Marta took additional pictures and measurements around the door, then scraped the dried blood from the threshold and collected several flakes with a cotton swab. She dropped them into a small glass vial and said she would get the blood to the laboratory drop box that night to request a DNA scan.
“So, somebody carried Red’s body into the trailer and laid him down on my couch?” Winning asked.
Josie noted the surprise in her voice. She hadn’t made the coroner’s findings public, so no one knew the bullet had exited Red’s skull, and Winning certainly didn’t know Josie had just dug the bullet out of her pine tree.
“Any theories on why someone would do that?” Marta asked Winning.
“Why would the people he ran with do anything?” Winning responded.
Josie said, “Generally, when a murder victim is staged, the killer is either trying to send a message or create a diversion. Was the killer sending a message to you?”
* * *
After searching Red’s house again and finding nothing new of any interest, Otto left and drove to Paul Fallow’s house. He lived north of town in a small, ritzy subdivision with half a dozen stucco homes, each with three thousand to four thousand square feet of living space. By comparison to his neighbors’ homes, Fallow’s was a fairly modest beige-colored two story with wooden lintels and Spanish arches. Otto parked and knocked on the front door but heard no movement inside. The garage door was open to display two white midsized Acura sedans, so he walked around the back of the house, where he found Fallow in golf shorts and a light blue tank top, raking sand.
Otto stood at the corner of the house for a moment and watched Fallow walk the perimeter of a Japanese garden, about ten feet by ten feet, raking gray sand in a pattern to form concentric squares. His wife, a high school English teacher, sat on a mat at the center of the yard in the lotus position with her eyes closed. Otto wondered how in the world a guy like Fallow ended up in a group like the Gunners.
Fallow looked up and saw Otto as he approached the backyard. Fallow waved slightly, and then he tiptoed across small rocks positioned strategically to get him out of the garden without disturbing the sand.
Fallow used a bandanna tied around his neck to wipe the sweat off his face and pointed toward the front of the house. “She’s deep within,” he said in a whisper. “Let’s not disturb her.”
They went inside Fallow’s home and sat in a blue room filled with puffy beige furniture. Oversized paintings of pastel geometric shapes covered most of the wall space. Otto felt his body sink a foot into the couch cushion and worried he wouldn’t be able to push himself up and out. He pulled his steno pad and pen out of his shirt pocket and rested them on his knee.
“Can I get you a cold beverage?”
Otto realized he was suddenly annoyed with the man sitting across from him.
Otto ignored the question. “We received some new information about the Gunners. It’s time you come clean on what you know about Red and his guns.” Otto waited for a reaction—something more than the wide-eyed stare Fallow was offering. When Otto got nothing more, he pulled several pictures out of the steno pad that he carried and offered them to Fallow, who stood to retrieve them.
“That’s Red in the top picture, standing next to a couple of men who are confirmed members of La Bestia. That second picture? That’s Miguel Gutiérrez, a member of La Bestia. We have him locked up in the Arroyo County Jail for murdering his uncle in broad daylight at our Trauma Unit.”
Fallow’s face turned white and his lips curled down. He looked as if he might vomit.
“These are some bad fellows that old Red was dealing with, Dr. Fallow. I don’t think you want to mess with these guys.”
Fallow looked up suddenly, his eyes bright and teary. “Who says I’m messing with them! I don’t know these men. That was Red’s business! Go talk to Hack Bloster if you want details. I want no part of this.” He clapped his hands together as if the topic were closed.
Otto didn’t move. “Go ahead and look at that last photo. That’s a picture of a police officer that pissed one of those other fellows off. Notice his head is gone? It’s in the trash can to the right of the body. Don’t think you can clap your hands and this will go away.”
Fallow leaned forward and stared at the picture in his hands.
“We suspect these individuals killed Red Goff. We’re taking the position that anyone associated with the Gunners is in grave danger.”
“This is so unfair. I did nothing wrong.”
Otto cleared his throat. “Mr. Fallow, I need to know who Red was working with.”
He looked up, his eyes pleading. “I swear to you, I don’t know. I’m pretty sure he and Hack were trading guns. That’s all I know, and that’s a guess on my part. They never allowed me into their private meetings.”
* * *
At 6:35 P.M., Josie, Otto, and Marta met at the police department to discuss findings before Josie and Otto logged off. Sheriff Martínez had stopped by to ask about the prisoner’s connection to La Bestia, and they all stood in the lobby area talking by the dispatcher’s station. Josie was explaining to the sheriff everything they’d discovered with a worried eye on her watch. She had twenty minutes to drive home, change, and get water on to boil before Dillon arrived for dinner and a bottle of wine she had promised and not purchased. She needed a private, sit-down talk with Martínez about Deputy Bloster, but it would have to wait.
Josie’s back was to the entrance door, but she heard the bell ring as they wrapped up. She turned and watched a petite woman with dyed maroon hair, red lips, and red fingernails enter the department.
“Well, if it isn’t the elusive Josie Gray,” the woman said. She spoke with a heavy drinker’s rasp.
Josie gave the other three officers a look and said she would check in with them later. Mercifully, they apparently understood that whatever was about to transpire was personal and, most likely, humiliating. Otto and Marta turned and walked toward the upstairs office. The sheriff walked around the woman, who turned and watched him exit the building.
“That man’s got a backside worth watching, now. All these cops you run around with that good looking?” she asked, winking and smiling widely at Josie.
Josie felt her face redden. She was very aware that Lou was still at the dispatcher’s desk, listening to every word and most likely taking notes.
Josie pushed the door open, and then walked behind her mom into the evening heat. She felt her hands go sweaty and her stomach seize into a knot: the same physical reaction her mother had been producing in her through years of humiliating scenes. Her body had instantly recalled and replicated the physical sensations of fifteen years ago.
With distaste, Josie watched the flex of her mother’s tight back muscles through an open-back halter top and the intentional sway of her rear end. Her five-foot-five mother could paralyze her like no robber, rapist, or drug dealer she had ever encountered, and the realization depressed the hell out of her.
Her mother struck a cocky pose on the sidewalk and looked Josie over as if assessing the damage after a car crash. “You didn’t think I’d come, did you? You ought to know, if I say it, I do it.”
Josie could have laughed or cried in equal measure. Her mother had never followed through on anything unless it benefited her in a significant and personal way.
“I had no idea you were coming. If I’d known, I would have set time aside. I have plans tonight. And I can’t cancel,” Josie said. “We can have dinner tomorrow.”
“So break the plans. I drive two thousand miles, and you can’t show me a little courtesy?” Her mother shook her head, her eyes wide with exaggerated shock. “You’re a piece a work.”
“I don’t want to have this conversation streetside,” said Josie. “I explained that I have plans I can’t cancel. If you want to meet for lunch, stop by here tomorrow around noon and we can get a bite to eat.” She pulled a business card out of her front shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Just call first in case I�
�m out on a call.”
“Well, don’t let me hold you back, darlin’.” She turned from Josie and walked away, one hand in the air, the other on her hip. “It won’t take me nothing to find myself some entertainment tonight.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Josie had left her front door open and was hurrying to the bedroom. She threw her clothes, bulletproof vest, holster, and gun into a heap on her closet floor before jumping into a cool shower. She left her hair in a clip but soaped up, rinsed the day down the drain, and toweled off before stepping out.
“Josie?”
She smiled. His voice was coming from just outside the bathroom, in her bedroom.
“Five minutes, then I’ll get supper going,” she called. “There’s some cheese in the fridge if you’re starved.”
Josie swiped on concealer to cover up the dark circles under her eyes, brushed her teeth, and dressed in an ancient pair of Levi’s and a gauzy sleeveless white shirt that hung loose over her thin body. She took her damp hair down, brushed it, and pulled it back up into the clip. She found Dillon propped against the couch on the living room floor with her hound dog’s head in his lap.
“Chester missed me.”
Dillon smiled up at her with his sad eyes, and Josie’s chest tightened at the sight of him. She realized she had almost lost him. She let out a long slow breath and forced herself to relax into the moment.
She sat beside Dillon and stretched her legs out next to his. “I’m sorry about dinner. I don’t even have the bottle of wine.”
He reached around the dog and sat a grocery sack on his lap. “I have you covered.” He pulled out a six-pack of Killian’s Red and a plastic bag with whole avocados, red onions, lemons, and other ingredients she knew would turn into the best fresh guacamole in Texas.
“I heard you could use a smile,” he said.
“Oh, yeah?”
“As I was leaving work tonight, Otto stopped by. He said the Queen Mother made an appearance at the department. He also said if I wanted to eat tonight, I’d better bring my own food.”
Josie shook her head, not sure if she should be angry with Otto or touched that he had intervened in her behalf.
“Don’t be mad at him. I asked the questions. He just told the truth.”
“That would be Otto.”
“How long is your mom staying?”
She shrugged. “I talked with her all of two minutes.”
He stood, extended his arms out to her, and pulled her up to stand in front of him. “Let’s eat. Forget work. Tell me about your life the past six months. We’ll talk about Red and the Queen later.”
* * *
After he mixed up a batch of guacamole in the kitchen, Josie turned up the stereo to the best of Creedence Clearwater Revival and led Dillon to the back porch. She and her neighbor, Dell, had recently built a pergola out of local wood he had dried and cured in his barn. Four large posts supported eight-foot-long limbs that stretched across the frame to make a roof to shade the area from the harsh afternoon sun.
“This is nice,” he said, looking at the handiwork. “Dell build this?”
She nodded and rubbed her fingers along one of the smooth wood posts. “He’s proud of the roof. It’s hard to find a straight eight-foot length of wood out here that’s native.” She flipped a switch located by the sliding door, and a fine mist sprayed from a line that ran the length of the porch. The air cooled by ten degrees almost instantly.
Dillon sat the guacamole and chips on the redwood picnic table. “You’re moving up in the world.”
They ate side by side, facing several hundred acres of Dell’s ranch land that ran a gentle grade up into the Chimiso Mountains. Josie pointed out two red-tailed hawks, and Dillon smiled as one of them screeched, then swooped down to the ground, most likely for a field mouse. The muted browns and grays of the scrub that dominated West Texas spread across the land behind her home, but the mountains were streaked with red and copper that intensified with the setting sun, and the pasture had clumps of deep green pine and cedar trees fenced off from his cattle. It was the kind of land she had seen as a kid watching old John Wayne movies with her father, and the rough beauty still made her throat contract at unexpected times.
Through dinner, Dillon explained what he had learned about Red’s finances. Red made about forty-four thousand dollars per year as a heavy equipment operator. His expenses, purchases, as well as living expenses, debt, travel, and savings, were more in line with a man earning around eighty-five thousand per year.
“There’s no question that Red was selling guns, and that’s where his extra income was coming from. I counted fourteen invoices for what looked to be a wide variety of guns. Most of the transactions, though, were just referenced by a customer number. You need the file that cross-references the numbers with the customers.”
“None of the receipts had customer names?” she asked.
Dillon frowned. “I recognized two local names, but most of the invoices didn’t contain a name. I found one that had the city San Miguel de Allende written at the bottom of the paper. And there were three with Juárez noted on the back. There were only two invoices that raised a big red flag, though. Together, they total $3,846. Both transactions were during the month of August. And both had what appeared to be the guns’ serial number as well as another number that most likely identified the customer.”
“Where’s the red flag?”
Dillon stood and retrieved the box from the house. He put it on the picnic table and pulled out both receipts for Josie to examine.
Her eyes widened and she looked up from the paper. “This is written out to the Arroyo County Sheriff’s Department! Since when do they spend four thousand dollars on two guns? We can barely afford to pay utilities right now.”
Dillon sat back down at the table. “Isn’t your pal, Deputy Bloster, a member of Red’s gun club?”
Josie rubbed at her temples. “How could the sheriff let this happen? He signs off on all department expenses, just like I do, before they get approved by the council. He had to approve these invoices.”
“Don’t rush judgment. Go talk to the sheriff tomorrow. Just watch your back.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.
He folded his hands and stared at her, apparently considering his words. “You have a solid reputation, and you’re well respected for the job you do.”
“But?”
“But you’re still a female in a male-dominated profession.”
“And?”
“And I know you’re friends with Martínez, but there’s still plenty of good old boy vibes running through this town. If things turn ugly, you aren’t in the club.”
She resisted the urge to defend Martínez. He was a fellow cop, a person she had admired and trusted, sought counsel from in her role as chief, and she didn’t want to believe he would sacrifice her over a piece of scum like Bloster. But she nodded agreement and let the statement go until she could think through the information later in silence.
Josie stood and began cleaning up. “Based on everything you saw, and knowing Red’s history, give me your theory on what happened to him,” Josie said.
“I need to get into his files a little deeper before—”
She cut him off. “Gut instinct. What do you think happened?”
He steepled his fingers and rested them against his lips as he put together his thoughts. Watching him, Josie realized how important his reactions were to her.
“I think Red was brokering guns, most likely to Mexicans. But I doubt he realized just how evil the people he was dealing with are. I imagine it was that ignorance as much as greed that killed him.”
* * *
After Josie logged off for the evening, Otto conducted interviews at the police department with three additional members of the Gunners. The goal was to get a better sense of the organization and its possible ties to either Medrano or La Bestia. His first interview, with Jimmy Johnson, took place in the upstai
rs office at the conference table where Otto had talked with Bloster and Fallow. Johnson worked at a body shop in town and still wore his blue mechanic’s uniform. Otto noted the black stains around his fingernails and on the front of his work shirt.
Otto left his stack of file folders and notes with Fallow’s and Bloster’s names on them in open view so that Johnson would see them. Otto also laid a file folder on the table with Johnson’s name written across the tab. He placed the folder so that it faced Johnson’s chair. Otto had shoved it full of paper he pulled from the recycling box so that it would look as if he already had significant information collected.
As Otto hoped, Johnson spent the first part of the interview glancing at the file folder with his name on it. He was an average-sized man with a significant potbelly and large square glasses that magnified watery blue eyes. He appeared confused and repeatedly squeezed his hands together into fists.
Johnson gave the same generic information that Otto had already heard about the Gunners. Finally, Otto pulled the Johnson folder in front of him, opened it, and rifled through the papers. Johnson asked, “So, what are you so interested in me for?”
Otto closed the folder again and took his time responding. He gave Johnson a stern look. “A good friend of yours, an associate you trade and sell guns with, has been murdered. It’s come to our attention that Red may have been trading and selling guns to Mexican drug cartels. We suspect you may be doing the same.”
Johnson’s eyes opened even wider and his jaw dropped. “Where the hell did you get that idea? I don’t even know any Mexicans to sell guns to!”
Otto smirked. “You don’t know any Mexicans?”
Johnson looked even more flustered. “Well, of course I know some. I mean, I don’t know anyone who I would sell guns to. I mean, I could sell guns to people. I just don’t know any cartel members to trade with. That’s what I meant.”
Johnson’s responses didn’t get any better. After another fifteen minutes, Otto cut him loose. He felt sorry for the man. He looked so worried standing at the door to leave that Otto tried to reassure him.
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