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I’ve gone too far.
So I’d had to flee, racing through the shadows, certain that the couple entwined in each other’s arms in the parked sedan with its windows fogged had caught a glimpse of me.
But maybe not.
They’d been so involved, and the eye I’d seen, the woman’s eye peeking around the head of her lover, might not have focused on me. Even if she’d seen me, it would be a blur and she couldn’t identify me.
No way.
Or so I tell myself as I round a corner and slow as there is more traffic, more cars, more beams from headlights cutting through the darkness, more people on the street. It’s not as if I haven’t been a public figure. Here in New Orleans because of my history, my face is all too recognizable.
I must remember that in the future.
A man walking another damned dog, a huge beast with yellow eyes, teenagers laughing, arms linked, a mother pushing a stroller over the uneven sidewalk pass me by, and one of them could ID me. I have to be cool. Walk as to not attract attention.
Blend in.
Breathe.
I tell myself I don’t look that out of place. This is New Orleans, after all, practically anything goes. People carry satchels and bags and briefcases all the time. No one knows what has been in mine.
Yet.
But they will. Oh, they will.
And very soon.
CHAPTER 19
Cruz Montoya glanced up and down the street, saw nothing out of the ordinary, no cop cars in the nearby convenience store lot, no obvious stakeout with plainclothes officers of the law watching the motel. He thought, for the moment, he was safe, so he quickly jaywalked across the two lanes of sparse traffic, then jogged across the pockmarked parking lot of the cheap motel he’d chosen on the edge of the city.
Three battered pickups, an old Volvo station wagon straight out of the seventies, and two dirty sedans, one with several dents and missing a taillight, were parked in the lot of the dive of a motel, the place he had called home for the last twenty-four hours. The nondescript L-shaped building had been built sometime in the previous century when cinder blocks, cement porches, and flat roofs had been all the rage. Once painted aqua, the facade was faded and dirty, home to drifters, himself included. He’d already checked the exterior and discovered where the two security cameras had been mounted, though he doubted either was in working order.
Cruz had already witnessed a drug deal going down behind the building and, he was certain, a couple of prostitutes with clients in the end unit. A young blonde and an older, weary-looking redhead, both of whom had approached him, the blonde more shyly, the redhead all business.
He’d declined in each case.
The fewer people who saw him, the better and, he figured, as he surveyed the place, all the other residents felt the same. Though each unit had a large plate-glass window, not one curtain was open. No, those who took temporary refuge at the All-Day-All-Night Inn were of the same opinion, curtains drawn, doors locked, the only illumination coming from the corner office where a neon vacancy sign shone red and the interior was awash in an unworldly fluorescent glow.
Cruz unlocked the door to his room, stepped inside around his Harley to flop onto the bed. He’d pulled his bike into the room just to make certain no one caught a glimpse of it from the street. Though the idea of anyone looking for him here was remote, it wasn’t impossible, and until he could figure out his next move, Cruz figured it was better to be safe than sorry.
That thought soured in his gut.
There was enough sorrow, enough regret already.
His thoughts strayed to Lucia.
He’d found her irresistible, not to mention, beautiful, happy-go-lucky, fervently religious but a bit naughty. As he thought about her, his jaw clenched, the scar over his heart tearing a bit. But he wouldn’t go there. Not now. Not ever. What was done was very much done. Whatever part he had played in her death would haunt him for the rest of his life.
His cross to bear.
But first, he had to find out who had murdered her, what sick son of a bitch had set him up.
He unwrapped the pulled pork sandwich he’d purchased from a take-out barbecue joint down the street, then tore into it. It was good, the savory sauce had just the right kick, but he didn’t really care. He just had to fill himself after the long journey on his bike and stretch out on the bed, saggy as it was. His body ached, his back sore from the endless hours of riding, some of the miles on smooth, straight interstate, others on twisting back roads when he’d felt it necessary. The important thing had been to keep a low profile, not cause anyone, especially a cop, to notice him.
So far, so good.
But his luck wouldn’t last. He cracked open a bottle of Coke and took a long gulp.
