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And Manuelo Ruiz.
Or somebody.
Instinctually, Rodarte knew he wasn’t alone. And for one split second, he felt a pang of fear. It could be Burkett. Burkett might have set him up. Burkett might have sent him here to be ambushed. Had he been outsmarted by that cagey son of a bitch?
Before Rodarte could complete the thought, he sensed movement behind him. As he turned, a hard blow landed on his shoulder, numbing his arm and hand. He dropped the flashlight. With his other arm, he swung a wide arc that ended abruptly when his palmed pistol connected with the side of his attacker’s head.
It wasn’t Burkett. Too short, too dark, too thick through the middle. And Rodarte hated himself for the relief that came from knowing that.
But he still had a fight on his hands. The man was stunned and staggering but not downed. He ducked his head and lunged toward Rodarte. The detective got a knee up in time to catch the man beneath his chin and practically shoved it up his nostrils. Rodarte heard teeth clack together and figured that some of them had broken. With a grunt of pain, the man fell to the earthen floor.
Rodarte, his momentary fear now replaced by anger, grabbed the flashlight and shone it down, directly into the man’s face. It was swarthy, broad, the features flat. The eyes blinking against the beam of light were inky black. They widened marginally when they saw the barrel of Rodarte’s pistol aimed directly at them.
“Hola, Man-u-el-o.”
The man showed a flicker of surprise.
“Yeah, I know your name. We’ve got a mutual friend. Griff Burkett.”
At that, Ruiz rattled off a barrage of Spanish.
“Shut up!” Rodarte barked. Ruiz fell silent. “I’m not interested in anything you have to say. Anyhow, you should save your strength for the job you’ve got coming up.”
Reaching down, he grabbed the man’s shirtfront and hauled him to his feet. “See that shovel over there?” He directed the flashlight’s beam at the pile of tools he’d spotted earlier. “Get it.” Ruiz just stood there looking at him vacantly. “Don’t pull that no comprendo bullshit on me.” He hefted the pistol and clearly enunciated, “Go and get the fucking shovel.”
Ruiz’s obsidian eyes glittered in the flashlight’s beam, but he did as he was told. “Don’t even think of trying to clobber me with it,” Rodarte said when Ruiz turned with the shovel’s handle gripped in both hands. “I’ll shoot you right now if you do.”
He motioned for Ruiz to go ahead of him through the barn door. Rodarte followed at a cautious distance, the nine-millimeter aimed at the man’s spine.
The eastern horizon was turning gray. “Get a move on, Manuelo.” Planting his foot against the other man’s buttocks, Rodarte pushed him hard enough to cause him to stumble and fall.
Ruiz rolled over onto his back and glared up at Rodarte in a way that made the detective glad he had a gun trained on him. “We’ll see how feisty you’re feeling after you’ve put that shovel to good use.” Ruiz looked at the shovel, then back at Rodarte, seeming puzzled. “What?” Rodarte asked around a chuckle. “You didn’t expect me to dig your grave, did you?”
CHAPTER
37
LAURA STARED BACK AT THE TWO PEOPLE STARING AT HER.
She could smell the plumeria blossoms of Ellie Miller’s wilting lei. The odor was heavy and sweet. “You just returned from vacation?” she asked.
Ellie replied. “We got into DFW a half hour early. Around four-thirty.”
“I’m sorry you had to come back after a long flight to find a stranger in your bed.” She gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Like the three bears. How was your flight?”
Ellie crossed to Laura and took her hand. “You’re the one who’s had a rough night. How’re you feeling?”
“I’ll be all right.”
“Sure you will. But right now it’s bad. Cramping?”
“Hmm.”
“I know. I went through this four times.”
“I’m sorry.”
Ellie shrugged philosophically. “Wasn’t meant to be.” She patted Laura’s hand. “I’ll get you something for those cramps.”
