The Trouble with Twelfth Grave (Charley Davidson #12)(61)
17
Apparently “spite” is not an appropriate answer to,
“What motivates you?”
—MEME
On the way to El Paso, I could think of only two words, two things that best described the place: great and tacos.
Okay, El Paso had a lot more to offer than great tacos. Like great enchiladas. Great tamales. Great gorditas. It took me a while, but I finally realized I was famished. And almost out of gas.
As the city came into view, I tried to change while driving, crossed the white line a few times, almost died twice, then finally pulled over before I killed someone. I slipped my clothes off to the glee of many a trucker and slid into the little black dress Cookie had found. The one I hadn’t worn in fifty years. I could only describe the fit as tourniquet-like and thank the gods I hadn’t eaten after all.
Unfortunately, Cookie forgot one little-black-dress fashion essential. Shoes. So, my ankle-high boots would just have to do.
I’d missed the church service for Hector but, thanks to the wonders of GPS, found the graveside service no probs. I threw a casual jacket over my shoulders and made my way to the throng of funeralgoers.
Most were dressed in black. The Catholic priest’s robes waved in the wind as he gave his final soliloquy, praising Hector and his family for being such pillars of the community.
With the service already under way, I walked around the crowd until I could get a good look at Hector’s family. Fortunately, no one stopped me. Bodyguards, as plentiful as they were, had the manners to keep a low profile. They didn’t pat me down when I walked up. They did, however, keep a weather eye.
The priest ordered everyone to bow their heads in prayer, and they did. All but one. A woman in her fifties sitting in the front row kept her gaze locked on the coffin. She wore a black hat with a net pulled down over her face. Despite clear signs of distress—swollen eyes, red nose—she remained a statue, head high, jaw set, mouth firm. Hector’s mother, no doubt.
I scanned not only the faces in the crowd but the emotions rippling through it. Amazingly, considering we were at a funeral, there wasn’t a ton of grief. I’d felt more grief while having lunch at the Frontier when a news program announced that Lost was ending. The guy wasn’t the most beloved sort.
Only one woman, the one I’d assumed was Hector’s mother, Edina, had any real emotion churning inside her. She kept a firm hold on it, but mixed with the devastation was a seething, explosive kind of anger. The kind of anger that screamed vengeance. Whoever did kill Hector would someday face that woman’s wrath.
I’d seen evidence of her wrath in the form of permanent scars on Judianna’s face. Because she’d tried to leave her son. I did not envy the person guilty of killing him. What kind of atrocities would she think up for such a crime?
Another interesting character, a younger woman sitting right next to Edina, also wore all black with a net over her face. Hector had a sister named Elena. Perhaps that was Elena. I’d only seen one picture of her taken from a distance, so I couldn’t be sure. But she was striking with charcoal hair and flawless skin the color of caramel.
What was even more striking was not her lack of emotion but the stable of emotions she did possess. Anger and something akin to hatred emanated out of her in hot, hostile waves. An interesting juxtaposition considering her brother had recently died.
But no one at the funeral took me by surprise save one. Aunts and uncles stood around, trying to cry for Edina’s benefit. Nieces, nephews, cousins, and friends gave their respects as the funeral came to a close. Stoic bodyguards patrolled the area and kept an eye on their charges. But one person, one of the bodyguards, the one standing directly behind Elena, surprised me to such a strong degree, I almost gasped when I realized who it was.
He was barely recognizable. He’d gained mass since I’d last seen him in his patrol uniform, along with a sharp suit, even sharper haircut, and dark, perfectly trimmed stubble. Like most of the guards, he wore sunglasses, but I recognized him nonetheless. Officer David Taft. Strawberry’s brother. The brother neither she nor Uncle Bob had seen in months.
No wonder Strawberry couldn’t find him. He was a different animal. Almost unrecognizable. A chameleon, able to blend in with this lot. He’d have to be to survive, but the difference in his manner and appearance stunned me.
Ubie had told me Officer Taft could have taken another position, something undercover, which would explain why his new assignment didn’t appear on his record, but I didn’t believe it. How would APD not know if one of their officers joined another organization?
And now I knew what had happened to him. He’d joined the FBI. Kit told me they finally had someone on the inside, someone with connections to the family. I never dreamed it would be Taft.
Although he wore sunglasses, I knew the moment he spotted me. Anxiety spiked within him. And adrenaline. And annoyance. Jerk. He hardly owned the world. If I wanted to attend a funeral, I’d attend a funeral. And yet he didn’t flinch. His stonelike expression remained completely intact.
I could practically feel him shooting daggers at me. With as much stealth as I could muster, I dropped my gaze and shook my head, hoping to get my point across. I had no intention or desire to blow his cover. Those things took years to build. The fact that he had gained access to such a close-knit family was both impressive and befuddling.