Book Preview - Credo's Bandidos

Chapter One

I sat at a round, red Formica table and nursed a hard lemonade. Not the sexiest drink around, but I don’t like beer, and mixed drinks have a startlingly quick effect on my sobriety. The pub, affectionately named The Hairy Lime, had dark wooden walls reminiscent of an old English watering hole, with a matching, highly polished oak bar that ran the length of one side of the room.

About twenty swivel stools were bolted to the floor along the front edge of the bar, each with an elaborately carved wooden fox curled in a ball to form their backrests. Contrasting light oak footrests circled the lower column, and that, along with a padded leather seat, made them very comfortable for patrons to sit in for long periods of time. I know because I’ve perched on them many, many times, both alone, whenever I’ve needed some me time away from the other detectives I work with at the Tucson Police Department and then again on those occasions when I’ve come to blow off steam with a bunch of friends.

Today, however, I sat away from the bar and studied postcards embedded beneath the clear epoxy on my tabletop, with each card depicting one or more 1950 movie stars. So far, I’d identified Grace Kelly in her signature gold lamé gown, a laughing Fred MacMurray with a starlet on his lap, and what looked like a colorized card with Gene Kelly wearing a pink shirt and smiling his winning, Hollywood smile.

Laughter rose from one of two pool tables set off to my right. I glanced up in time to watch a bougie guy in pinstripe slacks and an open-collared shirt swing his pool cue around his back and hit the solid orange five-ball off the maroon seven, sending them both into their respective pockets. The man’s matching suit coat hung on a coat rack behind him, and he clenched a thick stogie between straight, white teeth. An ostentatious gold watch adorned his left wrist, shouting, ‘Look at me’ to anyone interested enough to listen.

Of all my skills, I consider reading people one of my best. This man belonged to a type that fascinated me. Outwardly assured, amiable, and handsome, but on the inside…on the inside, I saw a man possibly from the middle class, but more probably from the lower classes, frantically running on a treadmill, trying to be what he most admired—a member of high society. I guessed he studied all the high fashion magazines, Gentlemen’s Quarterly, Vogue, Esquire—I’d seen them in the homes of all the men I’d met who fit this personality type.

He bought clothes he thought the wealthy wore, usually paying more than he could afford, often going without basic necessities to feed his need to blend in where he didn’t belong. His expensive watch told me that. At one point, I’d investigated an embezzling scheme at a jewelry store, and although I wasn’t close enough to know what brand the watch was, I guessed he’d saved several months or possibly even years’ worth of wages to purchase it.

The other two men in the game didn’t have the same need for ostentation. One wore a celery green suit bought off the rack at a mid-range department store. His jacket lay discarded on the seat of a wooden-backed chair, and he’d left the top three buttons of his custard yellow shirt unbuttoned to reveal a gold medallion on his mat of curling brown chest hair.

The third man wore business casual—tan chinos, a blue button-down shirt, and a thin-lined, red-striped tie pulled loose at the knot. His brown oxfords had a professional shine, and I caught a glimpse of indigo and black argyle socks when he rested his foot on the lower rung of the chair to wipe away a perceived mote of dust marring the side of the shoe.

When Bougie sank the eight ball with a flair, his mates groaned and good-naturedly raised their cues in surrender. He basked in their admiration, smiling around the unlit cigar.

The tinkle of the tiny bell on the front door caught my attention, and I watched as my ex-ranger friend, Jerry Dhotis, walked in. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but his rock-solid body seemed even more granitelike than the last time we’d met. He shrugged out of his leather bomber jacket and folded it over one massive arm. He studied the room, his no-nonsense eyes taking in every aspect of the bar, eventually landing on the guys good-naturedly throwing insults at one another at the pool table.

As he looked around, his gaze traveled over me on the way to its final destination. Instead of greeting him, I dismissed him as coldly as I’d dismissed any dozen people coming in over the last hour.

Adhering to our pre-arranged signal, I picked up the bottle of hard lemonade with my right hand using only two fingers and a thumb, indicating the man I was interested in sat on the far-right side of the bar on the second barstool from the end.

Without skipping a beat, Jerry walked to the coat rack near the pool tables and dropped his heavy coat on top of Bougie’s pin-striped suit coat.

I didn’t know whether Bougie was trying for bourgeois chic, but he fit the bill entirely, albeit in a handsome, somewhat rugged way. He ran a hand through his slicked back, salt and pepper hair, a matching complement to his meticulously groomed beard, and addressed Jerry in a slightly irritated tone. “You mind taking your coat off my jacket?” Contrary to his tone, he struck a casually unconcerned pose as he removed the cigar from between his teeth with one hand—the cap had already been cut—flicked a flame onto his gold lighter with the other, and expertly toasted the foot of the cigar until smoke drifted up toward the ceiling. Returning it to his mouth, he drew smoke onto his palate and seemed to weigh the consequences of blowing it into Jerry’s face.

Not a good move. Jerry’s bushy eyebrows pulled down low over the caveman protrusions that served as his brows, and he tilted his head slightly to the left.

Bougie understood the subtleties of man speak because he smiled before turning his head to the side and blowing a fragrant cloud of smoke in my general direction. “Please. I need to wear that to work the rest of the week, and I’d rather not have to take it to the cleaners again.”

Jerry’s deep voice rumbled through the bar. “No problem.” He grabbed the bomber jacket by the sheepskin collar and moved it to a lower, empty arm of the rack. “How about I rotate in?”

The man in the green seersucker suit placed his stick in the rack. “Take my place. I need to get some shuteye.”

Bougie lifted his chin in dismissal. “See ya around, Eddie.”

Jerry nodded his thanks to the guy and then strode to the rack where he sorted through several cue sticks, holding them one-by-one and sighting down their shaft, checking the grips to find one that fit his beefy hand and balancing each on his palm before finally finding one that met all his requirements.

In my humble opinion, Jerry rivaled Bougie in the looks department with his weightlifter’s neck, oversized, square-shaped head topped with a military crew cut, and a strong, clean-shaven, admirably tanned jawline. After picking his stick, he pulled the triangular rack from the peg on the wall and, while laying it on the table, looked over at the bar.

It was a casual move, utterly unremarkable, except I knew he was checking out the guy I’d indicated earlier. I wasn’t the only woman in the place still admiring Jerry’s biceps as he leaned over the table. Unlike many other men scattered around the pub, his arms were tastefully covered by a fitted shirt that neither shouted, “I’ve got muscles,” nor “I have absolutely no taste in clothing.”

I returned my attention to my postcards, resuming my game of Guess the Fifties Star or Starlet. I heard the cue ball crack into the other fifteen balls on the table and guessed the battle had begun.

Bougie good-naturedly asked Jerry what he was drinking.

“Jack’ n Coke.”

The third player piped up. “Another Cosmo for me.”

I smiled at what I knew Jerry’s reaction would be to what he called a “foo-foo” drink.

Bougie called to the waitress, who was at that moment setting another hard lemonade in front of me. “Hey, Darlin.’ Jack and Coke for my new friend here,” he paused, and I guessed he was rolling his eyes at his other friend’s choice, “and another cosmopolitan for Jess and a Four Roses Single Barrel neat for me.”

Four Roses? Not a cheap drink, but then again, it was a given any self-respecting Bougie would drink an expensive bourbon, was it not? I glanced down at my bottle of hard lemonade. Hardly something anyone would consider sophisticated, but that pretty much described me to a tee. I’m your garden variety five-foot-six-inch woman, weighing in at around one hundred twenty-five pounds. My brown hair is short and non-descript, and there’s nothing special about my green-brown eyes.

The bell tinkled again, and I looked up as my partner, Casey Bowman walked through the door. She waved when she saw me, stepped to the bar, and ordered a beer. Even before the bartender handed her the bottle, I knew it would be an IPA. Don’t ask me why, but she likes the bitter, hoppy taste I dislike even in the mildest of beers.

She brought it to my table and sat in the chair next to mine. She leaned in and asked quietly, “Did Jerry see him?”

I nodded and pointed to a postcard. “I haven’t been able to figure out who this is. Got any ideas?”

She turned in her seat to get a better angle on the picture. “I think that’s Cyd Charisse.”

“Who?” I leaned over and squinted at the picture as though that would help me recognize the face.

“My momma loved her, and I remember watching her dance with Fred Astaire…” She pointed to Miss Charisse, “…and Gene Kelly.” She tapped the table with the edge of her beer, indicating the card with Kelly in the open-collared pink shirt. “In fact, I think she danced with Kelly in Singing in the Rain.” Pulling out her phone, she took a moment to look her up. “Yup, she wasn’t one of the three main stars, but she was in that and a bunch of other big movies.” A look of nostalgia crossed her features. “Momma knew every star in the fifties. She would have loved it here. I’ll bet she’d go from table to table, pointing at all the postcards and calling out each name as she walked by.”

Casey’s soft spot for her family showed on her face whenever she mentioned them. She pushed a strand of her short blonde hair out of her eyes and sat comfortably in her chair. Crossing her lean, muscular arms, she glanced over her shoulder at Jerry, who pretended not to notice.

In fact, nobody paid us any attention, which was perfectly fine with me. I never liked it when I went out with my best friend, Megan, who attracted males the same way a mare in heat brings geldings on the run.

Leaning forward again, Casey said quietly, “How long do you think he’ll stay?”

I shrugged, “Probably until I leave.”

She sat back again. “When I’m walking or driving, I keep looking over my shoulder to see if somebody’s following me, but I haven’t caught anyone yet. You have any idea why this guy’s been your shadow for the last few days?”

Shaking my head, I took a long drink from my bottle and watched the man stand and stretch. This was the first time I’d had a good look at his face because the other times he’d followed me, he’d either been driving in a car behind me or standing in the shadows across the street from my house. That’s the incident that really brought him to my attention and made me want to know who he was and what he wanted with me.

The previous night, I’d let my dogs, Tessa and Jynx, out into the front yard, and just like I knew he would, little Jynx, a tri-colored Pappiwawa, began barking at the tree where I’d seen the guy minutes before. Staying in the shadows, the man had run around the side of the house, and before I could grab Jynx and give chase, he’d disappeared.

Looking at him now, I realized he wasn’t a big man. He looked to be in his mid-to-late forties, about my height, and maybe forty pounds heavier than me. He had kind of an urban cowboy or rustic suburbanite look about him. Somewhat muscular but not nearly on a par with Jerry, he wore a collarless button-fronted shirt beneath a casual, blue sport coat, dark jeans, and nice-looking cowboy boots. He certainly didn’t look threatening. His grey hair was neatly cut on the sides and slightly longer on top, where he spiked it up with gel or mousse.

Today, when I’d gotten off work, I’d driven to the Hairy Lime, keeping an eye on his car as the driver tried to follow me inconspicuously—not an easy task when the person you’re following is a cop. Once inside, I’d watched through the window as he parked. I took my seat and studied the postcards as he’d come in to claim his barstool. I’d already arranged for Jerry to meet me in the pub and was confident he’d have all the intel I needed on the guy by the time I sat down for lunch the following day.

Speaking of Jerry, he’d apparently won the first game, making it his turn to buy the next round. Instead of yelling across the room to the waitress as Bougie had done, he casually walked over to where she was clearing a table to give her his order. When she nodded, he returned to the pool table where the third guy, Jess, had already re-racked the balls and was leaning over the top rail, stick in hand, preparing his opening break.

When the man following me headed for the bathroom, I overheard Jerry tell his newfound friends, “I need to hit the head. Be right back.”

Since guys are quicker than women in the bathroom department, both men returned to their respective places in less time than it took me to identify the last starlet on my table. I’d taken a picture of the woman and then texted the shot to my mother, who had immediately texted back, “Joan Taylor.”

Casey shook her head. “Never heard of her.”

“Me neither.” My phone dinged again with a follow-up text from my mom. “Why can’t you wear beautiful clothes like that? And her hair. You could at least try.” Translated, my mother was desperate for me to marry and have kids—further translated, grandkids—and my lack of success in that area deeply disappointed her well-ordered view of how my world should work. Oh well.

We’d had a long day, and after casually chatting about some of the open cases sitting on our desks back at the station, Casey and I were ready to head home. I left a good tip on the table, and we walked out to the parking lot. I didn’t care if the guy followed me now because I knew Jerry had other people waiting outside to follow him, following me home. I also knew Jerry’s guys wouldn’t get made like this nimrod had done.

I’d asked Jerry not to contact the man until we had some intelligence on him. The guy had been trailing me for three days now. He’d never tried to make contact, but so far, I’d caught glimpses of him in a coffee shop near a crime scene, across the street from my house, and now following me into the Hairy Lime. And I’d lost count of how often I’d seen his older blue sedan in my vicinity.

When I got home, Tessa and Jynx anxiously waited for me to grab their leashes and take them for their evening walk. Dusk settled on the houses and surrounding trees as I walked the pups around the block. I kept an eye on every shadow, hoping to see the guy again, but I had no luck. We returned to the house after a good two-mile walk. I fed them, watched a little T.V., and eventually fell asleep on the couch.