Dena leaned forward, looked around, unable to spot it anywhere on the cluttered desk.
“I can’t go through this again,” he said, patting at his pocket and lifting pages off the desk. “I need to call the damn lawyer, not that he’s been of much help.” He started tossing papers and books right and left, and Dena got up, walked around the desk and put a hand on his arm.
“Zeke, listen. Give me the lawyer’s number. I’ll call him later, if it becomes necessary.”
He jerked his head up and stared at her. Then he seemed to regain his focus. He shoved the hair off his forehead.
“Sit down,” she urged, and pulled out his office chair. “Take some deep breaths, stay in control. Trust me. I’m a communications expert, remember?”
Irma hurried into the room, her brown eyes round and inquiring. “What is?” she asked.
Dena gave Zeke her complete concentration. Glad that he’d listened and now sat behind his desk. They only had seconds before Stanton would gain entry. “Something’s going on at Three C’s, other than the deaths of two women,” she said, ignoring Irma. “I’m not sure if those deaths are connected to the bigger picture.”
Zeke frowned.
The gate intercom buzzed again. Rocky stared at her, his features frozen, like she’d pushed his head into the cold early morning waters of the horses’ trough.
Zeke looked across the room at Rocky. “Unlock the door. Don’t rush, take your time.”
“What is?” Irma asked again, her voice shaky.
“Police,” Dena said, and turned her attention back to Zeke. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’m going to watch over your business, and you.”
He nodded.
“We’ll talk more about the contract later. Write down your lawyer’s name and number. We’ll work on a statement together to release to the public, if need be.” She handed him the pen. “Cooperate with the cops, and maintain your innocence.”
He scrawled the information on a notepad and she ripped off the page and shoved it into her pocket, just as Rocky hurried into the room behind Deputy Stanton.
****
Zeke noticed two Riverside County Sheriff’s vehicles pull up in the driveway. Several cops climbed out. He turned his back to the window, kept his gaze on Stanton, and took a couple of deep breaths. “Let the others in before they break down a door, Rocky.”
“Step away, lady,” Stanton said. He indicated Dena should move toward the window. “I could have you arrested for impeding the law. You two were picked up on the surveillance camera at the hotel site this morning.”
Zeke went to speak, but Dena butted in.
“I can explain all of that—”
“I’ll bet.” Stanton shoved past her, and approached the desk in a slow waddle.
A tall silver-haired guy in civilian clothes entered, followed by another officer, and he stood a moment just inside the door and assessed the scene. Zeke watched him slowly make his way over to the desk.
“Detective Quimby,” he said, and displayed his identification. “We’d like you to come in to give a statement, if you don’t mind, Mr. Cabrera.”
“Not at all,” Zeke said. He nodded, appreciated the decency of the detective. Stanton should take lessons. Irma started to wail, and he felt his shoulders stiffen. He hated to upset the woman who had always mothered him. Fortunately, Rocky wrapped his arms around her and spoke in hushed tones.
“Get her out of the room,” Stanton said, and Rocky led Irma out into the hallway.
Zeke watched the action like a movie in slow motion. He realized Dena kept her hand on his shoulder. It felt good. Rocky tried to calm Irma outside the door. The other officer reached over and shut the door with a loud bang.
“Wrap up the party, Stanton,” Quimby said. “Let’s get down to Indio, okay?”
“Why Indio?” Zeke asked, but kept his voice quiet and steady.
“Almagro doesn’t have a lock-up.” Stanton leaned in close and sneered.
Quimby stared hard at Stanton, jerked his chin up and tilted his head toward the corner of the room. He crossed the room, arms folded across his chest, and waited until Stanton waddled over and stood beside him. From the two bright red spots high on Stanton’s cheekbones, he was being dressed-down.
Zeke caught hushed words that sounded familiar, procedure came up several times. Quimby’s face darkened with anger, but he never raised his voice. In fact his lips barely moved.
“Sorry about that,” Quimby said, and approached the desk with a stiff smile. He picked up a small statue and looked it over then replaced it. “Stanton’s a little too close