“How? H-h-how did it happen?” Dylan’s grief made it hard to get the words out, especially in the face of the young man’s hate. Justifiable hate, it seemed.
“That’s not your concern,” he snapped.
Dylan turned and walked out of the casino without a word to the detectives. Sick at heart, he drove to work, seeing nothing but the old man’s face. It was a sign he shouldn’t be investigating any of this. He was too close to the crimes, had gotten sloppy and an innocent old man had died because of it.
“You look like shit,” his supervisor said when he got to work. “Do you need to stay here today? I can send someone else out on your patrols.”
“Thanks, I’ll be okay.”
“What’s going on with you, anyway? I thought you found your girl,” he answered, hiking one hip onto the desk in front of Dylan.
“Sorry, boss, I really don’t want to talk about it.” Dylan couldn’t meet his eyes, so he fiddled with a pencil, and then doodled on a pad, so his boss would think he had something to do.
“Chaves, I have to tell you whatever’s going on in your off hours is affecting your work. You need to pull yourself together or take some leave.”
“I know. I’ll have to pull myself together. I haven’t earned any leave yet.”
“I’ll give you all the slack I can, but consider that a verbal,” his boss said, referring to the sequence of warnings he’d get before disciplinary action took place. Now it was imperative he get his shit together. He couldn’t lose his career—too much was at stake, beginning with the adoption bid for his brothers. No job, no adoption. It was as simple as that.
He was discussing with another ranger whether he was fit to drive on patrol instead of riding shotgun, with his arm in a cast, when Wells and Palmer showed up. Just what he needed. He groaned. If his supervisor got wind of it, he was sunk. Expecting them to come straight for him, he groaned again when instead they went into the office. A few minutes later, his supervisor came out, a smile on his face.
“Chaves, I hear you’re needed by these gentlemen to assist in a case they’re working. They’ve asked for your collaboration. Go on and take the rest of the day to help them, paid. We’re always happy to cooperate with local law enforcement.”
Dylan wasn’t the only one with his mouth hanging open as Wells and Palmer shook hands with the boss and accompanied him out the door. But by the time they got to where their cars were parked, he’d regained the power of speech.
“What the hell was that? You guys could have gotten me canned, you know?”
Wells laughed. “No, your supervisor and I go way back. I knew if we put it to him the way we did, he’d be fine with it.”
“He gave me a verbal warning about ten minutes before you walked in about my personal life affecting my job. I just about had a heart attack when you guys walked in. I need this job.”
“I know, Dylan. But, I’m going to put in a good word for you with DCS, too. You’ll be fine.”
Dylan goggled at him, trying to remember how much he knew about Juan and Davi, and their situation. It seemed he knew all about it, whether Dylan had told him or he’d learned it on his own. So much had happened in the last week Dylan didn’t know up from down any more.
He started to get into his car, but Palmer stopped him. “I saw how much that Native kid affected you,” he said. “We would have gotten here sooner, but we had to question him. It’s far from certain your dealings with his grandfather were what got him killed. It seems the old man followed someone out of the casino a couple of nights ago, claiming the other guy had taken one of his jackpots.” Dylan grinned, recognizing the old man’s MO. “Anyway, a fight broke out, and the old man caught a hard right to the chest. He died on the way to the hospital in Sells, where they determined he’d had a heart attack.”
Confused, Dylan asked. “So where the hell did the kid get off saying I’d gotten him killed?”
“It seems the person he got into a fight with was the cartel member he told you about.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
“No, and the kid knew his name. We’ve got an APB out for him, a roadblock on 86 between Sells and Tucson, and a temporary Border Patrol station just south of Gila Bend.”
“So why do you need me?” I asked.
“We think you’ve seen him before,” Wells answered. “Do you know an Antonio Merced?”
~~~
Alex didn’t know what to do with herself that afternoon. Dad had gone to the office, saying he needed to catch up on work. He didn’t want her to leave the house, though. She was supposed to stay here, with the doors locked, until he got home. Then, he said, he was taking her out to dinner. She guessed he thought he could stop a bullet, if someone decided to shoot her instead of smothering her or letting her die of heat stroke.
She didn’t know what her homework was. Her tablet, books, everything for school, were in her car. Which was still in police impound as evidence. Once she and the guys had figured out the Latino guy she’d heard arguing with Joe when she was at the RV must have been the one to drive it off the highway, the police lab wanted to go over everything again for fingerprints. The only things left were cleaning house, watching TV or reading. She started a load of Dad’s laundry and sat down to watch TV, but there was nothing on.
Alex thought about calling Nana, but she wasn’t sure if Dad had talked to her yet, and she didn’t want to give her a scare. She wandered into Dad’s home office where they kept their modest book collection, and spotted his desktop computer. One thing she could do was log onto her blog and do some work with that. She needed to update Rufio’s record, for one thing. One unidentified body out of thirteen hundred had now been identified. She had her work cut out for her.
Without expecting any results, Alex checked the stats for her website. To her surprise, there was a hit not long after she set it up. That’s funny. She hadn’t done any marketing or advertising for the blog. How did it get a hit? In theory, no one should have been able to find it unless they knew the exact URL. Alex racked her brain for who she’d told. A few of her professors, Dad of course. She’d told Dylan while they were at the Rattler. Oh, and Lt. Wells. But, had she told any of them the URL? She didn’t think so. In fact, she hadn’t known it herself when she told Lt. Wells and her professors, because she hadn’t set it up yet. She’d shown it to Dad herself. That left Dylan. Why would he have gone looking for it, even if she’d given him the URL? Had he wanted to see those gruesome pictures? He’d seen the body firsthand.
Alex updated Rufio’s record and entered a few more, before she got restless. Hanging out alone in the house wasn’t her idea of a great Saturday afternoon. She wandered into the kitchen for a soda and glanced at the clock. Three-thirty. Would Dylan come by when he got back to town? Since she’d woken up in the hospital, she hadn’t given a thought to his mom or his brothers. She didn’t remember even asking him how his arm was doing. It was time she got her mind off herself and onto something else. Dylan was as good a subject as any.
She remembered the look he gave her last night, or was it actually early this morning? When he came over after the attack. He looked lost, his eyes wide and staring. She remembered too, how she felt when he told her about his accident. Twice, no, three times, one or the other of them had narrowly escaped death. She couldn’t take the chance she’d lose Dylan now. She had to work out how to be with him without giving up her dreams.
How could they work it out, with his job thirty miles south of Dodge, and hers in Phoenix if she continued with her plans? That would be a two and a half hour commute. Doable, maybe, but not fun, especially not fun twice a day. Would Tucson be better? Not much—just half an hour less. How committed was she to her career path? If she couldn’t do investigative broadcast journalism in a big city, what were her alternatives? Dodge was out, unless she wanted to reconsider taking over the paper. Dad would be happy. Casa Grande? She supposed she could get a job in one of the two TV stations there, but only one of them aired a local news p
rogram live. She’d probably have to wait until someone died to get a job there.
Okay, what if she did decide to stay here in Dodge? If Dylan was going to adopt his younger brothers, she had to consider what it meant for her as his wife. Because she was not going to give up her dreams for anything less. She was nineteen, and the older of the little boys, eight. Could she be a mom to an eight-year-old, as young as she was? Did she even want to? Was Dylan important enough to her to give up both her dreams and her youth, to become a mother in this tiny little town she’d always wanted to escape? Each time she told herself the answer was no, her heart gave a lurch in protest. But when she told herself yes, her brain stuttered.
She was lying on the couch with her eyes closed, letting the thoughts circle, when the door opened.
~~~
As soon as Wells mentioned Antonio, it came together for Dylan. Reform school hadn’t worked, after all. The Lukeville connection made sense. The little border town had essentially no industry, if you didn’t count the strip of shops that consisted of one dirty fast-food joint, a gas station, a duty-free shop and several places that sold insurance policies to Americans who were foolish enough to drive across the border. He wasn’t sure how people were allowed to live there, since the whole place was within the boundaries of the National Monument. Maybe their families were grandfathered in from before the park was created.
The population was officially thirty-five in the last census, but it swelled to over one-hundred when you counted the school kids who crossed the border from Sonoyta daily to be educated by Pima County. No one seemed to know how to stop that. Antonio Merced had been one of those kids, as Dylan recalled. In his sophomore year, when Dylan was a junior, Antonio tried out for the football team, but because he had to ride the bus to and from Lukeville, practices hadn’t worked out for him. He’d found different extracurricular activities.
“Yeah, I know him,” Dylan told Lt. Wells. “He’s in Dodge, working the bar for Jen Mackey at The Rattler.” Where Alex and Dylan had sat, oblivious, eating their burgers and sharing their secrets for him to overhear, if he’d been so inclined.
“Well, let’s go see if he has anything to say for himself,” said Palmer. Dylan followed them to Dodge, where Wells, who was driving, hung back and followed him to his mom’s shitty trailer. Dylan got out of the loaner and into the back of the squad car, tense. If either of them said anything about where he was living, he wouldn’t be happy. They didn’t.
They went to the Rattler first, but found it closed, since it was only about three-thirty p.m. Jen had an emergency number posted, though, so Wells called that and she agreed to talk to them. Lt. Wells asked if Dylan knew her well.
“Not well, I guess, but I know her. She and Alex Ward’s dad have had a thing for a while.”
“So, do you think she’ll open up more to you?”
He shrugged. “Jen’s good people. If she knew of anything illegal Antonio was doing, he wouldn’t be working for her. In fact, I can’t imagine he earns enough there to justify his time, unless it’s some sort of cover. She’ll cooperate, I’m sure of it.”
“Okay. When we get there, you introduce us and we’ll do the questioning. If you think of anything we’re not asking, chime in.”
“Got it,” Dylan wasn’t looking forward to this. He did know Jen well enough to know this was going to be tough on her, in more ways than one. At the very least, she was likely to lose a bartender.
Any place in Dodge is no more than ten minutes from any other place, unless you deliberately take the most circuitous route. They were at Jen’s in five. Dylan led the way as they stepped onto her front porch and rang the doorbell.
Palmer sucked in his breath behind him when Jen opened the door, and Dylan had to admit the sight was spectacular. He was used to seeing her in jeans and plaid snap-up shirts, her honey-blonde hair usually piled on top of her head in an effort to keep it off her neck in the heat. They must have interrupted a sunbathing session, because today she was wearing a tiny bikini, with a sheer cover-up that did nothing to hide her curves or her overflowing bosom from sight. Dylan pressed his lips together to keep from dropping his jaw, and flashed his eyes upward to her hair, which looked like it usually did. He risked looking directly into her eyes, then, to find them smiling as if she knew what they were all thinking. She probably did.
“Hi, Jen. Sorry to disturb you,” he managed.
“Come in Dylan, gentlemen,” she said. “Sorry, I didn’t think I’d have time to change. If you’ll wait, I can…”
Palmer, to Dylan’s amusement, said, “That won’t be necessary ma’am. We just have a question or two, and then we’ll let you, uh, get on with it.”
Jen’s big, hearty, country-girl laugh rang out. “Fine with me.”
They followed her into the cool, dark living room, where she waved casually to the furniture and invited them to sit. Dylan took a straight-backed chair that looked like it belonged in a dining room, while the others took each end of the white leather sofa. He couldn’t help but wonder what adventures might have taken place on it. Jen arranged herself on a chaise longue, making Palmer suck in his breath between his teeth again. Dylan made a mental note to tell Paul Ward he’d better put a ring on her finger soon if he wanted to continue enjoying her company.
“Jen, this is Lt. Palmer, from the state police, and this is Lt. Wells, of the Pima County Sheriff’s Department, homicide unit.” Dylan indicated the men in turn. “We have some questions about Antonio. Is he still working for you?”
The widening eyes combined with the slight frown indicated her alarm. Dylan was glad his part was done. The investigators took over.
“At present, Merced’s name has come up in an allegation he works for the Reyes del Desierto cartel,” Wells said. “We’re in the preliminary investigation phase, so we have to follow up on everything. I’m sure you understand.”
Her blue eyes flicked from Wells, to Palmer and finally to Dylan. It was to him she addressed her question. “You said homicide unit. Is this about Rufio Mendez, or Joe Hendricks?”
Dylan didn’t know how to answer her. The honest answer, in his mind, was ‘both’. But he wasn’t an official part of the investigative team. They should answer. Dylan looked to Wells, since both murders had taken place in his jurisdiction.
“Ma’am, we’re not sure yet it’s about either of the victims you mentioned. We’re following up on some connections of interest, that’s all. If you don’t mind, is he still working for you? And if so, when did you last see him?”
Jen thought about it for a moment. “I haven’t seen him since last Tuesday. Technically, he still works for me, because I haven’t seen him to fire him for not showing up for his shifts. What else can I tell you?”
Tuesday—the evening Alex was kidnapped. She was going to put it together any minute now, too sharp not to. What time had she seen him? Was she inclined to protect him, even though she intended to fire him? Palmer was following the same line of reasoning, Dylan could tell from his next question.
“What time was it when you saw him? Where?”
“Around six. He asked to get off early, and I told him I’d cover.” Just the facts. Dylan wondered how accurate her memory was. Most people, if you asked them to tell you what they were doing at a specific time five days ago, wouldn’t be able to. Palmer covered that, too.
“How can you be sure it was Tuesday?” he asked.
“Because Paul was there. I was pissed I’d have to work, because I was looking forward to catching a video with Paul here at home,” she said, glancing at Dylan and blushing as she said it. He gave a quick shrug with just his right shoulder, where the other two couldn’t see it. He wouldn’t spread her secret, hers and Paul’s, that is. He could see the wheels turning, her face expressive as her thoughts followed the timeline. “Wait, that’s the night Alex…oh, my God!” Her hand flew up to cover her mouth. Then she took it down, and hard steel clamped down her expression. “That son of a bitch!”
“Ms. Mac
key, there’s no reason…” said Palmer.
“The hell there isn’t. He’s the one with Joe Hendricks the night he took her, I’d bet anything! I let him off, and he could have killed both of them! God, Paul’s never going to forgive me!” At that point, she burst into tears. All three of the men sat helpless for the thirty seconds it took her to compose herself. “He’s staying with a cousin or something, or that’s where I mailed his paychecks, anyway.” She gave them the address and then stood up. “Go get him, gentlemen. I have a bar to open.”
Palmer, who was either a bachelor or a jerk, took a slow assessment of her body as if to memorize it, nodded and walked to the door, while Wells shook her hand. Dylan gave her a quick hug before following. “Sorry, Jen.”
“Just get him,” she said. It occurred to him she thought of Alex as her own, and this momma bear had just learned of a threat to her cub. He wouldn’t want to be Antonio if she saw him first.
~~~
“Dad?”
“No, puta, not your dad.”
Alex jumped to her feet to run, but he was on her before she could get through the kitchen to the back door. His arms pinned hers to her sides and he herded her with his body into a corner of the kitchen counter. He was behind her, and she struggled to turn around, where she could see what he was going to do.
“Stay there. You’re hard to kill, Alex,” he said. The words were shocking, but not as shocking as the fact he knew her name.
“Who are you?”
“Ah, Alex, you don’t know me? I’m sad, chica. But, I should have known. As soon as your novio comes back, you have eyes for no one else.”
Alex scrabbled in her mind for his meaning, hearing Spanish words she should know from hearing them around school. Puta, she knew. It meant whore, or maybe bitch. Chica meant girl, but what did novio mean? As if the world had slowed to a crawl, Alex had time for these questions because she refused to think about what was happening.
“Where’s your Dylan now, eh, puta? Won’t he be upset when he learns you’ve been gutted like a fish? You should have minded your own business.”
Fatal Exposure Page 22
