Page 57 of Don’t Say a Word (Angelhart Investigations #2)

Chapter Forty-Four

Margo Angelhart

Manny Ramos lived in a beautiful house in Paradise Valley built into the southern edge of the Phoenix Mountain Preserve.

While it faced mostly south, the slight angle had the setting sun turning the house aglow in golds, reds, and oranges as I drove up the steep drive.

Discreet lighting along the edge, interspersed with desert-thriving shrubs and cactus, guided my route to the sprawling two-story mansion that blended beautifully into the rocky terrain.

I didn’t know exactly what was going on at the Cactus Stop. I had a tickle of doubt about bringing in Manny Ramos only because of what I had learned about EBT fraud. If it was happening at scale, someone in accounting would know. This wasn’t a mom-and-pop shop, this was a thirteen-store chain.

Yet, I could be wrong about the fraud. It could be a simple drug-running operation, which would better explain Megan’s messages to Elijah, and his subsequent stakeout of the store. He had been looking for someone specific, or looking to catch someone in the commission of a crime.

“You’re quiet,” Uncle Rafe said.

“Just thinking everything through.”

I quickly assessed the property. There was only one way in and out—the long driveway.

Even in an emergency, there would be no scaling up the steep mountainside unless you were an expert climber and had appropriate equipment.

The other houses in the area were no less elegant—except for one columned monstrosity at the base of the mountain that was a cross between a Greek palace and antebellum mansion.

It wasn’t like I expected the need for a quick escape—this was a dinner party with a lawyer, a priest, and a politician. I almost laughed—was this the beginning of a bad joke?

“Alina truly appreciates your help,” he said. “This has been a difficult time for her.”

“I think I know what happened,” I said. “Proving it isn’t going to be easy.”

“Sometimes, just knowing the truth can bring peace.”

“I want justice.”

Uncle Rafe glanced upward and I knew exactly what he was thinking. God would enact His own justice, that it wasn’t up to us. That was true, but I wouldn’t sleep well knowing Elijah’s killer got away with it.

“I want earthly justice,” I clarified. “Because if we don’t stop these people, more kids are going to die. I’m tired of it, Uncle Rafe. And it only seems to get worse.”

He put his hand on mine. He didn’t have to say anything for me to regain my calm. Sometimes, I see a halo around Uncle Rafe’s head.

We got out of the car and he said, “You look nice.”

“Mom made me,” I said with a grin.

My mother had sent me a text to not wear jeans.

I knew what she meant—wear a dress—but honestly I wasn’t a fan.

That there was no place to conceal a weapon was only a small issue.

The biggest issue was shoes. I don’t like heels.

I pick shoes solely for comfort. I didn’t want to think about my feet, and if my feet were sore or my toes cramped I would be miserable.

The low-heeled boots I loved were scuffed and well-worn.

So I had slipped on strappy flat black sandals and hoped I didn’t have to chase anyone.

I did dress up, but for comfort in a knee-length stretchy black skirt and a loose-fitting white blouse which hid my gun in the holster at the small of my back.

The Glock 42 wasn’t my favorite sidearm, but it was the smallest Glock on the market and one of the easiest to use and conceal.

I’d added a blazer and looked like a butler or a bodyguard, even wearing the small diamond earrings that were a high school graduation present from my parents.

Manny Ramos answered the door.

“It is good to see you again, Margo. Father Rafe.”

He shook my hand, then Uncle Rafe’s.

“Thank you for having us,” Uncle Rafe said. “Your home is as breathtaking as I remember.”

The look on my face must have told Rafe I was surprised he’d been here before because he said to me, “Manny is a longtime parishioner.”

“Though I have been bad about attending regular Sunday Mass,” Ramos said.

If he was looking for Uncle Rafe to tell him it was fine, he was looking at the wrong priest. Rafe just smiled and said, “I hope to see you soon.”

“Father, a drink? Ava says it’s your birthday, so surely you can enjoy a glass of wine, or perhaps a tequila? I have several to choose from.”

He waved his hand toward the interior of the house and we followed.

“Wine would be nice, thank you,” Rafe said.

“I’ll wait until dinner,” I said.

We walked through the stunning home. On one side were towering windows that looked out on a large outdoor living area featuring an infinity pool lit up with purple lights and a breathtaking view of Phoenix.

On the other side of the great room were windows that looked out at the rocky mountainside, the landscape lit with perfectly placed bulbs highlighting plants, desert flowers, and a huge saguaro cactus.

A multilayered patio had been created among the rocks, but I couldn’t see how to access it.

An outdoor fireplace, comfortable chairs, and small waterfall dropping into what I assumed was a pond completed the area.

The furniture was a bit too ornate for my taste, though classy, and the contemporary-style structure complemented the old-world furnishings. It was a unique and comfortable blend of old and new.

We followed Ramos to the bar and I said, “Where’s my mom?”

“She and Bill are in the library,” Manny said.

Ramos poured Uncle Rafe a glass of red wine in a rounded stemmed glass, and I accepted the offered water.

I heard my mom’s laugh and she stepped into the great room with Bill Borgas, the councilmember who had been friends of the family since before I enlisted in the Army.

We made small talk, which would have driven me up a wall except I was too preoccupied trying to figure out how to tell Ramos about the trouble at his business. He was a genuinely interesting guy who—other than the house—didn’t seem pretentious.

I asked about the house; how long he’d lived here and if he’d done the work himself.

“I’ve been here for more than thirty years,” he said. “My dearly departed wife and I moved in after we married. It was a much smaller house then, but we loved every inch. Would you like a tour?”

“Yes, thank you.”

I followed him through the great room, down a hall past the dining room—where he said he never ate except when he had company—and into the kitchen.

“My Uncle Tom would kill for this space,” I said as we stopped in the middle of a huge kitchen glistening in white and stainless steel.

The smell of Mexican spice filled the kitchen.

It would have felt sterile, except for the amazing hand-painted tile wall done primarily in turquoise, burnt orange, and yellow. I stared at it.

“My wife commissioned the wall. I thought it a bit extravagant, but she had seen the artist’s work and wanted a touch in our home.”

“It’s amazing.”

“It truly is.”

He looked sad, and I knew he was a widower, so asked, “How long has she been gone?”

“Seven years in November. I still miss her every day. She was the love of my life.”

We walked down a wide corridor. A library. Guest rooms. Downstairs was a family room, a second kitchen and bar, and two more guest rooms. A wall of photos of all different spaces and sizes had been put up rather haphazardly but it worked. “Your family?”

“Extended,” he said. “Marisol and I were blessed with only one daughter. She’s in college now. But I have a brother and three sisters, they all have many children.”

I did a double take when I saw John Brighton in a group picture with a bunch of young men fishing.

“This guy—he works for you.” I pointed to Brighton. I didn’t want Ramos to know that we had run him—not yet, at any rate. I was surprised to see him on the wall.

“John, yes, my nephew. He started working for me three years ago when he graduated from college. Smart young man. I didn’t know you knew him.”

“I don’t. I just recognized him,” I said vaguely and hoped he didn’t ask how.

Did this change how I approached Ramos about his Hatcher store? Maybe not. But if his nephew was involved in a crime, would that change the way he handled the situation?

Almost certainly. Damn. I had to walk on eggshells.

And I really wanted to talk to my mom about it. She would have a more diplomatic approach.

We went back upstairs just as Ramos’s housekeeper announced that dinner was ready.

Ramos must have known my uncle well, or he also practiced meatless Friday, because dinner was tilapia ancho chili, new potatoes, and an amazing salad with chunks of tomato and mozzarella drizzled with a spicy ranch-style dressing.

We ate, made more small talk, and I kept glancing at my mom. I wanted to get her the information about John Brighton, but we hadn’t had time alone.

Wing it , I thought.

My phone buzzed as Ramos suggested we have coffee in the library. I excused myself and went out onto the deck to take the call. It was a lovely evening, and the sunset was spectacular.

“Hello?” I answered the unfamiliar number.

“Um, Margo? The PI?”

Sounded like a teenager. “Yes, that’s me.”

“This is Benny Vallejo. I’m a friend of Angie’s? She gave me your number, she said it was okay?”

“Are you okay?” I asked. He sounded awkward and a little stressed.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I just finished my shift and Angie said if I saw anything weird I should call you. I don’t want to lose my job though.”

“What did you see?” I pressed.

“I got here at four when my shift starts, and Desi left, told me to run the register. She never lets me run the register. I mean, I know how, I’ve done it, but it’s not my job.

Three people came in looking for her, all kind of, well, sketchy.

I’m not judging, but they were all sort of in my face.

Edgy. Jumpy, you know? Suspicious-like. If they hung around longer, I would have called the police because I sort of thought they might rob the place. But then they left.”