Unraveling Jane Doe (Holding The Line Book 3) Page 9

  “Drugs have identifying features?”

  “Sure they do—consistency of product, purity of product, even packaging. That’s why the highway patrol calls us.” He took a step back. “I’m sorry I barged in here.”

  “I’m not.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I mean, I’m glad you came right to me and told me. I wish you’d done that when you discovered my search history at the library.”

  “You’re one to talk about honesty and transparency. You didn’t trust me enough to tell me you had amnesia.”

  “I didn’t know you.”

  “My point, exactly.” He wedged a shoulder against the doorjamb. “Libby, what are you going to do if you find out you are involved in the drug trade somehow?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Turn over a new leaf.”

  He retreated to let her finish getting ready for bed. He left his door ajar and stashed his gun in the drawer of his nightstand. He was no longer worried about the strange woman with the strange story he’d picked up in the desert... He was worried for her.

  * * *

  SHE SHOT UP in the bed, panic engulfing her, her heart rattling in her chest, her dreams breaking apart and skittering in all different directions.

  She placed a hand to her heart, counting the beats, breathing deeply. She still didn’t know who she was beyond a name and occupation, but she felt safe for the first time since coming to in that car crash.

  She had someone in the other room who believed her. Maybe Rob believed her against all his instincts and better judgment, but she’d take it.

  She’d come to the conclusion that Rob could afford to be trusting and a bit impulsive because he’d honed his instincts over the years. A person didn’t grow up in the conditions Rob had faced as a boy without being able to tell good from evil, without sensing danger whether it stared you in the face or crept up on you around a dark street corner.

  Most people didn’t have that ability, so they approached every stranger, every situation with caution and fear. Rolling to her side, she pulled the pillow against her chest. Why did she understand Rob so much better than she knew herself?

  She didn’t even know what kind of person she was. Was she the kind of person who could smuggle drugs across the border? Drugs that hurt kids, ruined families and destroyed lives?

  No. That wasn’t her. Black boots and his cohort planted those drugs to get her in trouble. To keep her from reporting the accident. And that meant they knew she was still alive.

  She pulled the covers to her chin. Had they seen her in Paradiso? Had that voice she’d heard at Rosita’s really been one of them?

  Rob was right. She had to learn her identity sooner rather than later. And if she found out she had a husband and two children?

  Her insane attraction to Rob could be based on the fact that he was the only man of her acquaintance and he’d rescued her from the desert, had even agreed not to call the cops even though he was one.

  In fact, Rob Valdez was just about perfect without even taking into account his dreamy dark eyes, killer smile, hot bod and mocha skin... And he’d been beside her all night.

  She hung over the side of the bed and picked up the notepad and pen she’d squirreled in her room. She couldn’t sleep, so she’d stayed up sketching.

  Rob’s handsome face stared at her with a touch of sadness, or maybe distrust, from the top page. She flipped through the others to study the characters she’d drawn—a faceless, evil visage with silver-tipped black boots, Rosie’s creased face wreathed in smiles and a fairy with curly hair and big eyes.

  The knock on the door had her dropping the notepad and clutching the sheet to her chest like a virgin. For all she knew, she could be.

  Rob called out in a singsong voice, “I made coffee.”

  “I’m awake.” She kicked off the covers and dug through the clothes on the floor for a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. She didn’t need to be shimmying around Rob’s kitchen in the slinky nightie.

  As she pulled on a pair of gray sweat shorts and a red U of A Wildcats T-shirt, she thanked the resourceful April. She’d pretty much thought of everything.

  Her bare feet slapped the tile floor on her way to the kitchen, the smell of bacon luring her in like a fish on a reel.

  “I should be doing the cooking.”

  Rob looked up, a piece of bacon hanging from a pair of tongs over a sizzling frying pan. “You’re still on the injured list.”

  She touched her bed-head hair. “This cut is nothing compared to the damage it did to my brain.”

  “While you were sleeping, I called Dr. Escalante at the hospital.” He laid out the strip of bacon on a paper-towel-covered plate next to three other pieces, all running the same way, probably all equidistant, all done to the same level of crispness. He held up an egg. “Sunny-side up, over easy?”

  She said without any hesitation, “Over hard with no runny yolk.”

  “I can do that.” He cracked the egg on the edge of the skillet.

  “I hope Dr. Escalante can see me and figure out why I can remember how I like my eggs but not my name or home.” She grabbed the coffeepot and swirled the brown liquid in the pot. “You need a top-off?”

  “I’m good.” He carefully slid the crackling egg onto its other side. “Dr. Escalante referred me...you to a therapist up in Tucson. You up for a drive this afternoon after your shift at Rosita’s?”

  “Rosita’s.” She drove her heel against her forehead. “That just shows you how bad my memory is. I completely forgot about working today.”

  “I’m going in early to have a look at that packet of meth found near your wreck. I’ll drop you off, and when you’re done, we can take that ride up to Tucson. Dr. Escalante already called in your referral.”

  “Who’s the doc?” She slurped at the black coffee, convinced she’d never taken her coffee black before in her life.

  “She’s not a doctor. She’s a licensed therapist and hypnotist.”

  Libby dropped the spoon she’d just grabbed from the drawer. “A hypnotist? She’s going to hypnotize me?”

  “Why not?” Rob crouched down to pick up the spoon and tossed it into the sink. “What do you have to lose?”

  “Not more of my memory. That’s not possible.” She scooped another spoon from the utensil tray and poured some milk into her coffee. “Do you think you can find out who phoned in that tip about the accident?”

  “Probably not if it was anonymous, and I gather it was, but I can do some digging.” He slid a couple of eggs onto a plate, alongside two perfectly placed pieces of bacon. “I’m going to do some other digging, too. I want you to know that up front. I don’t want to hide anything from you, Libby.”

  “You’re going to dig around in Libby James’s background, aren’t you?” She watched the swirl of milk invade coffee. “Her—my criminal background.”

  “If there is one, but like I told you before, your prints didn’t match any we had in the database. I’m also going to make sure nobody has reported you missing.”

  “Is there a database that you can check in Mexico?”

  “Not that we can access.” He carried the plates to the table and set them down on the woven place mats. “But there are a few other places I can look. Maybe I can arm you with a little more info before your appointment this afternoon.”

  “Or you can arrest me.”

  “I don’t think that’s gonna happen.” He pulled out a chair at the table for her and sank into the other one. He snapped a piece of bacon in two with one hand and watched it fall to his plate.

  Her fork hovered over her eggs. “You’re not so sure, are you?”

  “It’s not that, Libby.” He popped one half of the bacon into his mouth. “I’m just wondering why someone felt it necessary to plant drugs at the scene of the crash.”

  “To shut me up.”<
br />
  “Then they know you’re alive. How?”

  “Maybe El Gringo sent them back to double-check. Maybe he sent them back to show proof of death—a picture of my charred body.” She stuffed some food in her mouth so she wouldn’t scream. After she swallowed and took a sip of coffee, she said, “They didn’t find that proof, figured I walked away and left those drugs in case I got any ideas about ratting on them.”

  “Or maybe they’re hanging around Paradiso and spotted you.”

  She leaned her fork against her plate, tines down, and folded her hands in her lap. “Thanks. You just ruined my appetite.”

  “I’m trying to look at all angles—no matter how ugly.”

  “Wouldn’t you recognize a couple of strangers, thug types, wandering around Paradiso?”

  Rob choked on his coffee and spit it into his napkin. “Thug types? How do you know they look like thugs? You didn’t even see them.”

  “I thought you had superkeen instincts about these things.”

  “Did I say that?” He dabbed at the droplets of coffee he’d sputtered onto the table. “Sometimes thugs don’t look like thugs, and sometimes people who look like thugs aren’t thugs. There was a time in Paradiso, before my time, when strangers would stand out, but no longer. Not since the pecan processing plant fired up, thanks to my coworker’s family. The population boomed. We have more tourism. We have more tourists coming over from Tombstone and Bisbee. Now strangers aren’t uncommon. Two guys, Latinos, are not going to make waves in Paradiso.”

  “They could be anywhere, watching me, and I wouldn’t even know it.” She stared at a picture of a café on a Mexican street, a green-and-red umbrella shading a couple hunched over a small table.

  “What is it? Do you remember something?”

  “Just a voice at Rosita’s yesterday, someone in the to-go line. It struck a chord inside, and I panicked for a minute. And then there was a guy on the street in a baseball cap.” She shrugged and picked up her fork. “I suppose those events jarred me because I already realized those men could be on the loose in Paradiso.”

  “If they are, they must know something’s going on with you. Why else wouldn’t you have reported the accident, reported them? They wouldn’t be sticking around to drop off a stash of meth if they were worried about that.”

  “They must know there’s some reason why I didn’t call the cops after surviving that crash.” She swallowed hard, all out of proportion to the soft eggs sliding down her throat. She didn’t want to think she was involved in dealing drugs. She was sure she wasn’t. Just as she knew she couldn’t be so attracted to the man across from her if she were married, she knew her morals wouldn’t allow her to engage in drug activity.

  “The sooner you get through this morning and to that therapist appointment, the sooner we’re going to figure out exactly what’s going on. Once we do, I’ll know how to keep you safe.”

  “That’s important to you? Keeping me safe?” She couldn’t meet his eyes, so she drew crisscross patterns on her plate with the fork.

  “It’s become my top priority.” Rob pushed back from the table so fast, his foot caught on the leg of his chair and he stumbled. A grin lit up his face. “If I could keep myself safe first.”

  Libby showered and dressed in record time. When she joined Rob in the living room, she tugged on the hem of the short-sleeved, dark green T-shirt. “At least my clothes aren’t ripped today.”

  “That’s a plus.” He hitched his bag over one shoulder. “If something or someone makes you feel uncomfortable at work, just leave. Rosie will understand.”

  She sucked in her bottom lip as she walked out the front door. “I’ll be in a public place. They’re not going to come in and snatch me...are they?”

  “Just be careful.” He helped her hop into the truck. “These cartels are ruthless. Just a few months ago, two mules were executed at the border, beheaded. They were women—Tandy Richards and Elena Delgado. They don’t care.”

  Rob’s jaw formed a hard line as he slammed the door of the truck.

  Rob did care.

  By the time he dropped her off at Rosita’s, her mouth was as dry as the desert floor. Rob hadn’t meant to scare the stuffing out of her, but now she’d be looking over her shoulder all morning. Better to be on the lookout instead of getting ambushed in a surprise attack.

  She sauntered into Rosita’s with a swagger that masked her fear—or so she thought.

  “I’m glad you’re back, mija.” Rosie patted her cheek. “You look better. Is Rob taking good care of you?”

  “He is.” As soon as he’d stopped believing she was a drug courier like those poor beheaded women.

  She waved to the guys in the kitchen and got to work. She scrutinized every male customer, her glance taking in every pair of shoes, looking for the black boots. Nobody sparked any recognition in her, and nobody acted as if she should know him.

  She soon got into a groove, and the morning passed quickly. By the time she wiped the last table, Rob poked his head inside the café wearing civilian clothes—a pair of faded jeans and a light blue tee.

  “Are you almost ready?”

  “Not fair.” She waved her towel at him. “You had a chance to clean up and change.”

  “I can take you back to my place if you want to shower.”

  She reached around and untied the apron. “That’s okay. Hopefully this woman likes the smell of chips.”

  Rosie scurried in from the kitchen, rubbing her hands together. “Do you want some lunch, Rob?”

  “No, thanks, Rosie. We’re in a hurry.”

  Rosie patted Libby on the back. “Don’t hurry this one.”

  He saluted. “Sí, jefe.”

  Rosie shook her head and pressed a plastic bag into Libby’s hands. “You take this anyway.”

  Libby thanked her, and then she and Rob got into his own truck.

  As he clutched the steering wheel, he said, “That’s another reason why I know you’re a good person.”

  “Rosie?”

  “You talk about my instincts. She can sniff out a phony like a bloodhound.” He cranked on the engine. “She lost a son to drugs.”

  “Oh, no.” Libby covered her mouth. “Overdose or some kind of drug violence?”

  “OD. Happened before I moved here. Too bad.” Rob’s knuckles turned white as he squeezed the steering wheel. “Maybe I could’ve knocked some sense into him.”

  “You help enough people just by doing your job.” She trailed her fingertips along his corded forearm. “You don’t need to save the whole world.”

  “Maybe one person at a time.” He threw the truck into Reverse and pulled out of the parking space. “Nothing unusual today?”

  “No. You? Did you discover anything about Libby James?”

  “Nothing criminal. That’s quite a gallery she has down in Mexico, but she’s camera shy. No pictures of her...you online.”

  “I guess that’s not unusual. People want to see the art, not the artist.” Libby gazed out the window. “I don’t have much to offer the therapist.”

  “It’s not your job to offer her anything. She’s going to be helping you.”

  “Through hypnosis.”

  “You sound skeptical.”

  “Is she going to swing something in front of my face and tell me I’m getting sleepy?”

  “That’s what I mean.” Rob slapped the dashboard. “You pulled that from your memory bank, and yet you can’t access your personal memories.”

  “It’s a weird condition to be in. It’s like there’s nothing personal there.”

  “There must be and this therapist—” he fished into the front pocket of his T-shirt and withdrew a slip of paper between his fingers “—Jennifer Montrose is going to help you bring it all to the surface.”

  About an hour later, they rolled into Tucson. They bypas
sed the downtown area and the university and aimed for the foothills.

  Rob pointed out the window. “Looks like her office is in this business center.”

  Libby twisted her fingers in her lap. “What if I find out something I don’t want to know about myself?”

  “Whatever you find out is better than nothingness, isn’t it?” He squeezed her knee. “What if you have a child somewhere?”

  She flattened a hand against her belly, recalling the fairy she’d drawn last night who had borne a resemblance to her own face. “I can’t. How could someone forget her own child?”

  He parked the car and turned to face her. “You don’t know what’s going on in your head, what kind of injury you sustained. I don’t think even an important memory has a chance to swim to the surface yet. That’s why you’re seeing Montrose.”

  “You’re right.” She released her seat belt and scooped in a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

  Rob checked his slip of paper for the therapist’s suite number, and they walked up the stairs to the second level. When Rob tried the door with Jennifer Montrose’s nameplate on the front, it swung open onto a small lobby with a few hanging plants and a blue love seat and matching chair facing each other.

  Libby crept up to a closed door with a button like a doorbell on the side. Her forefinger hovered over it. “Should I?”

  Rob checked his phone. “We’re ten minutes early. Maybe wait until your appointment time in case someone’s in there.”

  Libby meandered to the magazine rack and plucked up a celebrity magazine, scanning the photos on the front. Why did she recognize these people but not her own face in the mirror?

  The door behind her opened, and she jumped, dropping the magazine on the floor.

  “I’m sorry I startled you.” The smooth, low voice alone was enough to calm her down and put her under.

  Libby turned and held out her hand to the petite, dark-haired woman in the patterned palazzo pants and long blouse. “I’m Libby.”

  The therapist’s dark eyes didn’t assess her or judge. She clasped Libby’s hand in a firm grip that belied her size.