replacement,” Zeller said, already walking back to his office.
He got the head doctor at Zuni, saying, “Bill, send D’Amico to Dulce, ASAP. Have him use one of the Gallup motor pool cars. Tell him to lock that Jeep of his in a garage—you’re worried about car theft.”
Yolanda booked Lori on United through Denver, telling her she was from Aurora, south of the city. “Not the Hispanic ghetto. My father runs a grocery store; brought in produce other suppliers couldn’t get from Mexico. Poblanos, jalapeños, mangos, papayas, avocados, jicima. You name it. He predicts a Mexican-food craze is on the horizon.”
“Are you going back there after you retire?” asked Lori.
“Sí, como no. Of course. After September first, I’m heading home, start my own accounting practice—Cervantes, Esq. LLC, CPA.
They both heard Brooks’ door slam—they tightened as he walked by. Without looking at either, he slid a file toward Yolanda. “I think both of you pretty things have more to do than chat. Schedule me for a massage and manicure. Then I’ll be at the club, dinner with Senator Trask. No calls unless it’s urgent. Do call my wife, the usual excuse.”
When the elevator doors closed, Yolanda practically spit the words, “Enjoy your martinis, asshole.” She darted her brown eyes at Lori and snapped, “That man uses me like toilet paper.”
Lori laughed. “Don’t let it get to you. Just keep on pickin’ cotton.”
“Whatever. I do find it exhilarating that el cabrón trusts me. I may be treated like chewing gum on his shoe, but I see, and I remember everything he does.
“Okay now, your flight leaves O’Hare at eleven-forty-five in the morning. In Albuquerque, you will be met by a friend of mine, from my old college days. He’s way cool. He’s also the one who steered me into the FBI. I’ll be tracking you, keep in touch.”
At the Albuquerque Sun Port she was met by a fifty-ish agent with buzz-cut greying hair and a limp. Worn Levi’s, a tan shirt, dark glasses. A badge on his chest, gun in a black holster at his belt. His tan face was as worn as the jeans.
He introduced himself as Josh Flores, a forest ranger based in the Mt. Taylor District of the Cibola National Forest. A huge territory, 1.6 million acres.
As they walked out of the airport, he said, “Yolie told me to look out for you, but I don’t know what you’re working on, and I don’t want to know. When I leave you, you’re on your own.” He led her to a battered green truck with a Department of Agriculture/Forestry Service shield on the door. “I’ve done some prelim work for you. Hop in.”
“Where are we headed?” asked Lori.
“My pad. Grants.”
“I expected an undercover agent.”
Josh smiled wryly. “Maybe I am.”
Route 66 was nearly empty. An occasional big rig heading for the coast. He pushed the pickup, making risky passes on double yellow lines. A small leather pouch, tightly cinched, swayed back and forth on the rear view mirror.
Josh caught her glance and said, “I’m in good with the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Made nice with the chief. He gave me that to protect me. Hey, it can’t hurt. I’ll try anything.”
“Yolie said you two met in college.”
“I’m older—met her when she was a freshman and I was about to graduate.”
“You dated her?”
“Totally. We did some real fine boot-scootin’ together. Course that was before I got reamed.”
“So after UNM, you went into the FBI?”
“Later. Like you, I got a master’s in criminal justice. Georgetown.”
“And that prepared you to be in the Forestry Service?”
“I’ll tell you about that later. We’re home,” said Josh. He pulled in under an awning next to a drive-in window, a FDIC sticker still on the glass. A grey International Scout was parked in the next bay in front of an old Jeep Wagoneer.
“You live in a branch bank?”
“Well, it’s better than a Dairy Queen. The bank got a contract with the Laguna
He got the head doctor at Zuni, saying, “Bill, send D’Amico to Dulce, ASAP. Have him use one of the Gallup motor pool cars. Tell him to lock that Jeep of his in a garage—you’re worried about car theft.”
Yolanda booked Lori on United through Denver, telling her she was from Aurora, south of the city. “Not the Hispanic ghetto. My father runs a grocery store; brought in produce other suppliers couldn’t get from Mexico. Poblanos, jalapeños, mangos, papayas, avocados, jicima. You name it. He predicts a Mexican-food craze is on the horizon.”
“Are you going back there after you retire?” asked Lori.
“Sí, como no. Of course. After September first, I’m heading home, start my own accounting practice—Cervantes, Esq. LLC, CPA.
They both heard Brooks’ door slam—they tightened as he walked by. Without looking at either, he slid a file toward Yolanda. “I think both of you pretty things have more to do than chat. Schedule me for a massage and manicure. Then I’ll be at the club, dinner with Senator Trask. No calls unless it’s urgent. Do call my wife, the usual excuse.”
When the elevator doors closed, Yolanda practically spit the words, “Enjoy your martinis, asshole.” She darted her brown eyes at Lori and snapped, “That man uses me like toilet paper.”
Lori laughed. “Don’t let it get to you. Just keep on pickin’ cotton.”
“Whatever. I do find it exhilarating that el cabrón trusts me. I may be treated like chewing gum on his shoe, but I see, and I remember everything he does.
“Okay now, your flight leaves O’Hare at eleven-forty-five in the morning. In Albuquerque, you will be met by a friend of mine, from my old college days. He’s way cool. He’s also the one who steered me into the FBI. I’ll be tracking you, keep in touch.”
At the Albuquerque Sun Port she was met by a fifty-ish agent with buzz-cut greying hair and a limp. Worn Levi’s, a tan shirt, dark glasses. A badge on his chest, gun in a black holster at his belt. His tan face was as worn as the jeans.
He introduced himself as Josh Flores, a forest ranger based in the Mt. Taylor District of the Cibola National Forest. A huge territory, 1.6 million acres.
As they walked out of the airport, he said, “Yolie told me to look out for you, but I don’t know what you’re working on, and I don’t want to know. When I leave you, you’re on your own.” He led her to a battered green truck with a Department of Agriculture/Forestry Service shield on the door. “I’ve done some prelim work for you. Hop in.”
“Where are we headed?” asked Lori.
“My pad. Grants.”
“I expected an undercover agent.”
Josh smiled wryly. “Maybe I am.”
Route 66 was nearly empty. An occasional big rig heading for the coast. He pushed the pickup, making risky passes on double yellow lines. A small leather pouch, tightly cinched, swayed back and forth on the rear view mirror.
Josh caught her glance and said, “I’m in good with the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Made nice with the chief. He gave me that to protect me. Hey, it can’t hurt. I’ll try anything.”
“Yolie said you two met in college.”
“I’m older—met her when she was a freshman and I was about to graduate.”
“You dated her?”
“Totally. We did some real fine boot-scootin’ together. Course that was before I got reamed.”
“So after UNM, you went into the FBI?”
“Later. Like you, I got a master’s in criminal justice. Georgetown.”
“And that prepared you to be in the Forestry Service?”
“I’ll tell you about that later. We’re home,” said Josh. He pulled in under an awning next to a drive-in window, a FDIC sticker still on the glass. A grey International Scout was parked in the next bay in front of an old Jeep Wagoneer.
“You live in a branch bank?”
“Well, it’s better than a Dairy Queen. The bank got a contract with the Laguna
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