“Are you out of your mind?”

  “Your grandmother is a very influential person in this county. Purely a career enhancement move on my part.” He smiled and pushed the recliner back one notch.

  “You can’t spend the night here.”

  “She said I could.”

  “Well, I say you can’t.”

  He locked his hands behind his head and crossed his legs. “She outranks you.” His expression was as cocky as his position.

  “Don’t you own a pair of socks?” I snapped, mostly because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “What?” He looked down at his topsiders, perplexed.

  I glared, not about to admit that I was actually relieved someone was staying the night with me. The sight of his pistol lying on the end table next to him gave me as close to a feeling of security as I was going to have tonight.

  “You can use the quilt on the sofa if you need it.” I laid the remote control on the table next to him. “Where’s my gun?”

  “You won’t need it while I’m here.” He grabbed the controller, turned on the TV and started cruising the stations.

  “It’s my gun. I want it back.”

  “You’ll get it back tomorrow,” he said, his eyes never leaving the TV screen.

  “I want it now.”

  “I said no. Now go to bed.” He settled on the eleven o‘clock news and pushed the recliner back as far as it would go.

  “Get out of that chair.”

  “I told you, I’m not leaving.”

  “I’m not telling you to leave. I’m telling you to get out of that chair.” His head snapped up.

  “Okay, no problem,” he said in the pacifying tone a person might use on a nervous horse. In seconds, he was out of the chair, sitting on the sofa. “Is here all right?”

  “Fine.” I went into the bedroom and slammed the door.

  A few seconds later, he knocked. “Don’t lock it.” His voice was muffled by the thickness of the door.

  I swung it open. “What did you say?”

  “Don’t lock this door. I might need to get in there quickly.”

  Another time, that remark might have made me laugh, but I was too close to the edge to find any humor in it. “Do you think he’ll come back?” My voice cracked, but I was beyond caring.

  “Probably not. He was either a very poor shot or he was only trying to scare you. With the caliber of gun he was using, my guess is the latter.” He took off his glasses and cleaned them with the edge of his sweatshirt; his eyes drew tight with fatigue. “I’m not done talking with you. We’re going to continue our conversation first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “I know.” Right then, I didn’t care. Tomorrow was a lifetime away. I was still wondering how I was going to make it through tonight.

  He started to turn away, then stopped and turned back, his face apologetic. “Look, about the chair.”

  I held up my hand. “I’m sorry I snapped. It’s just that ...”

  “I get it, Benni.” His voice was strained. “I’ll be out here if you need me.”

  Though I took a hot shower to relax, my sleep was fitful all night. Even Ortiz’s presence in the house failed to lessen the apprehension that held me tight as a wrestler’s grip. More than once I woke suddenly, my throat tight, my face hot from the adrenaline coursing through my body.

  I lay there and thought about the last three months, how different living in town was, how I missed the sounds and the odors of ranch life: the groaning of cattle echoing through the gullies on a clear night, the smooth feel of worn leather reins, horses whinnying to be fed at the end of the day, the tart, earthy smell animals bring to your life.

  At one point, in a sort of panic, I pulled the embroidered case off Jack’s pillow and rubbed my face where he once laid his head, trying to find his scent. But it had been too long; only my smell was there. I held the pillow to my face, stifling my sobs, wishing suddenly I were alone, yet glad I wasn’t.

  I woke for the last time at five A.M. and read the ceiling for an hour, worrying about what Ortiz was going to ask me and how much I should tell him. Now that there was a link to Jack’s accident, I wanted to get to this Suzanne Hart before the police. If they talked to her first, it would get all tangled up in legalities and I’d never find out if she knew anything about the night Jack was killed.

  Since sleep was obviously out of the question, I crawled out of bed, put on a pair of thick gray sweats and slunk down the hallway into the kitchen. I couldn’t see Ortiz, so I assumed he was stretched out on the sofa asleep.

  The kitchen was a mess as usual. I hadn’t washed dishes in a week, and though I didn’t honestly care about impressing Ortiz with my housekeeping abilities, I was vain enough not to want anyone to see what a closet slob I had become.

  I turned the hot water on to a quiet trickle and pushed up the sleeves of my sweatshirt. I was on my second load of glasses, trying to shove the dishrag down into a thin, elegant iced tea glass given to me by Elvia, when it broke, slicing deep into the palm of my right hand. Forgetting I wasn’t alone, I let out a yelp. Tears stung my eyes as I held my hand under the running water, washing the soap out of my wound.

  “Cut yourself?” Ortiz whispered about three inches from my ear, causing me to jump.

  “For crying out loud, why don’t you cough or something before you sneak up on someone?” I grabbed a dish towel and wrapped it around my hand.

  “And take away my only advantage?” he asked. “Let me see.” He unwrapped the towel and pried at the slit with his thumbs.

  “Stop it.” I tried to pull away. “You’re making it bleed more.”

  He continued to grip it firmly. “That’s the whole idea, gets rid of any glass chips. You probably need stitches. And a tetanus shot.”

  “Forget it. I’ll just stick some gauze on it.”

  “Sit down. I’ll do it. Where’s your first-aid supplies?”

  I pointed to the cabinet above the refrigerator and sat down on a kitchen chair. After a lot of complaining about my pitiful box of supplies, he fashioned a neat though bulky bandage.

  “I guess you did this so I’d have to cook breakfast,” he said.

  “Feel free to fix anything in the refrigerator.”

  He groaned when he looked at the bare shelves. “I should have guessed you’re one of those modern women who can’t cook. Guess we’ll have to go out.”

  “You can go out. I’m not hungry. And I can too cook.”

  “Then we’ll have our talk on an empty stomach.” He pulled a kitchen chair out, flipped it around and straddled it.

  “I’d like to get dressed first, if you don’t mind.”

  “You’re not leaving this house until we talk,” he said smoothly.

  I took my time dressing, partly out of choice and partly because of the awkward bandage on my right hand. I was attempting to brush the tangles out of my hair with my left hand when he knocked on the bedroom door.

  “You okay in there?” he called.

  I yanked the door open. “What do you want?”

  “You were taking so long, I was afraid you escaped. Of course, I knew you wouldn’t get far without these.” He dangled my truck keys in front of my face.

  “Give me those.” I grabbed them and stuck them in the pocket of my jeans. “It’s taking me a long time because I’m having to do everything with my left hand.” I turned back to the mirror of my oak vanity and continued pulling the brush through my snarled hair.

  “Here, let me.” Before I could protest, he grabbed the brush out of my hand and pushed me down on the vanity stool. His long, even strokes were so relaxing that after a minute or so, I found myself growing drowsy, breathing slower, in time with the strokes.

  There was a vague familiarity to his careful strokes. Not of Dove, who believed the quicker the better, or even Jack, who loved my hair but never, in the whole time we were together, brushed it. Then it occurred to me. It reminded me of my mother.

  On my first day of school, though she was already bedridden from cancer, she insisted on being the one to brush and braid my hair. Years later, Dove told me that it took her a day to rest from the strain of it. All I remember was she sang “Jesus loves the little children,” in a soft, breathless voice that was almost a whisper, and kissed the tip of each of my braids. For luck, she said. I tried to swallow over the lump in my throat.

  “Who did you see yesterday?” Ortiz asked quietly, bringing the brush underneath my hair; his fingers brushed against the nape of my neck, causing me to shiver slightly.

  “No one.”

  He looked at me in the mirror, a challenging look in his deep-set eyes. “You went to Marla’s funeral. You talked to Detective Cleary.”

  “Oh, yeah, I saw Detective Cleary.” I smirked at his reflection. The brush snared a knot; he tugged sharply, jerking my head back.

  “Hey, watch it.” I tried to squirm away. So much for sentimental memories.

  “Sorry. Where did you go after the funeral?” The firm, regular strokes continued, tranquilizing me again.

  “To Mrs. Chenier’s house.” I figured I might as well not lie, he probably already knew anyway. “You know, you look awful,” I added. With his overnight stubble and wrinkled clothes, he looked more like a vagrant than the chief of police. He ignored my comment.

  “Who did you see there?”

  “A bunch of people I don’t know.”

  “Then where did you go?”

  “McDonald’s. I had a cup of coffee. Want to see the receipt?” The brush caught another tangle; he yanked firmly.

  “I think I’d better do this myself,” I said, reaching for the brush.

  He held it away from my grasp. “Sorry, it slipped. I’ll be more careful.” He grinned, then got serious again when he saw my irritated face in the mirror. “Then?”

  “I went to the Tribune, had dinner at Trigger’s with my friend Carl, went to the museum, then I came home.”

  “Who did you talk to at Trigger’s?” He continued brushing, the rhythm the same, the strokes gentler.

  “My brother-in-law Wade, Carl, Carl’s dad, J.D.”

  “At the museum?”

  “I don’t know. Some of the artists. Josie, Sally, I think. Ray.”

  “Did you notice anyone following you during the day?”

  “No.”

  For a few minutes, the only sound was the whoosh of the brush moving through my hair. I closed my eyes and felt the tension in my neck and shoulders dissipate with each stroke.

  “Well, Ms. Albenia Harper,” he said in a low voice, “it seems to me we have a small problem here.”

  “And what is that?” Even with my eyes closed I sensed his scrutiny.

  “You have something I want and it appears you aren’t going to give it to me.”

  I wasn’t about to open my eyes on that one.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Whoever is involved in this isn’t messing around,” he said. “What is it you’re holding back from me?”

  “Nothing.” I started to rise, but his hand clamped down on my shoulder, pushing me back into the chair.

  “I think my hair’s just fine,” I said.

  “I’m not through yet.”

  “Well, I am. You know, it’s a mystery to me why in the world you don’t quit harassing me and spend your time actually looking for Maria and Eric’s killer.”

  He sighed, picked up my hair and bounced it in the palm of his hand as if he were weighing it.

  “That isn’t a mystery,” he said. “A problem, maybe, but not a mystery.”

  “What?”

  He stared at my hair, as if there were something written there. “A problem has a solution. You have information, I want it. When you give it to me, the problem is solved.”

  He wrapped my hair around his hand and held it lightly; if I moved, it would tighten, like a slipknot. “Now, a mystery is an entirely different animal.”

  “What are you talking about?” I started to pull away, felt his hand tighten, then decided to stay put.

  “A mystery has no solution. The mystery isn’t who killed Marla and Eric. That’s the problem. The mystery is why. All the psychiatrists in the world can’t tell you that. It boils down to a question of evil, which is a mystery that will never be solved, by man anyway.”

  “Is there going to be a pop quiz after this, Sergeant Friday? Or perhaps I should say Professor Friday?” I asked, though I knew I was taking a chance with the grip he had on my hair.

  “Sorry.” He unwrapped his hand and laughed. “Been reading Marcel. French philosopher and playwright. Has a lot of interesting things to say. I have a tendency to lecture when I get excited about something.”

  “Gee, I never noticed that trait in you,” I said.

  He looked at my reflection and grinned. He set the brush down and started dividing my hair in sections.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You usually wear your hair in a braid, don’t you? I thought I’d French braid it.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t look so shocked. You’re looking at the best French braider in Derby, Kansas,” he said. “At least I was at one time.”

  “You’re putting me on.”

  “Nope. My mother was a working mom long before women’s liberation. I have twin sisters seven years younger than me. From the time I was twelve, it was my responsibility to get them ready for school. I can iron ruffles almost as good as I braid hair.”

  I watched mesmerized as his hands rapidly wrapped one strand of hair around another.

  “Embarrassed the heck out of my father. Insulted his Latin machismo. But whatever machismo genes I had were overcome easily by the greedy little capitalist in me. The mothers on my street would pay me fifty cents a head.” His reflection smiled at my unbelieving look. “My dad made me work in his garage on the weekends. He was terrified I was going to become a hairdresser.”

  “He must have been relieved when you became a cop.”

  “He never knew. He died when I was sixteen.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “That’s why I came to California. I was giving my mom a lot of grief. You know sixteen-year-olds. She sent me to live with my dad’s brother in Santa Ana. I lived with my Uncle Antonio until I went into the Marines.”

  “And braided your cousins’ hair?” I asked, smiling.

  He grinned back. “Lucky for me, Uncle Tony had four sons.”

  “Does your mom still live in Kansas?”

  “In the same house I grew up in. She retired last year. Taught fifth grade for forty-one years.”

  He reached over to the vanity, found a rubber band in the clutter and wrapped it around the end of my braid. “There you go.” He gave me a hand mirror and stood back, folding his arms across his chest.

  It was the neatest French braid I’d ever seen.

  “Ortiz,” I said, laying the mirror down. “I hate to admit it, but I’m impressed. What other secrets are you hiding behind that macho cop exterior?”

  “Now, what kind of secrets could a good ole boy from Kansas possibly have?” He winked at me and glanced at his watch. “I have to hit the road. I need to go home, shower and get to work. Lots of bad guys out there.”

  “I guess I owe you fifty cents,” I said, walking him to the door.

  “First one’s on the house.” He gave my braid a tug and stepped out on the front porch. He waved to Mr. Treton, who was watering his already soaked impatiens at a suspiciously early hour, then turned back to me.

  “Benni, why don’t you just tell me what they’re after?” His voice was tight, apprehensive.

  “Where did you put my gun?” I asked.

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” He rubbed his jaw, then reached over and touched his finger to my cheek. “I don’t want the next bag they zip up to be yours.”

  I folded my arms across my chest and didn’t answer.

  “I put it back in your nightstand,” he said with a sigh and stepped into his car.

  Ten minutes later, I was draining the bloody water out of the sink, when the phone rang. Elvia’s voice held a hint of laughter.

  “I hear you had company last night,” she said.

  “Can’t I do anything in this town without it being on the front page of the Tribune?”

  “Come by the store. I want to hear everything.”

  “Calm down, it’s not what you think.”

  “Oh,” she said, disappointed. “Too bad.”

  For the second time that morning I didn’t answer. I wasn’t about to admit she might be right.

  16

  “SO HOW ARE you going to find out who this Suzanne Hart is?” Elvia asked.

  I told her the whole story while we sat in her real office upstairs drinking cappuccinos. She looked worriedly at my bandaged hand. “Just how bad did you cut yourself?”

  I sat with my right hand raised as if swearing to tell the truth. It seemed to throb less that way. “You have any aspirin?”

  She dug through her desk and tossed the bottle over to me, which I missed. “Sorry,” she said. “I guess I should have known to buy you plastic glasses.”

  “Ha.” I struggled with the child-proof cap. She reached over, popped it open and gave me two tablets.

  “Two more.”

  “Two’s enough. If they don’t work ...”

  “Just give them to me,” I snapped.

  She raised her eyebrows quizzically at my tone and handed me two more.

  “Sorry,” I said. “My hand hurts.” She waited with a blank, patient face for me to continue.

  “I don’t know how I’m going to find her,” I said, swallowing the aspirin one at a time between sips of cappuccino. “I just know I have to. I have a feeling she knows something about Jack’s death and I want to get to her before the police.”

  “You really think Wade’s involved?”

  “I don’t know,” I said irritably. “Wade, Ray, the man in the moon. Apparently, Marla has been with them all. I’m going out to the Harper Ranch today to see if Sandra knows anything.”

  “After what’s happened between you and Wade? Maybe you should take one of my brothers with you.” She took a sip of her drink. Her shiny lips left a reddish-orange crescent on the side of her cup.