“Do you think today’s events are related to the Arnold Blake murder?” Max asked.
“It doesn’t seem like it, but I guess I’d better check to see if there’s any connection between Blake and Duckworth. The only thing I know now is that whoever’s tiptoeing around in the development files again is very skillful and very careful—and you couldn’t say that for Duckworth. His style was more like clomping around in jackboots.”
“You said you don’t think it’s someone in development.”
“They’re all squeaky clean.”
“But that woman who saved your butt—Elena Reyes. Isn’t she one of your suspects?” Jack asked.
“Yeah.”
“Interesting that she got herself into the middle of that mess.”
“She says she was in the HR department on business and didn’t know Duckworth was going to come in waving a gun.”
“You’re sure there’s no connection between them?”
“What would be her motive for walking into danger?”
“To get to know you better,” Max answered.
“She didn’t know I was going to show up.”
“She probably had a good idea you weren’t going to leave a bunch of innocent people twisting in the wind.”
Shane shrugged. He wouldn’t discount anything, but he wasn’t going out of his way to manufacture a devious scenario for Elena. Or was he?
Elena’s stomach was in knots as she pulled up in the driveway of her parents’ modest ranch house on a dead-end street in Germantown. When she saw one of the front curtains drop back into place, she knew her mother had been looking out the window, watching for her to arrive—sure that she was coming over as soon as she could get away from the media.
She had thought about going back to her apartment and changing her clothes first. Then she’d told herself that her parents would be worried and would want to talk to her.
Still, she couldn’t keep her nerves from jumping as she climbed out of her car.
The front door opened as she hurried up the walk, but nobody came out. After taking a steadying breath, she stepped inside, and her mother closed the door.
Both her parents had been in the living room, which was furnished with a love seat, two low-slung side chairs, and a flat-screen television on a chest at the side of the room. It was tuned to CNN. Elena glanced from the TV to her parents. Both of them looked old for their years. Her mother’s dark hair was streaked with gray, and her father had lost most of his hair, so that only a thin fringe clung to the back of his skull.
He’d been a newspaper reporter back home, and he’d been able to write some articles for a local Spanish language paper here. But he’d supported the family by taking on janitorial duties for the local school system and had worked his way up to supervisor before retiring.
“You were on television,” he said in Spanish as Elena walked into the living room. “Local and national, too.”
He had been careful to learn English when he came here, but he was always more comfortable with his native language.
“No mucho,” she answered, speaking in Spanish for his benefit.
“I taught you to keep your head down. Now everybody knows you were in that office where the man shot that girl. Then he was killed.”
She wished she could simply turn around and walk out of her parents’ house. Instead, she crossed to one of the worn easy chairs and lowered herself to the seat.
It was tempting to ask, “Would you have been happier if I’d gotten killed?” but she kept the question locked behind her lips as she said, “I was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Unable to drop his original theme, her father said, “Everybody knows who you are.”
“Papa, this isn’t San Marcos. Nobody’s coming after me.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“I had no choice. I was in the office. I had to help the man who came to rescue us.”
“Shane Gallagher?”
“Yes.”
“He was on the TV, too. What does he do for the company?”
“He’s head of security.”
Her father sucked in a sharp breath before speaking. “Like the secret police.”
“No.” She looked toward her mother. “I came straight here. Could you get me a glass of water?”
Her mother looked toward Papa. When he nodded, she went into the kitchen and came back with the water.
Elena took several sips, then cradled the glass in her hand, grateful for something to hold on to. “I’m all right. I came by to tell you.”
“You stay away too much.”
She struggled not to make a cutting remark. She stayed away because coming here was never pleasant.
“Alesandro was here,” her mother said.
“How is he?”
“Bien,” Momma answered, but there was something in her voice that made Elena wonder if her brother was truly fine. As a boy, Alesandro had been happy to come to America. He’d liked the freedom and the standard of living here, but he hadn’t been able to make the most of his life in his new country.
He’d had trouble learning English, and his grades in school had been poor—not good enough for college. He’d worked a bunch of low-paying jobs. The best one was at the service desk of a rental car company. Usually he was short of money, and sometimes he tried to borrow from Elena. After she had lent him cash a few times, and he had never paid it back, she’d vowed never to do it again. That was something else her parents held against her. She should be willing to help her brother.
“Do you want to stay to dinner?” Momma asked.
“Gracias, pero no. I want to go home and lie down. I just stopped by to reassure you.”
Her father jumped into the conversation with the kind of comment she’d grown to expect from him.
“That gunman could have been politically motivated, and the government could be watching you now.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t get lulled into a false sense of security. You remember I thought we were okay. Then I got a tip that government agents were coming for us, and we had to get out of the house. We had to leave almost everything behind.”
Elena nodded. She’d heard this story many times.
Her father began to ramble on about how they’d traveled north by car, then crossed the border.
She’d been young, but she still remembered the soldiers inspecting their documents, and her father lying and saying that they were going to visit relatives in Mexico. She didn’t want to listen to the story again, but he was her father. He had saved her by getting her out of San Marcos, so she settled into her chair to hear the tale one more time.
If anyone had a right to be paranoid, it was Eduardo Reyes. But listening to him was exhausting, and by the time she left, she was almost too tired to think. Her father had gone on about government spies. She was more worried about the press. Had some reporter dug into her background and figured out that her parents also lived in the area? Was someone from a local television station or newspaper outside waiting to ambush her? Pausing just inside the door, she looked out into the darkness. There seemed to be no activity on the street. Perhaps the reporters had finished with her. Or they hadn’t tracked down her family.
With a little sigh of relief, she crossed quickly to her car and got in. When she pulled away from the curb, she thought she saw another car pull into the street behind her, but the driver had left the lights off.
A car with its lights off at night? A reporter following her? Or what? She sped up, thinking maybe whoever was back there would let her go. Or was she seeing things because she was too tired to think straight? If she felt more comfortable in her parents’ home, she might have gone back and asked to spend the night. But then she’d have to tell them why she was nervous, and she certainly didn’t want to explain about the car.