty.

The Xer’s: How dirty, and in what capacity? Other than my gut feeling, I had nothing on them, but they
are
here, and there
is
trouble. I don’t believe in coincidence.

White SUV: First spotted at Rancho Sierra Coronado, then at the river ford. Same one that chased us up the Ruta Rio Sonora, and then brought the thug to my house? Another stretch.

The winery: Almost hijacked, car stolen. Again, my intuition screamed that two such insults upon my sweet self could must be joined at the hip, but were they?

Paco: If he is indeed dead, as we assumed when we left his sorry bullet-ridden bod on the beach, then who would hold enough of a grudge, or have a motive, to come after me? Paco, dead or alive, kept popping up as my prime suspect. Even dead, he could be the problem. Nacho told me Paco had ties to MS-13, and no slight to one of theirs was ever forgiven. MS-13 wipes out entire families in brutal revenge for a simple insult to a member of their gang, so I suppose getting him killed might be construed as a dis, as they say in gang slang? As a bare bone fact, Paco might be alive today had I not been involved, peripherally as I was, in his demise.

So, if not revenge, then what? What had I bungled into this time?

Was it simply that I dialed 9-1-1, ratted out a group of human smugglers I encountered on my road and that set off this whole chain of events? Nah, too extreme.

My head ached from more questions than answers.

I read somewhere that some proponents of spiritual teachings insist there is absolutely no coincidence in the world, and everything that occurs can be related to a prior association, no matter how vast, minute, or trivial. Hmmm. That wasn’t going to help me sleep any better, so I downed an Excedrin P.M.

I slept well, and long, never even hearing my friends return. They entered through the garage-to-pantry door, using their key for that deadbolt. I can only imagine their amusement at seeing all the other doors jammed with chairs.

When I awoke at nine the next morning, it was with a start and a moment of crystal clear clarity. Nacho was the key, and I had to find him.

Calling a meeting of the minds, I told everyone my theory that Nacho was somehow involved in this mess, and was the one person who might explain all events. He was the common denominator, not me, I reasoned.

“How do you figure that? So far, Miss Hetta, I do not recall seeing Nacho being hijacked, nor his home invaded by Zetas. That would be you.”

“However, Jan,” Craig said, “you were there in both cases, as well. How do we know it’s not you they’re after?”

“History. No one is ever after me, it’s always Hetta. For the past twenty damned years—”

I cut her off. “Let’s get on track here. Chino, you got any ideas?”

He shook his head. “No. I think Jan and I should return to the Baja. Craig, you must come, as well.”

“What am I? Shark chum?” I demanded. “Sure, throw me under the bus, run off to the safety of those damned whales, all of you.”

Jan shot Chino a dirty look and stuck out her chin. “You go hide amongst your whales, Chino. Even if Hetta is the screw up here, I’m not abandoning her.”

“Hey, why am I the screw up?”

“You let them find you. I told you, after that Baja debacle, to get yourself and your boat out of Mexico, but nooo, you never listen.”

“I had no reason to leave. Nacho took care of Paco.”

“Did he, now? I wasn’t invited to a funeral, were you?”

“Back to my original premise. We have to find Nacho and ask him if that pervert really died.”

Jan flipped her hands into the air. “Like we could possibly track down a guy who thinks he’s The Shadow, and is either a dope dealer or a federal agent of some kind for who knows what country? Plus, if you had any common sense at all, which you don’t, you’d stay the hell out of Mexico.”

Chino, obviously stung by Jan’s practically calling him a coward, quietly said, “I can find him. No one is looking for me. I’m Mexican, I blend in. I’ll go in search of this Nacho. I saw him on the beach Christmas eve, so I know what he looks like.”

We all stared at him, then Jan batted her eyelashes. “Really?”

Chino blushed and nodded.

“I’ll go with you, Chino,” Craig volunteered.

“Sorry, my friend, but you cannot. No offense, but you would seem writ large in Mexico.”

Writ large? I love it when Chino’s British education surfaces.

We were still discussing our next move when the phone rang. I answered, talked a couple of minutes, and returned to the group.

“Okay, I want everyone out of my house. Pronto.”

“Oh, come on, Hetta, we’re just trying to help.”

“And I appreciate it. Forget Nacho, forget everything. Pack up and hit the road, all of you.”

Jan’s eye’s narrowed. “Who was that on the phone?”

I couldn’t hold back a grin any longer. “Jenks. He’s hitched a ride on a private jet that’ll dump him in Tucson, and he’ll be here tonight. I don’t care why, I just know I’m a very happy camper, so scram. I’ll spring for your hotel bills.”

A CPA, a veterinarian, and a marine biologist head for Mexico in search of a mystery man; stop me if you’ve heard this one.

Within two hours of Jenks’s call, my friends were packed up and ready to go.

Chino was to lead the search for Nacho, and Jan agreed to go along on his word that he would buy a fully equipped RV, with satellite TV, for the beach camp. Rather than put them on a bus, I generously lent them my new pickup because they wouldn’t all fit into Craig’s money machine, nor was it the ideal vehicle for inconspicuously stalking Nacho. That still left me with Aunt Lillian’s tank, and a shiny red Porsche I promised not to drive.

Waving them a fond farewell, I did a little jig. I was a free woman, with my house my own for the first time in what seemed like ages. At first I reveled in my solitude, spending the first few hours piling everyone’s leftover stuff into the garage and house cleaning. Finally, I took a break on the verandah, enjoying the quiet, waving to a few golfers. A sense of unease, however, rose as the bright Arizona sun began to set, and I fled into the safety of the house, within easy reach of firepower.

After all, Jenks was on his way, but not yet here.

Jenks called from Tucson, sounding tired, but said he couldn’t wait to see me.

I’d already set the table and readied all his favorites: meatloaf, real mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, peas, and ice cream. Okay, not very romantic, but it is what he loves. I remember returning to the States after long stays overseas, looking forward to good old American fare.

After an extra long, hot shower, I laid my clothes out for the evening. First I unpacked a pair of Eff-me pumps with six-inch heels I hadn’t worn in months, since they’d been stored, along with my guns and other clothes, at Jenks’s apartment in Oakland. I sent Craig an ESP
thank you
for bringing them to me.

Thanks to Craig’s no white stuff and exercise regime, an emerald green silk cheongsam I’d had custom made in Hong Kong fit better than ever. The prim Mandarin collar, and side slits to you-know-where, balanced a nice-and-naughty gal look guaranteed to snag and keep a guy’s attention. With it, I wore only the ruby pendant Jenks gave me, dangly earrings to match, and those high, high, heels.

I hadn’t gussied up in a dog’s age, and narrowly avoided blinding myself with the mascara wand. Living on a boat had taken its toll, but two hours of primping covered a multitude of sins. After painting my nails what Jan referred to as Floozie Red, I impatiently waved them in the air to dry while checking the clock.

Poofing my hair one last time, I gave myself a boob boost, tugged at my hem, and dabbed on a little more Joy. Oh, yes, I was sooo ready for Jenks.

A last glance in the mirror almost had me undo the whole getup. It was too much. I looked like a Hong Kong street walker. Way too eager, too desperate, too—the doorbell rang and I flew through the house, damned near taking a header, unaccustomed as I was to heels.

So much for playing hard to get.

Throwing open the door I said, “You made good—oh, hell.”

“
Quierda
, you are not glad to see me?”

“Nacho? What are you doing here?”

“Café, you never call, you never write.”

He gently pushed the door open, stepped in, locked it behind him.

I stood there like the idiot I am while he checked out the room’s low lighting and crackling fire, then gave me and my outfit a long slow look, raising his eyebrows in approval. The table was set for two, a bottle of Viña de las Estrellas champagne chilling in a silver bucket, candles flickering everywhere, and flamenco guitar music played low. Taking a step closer, he half-whispered, around that lazy, sexy smile of his, “So, you
were
expecting me?”

I found my voice. “You are the last person I reckoned on. Did you come to tell me what that ridiculous message you sent me means? I’ve got people out looking for you, so just tell me and get lost.’’ I didn’t know whether to be frightened or annoyed, and was doing a fair job of being both.

Nacho ignored my rudeness. “Café, you are actually beautiful.”

The surprised tone in his statement pissed me off. I inched toward the granite bar, where my .9mm semi-automatic lay in plain sight.

He glanced at the gun, moved between me and it. “Chica, is that an XDM, or are you just glad to see me?”

“Very funny. Now, either start talking, or beat it.”

“No hug, after all we’ve been through together?”

“Ya know, Nacho, a wise man once said, ‘I learned long ago, never to wrestle with a pig. You get dirty, and besides, the pig likes it.’”

“George Bernard Shaw.”

Nacho never ceases to amaze me. “Look, I’m expecting company, so whatever it is, make it fast,
Ignacio
.”

His jillion-watt grin made him even more handsome, if that’s possible. “So you
have
been thinking of me. Do you know what my name, Ignacio, means?”

I shook my head.

“Fiery.”

Despite the fact that Jenks was on his way, I felt a little tingle way down low. Nacho has a way of making that happen. I gulped. “Just talk.”

He shrugged. “Okay, okay. Those little problems you’ve been having with, shall we say, undesirable types? It is done.”

“Done?”

“Done.
Termino
. You made a grievous error in judgment when you challenged those men from the RV park.”

How did he know about that? I played dumb. “What are you talking about?”

“Let me refresh your memory. You and your friends were having breakfast at the golf club and the men you refer to as the Xers were there. One of them said to you, ‘My, your entourage just grows and grows, and you said, ‘And yours changes.’ This was not smart on your part, Café, as your friend, Allison, told you. Also, it forced our hand. We had to move up our operation.”

I was dumbfounded. Did they, whoever they were, have the tables bugged? If not, someone was right there, listening and reporting verbatim. “Oh, yeah? Well what did I have for breakfast?”

“Enchiladas. Look, you can be angry later, I just want you to know you are safe. It is over.” He handed me a newspaper. “Tomorrow’s edition. You will find it interesting.”

We both heard the pop and growl of a car pulling into my gravel driveway.

“I must, reluctantly, leave you, but first,” he handed me a card, “take this. Memorize the number, destroy the card. Ask for me, Lamont.
Adios, mija, y vaya con
Dios
.” He gave me the faintest lip brush just below my ear, then, just like that he was gone, letting himself out through the French doors facing the golf course.

I stood transfixed, staring into the darkened glass. A hot spot burned where his lips touched my skin. The doorbell jangled me, I whirled, and this time looked out before opening the door.

Jenks wrapped me in his long, strong arms, and I immediately forgot Nacho.

Jenks forgot he was tired.