Unlock the Truth (4 page)

Dena walked over and tossed her empty coffee cup in the trash bin. She’d just come from Old Town, but needed an icebreaker. “How far away is Old Town? And did that blonde woman say she owns a spa? I might get a massage.”

“I’ll write down the directions. Debbie Williams owns The Healing Spa. Rachel Copeland owns Cliffs. It’s a good place for dinner or a drink.”

“Thanks.” Dena indicated the stack of newspapers. “It’s a terrible thing about those murders, isn’t it?”

“Shocking. Things like that don’t usually happen in these parts. Least as how, they never used to.”

“Did the first victim come in here? Did you know her?”

The woman shook her head. “She wasn’t a local.”

“Do you think there’s a connection to that farm? I forget the farmer’s name, but I know he’d only just moved back here—”

“Are you a reporter?”

“Me? No, no way.” Dena laughed and looked around the café. A guy seated near the door gave her the “what’s up?” tilt of his chin. “I’m a visitor.”

“Zeke is getting a bum rap. I knew him in high school—”

“Oh, sorry for my comments, please…tell me about him.”

“He’s a successful lawyer and managed to escape this hell hole. Everyone lashes out, or looks at his return with suspicion.” She scribbled on a piece of paper. “Damn narrow-minded locals.”

“Small towns are all the same. Crazy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, sorry for my outburst, some of these people chafe my butt,” the woman said, and handed over the directions. “Have fun.”

“Thanks. Um, what about that property on the other side of the hotel? Who does that belong to?”

“West Coast Citrus,” the woman said. She walked over to a coffee urn and pulled out the filter.

“That’s Cyril Johnston’s place, right?”

“He’s a big name in town. City council. Thinks he owns the whole Coachella Valley. Don’t stir up trouble. You’re obviously a reporter, so don’t quote me—”

“I’m not.” She shook her head. “You have no worries there. Thanks.”

Dena hurried outside and got into her car. In the rearview mirror, she saw the young man who’d been sitting inside come out. He lit up a cigarette. As she drove past he spoke on a cell phone. She pushed away the thought that he had read her license plate to someone.

She admired the Spanish architecture and gardens and the open-air shopping mall as she drove through Old Town, trying to figure out her next move. She had to find other people to question. Thinking again of how she might access that land, she noticed a hardware store on the opposite corner. A glimmer of an idea took shape.

Inside the store, she approached the cash register. “Hi, I’d like a wire cutter.”

The salesman—really a sales boy, all shiny-faced and spiked hair—pointed to an aisle. “Let me know if you need help.”

“Well, ah…maybe a length of rope.” She pointed to a coil. “I’ll take twenty feet of that one, and a large flashlight.”

“Aisle five,” he said.

She grabbed a flashlight and batteries, and decided not to quiz him about Carli. The way he watched her made her feel guilty. He wound the length of rope slowly and stood behind the cash register.

“Thanks.” Dena handed him cash.

Warmth rose in her cheeks, and she slipped her sunglasses back on. Would the cash raise suspicion and make her look guilty of foul play, or at least the intention of foul play? The young man watched her closely as she left. Darn. Had she topped off his suspicion with her dark glasses?

She hurried outside, and scoffed as she tossed the package onto the back seat of the car.
There’s nothing to worry about, people buy hardware supplies every day of the week
. And with that thought, she headed for the hotel, brimming with confidence.

****

Dena battled through the haze of resistance and jabbed at the alarm. Nine p.m. She could sleep until morning. After a hot shower to help her wake up, she ordered room service, pulled on jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers. When the young Latino man arrived with her dinner tray, she moved the
Desert Sun
newspaper off the table.

“Terrible, isn’t it?” she asked, and pointed to the headlines. “Did you know either of the women?”

The man set the tray on the table and pulled out a chair. “No, ma’am. But they haven’t identified the second woman.”

“It’s so sad.” She put the paper on the spare chair.

“I frequent the nightspots,” he said and set the table. “It’s a small town. Newcomers stick out, never knew the first woman.”

“The article said she lived in Palm Springs. That’s like forty-five minutes away, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but casinos and concerts attract the singles to the East Valley.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Strange that the women were buried on farmland, when there are hundreds of miles of open desert.” Dena reached into her purse and withdrew a few dollars tip.

“Thank you.” He pocketed the cash. “Are you a reporter?”

Darn.
“No. Guess I’ve read one too many murder mysteries.” She pointed to the thriller she’d left on the coffee table.

He nodded. “I suppose there must be a connection—”

“Locals seem to think so. They’ve blackballed Cabrera’s farming business.”

He laughed. “A lot of Latinos contract with the farmers in Rancho Almagro. We’re a superstitious breed. Some of the older folks thought Isabella was loco.” He touched twice at the side of his forehead with two fingers.

“Who?”

“Mrs. Cabrera.”

“Oh.” Zeke’s mother? What a piece of luck. She had to quash her excitement. “Why did they think that?”

“She moved into Posada del Gato Negro—”

“The Inn of the Black Cat?” Dena asked, savoring the words. A shiver of something, she wasn’t sure what, licked up her spine. “Where is that?”

“It’s not a real Inn. A casita out at Three C’s. She and a bunch of black cats moved in a couple of years before she died…sad that. Most Latinos think black cats are a bad sign.”

“Only when they cross your path,” Dena said, and smiled. “Tell me about Isabella.”

“Don’t know much. A nice lady, an artist, but she kept to herself. The Inn was her studio. Anything else I can get for you, ma’am?” he asked, and walked across the room and rested a hand on the doorknob.

“No, thanks. Have a good night.”

Everyone knew everyone in this community. Better not to be too inquisitive. But she’d have to find a way to not only enter the restricted area, but to get back on Zeke’s property and visit Posada del Gato Negro.

It was almost midnight when Dena grabbed the bag of supplies and a hooded black sweatshirt and headed for her car. Fifteen minutes later she drove past Zeke’s estate. The gates were closed.

“Lock yourself up. Lock yourself in. Bury your head in the sand,” she said in a sing-song voice. Further along the road, two cop cars blocked the entrance to the hotel site and she slowed the car down to the speed limit.

“Darn it.”

She pushed away the beginning of panic and drove past. It was a remote area, and she really didn’t know her way around. When she ended up back on the road near the archway into Three C’s Estates, she breathed a sigh of relief, reversed the car up an empty side street, and cut the engine.

She grabbed the supplies, prayed that none of the cops would make a coffee run, and hurried across the street. She clambered up the embankment and with shaking hands grabbed the wire cutters. The mesh cloth on the six-foot-high wire fence was easy to cut through, but even with both hands she made little headway on the wire.

A vehicle approached and its headlights flooded the road. She dropped to the ground. When the car passed, she dusted off and gripped the cutters again. The distant yip of coyotes sent a chill through her. Tiny hairs on the nape of her neck stood up. The coyotes yipped again. An animal, small and furry, brushed against her leg then beat a fast trail into the bushes.

She jumped backward and dropped the wire cutter. Her heart pounded and she gripped onto the fence to prevent falling. A city girl, and out of her element, when things stirred again in the bushes, she ran.

Chapter Three

Dena rolled over in bed. Slits of morning light shone around the edges of the blinds. She’d run from danger—real or imagined—twice in twenty-four hours.
Time to get serious
. She yawned and reached for her cell phone.

“Mr. Cabrera?” she asked, when she heard the brusque hello. “This is Dena Roman. I need a favor from you.”

He blew out a long audible breath. “How can I help?”

She envisioned his cool hazel eyes. Wondered what he’d look like if he smiled. She cleared her throat with a couple of small coughs. “My offer of representation…well, I have to be honest…it was more about me than you—”

“How so?”

“Well, I need closure.”

A long pause ensued. “Go on,” he finally said.

“I hope you understand…I have to walk on the land where they discovered Carli’s body and—”

“To achieve what?” he asked softly.

“I’m not sure…I…I knew her.” She crossed the fingers of her left hand and put it behind her back. It wasn’t a lie. “We were very close.”

He let out a long breath. “I see.”

“Look, I just have this need to walk on the land. Maybe it’s an obsession or something.” She waited, held her breath, afraid to breathe in case he turned her down.
Please, please let him understand obsession, and not think I’m crazy.

“It’s a restricted area—”

“I know, but if we went up to your border fence, and if we didn’t touch anything—”

“Of course, I understand.”

“You do? Oh, well…you see, it has to do with my mother…and ah, Carli’s mother and depression, and…well, I don’t know, death and family and…just a lot of stuff and—”

“We could get fairly close to the area,” he said. “Do you ride?”

“What?” She felt a hot flare of embarrassment. With Zeke’s unexpected compassion, she’d babbled like a ten-year-old.

“Can you ride a horse?”

“Oh…yes.” She crossed her fingers tighter. She hadn’t ridden for a long time, but how hard could it be? “Yes, of course.”

“Okay. Can you be here by nine?”

A quick glance at the radio alarm clock showed twelve minutes past eight. “Yes—” The phone went dead. She grabbed Carli’s photo. “I found a way in.”

She kissed her sister’s face, fell back on the bed, and grinned.

That was nice of Zeke. Really, really nice.

Remembering the short time frame, she jumped up, packed her clothes and double-checked the room. Today she’d go back to L.A. and straight to the office. She’d talk to Steve in person. He always worked on Saturday afternoon. She’d tell him the truth about what she’d done. Then she’d quit and come back here to investigate in depth.

Minutes later, headed for Zeke’s place, Dena concentrated on her mental to-do list. Misjudging the sharp turn to Zeke’s private road, she swerved and ended up on the shoulder. The tires spun in the soft sand, and the car lurched onto the blacktop and jolted her forward, slamming her into the steering wheel. She pulled in a deep breath and rubbed at her chest. Thank goodness the airbags didn’t inflate.

There was a sharp sound and the Mustang shuddered. A second later, something whizzed by the front windshield. She lowered her body as far as she could, her heart pounding, and floored the accelerator. She’d gone to the firing range with her ex-husband enough times to know that sound.

Someone shot at her.

****

Hearing a screech of tires, Zeke turned and looked out the office window. Dena Roman’s car swerved into his driveway and missed the center divider by about an inch. “What the—?”

He’d taken a risk in inviting her here; he knew trouble. And being a lawyer, damn it, he knew better than to take her near a restricted police investigation site. He grimaced. Could this ride be more about his curiosity than hers?

She climbed out of the car as he checked his watch. Five minutes to nine. Good, he disliked tardiness. He narrowed his eyes. What a crazy driver. At least she knew how to dress for horseback riding. Her blue jeans hugged her small frame. He dropped his gaze from the roundness of her rear end, swung around in his office chair, and pressed the intercom.

“Irma, Ms. Roman has arrived. Be nice to her.”

Irma responded in Spanish about always being nice.

“Yeah, right,” Zeke said dryly. Irma thought it her job to be protective of Three C’s and the Cabrera family. She tended to think every visitor had an ulterior motive. He glanced out the window again. Maybe this one did.

Dena crouched beside the car. She looked back down the road, then scurried around to the passenger side. Still crouching, she ran a hand over the passenger car door, and after a few more furtive glances, reached in and started to load her arms with things. Zeke sensed danger and strode down the hall.

Irma and Dena stood in the foyer.

“Someone shot at me!” Dena rushed toward him. Her bottom lip trembled. “Who…who would do that?”

Terror was written across her face. He reached out a hand, drew it back. “Are you hurt? Where did it happen?”

“Just after I drove onto your private road—”

“What? Wait a minute.” He grabbed her elbow and eased her into a chair. She dropped a coat hanger of clothes, a pair of high heels, her purse and laptop onto the foyer floor.

“I’m a bit shaky, but I’m not hurt,” Dena mumbled, and lowered her head to almost between her knees.

“I get water,” Irma said, and hurried to the kitchen.

“Tell me
exactly
what happened.” Zeke kneeled on the tile floor beside her and stroked the top of her arm.

She raised her head. “There’s a hole in the side of my car. I…I could have…could have been killed. Two shots.” She raised two fingers then took in a huge gulp of air.

Zeke took the water glass from Irma.

“Sip it,” he said to Dena, and held the glass to her lips. “You’ve had an awful shock.” He turned his head. “Grab my phone, please, Irma.”

Irma returned a couple of minutes later and handed him his BlackBerry. He still hadn’t made much sense of Dena’s ramblings.