I'll Be Watching You. Tracy Montoya
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a while back, and now it’s in her lungs. They told her she has about a month left.”
“I’m sorry.” What do you say to something like that without resorting to clichés and stale platitudes? She couldn’t even imagine going through what the poor guy was dealing with, as her own parents were strong and healthy. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
Instead of replying, Stan suddenly lifted his arm in the air to flag a passing taxi. With a murmured goodbye, he got inside, and the cab disappeared down the street.
A few minutes later, Liz screeched into view in her off-duty Dodge Charger, black with dark-tinted windows. Nobody loved an American muscle car better than Liz. Leaning her body against the door, Adriana curled her fingers under its handle, then stopped.
A flash of gray out of the corner of her eye. The sense that someone was staring at her.
Stan was gone—the awkward moment had passed—and yet, something still felt…off, somehow. And all she had to go on to prove it was a feeling. She watched the street, as people strolled in and out of the vibrant little shops and art galleries lining the historic street. Some paused to admire the explosions of flowers planted near curbs and on the road dividers. Many were undoubtedly headed toward the far end of the street, to either visit the famous aquarium or just for a glimpse of Monterey Bay itself. It was a pleasant scene, one straight out of the glossy, free, tourist brochures inside her studio.
And something was so wrong about it all. But what?
Still looking down the street, she opened the door and got into the car.
“S ORRY I’ M LATE ,” a deep voice said to her left, the masculine sound very unlike Liz’s no-nonsense alto.
Whipping her head around in shock, she discovered that Liz wasn’t inside waiting for her…and that she herself wasn’t even in Liz’s car. The sleek black Charger looked exactly like Liz’s from the outside, but the gray interior lacked the crumpled soda cans and ballet and basketball gear her daughters perpetually left inside. Come to think of it, the familiar Truth or D.A.R.E. decal on the rear side window touting the police-run drug education program was also missing. And there was also the small detail that in the driver’s seat, instead of Liz, was a man she hadn’t seen in four years—one she remembered all too well.
“Lieutenant Borkowski sent me,” Detective Daniel Cardenas said without preamble, which was enough to stop her from apologizing and scrambling out of the vehicle.
“You two have the same car,” she replied, immediately wanting to kick herself for sounding so stupid.
“There’s a Dodge dealer in town who likes cops. Nice discounts.” He hit a button on the door armrest, causing all four doors to lock down with a loud thud. “Buckle up.”
She clicked her seat belt into place, knowing that if Liz had sent him, she’d had a good reason for doing so. “So, Detective, you want to tell me why Liz isn’t picking me up herself like she promised?”
“She said she promised you a ride, Ms. Torres,” he said, as unfailingly polite as she remembered. Despite the Latin last name—he was Puerto Rican, she remembered—his English was unaccented, until he said her name with the rolling R and musical tone of a native Spanish speaker.
“Adriana. Or Addy,” she said. He didn’t invite her to call him Daniel—and she knew he wouldn’t. If Cardenas was going to have anything to do with her case, he would keep things professional.
Concentrating intently on the road, he pulled the car away from the curb. He didn’t smile—she couldn’t remember ever having seen him smile—but his face was relaxed, pleasant. “She thought we should talk.”
“Oh?” Obviously, getting information out of Mr. Strong and Silent was going to be about as easy as bathing Liz’s cat. When Cardenas didn’t offer any further information, Adriana sat back in her seat, seeing if waiting patiently would produce some results.
Four years ago, at the age of twenty-eight, Daniel Cardenas had become the youngest detective sergeant in the City of Monterey Police Department’s history, James had told her. Known for his sharpshooting skills and a constant, almost preternatural cool under pressure that had earned him the nickname “The Zen Master,” the quiet detective with a rumored genius-level IQ had a case-solve rate that rivaled the best in the department, including Liz and James.
At one of the police department’s social events, Cardenas’s date had confided to Adriana that she referred to him as “The Kama Sutra Master” with her girlfriends, because “he had really great hands.” Fortunately, Addy had managed to excuse herself before the woman had provided any more details.
He was now dressed in a blue-gray silk tie and a tailored white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His dark gray suit jacket lay abandoned in the backseat, a fact that made her realize she’d never seen him look that rumpled. He’d always been buttoned up, pressed and coolly professional, usually with a pair of mirrored aviators hiding his dark eyes and making him look like Secret Service. Even his short, black hair was cool, the cut a combination of artfully mussed style and low-maintenance casualness that you couldn’t get from a discount barber.
She glanced at his hands, loosely clamped around the steering wheel at three and nine o’clock, the tendons standing out in sharp relief underneath his tanned skin. No rings.
She remembered those hands. They’d held her for hours after he’d come to her door to tell her that James had died in the line of duty. They’d wiped her tears and had dialed the phone to call her family. They’d stroked her hair and had given her something to hold on to when she thought she’d die because it hurt so much. Seeing him again was like a handsome, polite reminder of the worst day of her life.
The car crawled slowly through the tourists on Cannery Row, and since Cardenas seemed more focused on his driving than on enlightening her, she decided to start playing twenty questions. “You’re the one she was telling me about?” she asked, more than a little glad her voice sounded more normal than she felt. “The MPD ‘go-to guy’ on stalking cases?”
A corner of his mouth quirked upward. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was closer than she’d ever seen. Not that they’d crossed paths all that often. “Something like that.”
“But this might be more than just a stalking case.”
He nodded, a small, economic movement, quickly glancing in the rearview mirror before responding further. “I know.”
She turned her face away from him to stare out the window.
Arriving at the Hoffman Avenue intersection in time for a break in the tourists meandering through the crosswalks, Daniel made a sudden left. He followed that with an immediate, sharp right onto Lighthouse that had her grasping for the armrest so she wouldn’t careen into his side. She could have sworn she heard the tires squealing.
As she peeled herself off the door, she noticed he was driving calmly, as if the two Indy 500 turns he’d just made had never happened.
“Uh, Detective,” she said. “Is there something you need to tell me?”
“I like to drive fast.”
Okay, now he was just messing with her. And she was about to let him have it when everything clicked into place—the off-duty car, the rolled-up sleeves, the slightly askew tie.
“This isn’t official is it? You’re off duty.”
“I’m never off duty,” he replied, extremely focused on the road. “But I’m officially on the clock in exactly two minutes, if it makes you feel better.”
“Look. I don’t know what Liz told you, but I don’t need to waste the department’s time—and yours, since you’re not even on the clock at the moment, and I know they just cut the overtime budget because Liz has been ranting about that for weeks.”
Another glance in his mirrors. He slipped a pair of expensive aviators