The Sometime Sister by Katherine Nichols (e novels for free .TXT) 📗

“Don’t worry. I’ll make some calls. The worst that happens is you sit in a detaining cell for an hour, maybe less. We’ve got to get out of here before Ramirez changes his mind and takes you in himself. Trust me; you do not want to ride in the back of that squad car.”

We followed the police car for several miles before Prez got a signal. Once again, he spoke in Spanish. He hung up and dialed another number before I could question him. The second call lasted over ten minutes.

“Okay,” he said after disconnecting. “We’ve got a plan. A lawyer friend of mine will be waiting for us. You let him do all the talking. I mean all of it. Don’t admit to anything. If they ask questions, play dumb.”

I leaned my head against the window frame and closed my eyes. Only a few days ago, I’d been safe inside my tidy life, far away from this strange place. I had a job I liked and my sister’s dog, who tolerated me. I wouldn’t say I was happy, but I wasn’t a felon. Now here I was, thousands of miles from home on my way to jail.

After about twenty minutes, we pulled into a gravel lot near a whitewashed building with a triangular roof and POLICIA written on the awning. There were only three other vehicles. Ramirez got out and waited by his car.

“You will walk in with me, Señorita.” The officer grasped my upper arm and guided me inside. Prez followed, and a slender, white-haired man greeted him.

“My good friend, Preston Allen!” They shook hands and patted each other on the back while I stood by the unmanned reception desk. Ramirez barked out something unintelligible and stomped away. Prez introduced me to Charles Douglas, attorney at law. With his silver hair and thick, matching mustache, he looked like a TV star in a courtroom drama. He assured me there would be no problem, and I was not to worry. Then his cell rang. He excused himself to answer it.

“I’m heading out now,” Prez said, patting me on the back. “You’re in expert hands. Nobody here knows about that jury tampering thing in the States.”

“But I thought you were staying.” I inhaled a deep cleansing breath before the rest of Prez’s statement registered. I lowered my voice. “Wait, did you say jury tampering? Wouldn’t they disbar him for that?”

“Relax. As far as anybody here’s concerned, he’s still a full-fledged attorney.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m not so popular with the local police, though. Me being here isn’t much of a bonus for you. But don’t worry. McElroy’s on his way to post bail.” He scurried out just as Ramirez reappeared accompanied by an older officer with a much calmer demeanor.

The men spoke to my lawyer as if I wasn’t there. Ramirez shouted and shook his fist in my direction. I pretended to study the wanted posters on the bulletin board while watching out of the corner of my eye. The second policeman put his hand on Ramirez’s back and whispered to him. Mumbling to himself, Ramirez strode away. After another few minutes of chatting, the others approached me.

“We have come to what I like to call a gentleman’s agreement,” Douglas said. “Or in your case, a gentle woman’s agreement.” He chuckled. “You will be escorted to the holding area to appease the honorable Officer Ramirez while I fill out some paperwork. It won’t take long. By the time I’m finished, your friend should be here, and you may return to your hotel.”

A younger man came through the doorway and motioned for me to follow him. We shuffled down a short hallway where he unlocked a heavy metal door and ushered me in. A narrow passage ran through the center of the long, dark corridor. We passed three individual cells on both sides. My jailer stopped at an open enclosure smaller than my walk-in closet at home. A chill came over me as he clanged the door shut, leaving me alone in my cell.

Chapter 24

A cot with a grungy mattress was shoved against one wall, and a rust-stained sink next to a toilet without a seat took up the other. The air was dank and stale, with the tang of disinfectant and urine clinging to it. If there were other prisoners, I couldn’t see or hear them. The thick silence was more frightening than being surrounded by angry hookers.

I had no cup to rattle against the bars, so I sat on the edge of the cot. Some other poor captive had drawn a heart with the name Raul in the center. The artist had stuck a dagger between the “a” and the “u.” I remembered an article claiming most women in US prisons were there for committing crimes connected to either men or drugs, often both. I suspected this wasn’t only an American phenomenon.

I decided I had two options. I could sit on this miserable mattress and feel sorry for myself, or I could try to figure out why I was sitting here and what I could do about it.

Option one felt good, but it was also too familiar. Hadn’t I been wallowing in my pain ever since I caught Ben and Stella frolicking in the shower? True, they had betrayed me in the worst way, but hadn’t I exhausted my share of self-pity and bitterness? I now had a healthy serving of guilt on my plate for not forgiving her before her death. No, I’d spent more than enough time festering in my own sorrow.

I chose option two. I would sort out events since my arrival to determine what they might tell me about how and why my sister died. The problem was Ben. Our last visit hadn’t pleased him.

Ever the gamesman, he expected to charm his way into my heart—and various other body parts—while blaming his wife for their bad behavior.

He