“Hey,” Dad said, his chipper tone changing the atmosphere in the room. “What’s for dinner?”
“Fish.” Automatic. It was their running joke, since Dad hated fish and Alex was determined to feed it to him for his health anyway. How was she going to get Dad to tell her what Dylan had said to him?
Chapter Seven
10:00 a.m., Thursday, July 11
Paul Ward had advised Dylan to take his suspicions to the Sheriff’s department, but Joe, the responding officer, gave off such a weird vibe the other day he didn’t want to talk to him. On his break on Thursday morning, Dylan called the investigating officer from the homicide unit in Tucson to check on the request he’d made on Monday afternoon. If the victim had been identified, he could stop worrying about it.
He couldn’t give anyone a good reason why he thought the victim might have been his stepfather—it was just a hunch. Hunches didn’t get serious consideration in most homicide investigations. This one might be no different, or they might have so little to go on they would take him seriously.
After just a few minutes, a Lt. Tom Wells answered the phone
“What can I do for you, Mr. Chaves?” he asked.
“I may have a lead for you on your Dodge case.” Lt. Wells would wonder why he hadn’t said this on Monday, but he didn’t have much. Nothing, really. Just a man he couldn’t find who’d been around only a couple of weeks earlier.
“I’m not sure this isn’t a waste of your time,” Dylan continued. “I’ve been looking for a man named Rufio Mendez. I know he was in the Dodge area as recently as two or three weeks ago, but he seems to have disappeared. I don’t think he’d hide from me, I just want him to sign some papers. The description of your victim in this case matches his description, so I wonder if it’s him.” Dylan had more to say, but it was all speculation, as was what he’d already said. He waited for the questions he knew were coming.
“What papers?” Wells asked. That wouldn’t have been Dylan’s first question.
“I’m hoping he’ll sign papers terminating his parental rights to my little brothers. He hasn’t been there for them for almost six years. This will take him off the hook for child support, so I’d think he’d want to.” Again, Dylan cut himself short. His mother’s illness wasn’t a factor in the homicide case, so Lt. Wells didn’t need to know unless he asked specifically. Naturally, it was his next question.
“Why you? Why isn’t your mother handling this?” As far as Dylan was concerned, the information wouldn’t help Wells’ investigation. Based on his own experience interrogating people, though, he knew the quickest way to get it out of the way was to answer the question.
“My mother is dying of stage four breast cancer. She isn’t in any condition to do it. I need to arrange for custody so I can take care of them when she passes.” Dylan swallowed hard. It was never easy, saying it out loud.
“Aw, hell, that’s rough, man. I’m sorry,” Wells said. Dylan liked him better for a minute. “Other than the description matching, what would give you the idea the victim was your…excuse me, what relation would that be?”
“My mother always referred to him as my stepdad. They never married, though. He’s just my brothers’ biological father.” In spite of himself, Dylan’s lip curled. Lt. Wells picked up on the change in tone.
“Not much of a dad to them, huh?”
“Not a dad to them at all. He left us when my younger brother was just a few weeks old. Six years ago.”
Wells made a small sound. Dylan braced himself for the tough question coming. “You don’t like him much,” Wells stated. It wasn’t a question, and it was an accurate assessment. He didn’t like Rufio at all. Against his better judgment, he said so.
“He’s a waste of oxygen. He knocked my mother around, before I was big enough to stop him. He never came to see the boys, never sent any money. I don’t trust him to raise them, so I’m applying to adopt them. I need that signature. Or a death certificate.” It may have been too much information.
“So, you’re hoping the victim is Mendez? Or you know he is,” Lt. Wells said. For the first time, Dylan wondered whether he should have consulted his lawyer before calling.
“No, I don’t know. Only that the description in the paper would describe him and about half the men in the county. It may be nothing. He may turn up later. I have reason to believe he has contacts in Mexico, so he could have gone there. But, if there’s any way to confirm or rule out the victim as Rufio Mendez, I’d like to help if I can.”
“Would we be able to get DNA from one of your brothers? Could you bring him in?” Wells asked. Dylan relaxed. Wells was through nipping at his heels and focused again on the identification.
“I don’t know if you can. You’ll have to talk to DCS.” If he’d had them in his care, of course he’d bring them in. But the state had taken them before he got back to Dodge. “My mother wasn’t in shape to care for them. I was having trouble getting back here from where I was working. By the time I did, the state had stepped in. They won’t give them to me until Mendez signs those papers.”
Referring back to Wells’ earlier question, Dylan stated his attitude in terms anyone could understand. “No, I’m not hoping the victim is Mendez. I need him to sign the papers. But, if it is, I won’t be crying at his funeral.”
~~~
Later, Dylan revisited the whole conversation with Lt. Wells. It had been stupid to go in with that kind of attitude and report he might know the victim. The first person they looked at as a suspect was either a family member or the person who reported the body. Dylan hadn’t been the first to report the body, but he was the first to come forward with a possible identification. That he and the victim didn’t have a blood relationship didn’t matter. It was close enough to family to draw suspicion. Dylan knew all this, and yet walked in without legal protection. What kind of trouble had he made for himself?
He ought to stay out of the way now, and let the Sheriff’s department do their job. But, if he’d volunteered for prime suspect, he’d better be prepared to offer up an alternative as soon as possible if positive identification confirmed his suspicions. To do it, Dylan was going to have to comb his memory for Rufio’s associates from the time before he left. He’d been sixteen years old at the time, old enough to observe what was going on.
Dylan had always believed Rufio was into something illegal. Why? Was it just because he disliked him intensely, or were there things that pointed to it? It was going to take some digging. The fact that his mom, who would have been the best source of information, couldn’t remember anything and didn’t speak now was another stumbling block. Still, if he put his mind to it, there had to be people around who knew something. He’d just have to find them.
What about Alex? She’d written a respectful but uninformative article about the victim. Did she know anything else that could help? How did she feel about it? How did the sight of the nearly mummified man affect her? The Alex he’d known was soft-hearted. She even got upset when one of the wild javelinas got hit in the road, especially if it was a baby. Never mind that the pesky things would eat their way through any unprotected garden, were a serious menace to small domestic animals and could even harm children. Alex loved the ugly beasts anyway. Had she hardened in the time he’d been away?
He couldn’t believe it when he’d found her at the scene. He couldn’t believe it when Joe warned him away from her, either. Joe was too old for her, two years older than Dylan. He didn’t take it seriously. If she didn’t want to have anything to do with him, that was one thing. But if it was all Joe’s problem, they were going to have words.
Who was he kidding? He’d be seeing his brothers on Saturday, the trip to Tucson and back sinking the rest of the day. That kind of commitment left little time for a social life. Maybe he’d have a restaurant meal for a change tomorrow, and maybe a beer afterward. A date or two with Alex would be nice, but anything long-term was out for now.
Chapter Eight
Friday, July 11<
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By Friday morning, Alex already regretted telling Joe she’d have dinner with him that night. The dead guy in the desert hadn’t made much of a ripple in the steady course of the town, and she doubted Joe would have anything new to tell her. In fact, it had been a very slow news week otherwise. If something didn’t happen over the weekend, Dad would have to make tomorrow night’s dance the front page, instead of inside where it usually ran. Everyone in town would be there, including Alex, with her camera. She was going to feel like an idiot, all dressed up with no date and camera in hand.
By afternoon, she was positively dreading her date with Joe.
Alex went to get dressed, but had no idea what to wear. The usual shorts and tank wouldn’t do, since she intended to pump him for information and didn’t want him distracted. Business casual was too formal for La Paloma, and a sundress too flirty. Settling for a sundress, she took some of the flirt out of it by putting a short, lacy, short-sleeved cardigan over it. Slipping on strappy sandals, she combed through her hair and twisted it up in a messy bun. Just a hint of lipstick, no other makeup and she was done. A look in the mirror told her she would do. Alex had achieved a friendly look, not too business-like, not too girlfriend-ish, but just right.
Joe might be disappointed Alex was trying to distance herself, but she didn’t need to be rude about it. She knew he wanted more from her, but he and she wouldn’t work. He was nice enough to be around, but not husband material, not for her anyway. It wasn’t because of Dylan. She’d known before Dylan even got back to town.
On the other hand, Dylan confused her. Every time she ran into him, which seemed to be everywhere she turned lately, she reacted physically to his presence. It was annoying and embarrassing, and there didn’t seem to be anything she could do about it. Maybe she should just go ahead and scratch her itch, but memories of the last time they were nearly intimate got in the way. Was she ready now, when she wasn’t then? She was four years older, but no more experienced. He probably was.
Alex got in her car and headed to the restaurant against the traffic from the shift change at the mine, putting a firm lid on that train of thought.
~~~
Twilight was waning when Alex pulled up to La Paloma, the sun down for almost half an hour. Finding the place empty or uncomfortably crowded was always hit or miss. Tonight, it was in between. She would still be able to hear Joe in the echo-y building, but they wouldn’t be the only patrons, so their conversation would be relatively private.
Alex parked behind the restaurant and entered the back door, glancing at the familiar artwork on the walls before looking around for Joe. He was at the corner table in the back, his back to the wall. The preference was typical of men around town. Alex didn’t know why they all seemed to think an old-time gunfight might break out, but none of them wanted to sit with their backs to a door or an open space. Alex smirked at Joe, letting him know she’d spotted his quirk. He smirked back, letting her know he didn’t care.
“Hey, JR.”
“Joe, if you call me that one more time, I’ll rip your voice box out and stuff it down your windpipe.” Alex held a deceptively pleasant smile on her face.
“Whoa! A little touchy are we? Okay, Alex. Is that better?”
“Much. Have you ordered?”
“Just a beer, which isn’t here yet. What’ll you have?”
“Coke. Iced tea. Whatever.” Alex didn’t really care what she drank, but it was irksome he’d called attention to their age difference. She couldn’t have a beer, still underage.
“How was your week?” he asked, entering safer territory.
“You know. The same as always. Scramble for ads and stories Monday and Tuesday, publish on Wednesday, and coast until the next Monday. How was yours?” If he’d volunteer something about the dead guy, then hers would be better. But he disappointed her.
“About the same. A few traffic stops. Assisted ORPI with a few illegals. The usual.” Alex almost snorted at his use of the Forest Service acronym for Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument. But, she was guilty of the same affectation. The full name was a mouthful, and few people outside the area knew what it even meant. The Organ Pipe Cactus was named for its resemblance to, what else? Organ pipes. Alex loved to see them in bloom, usually on a moonlit night or early in the morning. She’d tasted the fruit, a staple for the Tohono O’odham from the nearby reservation, and any resemblance to watermelon was highly exaggerated.
“What’s the illegal situation?” What Joe had to say about it was surprising.
“It’s getting better since they’ve started preferring to go through Laredo,” he said. “Still lots coming through here, though. The cartels are bringing in Guatemalans, Colombians, anyone with the cash to secure passage through Mexico. ORPI law enforcement has applied for permission to post a dozen more signs between Lukeville and their northern borders urging drivers not to pick up hitchhikers, but to report them.”
Alex had seen the signs, as well as the people on the side of the road, holding out gallon jugs in the hope someone would replenish their water. Authorities recommended not to stop for them. Knowing not stopping could be a death sentence for them destroyed her every time.
“How many did they lose so far this year, or do they know?” She’d heard some of the rangers saying only a couple more helicopters at their disposal would help halt the death toll, with over 500 square miles to patrol.
“They know of nearly a hundred, minimum. Most of them slipped through ranger surveillance and were then reported missing by their party later. Some the rangers never saw but family members reported they’d been left behind when the water ran low. I don’t understand why they do that,” he said.
“One of the rangers told me once they leave anyone who would have to be carried, but try to find them shade. They expect to find someone to help, but then they can’t find the place again, or maybe the person recovers a bit and wanders off. It’s so sad.”
“It’s stupid,” he snapped. “I’m sorry, but if they’re going to come into the US illegally, they deserve whatever they get.” His vehemence startled her and she bristled.
“I agree they shouldn’t come in illegally. But, you have to realize, most of them are ignorant of our laws, and the cartels lie to them. They believe they’re welcome, and they’re being dropped off just outside of Phoenix. It’s sad. Do you think the dead guy was one of them?”
Joe shrugged. “Hard to say. Don’t even know if he was Mexican or Indian.”
Latino or Native, she corrected, mentally. Joe didn’t pretend to be politically correct. Neither did her dad.
~~~
The back door opened and Joe’s face changed. Alex glanced over her shoulder to see who had come in, and spotted Dylan. He’d stopped just inside the door and was staring at Joe with an expression she couldn’t read. She gave him a small wave and then looked back at Joe to see him shrug before he took up their conversation again without acknowledging Dylan.
“Well, I see your point, but we still have a problem. Those who get as far as here knock on people’s doors, asking for food and water. The residents don’t like it, and sooner or later there’s going to be an unfortunate incident.” His mouth settled in a straight line, lips pressed together.
“You mean, someone may get hurt? Like, they may shoot the person, or the person may be desperate enough to shove their way in and take what they want?” Maybe a home-invasion situation like she’d seen on TV—tattooed and bandanna’d desperadoes barging in on innocent bystanders and killing them for a drink of water, or its opposite, a fat redneck in a wife-beater shirt, blowing away the supplicant on his doorstep with a shotgun.
“Take your pick,” Joe said, as if he’d seen inside her head what she imagined.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” Dylan’s voice interrupted. Alex snapped back to reality and looked to her right, where Dylan had taken a seat at the next table.
“Why not?”
“This is a private conversation,” Joe said at the
same time. Dylan looked from Joe to Alex, and back at Joe as he answered.
“Because by the time they get here, these people are too worn out and thirsty to cause trouble.” His face reflected the way Alex felt. She didn’t care what Joe said, it was sad.
“You can’t know that,” Joe sputtered.
Dylan sneered. “When have you ever had a break-in, or had someone hurt an illegal, Hendricks?” he asked. Alex wracked her brain for a memory of when they’d run a story like that.
“We’ve had plenty of break-ins, and it could happen, Chaves,” Joe seemed to be on the defensive, and it wasn’t pretty. Next to Dylan’s conviction, he looked like a bully who’d been challenged by the school hero. Alex was embarrassed to be in the middle of this, proud of Dylan and sorry for Joe.
This would never happen again. She’d been right to avoid Joe’s advances before, and from now on she would get her stories in a legitimate way or not at all. She hadn’t even had a chance to ask him much about the case, and now wouldn’t be able to. Dylan was mixed up in it somehow. Joe wouldn’t tell her anything with Dylan sitting right there, privy to anything they said. She glared at Dylan.
“What?” he said, noticing her look. She didn’t answer. It should be obvious to him that horning in on a private conversation and disrespecting one of the parties wasn’t a nice thing to do. Even if she did agree with him.
The food came, and Alex picked at it. What could she say to Joe without drawing Dylan’s attention? He was less than three feet away. From the corner of her eye, she could see he was still staring at her. It made her uncomfortable in more ways than one. Dylan still found her interesting, how about that? She gradually sat a little straighter, lifted her chest a little higher. Not enough to make it obvious, but enough to put her profile in its best light. Wishing now she had on full makeup, at the same time scoffing at herself for caring.
Fatal Exposure Page 4
