by Brenda Novak
“It’s not at the state crime lab,” she said.
“Where is it?”
Rod cut in. “I recommended a lab I’ve worked with before, in San Diego.”
Van Dormer leaned back in his chair. “Who cleared that?”
Again, Rod answered. “No one. But it’s a reputable lab. And they’ll be much quicker.”
“If you didn’t get clearance, it might be hard to get the state to pick up the tab.”
“I’ll pay the tab,” he said.
“Suit yourself.” Van Dormer shrugged; then he began to discuss the various ways in which he wanted to support the investigation. He talked about canvassing gun shops and pawn shops and, for that, Sophia was grateful. Going from location to location would take a lot of man-hours she didn’t have.
“We won’t leave a single stone unturned. We’ll find the bastard who’s doing this, and we’ll make him pay,” Van Dormer said.
One of the other agents brought up the ranchers again, which they’d already discussed.
“It could easily be a rancher,” Van Dormer agreed. “Which is why I want every landowner between Bordertown and Mexico interviewed, too.”
As the meeting progressed, Sophia pretended not to notice the hostility of Lindstrom’s icy glare. But while the others were busy getting out an assessor’s map, Lindstrom scooted closer.
“Cigarette butt? You told me you found spent shell casings,” she muttered. “You never mentioned a cigarette butt.”
Because she hadn’t found it; Rod had. And her knowledge of its existence had occurred after she’d last spoken with Lindstrom. But she couldn’t admit that without revealing that she’d missed an important piece of evidence, something she wasn’t eager to volunteer, especially to Lindstrom, who was keeping a running log of her shortcomings and missteps. “I wasn’t sure it would tell us anything,” she said. “I’m still not.”
“You’re unreal. You know that?”
There was no time to respond. Van Dormer had the map spread out on his desk. If she continued to talk she’d only call attention to their little side conversation.
“Who owns this parcel?” he asked, pointing.
Sophia immediately recognized the property. She’d used a similar map, pored over it so many times that she knew the information by heart. On her map, she’d marked the locations of the murders, and she’d measured the distance between them in an attempt to do some rudimentary geographic profiling. She didn’t have any training in that area, but she’d thought seeing one crime scene in relation to another might tell her something.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t. Except that the killer was keeping his work inside the city limits. And each kill was about three miles from the one before. The triangle formed when she connected the dots encompassed most of the town. She’d already guessed the perpetrator lived close by.
“That piece belongs to Kevin and Alma Simpson,” she volunteered. “They’re cattle ranchers. They have a son, James, who lives with them. I went out there a few days ago.”
“And? What did they have to say?” Van Dormer asked.
Sophia actually liked the SAC. Thanks partly to the way FBI agents were often portrayed on TV, she’d expected someone who was bland and homogenous, if not arrogant and stuffy. But Van Dormer wasn’t any of those things. Maybe ten years older than she was, he had gray hair at his temples, nice hazel eyes and a strong jaw and chin. Not only was he handsome, he seemed capable, professional and easy to work with. But anyone would be an improvement over Lindstrom.
The other FBI agents weren’t so attractive. Sean had considerably more gray hair, a paunch that wasn’t hidden by his suit and short, stubby legs. Glen was tall and skinny with a dated tie, a bad haircut and acne scars. They all wore wedding rings.
“The Simpsons hate UDAs,” Sophia said. “And they make no secret of it. They even have a blog to try and impact public opinion on the issue of tougher immigration enforcement. I can give you the URL, in case you’d like to take a look at it.”
He shoved a piece of paper toward her so she could write it down. “Do you think they hate illegals enough to start killing them?”
“It’s possible. Or maybe one member of the family’s snapped and decided to do something drastic to protect the other two from the threats they perceive.”
“If you had to pick one, who would it be?”
This surprised Sophia. He wasn’t asking her for hard evidence. He knew if she had any, she would’ve presented it already. He was asking for her opinion—as if he valued it despite her lack of experience working big cases like this one.
Remembering Kevin Simpson’s callous responses when she’d mentioned the victims, Sophia had no trouble deciding on her answer. “The father. He’s grown tired of the situation and has no empathy for the illegal immigrants. He acts like they’re not even human.”
“Good to know. Instinct counts for a lot in police work.” He pointed to another spot on the map. “What about this parcel?”
“That’s Charlie Sumpter’s place,” she said. “I’ve been trying to reach him but can’t get a response.”
“I know Charlie,” Roderick put in. “He was a friend of my father’s, used to come by the ranch quite a bit.”
Sophia could tell the word father left a bitter taste in Rod’s mouth, but he’d used it for ease of explanation.
“He’s probably in Wyoming.” Rod went on. “From the bits and pieces I overheard as a child, he used to go there for several weeks every summer.”
“Not anymore.” Sophia’s gaze had automatically moved to Rod, since he was the one speaking, but the sight of him with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles and one elbow slung over the back of his chair reminded her of what’d happened at her house an hour and a half earlier. So she directed her attention to Van Dormer instead.
“He’s gotten too old for that,” she continued. “I’m guessing he’s with his daughter and her family in Yuma. When I bumped into him at the café not too long ago, he mentioned planning to see her over the summer. He said he can’t handle Wyoming anymore but felt he could manage driving someplace that’s only a few hours away. I didn’t get the impression that he’d be gone for an extended visit, so he should be back soon.”
“Any idea how he feels about UDAs?”
“Ever since that rancher near Portal was killed—apparently by an illegal alien—he’s been pretty vocal about his hatred.” Sophia had heard him spouting off plenty of times, but it had seemed harmless enough, a reaction to the loss of a friend. “He and the victim were close. They went to the same school when they were young, at least for a few years, and became lifelong friends.”
“Then he’s someone to watch,” Van Dormer said.
The SAC pointed out several more parcels, and Sophia gave him the owner information. She’d talked to almost all the ranchers in the past six weeks, including Charlie, but now that there were new victims, they needed to be interviewed again.
“Are you considering calling someone in to do behavioral profiling?” she asked when he’d split up the workload by geographic area and given them their assignments.
“I’m not a strong believer in that,” he admitted. “Unless you know quite a bit about a killer or he has a very unique signature, it can mislead as much as it can help. But—” he rubbed his chin as if deep in thought “—maybe. Let’s get what’s out there already and meet again day after tomorrow.”
They arranged a time. Then everyone stood. Sophia had her assignment and was about to leave without mentioning the safe house. She didn’t want Lindstrom leaking word of it to Leonard, or at least not before she could visit there. She preferred to call Van Dormer about the house and its location. Except then she’d have to explain why she hadn’t shared it with the group, and telling him that Lindstrom might have a conflict of interest could make her look paranoid, petty or both.
No, she had to risk speaking to everyone. She just hoped the FBI’s involvement would keep Lindstrom honest. “One last thing,”
she said.
All eyes turned her way.
“I received a call from someone at that number I found on the body of José Sanchez.”
Van Dormer stopped folding the map he’d been trying to wrangle into submission.
“He wouldn’t reveal his identity,” she added. “But he told me about a safe house in Bordertown where José and Benita were supposed to spend the night.”
“And you didn’t bring this up until now?” Lindstrom snapped. “I mean, having you part of this isn’t going to work if you keep holding out on everybody.” She looked at Van Dormer. “She does this with everything. She didn’t even tell me about the cigarette butt, and we’ve been working together for a month.”
Van Dormer frowned at Lindstrom, revealing that he wasn’t too impressed with her waspish reaction. So Sophia figured less was better and didn’t respond to the accusation. “It might be owned by the Mexican Mafia.”
“What makes you think so?” Van Dormer asked.
“That’s what my informant believes.”
“Have you pulled up the deed?”
“I did. The owner of the house is listed as a limited partnership—Cochise Partners—but it could be backed by the Mafia.”
Paper crinkled again as he finished with the map. “You know your town better than anyone else, Chief St. Claire. What do you suggest we do?”
“I’d like to go there tonight. See what I can learn. Someone was expecting José and Benita, knew when they were due to arrive. I’d like to find out where that person was at the time of the killings. There’s even the possibility that certain details or suspicions about the murderer are circulating underground. If we could tap into what’s being said on the Mexican side, we might come up with additional details.”
“I agree,” he said. “But…you plan to do this alone?”
“I think that would be the least threatening and most effective approach. I—”
Rod interrupted. “No way.”
Glancing up to see him towering over her, Sophia placed her hands on her hips. “Excuse me?”
“You are far too white and far too female for that job.”
“You think it should fall to you.”
“In short, yes.”
Van Dormer didn’t get involved. His eyes shifted to her as if awaiting her answer. “But I came up with this lead,” she said.
“I don’t care,” Rod responded. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it might be?”
“I’ll have my Glock.”
“The possession of which could get you killed quicker than anything else. They won’t let you through the front door with it.”
“Then I’ll stand on the porch.”
He indicated the tattoo extending several inches below the short sleeve of her uniform shirt. “What, you think you’re going to flash that tattoo and they’ll believe you’re tough?”
“This has nothing to do with size or gender or—or toughness.”
“Sure it does! They won’t respect you, won’t be willing to give you the information you need, because they won’t fear you. If you think American culture can be sexist, you haven’t seen anything until you’ve experienced Mexican machismo.”
“I know. I’m experiencing it now,” she said. “But it’s not as if you look all that Mexican. There are white people with tans as dark as you.”
“So what? At least I speak Spanish. Do you?”
Divulging the truth would put her at even more of a disadvantage, so she began to hedge. “Enough to handle what needs to get done.”
“That’s a no.” He turned to Van Dormer. “Obviously, I’m the right candidate for this assignment. Not only am I fluent and more capable of blending in, I’m better prepared to defend myself with or without a weapon.”
Sophia stepped forward. “As a man, you’ll be perceived as more of a threat.”
Van Dormer pinched his lips as he decided between them. “Let him do it,” he said at length.
Sophia glanced from the SAC to Rod. These men didn’t understand. She didn’t want to hide behind them. Her experience in Naco had empowered her, made her feel she could hold her own in any situation. And she wanted to prove it. Maybe then her detractors would shut up and quit waiting for her to blow it so they could take her job.
“She won’t go along with it,” Lindstrom interjected. “She invites danger. She went into Naco alone a few nights ago.”
Sophia had finally had enough of Lindstrom. “And I got the information I went after. Information you were too scared to pursue. What’s wrong with that?”
Lindstrom’s nostrils flared as if she had a quick retort on the tip of her tongue, but Van Dormer held up his hands. “I don’t care if you two like each other or not. Make this easy on the rest of us and figure out a way to get along, huh?”
“What if I go with Mr. Guerrero?” Sophia emphasized his title to convey that he actually had no rank, no business being involved in the first place.
“There’s no need for both of you to take that risk,” he said and turned away.
Rod tried to catch Sophia before she left. He knew Lindstrom’s type, knew she’d been difficult to work with and didn’t want Sophia to assume he’d be the same. It was just that he felt strongly about keeping her away from the safe house, especially if there was any chance it was owned by members of the Mexican Mafia, who had no compunction about killing whenever and wherever they wanted.
But she’d turned on her heel and stalked out, and Van Dormer had stopped him to ask a few questions about his background and experience. By the time he’d been free to jog out of the building, she was already on her motorcycle with the engine running.
“Hey, where’s your helmet?” he called. Sounding like a bossy parent wasn’t the best way to convince her he wasn’t a pain in the ass, but he was afraid that was all he’d get in before she took off. He’d heard of too many accidents to feel comfortable having her on the road without that protection. One of his good friends had died in a motorcycle accident. And he knew she owned a helmet. He’d seen it on the seat of her motorcycle earlier, when he’d visited her house, which suggested she normally used it. The fact that she wasn’t wearing it today told him she’d been upset before she’d even left the house.
“Are you talking to me?” she shouted, then revved the engine, drowning out his response.
He’d never known a person her size who could handle such a big motorcycle, but she seemed skilled enough. “Why are you mad? You know I’m the better candidate to visit that safe house,” he yelled, trying to make himself heard.
With a shake of her head, she put on her sunglasses and raised the kickstand. “Sorry, I can’t hear you,” she said, and drove off.
Rod considered jumping in his car and going after her. She had no reason to be so angry. Maybe he’d embarrassed her earlier when he’d pushed the shirt incident too far, but it wasn’t as if she hadn’t done worse to him. He’d stood in front of her with his hands cuffed behind his back.
So why did he feel so frustrated, so intent on trying to improve her opinion of him?
He pulled out his keys, but didn’t move toward his car. The detective from the sheriff’s office had just appeared.
“Too bad she’s on the case,” Lindstrom grumbled. “She’s trouble.”
If not for the uniform, she’d look like trouble riding that Harley with her shades and tattoo sleeve. “You don’t approve of her?”
“She bristles too easily. Won’t let anyone get close to her.”
Sophia was sensitive and high-strung. But Rod sort of liked her mercurial nature. He couldn’t always guess what she was thinking, or what she might do next. Who would’ve thought she’d actually lift her shirt for him?
“She seems to have an aversion to you, too,” he mused.
“I don’t understand why. I’ve done everything I possibly can to get along with her. I can’t help it if she’s not cut out for police work.”
Rod bristled a little himself. “How do you know she’s not c
ut out for it?”
“You heard her. She thinks she should be able to waltz into that safe house and get her own answers.”
“She’s got guts. You have to give her that.”
“No, I don’t. She’s crazy. This case would already be solved if we were dealing with someone like Leonard Taylor instead of her.”
If she thought that, she had no clue how long an investigation like this could take. But he didn’t react to her inane statement. He was too busy remembering the newspaper article on the back of Leonard Taylor’s door. “You’re a friend of Leonard’s?”
“I grew up hanging out with his sister. It’s a shame what the powers that be allowed her to do to him.”
“And what, exactly, was that?”
“You haven’t heard? She manufactured some testimony to discredit him, then took his job.”
“His sister told you that?”
“Everyone knows it,” she said.
“Everyone except Rosita Flores.”
She shaded her eyes against the glare of the sun and looked up at him. “Who?”
“The Mexican woman he threatened to hand over to the border patrol if she didn’t let him take advantage of her.”
Lindstrom frowned. “Have you ever met this woman?”
The question took him by surprise. “No.”
“I didn’t think so,” she said with a superior smile, and pressed the button that would unlock her car.
15
Her stepfather was still at the feed store, but so was one of his workers. It wasn’t Gus; it was Tony, a kid of nineteen.
Having changed into a white tank top and a pair of jeans now that her meeting with the FBI was over, Sophia sat at the back of the parking lot on her motorcycle, feeling the sun bake the skin on her bare arms. She was waiting for Tony to leave. She knew her stepfather always closed, since he didn’t trust anyone else to handle the day’s receipts.
