I hadn’t killed her! A loud sigh escaped my lips. But wouldn’t the police consider me a suspect when they heard my story? It was rather unbelievable. Monica Fullbright’s killer had to be one of the men from the car chase. I remembered the bandanna I’d seen tied around Cathy Vega’s neck in the shed behind Casa Guatemala. Guerrero? No, I was sure it was Armando Diaz. But I had to know. Had to know so the cops would believe me. Where’s your office? I’ll be there in about forty minutes.”

I didn’t hear what he said. We must have said good-bye. I wasn’t listening because I knew I wasn’t going.

“What’s happening? Where are you going? I gotta find Joey,” Lupe said, agitated and pacing. “I don’t got time for none of your nicey Audrey Hepburn stuff. Let’s go to Casa Guatemala.”

I shook my head but didn’t answer her as I shuffled through the papers on my desk to find Casa Guatemala’s number, which I had scribbled on my desk blotter. Punching the number, I waited impatiently for it to ring. I couldn’t move against them to find out if they had killed Monica Fullbright and I couldn’t put myself in the clear with the cops until I knew that Joey was somewhere safe and out of the way.

The phone was answered immediately.

“I want to talk with Guerrero. Tell him it’s Whitney Logan.”

Lupe edged closer and pressed her face next to mine so that her ear was on the receiver.

“Guerrero no here,” a heavily accented male voice replied.

“Find him. I want to see him now.”

There was some confusion on the other end. I could hear people speaking rapidly in Spanish before a woman’s voice came on the line.

“He is not here. This is Emma.”

“The woman Cathy got the money from is dead. Guerrero just killed her. Like he killed Cathy.” I had to lure Emma out to meet me. I would make her tell me if they had Joey. “You knew he killed Cathy. That makes you an accessory to murder.”

“No!”

I stretched the phone cord to straighten it. “That’s what I’m going to tell the police. I’m on my way there now.”

“Wait! You’re wrong. It’s not the way you think.”

I centered the phone neatly on the desk. “I’m tired of thinking. Your time’s up.”

“Let me talk to you before you go to the police,” she said hurriedly.

“The last time I wanted to talk with you, you stuck a gun in my back. One of your goons kicked me in the head.” I started to hang up. She would call me right back, ready to do whatever I wanted.

“I’ll come alone,” she pleaded. “I’ll meet you wherever you say.”