Chapter Two

Margo Angelhart

Iquietly slipped into the last pew of St. Dominic's Catholic Church and hoped Uncle Rafe didn't spot my late arrival. I probably shouldn't have come at all. I could easily have called Rafe with the update about Annie.

But on my way home, thinking about grabbing a few hours of much-needed sleep before tracking Brittney Monroe's super-wealthy dot-com husband, I'd spotted the cross in the distance and deeply instilled Catholic guilt washed over me. I hadn't been to Mass in three weeks, and avoided my uncle's messages while planning Annie's escape.

I could easily blame the cases I'd been working—both paid and unpaid—but the truth? I'd broken one of the Ten Commandments three weeks ago. Sure, I broke the commandments all the time. Lying. Working on the Sabbath. Unmarried sex—though, unfortunately, not recently. I hadn't killed anyone, even when I wanted to, so that was a plus, right? But this time, I'd lied to my mother, and that always made me feel doubly guilty. The whole honor thy mother and father rule? I really tried to obey that one.

Worse, my mom knew I was lying. And she knew that I knew that she knew I was lying. So, how could I go to church in good faith when I lied to my mom?

I'm pretty certain I'm not the only adult who felt guilty when lying to their parents, but double guilt here because my favorite uncle is a priest and I'm a borderline halfway decent Catholic. And I was pretty certain Uncle Rafe could read my mind, which would not be a good thing most of the time.

You could be home right now, Margo. In bed. Sleeping. Call Rafe about Annie later today.

Yet...there was peace here at St. Dominic's that calmed me like little else. One of the oldest churches in Phoenix nestled in the valley between the Phoenix Mountains Preserve and North Mountain, designed to look like a small California mission, but with a distinctive desert feel. Thick adobe walls, narrow stained glass windows, and a long covered veranda that surrounded the church on three sides. Established trees flanked the structure, and to the west was a K–8 school with only nine classrooms—one for each grade, thirty to thirty-five kids in each class.

St. Dominic's took up one side of a quiet dead-end street in Sunnyslope. Sunnyslope had once been an upscale suburb north of downtown but had gone downhill over the last twenty-some years. Half the community still maintained their stately streets, large lots filled with trees, and older homes that had been renovated and were now worth seven figures. Abuela and Pop still lived in their home off North 7th Street, the one they bought in the 1960s, where they raised their seven children in four bedrooms with only two bathrooms. But on the fringes of Sunnyslope, especially near the freeway, light-rail stations, and most everything on or off 19th Ave, were run-down apartments, small houses with bars on the windows, graffiti, boarded-up businesses, drug deals in broad daylight, regular shootings, and gang activity.

I blinked as the congregation rose for the Gospel. I may have fallen asleep with my eyes open during the second reading, because I didn't remember a word.

Then, as if Rafe were speaking directly to me, a verse jumped out:

"‘The person who is trustworthy in very small matters is also trustworthy in great ones; and the person who is dishonest in very small matters is also dishonest in great ones.'"

That capsulized what had been bothering me ever since I'd taken the adultery case ten days ago. A nagging little lie that my client told. It wasn't a lie that needed to be told...so why had Brittney Monroe said it?

When we met ten days ago at a generic coffee shop far from where Brittney lived in Scottsdale, she'd at first seemed very distraught and forthcoming. Her husband had changed, lying to her about where he was and who he was with, and she had smelled perfume on his shirts that wasn't hers. She just "had to know" if he was cheating on her so she could "fix their marriage." I suppose that could have been true, though in my subsequent research I learned that, because of her prenup, she gets more money in the divorce if he cheats.

But her rambling about irrelevant things, like her family and college, gave me a lot of information to verify. I usually check out my clients, so when she said that she didn't want to divorce because her parents had gone through a nasty divorce that forever impacted her, it was easy to verify.

Except, her parents had been married for thirty-six years and lived in the same house where they'd raised their two kids in Colorado Springs.

I asked her about it during our next conversation—over the phone, making it harder to read if she was lying—and she said, "Well, they didn't divorce, but they separated and it felt like a divorce."

Maybe that was true. But why not just say it? Why say divorce when it was a separation? A separation that clearly hadn't lasted.

I could have talked to her parents and brother and learned the truth, but decided it wasn't important. Besides, if she had lied, then I would have a harder time accepting her money...and I really needed the money. Bored housewife from Scottsdale wanted proof that her hubby of three years was doing the dirty with someone else? Sign me up. Hate the job; love the payday.

And a small lie was irrelevant as to whether dot-com multimillionaire Logan Monroe was cheating on his wife. It just annoyed me.

If she lies about small things, is she lying about big things?

And yeah, thinking about Brittney's possible little lie reminded me of my big-fat whopping lie to my mom.

Dammit.

I sat through the Eucharistic prayer, then joined the line for Communion. Would have slipped out right after, but I couldn't avoid Rafe's warm all-knowing eyes when he handed me the body of Christ. I could practically hear him ask, Why have you ignored my texts and calls, Margo?

"Amen," I said and put the wafer in my mouth.

I knelt after Communion, said my own private prayers, and tried not to fall asleep in the pew listening to one of the lectors drone on and on about news everyone could easily have read about in the bulletin.

Though the church was small and the 9:00 a.m. Mass catered to the older community, everyone wanted to chat with Father Raphael.

I could have left, but I'd come here in part to talk to my uncle. So I waited outside—Arizona spring is my favorite. It would top ninety by two o'clock that afternoon, but that was fine. Until temps moved north of the hellish one-ten, I was good. Last year we had the hottest summer on earth, weeks of temperatures exceeding 110. That was just fucked, as if a vent from Hell had opened up under the city of Phoenix. But other than those blistering days, I liked it.

The lull of voices and sound of cars leaving the lot put me into a semi-catatonic state as I leaned against my Jeep and soaked in the sun.

Ten minutes after Mass ended, Rafe approached. "You look tired," he said.

"I am tired."

I stretched, opened my eyes, stifled a yawn. "I was on my way home when I saw the cross and guilt had me turning left instead of right."

He didn't smile, though he usually enjoyed my humor.

"I've been avoiding you—I know. Sorry. I figured if it was super important you would have said so."

I feared my mom had talked to him. That he would try and smooth things over, and I didn't want to take out my anger and frustration on Uncle Rafe.

"I was worried about you," he said.

"I told you I had everything under control."

"I was right to be concerned. You don't look like you've slept all week."

"Juggling two cases. But Annie's safe—or, on the road to being safe."

He frowned. "I didn't say goodbye, make sure she's okay."

"She's fine. We need to be careful. I don't know if her bastard of a husband will be able to trace her to you. It's better she didn't visit. If you see him, even if you think you see him, call me. I'm serious, Uncle Rafe," I added when he didn't immediately agree. "I can be here in five minutes."

He nodded. "And she's really okay?"

"She will be. It's a process. You know that." This wasn't the first time we'd worked together to help someone disappear.

"I've been thinking..."

"No."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I know exactly what you've been thinking, Uncle Rafe, and I'm not dragging Jack or Josie into this. Jack isn't a cop anymore and if he knows there's a bad cop, he'll do something he'll regret. You know it, I know it. And I'm not risking Josie's career. She's barely out of training, still on probation. This is my case. I'll find a way to take him down."

Rafe didn't say anything for a minute, and that always made me squeamish. Even before he became a priest.

Then he said, "I brought Annie to you because I knew you'd help her."

"That's my job."

"It's your calling," he said. "I feared for Annie's life. For her kids. That was the immediate problem, but while she may be safe, her husband is still an issue. He's in law enforcement. He has friends. He has authority. Abusing his wife may not be his only crime. You shouldn't go after him alone. Without, um, what do the shows say? Without backup."

"I get what you're saying, but—"

"There is no but in this. It's not a crime to ask for help."

"If I need help, I'll ask. I have friends. Taking down Carillo is the long game. I'm telling you again: if you see him, call me."

He nodded. "I'll call you first, then I'll call Jack."

"Dammit, Rafe!"

An elderly couple using walkers were slowly leaving the church and gave me a harsh look. They'd heard me swear at a priest. A popular priest who everyone in the parish loved. I just extended my time in purgatory. At this rate, I'd never get out.

What wasn't to love about Raphael Morales? Other than the fact that he was stubborn and manipulative and noble and compassionate and usually right.

"Just call me first, okay?" I said. "St. Dominic's is so far from anything he knows that I don't think he'll put two and two together. But there's a slim possibility he'll remember that her grandparents had lived in this neighborhood, and he might come around, start asking questions. Possibly while in uniform. Maybe send over a surrogate. He's tracked her movements for years, and even though she only came here once since they've been married, he might check. Be alert."

He nodded, kissed my hand, held on. "I will see you next weekend."

A statement.

"You never ask me to come to Mass, why now?"

"I meant for my parents' anniversary party."

"Oh. Right. Yes. Of course I'll be there. I wouldn't miss it." Abuela and Pop were celebrating their sixtieth wedding anniversary. My uncle Tom was closing his restaurant for the event and there would be a huge buffet, lots of family and friends and Very Important People because Hector and Margaret Morales both came from long-time Phoenix families. Pop was a retired judge, and Abuela had raised her kids while also running a taco stand near the courthouse. A taco stand that turned into a food truck in 1978—and may have been the first modern food truck outside of Los Angeles—that turned into eighteen food trucks. She'd stepped aside nearly twenty years ago, and Uncle Tom and his son, Adam, ran the business now.

"Why didn't you think I would come?"

He didn't speak. I grew suspicious.

"Who's talking about me?"

"I know you and your mom had a falling out a few weeks back—"

"Stop. Don't. Mom and I had a falling out three years ago. But I never let that stop me from doing my family duty, did I?"

"I know you don't want me in the middle of things, but I am fair."

"It's not about fairness. If I thought you could solve our problems, I would have asked you to mediate three years ago. We have a fundamental disagreement. I will not budge. If that makes me stubborn and rigid, I don't care. My dad's innocence is not something I will ever stop pursuing. Ever. He shouldn't be in prison. I can't just walk away."

"No one has walked away from Cooper."

"Yes, they have! Visiting him every week is bullshit." I winced, but didn't apologize. "I tried to understand why he pled guilty, but it doesn't make sense, and he was wrong to do so. Mom was wrong to agree with him. She could have talked him out of it—he would have listened to her. My brothers and sisters were on my side until she convinced them to go along with it. And I don't see the why. So no, you can't mediate. The only thing you can do is convince Mom that she is wrong, and you won't do that. You think I'm stubborn? I'm Ava Morales Angelhart's daughter. I get it from her."

"I didn't mean to upset you, Margo."

I took a deep breath, needing to calm down. "I'm tired, and I have to work this afternoon, so I need to sleep. Like you said, I look like shit."

He raised an eyebrow but had a sparkle in his eye. "I don't think that's what I said."

I smiled. A truce. "Not in so many words, but you were thinking it."

He smiled, rubbed my shoulder. "I'm glad you came to Mass."

"You might see me again here next week." I hugged him. "Love you, Uncle Rafe. And remember what I said about Carillo. See him, call me."

I crashed hard for five hours and woke up at four that afternoon feeling disorientated. I hated sleeping in the middle of the day, but three hours' sleep a night for a week had finally taken its toll.

I popped a pod into my Keurig and grabbed it as soon as it was done. Took the mug into the bathroom where I showered, towel-dried my dark blond hair, dressed in cargo pants and a white tank top, then checked my messages.

Sure enough, one came from Brittney Monroe. Also several texts from Theo, the college kid who worked for me part-time. He'd given me a solid report on Logan Monroe's whereabouts today, including pictures and details. He'd done good.

Though I maintained a storefront in a tired strip mall near the busy intersection of Cave Creek and Hatcher—got a good deal on the tiny space from friends of my cousins—I preferred working at home. I sat at my desk in the second bedroom that I'd turned into my office (though if I had a guest, they could sleep on the pullout couch that, when unfolded, took up all remaining floor space).

I hit Brittney's number. She picked up on the first ring. "You don't get Sundays off, Ms. Angelhart."

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from mouthing off.

"No, of course not."

"You are highly unprofessional."

I made faces that she couldn't see. I wanted to quit so bad but didn't, because of two things: first, reputation. I couldn't risk blowing a major client just to maintain the moral high ground. And two, empty bank account.

"I had my colleague confirm that Mr. Monroe was, in fact, at his regularly scheduled golf date this morning at nine. I have photos of the men he golfed with—they are his regular group. They had lunch at one, and right now your husband is, in fact, at your house."

"I know all that. He was in the shower when I called you and you did not answer."

In my most contrite tone, I said, "I am sorry for missing your call." The apology felt like dog shit on my tongue.

"He told me he's going into the office for a few hours. That's what he's been saying and I know for a fact that he's not going to the office. This is it. I want photos, I want the little whore's name, and I want it as soon as you know."

"Yes, ma'am." I moved my jaw back and forth and heard it pop.

"I have to go," Brittney hissed. "Just do your job and get me the proof ASAP." She ended the call.

I barely refrained from throwing my phone against the wall. Deep breath in, slow breath out. Again.

Proof. Right. There would be no proof if Logan Monroe wasn't actually cheating. He'd been acting off and lying, according to the wife—signs of something, but I could think of a half dozen reasons other than screwing around.

But screwing around was certainly on the list.

I dialed Theo.

"Yep," he answered.

"Where are you?"

"Parked outside their gated neighborhood."

"He's supposed to be going to the office in a few," I said.

He snorted. "You think?"

"He did last week when she called thinking he was meeting with his mistress. It's going to take me thirty minutes to get there, then you're free."

"When you paying me?"

Fuck. "I can give you half tonight, plus gas."

"You gave that mom all your money, didn't you?"

"You aren't supposed to know about her." If I hadn't needed Theo's help with getting the car, I'd never have told him.

"You're a softie, Margo."

What would be the point of denying it?

"I don't need a lecture from a twenty-year-old criminal."

"Former criminal. I've been clean since the day before my eighteenth birthday. You know that, sugar."

"Don't call me sugar or you won't be seeing a dime."

He laughed. Theo had a hearty laugh that made him sound older and didn't fit his tall skinny body. "You're fun to wind up, Angel."

Theo had a half dozen nicknames for me. Some of them got old real quick.

"If he leaves before I get there, tail him and call me."

"Roger that, boss."

"You can certainly call me boss."