Sheriff’s Runaway Witness

Chapter 6

“It’s not much,” J.J. said, “but at least nobody bothers me out here. And like I said, the only ones who know where I live I’d trust with my life. You should be safe here. For tonight, anyway. We’ll have to figure out what we’re going to do after that, but right now, you can at least get some rest.”

She nodded but didn’t say anything. He figured she had to be pretty near worn out, given the day she’d had yesterday, and the fact that nobody ever really gets to rest in a hospital. She’d fallen asleep again, once the talking stopped, until they’d had to stop a ways back when the baby woke up and started fussing so she could nurse him. It was an odd experience for J.J.-definitely a first for him-sitting in the darkness with only the sounds of the desert wind and the occasional yip of a coyote outside the car, and inside, the soft, wet sounds a hungry baby made, nursing at his mother’s breast.

Now, though, she was sitting up straight and alert, staring ahead at the silhouette of his trailer, lonely against the slate-dark sky. A three-quarter moon hung high and bright, bright enough to cast shadows on the desert landscape.

“Moonshine,” she said.

He thought at first she was talking about the moonlight, but then he saw the dog sitting out in the road in front of the trailer, waiting for him. He gave a little laugh and said, “Yeah, and it’s actually her you can thank for saving your life.” He nodded at the baby, now sleeping again in the carrier in the backseat. “And your son’s. I probably wouldn’t have found you without her.”

She nodded but didn’t reply. He pulled up in the bare place in front of the trailer and stopped, but when he started to open the door and get out, she hitched in a breath and said in a nervous, hurried kind of way, “Is she yours? Or, you know…a police dog?”

“Canine Unit, you mean? Nah, she just wandered in here one day and parked herself, didn’t look like she was going to leave, so I let her stay. I call her Moonshine because she always looks like she’s a little bit drunk, which is pretty normal for a hound dog. Now and then she comes in handy, like she did today. Why?” he added, because there’d been that something in her voice. “You’re not afraid of dogs, are you?”

“Not…afraid, just careful.” Her voice was without expression. It had a hollow sound in the dark car. He heard her take another breath. “Carlos has dogs. Dobermans. They have the run of the estate at night, and other times-whenever he wants to make sure nobody comes or goes without his knowledge and consent.”

“Prison wardens,” J.J. said with a snort.

She nodded. “I’ve never had a dog as a…you know, a pet.”

“Not even growing up? What, your grandmother didn’t like dogs?”

“My grandmother liked to garden-flowers, not vegetables. Dogs and flower gardens don’t exactly mix.”

“Ah. Well, Moonshine isn’t exactly a pet. She’s more like a roomy, I guess.” He shrugged and opened the car door. “Anyway, we seem to get along okay.”

He got out, went around and opened Rachel’s door. Moonshine came ambling over to give her a good sniff, then sat back and let him help her out of the car. Rachel managed that part okay, but he could see she was having trouble getting her legs under her and working right, and it hit him again, like a slap upside the head, what she’d been through in the last forty-eight hours or so. He didn’t even think twice about it, tiny as she was, just scooped her up in his arms.

She gave a little gasp and said faintly, “You don’t have to carry me.”

“I think maybe I do,” he said, and felt her body shake with silent laughter.

“Well, okay then, pardner,” she growled in a very bad Duke Wayne impression, which he was pretty certain he did not sound like, at least he hoped not.

He made an ambiguous growling sound back to her and carried her up the steps and into his trailer. He put her down on the couch and was heading back out to get the baby when he spotted a sticky note from Katie stuck on the inside of the door saying she’d made up his bed with clean sheets and stocked the fridge with a few groceries. God bless the woman, because those were two things he hadn’t even thought about himself.

When he opened the back door of his vehicle to unbuckle the baby carrier seat, Moonshine had to come over and go through the sniff-test thing again. Having evidently given the new arrival her approval, she trotted along at J.J.’s heels right up to the bottom of the steps. There, instead of flopping down in the dust for a snooze as was her usual habit, she parked herself on her haunches on full alert, as if she knew whatever was in that carrier was precious cargo and in need of her protection.

“Good girl,” J.J. muttered, and wondered for the hundredth time where the old dog had come from and what kind of stories she could tell if only she could talk.

Back inside the trailer he found Rachel sitting on the couch, hunched up with her arms wrapped around herself, like she was cold. Which reminded him it could definitely get chilly, spring nights in the desert, and she was wearing only a pair of green scrubs the hospital had given her to replace her bloodstained clothes. He set the baby carrier on the floor beside her feet and felt her gaze following him as he turned on the heat, then ducked into his bedroom to find something warm for her to put on.

It felt oddly uncomfortable, having her there, having her watch him. It wasn’t as if sharing his quarters with a woman was an uncommon thing, just…not these quarters. He hated to admit that he minded that he was living in a dinky, shabby old trailer. Or at least it didn’t exactly fit the image he wanted to have of himself, had been accustomed to having of himself.

Not that this woman was somebody whose opinion of him should matter, so why should he care what she thought?

“I’m going to need to buy some clothes,” Rachel said when he handed her one of his sweatshirts-he thought an old girlfriend must have given it to him, because he couldn’t imagine buying anything that had “Life’s a Beach” printed on it. He watched her pull it on over her head and tug the excess down around her hips, and while he waited for her to do it, felt an inexplicable urge to slip his fingers under her hair and pull it free of the neckline of the shirt for her.

“I’ll have Katie bring over some stuff tomorrow,” he said absently, his eyes following the movements of her hands as she rolled up the sweatshirt’s way-too-long sleeves.

She looked up at him, and he felt a weird swimming sensation, looking down into those deep dark eyes. “Katie? That’s the one I heard talking to you on the radio…”

“Right. She’s my…I guess they don’t call them secretaries now. My administrative assistant-that’s it. She runs the office, is what she does. Anyway, she’s got daughters. Ought to have something you can wear. Meanwhile, you can wear that, or I can find you a T-shirt, if that’d be more comfortable to sleep in. Probably come about to your knees.”

“No, no-that’s okay. This is fine.”

“Well, okay then. Is there anything I can get you? Are you hungry?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.”

“Uh…you can sleep in the bedroom. Katie put clean sheets on the bed, so I know she meant for you to. So…whenever you feel like it, just…you know, make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you.”

Her voice sounded breathy and rushed, as if she couldn’t wait for him to go away and leave her be. He couldn’t blame her for wanting some privacy, after the kind of invasions she’d had to put up with, and since he’d run out of things to say to her, or ask her, he gave her a “good-night” nod, got himself a cold beer out of the fridge and took himself outside. Feeling like an intruder in his own house, he sat in an old aluminum folding chair beside the steps, and Moonshine came and flopped down beside him with a gusty sigh, as if she was more than happy to turn over sentry duty to him.

He put his hand on her head, took a big swallow of beer, gave a sigh of his own and growled, “Yeah, it’s been one helluva coupla days, hasn’t it, old girl?”

The dog didn’t reply, so J.J. leaned his head back and looked up at the sky, which wasn’t showing too many stars on such a moon-bright night. He listened for a moment to the sound of the wind shushing through the desert shrubbery, and for some reason felt a little bit lonely.

He thought about Rachel and what he’d seen her do yesterday, and what he was going to try to talk her into doing for him in the near future, and the thoughts made him feel itchy and restless.

Not guilty. No, not that. Why should I feel guilty? She’s an eyewitness to the murder of two federal agents. It’s her damn duty to tell what she knows.

He muttered under his breath, a couple of phrases his mama wouldn’t have approved of, then reached down and unlatched the guitar case that lay on the ground beside the aluminum chair. He took out his guitar, tuned it up and then cradled it against him and began to diddle around. Just chords, at first, and then the chords sort of found their way into a Springsteen song, one from one of his old acoustic albums, kind of mournful, which suited his mood.

He stopped playing when Moonshine suddenly lifted her head up off her paws, and a moment later he heard the door of his trailer creak open. He set the guitar back in its case and watched Rachel come out, silhouetted for a couple of seconds against the light inside before she made her way down the steps, holding on to the wooden railing with both hands. He got up and went to get her, meaning to help her to the chair, but she shook her head and seated herself gingerly on the next-to-bottom step.

“You didn’t have to stop playing. I just wanted to give you this.” She held it out to him-the envelope he’d last seen when he’d copied her name and address off the front, the one she’d had taped to her belly, that he’d removed from her yesterday morning along with her clothes.

He gave a little snort of surprise as he took it from her. “Where’d you have it stashed this time?”

He could barely make out her hint of a smile. “Not on me-I don’t think it would stick. Right now my stomach’s pretty much like a big bowl of pudding. I had it under the cushion in the baby carrier.”

“Well, it must be pretty important,” J.J. drawled. Considering the trouble you’ve gone through to keep it hidden-and safe.

She nodded, and when she spoke, she sounded tense. “It-that letter-is what made me think I could finally get away from Carlos. That’s where I was planning to go.”

He held the envelope, weighing it in his hand. “So…why are you giving it to me now? Does this mean you’ve decided to trust me? A little?”

Again she had her arms wrapped around herself, huddled on that hard wooden step, and her face was turned away and in shadows. Her voice sounded whispery and exhausted. “Please understand…it’s been very hard for me to know who to trust. But-” she exhaled audibly “-as you said, I guess if you’d wanted to kill me and take my baby back to Carlos, it would have been very easy for you to do that. Instead, as you pointed out, I have you-and your dog-to thank for saving our lives. So, since I can’t do this by myself and am going to have to trust someone, it might as well be you.”

“A ringing endorsement if I ever heard one,” J.J. said dryly. He opened the envelope and took out several sheets of paper, some of it heavy and obviously expensive. “You gonna tell me what this is, or let me figure it out for myself?”

“It’s a letter,” she said, in a voice that was suddenly completely devoid of expression. “From my grandfather, Sam Malone.”

“Sam Malone?” He glanced up at her and grinned. “Not the Sam Malone, I suppose?”

She stared blankly back at him. “I didn’t even know there was a the Sam Malone.”

“Come on. Reclusive multibillionaire, struck it rich out here on the desert somewhere during the Great Depression, made a fortune during World War II, hung out with the rich and the famous before he dropped out of sight sometime in the sixties. Not as notorious-or as crazy-as Howard Hughes, but in the same general category. Don’t tell me you never heard of him. My God, I didn’t know he was still alive.”

She shook her head in a bewildered kind of way and said faintly, “I don’t know if he is.”

He stood up and clicked on a switch in a cord dangling down alongside the front door, turning on a string of Christmas lights that looped across the front of the trailer. “From what I recall,” he said as he sat back down in the folding chair, “the guy was quite a character. Worked as a stuntman in old Hollywood for a while-knew all the big stars. I think he married a starlet, or maybe it was a folksinger…” He lost the train of what he was saying right about then, because he was studying the letter.

The first page was a cover letter from an attorney, and he skimmed it quickly before he set it in his lap and moved on to the next one. This was a handwritten letter, written on lined paper torn from a cheap notebook, the kind J.J. remembered writing school reports on when he was a kid, in the days before his folks had been able to afford a computer. The writing was old-fashioned and hard to read, but underneath that, on more of the lawyer’s expensive paper, was what appeared to be a typed version. He pulled that out and began to read.

My name is Sam Malone, though for some reason some have preferred to call me by the nickname, Sierra, and I happen to be your grandfather. I am a very old man now, and I’ve lived a full and interesting life, during which I managed to amass a considerable fortune and squander the love of three beautiful women. As a result, I was not privileged to know my own children, a fact that I deeply regret. But this is not the time for regrets, and I can’t do much to change the past anyhow.

Since I have outlived all of my wives and my children, it is my desire to share my treasure with my grandchildren, any that may chance to survive me, and it is this last wish that has led me to write this letter to you. If you are not too dead-set against me and would care to come to my ranch to collect your inheritance, I do not believe you would be sorry.

I have enclosed a little map, in case you should decide to take me up on my offer. And I’m sure my lawyer will add some instructions as to how to get in touch with my staff, to let them know…

“Wow.”

J.J. looked up, hands full of the pages of the letter, and stared at the small form huddled in the pool of light on his front steps. “Good Lord, woman, do you even know what this means? Do you have any idea what kind of resources you have?”

She lifted her head and gazed back at him, her eyes only dark shadows. “You say he was a movie stuntman in old Hollywood…I guess that would explain why my grandmother liked to watch old Western movies, wouldn’t it? He was probably in some of them.” Her laugh had a liquid sound. “He might even have known him-the Duke. Don’t you think?”

J.J. was trying to get his head around the fact that he’d not only delivered the grandson of notorious crime family boss Carlos Delacorte, but also the great-grandson of Sierra Sam Malone, one of the true legends of the twentieth century.

“Wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” he said.

Rachel gazed out the windows of the anonymous late-model white pickup truck at the desert landscape sweeping by, watching constantly changing vistas-scrubby trees and shrubs she didn’t know the names of set on a carpet of golden flowers, juniper and Joshua tree-covered hills, and beyond them mountains layered in shades of purple and blue, canyons with cliffs carved in fantastic shapes and striated in red, orange, pink and cream, plains strewn with black lava rock from eruptions so ancient their sources had long since eroded away. Evidences of human habitation were few and far between, and often in advanced stages of abandonment and decay. Like those long-gone volcanoes, she thought, they’d been unable to stand up to the ravages of heat and sun and the unrelenting wind.

She was sure some people-Sheriff Jethro Fox for one-would find the desert harsh and barren and soulless, but to Rachel the vast emptiness, the endless vistas and boundless sky spoke of freedom. She hadn’t truly understood until hers was taken from her how precious a thing freedom was. Freedom to come and go, freedom to speak and laugh and visit, and most especially, freedom from fear. She wasn’t free in that sense, not yet, but the desert, the openness and emptiness, made her heart lift, made her believe such a thing might be possible for her, after all.

She thought then of what it had taken to bring her to this point, where freedom and a future without fear seemed within her grasp. She thought of the unlikely people who had made her escape possible: the mysterious Sam Malone, her grandfather, whom she had resented and despised as long as she could remember for his abandonment of her grandmother, and the letter holding the promise of a means to create a new life for herself, someplace where Carlos couldn’t find her.

Then there was…this man. Sheriff J. J. Fox, the lawman who might have stepped right out of one of the old cowboy movies she and Grandmother had loved to watch. The lawman who had not only saved her life and her baby’s life, too, but had given her shelter and protection, and now was taking her in his own private pickup truck to find her grandfather’s hideaway.

Her stomach clenched when she thought of him, sitting across the truck’s center console from her, not even an arm’s length away. It had been a long time since she’d been this close to an attractive man, so close she could almost hear his vital signs humming, smell his aftershave. And she had to smile inwardly at that thought, remembering awakening that morning to the sound of him swearing in the bathroom next to the tiny bedroom in which she’d slept, and then finding him later in the kitchenette, clean-shaven, with his jaws scrubbed rosy and dotted with bits of blood-speckled toilet paper.

Then…she thought of the way she’d trusted him, and fear clenched cold in her belly. Did she trust him, really? Was he being a little too nice? Sure, he’d said it was his job to rescue and protect her, but hadn’t his job ended when he’d delivered her safely to the hospital? Did his job really include taking her and her newborn son into his home, taking her shopping, buying her clothes, personal stuff-a toothbrush?

What does he want?

It swept over her again-the fear and suspicion and uncertainty. It came back to her like a movie scene on replay, recalling Izzy in her habit, telling her not to trust anyone.

Then it hit her.

Izzy! Oh, God, I forgot about Izzy. What if Carlos-how could I be so selfish? What have I done?

“Rachel? Rachel.”

The sharp edges of J.J.’s voice woke the big old dog sleeping beside the baby carrier in the backseat, and penetrated the fog of fear inside her head. She turned her head away from the window and caught the glance of concern he threw at her, realizing only then that her hands were curled into fists and pressed against her cheeks.

“You were a million miles away,” he said, and the side of his mouth she could see was tilted in a John Wayne lopsided smile. He glanced up at his rearview mirror and said, “It’s okay, Moon-go back to sleep.” Then he looked at her again, and the smile vanished. “What’s wrong?”

She opened her mouth, then shook her head and looked out the window again, seeing nothing but a blur this time. How could I have forgotten Izzy? My dearest friend, and I just left her there. If anything has happened to her…

“Rachel.” His voice was quiet but insistent. “What’s wrong? Tell me. If it’s something to do with Carlos-”

She shook her head rapidly, as if that would dislodge the awful images that wanted to invade there. Flashes of Carlos’s face, suffused with rage, his hand raised, his fist coming at her. Her head exploding with shock and pain. She drew a shuddering breath. “It’s…my friend. The one I told you I borrowed the habit from. She insisted I go-I didn’t want to leave her there. I didn’t. She said Carlos wouldn’t harm a nun, but I don’t know. I don’t think there’s anything Carlos wouldn’t do. If he’s hurt her-”

“Whoa, wait, slow down.” The pickup lurched and Moonshine sat up as he pulled off onto the wide sandy shoulder and stopped. He threw the lever, putting the truck in neutral, then turned in his seat and reached for her. She felt his hands on her arms, her shoulders, holding her firmly but not hard. This time, she held herself rigid and didn’t give in to the desire to take refuge in the harbor he offered. Because what she really longed to do was lean forward and lay her head against his chest and have his arms come around her, because something beyond all reason was telling her he had the power to make everything right again. She didn’t deserve that. She didn’t have the right to feel safe, not with Izzy-

“Come on, now, take it easy, okay? Just take a deep breath, calm down and tell me what happened.”

She nodded and dropped her eyes, avoiding that steely green gaze and fastening hers instead on a tiny nick on his cheek where he’d cut himself shaving. Staring at that spot, that small vulnerability, she felt a kind of peace come over her, along with a strange urge to touch the cut place. She couldn’t recall ever having that kind of impulse with Nicholas. Nicky had guarded his personal privacy religiously. She’d never have dared to invade his personal space unless he invited her to.

She shook off the distraction along with the dangerous impulse to trust this man she barely knew. Allowing herself to become so dependent on a man just because he’d saved her life once and was inexplicably helping her now was just foolhardy. This was real life, not one of her grandmother’s old cowboy movies, and you couldn’t tell the good guys from the bad guys by the color of their hats. The fact that J. J. Fox reminded her of John Wayne didn’t automatically make him a good guy.

On the other hand…the man was a cop, and if Izzy was in trouble, who else could she turn to?

She brushed at her cheeks and straightened up, doing her best to ignore both the dog panting over her shoulder and the pang of regret she felt when J.J. let go of her arms. “My friend, Izzy-Isabelle-we’ve been best friends since Catholic school. We went to med school together. I quit my internship when I met Nicholas, but she went on, and she’s a doctor now. She works in a free clinic in South Los Angeles.”

“And, I take it, this friend is also a nun?”

Rachel nodded. “Well, technically, she’s a sister, since she’s not cloistered. But anyway, she came to visit me, and she was wearing a habit, which she doesn’t usually. But…she was wearing it this time because she had a plan-” she pressed her fingers to her lips to cut off a gulp of laughter that was too perilously close to a sob “-to help me escape from Carlos’s compound.”

“I’m guessing Carlos is the one who gave you those bruises?” His voice was hard and dangerous, and the dog growled low in her throat.

She jerked her glance toward him, saw the same hardness reflected in his eyes. She felt a little chill go through her. “That’s not-”

“Look, I’m a cop, okay? I’m a detective, and a damn good one. I’ve seen bruises like the ones you’re wearing, and they don’t come from car crashes. I’m guessing you’re worried about your friend because somebody hit you, most likely with a fist. If not Carlos, then who?”

She closed her eyes and let go a breath, soft with defeat. “When the letter came-Sam Malone’s letter-I read it and signed for it while one of Carlos’s guards stood there and watched me. What could he do-short of killing the messenger, I guess. But of course, as soon as the messenger left, he went to tell Carlos. Carlos demanded that I give him the letter, and when I refused, he went ballistic. He, um…” She cleared her throat and swallowed hard.

Watching her struggle with it, J.J. felt a wave of a familiar emotion that was more anger than sympathy. What was it about women who’d been beaten up, that they so often seemed humiliated? As if it was somehow their fault.

After a moment, Rachel pulled herself together and continued matter-of-factly, “I knew he wouldn’t kill me or beat me badly enough to risk harming the baby. He really wanted the baby. Nicholas’s son.” She paused, but J.J. just watched her, keeping his face expressionless, his feelings to himself.

She shrugged and went on. “So Izzy came, we switched clothes and I left in Izzy’s car. She’d left some money for me in the car-I couldn’t take anything with me-no cell phone, no ID, to make it harder for Carlos to find me, you know? The only thing I took with me was the letter.” She looked helplessly at J.J and he saw tears flood into her eyes again. She finished in a whisper, “And…I left her there.”

She paused then, gazing at him, it seemed to him, as if awaiting his judgment. He had none to give her, not even absolution, and wasn’t sure why.

Taking refuge in action, he spoke to his hands-free car phone, instructing it to connect him with Katie. He turned back to Rachel to ask for her friend’s address and cell phone number and the address of the clinic where she worked. She gave him the information, then turned in her seat to gaze at her baby, still sleeping soundly in his carrier in the seat behind hers, while he passed it on and told Katie what to do with it.

And all the while he was doing that, for some reason he was thinking about that morning, when Katie had arrived at his trailer with her arms full of clothes for Rachel and stuff for the baby. There’d been some laughter and hugs and a few tears on the part of both women, and J.J. had watched it all from across a gender divide that at times seemed to him both unfathomable and unbridgeable. And what he felt then, more than anything-besides frustration, maybe-was envy. Here were two women, strangers until yesterday, now beginning a friendship, sharing emotions, tears and hugs, and it was all so simple and trusting, truthful and joyous, nothing hidden, nothing held back.

He couldn’t even imagine being that way with a woman. Not even with this one. Why was that? he wondered. Okay, so there was the fact that she had trust issues, and he had ulterior motives. So why wasn’t there something so simple as the cop-slash-protected-witness relationship between them? Okay, so he’d also delivered her baby and saved her life and maybe she’d formed some kind of dependence on him that she was fighting…

It was making his brain hurt, trying to figure it out. Why, he wondered, did relationships between men and women have to be so damn complicated?

She turned to face him as he broke the phone connection and put the idling pickup truck into drive. He could feel her ink-black eyes on him but given the nature of his thoughts, was trying his best to avoid them. So, without looking at her, he glanced in the rearview mirror and pulled onto the blacktop highway.

“Okay, S.B.C.S.D.-uh…that’s San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department-is going to ask L.A.P.D. to check on your friend. They’ll let us know as soon as they know anything.” He flicked a glance at her as he brought the truck up to speed. “Okay?”

She nodded and murmured, “Thank you.”

Her voice sounded remote, a little subdued, and he thought, Damn. Now I’ve probably wounded her.

She probably thought he was making judgments about her and the abuse she’d suffered.

He suddenly wished it was easier to talk to her about things like…well, things he felt deeply about. He wished he could explain to her how he felt about people who preyed on the vulnerable and weak. Bullies. He’d already told her about going off on that child killer, and sure, he’d had an ulterior motive for doing that, hoping to get her to open up to him in return. But maybe someday he would tell her about the time his dad had backhanded him for talking trash to his mother, and how later he’d found his dad weeping out in the front yard. How he’d tried to slink away, but his dad had seen him and beckoned to him, saying “Come on over here, son, I want to tell you something. And I don’t want you ever to forget it.” And his dad had laid his big, hard hand on his shoulder and said with tears in his eyes, “May the Lord strike me dead if I ever lay a hand on you again, and may He do the same to you if you ever raise your hand to someone who ain’t big and strong enough to hit you back. Because He didn’t make me a man to bully the weak. It’s only animals that do that. You hear me, son? We got to do better than that if we want to call ourselves men.”

But he couldn’t tell her about that, and the way his dad had grown taller in his eyes that day, because it made him feel exposed and vulnerable to even think about it. He couldn’t recall ever telling any woman about that-maybe not anyone, period, not even his mama. Even thinking about it now, at this moment, thinking he might want to tell this woman someday was a surprise to him. That he might consider letting this woman see him like that…well, it was a puzzlement.

He cleared his throat and frowned at the empty road in his rearview mirror. “Reason I did it that way is, I don’t want anything to lead back to me, maybe give Carlos a clue which way you went. Just in case he’s got your friend’s communications monitored.” He tried a smile that didn’t work. “Not being paranoid, just careful.”

She gave a soft snort. “You’re not being paranoid, just realistic. I’m telling you, Carlos has eyes and ears everywhere.”

“You’re pretty sure Carlos can’t trace you to your grandfather?” At least this felt like a safe subject to him.

“Well, my grandmother didn’t have anything to do with my grandfather during my lifetime. At least, not that I know about. And when she died I didn’t find any contact information among her papers-no addresses or phone numbers, not even old ones. That’s why I thought the letter from Sam Malone might be a way out for me, because there’s nothing to connect me to him.”

Which probably wasn’t true, of course, in this information age, but J.J. didn’t point that out to her. The connection would be a matter of public record, it just might take a little while for a determined searcher to ferret it out. At the very most, he figured it would give them a little time to prepare. Because from what he knew of the man’s reputation, it was only a matter of time before Carlos Delacorte came for his grandson.