Wrecked (Josie Gray Mysteries #3)(44)

He smiled. “Because the Catholic Church never canonized Santa Muerte. She’s a cigarette-smoking Mexican folk saint worshiped by the cartels to keep them safe. Her appeal has spread beyond the cartels, but she’s still basically the go-to saint for criminals. The Pope certainly would never endorse her glorification of violence.”

Otto gestured back to the pendant. “So you recognize it? Looks to be a nice piece.”

“I do.” He turned the baggie over and pointed to the back of the pendant. “The initials CC on the back refer to an artist living in Presidio named Celeste Chesnick. Rumor is she works for the cartels.” He handed it back to Otto.

“You mentioned local followers?” Otto said, slipping the baggie back into his shirt pocket.

Simon nodded. “People come in here occasionally and buy cheap Santa Muerte trinkets. I sell them, just nothing from CC.” He led Otto through the store to where the cash register stood on a glass case by the front door. Simon opened a sliding door beneath the case and pulled out a tray of what appeared to be charms and small dolls, all bearing the smiling skull.

“Usually it’s kids who buy them. They like the skull.” After Otto examined several of the trinkets, Simon slid the case back under the counter and locked the door. “You know the Conroys out by the mud flats? Live out by Sauly Magson?”

Otto nodded.

“If you want more information go talk to them. They’re followers.”

“How do you know?”

Simon smirked and shook his head in disgust. “I used to go to church with them at St. Anne’s. The whole family came. You ever see the old Ma and Pa Kettle movies from back in the fifties?”

Otto laughed. “You’re even older than I thought! I know Ma Kettle. Had a herd of goats and a passel of kids.”

“Well, that’s who Bea Conroy reminds me of. Except her kids aren’t just ornery. They’re downright mean.”





THIRTEEN


Josie called Otto on her way home to tell him she didn’t have time to go back into the office before her meeting with Nick Santos. She could tell he was frustrated with her, probably more worried than anything, but her sole focus was currently the negotiator. Everything depended on this stranger.

As she drove down Schenck Road toward her house she began scanning the desert, stretching beyond both sides of the road, looking for anything that appeared out of place. She had called Dell twice earlier in the day and he’d assured her the dog was fine, and that no one was prowling around outside.

She pulled down the lane toward Dell’s house and Chester loped out of the barn to greet her. Dell followed, wiping his hands on a grease rag. Josie tried again to convince him that he needed a security system, but he assured her that he didn’t want any part of whatever she was having installed. He wasn’t turning over his safety to a computer and some woman sitting in India taking response calls. Thanks, but no.

Josie and Chester walked the perimeter of her house and then checked each room inside before she set him up with a bone and then changed into jeans and an Artemis PD T-shirt. She paced the house and tried to find something to occupy her time until Santos showed up. She washed the countertop in the kitchen and realized she hadn’t cooked a meal there since Dillon left. It was those odd moments of recognition that made her feel like her heart was being ripped out.

She checked her watch again. 3:55 P.M. She checked the cell phone the kidnappers had left for the hundredth time that day. Nothing.

The doorbell rang and Chester rushed to the sidelight, the hair on his back raised. The dog was aware things weren’t right. Josie looked out the same window to find a middle-aged man with shoulders like a linebacker walking up to her door. He had the aggravated grimace of a commuter about to miss the next train home.

She opened the door and they shook hands. His hands were dry but his handshake gentle, as if he was purposely holding back.

“This like cop purgatory?” he asked, looking back out through the front door.

She laughed in spite of herself. “No. I live here by choice.”

“How do you buy groceries? Go to the movies?” He gave her a serious look but she could tell he had a sense of humor.

She led him to the kitchen. “I have coffee or water. Or I can make some iced tea.”

He walked to her refrigerator and put his hand on the handle. “May I?” He glanced back at her for her response.

She nodded, surprised.

He opened the door and mumbled something about a grocery run. “Water’s fine.”

Josie filled two glasses with ice and tap water, and they both took seats at the kitchen table.

“Okay. Give me everything you know. Start with the first moment you knew something wasn’t right.”

Josie gave him the details, from the missed date cutting wood at Dell’s, to the odd text message, to the following morning when she found Christina murdered at the office. As she talked his expression changed from indifferent to fascinated. She found his excitement disconcerting, but encouraging: she hoped it meant he would take on the case.

When she finished he said, “Who’d you piss off in Mexico?”

She took a sip of water, wondering how much detail she should provide.

“It was almost two years ago, the Medrano and La Bestia cartels were fighting over routes through the territory.”