Body Heat. Brenda Novak

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      Now he just needed to figure out where to place the pretend plug adapter. He wanted it somewhere central. That would increase his chances of picking up most of her conversations. So, tempted as he was by the bedroom—simply because that seemed like even more of an invasion of privacy, which she deserved—he avoided it. The transmitter should go in the living room, he decided. The living room was between the kitchen and the bedroom, plus the screened-in porch at the back. He’d be able to listen in on more conversations there than anywhere else.

      Turning in a circle on her living room rug, he searched for the outlet he wanted and spotted one behind a table that held nothing but framed photographs. If he had his bet, this outlet never got used. She’d probably forgotten it was even there.

      “Perfect,” he murmured once he’d had a chance to test the device using his transmitter. “And now for the car.”

      Striding into the kitchen, he checked the keys hanging on hooks near the cupboards, identified the set that went with the cruiser sitting out front and walked outside to unlock it and put the pen under the dash. This was the trickiest part, since he could be spotted by any neighbor who happened to get up for a drink of water, so he made quick work of it. Then he locked up and headed back down the street.

      He was whistling by the time he reached his vehicle. Maybe it’d taken a while to collect the money he needed, and it had taken even longer to catch Sophia on a night when she was out of town…

      But his patience had been well rewarded.

      It was after midnight and the man who’d walked away with her photographs of José and his wife hadn’t returned. Sophia wasn’t sure how long she should wait. Had he given up and gone home? Was she sitting here, wasting time? If he hadn’t been able to get any information, there was no guarantee he’d come back to tell her….

      The cantina was beginning to empty, but the table at the front was still occupied. The man who’d called her a puta and one of his friends had followed her into the bar and seated themselves close to the door. They’d stayed there ever since, brooding, drinking and glaring at her. Sophia knew they were trying to intimidate her. What she didn’t know was whether they’d act on the not-so-subtle threat in their eyes.

      Feeling the pressure of her Glock against her calf, she glanced at her watch and decided to wait another fifteen minutes. Any longer was too dangerous. She didn’t want to be the last to leave the bar. That would give her friends near the front an easy opportunity to get her alone. The gun made her fairly confident that she could defend herself if attacked. But she didn’t want to shoot anyone, especially in Mexico. There was no telling how that would go down with the local police or the Mexican government. They might not believe she’d acted in self-defense, and the fact that she’d brought a weapon into the country wouldn’t be a point in her favor.

      Waving the waitress away when the girl circled back to see if she wanted another ginger ale, Sophia toyed with the change on the table. Why hadn’t she asked Starkey to come down here with her? He would’ve loved the chance to play protector. He enjoyed nothing more than acting tough. He was tough. But she knew better than to accept any favors from him. That would only get his hopes up that she’d take him back, and she didn’t need that right now, not after years of trying to convince him that they were over for good.

      Still, giving him a call would help pass the time and take her mind off the two thugs at the door, one of whom had basically threatened her with rape. The way she’d spouted off about the money she’d be willing to pay for information made robbery another possibility….

      She checked her watch again. The minute hand was creeping toward 12:25 a.m., but there was no need to worry that she might wake Starkey. She’d never known him to go to bed before two or three. He partied with the other Angels almost every night.

      Pulling her cell from her pocket, she hit the key for Starkey’s number. She expected it to go through its usual speed-dial sequence, but she got an error message instead, warning her that she was out of network range. Because she was within twenty miles of the town where she lived, she hadn’t realized her phone wouldn’t work. But, of course, that made sense. She wasn’t in the States, anymore.

      “Oh, boy,” she muttered, and put the phone away.

      Ten more minutes passed before she stood. She’d promised herself she’d stay fifteen, but another four people had sauntered toward the exit, making her worry that she’d delayed her departure too long already. Bracing for what could happen when she passed that front table, she started to leave. But as she took a step toward the door, the man she’d been waiting for came charging into the cantina, along with two lanky companions. At least twenty years younger than their sturdier counterpart, they looked like identical twins—until they came close enough for Sophia to see that they were only siblings. “Señorita, I have what you want,” the man she’d hired stated proudly.

      This was promising—if it was real and not something he’d concocted in an effort to get paid.

      As she sank into her seat, she gestured for the men to join her.

      They were short a chair, but borrowed one from an empty table.

      “Juan can help you.” Indicating the guy to his left, the man who’d accepted her offer tapped the pictures. “He and his brother, they act as polleros…er—” deep groves lined his forehead as he struggled with English “—guides? Sí, guides, for these people. They take them across la frontera.”

      “They’re coyotes?”

      “No. They work for a coyote who can no longer cross.”

      “Why can’t he cross?”

      “He get caught by La Migra? The CBP? He go to jail. You understand?”

      “He’s on the list. If he gets caught trying to cross again, they’ll prosecute him.”

      He nodded emphatically. “Sí. These are his runners.”

      She pulled out a small pad of paper and a pen she’d shoved into her back pocket. “And who are you?”

      “Enrique.”

      “Enrique what?”

      “Castillo.”

      She wrote that down. “And your friends?”

      “Juan and Miguel Martinez.”

      As soon as she’d recorded this, she eyed Enrique’s friends. “Can you tell me who these people are?”

      They looked confused until Enrique jumped in. “Juan y Miguel no hablan inglés, señorita. I translate. But first, we talk price. One hundred U.S.” He tapped Juan’s shoulder, then Miguel’s and then his own chest to make sure she understood that they each expected one hundred American dollars.

      Sitting back, she folded her arms. “That’s more than I offered.”

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