Grey Sullivan laughed. “To get some cocaine probably. Although to my knowledge Caroline wasn’t a coke-head.”
“Lana and Barry are?”
Sullivan paused, shoved his hands in the pockets of his pleated camel pants. “I’ve already told him he’s not going to be on any other film I’m directing. I think he’s supplying the cast with coke.”
Nick couldn’t find Barry Dolan, but the first AD was keeping his room until later in the week. Lana was long gone.
While he was at the hotel, Nick talked to other members of the crew. The people he talked to gave him conflicting portraits of Caroline in the last month. Some said she was driven, edgy, single-handedly lifting the production and propelling it toward its conclusion weeks ahead of schedule. But there were a couple of other people—the wardrobe mistress among them—who said that in the last couple of weeks Caroline had seemed happy; carefree, even, “as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.” Which Caroline had she been? The frenetic perfectionist or the person who borrowed one of the company’s ATVs and dashed out into the desert for a wild ride in between shots?
Why had she pushed this production so hard? It was almost as though she were racing against the clock, against D-Day. But as D-Day approached, she’d gone completely in the other direction. Why?
When Nick went to pick Alex up that night for the fundraiser, she asked him in. He glanced at his watch. “I’m the guest of honor. Don’t want to be late.”
Alex found herself staring. She thought he looked damn good in a suit. “This will only take a minute,” she said, walking to the dresser and removing the photograph of the jaguarundi from its protective sleeve. She knew every line of it by heart, had, as a matter of fact, spent the majority of her time today lying on the bed staring at it propped up against the lamp base.
She handed it to him, anticipating his reaction. He was the first person other than herself to see it.
His eyes widened. “My God,” he muttered.
It was the response she’d hoped for.
“This is—well, it’s a great shot, for one thing. Maybelle told me there’s never been a photograph of a jaguarundi living in the United States. Is that true?”
“Yup.” Now she knew what bursting with pride meant.
“This is it? One of a kind?”
“You got it.”
He glanced at her. “What are you going to do? Sell the photograph and live like a queen for the rest of your life?”
Alex had given it a great deal of thought the last couple of days. There was a down side to this remarkable discovery, an uneasy weight that took away a lot of her joy. She must decide whether or not to report the sighting. Before, when she was still looking for the jaguarundi, it was easy to think she’d notify the authorities. But now ...
If she notified Arizona Game & Fish and the US Fish and Wildlife Service, they would be able to study the animal, and that knowledge would eventually benefit not only jaguarundis, but jaguars, ocelots, margay cats. There would be a better likelihood for government funding to put aside habitat for the cats, not to mention reams of new information, which would eventually help the United States protect the cat.
But in the meantime, the canyon would be crawling with every kind of wildlife expert—and some of them wouldn’t be benign. There would be self-styled great white hunters out to distinguish themselves by bagging the only jaguarundi ever found in the US. There would be those who wanted to catch the cat and keep it for themselves—wealthy collectors. Even the government would be intrusive and heavy-handed. They’d catch the cat to study it—a life-threatening process in itself—before putting a radio collar on it and turning it loose again. Alex knew that many illegal hunters were able to lock onto the frequencies of government radio collars, it would make the jaguarundi an easy target.
“I don’t know,” she said at last. “There are problems.”
“You’re afraid other people might try to catch it,” Nick said.
“I could be signing that cat’s death warrant. Probably.”
Nick handed the photograph to her. “I see what you mean. Couldn’t you just sell the photograph and fudge the area where it was found?”
“Too many people know about it already. Look at Maybelle. Right now, no one really believes there’s a jaguarundi around here. But if there’s photographic proof ...” She shrugged. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, so right now I’m going to do nothing. I want to get more pictures first.”
“You sure this is a jaguarundi?”
“Positive.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
Instinctively, she’d known that. Nick was the only one she could show the photographs to, because he had no stake in the outcome. And because although she didn’t know him well, she already trusted him.
As they drove out of the hotel parking lot, Nick asked, “How are you doing?”
Alex knew he was wondering how she was coping with finding Booker. “No nightmares. I guess it’s more of a relief than anything.”
“It was a terrible thing to see. If you need help ...”
“I’ll be okay.” She gave in to the worry that had been nagging her since Ted told her about Uncle Wiggly. “You still think someone else killed her?”
“I’ll tell you what Luther believes. He thinks she committed suicide.”
“He told you that?”
“No, but it was plain on his face.”
“Latte says he might have helped her. Because she was dying anyway and he loved her too much to see that happen. According to Latte, Caroline couldn’t stand the thought of wasting away.”
“That’s what Luther said.”
“Do you think he helped her?”
Nick thought about it. “No.”
“I know who Uncle Wiggly was.” Alex told him about the man who had molested Caroline. “I think I met him, but I don’t remember much. Ted thinks he was blackmailing her.”
Nick looked thoughtful, as if he were piecing a jigsaw puzzle.
“You don’t think he’s here, do you? You don’t think he killed Caroline and then killed Booker to frame him?”
“That’s pretty farfetched.” But Nick lapsed into silence.
They were almost to the turn-off to New Year when dispatch announced that a light plane had crashed near the Rancho Sin Caballos development.
“We’re only a few miles away,” Nick said, pulling over and turning the car around.
“What about the fundraiser?”
“I was looking for a way out of it anyway.” He caught her glance.” Most of the people there are friends. They’re really coming for the mariachi band. Hang on.” Nick gunned the car, and a thrill of speed shot through Alex as the car’s acceleration rammed her against the seat back.
Over toward the eastern edge of the Cascabels, Alex saw an orange glow. Was the plane on fire?
She tracked it with her eyes as they shot down the highway. She felt as though she were in a wind tunnel. Hot air sucked her hair out through the open window and unfurled it like a flag. Nick swerved off the highway at the entrance to the aborted planned retirement community. The decaying Spanish gatehouse loomed up, ghostly in the headlights. With an enraged bellow, the big car surged under the arch, inches from one stuccoed wall, tires crunching on broken glass. The Crown Vic slewed into a turn across potholed asphalt before straightening out, arrowing across the endless expanse of graded dirt, walloping desert broom, and burro brush, and jouncing over tiny arroyos, headlight beams carving a tunnel of light before them. Once, they hit a ditch the wrong way. The car shuddered and she heard the oil pan scrape. “Dammit!” cursed Nick, and floored it.
Alex glanced at the speedometer. The needle was creeping up to eighty.
It was like a video game. No time for fear, too surreal to take seriously.
They nearly hit a steer munching thoughtfully in the dark, skidded sideways, and before Nick was out of the skid, before they could even see through the blinding fountain of dust, his f
oot rammed the accelerator to the floor, and the car roared like a mammoth in its death throes.
A ridiculous thought poked into her head, the memory of a Tucson car salesman advertising used cars from the sheriff’s office on television: now you, too, can own a real-life sheriff’s cruiser, you lucky chump—abused transmission, brutalized engine, and all.
When the dust cleared she saw dim lights, the orange glow, and a plane’s tail poking into the air.
The lights belonged to the only other vehicle at the site, a sheriff’s office Bronco.
They halted beside it. Nick was already out and striding toward the wreck. Alex recognized Deputy Fife, who stood at the edge of some unseen radius, unable or unwilling to go any farther. As Alex emerged from the cruiser, she smelled hot smoke and something like burning ham.
Just by looking at it, she knew that the pilot couldn’t have survived the crash.
The small plane lay in two pieces, the sections some distance apart. Apparently the plane had hit a power line. The forward section and wings were charred, smashed flat into a Rorschach pattern on the baked ground, the flames already guttering out, wisping delicately around charred bushes.
The rear section was intact and looked brand new. The tail poked into the air at a jaunty angle, its paint fresh, the serial numbers strung out in nice block letters down its length.
“The pilot?” Nick asked the other deputy.
“He’s still in there. It’s too hot to reach him right now,” he added defensively.
Nick took down the serial numbers. “Cessna, blue and white. How long have you been here?”
“Me?” The deputy gawked at him. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
Nick glanced around. “I don’t see anybody else.”
“Just got here about ten minutes ago. The plane was on fire and I couldn’t do anything. No sense in me getting burned, too. It’s obvious the pilot’s dead.”
“You think he was trying to land?”
“How the hell would I know?”
Alex tried to breathe through her mouth. Hugging herself, she stared up at the night sky, the pin-prick stars, tried to regain her equilibrium. Difficult with heels. She was aware that her green cocktail dress wasn’t the best attire for a funeral.
Nick and Deputy Fife were talking in low voices as Fife unrolled the yellow police tape and tried to wrap it around flimsy desert broom bushes. The bushes bounced like rubber. “Shit!” he said at last, throwing the roll of tape down in something resembling a tantrum.
Nick glanced around. He and Alex both saw the wide dirt strip at the same time. Just a little lighter than the surrounding desert, half a mile away.
A dirt strip in the middle of the desert. A light plane. Even Alex caught the implications of that. Drugs.
Nick stepped to the cruiser and radioed in the description of the plane, the serial numbers. Asked dispatch if a plane of that description had logged a flight plan.
“I’ll check,” said the female voice.
Nick steered Alex away from the site. “I’m sorry you have to .see this. A lot of times these planes crack up and the pilot walks away unscratched.”
“This happens often?”
“Drug runners. They fly low to stay under radar, don’t even use their riding lights. No flight plan. There’re so many of them, it’s a wonder they don’t run into each other.”
The police radio crackled. “Excuse me.” He slid onto the car seat, his long legs unfolding with masculine grace. A few minutes later, he was back at her side. “US Customs and the Border Patrol are on their way. After I talk to them, there’s no reason we can’t go on to the fundraiser. Doug can handle it.”
Alex had her doubts. He was definitely the nervous type.
“I was right about one thing. No flight plan was filed for this plane.” He glanced at the intact part of the plane. “I’ll be interested to know what they’ll find in the cargo hold.”
Twenty minutes later, they were on their way back across the desert tract of Rancho sin Caballos, albeit at a more sedate pace.
Nick radioed in and asked the dispatcher to alert the Elks hall that he’d be late for the fundraiser.
A moment later, he picked up the receiver again. “Lupita, nix that. Tell them I won’t be able to make it after all. They’ll understand.”
Alex glanced at his profile. “Why’d you do that?”
“There’s something I want to take a look at.” He turned at a sign that said Devil’s Hearth Road.
“Where are we going?”
“Just a place I know.”
They turned off again. Nick got out of the car and trained his flashlight on the tireprints. Nodded grimly. They drove down to an arroyo where the car nearly bottomed out, past an old wooden building, then up a hill to a lean-to.
“Stay put.” Nick got out, leaving the engine running and the headlights trained on the recesses of the lean-to. He stood before the shed, arms akimbo, just staring. Alex strained to see what he was looking at. A square covered by a tarp. Hay bales? Boxes?
Nick walked back, beckoned her to follow him. He stopped again before the tarp and pulled it off. Two crates marked FRAGILE.
The smell hit her at once. Feces. And beneath that, a wild animal smell.
Nick got the tire iron from his car and pried up one board on the crate, careful not to lift it too much.
In the wedge of darkness, Alex saw two shiny golden eyes.
Nick played over it with the flashlight. Fur. Black spots on gold. Exquisite.
“What’s that look like to you?”
Alex felt the rage boiling up in her gut. “An ocelot. Or maybe a margay.”
“Yeah,” Nick said grimly. “That’s what I thought.”
Cindy Gallego, trim in her khaki-colored uniform shirt and olive polyester pants, had a style as neat and compact as her body.
She took over immediately, confiscating the ocelots—a male and a female—and putting them in clean cages, taking the crates for evidence. The cats had gone relatively unscathed; other than a few surface lacerations and one sprained leg, they were both in remarkably good shape.
Cindy Gallego leaned against her big Chevy truck, and crossing her legs at her ankles, folded her arms. “So how did you know they were here?”
“I didn’t,” Nick said. He heaved himself up onto the hood of his cruiser, and Alex followed suit.
“Come on, Nick, we’ve known each other a long time. You didn’t just come out here to neck.”
So that’s what Cindy thought this was? Self-conscious now, Alex noticed how hot the engine was. She could feel it through her cocktail dress, about the time she noticed that Nick’s thigh lay against hers.
“I guessed,” Nick said. “This was where I found the thick- billed. i reported it to your office.”
“We were going to follow it up,” Cindy Gallego said without conviction, “but there wasn’t much to go on. One dead parrot. God knows when they came through here.”
Alex knew what Game & Fish was up against. Not only were they shorthanded—one wildlife manager per roughly one thousand square miles—but they were also hamstringed by government restrictions. Before they could even go after an endangered species trafficker they had to prove predisposition; the trafficker had to smuggle several animals, establish a pattern. Even then they had to build a painstaking case against the guy, often going undercover for months to build trust and gather concrete information.
To paraphrase an old saying: One parrot didn’t make a bust.
Cindy Gallego dug into the dirt with her boot toe. “You have any idea who’s doing this?”
Nick leaned back on the hood, supporting himself with his palms. His suitcoat brushed Alex’s arm and she felt tiny brush-fires ignite up and down her arm.
And then she thought of the ocelot, stuck in that hot, airless box, and her anger boiled up again. This wasn’t exactly the time for moonlight and magnolias.
“Well?” Cindy asked sharply.
Nick answered her with a questio
n of his own. “Did you hear about the plane crash? I think they’re connected.”
“What, when it crashed the pilot got the ocelots out, stashed ‘em here?”
“Pilot was killed instantly. Might have been a passenger, too, but if anyone was in one of the front two seats, he was dead.”
Alex shuddered, remembering the charcoal-colored smear on the baked earth. Smashed plane parts or smashed body parts? She hadn’t seen anything recognizable as human, but with an impact like that ...
The wildlife manager shifted her stance, revealing the Game & Fish insignia—a Gambel’s quail inside a circle—on the metallic-gold truck door. “That kind of kills your theory, doesn’t it?”
“Not if someone was meeting the plane,” Alex said, surprising herself She didn’t know if she was invited to this particular bull session.
Gallego’s eyes widened. “That could be,” she said, tapping her foot thoughtfully. “If he were smuggling, it stands to reason he was meeting someone.”
“When I first saw the plane, I thought it was a drug runner,” Nick said. “Whoever met the plane saw it crack up. The plane split in two. There was nothing they could do for the pilot, but they could still pick up the cargo.”
“You have any idea who it was?” Cindy noticed Nick’s hesitation and added, “Friend of yours?”
“Nope. I just want to make sure first.”
“Well, shit, we’re only too happy to have your input. But you get anything concrete you’d better give me a call.”
“I called you about the jaguar, didn’t I?”
“Heard you got into trouble for it.”
“Naw. The sheriff thought I was such a model of inter-agency cooperation, he gave me a new vehicle.” Nick slapped the hood of the Crown Vic. “How is that jaguar anyway?”
“You saved his life, though he’s going to have to be kept in captivity. Thanks for thinking of us.”
“I’ll keep that sentiment close to my heart when I’m driving around in the middle of August without air.”
“In a couple of years, we’ll catch up with you. I can’t see the government coming through with new cooling systems for their cars, can you?” She snorted. “Unless the governor gets his way and we can have Freon. Then we won’t have to work on our suntans anymore.”
The Desert Waits Page 20
