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“THISDOESN’TTASTElike an MRE.” Baker stabbed his fork into another helping of turkey, mashed potatoes and green beans and took a bite. It was enough to thaw the past few hours of adrenaline loss and brought his blood sugar back in line.
“It’s not.” Sitting straight across the table from him, Jocelyn scooped up a forkful of what looked like chicken with some kind of green vegetable and brought it to her mouth. As she chewed, her hair slid over her one shoulder, brushing the surface of the table. Unremarkably mesmerizing. “I put together about six dozen meals every week to make sure we’re not living off carbs and protein shakes.”
He wasn’t sure if it was the blast or finally getting something other than microwave noodles in his stomach, but Baker had only just noted the way the light reflected off the black waves of hair she usually kept in tight rein. A hint of sepia colored her skin from long days out in the desert, but there wasn’t a single piece of evidence of sun damage. Jocelyn Carville fit the exact opposite of everything he’d expected of a soldier, yet there was no denying the part she played in helping him with this investigation. “You made this? Hell, maybe I need to come out here more often.”
Jocelyn pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to keep her food in place. “I’d drop some off at the station, but as of this morning, I’m not really sure where I would take it. Have you heard anything from the Albuquerque bomb squad?”
Right. The station he’d taken to holing up in had become a crime scene. He’d almost forgotten about that, sitting here as though the world had stopped and nothing existed outside of this place. They’d taken their seats at an oversized dining table set just on the other side of the kitchen that didn’t look as though it got much use. Though from what he knew of Socorro, the contractors had been here for over a year. Maybe they just didn’t use the table due to the onslaught of assignments. “Not yet. It may be a few days, but once they have something solid, it’s only a matter of time before we find the bomber.”
All he needed was proof the bombing was tied to the cartel, and ATF would get involved. Then he could finally take down Sangre por Sangre. For good.
Baker forced himself to focus on his next bite and not the way Jocelyn’s eyes practically lit up as she savored her meal. The woman liked food—that much he could tell. Lemon bread, cranberry cookies, full-sized meals packaged in to-go containers. Her physical training had to be hell to stay as lean as she did. Then again, he wasn’t entirely sure what was under all that gear she insisted on carrying throughout the day. Even indoors. Then again, what the hell was he doing noticing anything about her when they had a case to work?
“Tell me what you remember of the bombing outside Ponderosa,” he said.
“Sure.” She hiked one knee into her chest. Playful. Relaxed. At home. The feeling almost bled across the table and seeped into his aching joints with its easiness. Almost. “Ponderosa PD called it in. They hadn’t been able to get a hold of their chief that morning, even though he was scheduled for the first shift. The sergeant sent out two patrols. One of them came across the scene about a mile outside of town in one of the canyons nearby. Too far away for anyone to notice.”
She took a sip of water. “It was a pickup truck matching the description of Chief Andrew Trevino’s vehicle. They initially believed it’d been a fire. That maybe Trevino had forgotten to clean up some oil from under the hood or had a gas leak. He was a smoker. His deputies wanted to believe it’d been an accident.”
“But you determined otherwise.” Her combat teammate—Jones Driscoll—had said as much, and Baker couldn’t help but wonder what an optimistic, high-spirited woman like Jocelyn had seen in her life to make that assessment.
Her gaze detached, as though she were seeing it all play out right in front of her. “The front half of the vehicle was missing. Not even a gasoline fire would instigate that kind of damage. I went through what was left behind, but the resulting fire had burned away most of the evidence. Except a police badge. The edges had melted slightly, but it was clear who was in the vehicle when the bomb discharged.”
It was easy to picture. Her crouched in the dirt, studying a replica of the badge currently pinned to his chest. Would she have done the same thing had he been killed in today’s bombing? Acid surged up his throat at the notion.
“Maverick recovered a piece of the device. It wasn’t sophisticated in the least, but it got the job done. Jones was the one who determined nitroglycerin had been used as the explosive. He could smell it. Anyone with an internet connection can build a bomb, but there was one distinct piece of evidence we couldn’t ignore that helped us determine it was planted by the cartel.” Jocelyn twisted her fork into the center of her dish but didn’t take another bite. “The pager used to trigger the device was registered to a shell company owned by one of Sangre por Sangre’s lieutenants. Benito Ramon. Has a history of arson and a mass of other charges, growing up in the cartel.”
Confirmation that his leads weren’t dead after all sparked anticipation through his veins, but he ate another forkful of dinner to settle his nerves.
“I read about him.” Baker wouldn’t tell her why. “Sixteen bombings all over the state, each suspected of linking back to Sangre por Sangre, but there was never any evidence to prove he was the bomber. From what I understand the man is a ghost, a legend the cartel uses to keep towns like Alpine Valley in line. Like the boogie man.”
Tingling pooled at the base of his spine. He’d never been able to find evidence Benito Ramon existed. All he’d uncovered was a trail of death and destruction when he’d assumed the mantle of chief of police. Crime scene photos, witness accounts, evidence logs—none of it had led to the man who’d taken everything Baker cared about. Until now.
“Ghosts—real or otherwise—can still do a lot of damage,” she said.
He could almost read a hint of suspicion in her voice—as though he’d somehow become attuned to the slightest inflection since they’d survived the explosion together. “You think something else was going on. That’s why Jones wants you involved in this investigation.”
Her mouth parted. Jocelyn didn’t answer for a series of seconds. Considering how much to tell him? Then again, he guessed that was the problem with military contractors. Always working their own agenda.
“You said it yourself,” she said. “There was never any evidence Benito Ramon was responsible for those sixteen bombings. So why would he make the mistake of using a pager registered to one of his shell companies to trigger the bomb that killed Chief Trevino?”
Good question. Hell, one he should’ve had the sense to ask himself. “You think someone was trying to pin the chief’s murder on Benito Ramon?”
“It’s just a theory.” Jocelyn collected her meal, snapped the storage lid on top and shoved to her feet. She set the food back in the refrigerator with far more grace than he’d expected out of a five-foot-five woman carrying at least thirty pounds of gear. There was a hidden strength in the way she moved. Practiced.
A theory. He could work with a theory. Baker gathered up his own dinner and set about disposing of what he couldn’t finish. “This place is a lot quieter than I figured it’d be.”
“Socorro is on call 24/7. It’s hard to get everyone together when we’re all working different shifts, but we try.” An inner glow that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago seeped into her expression. “Birthday parties, movie nights, Thanksgiving and Christmas. It’s rare, but being together helps us bond better as a team, you know? Takes the harshness out of the work we do.”
Baker watched the transformation right in front of him. Where a heaviness had tensed the muscles along her neck and shoulders, exhilaration took its place as she talked about her team. He’d never seen anything like it before. “You like this kind of stuff. Cooking, baking for people, movie nights...”
There was a hitch in Jocelyn’s step that she tried to cover up as she moved from one side of the kitchen to the next. She’d taken a mixing bowl out of the refrigerator and peeled the plastic wrap free. Cookie dough, from the look of it. Did the woman ever just sit still? She dragged a cookie scoop out of one of the drawers and started rolling the dough into perfect golf ball–sized pieces onto a baking sheet. “Of course. Keeps me busy.”
“Aren’t you already busy responding to things like car bombings and coordinating resources from surrounding towns?” He couldn’t help but watch her roll one section of dough before moving onto the next. It was a highly coordinated dance that seemed to have no end and drove his nervous system into a frenzy. He wanted to reach out, to force her hands to stop working, but Baker had the distinct impression she’d bite him if he interrupted. Like her dog almost had back at the station.
“Well, yeah, but this ends in cookies. And who doesn’t like cookies?” Her smile split a small cut at one corner of her mouth. A sliver of blood peeked through.
His discipline failed him right then. Baker closed the short distance between them, swiping the blood from her mouth. One touch catapulted his heart rate into overdrive. A sizzle of heat burned across his skin faster than the flames created by the bomb this morning.
