Collision Course: A Romantic Thriller Read online

  COLLISION COURSE

  A ROMANTIC THRILLER

  SUSAN DONOVAN

  ADOBE COTTAGE MEDIA, LLC

  Collision Course is a never-before-published work of fiction set in New Mexico in 2000. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Susan Donovan

  All rights reserved.

  ASIN: B09KYFMXM4

  Published in the United States by:

  ADOBE COTTAGE MEDIA, LLC.

  Cover design: Elizabeth Mackey

  Formatted by: Jesse Kimmel-Freeman

  Printed in the United States of America

  www.susandonovanbooks.com

  “I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.”

  ― Douglas Adams,

  The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Monday, March 13, 2000

  Each curve of the road took her farther from the city and closer to despair.

  She gunned the motorcycle. Asphalt blurred below. Sapphire skies hung above. She raced past squat houses the color of dirt, dusty roadside shops, and stunted trees.

  At any other time in her life she would have enjoyed this trip over back roads into the New Mexico mountains. But she knew if she somehow managed to live, there would never be joy again. Only fear.

  When her flight descended into Albuquerque that morning, she’d thought it looked like an alien planet here, with its vast stretches of nothing, its lush green river valley and jagged mountains rising like crumpled brown paper from the earth’s crust. Mountains, rivers, and desert all in one town—it was the strangest place she’d ever seen.

  The sign up ahead said, “Welcome to Corrales.” She estimated she had at least three hours before she reached the house.

  Plenty of time for the ugly ache of betrayal to churn in her gut. Time enough to remember the feel of hot, slippery blood on her hands and arms. Time to hear, again and again, the sickening sound of steel slicing through a man’s throat.

  Oh, God. Once they’d put the pieces together, how long would it take them to find her? She prayed this would be the last place on earth they’d look. She prayed that all the little lies she left behind—and the months of careful planning—would keep her safe.

  But Janey O’Connor no longer believed in fairy tales, did she?

  The tears blurred her view of the road. She blinked them back, scolding herself for crying, telling herself that she’d have to be brave. The only possible choice was to trade her dreams and her life for the lives of all those innocent people.

  She wondered just how many lives she held in her hands.

  “No!”

  A quick jerk of the handlebars wasn’t enough, and she clipped the truck fender, losing control. She began to slide, the gravel crunching beneath her until she slammed into wall of pain and blackness.

  Ruben Jaramillo placed two trembling fingers under the ridge of the woman’s jaw and felt around for something he could identify as a pulse.

  “Thank God,” he whispered, shutting his eyes in relief.

  Someone in the crowd was already calling 911. He knew better than to move her, but the leather strap of the helmet seemed to be cutting into her throat and she was choking.

  He loosened the clasp. Soft strands of dollar-store-red hair spilled out from underneath the helmet, framing a pale and beautiful face as still as death.

  Ruben wadded up his jean jacket and was about to shove it under her head when he remembered himself. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t thinking straight! One jolt of the spine was all it took to paralyze someone, and he knew it! How many wrecks had he covered for the paper over the years?

  “Is she all right? What happened?”

  He looked up to see his neighbor crouching at his side, her wide face taught with worry.

  “I pulled right out in front of her. She was moving like a bat out of hell, and she swerved to miss me, but…”

  Gina Kravitz put a comforting hand on Ruben’s shoulder. “It was an accident, Ruben. It’s not your fault.”

  His dark eyes flashed at her. “Oh yeah? Try telling her that.”

  Twenty or so gawkers now stood at the roadside in front of San Ysidro Catholic Church. Ruben looked up into their faces framed in blue sky, and felt the need to shield this woman from their prying stares.

  He released the crumpled denim jacket from his grip and smoothed it over her chest and shoulders. He picked up a thin white hand and stoked downward along the delicate bones of the fingers—and for an instant he thought he knew her.

  But of course he didn’t know her.

  Ruben stared at her quiet face and followed the contour of her smooth brow, the sweep of her cheek and the pale pink lips. He was suddenly overcome with sadness and guilt for having done this to her.

  He bent close. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his lips close to her warm skin, his fingertips brushing her cheek. “Help is coming. Whoever you are, I’m so very sorry.”

  Late that night, the Jane Doe’s eyelids began to flutter. Albuquerque Metro Detective Leroy Salazar jumped up from the vinyl armchair in the corner of the hospital room and went to her side. He had to wait several more minutes before they fluttered again.

  Now this was a strange one. One of the strangest he’d seen in his twenty-three years on the force, and that was saying something. Salazar chewed his gum while he went over the facts again. No ID. Seventeen thousand dollars in cash shoved down her bra. A single key in her pocket.

  He put her age at between twenty-six and thirty. Good dental care. And, let’s face it, possibly the most incredible body he’d ever seen up close and personal. With those long, muscular legs she had to be some kind of athlete.

  The toxicology screen was negative–no drugs, no prescription meds, no alcohol. That dyed hair was either a major fashion mistake or an attempt to hide something.

  The Yamaha had been a snap to trace. It had been purchased with cash at Sandia Cycles that morning, registered under a name and address that turned out to be fake. The Jane Doe’s clothes and boots were expensive department store stuff, nothing traceable. No tats and no jewelry, not even a pair of earrings. Nothing.

  And that’s all he knew about Miss Doe there on the bed in front of him—that, and that she’d managed to scare the shit out of the little pecker from the Albuquerque Star. Salazar chuckled to himself. He didn’t wish pain and suffering on anyone, but goddam, that had made him laugh.

  “Uhhm,” she groaned.

  “Hello, Miss.” Salazar patted her hand. She had long fingers. Manicured short nails with clear polish. “Take your time. You’re pretty banged up.”

  She licked her lips. So dry. They’re going to find me! Blood – everywhere!

  “Miss?” Salazar leaned closer to her face. “What’s your name? Do you know where you are?”

  “Murder,” she whispered, her eyes struggling to open even as the tears rolled down her temples. “I think I murdered someone.”

  Chapter 2

  Tuesday, March 14

/>   Ruben Jaramillo stopped his Nissan pickup at the security gate and impatiently shoved his card through the slot. He zoomed under the red and white striped bar, found a parking space and jogged to the newsroom door. With another swipe of the card he was inside.

  It always made him smile to walk into the newsroom of the Albuquerque Star. His coworkers didn’t know how good they had it.

  As the paper’s crime reporter, he didn’t get to spend much time here. Most of his day was spent in a sewer hole of an office in the basement of police headquarters. Only when his official shift was over did he get to journey to this Mecca of modern journalism—the Star’s sprawling glass and mauve stucco complex of tiled walkways, potted ferns, framed Southwestern art, and pergolas.

  He braced himself. This newsroom may be all beauty and light, but he knew the words could get ugly. And today he was likely to be on the receiving end.

  He nearly got past the city desk when Dave Kovac nailed him.

  “Jaramillo!” The assistant city editor peered over the top of his computer terminal. “Running down girls to find dates these days? Losing your mojo?”

  Ruben smiled politely. “My mojo’s fine, mo-fo.”

  A low wave of chuckles spread over the open room.

  “Hey Ruby, you okay?”

  “Thanks, Lynn. I’m good.”

  “Ruby.”

  “Leslie.”

  “Hi, Ruby.”

  “Hey, Danielle.”

  He snaked through the desks clumped by department: copy editing, city desk, general assignment, business, sports, features.

  A pretty feature writer with cropped brown hair watched Ruben approach her desk. Olivia Richards’ pulse began to race as she looked him over. He was so cute today it made her insides twist—close-fitting jeans, a button-down shirt with rolled up sleeves, another funky tie. And there was something smokin’ hot about a five-o’clock shadow first thing in the morning.

  “Hey, Liv.”

  “Hey, yourself.” She flashed him a coy smile. “Are you really doing okay?”

  Ruben threw the strap of his crinkled leather backpack over one shoulder and leaned his hands on her desk. “I’m fine. I was pretty freaked out, but it looks like she’s going to be okay.”

  “How about your truck?”

  “A few dings. But what else is new?” He shot her a lopsided grin.

  “Are we on for tonight?” Olivia kept her voice at a whisper. There was no such thing as privacy in this place—you couldn’t burp without the rest of the newsroom taking bets on what you what you had for lunch.

  “Absolutely. Does Sadie’s sound good? I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “Sounds perfect. See ya then.”

  Olivia watched Ruben Jaramillo walk back to his desk. He’d come all the way to her side of the newsroom just to chat, and it gave her a junior-high thrill.

  Finally. Tonight would be their first date. She’d had her eye on this guy for two months, from the first day she came to the Star. There was something undeniably appealing about Ruby Jaramillo. Maybe it was his thousand-watt smile, or his tousled, just-out-of-bed black hair. Maybe it was the wire-rimmed glasses he sometimes wore that did their best to add a hint of seriousness to that bad-boy face. Or maybe it was simply the fact that he was the best reporter on staff. Maybe it was all those things.

  Olivia allowed herself one second to inspect his Levi’s as he walked away, and she sighed with anticipation.

  Standing at his desk, Ruben threw his backpack to the floor and dialed his voice mail, pulled on a telephone headset and microphone to keep his hands free to sort his mail, then logged on to his computer.

  “Ruby, you okay?” Jim Cooper gave him a friendly nod.

  Ruben offered a thumb’s up and smiled at his best buddy, then frantically jotted down a message, the stack of mail now shoved beneath one arm.

  Cooper had to laugh at him. That, right there, was his best friend in a nutshell. The guy was doing four things at once before he’d even set his ass in the chair. He put the rest of the schleps in this newsroom to shame.

  Ruben finally took a seat and rooted through his backpack for a long, narrow reporter’s notebook. He flipped through a few pages till he found what he was looking for and tossed it over the low divider between his and Cooper’s desks.

  “Hey Coop. Remember that story?” Ruben asked.

  Cooper picked up the notebook and frowned. “Man, you know I can’t read your chicken scratch. Why don’t you use your digital recorder like a normal person? What is this?”

  “Two years ago in the South Valley—a pretty gruesome homicide. The kitchen was a blood bath. I saw them weigh the coke and take it away. I described it in my notes, see? Fifty kilos wrapped in a dark green garbage bag held together with electrical tape.”

  Cooper’s eyebrows shot up.

  “And I saw Gayle Kimble slice it open with a penknife right in front of me. It was definitely cocaine.”

  Cooper scanned the notebook. “And?”

  “I checked it against the data we’ve been collecting and there’s just one tagged piece of evidence from that bust, about 42 kilos of coke.”

  “Let me guess—another one of Salazar and Chisolm’s cases?”

  Ruben nodded.

  “God. What’s the street value on that?”

  “Well, let’s see…” Ruben pulled out his phone to use the calculator, then punched in the numbers. “At about twelve thousand a kilo times eight that’s…ninety-six thousand dollars!

  “Man. That’s serious skimming.”

  “Yup.”

  Cooper copied the information. “Nice snag, but we’re not going nuts over this until we double check the data, okay?” Cooper smiled at his friend and tossed the notebook back over the divider.

  “So, did you get in to see the motorcycle mama yet?” Cooper asked.

  Ruben removed his headset. “Nope. I’m heading down later. She woke up last night.”

  Cooper studied his friend. The newsroom scuttlebutt was that Ruby was scared out of his mind by the accident, and Kovac even claimed Ruben had been crying when he called in yesterday.

  Cooper found that hard to believe, like most everything Dave Kovac said. Seeing Ruben now, he was certain it wasn’t true.

  Ruben’s long legs were stretched out casually in front of him, scuffed cowboy boots propped on his desk, his face as relaxed and easy as Cooper had always known it to be—not a care in the world.

  “Working on anything interesting today?” Cooper asked, hoping to sound casual.

  “Nope.” Ruben tossed a few pieces of mail in the recycle bin. “Just the usual druggies, wankers, and wife-beaters. Nothing spectacular.”

  Cooper rested his crossed arms on the short divider between their desks. “They going to charge you do you think?”

  Ruben looked up and chuckled. “Chief Chavez would love that, wouldn’t he?” He shook his head. “She came around the corner going fifty in a twenty-five zone. Every witnesses said I wasn’t at fault.”

  “Did she break anything other than the speed limit?”

  Ruben grimaced at his friend’s attempt at humor. “The charge nurse said she’s got a concussion and a broken wrist, but…” He brought his legs down to the floor and wheeled his desk chair closer to Cooper. “If I tell you this, can you keep it to yourself?”

  Cooper let out a puff of air, insulted. “Damn, Ruby. When have I ever not?”

  Ruben nodded. “It’s just that, well, apparently she has amnesia. Is that the weirdest thing you’ve ever heard? From the concussion, I guess.”

  Cooper snorted. “Sounds like one of those Lifetime movies

  my sister binges.”

  “I’m serious. She doesn’t know who she is. The nurse told me it’s just temporary, but still, it could be a story, right? I’m going to fish around a little while I’m down there today.”

  “Seriously?” Cooper’s mouth fell open. “She really has amnesia?”

  “That’s the word.”

 
Cooper cocked his head. “So what exactly happened yesterday, Ruby?”

  He shrugged, leaning his elbows on his knees. “I finished downtown and went home for lunch, same as most days. I was headed back here about two-thirty, trying to turn left onto Corrales Road, and it looked like I had plenty of room. Then, bam! The chick on the Yamaha tried to miss me but caught her front wheel on my bumper. She slid halfway across San Ysidro’s parking lot before she head-butted a concrete wheel stop.”

  “Ouch!” Cooper watched his friend’s face pull tight.

  “I felt so bad for her.” Ruben spoke softly. “She was one weird-looking woman, though, with all this ridiculous red hair and black leather pants and jacket, straight out of an 80s punk album cover. Almost like a costume. But there was something about her…I don’t know…she just looked so helpless.”

  Cooper puzzled over his friend’s forlorn expression. “Hey, it wasn’t your fault. As we both know too well, bad shit happens.”

  “Yeah. I’m just sorry it happened to her.”

  “Gentlemen.” Howard Norris, the Star’s managing editor, had appeared by their desks. “Let’s have a little get-together in my office, shall we? See you in five minutes.”

  Ruben and Cooper made quick eye contact with each other and nodded simultaneously.

  “Be right in, Howard,” Coop said.

  The editor was about to leave when he turned and tapped Ruben’s desk with his knuckles. “Nice piece on the ATF raid Friday. Forgot to tell you. Where’d you get the tip?”

  Ruben looked up innocently at his editor. “A federal courthouse source.”

  “Oh yeah? When’s your first date?”

  Ruben shook his head and produced a long-suffering sigh. “She’s old enough to be my grandmother, Howard.”

  “Oh. My bad then.”

  “We’re going out next Thursday.”

  Howard tipped his head back and laughed. He rapped Ruben’s desk again. “Five minutes, gentlemen.”

  When he was out of earshot, Cooper sent a worried look Ruben’s way. “What did we do now?”