Shadowfires

done in the shower
stall when she had been naked.
    Behind Ben, sounding as shaky as he did, Rachael said, “They
probably figured the police had gotten our license number-and theirs,
too-and were about to call them in for identification.”
    The Cadillac headlights turned the corner far back, losing ground
more rapidly now. Ben took another turn and sped along another dark
and slumbering street, past older houses that had gotten a bit seedy
and no longer measured up to the Chamber of Commerce's fantasy image of Palm Springs.
    “But you've implied that the guys in the Caddy would get their hands on you even quicker if you went to the police.”
    “Yes.”
    “So why wouldn't they want the police to nab us?”
    Rachael said, “It's true that in police custody I'd be even easier
to nail.
I'd have no chance at all. But killing me then will be a lot messier, more public. The people in that Cadillac… and their associates… would prefer to keep this private if they can, even if that means they'll
need more time to get their hands on me.”
    Before the Cadillac headlights could appear again, Ben executed
yet another turn. In a minute he would finally slip away from their
pursuers for good. He said, “What the hell do they want from you?”
    “Two things. For one… a secret they think I have.”
    “But you don't have it?”
    “No.”
    “What's the second thing?”
    “Another secret that I do know. I share it with them. They
already know it, and they want to stop me from telling anyone
else.”
    “What is it?”
    “If I told you, they'd have as much reason to kill you as me.”
    “I think they already want my butt,” Ben said. “I'm in too deep already. So tell me.”
    “Keep your mind on your driving,” she said.
    “Tell me.”
    “Not now. You've got to concentrate on getting away from them.”
    “Don't worry about that, and don't try to use it as an excuse to
clam up on me, damn it.
We're already out of the woods. One more turn, and we'll have lost
them for good.”
    The right front tire blew out.

----
10 NAILS
    It was a long night for Julio and Reese.
    By 12:32, the last of the garbage in the dumpster had been
inspected, but Ernestina Hernandez's blue shoe had not been found.
    Once the trash had been searched and the corpse had been moved to
the morgue, most detectives would have decided to go home to get some
shut-eye and start fresh the next day-but not Lieutenant Julio
Verdad. He was aware the trail was freshest in the twenty-four hours
after the discovery of the body. Furthermore, for at least a day
following assignment to a new case, he had difficulty sleeping, for
then he was especially troubled by a sense of the horror of
murder.
    Besides, this time, he had a special obligation to the victim. For
reasons which might have seemed inadequate to others but which were
compelling to him, he felt a deep commitment to Ernestina. Bringing
her killer to justice was not just his job but a point of honor with
Julio.
    His partner, Reese Hagerstrom, accompanied him without once
commenting on the lateness of the hour. For Julio and for no one
else, Reese would work around the clock, deny himself not only sleep
but days off and regular meals, and make any sacrifice required.
Julio knew, if it ever became necessary for Reese to step into the
path of a bullet and die for Julio, the big man would make
that ultimate sacrifice as well, and without the slightest
hesitation. It was something which they both understood in their
hearts, in their bones, but of which they had never spoken.
    At 12:41 in the morning, they took the news of Ernestina's brutal death to her parents, with whom she had lived, a block east of Main Street in a modest house flanked by twin magnolias. The family had to be awakened, and at first they were disbelieving, certain that Ernestina had come home and gone to bed by now. But, of course, her bed was empty.
    Though Juan and Maria Hernandez had six children, they took this
blow as hard as parents with one precious child would have taken it.
Maria sat on the rose-colored sofa in the living room, too weak to
stand. Her two youngest sons-both teenagers-sat beside her, red-eyed
and too shaken to maintain the macho front behind which Latino boys
of their age usually hid. Maria held a framed photograph of
Ernestina, alternately weeping and tremulously speaking of good times
shared with the beloved daughter. Another daughter, nineteen-year-old
Laurita, sat alone in the dining room,