Fearless. Diana Palmer
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THE NEXT WEEK, SHE was surprised to find a police car in the front yard. She went to the front porch and paused as the town’s police chief, Cash Grier, bounded up the steps.
She hadn’t seen him before, and she was surprised by the long ponytail he wore. She’d heard that he was unconventional, and there were some interesting rumors about his past that were spoken in whispers. Even up in San Antonio, he was something of a legend in law enforcement circles.
“You’re Chief Grier,” she said as he approached her.
He grinned. “What gave me away?” he asked.
“The badge that says ‘Police Chief,’” she replied, tongue-in-cheek. “What can I do for you?”
He chuckled. “I came to see Rodrigo. Is he around?”
“He was,” she replied. “But he hasn’t come in for lunch, or called.” She turned and opened the screen door, leaning heavily on the cane. “Consuelo, do you know where Mr. Ramirez is?”
“He said he was going to the hardware store to pick up the extra buckets he ordered,” she called.
Glory turned back to the chief, and found him eyeing her cane. She became defensive. “Something bothering you?” she asked pertly.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to stare. You’re young to be walking with a cane.”
She nodded, her green eyes meeting his dark ones. “I’ve been using it for a long time.”
He cocked his head, and he wasn’t smiling. “Your mother was Beverly Barnes, wasn’t she?” he asked coldly.
She drew in her breath.
“Marquez’s mother runs the local eatery,” he replied. “I know about you from her. She and Rick don’t have any secrets.”
“Nobody is supposed to know why I’m here,” she began worriedly.
He held up a hand. “I haven’t said anything, and I won’t. I gather you include Rodrigo in those people who aren’t supposed to know why you’re here?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “Especially Rodrigo.”
He nodded. “I’ll watch your back,” he told her. “But it would be wise to have Rodrigo in on it.”
She couldn’t imagine why. The manager of a truck farm wouldn’t know what to do against a drug lord. “The fewer people who know, the better,” she told him. “Fuentes would love to hang me out to dry before the trial. I know too much.”
“Marquez told me. He said he had to fight you to get you to come down here in the first place. The thing is, Fuentes probably has confederates that we don’t know about.”
“Here?” she asked.
“Very likely. I have a few contacts on the wrong side of the law. Word is that he’s hiring teenagers for his more potent areas of vengeance. They go to juvenile hall, you see, not prison. I understand that he’s recruiting in a Houston gang—Los Serpientes. If you see any suspicious activity here, or any new young faces hiring on, I want to know about it. Night or day. Especially if you feel threatened at all. I don’t care if it’s after midnight, either.”
“That’s generous of you,” she said, and she smiled.
“Not really,” he sighed. “Tris, our baby girl, keeps us awake all hours just lately. She’s teething, so you probably wouldn’t even have to wake us up.”
“Your wife is very famous,” she replied shyly.
He chuckled with pride. “Yes, but you’d never know it to see her pushing baby Tris in a cart in the Sav-A-Lot Grocery Store,” he assured her.
Grocery store. The store had a van. Something niggled in the back of her mind. She remembered something. “There was a van,” she said suddenly. “This man Castillo that Mr. Ramirez just hired to be his assistant was talking to some man in a battered old white van. Something changed hands—money or drugs, maybe. It was suspicious, so I wrote down the license plate number.”
“Smart girl,” he said, impressed.
“I put it on a pad in the kitchen. Would you like to come in and have coffee? Consuelo’s made a nice peach pie for supper.”
“I love coffee and pie,” he assured her.
“Come in, then.”
He followed her into the kitchen, where Consuelo greeted him, but with obvious suspicion. He got the number from Glory while Consuelo was out of the room.
“Consuelo doesn’t like policemen,” she confided. “I don’t know why. I mentioned something about the extra patrols that were coming past the house, and she was belligerent.”
“Could be the immigration investigations,” Cash murmured. “They’ve stepped up in the new political climate.”
“What about the extra patrols?” she asked suddenly.
He glanced toward the doorway to make sure Consuelo wasn’t around. “One of Ramirez’s employees has a rap sheet. We’ve been keeping a low profile, but we’re keeping an eye on him.” He grinned. “Nice work, getting that tag number.”
She chuckled. “I feel like an undercover narc or something,” she murmured as he got up to leave.
He laughed. “I can’t tell you why that’s amusing, but one day you’ll see. Thanks for the coffee and pie.”
“You’re very welcome.” She hesitated. “Can you tell me which employee you’ve got your eye on?”
He sighed. “You’ve probably guessed that already.”
She nodded. “Castillo has tats and muscles like a wrestler. It doesn’t take much guesswork. I’ve seen his type come through my office for years.”
“So have I,” he said.
“Do you know Mr. Ramirez well?” she asked suddenly.
“Not really,” he said deliberately. “I’ve seen him around. But I actually came today to check with him about one of your employees who may be in the country illegally.”
She wondered which employee. “Should I ask him to phone you when he comes in?” she asked.
“Do that, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll be glad to.” She leaned on her cane, frowning. Another thought provoked her next question. “That illegal,” she said slowly. “You don’t think it’s Angel Martinez, do you?” she added, recalling the sweet little man who was always so courteous to her when he came into the house with Rodrigo. She was fond of him.
His eyebrows arched. “Why do you say that?”
She shifted her weight. Her hip was hurting. “It’s just that he and his wife, Carla, have three children. They’re so nice, and they’re happy here. They come from a village in Central America where there was a paramilitary group. Somebody in the village identified one of the rebels to the government authorities. The next day, Angel took Carla and the children to a healer in another village because one of the children had a sore eye. When they got back, everybody in the village was dead, laid out like firewood on the ground.”
He moved closer. “I know what life in those villages is like,” he said with surprising sympathy. “And I know what good people the Martinezes are. Sometimes enforcing the law is painful even for professionals.”
His sympathy made her bold. “I know an attorney in San Antonio who specializes in immigration cases,” she began.
He sighed, noting her expression. “And I know one of the federal attorneys,” he replied with resignation. “Okay. I’ll go make some phone calls.”
She beamed up at him. “I knew you