Devil's Deal Read online

  In the small covered parking area behind the building, I contemplated my transportation options. Since I don’t like pickups, my choices were the fifteen-year-old station wagon or the twelve-year-old hatchback. As my cargo fit neatly in my shoulder bag, I opted for fuel efficiency. After two tries to find the right key, I fired up my new chariot, turned down the blaring Spanish music from the housekeeper’s last grocery run, and tuned in the local news station. It was the top of the hour, but nothing about a platoon of cops tying up traffic and shutting down an office building.

  Film at freaking eleven.

  I snaked my way out of the neighborhood and jumped on the 635 loop. Mentally flipping a coin, I headed south. No real reason. Well, okay, one reason. Oklahoma was north and nobody in their right mind wanted to go to Oklahoma. From the loop I had about ten major highways to choose from. US 20 East was another semi-random choice. Tyler was a rat’s nest of traffic. No one could follow me unless they were familiar with the maze. I could find a cheap no-questions-asked place to stay and hit Wally World for some maps and supplies.

  I might as well make my way to Houston, scope out Mom’s situation, and head for the beach. Maybe cruise along the southern coast to the Redneck Riviera around Pensacola. Other than a run to Gulfport to bail a developer out of a post-Katrina FEMA bind, it had been too long since I’d seen water that didn’t have bourbon mixed with it. There are plenty of anonymous rentals down that way. If I had to hide, I might as well have a nice view and work on my tan.

  CHAPTER 5

  It was near midnight when I pulled over in Nacogdoches. Tyler had been a monumentally stupid idea. I got so tied up and turned around in traffic and construction that I ended up on a road going north. My blunder left me with two choices: run the gauntlet again or ride the road I was stuck on back to the interstate and head to a town designed by someone sane and sober. I chose door number two.

  The sleepy clerk at the truck stop fleabag didn’t ask for identification and I didn’t volunteer it. Signing in under my mom’s maiden name, Rachel Delgado, I’d paid fifty-three bucks in cash for the privilege of sleeping in unit number six. I surveyed my digs, flipped on the creaky air conditioner, and wedged a chair under the door. It was a far cry from the kilo-buck palaces I usually stayed at when I traveled on business.

  I awoke to the thunder of semis outside my room.

  Staring at the stained ceiling, it took me a minute to remember where I was. Then, inhaling the reeking fug of ten million stale cigarettes and bong hits, it came to me. I was in a shithole hiding from a shitstorm. Glancing at my watch, it was too early to call Gerald, so I stretched, grimaced at the pasty taste in my mouth, and wondered which warped door hid the no-doubt luxurious bathroom.

  The cubby lined with cracked tile lived down to my every expectation. I’d skinny-dip in a storm drain before I’d touch the shower. No matter what, I was sleeping someplace decent tonight. I washed up as best as I could in the rust-stained sink, brushed my hair, and stepped out to face my first full day as a lawyer-without-a-country.

  It was barely dawn, but the parking lot teemed with tankers and stock trucks. My hatchback looked like an escapee from a charm bracelet next to the monster trucks and SUVs clustered in front of the motel.

  A flash of neon caught my attention. The diner was open. My stomach growled as the smell of ham cut through the diesel fumes. Yesterday’s Chinese delivery seemed like a million miles away in another life. I wanted breakfast, a mountain of it.

  CHAPTER 6

  I was on my second cup of tea when I met a pair of denim blue eyes under the brim of a well-worn Stetson appraising me as if I was a promising colt. Smiling inwardly, I welcomed the uncomplicated attention. In this poker game, he was broadcasting that he had a straight flush.

  Even though, as of my last birthday, I was officially pulling thirty, the one place my parents’ cage match of a marriage had synced was genetically. Dad’s ice-blond ski-instructor looks mixed well with Mom’s Mexican heritage. My long dark hair, naturally shot with red and gold, set off my ivory skin and hazel eyes. I was used to using my looks to get results.

  Ramped by the stress of the last day and a mainline of caffeine, I had a sudden urge to take the Lone Ranger behind closed doors and roll him like a pair of dice. As I was about to make a move, his cell phone beeped out the theme to The Dukes of Hazzard and he was immediately deep into an angry conversation about a missing child support payment. His voice took on a whiny twang as he said, “Now, baby, don’t be that way.”

  My breakfast arrived and as my ardor cooled, I realized an essential truth. When fate offers up a choice between men and waffles, pick waffles. They’re always warm and sweet and even the bad ones go down smooth.

  After he slammed his phone closed, he shrugged into a leather duster and jingle-jangled to the register. Every pair of female eyes in the diner followed him as if he was a ham sandwich.

  C’mon girls, is this really the man you want your kids spending their weekends with?

  Without another thought, I ordered a second waffle and booted up my computer to check the news. The wi-fi was draggy, but serviceable. The Dallas Morning News had a small article on the second page about the arrest of “prominent local attorney Thomas Martin,” but said nothing about the charges. The underwhelming attention was interesting. Dad was a wheel in Dallas politics and a mainstay on the social circuit. Someone had a muzzle on the press.

  I chugged tea and surfed maps until the clock turned over to eight. It was time to stop guessing and check in with Gerald. While I waited for the connection, I scooped up the last of the syrup with a hunk of bacon, and stopped totaling the calories around a zillion. A salad bar was definitely in order for lunch.

  “Juliana, where are you?” Gerald growled.

  “In an unspecified ring of hell, but at least the food is good. What’s the news?”

  Tension clipped his voice and my cheerful mood vaporized. “What little I have is bad.”

  I sat up straight. The restaurant had emptied of sunrise diners and the waitresses were clearing tables and rolling silverware into paper napkins for the next wave.

  “I have a few minutes. Give it to me straight.”

  “I got an emergency hearing yesterday afternoon, but bond was a non-starter. I still don’t know what he’s charged with. The indictments are sealed until the first appearance tomorrow. My source at the prosecutor’s office can’t get a peek at the discovery. Everything is under lock and key. I’m filing a pile of motions this afternoon to see if I can shake something loose.”

  Damn. This is bad.

  “Gerald, can I ask a question? Give me your gut feeling.”

  “Of course you can, Jewel.”

  That endearment again, the one reserved only for family.

  “Do you think this is about the Congo situation?”

  The silence was all I needed. When he answered, his voice was bland and noncommittal. I knew the tone well. I’d used it a thousand times.

  “We won’t know anything until court tomorrow.”

  “Yeah right, Gerald. I told Dad that deal was a one-way ticket to Club Fed. I’m in that one hot and deep. I covered my tracks, but—”

  He cut me off.

  “I don’t need the details now. Save it for when we have the paperwork. If it helps, I can give you some funny news.”

  I knew he was trying to distract me so I played along. “Okay, I could use it right now.”

  “They put your dad in the general holding cell down at county, no doubt thinking it would be an intimidation tactic. By shift change, he was giving the locals stand-up comedy lessons on evidence suppression. After that, they pulled him out and put him in the celeb drunk tank, so he has his own room.”

  “That’s my old man.” Even with the gravity of the other news, I had to smile. Nothing flustered attorney-to-the-stars Tommy Martin for long.

  “I have to go. But, here is one thing I can do for you. Use the e-mail address I gave you last year. It’s on my secure ser
ver and everything sent over it is privileged. I’ll send you a copy of the indictment tomorrow. What are your plans now?”

  “Thanks Gerald. I appreciate it. I don’t know. You just turned the heat up. I toyed with dropping in on Mom, but—”

  “No.”

  His one-word interruption surprised me.

  “Let me guess.”

  “Rachel called me late last night. The Feds have already been asking about you. They’re likely watching her place, so steer clear. Before we get off the phone, she gave me some info to pass on to you.”

  I thought about my regal autocratic mother and my parents’ ongoing arctic death duel. For her to call Gerald, Dad’s best friend, was telling. Something had her spooked. Okay, my first impression was correct. The family reunion was delayed.

  “What’s that?”

  “She faxed me a letter from a lawyer out in Beaumont. Seems your Uncle Jimmy has died and he named you in his will. I’ll e-mail you a copy of the letter shortly. It sounds like a nice innocent chore for you to tend to and a completely innocuous reason for you to not be in Dallas. I, of course, have no clue where you are. Call me tomorrow morning after the docket call.”

  The phone cut off without any further parting words.

  Uncle Jimmy is dead.

  The news hit me like a rock. I hadn’t thought of him in ages, but he’d been there, just over the horizon. Uncle Jimmy had been my personal superhero. He was a lawyer, but rough and unkempt, like the old-boy hacks in night court. He usually smelled like expensive cigars and cheap whiskey, but he also loved me and had time for me. Little things, like taking me fishing during Mom and Dad’s endless country club parties and never missing a birthday.

  We lost touch after the divorce. I was shipped off to boarding school and followed my dad’s footsteps into high-stakes law. I couldn’t imagine him leaving much of anything. I logged in and copied the lawyer’s address. A map check showed I could catch 69 Highway at Lufkin and be in Beaumont by mid-morning.

  Hmm, maybe I’ll have a little barbeque with my salad bar.

  CHAPTER 7

  I pulled into Beaumont way later than my original estimate. An hour out I realized I was still wearing my gym clothes from yesterday. A shopping trip at a handy Walmart and a stop at a travel plaza euphemistically advertising the “cleanest, hottest showers in Texas,” had rendered me neat and presentable in generic jeans, pastel polo shirt, and sneakers. With my hair tamed into a thick braid, I looked like a blue-collar soccer mom.

  I’d called and made an appointment for one. Javier Sanchez, Attorney-At-Law, seemed pleased to hear from me.

  Lunch hour was in full swing and Willow Street was a mass of tweed and pinstripes. Cruising past the federal courthouse gave me the creeps, as if a SWAT team could pour out of the bakery van ahead of me at any moment.

  Congo.

  What Gerald had said and not said had shaken me a lot more than I wanted to admit. A lab courier flipping me a one-finger salute for drifting too far toward his lane brought me back to the present. Yeah, an accident would be good right now. A freaking accident in front of the federal building with my dad under indictment and a half-mil in the trunk would be just the ticket.

  The address was for a narrow generic office building with a well-worn LEGAL ANNEX sign over the door. I could see the interior already: a warren of cramped offices populated by solo pracs chasing ambulances between the three courthouses in the area.

  I checked my parking options and didn’t like them. No secured garages. No gated lots. At this end, after Willow turned into Park Street, the buildings were less grand and there was a lot less traffic. There were plenty of vacant buildings with broken windows testifying to casual law enforcement. A big church, a block or so down, was having some kind of do and I was nicely inconspicuous in the crowd of minivans as I locked the car. I breathed deep and immediately regretted it. It had been a while since I’d been to Beaumont, but one thing hadn’t changed. When the wind came from the chemical plants to the south, the city smelled like a tuna sandwich left in the trunk of the car over a long holiday weekend.

  I tested my luck with a couple of tacos from a street vendor. At exactly one, I knocked on the door to Suite 203 and smiled at the hearty invitation to come in.

  After the drab hallway, I was pleasantly surprised. Sanchez’s office was a riot of fresh color, from the flowers on his neat desk to the bright wall of certificates and photos, including several of him with my Uncle Jimmy dating back at least twenty years.

  “And you must be Jewel. Jaime told me you would grow into a world-class beauty. Allow an old man to say that my hermano was right. Please have a seat.”

  His voice was rich and deep with his Mexican accent still vibrant around the edges. I liked him. After the chaos of the last thirty or so hours; his exuberance washed over me like a cool rain. I glossed over the use of my private name. This man’s good humor was that infectious.

  I took the indicated chair. “Thank you, Mr. Sanchez. I wish we could be meeting under better circumstances.”

  “Ah yes, me as well. First and foremost, call me Javier. Your tio was my oldest friend. We came up through law school together more years ago than I would like to admit. Until the day he left us, he regaled me with stories of you and never failed to show me any mention of you in the newspaper.”

  “What happened?” The pleasure of learning Uncle Jimmy was out there like a guardian angel all these years warred with my guilt for not staying in touch with him. This battle must have shown in my face.

  “Do not worry. Jaime understood and never expected anything of you. You had your own path. Know that he loved you to distraction. You were the daughter he never had.”

  “Uncle Jimmy was the best. Dad treated me like a mascot until I hit college and Mom thought of me as a fashion accessory she had to have because all her friends had one. Don’t get me wrong—I had the best of everything, but nobody cared if I was happy except for him. He listened to me.”

  Javier’s face softened and when he spoke, his voice was kind and gentle.

  “It was a heart attack. Jaime was a man of appetites and he kept right on going, even after the doctors warned him to slow down. I will miss him horribly, but I am not surprised. It was not quite a week ago. Per his wishes, I took care of the arrangements. He didn’t want a service. After I had a handle on everything, I sent the letter to your mother.”

  I remembered his grease-stained ties and ever-present cigars along with the not-so-secret nips from his flask. Uncle Jimmy was not a poster child for clean living. Still, my vision misted.

  “Let us discuss why you are here in my humble office.”

  He pulled out a thin file. I was right. The estate wouldn’t amount to much. I didn’t care. Money wasn’t the issue. I was curious.

  “I hope you have a better poker face in court than you do across my desk. Yes, you are correct. Riches do not await you.”

  Shocked, I pulled back. This man was reading me like the morning newspaper. I had a feeling he was a much better lawyer than his modest digs indicated.

  The small smile again and he opened the folder.

  “Jaime left a handwritten will. There is no need to probate; it is more of a letter saying he wants all of his things and his law practice to go to you. He says that he hopes you will help his clients with their troubles or help them find new lawyers.”

  “Wow.” My feelings were mixed. The last thing I needed was a raft of petty divorces and landlord-tenant disputes. On the other hand, as Gerald had said, this was a perfect excuse to avoid Dallas for a while.

  “Did Uncle Jimmy have an office in this building?”

  This time the laugh was loud and deep.

  “Heavens no, chica. He lived and worked out in Cochinelle so he could go to the lake whenever he wanted. Jaime had become rather eccentric, even for him, the last few years. You are going to have to see everything and evaluate it for yourself. There are two other things I have here in the office that we need to discuss.”
/>
  My guard flew up, but he was still smiling as he went into the back room. I could have guessed all day and not been right about what he brought back. In one hand was a brass urn and in the other was a tiny caramel-and-white dog.

  The office was silent until the dog let out with a little bark.

  “What the hell is this, Mr. Sanchez?” In my consternation, I forgot we were on a first-name basis.

  “Ms. Martin. This is the last earthly remains of Jaime Santiago Delgado and this”—he held out his hand— “is Simon. Would you like to hold him?”

  I’m sure I had the same stunned look as when friends had offered me their new babies over the years. I’ve never had a real pet. When I was a kid, Mom wouldn’t allow them and Dad never thought enough about it to intervene. As an adult, my odd travel and fourteen-hour days didn’t make for successful animal ownership. I had a fish, once. The operative words being had and once.

  Javier plopped the dog in my lap. Simon nuzzled my right hand. I scratched him behind the ear and he flopped over onto his back, showing me a pink belly. I’m a fast learner, so I stroked the silky fur and was rewarded with the thump of his tail against my leg.

  Javier took it all in with a small grin. “Fetching little critter, isn’t he? Unfortunately, my wife’s cats nearly killed him. I’ve had him boarded since your tio left us. According to the will, Simon is now yours.”

  I sat upright, nearly catapulting the little dog to the floor.

  “Um, I’m not a pet person.”

  “Pet, schmet. You feed him and either walk him or pick up his jelly-bean poops. Look, he already likes you.”

  Simon had snuggled into a ball with his tail over his nose.

  Ah, hell.

  Javier continued. “Actually, Simon is a rather valuable little animal. Jaime took him as a pup in exchange for legal work. He is a purebred Chihuahua from show stock. About two years old. You could sell him or find him a home in a heartbeat. I would keep him if I could. He is well trained. Jaime used to carry him around in his coat pocket.”