“Head for Diego Rivera,” I said as we came into the city. The buildings took some force out of the rain, though the other cars made driving difficult. Here, the streets flooded easily, and some wiseass in a taxi tried to splash standing water through my cracked window. “It’s in the financial district.”
So maybe I wanted to show off. I’d spent one night at the gorgeous Quinta Real, a colonial hotel of marble sandstone that looked like a palace. Inside it was more of the same, impossibly sumptuous with a staff that knew service. No pool, but the in-room Jacuzzi more than made up for it—and Tanya’s check said he could afford a grand class suite. I sighed, remembering that I’d stayed there alone. Still, a room that contained fine tapestries and sculptures, beautiful paintings with lavish gilt frames, decorative inlaid marble in the baths, and an imperial bed with golden columns could make anyone feel like royalty for a night. There were advantages to knowing a man’s weaknesses.
I was desperate to avoid driving farther tonight.
Chasing Geese
I’d like to claim that Chance took one look at the hotel and fell upon his knees, declaring his undying devotion. I’d like to say he apologized for everything that went wrong between us and promised he’d spend the rest of his life making it up to me. But if I did, you probably wouldn’t believe another word I said, especially with regard to Chance.
Instead he offered a smoldering look. “Trying to tempt me?”
“Absolutely. The weather is rotten and we won’t be able to see anyone about the purse until morning anyway.”
He sighed and tapped the steering wheel. His answer came when he swung into the well-manicured drive and gave the keys over to the valet attendant. We stepped out of the driving rain and into another world, one filled with lavish service and utter opulence. Assessing the foyer in a glance, he said softly, “It’s like one of the grand old hotels in Europe. Can I get a masseuse in the room?”
“I expect so. You can get just about anything here, as long as you can pay for it. They’ll even do your shopping, although the mall across the street is closed right now.”
He nodded like that was good to know, and I helped him with check-in. I’ve noticed most service people speak enough English to do business in major commercial cities, but they think better of you if you speak enough Spanish to do it that way; it’s an almost intangible shift, a near smile and a lightening in the eyes.
Once upstairs, I left Chance in the hands of a masseuse who looked as though she wouldn’t mind relaxing him in ways that were only permitted in the zona de tolerancia in Nuevo Laredo. He was sound asleep when I finally crawled out of the sunken marble tub, pink and wrinkled like a newborn. I stood for a moment, wrapped in my plush hotel bathrobe, and watched him sleep. Somehow he always looked innocent in repose, a ridiculous premise if you knew him at all.
As I turned, I heard him whisper, “No, don’t go.”
I didn’t hesitate because he wasn’t alive in the moment with me but remembering in dreams, perhaps remembering someone else as well. In a remote corner of my mind, I wondered whether he had spoken those words aloud as the door closed behind me. Could I believe he’d loved me once?
I couldn’t answer that as I lay down on the couch, wrapping myself up in spare blankets. However, I did know it would be a bad idea to sleep with Chance again, even to lay in the same bed, because I had a history of finding it hard to tell him no. I didn’t want to repeat old mistakes, just get through the search with as much grace as possible.
We breakfasted en suite, fruit and yogurt for him, chilaquiles for me. This morning, he looked remote and well-tailored in dove gray trousers paired with a mist and mauve striped button-down. To look at him, you’d almost swear he was gay, too pretty to like girls.
I put on a long skirt and a peasant blouse and kept a green cardigan out just in case it turned cool, one of those long retro sweaters with a belt. All told, I possessed a delightful hippie chic, and I took pleasure in the way Chance squinched up his eyes.
Three hours later, after a painless border crossing, we arrived in Laredo. I had left the U.S. before they changed passport requirements, but they don’t look too hard at red-haired women at the border. Chance called the cop in charge from the car, who agreed to make himself available at ten a.m. I wasn’t looking forward to it because cops typically got that look when Chance said a victim’s family wanted me to examine the personal effects. I preferred private consultations, as life hadn’t left me any love for local law enforcement.
By the time we parked outside the station house, I’d worked up a nice set of nerves. “Is he going to give me a hard time?”
“I don’t think so. He’s not your typical asshole.”
As we walked into police headquarters, a sandstone municipal building that could have doubled as a mental institution, I rubbed my fingertips back and forth over the new scabs on my palm. In response, he brushed his hand across my shoulder, the sort of thing he’d done eighteen months ago. I used to take heart from his touch. Now I merely hunched my shoulders, glad I didn’t have to deal with Laredo in summer. I thought we’d have to wade through a lot of bureaucratic bullshit, but a detective stood waiting for us at the desk.
“Thanks for making time.” Chance shook hands with him, and they exchanged polite words.
My hormones gave a little skip as I gave him the once-over: an intriguing mix of long, tall Texan in battered boots, touched with Latin heat. He had legs that stretched forever in jeans faded almost to white, not the kind bought with designer “wear” but Levi’s washed till the seams and creases got thin. He’d clipped his badge to his belt in plain sight.
As I checked out the rest of him, I admired shoulders showcased by a rumpled white shirt and a forest green blazer. He had a striped tie stuffed in his right jacket pocket, probably to satisfy the letter of the dress code. Nice face, I decided, if scruffy and unshaven. Frosting the hunk cake was a tousled mess of tawny, sun streaked hair.
The beauty of being short was that guys didn’t usually notice me eating them with my eyes. Of course, most often, their disregard never changed unless they saw me handle. Still, apart from Chance, I tended to attract Lone Gunman types. They appeared to sense there was something different about me, more than the retrofunky exterior, and if I permitted it, they’d commit me to their lifelong quest to prove the existence of the paranormal.