Читать книгу Body Heat - Brenda Novak - Страница 10

“You gonna let me in? Or are you gonna keep standing there, glaring at me?”

Reluctantly, Roderick stepped aside. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to Rachel right now. It was easy to be her friend when she needed to vent. But that didn’t mean he wanted to be the one doing the talking. Examining what he felt was like probing a bruise. There was no point.

“Can I get you a beer?” he asked.

“No, thanks.” She eyed the empty cans he’d thrown in the recycle bin. “Should I put on a pot of coffee?”

“Hell, no.” This was the best he’d felt all day, ever since he’d spoken to his father. Why ruin it?

“That call you got at the office…”

He frowned in irritation. “What about it?”

Helping herself to some chips he had out on the counter, she took her time answering. “You want to tell me why it has you so riled?”

“Isn’t your husband waiting for you to come home?”

She popped another Dorito into her mouth. “He knows I’m here.”

“Why didn’t he come with you?”

“Because he’s filling out a report. And I told him we needed time alone.”

“We don’t need time alone,” he said with a scowl. Although he and Rachel had once been close, they’d drifted apart since she’d married. Roderick didn’t mind. Her husband, Nate, was another operative at Department 6, one he respected, and Rod had never had romantic designs on her. But there were days he missed the camaraderie they used to share so consistently. This was one of those days. Too bad he couldn’t back up and change a relationship that had already shifted into something different from what it used to be.

She began rinsing off the dirty dishes he’d piled in the sink. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“It isn’t like you to sulk, Rod.”

“Quit doing my dishes,” he said. “And who the hell said I’m sulking?”

She glanced pointedly around the room. “The TV is off. The stereo is off. The blinds are down.”

When they weren’t talking, only the whir of the air conditioner filled the silence. He hadn’t wanted it to appear as if he was home, hadn’t wanted his busybody neighbor showing up asking if he could fix her leaky faucet. He’d been trying to give himself some downtime.

And Rachel was making that difficult.

“So?”

“So Milt said you refused to talk to him earlier.” She put the plate she’d just rinsed in the dishwasher. “He said you left the office without telling him when you’d be back.”

“Too bad for Milt.”

“He happens to be your boss.”

“I’ll check in with him later.”

“He’s worried about you.”

“Bullshit. Milt doesn’t worry about anybody but himself.” Rod finished off the beer sitting on the counter and crushed the can before tossing it into the recycle bin.

“Okay, let me rephrase that. He’s interested in protecting his investment. I’m the one who’s worried.”

“I’m thinking about taking a few days off, that’s all.” He lifted a shoulder to make the statement more nonchalant.

Silverware clinked as she dropped it into its plastic container. “A few days off.”

“Yeah.”

“To do what? Hang around here with the blinds down and drink yourself into oblivion?”

“No, smart-ass. To visit Arizona.”

She hesitated. “Anyone in particular you want to see?”

He imagined his father and Edna. “Not really.” Although there was Jorge…

“You must have some reason for wanting to go. You barely got home after being away for three months.”

He’d never given her any details about his childhood. He kept it vague with everyone, merely saying that he’d come from a hellhole in southern Arizona and was glad to be out of it. But Rachel clued in fast. Holding her dripping hands over the sink, she measured him with her eyes. “Does this have to do with your past?”

“Maybe.”

After drying her hands on a towel, she shut the dishwasher. “You’re really going to hold out on me?”

He moved toward the fridge to get another beer, but she intercepted him. “Sit down. I’m making you some dinner.”

“No, you’re not. With you getting in my way, I can’t go back to drinking.”

“That’s true. But as long as I’m here, you may as well talk to me.”

He shoved a hand through his hair. “Shit.”

“That’s flattering. I’m glad I came over to help.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you here.” Actually, it was. But not because he didn’t care about her. “It’s just… I’m not sure what to do.”

“About…”

“Going to Arizona.”

She took two frozen chicken breasts from his freezer. “Something happen down there?”

“Some asshole is shooting illegal aliens as they come across the border, and I’m contemplating putting a stop to it. That’s all.”

“Local law enforcement can’t manage?”

“Bordertown isn’t exactly prosperous. It has a few wealthy ranchers but almost everyone else lives below the poverty line. There isn’t a lot of money in the public coffers.”

She put the chicken in the microwave to defrost. “The county or the state will help. Maybe even the Feds.”

“Probably. But I wouldn’t charge anything. I know the area. And I’m fluent in Spanish. I could float around, maybe pick up on a few things law enforcement might miss.” He felt he owed it to his mother and her people. That was the most compelling reason, but he didn’t say so.

“If it’s that important to you, I’m sure you can get the time off from Department 6. You’ve got weeks of vacation coming.”

“That’s what I figured.”

“So why are you fighting it?”

“You think I should go.”

She laughed. “No. You think you should go. Obviously. That’s why you’re so conflicted. I’m just trying to tell you that drinking won’t change that.”

“My father lives there,” he finally admitted.

Her steady gaze met his. “You told me you didn’t have a father.”

“I did?” He couldn’t remember saying that.

“Yep.”

“Well, that’s essentially true. He never acknowledged me. He gave my mother money every now and then—as much as he could siphon away without risking the wrath of his wife—but nothing steady and only out of a sense of obligation. He had another family. The one everyone looked up to.”

She pretended this was a casual conversation, but he could tell she was taking it all in. “Any siblings?”

“Two white boys. Mean sons of bitches, too.”

“Older or younger than you?”

“Older.” And stronger. At least back then. He had no idea what they were like now. He only knew they’d joined forces to beat the crap out of him on several occasions, usually because he’d come across them on their own property and refused to step out of the way. He’d been tired of seeing his father and everyone else treat them like little princes while he couldn’t pick an orange without being accused of stealing.

“Your father didn’t stop them?”

“He turned a blind eye. He knew it would get back to his wife if he did and cause an even bigger problem.”

“Your brothers still live there?”

“Don’t know. I’ve never asked anyone.” Even Jorge. “But I can’t imagine they’d leave. They’re eventually going to inherit a sizeable farm right outside of Bordertown.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“Buried in the town cemetery.”

The microwave dinged but she made no move to recover the poultry. “What happened to her, Rod?”

“Lung cancer. Never smoked a day in her life, yet she died of lung cancer.” He chuckled bitterly. “Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

“None of it sounds fair. But you’re not the person you were then. You’d be going back as someone else. Someone to be reckoned with.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “What does that mean?”

“It means you can handle whatever’s waiting for you there—a killer who’s shooting illegal aliens, two mean sons of bitches who might still benefit from a good ass-whopping, a father who must have been a fool not to love you…and the sight of a grave that will probably break your heart.”

“See? This is why I don’t talk to you,” he said.

“Why?”

“You just don’t understand.”

Knowing he meant the opposite, she smiled. “When are you leaving?”

“I guess I might as well go tonight. Any chance you’ll take me to the airport?”

“You think you can get a flight?”

“I doubt I can get into Tucson, but I should be able to reach Phoenix. I’ll rent a car and drive from there.”

Sophia’s long hair was dark enough to blend in with that of the Mexicans she’d encounter, but the color of her eyes and her skin tone would give her away. Her light green irises drew attention wherever she went. People always commented on how startling they were. And, although she had a bit of a tan now that it was summer, her skin was most definitely that of a white person. But at least she wouldn’t look any more like a cop than she would a Mexican citizen. She had the tattoo “sleeve” partially covering one arm to thank for that. It might be a remnant of her wild youth, but she still liked the symbols of good and evil portrayed there. They showed humanity at its most realistic—never wholly honorable and never wholly bad. Besides, those tattoos gave her the hard edge she sometimes needed, helped make up for the fact that she was only five feet five inches tall and one hundred and ten pounds.

She pulled on a tank top to go with her jeans and biker boots. Then she combed her hair into a thick ponytail and lifted her pant leg so she could strap her pistol to her right calf before hopping onto the stripped-down Harley she’d purchased last summer. Other than Rafe and her brother, that bike was her only true love. She’d bought it after a particularly painful breakup, at a time when she preferred being single for the rest of her life to trusting another man. She’d been without sex long enough to rethink that “never again” attitude, but the Harley was still a better companion than the boyfriend she’d had last summer. She ran into Dick Callahan every now and then—him and the teenager he’d knocked up while they were together.

“Bastard,” she mumbled as she turned out of her drive. That was pretty much her reaction every time she thought of Dick. It didn’t help that she’d trusted him a little more than she would have otherwise because he was the pastor at First Calvary Church. Instead of coming to her right away, he’d strung her along with I love yous until the girl and her parents had shown up on her doorstep and surprised her with news of the baby. They’d also asked her to step aside so Dick would be willing to make a home for their daughter and her child.

Sophia had thought they were crazy to push for a permanent commitment. He “did the right thing” only to save his position with the church. She doubted the marriage would last. But she’d done what they requested and removed herself from the situation. Dick and seventeen-year-old Zeba had spoken their vows five months ago.

Since Dick, Sophia hadn’t really dated anybody. Living in a small town didn’t provide her with a lot of options, and being a police officer narrowed the field even further, because she knew too much about everyone. Harvey Hatfield tried to ask her out now and then. But back when he was married and she was just a regular officer, she’d been to his house to settle a domestic dispute. His wife—former wife now—hadn’t pressed charges, but Sophia had seen her face and believed her when she said it was Harvey who’d given her that fat lip. Knowing he could be violent didn’t make Sophia too thrilled about going out for a drink with him.

Then there was Craig Tenney, a local dentist. He’d seemed nice enough until Alice Greville had come into the station claiming he’d touched her breasts while he had her under nitrous oxide. His other clients had rallied behind him, and Alice had never been able to prove her claim, but Sophia had started going to a dentist in Douglas.

And last but not least, Stuart Dunlap showed interest. On the surface he seemed like an ideal candidate. Other than a bar fight six years ago, he’d had no brushes with the law. Along with his brother, he stood to inherit the Dunlap ranch—something Sophia’s mother constantly pointed out. Anne had no qualms about marrying for money. When her first husband filed for bankruptcy, she’d acted decisively to protect her standard of living. But Stuart walked around Bordertown acting as if he owned the place. Sophia couldn’t stand his arrogance. She preferred his brother, but Patrick was already married.

The highway blurred beneath her front tire as she gave the bike more gas. She thought of Detective Lindstrom heading home for an enjoyable supper with her DEA husband and wondered if she’d complained to the sheriff about being left out of the action this morning. Sophia should’ve contacted her when the call came in. She’d guessed immediately that their killer had struck again. But knowing that the detective had ties to Leonard and wouldn’t mind seeing her out of a job made Sophia leery. A few hours ago, Lindstrom had called to see if she’d gotten the shell casings off to the state crime lab. Sophia said she had, but she’d actually sent them to a private expert, one Lindstrom would have little chance of finding. She’d also kept the third shell casing, in case her package got lost. Maybe her caution was overkill, but she had no plans to live with regret.

Because it was growing dark, and it was a weeknight, only a handful of cars were waiting to gain entrance into Mexico. But, as usual, there was a long line of traffic stacked up to get out. Peddlers toted piggy banks, wool blankets, tooled leather wallets and purses as they wandered among the cars, hawking their wares.

Sophia watched various drivers and passengers roll down their windows to inspect these goods while inching forward. When it was her turn to speak with a border agent, she pulled under the overhang that announced Bienvenidos a Naco, Sonora, México and showed a uniformed Mexican man her passport, which was now necessary to cross the border, although at one time a driver’s license had been sufficient. She wasn’t carrying her badge. As far as the officials along the border or anywhere else were concerned, she wasn’t going into Mexico on police business, and she wasn’t armed.

After a cursory glance at her passport, the man waved her through, and the engine thrummed between her legs as she guided her bike into Naco, Sonora. It was just on the other side of the border from its sister city but was ten times the size. With nearly eight thousand residents, it had housing, motels and grocery stores—and plenty of indigents who begged for money.

It also had more than its fair share of coyotes.

Sophia could see them lounging against buildings or loitering on street corners, talking with anyone who passed. Some stood off by themselves—smoking, eyeing the scene, searching for potential customers. For a moment, the babel of voices frightened her. She’d been to Naco before; she knew it well enough to feel as comfortable as one could in a foreign and rather dangerous place. But she didn’t speak much Spanish. She was relying on the fact that many of the people here knew English.

A group of men clustered at the entrance to the ram-shackle motel Su Casa watched her “unass,” as Starkey would’ve described it. She wasn’t sure why she suddenly thought of her ex-boyfriend. Maybe because she sort of wished she’d brought him with her. He was no pillar of the community, but she did enough for Rafe that he treated her cordially, and he could hold his own in the worst of circumstances.

Whistling and grinning as she removed her helmet, the men made their appreciation clear. They also spoke to one another in Spanish, using words like espléndido and atractiva. Despite numerous attempts, Sophia hadn’t been able to reach the person attached to the number she’d found in José’s sock, so she still didn’t have any identification. But, unlike the situation with the previous victims, she had pictures that showed an actual resemblance. She’d downloaded the photographs she’d taken at the scene and printed out several copies of the clearest ones before leaving the station.

As she approached the group, most of whom were in their mid-twenties, she took a photo of each body from her back pocket. “Maybe you can help me.”

Several were dressed in dirty “wifebeater” T-shirts and plain gray pants with thin-soled black canvas shoes. Others wore jeans and various kinds of shirts. They’d all been lounging against whatever was close by—the side of the building, a pillar, a foul-smelling trash can—but once she addressed them they straightened and stepped toward her.

“Can you tell me who these people are?” she asked, holding the photos out for them to see.

The closest one took the pictures and stared down at José and his wife. Then he handed them back. “No hablo Inglés.”

“Nombre.” She pointed at the pictures again and gave them to someone else.

“These people are dead.” The second man’s English was heavily accented but definitely understandable.

“That’s the problem,” she told him. “I’m trying to figure out how they got that way.”

“So…you’re a cop?” He laughed, making his skepticism obvious. “You don’t look like no cop.”

She lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “Right now I’m just a concerned citizen.”

“A concerned citizen,” he repeated, and squinted as he studied the pictures a second time. “These two were killed crossing the border, eh? Like the others?”

It was no surprise that he knew. The previous murders had been in the papers, and Naco was right on the border, only ten miles from where some of the shootings had occurred. “Yes.”

“Who are you?”

The insolence in his eyes unsettled her, but she steeled herself against it. She’d hung out with enough Hells Angels to know better than to reveal vulnerability. “A friend. At least to them.”

He rubbed his fingers together in the classic sign that he wanted her to grease his palm. “How much you willing to pay?”

In a town where men rushed to hold parking places or dashed into the street to wash car windshields, hoping for tips, she’d expected this and planned to use it to her advantage. “Fifty U.S.”

“For…”

“Información. On either one of them. Or anyone you feel might’ve had something to do with their deaths.”

“You pay first?”

She laughed as she shook her head. “Sorry, I’m not estúpida, eh? I’ll wait in the cantina across the street.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Where they came from, how and when they crossed the border, who they were with before they died, if anyone’s seen or heard anything strange or out of the ordinary lately that might be related to their murder.”

“That’s a lot, no?”

“You gotta start somewhere.”

He thought for a moment. “Job like that could take all night, señorita. In the end, I might have nothing to show for my time. How can you be sure they came through here?”

“I’m willing to bet on it. They didn’t die far away. Find me their coyote, someone who saw them or knows them, anything you can. The more you tell me, the more I’ll pay. ¿Entendido?”

“¿Cuánto más?” someone else called.

They were asking how much more. Fifty dollars was peanuts compared to what they were paid for a successful crossing. But not every crossing was successful. “Up to two hundred dollars U.S.,” she said.

The man who’d just yelled out wiped the sweat from his forehead. “And if we find nada?”

“Then you get paid nada.” She had no choice. They’d lie to her if she gave them the slightest incentive.

“Nah.” Shaking their heads, some of the men closest to her turned away. One addressed two women huddled next to a wheeled cart where an old man was selling drinks and corn. “Hey, you want a new life?” he asked her. “You want to go to America? I can take you there.”

He spoke in Spanish but Sophia understood the gist of his message.

One of the women, obviously older than the other, scoffed. “You think I’m a fool? It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s safe,” he insisted. “And easy. I can get you there, no problem. My metal detector can find the sensors.”

“And what about that?” She waved in the direction of the tall metal fence dividing the two countries, but everyone knew the fence was virtually nonexistent in some places.

“You’re worried about three strands of barbed wire?”

“I’m worried about being forced into the desert,” she cried. “Do you want us to die?”

Sophia saw no reason he’d want them to die. He didn’t care one way or the other, as long as he got paid.

He rolled his eyes. “You won’t die in the desert. I know a shortcut. It’s an hour’s walk.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Sophia interrupted. “It’ll take much more than an hour. It could take days. And border patrol agents aren’t the only thing you have to fear. Someone is killing illegal aliens, shooting them in cold blood.”

The woman didn’t seem to understand English. But she recognized the pistol Sophia made with her thumb and finger. Muttering something unintelligible, she grabbed her companion’s hand and scurried away.

The coyote whirled around to confront Sophia. “Hey, you’re costing me money!”

“Twelve people are dead,” she said. “Twelve of your countrymen and -women. If anyone gives a damn, it should be you.”

The man who spoke the best English was openly scornful. “Why should we care? They’re just wetbacks.”

“You make your living off those wetbacks!”

He shrugged. “So?”

“If this killer keeps going, people will be too frightened to cross. Even with a reliable coyote.”

Flexing, he looked pointedly from one bulging bicep to the other, showing off for her. “I can get anyone across. For the right price.”

Since the U.S. had strengthened security along the Naco border, coyotes had a much more difficult job. They had to avoid the stadium lights that were spaced every three miles and equipped with cameras and infrared sensors monitored by agents at central command. They had to figure out ways to circumvent or slip through the Virtual Presence and Extended Defense System, which included the feared ground sensors. And they had to escape the notice of an additional two hundred agents posted at various lookouts. The services of a knowledgeable guide had gone from three hundred dollars to eight hundred dollars. Smuggling undocumented aliens was becoming so lucrative that the Mexican Mafia was beginning to traffic in humans, as well as drugs.

“Money is all that matters to you?” she challenged.

“That and a good fuck,” he said, and everyone burst out laughing.

Sophia refused to flinch at his crude language. She was hardly impressed with his attempt to shock her; thanks to Starkey and his friends, and her job, she’d heard much worse. “Good luck finding a woman who’s willing.”

“Oooh…” his friends moaned, mocking him.

Eyes glinting with a dangerous light, he swept his gaze from her head to her toes. “Maybe I won’t bother getting permission.”

“You’re not worth my time.” Jerking the pictures out of his hand, she turned away as if he didn’t scare her in the least.

She’d taken only two steps when a man from the same group hailed her. “I’ll see what I can find, señorita,” he said, and nodded respectfully when she gave him the pictures.

“Puta,” the other man spat.

Sophia felt like drawing her gun. The cocky, sexist pig deserved to have a woman get the better of him. But she wasn’t in Mexico to start trouble. She was here to get answers.

She ignored him.

“Two hundred U.S.?” The one who was taking the assignment asked. Short and stocky, with a jagged scar on his cheek and an elaborate snake tattoo on his arm, he appeared to be much older than the others, probably in his late forties.

“If the information is accurate,” she clarified, and with another nod, he strode off.