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“It’s after one in the morning.”
“Not here.”
“As I said, where the hell is that?”
“Mojave.”
“Mojave,” Montoya repeated, his mind still blurry from sleep. “Vegas? You’re in Las Vegas?”
“No. At least not anymore.”
“What the hell’s going on? The last time you called me you said you were wanted for murder, that you were involved in some homicide.”
“I’m not. I didn’t have anything to do with her death.”
“Whose death?” Montoya asked, his heart suddenly in overdrive, his mind spinning horrible scenarios involving women covered in blood. “What are you talking about?”
“It was an accident.”
He froze. Cruz was sounding more like a suspect, a guilty party all along. “What was an accident?”
“I’ll tell you all about it when I get to New Orleans. I should be there in two, maybe three days. Possibly sooner.”
“It’s not that long of a drive.”
“Being careful. Back roads.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do,” Montoya said. “You know that if you’re wanted I’m going to have to advise you to turn yourself in.” For the love of God, Cruz didn’t expect his brother to compromise a case, did he?
“I’m not wanted. At least not yet.”
That was a relief.
Or a lie.
Montoya couldn’t stop that deep-seated worry that gnawed at him, right in the middle of his gut. He longed for a cigarette, anything to calm his nerves. “Who’s dead? Where did this happen? Why the hell are you involved?”
“I’m not. Not in her death.”
“Who’s ‘her’?”
“Look, the less you know, the better. For now.”
“Then why the hell did you call me in the first place?” Montoya demanded, his voice rising and his temper flaring. Cruz was and always had been trouble, more trouble than he himself had ever thought of being.
“I didn’t want to just show up and freak you out.”
“You’re doing that now.”
“I’m just giving you a heads-up. I figured after my last call you might be worried—”
“The whole damned family’s worried sick, Cruz. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“You tell me!” he snapped, obviously on the edge. “I’ll see you soon. I’ll explain then.”
“You sure as hell better—”
But the connection was severed and Montoya was left not knowing any more than he had ten minutes earlier before he’d answered the phone. Who was dead? Some woman with, as yet, no name. Some woman Cruz had been somehow involved with. And that woman had been murdered. Out west somewhere.
