The Survivors Club

by J. Carson Black

  What a strange thing to say. The man did not strike her as cop material, but he spoke about her copness—for want of a better word—with a familiarity that seemed real. She was usually good at pegging people, so this took her aback.

  “I’m one of the good guys,” he said. “I work for Pima County Sheriff’s. May I approach? Maybe I could shed a little light here.”

  She motioned him the last few yards.

  He came fast. Tess stepped back, ready, her eye on his left hand. He kept his hands raised high, nowhere near his weapon.

  Still. Her hand closed tighter around the butt of her SIG Sauer.

  “Hey! I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you working the Hanley case?”

  Now he was too close—infringing on her space. She felt like taking another step back, but didn’t. Pushed her own body forward. “Will you step back, sir?”

  He did.

  “Do you know anything about what happened here?”

  “Not personally, no. You think it was one of the cartels?”

  She said nothing.

  He grinned. He had a crooked mouth, the only thing that marred his good looks. He didn’t show his teeth.

  “If you know anything about this, you need to tell me,” Tess said.

  “No, not this particular case, but it might be similar to what I’ve been working on. That’s why I came down here today.”

  “In your capacity with the Pima County Sheriff’s? What capacity is that?”

  “They depend on me to do a number of things. Recently, I’ve been named to an administrative investigator position.”

  That sounded political—made up to keep him or someone he knew happy. She could picture him measuring crime scenes.

  He looked beyond her at the cabin. “It says in the paper he was shot multiple times. How many?”

  “Sir, I cannot share any details of this case with you. As someone who works in law enforcement, you understand that this is a crime scene, and you need to leave now.”

  He stepped toward her. “Hey, look. I’m not trying to steal your case. I’m here to help. I just asked you a question. It said ‘multiple gunshots’ in the paper. I’m just trying to ascertain if that’s true.”

  Tess drew her weapon and held it down low behind her back—the second time today. “You need to walk up to your car and go, now.”

  “I can see it on your face! It’s true. He was shot multiple times. I read they burned his car, too.”

  “I can’t speak to that, sir.” The phrase “returning to the scene of the crime” was a cliché, but it was also an accurate predictor of suspects in those crimes. Many times a bad guy did return to the crime scene, sometimes to gloat. And this guy was a blue-ribbon gloater.

  Tess could almost feel the restrained violence in him.

  He loomed over her, grinning like a parrot. Now she could see the teeth he’d tried to hide. They peeked out under the crack of his lips—tiny teeth. They didn’t go with the rest of him, his good looks. The expensive hiking outfit.

  Manic energy.

  Tess said, “You need to walk up the road, get into your car, and drive away. This is the last time I will tell you that.”

  “Or what?”

  She traded her SIG for cuffs. Cuffed one hand, shoved him, and while he was off balance, cuffed the other.

  “You can’t do this! I’m a citizen!”

  “This is a crime scene and you are not allowed to be here. You are interfering with an active investigation.” She pushed him in the direction of the gate. “I’ll escort you to the road, sir.”

  “I just want to know how many times he was shot! Were they multiple gunshot wounds?”

  “Multiple gunshots? What do you mean by that?”

  He shut up.

  Tess continued to push him up the path.

  They reached the gate, and Tess used one hand to pull the loop over, shoved the fence pole sideways to the right so the gate fell into the dirt. She marched him over the strands of the gate and aimed him toward the Range Rover. Pulled him to a stop just shy of the car and felt in his pockets and came up with his wallet and checked his DL. His name was Steve Barkman, thirty-six years old.

  “This your car?”

  He shut up. He said nothing when she uncuffed him and told him to get into his vehicle. He did as he was told.

  She watched him drive away.

  She waited for him to turn around and come back.

  The sun warm on her head, bearing down on her.

  The brightness in her eyes. She watched the hill he’d driven around.

  Multiple gunshots.

  Why’d he ask her that?

  CHAPTER 6

  Before heading back to the Santa Cruz County Sheriff’s Office, Tess drove past the exit and turned on W. Mariposa and worked her way over to Animal Control. She badged the woman behind the glass and was buzzed in to the office.

  “I’m looking for a dog named Adele,” Tess said, giving her the names of both George Hanley and Bert Scofield.

  “I’m sorry, but number 014489 was adopted already.”

  “She was? When was she adopted?”

  “Right after she came in. We didn’t even have time to process her.”

  “Who adopted her?”

  “I don’t think we can give that out.”

  “This is a homicide investigation,” Tess lied. “The dog is important to the case. Did the person who adopted 014489 look at any other dogs?”

  Wondering why it was important to her.

  “I wasn’t here. I could ask, but I don’t know if Sally would remember.”

  “Sally was the one who adopted the dog out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she here now?”

  “I’ll get her.”

  Tess waited. The intake papers were on the desk, and Tess looked at them. Adele was five years old, an “Aussie mix.” There was a place to clip a photo, but it was blank. They didn’t even have enough time to even take a picture?

  When the woman returned, another woman wearing a similar knit shirt and khakis but with considerable more girth nodded to her shyly.

  Tess asked her about the person who came in.

  “I barely put her in her run before someone asked about her.”

  “They asked to see an Aussie mix?”

  “Yes. Probably, they walked around and saw her. That’s what most people do. I was out on the floor, hosing down the runs, and the woman wanted to adopt the dog. So I took her up to do the paperwork, and then we went back and got the dog.”

  Tess craned her neck to read the name. Bernadette Colvin.

  “This is her address, right?”

  “Uh-huh.” The woman pulled the card back, worried that there was a confidentiality issue. Tess could have pressed her to give her the card, but decided it was unnecessary.

  Tess was still unclear why she had felt compelled to come here. To see the dog, or to rescue her? But now that she was here, she had more questions. The quickness with which someone adopted the dog seemed fortuitous, if not downright strange.

  Maybe Colvin was a friend of Hanley’s. Maybe, since she adopted the dog, they had been close.

  The address for Bernadette Colvin was nearby—just ten minutes out of her way. Tess drove to Walnut Tree Place, a uniformly beige townhome in a housing division full of them. The homes and garages presented blank faces to the street, and Ms. Colvin’s house was no different.

  Tess pushed the bell. No answer. Hard to tell if anyone was there, with the drapes drawn. She remembered the phone number on the card, used her cell phone, and got voice mail. She left a message, asking for Bernadette Colvin to call her.

  Tess was walking toward the homicide room when Bonny poked his head out of his office. “When you’re in, why don’t you come by.”

  He sounded grim.

  Tess dumped her briefcase by her desk and walked down the short hallway to Bonny’s office. She noticed his nameplate was finally up next to the door: “Thaddeus Bonneville, Undersheriff.” Bon
ny hadn’t made much headway in setting up his office. There were boxes and files on every chair and file cabinet. He was still moving in, having taken over as the Santa Cruz County undersheriff when his good friend of forty years died in harness two months ago.

  Bonny had brought Tess with him. He looked like he was regretting it, now. “I just got a call from the sheriff,” he said.

  The sheriff was on vacation, so this was a big deal.

  “John’s not happy. You know what you did? You handcuffed the son of a sitting federal judge.”

  Tess opened her mouth to protest. Bonny held up a hand. “Not just any judge. Geneva Rees.”

  Tess had heard of Geneva Rees. She was the kind of judge who loved the spotlight, especially when it came to border issues. Tess was already acquainted with some of her virulent lectures from the bench.

  Rees was also a girlhood friend of the governor.

  Tess said, “Barkman presented a potential danger to me.”

  “I’m sure you felt that way. But you know how Geneva Rees can hold a grudge. And see, the deal is, little Stevie Wonderboy out there is her only child.”

  Tess could feel the trail narrowing, and it was lined with thorns. “He’s from Judge Rees’s first marriage.”

  “Yes.”

  Tess cleared her throat. “To the governor’s brother.”

  “That pretty much covers it. Judge Rees and her ex are still on very friendly terms, so I hear. And you know her and the governor are like that.” He crossed his fingers. “But that’s not all. She’s a Democrat—‘big D.’ Our boss is not going to like this.”

  Tess knew what he meant. The sheriff of Santa Cruz County was influential in party politics—in fact he made sure the party was run like a well-oiled machine. She said, “Her son needs to learn some manners.”

  “That may be, but you got to remember we have two political parties in this state. One’s all brains and no principle, and the other is all principle and no brains. But this county is Democrat and this is how the game is played. Barkman’s got a dipshitty little job researching minor crime scenes, which makes his mama happy, and that makes all of us happy. He does the legwork they can’t afford to do, and one hand washes the other. So you see my problem. Now suppose you tell me your side of the story.”

  Tess told him.

  “Can’t blame you, considering where you were. Hell, just going out there you should get combat pay. I have no problem with what you did, but the sheriff thinks you should send Barkman a written apology.”

  Tess felt her stubborn coming on. For a moment she thought about digging her toes in, but in the scheme of things—considering what they were faced with—it wasn’t worth it. “Sure, I’ll send him a note.”

  “I’m gonna want to see it when you’re done.”

  “Fine.”

  “Good.” He leaned back in his chair and started swiveling—something he’d always done when he had something hard to think about. “So what’s your take on this? On Hanley?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  He rested a cowboy-booted foot over the other knee, clasped his hands over his stomach. Bonny had a bad back, and liked to keep at least one leg up high for relief to his lower spine.

  He turned his pale blue eyes on her. “Your theory?”

  “I don’t have one yet.”

  “You don’t have one yet.”

  She cleared her throat. “It has all the earmarks of an execution. Like they made an example of him.”

  “They.”

  “‘They’ or ‘he’ or ‘it.’ I don’t know what else to call them.”

  “So your suspects are everybody and nobody.”

  “That sums it up.”

  “You think they’re in Mexico?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “They could be in Mexico. They could be here in the state. I read the report, but I want to hear it in your own words. Tell me what you’ve got.”

  Tess went over it for him. Her theory that Hanley was meeting someone. “I doubt someone could sneak up on an ex-cop like that. Plus, the time of day. So late.”

  “Doing something illegal,” murmured Bonny.

  “Could be.”

  A sixty-eight-year-old man who came down here to be near his daughter. A guy who had a dog and liked fishing and kept to himself and was civic-minded enough to belong to a buffelgrass eradication group.

  But you never knew about people.

  Bonny scratched his head. Dandruff ensued. “You’re telling me that he was, what? Running drugs? Guiding crossers? Gunrunning?”

  “His death fits with any of that.”

  “But?”

  “I can’t see it. At least, it’s hard for me to see it. I suppose the money…I guess anyone can fall prey to that.”

  Bonny said nothing.

  “Another thing. He had a dog. The same day the dog went to the pound—yesterday—a woman adopted her. Snapped her up. It might not mean anything, but—”

  “You can’t be saying you think the dog was evidence in some way? Like he was smuggling drugs in the dog?”

  “It’s happened.”

  “You believe that’s the case here?”

  Tess thought about the man’s credit cards, paid in full every month. His monastic lifestyle. The fact that he gave a large portion of his lottery check to the Humane Society. She thought about the pet products—dog shampoo, doggie treats, prescription diet food, grooming brushes, toys, matching leash and collar.

  “No.”

  “Where does that leave us?”

  “I don’t know. But it looks like somebody wanted to make an example of him.”

  Silence.

  When Tess was in her late teens, she’d go with her friends to a city park in Albuquerque at night. They’d done the usual things, including ride a teeter-totter in the dark, hang out on the picnic tables, sometimes there were makeout sessions, and once or twice, more than that. Some of them smoking and some of them drinking. Kids at a loose end. They were the only ones in the small park.

  And then she’d felt it. Just sitting there on the aluminum seat of the picnic table. She’d felt something dark and menacing brush past them. There was no cold air, but Tess had felt cold inside. It was there. Evil.

  She’d looked at the kids she was with. She didn’t know some of them that well. Three males and another female.

  But it hadn’t been coming from them. At least she didn’t think so.

  It was as if a door had opened and something bad had come through and passed them by.

  Tess felt that way now.

  “The way things are going, what’s happening these days, is too much,” Bonny said into the silence. “Sometimes I wonder why we bother. Why the Border Patrol keeps rolling that rock uphill. The people in Mexico and the people here—we’re outnumbered and outgunned. Look at Mexico—even the good guys have to become bad guys just to survive. Shit, that’s the norm for down here.”

  They sat there, the feeling that they had been enveloped by something bigger than both of them: an evil that was palpable. It was a sunny day outside. Blue sky. Cars in the parking lot, sunlight bouncing off chrome. Heartbreakingly beautiful blue mountains in the distance, blond grassland rising up to them like pale surf.

  But they were underwater. They were sinking under a deluge that seemed to spread. The killings. The torture. The burnings. Beheadings.

  Obscene.

  Tess rubbed her arms, feeling the air conditioning cold on them.

  It was just like the park.

  Tess typed up what she had and added it to the murder book. She copied the new information to the report that would circulate to her superiors.

  She left early. It was time to find out about the rest of George Hanley’s life—the one that seemed so normal. She would start by going over to interview the head of SABEL, a woman named Jaimie Wolfe. Jaimie’s place was on State Route 82 outside Patagonia, where Tess lived.

  She stopped at the Circle K on her way out of Nogales, bought an ener
gy bar, and roamed the tabloid racks. This time she saw something new—Max Conroy sharing a split page with an actress in a bikini, the droplets from her dip in the ocean accentuating her beautiful body. One hand held back the dark tangle of her hair and water beaded on her perfect breasts. She had exotic eyes.

  The headline said, “Max’s Mermaid?”

  The woman’s full name was Suri Riya, but she was one of those stars who went by one name: Suri. Her bikini wouldn’t cover a teacup Chihuahua. Make that two teacup Chihuahuas.

  Tess opened the back door to the SUV and dumped the tabloid on top of the others—the Globe, Star magazine, Celebrity NOW—all of them thrown into a cardboard box. One of these days maybe, she’d get around to looking at them.

  She drove out onto the highway headed in the direction of Jaimie Wolfe’s place.

  CHAPTER 7

  The sign out front said WOLFE MANOR PERFORMANCE HORSES and featured the silhouettes of a prancing horse and a jumper with the words ENGLISH - WESTERN - PERFORMANCE HORSES FOR SALE underneath. The property was in a natural bowl of land surrounded by the Patagonia foothills, not ten miles from where Tess lived.

  Tess parked near a riding ring with low jumps. Three girls that Tess pegged to be between the ages of twelve and eighteen were riding around the edge of the ring, posting up and down in their English saddles. The horses were massive and obviously pricey—muscular animals that seemed much too large for the girls riding them. A woman stood in the center of the ring. She was as thin and breedy as a whippet. She wore vanilla-colored breeches and a black tank top that showed off her dark tan. Her long sun-bronzed hair was pulled back into a ponytail that poked through the back of a blinding white visor. Riding boots finished the ensemble—casual, elegant, and expensive.

  Money.

  The woman glanced in her direction, sun bouncing off her dark glasses, then turned away and yelled something to one of the girls. The girl sat up straighter and tilted her chin up. She seemed self-conscious.

  The woman called out instructions for another fifteen minutes, ignoring Tess. Finally, she told them to cool down their horses and walked toward the fence. A pack of dogs materialized from the stable area—mutts and purebreds. The dogs joined up with the woman in the ring and accompanied her to where Tess stood.