Praise for the novels of Brenda Novak

“The Perfect Couple was fast-paced and extremely engaging from the very first page…. Once I started, I couldn’t stop! Definitely, most definitely add The Perfect Couple to your reading list.”

—True Crime Book Reviews

“Novak delivers another expertly crafted work of suspenseful intrigue heightened by white-knuckle danger and realistically complicated romance.”

—Booklist on The Perfect Couple

“I guarantee The Perfect Couple will keep readers on the edge of their seats.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“Realistic and gritty, this story grabs the reader by the throat on the first page and never lets go.”

—RT Book Reviews on Watch Me

“Gripping, frightening and intense…a compelling romance as well as a riveting and suspenseful mystery…Novak delivers another winner.”

—Library Journal on The Perfect Liar

“A chilling, sensual tale that features a host of skillfully developed characters and intricate, multilayered plotting. Sacramento-based Novak writes gripping romantic thrillers.”

—Library Journal on The Perfect Murder

“As always, Novak’s plotting is flawless, and her characterizations are rich and multilayered. What sets this story apart from the rest is the intensity of the romance between the two wounded protagonists—it simply sizzles. A keeper.” (4.5 stars, Top Pick)

—RT Book Reviews on The Perfect Murder

“It’s hard to go wrong with a Brenda Novak novel.”

—Book Cove Reviews

Body Heat
Brenda Novak

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Bradley and Audrey Simkins at Booklovers Books…I love coming into the store and seeing gigantic posters of my novels covering the wall. Thanks for hand-selling so many of my novels. Thanks for coming out to any event where I need a bookseller. Thanks for doing the BBQ at my launch party each summer (no one can BBQ like you!). And thanks for constantly reminding me, just because of your own passion, how much I love everything about books.

Dear Reader,

It never fails. With each new set of books (I’ve been doing three per summer for a few years now) I seem to choose a favorite hero. One always intrigues me or resonates with me more than the other two, and this summer that’s the hero of this novel, Roderick Guerrero. Rod’s a character who has triumphed over a great deal of adversity. Instead of letting it break him, he’s used it to make himself wiser and stronger. I like people who’ve survived a few bumps. They’re always more textured, more interesting.

The research for this novel took a little more time than usual, but I was glad of the opportunity. I learned a lot about Arizona and the area along the Mexican border. Although Bordertown is a fictional place, there are many towns similar to it, with lots of atmosphere and challenges. I think challenges make a place more interesting, too.

I’d like to extend a special thank-you to Debbie Berke and Grant Noyes. Their names show up as characters in this novel because they were generous enough to purchase the privilege to help me support worthy causes such as fundraising for my children’s high school and diabetes research. To me, these are real heroes.

I love to hear from readers. Please feel free to write me at P.O. Box 3781, Citrus Heights, CA 95611, or visit my Web site at www.brendanovak.com, where you can enter to win monthly draws, read samples of other books I’ve written, download a pdf list of all my titles or check out my annual online auction for diabetes research, which includes so many cool things. So far, together with my fans, friends and publishing associates, we’ve raised over $1 million for this cause. My youngest son is a Type 1 diabetic, so I live with it up close. A cure is my fondest dream.

Love is the key!

Brenda Novak

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

1

Racism is man’s gravest threat to man—the maximum of hatred for a minimum of reasons.

—Abraham J. Heschel, rabbi and philosopher (1907–72)

Benita Sanchez was almost as afraid of running into a rattlesnake as she was U.S. Customs and Border Protection. The CBP would send her and her husband back to Mexico. But a snake… The way José said she should creep across the ground—always staying low, very low—made her feel so vulnerable. Snakes came out at night, when the temperature cooled. She could easily stumble into one. Maybe they’d hear a brief shake of the rattle, but they’d never see its beady eyes or sharp fangs before it struck. Since they’d lost their coyote, or smuggler, they had only the moon to help them. And it was barely a sliver—a sliver that looked like a tiny rent in a gigantic dome of black velvet, which was slowly turning purple as the night edged toward dawn.

Although they’d crossed the border with thirty-one other Mexican nationals, they were now alone. Everyone had scattered when the border patrol spotted them more than twenty-four hours ago. Had any of those people made it safely back to Mexico? Or were they in some holding cell? She and José had escaped “La Migra,” but she was no longer sure she considered them lucky. Did José actually know where he was leading her? He said he did. He’d come to America once, but that was five years ago. And their coyote had promised they’d have only a six-hour walk. Even if she deducted for the time they’d spent sleeping, they’d been on their feet for eighteen.

As they came to a cluster of mobile homes, José whispered to circle wide and crouch lower. He’d once told her it was easy to sneak across la frontera. But it hadn’t been easy at all. Although he’d insisted she wear several layers of clothing, the thorny plants that scrabbled for purchase in the rocky soil still managed to sink sharp spines through the fabric or scratch her somewhere she wasn’t covered. Add to that the hunger, thirst, homesickness and fear—fear of snakes, dogs, drug-runners, thieves, unfriendly Americans, La Migra—and it was almost unbearable. The whole world felt hostile.

Tears began to burn behind Benita’s eyes. She wasn’t sure she could go on. She hoped the presence of these trailers meant they were on the outskirts of a town where she could at least get a drink of water, but even if they were close, two miles seemed like fifty when you were walking through the desert.

“José?” She could hear the determined crunch of his footsteps in front of her.

At the sound of her voice, he stopped. “You must be quiet,” he replied in rapid Spanish. “Do you want the people in that trailer to hear you? If they do, they’ll call the border patrol!”

The mobile home they skirted was one of the nicer ones she’d seen, a double-wide with a yard and everything. But its white paint seemed to glow in the dark, making it look like a giant ghost with flat, empty eyes. This was a soulless, godforsaken land. How could it be the paradise José promised?

“Maybe we could drink from the hose,” she suggested.

He hesitated and finally agreed. He had to be thirsty, too. But as they drew close, a dog began to bark, so he grabbed her hand and yanked her away.

“Agua!” she begged.

“We can’t risk it.”

“Then let’s try another place. Maybe the next one won’t have a dog.”

“We’re almost there.”

He’d been saying that for miles. Unable to believe him anymore, she stopped walking. “I’m scared. I want to turn back.”

“¿Estás loca?” he said, instantly angry. “We’ve come too far. We can’t go back.”

“But…” She swallowed hard. “How much longer?”

“We’ll be there soon,” he promised.

But would she be any happier after they arrived? They were going to a safe house and then the home of his cousin, Carlos Garcia. She’d met Carlos on two different occasions and didn’t like him. He enjoyed playing the big shot, pretending to be something he wasn’t. She didn’t want José to become like him….

“Hurry!”

Her husband was getting impatient. Benita knew how much this trip meant to him. He’d talked of it the whole time they were dating, painted appealing pictures of the opportunities to be found in America. But…

Gathering her courage, she started after him again. She wouldn’t be a disappointment, wouldn’t make him regret marrying her. Besides, as he said, they’d come too far to turn back. Surely the number of mobile homes meant they were indeed close to the safe house. Bordertown was as far as they had to go tonight. It was all arranged. They’d rest, then they’d call Carlos and he’d pick them up and take them to Phoenix. There, they’d live with him and two other roommates and, hopefully, find work so they could help pay the mortgage until they’d saved enough to afford their own place.

“Aren’t you worried about snakes?” she grumbled.

“Snakes will be the least of our worries if you don’t keep moving.”

Sighing, she tried to move faster, but with every step she wished she’d been able to talk José out of this. They were young and in love; they could make a living in Mexico somehow, couldn’t they? She didn’t want to go to America. Maybe he could make more money here—big money, like he said—but would they ever be happy living in a foreign land? A land that didn’t want them? And what if they were caught and deported after they’d begun to build a life here?

It was a risk Benita didn’t want to take. “José, I really, really want to go home.” The tears she’d been holding back began to stream down her cheeks.

He didn’t even turn around. “You’ll be glad we did this. Just…trust me.”

She thought of the water bottle they’d finished hours ago. Would they find themselves lost in the desert when the sun came up in less than an hour? Would they stagger around in the one hundred and fifteen degree heat without food or water and eventually die a terrible death?

The mere possibility made her shudder. All she had left was a pocketful of nuts. And they were covered with salt.

“We shouldn’t have crossed,” she said. “We should not have done this.”

A gruff chuckle alerted them to the presence of a third party. “Well, well…what do you know? It sounds as if someone is coming to their senses.”

Benita squealed, then clamped a hand over her mouth. A dark amorphous shape stood in front of them, blocking the faint light of the moon. She couldn’t make out specific features, but she knew he was a stranger. And she was pretty sure he was wearing a cowboy hat and holding a gun. He had something in his hand….

Was he white? She might’ve thought so except he spoke perfect Spanish.

Her husband inched toward her, placing his body in front of hers, and she let him. She hadn’t yet told José, hadn’t wanted to worry him before their trip el norte, but she’d just found out she was pregnant.

“Disculpe, señor,” he said. “We—we mean no harm. We are passing through, that is all.”

The stranger switched to English, which seemed to come as naturally to him as Spanish. “What you’re doing is illegal, mi amigo.”

Although he knew bits of English, much more than Benita did, José wasn’t fluent. He stuck with his native tongue. “But we are just visiting family. We mean no harm. We plan to go back to Mexico after two weeks. We stay only two weeks.”

It was an obvious lie, and the man was far from fooled. “Shut up.” Again he spoke in English but even Benita understood the meaning of those sharp words.

“Señor, please.” José edged closer to her. “It is only me and my—my little brother. We have no drugs, nothing.”

This time, the response came in Spanish. “Your brother.”

He’d heard her speak, which made this another transparent lie, but Benita kept her mouth shut, in case he believed José. Some boys had high voices, didn’t they? “Sí. He—he is frightened. Por favor…please, do not hurt him.”

Benita could hardly breathe. The stories of rape, beatings, robbery and other abuse that occurred during border crossings had circulated throughout Mexico. Parents used them to warn their children to stay home, as her father had warned her. But, other than to insist she chop her hair short and wear a baseball cap and men’s clothing, José had shrugged off her parents’ concerns. He said they worried for no reason and promised her everything would be fine.

“Stop groveling or I’ll shoot you both right where you stand.”

Those words and the disgust in the stranger’s voice made Benita start shaking. Who was this man? What was he doing out here? If he was a border patrol agent, he would’ve told them by now, wouldn’t he? Had they interrupted a drug run? Or was this a local farmer who didn’t want them on his land?

“I—I have money,” José said.

They didn’t have a lot. It was Carlos who was supposed to pay their coyote once they’d made it safely across. But at this point Benita was ready to turn herself in to the authorities. She didn’t care if he sacrificed every peso.

The man laughed. “You think I’m a dirty cop—like the kind you have in Mexico?”

José didn’t answer. “Forgive me. I am not trying to offend you, señor.”

“Your smell offends me, amigo. You being where you don’t belong offends me. And the fact that every word out of your mouth is a lie offends me.”

There was a click, and a brief flash of light. Benita covered her face, bracing for the worst. But he was only lighting a cigarette. She caught a brief glimpse of his chin, which was covered with dark stubble, before he closed his lighter.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he said, blowing smoke in their faces.

“Sí. Money. You want money?” José bent to get the cash hidden in his sock.

“I don’t want your lousy dinero. You couldn’t have enough pesos to buy me a new pair of boots, amigo. What I want is for you to undress your little brother here. I’ll use my night-vision goggles to take a peek at his chest. If he is, as you say, a boy, I’ll let you pass. You can head on to Tucson or L.A. or wherever else and bleed this country dry just like all your wetback relatives who’ve snuck over the border before you. But—” he took another long drag on his cigarette “—if she’s got tetas…” Another blast of smoke hit Benita in the face, making her cough. “I’m going to punish you for being the lying sack of shit you are.”

José didn’t move. Benita could feel his tension, could tell he was weighing his options. What had the man said? She’d recognized only a few words. Would José decide to run? They couldn’t. They’d be shot.

“Okay, I—I admit it. This is my wife, not my brother.” José’s voice was raspy with desperation. “But…she’s barely twenty, señor. And she’s frightened. Please, I beg you. Let us go. We will head back to Mexico. Right now.”

The man took another drag. “Until next week or the week after. Then you’ll come creeping across the border again.” He switched to Spanish, no doubt to make sure she’d understand. “I read an article that said you wetbacks try at least six times before giving up. Takes some pretty big balls to be so bold, you know what I’m saying? Besides, someone’s got to die. Might as well be you.”

Die? Benita sank to her knees. “No, por favor! I—I didn’t even want to come here. I’d rather go home. I’ll stay home. Don’t hurt us.”

He made a tsking sound. “How could you put your wife in such danger, Pedro?”

He had never asked for José’s name. He was using “Pedro” as a racial slur. She could feel this man’s hatred as palpably as the heat of the sun when it beat down at midday. But she was glad José didn’t complain. He squeezed her shoulder. Probably to comfort her. Maybe to convey an apology. You were right. We should’ve stayed. “I was just…trying to give her a better life,” he said.

A light went on in the closest trailer. When the man turned to look, José grabbed a handful of Benita’s shirt and jerked her forward. He wanted her to run, but she couldn’t get up fast enough and they lost the precious second that might’ve allowed them to escape.

The cowboy swung back, and they both froze with fear. Thanks to the light coming through the trailer window, the barrel of his pistol was outlined in silver, and they could see that it had something on the end.

Benita knew what that something was; she’d seen a silencer before. Her brother hadn’t always lived the kind of life he was living now that he’d settled down and had a couple of kids.

“Someone’s awake,” José said. “They’ll see you. You’ll get caught if you shoot us. Let us go.”

The stranger didn’t seem the least bit worried. Chuckling deep in his throat, he tossed his cigarette on the ground and fired so fast Benita didn’t realize he’d pulled the trigger until José collapsed. Her husband’s hand clenched, dragging her to the ground with him, so the shot intended for her went over her head. But that was all he could do to help. In the next second, he made a funny noise and went still, and she knew the man she loved, the father of her unborn child, was dead.

“You killed him!” she wailed, crouching over his body. “You killed him!”

“Hey, what’s going on out there?” A woman had opened the door of the trailer and called out in English. Although Benita couldn’t understand her words, she thought the interruption would make the man run away. But it didn’t. With a curse, Cowboy brought up his gun and aimed again.

“This oughta teach you spic cockroaches to stay in your own damn country,” he ground out, and pulled the trigger.

Benita felt a flash of pain between her eyes. Then she felt nothing at all.

2

The sun was just beginning to creep over the horizon when Sophia St. Claire brought her cruiser to a skidding halt at the dusty group of drab to not-so-drab trailers a mile outside of town. She’d thrown on her uniform and dashed out of the house as soon as the call came in. But she was too late. The people who lived here had abandoned the comfort of their homes to gawk and were standing in the middle of the crime scene.

“There goes whatever evidence I might’ve been able to collect,” she grumbled. But why get upset about it? If this was the work of the same killer she’d already been chasing, chances were he hadn’t left any evidence to begin with. In the past six weeks, someone had killed ten—now twelve—people in three different incidents, all UDAs or undocumented aliens, and walked or driven off into the night. Whoever it was didn’t attempt to bury the victims or hide their corpses, even when he had the chance. His earlier targets hadn’t been discovered until more than a week after their deaths.

As she turned off the engine, the small crowd, all of whom had glanced up when she arrived, watched her with pinched and worried expressions. They were obviously aware of the gravity of the situation. But they didn’t seem to realize that they should move away from the bodies. Maybe the CSI shows weren’t always one hundred percent accurate on forensic procedures and techniques, especially when it came to timelines, but surely these people had seen enough TV to know they shouldn’t contaminate the crime scene? It wasn’t as if they lived in some bucolic Mayberry R.F.D. The people here, mostly Mexican Americans with some whites and a few American Indians thrown in, were as rugged as the land. What with drug trafficking, human trafficking, gangs who had ties to the Mexican Mafia, racial disputes and a local chapter of the Hells Angels roaring around, blowing through stoplights, breaking speed limits and looking for trouble, this was almost a war zone.

Catching a glimpse of two prone bodies, she winced and jerked her door open.

Debbie Berke, the woman who’d called to report the shooting, met her as she got out. “Sophia, they’re dead,” she said. “They were killed instantly. Wasn’t no reason to get the paramedics out here.”

Sophia wasn’t surprised to be addressed by her first name. Only thirty, she hadn’t been chief of police for very long. And most of these folks had known her since she was a baby. Debbie’s late husband had been the veterinarian who’d operated on Toby, her family’s dog, when Sophia was fifteen, and eventually put him down. “I understand. I’ve called the medical examiner.”

“He’s on his way?”

“That’s what he said.” But Sophia doubted he was in any kind of hurry. Some of the sentiments Dr. Sandy Vonnegut had expressed at the last crime scene led her to believe he didn’t consider the death of illegal aliens to be much more distressing than roadkill.

She hollered for the crowd to step back at least twenty paces.

With their brown skin and inky black hair, the victims were, as expected, Mexican. One was a man, the other a woman. The male victim lay facedown in the dirt. They both had on several layers of clothing—long-sleeved shirts with dirty work pants—and tennis shoes, all secondhand quality at best. Sophia couldn’t see where the man had been shot; any blood was hidden beneath his body. It was the woman who gave away the manner of death. She lay on her back, staring up at the sky with a perfect hole in her forehead. That hole oozed a slim trickle of blood. The woman’s heart had stopped almost immediately….

They were young. Too young to die. Especially like this.

Sophia crouched next to them, checking each for a pulse. It was a pointless gesture. They were both dead; that was obvious. But she went through the motions, anyway, hoping…

Finding Debbie to be absolutely correct, she stood and studied their surroundings, searching for anything that struck her as odd or out of place. An object left behind. An object taken. Tire tracks. Except for the fact that this incident had happened much closer to town, the scene looked exactly like the two she’d visited during the previous month and a half. The killings had occurred on a barren patch of desert too rocky to reveal tire tracks or footprints. And from what she could see so far, the perpetrator had left nothing behind but the bodies.

“What do you think?” Debbie murmured over Sophia’s shoulder. The expectation in her voice suggested she believed Sophia could pull the killer’s name out of thin air.

With a sigh, Sophia took a pad and pen from her shirt pocket and guided Debbie away from the bodies. She wanted to talk to her and anyone else who might’ve seen or heard something. She also needed to enforce the perimeter she’d created and, as long as she stood close to the victims, the others would come closer, too. “Can you tell me what happened?” she asked.

“I heard a—a noise.”

A siren wailed in the distance. One of her two deputies, Grant—who’d been on duty last night—was on his way, bringing the yellow police tape he’d accidentally put in his car instead of hers the last time they’d been through this. “What kind of noise?”

“At first, I thought it was a wounded animal.” She paused. “I know there’ve been other murders like this. Everyone’s talking about them. But you just never imagine—” she shrugged helplessly and tears welled up as she gazed at the corpses “—you just never imagine it can happen right outside your door.”

Sophia laid a comforting hand on her arm. “It might be easier if you don’t look,” she said, and shifted positions to block Debbie’s line of vision. “Take a minute, if you need to. We can continue whenever you’re ready.”

Dashing a hand across her cheeks, Debbie struggled to control her emotions. “I heard a cry. It frightened me, so I got up and walked through my house. Everything seemed fine. I peeked out the window, but it was too dark to see, and I didn’t want to go outside. I told myself there wasn’t anything to worry about and started back to bed. But then I heard voices. They seemed to be arguing. One belonged to a woman.” She lowered her voice. “That made me think Earl and Marlene had had another fight.” She jerked her head to indicate a couple standing in their bathrobes staring, in a dazed fashion, at the lifeless bodies, but it wasn’t necessary for her to point out who the Nelsons were. Sophia knew them by name. She knew almost everyone who lived in the mini trailer park. Although her financial circumstances had been much better, she’d grown up less than a mile away.

“They haven’t been getting along so great since he lost his job,” she explained, after which her volume edged up to normal again. “Once I thought I knew what the problem was, I lost my fear and stuck my fool head out to see if I could get them to settle down. That’s when I heard two thumps, right in a row. A woman cried out in Spanish and I knew it wasn’t Marlene.”

“You couldn’t see anything?”

“Nothing. It was pitch-black out here. And I had the lights on inside, which didn’t help.”

Sophia wanted to groan in frustration. Why couldn’t they catch a break? “Can you remember what the woman said?”

“I don’t speak Spanish. You know that.”

“What did it sound like?”

“To me, it was gobbledygook.”

As long as Debbie had lived in Bordertown she hadn’t been able to pick up any Spanish? That should’ve surprised Sophia, but it didn’t. For the most part, there were clear lines of demarcation between the two nationalities, despite almost constant contact. “So then what?”

“I ducked back inside, called Earl and grabbed my shotgun. I keep one in the closet in case I need to scare off a mountain lion or a javelina or what have you. But by the time Earl rolled out of bed, and I found ammunition, whoever had killed these poor people was gone.”

“You didn’t see anyone in the area?”

“No.”

Damn it! “What about a car or truck?”

She motioned around her. “Just what you see here.”

“Did you hear a vehicle?”

She shook her head. “But I wasn’t listening carefully because I was so frantic to find my ammo.”

“Do you think whoever did this could’ve left on foot?”

“I figured they must have. So I jumped in my old truck and drove around for a bit, but I couldn’t see a soul. And I’m sort of glad,” she admitted, tears filling her eyes again. “I wouldn’t want to come face-to-face with the kind of man who could do this.”

Sophia was thinking they probably bumped into him on a variety of occasions. Bordertown had shrunk drastically from its former silver-mining days. Now it had a population of only three thousand. And, judging by the location of the other murders, which were all in the surrounding desert, she guessed the killer lived nearby.

“Why would anyone do this?” Debbie asked.

That was the one question Sophia found easy to answer. “Hate.”

“But who could hate enough to kill absolute strangers? I mean, yeah, maybe these people were breaking the law. I get tired of the situation with the illegals, too. We all do. But some of them are just plain…desperate. You can hardly fault them for wanting to be able to put food on the table!”

“This killer feels justified.” Sophia could sense it in the way he left the bodies. He didn’t rape or rob or beat them. He didn’t touch his victims at all. He exterminated them like vermin. And the fact that he didn’t bother to even throw some brush over their bodies told her he was proud of his actions.

“It must be someone new to the area,” Debbie guessed.

She couldn’t imagine a friend or acquaintance committing such a heinous act. But Sophia wasn’t so sure. It didn’t have to be a stranger. She’d witnessed enough racism to understand it could be anyone. Or maybe this wasn’t what it appeared to be. She had plenty of political enemies who wanted to discredit her—one man in particular. Creating a high-profile case like this, a case she couldn’t solve fast enough to defuse the ticking time bomb of public sentiment, would be one way to do it. There were plenty of other possible scenarios, too. Although she’d previously considered border patrol a federal issue and hadn’t gotten too deeply involved in it, she knew the ranchers and farmers in the area were angry about the damage caused by the droves of illegal aliens who crossed their land.

“I don’t think he’s new.” Something about the confidence with which this killer acted made Sophia believe he’d been around for a long time, that he was intimately familiar with the region and its politics, and that his hatred of illegal immigrants had recently been honed and sharpened. Which was why her thoughts again turned to the man who’d most like to see her fail. Leonard Taylor. Because of a situation with a Mexican woman, a UDA—or undocumented alien—Sophia had the job he felt should be his….

“You’re saying it’s someone from around here?” Debbie gasped.

“I’m saying it could be. Maybe the killer had a run-in with a UDA that went badly, or he was robbed by one, or his wife left him for a Mexican or cheated on him with one. He might even have lost his job to someone who wasn’t supposed to be in the country.” Or he didn’t become chief of police as he’d always hoped thanks to an illegal immigrant who claimed he’d raped her.

“Anything could be a trigger,” she added. Because of their random nature, hate crimes were some of the most difficult to solve. That meant she had to do the nearly impossible—before this killer could strike again. Lives depended on it. Her job could depend on it, too.

Douglas was larger. Why couldn’t all of this have happened fifteen miles to the east?

“I hope you’re wrong,” Debbie murmured.

“Thanks for your help. You think of anything else, give me a call.”

Determined to take a closer look at the ground on which they lay, Sophia returned to the bodies. Although the perpetrator had collected his shell casings when he’d killed before, she doubted he’d done it here. Now that she’d spoken to Debbie, she figured he wouldn’t have had the time. He’d shot these people knowing there was a trailer forty feet away with an occupant who’d just called out to him.

The fact that Debbie’s shout hadn’t saved their lives showed a distinct lack of fear and no respect for law enforcement. That was another reason she thought Leonard, or one of his supporters, might be involved. This killer definitely wasn’t worried about any threat she might pose. He was bold. And he was growing bolder by the day.

Suddenly, she saw it. The glint of metal in the dirt.

Cautioning everyone not to move, she jogged back to her squad car and got the small forensics kit she kept in her trunk. Then she used a pair of metal tongs to gently lift a spent shell casing from the small rocks that’d previously concealed it.

“Handgun,” Earl volunteered.

Sophia hadn’t realized he’d stepped up behind her. She shaded her eyes. “Looks like it.” It was the right size for a semiautomatic. And there was a distinctive bulge in the web area forward of the extractor groove. She was no ballistics expert, but she knew any deformity might tie it to a specific gun.

After dropping it in a small paper sack, she managed to find two other casings that had fallen into some thorny mesquite. She’d expected a total of two, but this proved there were three shots. All the casings had the same defect; they’d come from the same gun.

She was closing and marking the bag when Officer Grant Noyes, a twenty-three-year-old fresh out of the academy in Phoenix, arrived with the crime-scene tape. He blanched when he saw the bodies and turned a bit green. He had a weak stomach. But he had to learn to deal with the pressures of the job. She needed his help.

“Set up a perimeter,” she said.

Another car came toward her, this one a black sedan. The Cochise County medical examiner. Apparently, Dr. Vonnegut had decided to show up without making her wait too long.

While the M.E. parked and climbed out of his car, Sophia got her measuring tape, her video camera and her digital camera. She needed to take photographs and a video of the bodies before anyone touched them. She needed to take photographs and a video of the whole area. And she needed to include a scale so prosecutors could recreate the scene, if necessary. She didn’t have the forensics team a larger city might have. She had her two deputies, and until the FBI officially responded to her request for help, she had the assistance of a detective from the Cochise County sheriff’s substation in Douglas. Dinah Lindstrom lived in Sierra Vista five miles away, but she’d been raised in Bordertown. Sophia hadn’t yet notified her that there’d been another killing. The intentional oversight wouldn’t improve their relationship, which was strained at best. But Sophia worked for city council, not the sheriff’s office. And considering the fact that Dinah Lindstrom had been one of Leonard Taylor’s biggest advocates, she couldn’t be sure the detective was really on her side, even now.

“What’ve we got?” Vonnegut, clearly unhappy, frowned as he trudged toward her. Fortunately, unlike Lindstrom, he didn’t seem to have any particular affinity for Leonard, or none that she knew of, anyway. It wasn’t as if she and Vonnegut had ever been enemies. But no matter how many times she dealt with him, they never became friends, either. He seemed a little too proud to be accessible. At the very least he was impersonal.

“Two vics, both dead,” she replied.

“Same killer as last time?”

“Same M.O. UDAs shot in the desert and left where they fell.”

“What’s with the guy who’s doing this?” he grumbled when he was close enough that he couldn’t be overheard by the others.

“Seems to me he’s dissatisfied with the immigration problem.”

“But if he gets caught, he’ll go to prison. What’s the point? For every one he shoots, there are thousands who’ll cross the border right after. Patrols pick up six hundred a day. Even conservative estimates suggest they miss twice that many.”

“Hence, his frustration.” Frustration that could easily cause Taylor’s anger at what his victim had cost him to boil over. Considering that anger, she’d often feared he might try to hurt her. But if anyone else wondered about Leonard’s culpability, she hadn’t heard, and she hadn’t mentioned it herself. First, she needed proof. Otherwise, she’d be criticized for having some sort of vendetta against him. His friends had already accused her of making up the rape she’d reported on behalf of the illegal alien who would never have come forward without her—all to “steal his job.”

After telling Grant to keep the bystanders out of the way, she walked Vonnegut over to the bodies.

“Maybe it’s not an American who’s doing this,” he said as he knelt next to the male. “Maybe it’s a Mexican drug lord settling old debts with poor mules or runners who tried to sell the dope they carried and keep the money.”

“That’s highly unlikely.”

“It’s possible.”

She wasn’t optimistic about his theory. Except for the fact that the couple had been killed execution style, the murders didn’t suggest it. As far as she could tell, this wasn’t Mexico’s problem. It was their problem. “There’s no evidence to support it. The victims all crossed the border from Mexico, but that’s about the only thing they have in common. Most of the people we’ve identified came from different regions and had no contact with organized crime. All the indications are that they didn’t previously know one another, either.”

“I’m still hoping it’s a drug lord,” he muttered. “Because if this is a vigilante, it’s going to get ugly around here.”

Sophia grimaced. “Take a look. It’s already ugly.”

“Yeah, well, unless you can stop this guy, it’ll get worse.”

“Thanks for stating the obvious.”

He rolled the male onto his back. The victim had a goatee and the tattoo of a cross on his neck. A bloodstain indicated he’d been shot in the chest, but he hadn’t bled much more than the female.

“Son of a bitch knows how to make quick work of it.”

Vonnegut was talking about the killer, of course. Sophia had noticed that, too, but she wasn’t impressed. “A bullet at point-blank range is pretty effective.”

Crouching beside him, she began to search the victim’s pockets. Sometimes UDAs carried voter registration cards. These cards seemed to hold more significance to Mexicans than the same thing did to Americans. Maybe because they included a photo, in addition to the standard name and address.

Unfortunately, this guy didn’t have any ID. Sophia found five hundred pesos—roughly the equivalent of fifty bucks—tucked into his right sock, as well as a piece of paper with a phone number that had a Tucson area code.

Suddenly light-headed, she swatted at the flies buzzing around the bodies and rocked back to fill her lungs with air that wasn’t pregnant with the smell of stale sweat and unwashed clothing. She hadn’t searched the woman yet, but she needed a moment to recover or she was going to be sick. Judging by the nausea roiling in her stomach, she was as pale as Grant had been the first time he saw one of the bodies.

“Why do you live here?” she asked Dr. Vonnegut while watching Grant finish with the yellow tape.

He was busy getting a body temperature. “What’d you say?”

“Why do you live near the border if you hate Mexicans?”

“I don’t hate Mexicans. I just want them to stay in their own country. Besides, my wife is from around here. And I like to be able to golf year-round.”

“Makes sense.”

“What about you?”

Breathe. Mind over matter. Do not embarrass yourself. These are not dead humans. These are…objects.

Squeezing her eyes closed, she turned her face up to the sun. “I’ve got family here, too,” she said, but she wasn’t talking about her mother and stepfather or her older brother. He didn’t live there anymore, anyway. She was thinking about Starkey. These days, she hated the Hells Angels and everything they stood for, hated that she’d ever had anything to do with them. She and Starkey had gotten together her junior year in high school, when her stepfather had moved in. Since her mother wouldn’t believe her complaints, and her older brother was away at college, Starkey had provided a deterrent to her stepfather’s advances. No one dared mess with her once Starkey came into her life. They knew there’d be hell to pay. She’d enjoyed the protection, as well as rolling on his Harley and wearing all that leather. But the longer she’d stayed with him, the more certain she was that she didn’t want to be an “old lady,” as the Hells Angels referred to their women. Determined to become a full patch member, Starkey was getting more and more committed to the club, which was so involved in drug and gun trafficking that she faced a different kind of risk from the one posed by her stepfather.

So she’d broken free, moved out on her own and migrated to the opposite extreme—law enforcement. After feeling so vulnerable, both at home and with Starkey’s pals as she became more aware of what they were really like, being able to protect herself had meant everything to her. She loved being a cop. But there was one person from the Starkey era she couldn’t let go of, and that was Starkey’s son, Rafe. She didn’t care that he wasn’t technically hers; she’d taken care of him those three years she’d been with Starkey—especially the two years she’d lived with him—and she wouldn’t walk out on the boy. His real mother was a crackhead who’d sell her soul for another bump. In many ways, Sophia was all Rafe had.

And she loved him. It came down to that.

“Someday I’m going to move,” she added, and forced herself to search the dead woman. There was nothing in her pockets except some nuts and a folded piece of paper with several words written in Spanish.

Sophia expected it to be a paper prayer. A lot of illegal immigrants carried them. But it wasn’t. It was a love note.

Although Sophia wasn’t fluent in Spanish, she could read and understand most of what she heard. She’d taken two years of Spanish classes in high school and she’d come into contact with it almost constantly since, via the ranch hands who frequented her stepfather’s feed store and the Mexicans she apprehended. Fortunately, that was enough to be able to decipher the few sentences she saw written there.

“You’re beautiful. Will you marry me? I love you. José.”

This woman had left behind everything she owned except this note? That meant it had to be important to her. She was wearing a thin gold band. It wasn’t very expensive, but it was a wedding ring all the same. Obviously, she’d said yes to that proposal.

Tears welled up in Sophia’s eyes. Trying to hide her reaction, she ducked her head, but Dr. Vonnegut immediately caught on that something was wrong.

“Hey, you okay?”

She averted her face. “Fine. Just doing my job. Why?”

“You’re acting strange.”

Was it so strange to experience grief for these people? To feel that their deaths mattered?

She swallowed in spite of the lump clogging her throat. “I think the guy’s name was José.”

“José what?”

“That’s what I have to find out. And this—” she gazed at a face that, in life, would’ve been as pretty as the note suggested “—this was his wife.”

“Dumb wetbacks,” he mumbled.

Sophia whirled on him before she could stop herself. “Shut up!” she shouted. “Just…shut up!”

Anger quickly replaced his initial shock. “You’re not cut out for this job. I knew it when they hired you,” he said. Then he got up, removed his plastic gloves and stomped away, leaving the bodies to the boys from the morgue, who put bags around the victims’ hands, in case they could recover some sort of trace evidence, and began wrapping their corpses in clean white sheets.

Ignoring the stares of the people who’d been looking on, Sophia pinched the bridge of her nose and struggled to compose herself. She had to be careful. There were enough sexist jerks in Bordertown who thought her job should’ve gone to a man—even though the only viable candidate was a criminal himself.

Her cell phone rang. As she pulled it from her pocket, she hoped it might be Rafe. He’d give her something good to hang on to, help her get through this. But it was too early for him to be up. And as soon as she saw the incoming number, she knew a bad morning was about to get worse: It was Wayne Schilling, the mayor.

3

The voice on the other end of the phone stopped Roderick Guerrero in his tracks. Because he hadn’t recognized the number, he’d been curious enough to answer. But from the moment he’d heard the word hello, he’d known it was his father, although they hadn’t spoken in years—ever since he’d graduated from BUD/S training and received his Naval Special Warfare SEAL classification. He still couldn’t say how Bruce Dunlap had found out he was graduating, or the time and date of the ceremony. Roderick sure as shit hadn’t told him. But someone had. After all the years Dunlap had chosen to ignore him—even lied about their relationship—he’d flown to California to attend and looked on; acting as proud as any other parent. The only difference was that his wife sat at his side, her lips pressed tight with disapproval. Edna was the kind of woman who walked through town looking down her nose at everybody. Roderick disliked her even more than he disliked his father.

He didn’t know what to say and had no desire to say anything, so he hung up. He felt no obligation to Bruce. It wouldn’t have mattered if Bruce had been calling to offer him a million-dollar inheritance. Roderick didn’t want his father’s money, his advice, his legacy or his love. His love least of all. He didn’t even use his father’s name. Legally, he wasn’t a Dunlap, anyway. He was a bastard and as such had been an embarrassment to his wealthy white father all the time he was growing up. As soon as he was old enough to contest his mother’s wishes, he’d taken her name instead. She hadn’t been happy about that. He was related to the wealthiest man in town and she wanted everyone to know it. It gave her a sense of pride, a connection to something more through him.

Or maybe she enjoyed it for other reasons. Maybe she got some pleasure from knowing her son’s very existence grated on Edna. But Roderick wanted to distance himself from the Dunlaps and all they represented as much as they wanted to distance themselves from him. He was satisfied with his mother’s name. Guerrero meant warrior. That suited him better. He’d been fighting since the day he was born.

Milton Berger stuck his head out of the conference room a few feet down the hall. “What are you doing?”

Roderick had almost forgotten that his boss was waiting to be debriefed on his latest assignment.

“Nothing.” He started to slide his cell phone into the pocket of his khaki shorts when it rang again.

“Can you shut that off and get your ass in here? I don’t have all day!” Milt snapped. As sole owner of Department 6, Milt couldn’t seem to focus on any one thing longer than five minutes. He was too busy juggling. Always in a meeting or on a call, he wasn’t an average workaholic; he was like a workaholic on speed. Roderick was beginning to think the fortysomething-year-old never went home at night.

But he didn’t care what Milt did in his off-hours. Milt wasn’t the kind of guy Roderick liked spending time with. Milt had six operatives, and every single one of them thought he was a bona fide asshole. What did that say about a guy?

As his phone continued to jingle, Roderick’s thumb hovered over the red phone symbol that would send the call to voice mail. It was his father again. Why the hell was the old man making an effort now? At thirty, Roderick was no longer a dirt-poor Mexican boy with no prospects and no family beyond a weary mother who’d come into the country illegally when she was barely twenty and cut lettuce in the fields of the selfish jerk who’d impregnated her. Whatever Bruce wanted, it was too late.

But Milt’s impatience grated on Roderick almost as much as his father’s untimely call, so he answered out of spite. “How did you get my number?”

“What the hell!” Milt complained.

Roderick ignored him.

“I’ve been keeping tabs on you.”

The question that immediately came to Rod’s tongue was why, but he knew his father’s answer wouldn’t make sense to him, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it anyway, so he went with “How?”

“Jorge mentions you from time to time.”

Jorge was Bruce’s overseer. He was also the closest thing Rod had to a grandfather and the only person in Bordertown Rod stayed in contact with. Jorge loved hearing about Rod’s undercover exploits, so Rod humored him by checking in every few months and catching up. The old man had never told him that Bruce had expressed an interest. Maybe he hadn’t; maybe Jorge was attempting to engineer some sort of reunion. It’d be like him. He’d always had a soft heart. Jorge was part of the reason Rod’s mother had never left the ranch despite her difficulties. She knew he couldn’t go anywhere else and make the money he made working for Bruce. And she, no doubt, hoped Bruce would eventually “come to his senses” and accept Rod. Mostly, she’d stayed to see her son eventually have more and be more than she could hope to give if she left. “Since when did the two of you become friends?”

“Time has a way of changing things, Rod.”

“And some things will never change. So are you going to tell me what you want?”

“To hear me out. That’s all I ask.”

Hoping his father was about to lose the ranch and needed a loan or something, Roderick decided to indulge him. To a point. “You’ve got three minutes. Make it fast.”

“I’d like you to come to Bordertown.”

This made Roderick laugh. “You’re joking, right? I’d sooner go to hell.”

“Rod, I think you might be able to help with a situation down here. If half of what Jorge tells me is true, I know you can.”

The gravity of “a situation” should’ve piqued his interest. It didn’t. “I have no intention of helping you with anything. Ask one of your lazy-ass white sons.”

Dropping several F-bombs and claiming Rod’s “ass was grass,” Milt stormed out of the conference room, marched to his office and slammed the door. But Rod wasn’t worried about his boss’s reaction. It wasn’t as if he’d be fired. He’d just busted a large child-porn ring in L.A., which was a major coup. Local law enforcement hadn’t been able to accomplish that in more than a year, and he’d done it inside of three months. His stock at Department 6 had never been higher.

“This isn’t for me,” Bruce said. “This is for her, okay?”

Roderick gripped the phone tighter. “Who’s her?”

“Your mother.”

Now his father had his full attention. “My mother is dead. Partly because she wore herself out before she could reach forty. Partly because you ripped her heart out and stomped on it every chance you could get. You’re the reason she’s dead. You and Edna.” He pronounced Bruce’s wife’s name with the disdain he believed it deserved.

“I’m not the one who encouraged your mother to come to America. That was her decision. And I never promised her more than I gave her. I provided work, that’s all. It was as good a job as she could get anywhere.”

“You gave her a baby, that’s what you gave her,” Roderick growled. “A baby she struggled to take care of, along with her little brother.” That brother had returned to Mexico not long before Carolina’s death. Roderick had lost touch with him, but he thought about Arturo often. From time to time, he considered looking him up. He would have done it, except he was afraid Arturo was dead from some drug deal gone awry. He’d caused a lot of trouble before he left. Chances were that if he’d survived, he wasn’t on the right side of the law. He was one of those restless spirits who could never find peace. At least, that was what his mother had always said.

“I gave her some money…now and then,” his father said.

Rod was surprised he didn’t mention how hard he’d tried to persuade her to get an abortion. Or the money he’d offered her in those early years to leave the ranch, leave Bordertown. “So…what? You paid her medical expenses and gave her a few bucks to help feed the kid you fathered? That means you deserve a medal?”

“No, no, you’re right. I—I didn’t do enough. I’m sorry about that.”

“Life’s a bitch, Mr. Dunlap. Babies don’t go away just because you regret making them.” Especially if the mother refused to get an abortion and refused to give up hope that her child would someday be accepted.

“I don’t regret you. I regret how selfishly I acted. I was…scared. I didn’t want what I’d done to cost me my wife and family.”

Roderick rolled his eyes. “Or your inheritance.”

“My father wouldn’t have been sympathetic. Times were different back then. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but it’s true.”

Bruce, Sr., had never once acknowledged Rod, even when his mother made it a point to cross his path and say, “That’s your grandpa.” She was so proud of her son she couldn’t understand why the male Dunlaps, at least, couldn’t see things her way. It was the male Dunlaps who, in her mind, held the power and controlled the money.

“I wish I could go back and do things differently,” his father said. “But it’s too late for that. I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

Roderick glanced at his watch. “Then why are you calling?”

Bruce sighed. “Some racist son of bitch is killing illegal immigrants as they come over the border. Shooting them at point-blank range and leaving their bodies to rot.”

“The only racist son of a bitch I know is you. Besides your father. But he’s not around anymore.”

There was a moment of silence. One that told Rod he’d hit his target. Then his father said, “I deserve that. So would he, if he was alive. But this isn’t about me. Or him. I think this case is more than the local police can handle. They don’t have the funding, the manpower or the experience to deal with it. I’m afraid a lot of people will wind up dead if we don’t get some help.”

Noise, coming from the reception area, indicated the other operatives were returning from lunch, so Rod stepped into the conference room Milt had just vacated and shut the door. He was acting tough, but speaking to his father shook him, made him feel like a little boy again. A hurt little boy. And the hurt resurrected the anger he’d shoved down deep inside. News of the killings brought that anger back, too. He kept imagining women like his mother creeping across the border with the hope of being able to make enough to feed themselves and their families, and being murdered by some vigilante who felt he had the right to take the law into his own hands. It was so easy to feel self-righteous and superior when you had a comfortable home, a safe place to live and a full stomach. “What, exactly, do you expect me to do?”

“According to Jorge, you’ve got the skills to help. If you want to.”

“I’ll have to thank Jorge next time we talk.”

His father ignored the sarcasm. “You won’t believe this, but I’m proud of you.”

“Like you were proud of me when I was cutting lettuce in your fields and you’d come by and completely ignore me?”

Bruce didn’t respond to the jab, but the tenor of his voice changed, grew softer. “You could make a difference to what’s happening here. I know it.”

“Since when did you start caring about Mexicans?”

“I’ve been a member of this community all my life. Do you think I want to see senseless hate crimes tear it apart? I’m not a monster, Rod. I may not be happy about droves of people entering this country illegally, but that doesn’t mean I want to see them murdered.”

“Yeah, where would you be if you had to pay for white labor?”

“I’m good to my workers.”

It was true that he’d been more generous than some farmers. That was another reason his mother had stayed. She interpreted this generosity to mean more than it really did. But Rod didn’t want to give him even that much. Besides, what was happening in Bordertown wasn’t Rod’s problem. He’d finally escaped. No way was he willing to let this draw him back. “I live in California now, Mr. Dunlap. Since my mother died, there’s nothing left for me in Arizona.” Except Jorge. But speaking to him on the phone and sending the occasional package was enough.

“I’ll pay you,” Bruce offered.

“Absolutely not.” He rubbed his temple to relieve the beginnings of a headache. “I don’t want your money.”

“You took it readily enough when your mother died!”

Clenching his jaw, Roderick spoke through gritted teeth. “Are you kidding me? I was sixteen years old and had just lost the only person I had in the world. I couldn’t have paid for a decent burial without that money, and you know it.” That was the only reason he’d taken it. He would never have accepted it if it hadn’t been for her. “Besides, I paid you back. I made a payment every month afterward, even if it meant I went hungry.” He’d had a hard time surviving the next two years. He’d mostly drifted, taken odd jobs as a dishwasher or a field hand or a painter. He’d probably still be rambling around without tether or anchor if not for a certain navy recruiter who’d worked down the street from an office he’d been painting. After badgering him for weeks, Linus Coleman had talked him into getting his G.E.D. and joining the navy. Rod had signed on the dotted line mostly because he’d been promised a free college education. But his commitment to the armed forces had quickly evolved into much more than that. In the navy, he’d found a home, friends who were more like brothers, purpose in what he did, some self-esteem. But it hadn’t been an easy road.

“I never cashed those checks, Rod,” his father said. “That’s your problem. They were money orders. It’s not as if you were doing me any favors by not cashing them.”

“I thought there might come a time when you’d actually include a return address on the envelope so I could send them back. I brought them with me to your BUD/S graduation, but…you didn’t give me the chance to pull you aside long enough to speak privately. I never begrudged you a cent of that money.”

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

“I guess…I guess I was trying to point out that there’ve been times when I’ve…tried to help.”

“If that’s ‘trying to help,’ you’re even more pathetic than I thought,” he said, and disconnected as Rachel Ferrentino, a fellow operative and good friend, came into the room.

“Hey,” she said. “What’s up?”

She looked concerned, so he plastered his usual easygoing smile on his face. “Nothing. Why?”

“Milt’s throwing a fit. Says you have no respect for his time.”

“It’s not just his time. I have no respect for him.”

He expected her to laugh, but she refused to let him throw her off track. She’d figured out that something significant had occurred.

“That was important, huh?” She eyed his phone.

Trying once again to bury the memories conjured up by his father’s call—and the pain associated with them—he drew a deep breath. “Not really.”

Her eyebrows knotted with skepticism. “You’re full of crap. You know that?”

“That’s what I’ve been told,” he replied, and sauntered past her, chucking her on the chin as if his heart wasn’t racing like a rabbit’s.

The air-conditioning at the station was working double time to counter the heat of another one hundred and ten degree day, but Sophia was far from comfortable. She knew Detective Lindstrom would be showing up any minute. Lindstrom had called while she was at the crime scene, almost as soon as she’d hung up with the mayor, which meant she’d had two agonizing conversations in a row. Lindstrom had heard about the shooting via her police radio and was furious that Sophia hadn’t notified her. Sophia had used the excuse that she couldn’t be sure this shooting was related to the others, not until she’d had a look, but that had—understandably—done little to placate Lindstrom. By the time she arrived at the scene, there’d been nothing left except the tape that cordoned off the area and a spot of blood from the male victim’s body. Along with the limited artifacts found in the victims’ clothing, Sophia had taken the spent shell casings, and the morgue had taken the bodies. Because they were dealing with homicide victims, there’d be an autopsy, but Sophia didn’t expect it to reveal anything she didn’t already know, at least about the manner of death.

Ironing out the sheet of paper with the phone number she’d found on “José,” she picked up her phone. She needed to identify the victims so she could call the Mexican consulate and have them notify the families of the deceased. With luck, the person at this number would be able to help.

Six rings. Then a voice speaking English with a strong Mexican accent told her to leave a message.

She was about to do so, but hung up when Lindstrom slammed her way into the reception area. Sophia could hear the detective’s shrill voice, demanding Grant get Chief St. Claire immediately.

Grateful that Christina, who did the clerical work and disliked Lindstrom as much as she did, was away on vacation, Sophia got up and opened her door. “Detective Lindstrom? Would you like to step into my office?” She almost smiled at Grant’s obvious relief but the temptation disappeared the minute Lindstrom stalked past the three desks in the front lobby. Brown eyes sparking with indignation, she leaned forward as she charged ahead, reminding Sophia of a dog straining at a leash.

“What happened this morning is completely unacceptable,” she said. “Completely unacceptable.”

“So you’ve said.” Sophia told Grant to go home. It was time for him to get some rest. Then she waved Lindstrom in and motioned to a chair. “Would you like to sit down?”

“No. I still can’t believe you’d go out there without calling me. We’re supposed to be working this case together, Chief St. Claire. How can we do that if you cut me out?”

Maybe Sophia wouldn’t have tried to cut her out if she could trust her. But Lindstrom had been childhood friends with Leonard Taylor’s sister, and she’d made it clear that she didn’t think Leonard was guilty of wrongdoing. Besides that, the woman was a high-strung pain in the butt. With her red hair slicked back into an unforgiving ponytail, she even looked uptight.

“You’re a bit too intense, you know that?” She closed the door. “Any chance you could calm down?”

Lindstrom’s eyes widened despite the pull of that ponytail and her mouth opened and closed several times. “Calm down? How do you expect me to react to what you did?”

Pretty much the way she was reacting. But Sophia’s first obligation was to bring a killer to justice, and she had to protect herself and her job at the same time. As much as she wanted to believe these murders weren’t politically motivated, the possibility remained. From what she knew about Leonard and those who’d rallied around him, she wouldn’t put it past Lindstrom to “miss” some clue or sit on a piece of evidence long enough to make sure she was publicly shamed, maybe even fired, before the case was solved.

“Look, we have a job to do, so why don’t we get to it?” Sophia said.

“And forget about this morning?”

“Why not? It wasn’t that big a deal.”

“You know it was,” she said. “But you won’t have control much longer.”

Sophia straightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The FBI is putting together a task force. They won’t tolerate anyone who plays the maverick.”

Contrary to what Lindstrom seemed to believe, Sophia welcomed the help. In fact, she’d requested it. “You think I don’t know they’re planning to get involved? I just wish they’d hurry. Because of those shake-ups in the Sierra Vista Resident Agency, they haven’t been able to get on it as quickly as I’d hoped.”

“You want their help but not mine?”

“They’re not good friends with my enemies.”

“You’re the only one who can’t leave the past where it belongs. And I’m tired of you trying to stonewall me. Sheriff Cooper will hear about this.”

“Fine. Call him right now if that’s what it’ll take to get you to focus on something else.” Sophia wasn’t too worried. She knew Cooper liked her. They’d already discussed her concerns about Dinah. He’d explained that he didn’t have anyone else he could assign right now and asked her to have patience and do the best she could. He’d also said that he, too, had contacted the FBI.

She and the detective had a stare-down. Finally Lindstrom huffed, set her bag on the floor and sank into the worn seat opposite Sophia’s desk. “What did you find this morning?”

Sophia took the brown sack containing the shell casings from her desk and handed it over.

Lindstrom opened the top and gazed down at them. “What’s with the bulge?”

“I don’t know, but a defect like that would be handy if we ever came up with the murder weapon.”

“Looks like a .45 of some sort.” There was still a sulky quality to her voice.

“I’m hoping a ballistics expert can tell us the make of the gun.”

“Unlikely. There might be fingerprints, though. Have you checked?”

“I’m leaving that for the crime lab.”

Lindstrom returned the sack with the shell casings. “Anything else?”

“Five hundred pesos. A love note. And a number.” Sophia slid the paper she’d just used to make that call across her desk so Lindstrom could see it.

“That’s not a lot to carry across the border.”

“They generally don’t have much, do they?”

Lindstrom frowned as she considered what she’d been told. “He should’ve had a lot more money on him, close to sixteen hundred dollars. People who cross the border don’t pay their guides until they’re safely across, and it’s not cheap.”

“This couple must’ve had friends or family waiting for them, someone who’d pay when they arrived.”

“You don’t think they were robbed?”

“No.”

“Where was the money?”

“In the male victim’s right sock.”

“He could’ve been robbed,” she insisted. “He might have started out with more. But considering the smell of these people after walking so long in the hot sun, I wouldn’t want fifty bucks badly enough to fish it out of his sock, either.”

“He wasn’t robbed. I’d bet my life on it.”

“Fine.” Leaving the note on the desk, she leaned back. “Who’s at the other end of the line when you call that number?”

“No one yet. I got voice mail. A man, someone with a strong Mexican accent says, ‘Leave a message.’ I didn’t.”

“Any idea what part of Mexico these people came from?”

“No, but I’m guessing they crossed via Naco. It’s the closest port of entry.”

“You could be wrong about that. With the current security measures, more and more coyotes are taking their patrons farther west, near Sasabe.”

Sophia shook her head. “That’s a forty-five-mile walk and can take several days. These people weren’t on their feet that long.”

“How do you know?”

“They weren’t totally dehydrated.”

Lindstrom’s voice turned sharp again as she arched her eyebrows. “They’ve done the autopsies already?”

Once again wishing the FBI would hurry with their promised task force, Sophia grappled for patience. “Dehydration causes your blood to…boil, for lack of a better word. When people who are dehydrated die, even if they actually die of other causes, blood will often ooze from the orifices of the face. There was none of that with these two. They didn’t have any water with them, so they’d been walking long enough to run out of whatever amount they’d been carrying—and I’m assuming they were carrying some because they’d be crazy not to. But they hadn’t been out for days. They weren’t severely dehydrated. They probably came through Naco hoping to reach High way 90 where someone could pick them up, but somehow got off course.”

“More guessing.”

“Yes.”

“So…are you going to contact the Mexican consulate? Or should I?”

“Go ahead.” Sophia was pretty safe letting Lindstrom handle that part. It required a diplomat more than it required a cop. She didn’t see Lindstrom as diplomatic, but if it saved her from being the bearer of bad news—why not? “Tell them I think the first name of the male victim is José and the woman was his wife.” She lifted a hand, explaining before Lindstrom could say anything. “José signed the love note, and the woman was wearing a ring.”

Sophia held the note up for her perusal. Lindstrom studied it, gave a curt nod to signify that she was through, and Sophia put it back on the desk.

“Meanwhile, you’re going to do what?” Lindstrom asked.

“I’m going to use a reverse directory to see if I can get a name to go with this number. If I can track down the owner, maybe he can tell us more about our victims. I’m also sending the casings to the state crime lab, as I mentioned. Then I’m leaving for Naco.”

The last comment distracted Lindstrom, as Sophia knew it would. “Not on the Mexican side.”

“Of course on the Mexican side. Isn’t that where the coyotes are? I don’t know very many people who are trying to sneak across the border into Mexico.”

Lindstrom leaped out of her chair. “But you’re not supposed to leave the country!”

“We have to take a few risks if we want to figure out who killed these people.”

“You think it was a coyote?”

“Not necessarily.” Sophia thought it was Leonard shooting these Mexicans, that he was completely cracking up. Considering the timing and the fact that all the killings fell within her jurisdiction, she didn’t feel it could be anyone else. He was her only enemy, and he had a very good reason to hate UDAs. But logic suggested these murders could also be perpetrated by a renegade border patrol agent who’d grown a little too sick of his job. If that was the case, the UDAs who tried to cross but were caught, and people who worked in the smuggling industry, might be able to tell her more than anyone on the American side. Maybe they’d encountered an agent who was acting peculiar or who was particularly aggressive.

It was a long shot but, at the moment, long shots were all she had. “In any case, a new perspective can change everything.”

“You won’t have any perspective if you get yourself killed. My husband works for the DEA, Chief St. Claire. Trust me. It’s dangerous down there these days. He tells me that all the time. You don’t want to go to Mexico.”

Was Lindstrom really concerned for her safety? Or was she afraid Sophia would solve the case and salvage her job? “Like I said, we have to talk to people on both sides. I need to figure out exactly where our victims came from and how they crossed, meet the people they met while there’s still a chance they’ll be remembered.”

“You could get some, if not all, of that information from the person who has that number.”

“Maybe, maybe not. At this point, I don’t even know if I’ll be able to reach him.” She picked up the phone. “Hang on.” She tried the number; again, there was no answer. But this time she left a message. Then she accessed a reverse directory via her computer to see if she could come up with a name.

“It goes to a prepaid cellular phone,” she said. Which told her nothing. It wasn’t even anything she could trace.

“Maybe he’ll call back.”

“Maybe he will. But I’m not going to sit around and wait.”

“You can’t go into Mexico,” Lindstrom insisted. “What about the other victims? Surely there’s more work to be done there.”

The other victims didn’t offer the same opportunity. By the time they’d been found, their bodies were severely decomposed, too decomposed for a photograph to help with identification or anything else. Documents recovered from the bodies had identified some, relatives who’d contacted a foreign ministry field office in Mexico had identified others, but she still didn’t have information on three of them. And time was running out. Mayor Schilling had said so just this morning. He’d hinted that he was under a lot of pressure, that he didn’t know how long he could keep the city council and Bordertown’s most powerful citizens behind her. But he’d been hoping to replace her with someone “proven” from the beginning, even before they were dealing with a serial killer. To him, she’d always been a stopgap because of her age and now he was convincing others.

He didn’t spell out exactly how much time she had left, but she knew it wasn’t much. Soon she’d be fired. And then it wouldn’t matter that she’d ousted an officer who was as bad as the criminals he went after and had become the youngest chief of police in the state. She’d be publicly shamed and out of a job, single-handedly setting back the cause of women in police work here, in southern Arizona, by a decade or more.

“The Mexican consulate already posted on SIRLI whatever we could supply as far as physical descriptions and came up with nothing,” she said. SIRLI was the Spanish acronym for a computer system that allowed the Mexican consulate to upload information that could be viewed by staff at the Mexican foreign ministry offices—not only in Mexico but throughout the world. “Unless someone comes forward to say they’re missing a brother, a father, a friend, we have little hope of determining the identity of those earlier victims.”

“But we have the shell casings this time. That should provide at least some answers.”

“We also have a fresh kill. If we can retrace this young couple’s steps, we might finally be able to gain some traction in this case.”

“Maybe you have a point.” Grudgingly, she sank back into her seat. “But there’s no way my husband will let me go with you.”

Wouldn’t you know it? The one time Sophia wouldn’t have minded Lindstrom’s company—some company, anyway. “Then I’ll go alone.”

4

“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.

5

It wasn’t a cheap system. What with all his money going to support his wife and kids—two households now—Leonard Taylor had had to sell his riding lawn mower and all his saws and power tools. That was the only way he could get enough to purchase the listening devices he’d found on the Internet. He’d spent nearly two thousand dollars at that spy site. But he was extremely happy with the quality of what he’d been sent. The UHF transmitter camouflaged as an outlet adapter looked just like the real thing. No way would Sophia or anyone else be able to tell it from any other adapter. And the two pens looked every bit as genuine. Even better, the receiver he’d bought, together with the transmitters, wasn’t very big. He’d easily be able to carry it in his pocket or his truck, where he could hide it under the seat if he had to. By the time he finished placing the transmitters, he’d be able to pick up anything Sophia did or said, as long as he was within range, and she’d never have a clue.

He’d never dreamed he’d have such a golden opportunity to plant them. Detective Lindstrom had called him on her way home from work to complain about Sophia and to tell him she wished she could be working with him instead, and she’d mentioned that Sophia was going to Mexico tonight. The second those words were out of her mouth, he’d known that it was time.

Under the guise of saying hello to Officer Lawrence, who was dating a distant cousin of his, he’d stopped by the station first. He’d had to sit around shooting the bull with Grant for more than an hour before Grant finally excused himself to go to the restroom. Then he’d stepped into Sophia’s office and set the pen on a ledge under her desk. Even if she found it, that pen would look as if it had somehow fallen out of one of her drawers.

Bugging her office had taken all of five or ten seconds. He was back in his seat before Grant could flush the toilet. When Grant returned, Leonard casually said he had to be at work early in the morning and should be getting home.

From there, he’d driven down Sophia’s street to make sure her neighbors were in bed, parked a good distance away and walked to her house. He’d been prepared to break in; he’d brought the tools. But that hadn’t been necessary. He’d found her spare key under a decorative turtle in her front planter. Maybe, because she carried a gun, a baton and a Taser, she wasn’t as worried about safety as another woman might be. Or, more likely, she left that spare key where it was for Rafe’s benefit. She loved Starkey’s boy. He knew that from how much she’d talked about him when they’d worked together.

Now he just needed to figure out where to place the pretend plug adapter. He wanted it somewhere central. That would increase his chances of picking up most of her conversations. So, tempted as he was by the bedroom—simply because that seemed like even more of an invasion of privacy, which she deserved—he avoided it. The transmitter should go in the living room, he decided. The living room was between the kitchen and the bedroom, plus the screened-in porch at the back. He’d be able to listen in on more conversations there than anywhere else.

Turning in a circle on her living room rug, he searched for the outlet he wanted and spotted one behind a table that held nothing but framed photographs. If he had his bet, this outlet never got used. She’d probably forgotten it was even there.

“Perfect,” he murmured once he’d had a chance to test the device using his transmitter. “And now for the car.”

Striding into the kitchen, he checked the keys hanging on hooks near the cupboards, identified the set that went with the cruiser sitting out front and walked outside to unlock it and put the pen under the dash. This was the trickiest part, since he could be spotted by any neighbor who happened to get up for a drink of water, so he made quick work of it. Then he locked up and headed back down the street.

He was whistling by the time he reached his vehicle. Maybe it’d taken a while to collect the money he needed, and it had taken even longer to catch Sophia on a night when she was out of town…

But his patience had been well rewarded.

It was after midnight and the man who’d walked away with her photographs of José and his wife hadn’t returned. Sophia wasn’t sure how long she should wait. Had he given up and gone home? Was she sitting here, wasting time? If he hadn’t been able to get any information, there was no guarantee he’d come back to tell her….

The cantina was beginning to empty, but the table at the front was still occupied. The man who’d called her a puta and one of his friends had followed her into the bar and seated themselves close to the door. They’d stayed there ever since, brooding, drinking and glaring at her. Sophia knew they were trying to intimidate her. What she didn’t know was whether they’d act on the not-so-subtle threat in their eyes.

Feeling the pressure of her Glock against her calf, she glanced at her watch and decided to wait another fifteen minutes. Any longer was too dangerous. She didn’t want to be the last to leave the bar. That would give her friends near the front an easy opportunity to get her alone. The gun made her fairly confident that she could defend herself if attacked. But she didn’t want to shoot anyone, especially in Mexico. There was no telling how that would go down with the local police or the Mexican government. They might not believe she’d acted in self-defense, and the fact that she’d brought a weapon into the country wouldn’t be a point in her favor.

Waving the waitress away when the girl circled back to see if she wanted another ginger ale, Sophia toyed with the change on the table. Why hadn’t she asked Starkey to come down here with her? He would’ve loved the chance to play protector. He enjoyed nothing more than acting tough. He was tough. But she knew better than to accept any favors from him. That would only get his hopes up that she’d take him back, and she didn’t need that right now, not after years of trying to convince him that they were over for good.

Still, giving him a call would help pass the time and take her mind off the two thugs at the door, one of whom had basically threatened her with rape. The way she’d spouted off about the money she’d be willing to pay for information made robbery another possibility….

She checked her watch again. The minute hand was creeping toward 12:25 a.m., but there was no need to worry that she might wake Starkey. She’d never known him to go to bed before two or three. He partied with the other Angels almost every night.

Pulling her cell from her pocket, she hit the key for Starkey’s number. She expected it to go through its usual speed-dial sequence, but she got an error message instead, warning her that she was out of network range. Because she was within twenty miles of the town where she lived, she hadn’t realized her phone wouldn’t work. But, of course, that made sense. She wasn’t in the States, anymore.

“Oh, boy,” she muttered, and put the phone away.

Ten more minutes passed before she stood. She’d promised herself she’d stay fifteen, but another four people had sauntered toward the exit, making her worry that she’d delayed her departure too long already. Bracing for what could happen when she passed that front table, she started to leave. But as she took a step toward the door, the man she’d been waiting for came charging into the cantina, along with two lanky companions. At least twenty years younger than their sturdier counterpart, they looked like identical twins—until they came close enough for Sophia to see that they were only siblings. “Señorita, I have what you want,” the man she’d hired stated proudly.

This was promising—if it was real and not something he’d concocted in an effort to get paid.

As she sank into her seat, she gestured for the men to join her.

They were short a chair, but borrowed one from an empty table.

“Juan can help you.” Indicating the guy to his left, the man who’d accepted her offer tapped the pictures. “He and his brother, they act as polleros…er—” deep groves lined his forehead as he struggled with English “—guides? Sí, guides, for these people. They take them across la frontera.”

“They’re coyotes?”

“No. They work for a coyote who can no longer cross.”

“Why can’t he cross?”

“He get caught by La Migra? The CBP? He go to jail. You understand?”

“He’s on the list. If he gets caught trying to cross again, they’ll prosecute him.”

He nodded emphatically. “Sí. These are his runners.”

She pulled out a small pad of paper and a pen she’d shoved into her back pocket. “And who are you?”

“Enrique.”

“Enrique what?”

“Castillo.”

She wrote that down. “And your friends?”

“Juan and Miguel Martinez.”

As soon as she’d recorded this, she eyed Enrique’s friends. “Can you tell me who these people are?”

They looked confused until Enrique jumped in. “Juan y Miguel no hablan inglés, señorita. I translate. But first, we talk price. One hundred U.S.” He tapped Juan’s shoulder, then Miguel’s and then his own chest to make sure she understood that they each expected one hundred American dollars.

Sitting back, she folded her arms. “That’s more than I offered.”

A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. “We have to live, to eat. And we have to pay the police, no?”

Juan and Miguel seemed to understand that Enrique was arguing for higher pay. They made noises of agreement.

She arched her eyebrows. “You expect me to cover your bribes?”

“They have to be paid or we no work.”

Some coyotes made several thousand dollars a week even after they shelled out the standard ten percent to the Mexican military and police. Many camped along the border, sometimes for days at a time, tracking border agent activity, searching for any vulnerability. Among other things, the bribes helped insure that the Mexican police wouldn’t interfere with their reconnaissance. But if Enrique went to the extra effort of scouting the guards, Sophia had a feeling he wasn’t too successful. “There are no snitches here to tell anyone about our deal,” she pointed out. “Why get greedy?”

His pitiable expression changed to grave. “They will find out. Soplónes…snitches…they are everywhere.”

An additional hundred wasn’t enough to argue about, not when it was getting so late. Sophia calculated the amount of money she had in her pocket. “I have two hundred and fifty-three dollars. That’s all. Take it or leave it. And I’ll pay you only after you’ve given me what I want.” If they could give her what she wanted. She had no delusions; these men would cheat her if they could.

They conferred and quickly agreed, as she’d expected them to. Everything in Mexico was negotiable. “Gracias, señorita.”

“What can you tell me?” she asked.

“Nombres.” Enrique nudged Juan, who pointed at the two pictures.

“José y Benita.”

Sophia’s heart began to race. She hadn’t mentioned that she knew the man’s first name. Enrique wasn’t trying to con her. He’d found the people she needed to talk to.

“Can you give me a last name?”

Her words made no sense to Juan, but Enrique explained.

“Sanchez” came the response.

“José and Benita Sanchez,” she repeated. “He’s sure?”

“Sí.” All three men nodded in agreement and apparent satisfaction.

“Does he also remember where they’re from?”

Again, Enrique addressed his companions before responding. “Nayarit.”

Sophia didn’t recognize the location. Despite growing up so close to the border, she’d spent very little time in Mexico and hadn’t studied it except as it related to basic American history. “That’s a city?”

“A state.”

“Where? Is it far?”

“Sí,” Enrique answered soberly. “It is south, near the ocean.”

The two men at the front table leaned toward each other, talking. They paused every now and then, their eyes shooting imaginary daggers at Sophia. They weren’t happy that she’d found the help she needed. But she ignored them. She’d decide what to do about them later. “How did they get here from so far away?”

“Probably by bus.” He checked with Juan, who agreed. Bus was easy to understand in either language.

Juan’s brother spoke up, and Enrique listened to what he had to say before passing it on. “Miguel, he go to meet them when they arrive.”

“When was that? How long ago?”

There was more conversation between them, and Sophia heard the word cuatro, which made sense when Enrique answered, “Four days. They rest at hotel on Thursday. Friday, they wait for night. And then—”

“Which hotel?” she broke in.

“Hotel California. That way.” He motioned to indicate south.

“And then what?” she asked.

“And then Juan and Miguel, they pick them up at—” there was a rapid burst of Spanish before he finished “—seven-thirty.”

“Just them? Or were there others?”

This question was passed on before it was answered. “Many others. A…” He rubbed his hands together as he again struggled to find the right English word. “A…group. About thirty.”

“That many?” she asked in surprise.

“Sí. Mucho. Is better.”

Sophia could see that there might be some safety in numbers. She also knew that coyotes often sent out smaller groups as decoys to confuse the patrol officers. But if the CBP couldn’t keep groups of thirty from crossing the border, America didn’t have much hope of stopping illegal immigration. “Who else was in this group? Can he give me a list of names?”

The men discussed this but Enrique ultimately shook his head. “No, señorita. Some names, maybe. He take groups two, three times a week, you understand? He no remember every one.”

“He remembered Benita and José.”

“Because she was muy bonita—pretty, eh? And scared. He tried to talk to her, to calm her. And her esposo, her husband, he no like it.”

Okay, so the Sanchezes’ youth, looks and relationship had set them apart, made them memorable. That was encouraging. What else could she get from these men while she had the chance? Because of the language barrier, it wasn’t as if they’d volunteer information. She had to ask for it. “Where did Juan and Miguel take this group? Where did they cross?”

“There is an abandoned cattle rancho. About cinco kilometers from here. They go there to cross, after the fence turns to barbwire.” He walked two fingers across the table to make sure she understood that they went on foot.

Sophia tried to imagine what that day must’ve been like for José and his wife. Leaving their families, their home. Arriving in this dirty town from somewhere deep in Mexico, a place that was bound to be cleaner if not more affluent. Being met by Miguel and shown to a hotel to wait for night. Being taken to a ranch and herded across the border like cattle. Being chased by the CBP.

“If José and Benita left with thirty people, how’d they end up alone?” she asked. “How is it that Juan and Miguel are sitting here alive and well, and this couple is dead?”

“La Migra,” he said simply.

“You’re saying the CBP killed them.”

“No, the…the sensors give them away.”

He was talking about the Virtual Presence and Extended Defense System, technology that could detect pedestrians and vehicles, even differentiate between them.

“Sensors go off, but no one knows, eh? Only agents at the command. They call other agents.” He pretended to be driving, closing in on a target. “Mexicans run.” Making an explosion with his hands, he tried to clarify, and Sophia knew exactly what he meant. She’d heard border patrol agents use the term going quail. The CBP had shown up and everyone had scattered.

But the illegals didn’t always run. Sometimes they were too exhausted. Apparently, this group had been found early enough that they still had the energy to make a break for it.

“And this couple?” she asked. “Did they return to Mexico?”

“No.”

“Did Juan or Miguel see them leave with anyone else?”

He shook his head but checked with his companions to be sure. “He was running himself.”

“What about everyone else? What happened to them?”

Enrique told her that some of the same people who’d been “VPed,” or caught by the new security system and repatriated to Mexico, had crossed the border the very next night without a problem. But he had no idea what’d happened to the others.

“Is there any talk of this on the street? About a particular border patrol agent, for example?”

“Not a particular agent. They’d all like to shoot us.”

“That’s not true.”

“You don’t know what goes on out there,” he said grimly.

She was beginning to learn. And she didn’t like what she heard. Becoming familiar with the unvarnished truth made her uncomfortable because there didn’t seem to be any way to solve the problem and still be sensitive to the needs of Americans and Mexicans alike. “So no one has any idea who’s doing this.”

“None. But it sounds as if you do. It sounds as if you think it’s the CBP.”

“That’s not what I think. I’m just being cautious enough to look at every possibility. If it is a Federal agent, it’s one random officer gone bad, which you can find in any organization.” She certainly didn’t mean to villainize the whole force. She knew too many of the officers, saw how hard they worked to maintain their humanity while fulfilling the requirements of the job.

“You ask me? They’re all bad,” he said. “At least half are the children of Mexicans who snuck across the border a generation ago. How does that make them any better than us?”

“You consider them disloyal.”

“Sí.”

“What about your part in all this?” she asked.

Confusion lined his forehead. “Señorita?”

“You don’t feel guilty—bad—about the people who get hurt because of what you do?”

“I no shoot them,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest.

“You’re encouraging others to break the law. You’re helping them do it, which is putting them in a very dangerous situation. If it wasn’t for Juan and Miguel, José and Benita might not have been killed.”

“Maybe. Or someone else might have taken them across,” he said indifferently. “Maybe me. Es sólo un trabajo.”

If she understood him right, he’d said it was just a job. “Maybe that’s how the Mexican-American border agents feel, too.”

Unconvinced, he smacked the table. “They cannot blame us for helping people do what their parents did twenty, thirty years ago.”

Except that twelve people had been murdered in the past six weeks and these men were still encouraging illegal immigration. But there was no point in arguing. She wasn’t going to change his mind, so she withdrew the money from her pocket and handed it over. “I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

“Gracias.” Enrique eagerly accepted the worn bills and the three of them hurried outside.

Sophia was putting away her pad and pen and digging out the key to her Harley when she realized the cantina owner was waving to get her attention. Speaking in Spanish, he made shooing motions toward the saloon-style door. He was trying to close.

Her eyes gravitated to the front table. It was empty. The man who’d called her a puta and his friend had already been asked to leave.

But they weren’t gone. She could see them standing outside, waiting for her.

6

Sophia considered asking the cantina owner to walk her to her bike, but she doubted she could string together enough Spanish to make herself understood. Not only that, she couldn’t think of any reason he might be willing to put his life on the line for some gringo he’d never met before. Maybe she was being ungenerous and her nationality wouldn’t enter into his decision, but she knew it could. Racism cut both ways.

She thought about heading down the dimly lit hallway where a sign promised Los Baños. But even if the restrooms had a window through which she could crawl into a back alley, what good would it do? As soon as the man who’d called her a whore figured out that she’d given him the slip, he’d simply cross over to her bike. He’d seen her drive up, knew where she’d parked. It was only a stone’s throw from where he and his friend were standing.

She couldn’t use her cell phone to call for help. And she didn’t know a soul here in Mexico that she could depend on. She’d already let Enrique and his friends leave without asking them to escort her safely to her Harley. But that wasn’t necessarily a bad decision. As far as she could tell, they were friends with the loser who seemed so bent on harassing her and could just as easily come to his aid if forced to choose sides. No, she preferred to keep the numbers small and manageable. There’d be fewer variables.

Taking her gun from under her pant leg, she held it against and slightly behind her body as she strolled out of the bar. She had no idea whether these guys were armed, but she had to assume the worst. It was too dangerous to do otherwise. Their behavior was aggressive enough to suggest it.

The breath she held burned in her chest as she reached the man who’d been doing his best to make her uncomfortable. He’d stationed himself so that she couldn’t avoid walking past him.

She was prepared when his hand whipped out to grab her left arm. Letting him jerk her around to face him, she brought up her gun, using the momentum of his own action to shove the barrel between his ribs. “Let go or I’ll kill you,” she ground out, teeth clenched.

Fear replaced the menace in his eyes. She’d gotten the drop on him. He hadn’t expected her to be armed.

But, wary as he’d become, he didn’t release her.

Adrenaline poured through her body, which made her feel a little shaky, but she had to sell her “hard chick” performance. His life, and possibly her own, depended on whether or not he bought it. “You have three seconds. I’ll even count en español, comprendes?”

At first, he couldn’t seem to decide how to react. But his friend scrambled away so fast he fell in his hurry to put some distance between them.

“Uno…dos…” She knew she couldn’t pull the trigger, not at this range. Although she’d had to use her firearm twice in the line of duty, she’d never actually killed a man. Unless he did something more than grab her arm, something to prove his intentions were what she feared, her threat was only a bluff. But she had the image she’d created with her bike, her tattoos and the swagger she’d learned from the Hells Angels working to convince him otherwise.

She prayed it would be enough.

Before she could get to three, he muttered what sounded like “fucking loca” and stepped away with his hands up. By this time, his friend had darted around the corner and was no longer in sight.

“That’s it,” she murmured. “Nice and easy. No need to make me nervous.”

“Puta!”

“You used that one already.”

Hatred glittered in his eyes. “You better not ever come back here.”

She smiled. “But this is such a nice place to visit.”

Keeping the gun trained on him, she backed across the street. Then she shoved her Glock into her waistband, where she could grab it again, if necessary, got on her bike and rode away.

Only when she was in line to get out of the country did she pull her shirt down to cover her weapon. And it wasn’t until after she’d crossed the border and was nearly home that she put it back in its holster. Maybe she was safe from the man who’d scared her in Naco, but the area wasn’t as empty as the dark streets implied. Even as she flew down the road, there were coyotes smuggling bands of illegal immigrants into the country—and there was a killer lurking somewhere, waiting to shoot the unsuspecting in cold blood.

Roderick felt like roadkill. Unable to get a flight to Tucson, he’d gone to Phoenix, but it’d been after eleven-thirty when he got in. Then he’d had to wait for his luggage and go through the tedious paperwork involved in renting a car before driving four hours southeast to Bordertown. Other than a fifteen-minute nap on the plane, he’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours.

But, tired though he was, he couldn’t bring himself to pull into the Mother Lode Motel and get a room. The sun wasn’t up yet. Arriving so early gave him a short window of time during which he could drive around unnoticed, familiarize himself with what had changed and reacquaint himself with what hadn’t—all before having to face his father or anyone else he might know from those early days. For an hour or so, he wouldn’t need to don the mask of indifference he’d soon wear, wouldn’t need to pretend that what’d happened here didn’t bother him anymore.

“Welcome home,” he muttered as he passed the drugstore, the family-owned grocery, Serrano’s Western Wear and the Catholic church his mother used to drag him to each Sunday. She’d insisted her younger brother go to church with them, but religion hadn’t been enough to keep Arturo on the right track. Was he even alive?

Roderick stretched the tight muscles in his neck. Maybe, when he was finished in Bordertown, he’d head down to Mexico and look for Arturo.

Then again, it’d been so long, maybe he wouldn’t. Some things were better left alone. He had no idea if the man he’d find would even want to be found.

When he reached the high school, he slowed to a crawl. The buildings had recently been painted; a new addition stuck out from the main hall like an extra appendage. Elmer’s Burrito Stand, the same awful blue color it’d always been, huddled on the corner across the street. Roderick had to marvel at that. For twenty years Elmer had made his living selling burritos out of that little stand. Not many places lasted so long. But not many places served food as good as Elmer’s, either.

In the very center of town, the buildings had the wood-plank sidewalks and overhangs reminiscent of the Old West. In an effort to save itself after the mine closed nearly a century ago, Bordertown had followed Tombstone’s lead in vying for the tourist dollar. But Bordertown didn’t have the O.K. Corral or any other real claim to fame. It had to rely on tours of the old mine, a string of souvenir shops and a few ranches in the surrounding desert that boarded tourists and offered an “authentic Western experience.” Rod was pretty sure the town would’ve died a slow death if not for the artisans who’d moved into one section and made a name for themselves selling turquoise jewelry and western art.

A few of the dumpier buildings downtown had been cleaned up. A chiropractor’s office and a veterinary office had received a face-lift and sported new signs. But a strip mall that’d been new the year he’d left was now weathered and worn-looking, home to a Laundromat, an electronics discounter and a liquor store. What Roderick remembered as an old thrift shop had been taken over by a salon boasting a full set of acrylic nails for forty-five dollars. At the Circle K, where half the high school had loitered late into a Friday or Saturday night, there was litter in the bushes and graffiti on the tan bricks facing the alley. And most of the houses on Center Street, those that hadn’t been turned into businesses, had bars covering the windows and doors.

On the whole, Bordertown wasn’t particularly attractive. It never had been. But there was a nostalgic quality that, for Roderick, coalesced into a combination of homesickness and regret. As he drove through the quiet streets, gazing at the buildings, many of which featured the typical desert landscaping, it felt almost as if his mother was sitting in the car beside him.

He considered going out to the cemetery to visit her grave. Now would be the time, when he could pay his respects in private. But the thought of standing there, looking down at that small mound as he had when he was only sixteen, brought back too much pain. He wouldn’t go. Not yet. Maybe if he avoided the cemetery, he wouldn’t miss her quite so poignantly.

Once he drove to the edge of town, he turned right and continued several miles before making a left and then another right. He was going to the ranch. He wasn’t sure why. He didn’t care what it looked like, didn’t want anything to do with his father or his half brothers, but he was curious.

The arched Dunlap ranch sign came up more quickly than he’d expected. It’d seemed much farther from town when he was young, probably because he had to walk if he wanted to go anywhere.

Paloverde trees lined the drive to the mansion where his half brothers had lived with Edna, Bruce’s wife, who’d prided herself on her taste and cleanliness. His mother could’ve experienced a better life if she’d been allowed to become one of the maids. Edna had several in those days. His father had once promised Carolina the chance to work inside, get out of the terrible heat. But Edna had refused. She couldn’t stand to have Carolina in such close proximity to the Family. Knowing that she’d also had a son by Bruce, Edna had lobbied to have Carolina kicked off the ranch completely.

Fortunately, his father had never gone quite that far. He’d tried to buy her off once, but she’d refused to leave Jorge. So Bruce had let her stay. She’d continued to work in the fields, as long and as hard as any man, and continued to live in one of the little shacks along the periphery of the South Forty. Roderick had worked beside her, trying to do more than his share in order to give her a break. Until that last beating from his half brothers. Then his father had insisted he find work elsewhere to resolve the constant conflict.

That was why he felt so compelled to come here, he realized. As much as he hated his father, this was home, the only home he’d known until his mother had died and some other farm laborer had moved into her shack.

The tires of the Hummer he’d rented crunched on gravel as he rolled slowly down the drive and turned into the compound. He didn’t have much time. Already, a light shone in the grand ranch house. His father had always been an early riser.

Circumventing the nicer vehicles and farm equipment stored near a large silver water tank and a grain bin, he took the narrow road that led along the fence to the living quarters for the field help. The shacks were as tiny as ever—only two rooms. But they’d been painted. A satellite dish sat on the roof of the first one, with cables running to the others, and there were air-conditioning units in the left side windows. Conditions here had improved. When Roderick was a boy, they’d had no heat or air-conditioning, no electricity at all, and no plumbing. When he told other Americans he’d grown up poor, they had no idea he was talking about the kind of poverty found in third-world countries like the one his mother had escaped.

As he sat there, taking it all in, a door swung open and a stooped, withered Mexican stepped out. The man hadn’t turned on any lights. He probably had family inside he didn’t want to wake.

Noticing Rod immediately, he squinted to see who it was.

Roderick froze when he realized he was looking at Jorge. Boy, had he aged in the past fourteen years!

Their eyes met, and the old man’s wrinkled mouth curved, revealing several missing teeth.

The urge to throw the car into Reverse suddenly gripped Roderick. As ashamed as it made him feel, he wanted to forget his roots, forget he’d ever lived here. But he didn’t drive off. Jorge was already shuffling toward the truck at an eager gait.

Conjuring up a pleasant expression, Rod lowered his window. “Hola, mi amigo.”

“Hola, hijo.” Jorge’s gnarled hand clasped Rod’s forearm with affection. “¿Cómo estás? Eh?”

“Muy bien. Muy bien.” Rod switched to English. He could speak without the slightest accent, which reminded him that he’d escaped his past. He had plenty of money and opportunities and people he cared about—a whole other life in California. “You’re still here, old man?”

“Where would I go? I’m too old and ornery. No one else would have me.”

After seeing what so many years of physically grueling labor had done to Jorge, Rod was surprised Bruce had allowed him to stay. Certainly he couldn’t do all the work he’d once done. Maybe there was an element of trust between him and Bruce that made up the difference.

“What’s our Navy SEAL doing these days?” Jorge beamed with pride. “Still catching bad guys for Department 6?”

“For now.”

“Your father is so proud.”

The smile slipped from Rod’s face; he felt it go. “What’s going on with him? Why is he contacting me all of a sudden?”

“With age comes wisdom, eh?”

“Sorry, not buying it. Something must have caused such a major change of heart.”

“No, he’s asked me about you for years. He knows what you are, can’t deny that you’re a good son, someone to admire.”

Rod cocked an eyebrow at him. “Jorge? Cut the crap.”

“Listen, hijo. He had a bad health scare eight years ago, a heart attack. He’s been different ever since. I think he has realized what he’s lost and wants to fix it if he can.”

“And bringing me here to help solve the murders, that was just an excuse?”

“More than an excuse. He thinks you can help. If someone can kill at will and walk away, never to face punishment, it scares everyone, eh? Americans as well as Mexicans. The whole community. You remember what I told you about that rancher near Portal.”

He was referring to a man whose family had lived in the area for fifty years. “He was stabbed to death on his own land last March.”

“That’s right. He’d just called in to say he’d found some Mexican nationals suffering from dehydration and was assisting them.”

Rod stretched the cramped muscles in his neck. “Do you think there’s any connection between that incident and what’s been happening lately?”

“I don’t know. But even if there isn’t, what if illegals arm themselves? Try to retaliate?”

“We’ve got to make sure it doesn’t escalate,” he muttered.

Jorge nodded in satisfaction. “Yes.”

That increased Rod’s dedication to finding the person responsible for all the bloodshed, but it didn’t change anything else for him, not where his father was concerned. He glanced toward the house. “I gotta be on my way. Take care of yourself.”

“What? No! Stay. You don’t have to go. Your father would be happy to see you.”

“There’s no need to upset Edna and her boys.”

“Bah! Who cares about Edna?” he teased. “And those boys? They won’t bother you these days. They’d be able to tell just by looking at you that it wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“It’s not only them. Regardless of what Bruce might feel or what he’s been through, I’d rather not see him,” Rod clarified. “I don’t consider him to be any relation.”

The expression on the old man’s face led Rod to believe he’d hoped for more. “Forgive him, Roderick,” he said, grabbing his forearm again. “Deja ir el pasado.”

Let the past go…. “That’s what I’m trying to do. Only I want him to go with it.”

“That’s not what she hoped for you.”

A pickup began to move in the clearing. Someone was starting work. Roderick couldn’t put off his departure any longer without risking some type of confrontation. He didn’t want to hear what Jorge was trying to tell him, anyway. Just because his mother wouldn’t give up on Bruce didn’t mean he’d hang on till the bitter end. “It was great to see you,” he said, and covered Jorge’s hand with his own.

Jorge nodded but seemed troubled as Rod backed up and headed out. Fortunately, the person in the pickup had taken the opposite direction, toward the lettuce fields. Was it his father or one of his half brothers driving? Rod couldn’t tell. He could see only the taillights, back bumper and the dust kicked up by the tires.

He imagined confronting Stuart or Patrick now that he was older. He wanted them to demand he step out of the way, willing to take them both on at once, just as they’d always preferred. But…what was the point? He wouldn’t feel any better afterward. That wasn’t the kind of man he wanted to be.

Forget them, he told himself. But he’d been telling himself that for so long, it’d lost all meaning.

When the phone awakened Sophia from a dead sleep, her heart nearly seized in her chest. She was sure it was one of her officers or county dispatch, calling to inform her that more people had been killed. But a second later, the sound repeated itself and she breathed a sigh of relief. She’d been dreaming. It wasn’t the phone. Someone was at the door.

With a groan, she rolled out of bed and went into the living room of her little one-bedroom hacienda-style house. There, she leaned against the door, squinting to see through the peephole.

It was Starkey. As usual, he was wearing his leather vest—or cut as they called it—with the patches that held so much significance for him, jeans and biker boots. His blond hair and his mustache, which was a shade darker than his hair, were longer than when she’d last seen him. He’d also put on a few pounds—but he wasn’t fat. His biceps bulged when he crossed his arms. And he had a new tattoo to add to the skull and all the others: FTW.

She didn’t plan to ask what it stood for. She already knew she wouldn’t approve.

“Give me a minute.” She hurried back to her bedroom so she could grab a robe to cover her T-shirt and men’s boxers. Then she let him in. “Hey, what’s up?”

His eyes ran over her disheveled hair, her robe, which she’d had for so long he probably recognized it from when they were dating nine years ago, her bare feet. “You okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Why?”

“I got a call from you last night. I got three, actually. But no messages.”

Three calls? She’d tried to reach him from Mexico, but she’d been out of network range…. “I was hoping to speak to Rafe, but—”

“At one in the morning?”

“No, earlier,” she lied. “Your number was in my recent call history. I must’ve pocket-dialed you.”

“Fortunately, I didn’t hear it ring, or I would’ve gone nuts wondering why you wouldn’t say anything. I was at a party and the music was too damn loud.”

She was glad of that. If he’d been aware of her calls, he would’ve been waiting for her when she got home last night, and she might’ve had to arrest him for driving under the influence. If he’d been at a party, there was no way he’d been drinking soda.

“What did you want with Rafe?” he asked.

“Just checking in, seeing how the week’s going for him.” She didn’t usually lie, and already she’d lied twice. But now that she was out of Naco, she didn’t really want to explain that she’d turned to him in her hour of need, so to speak. He’d take that to mean more than it did.

“He’s fine. At some camp with a friend. Won’t be back for four days.”

Some camp? He didn’t know which one? This was part of her problem with Starkey. He was a loving father but he didn’t pay much attention to the kind of details most parents considered important. “Which friend?” Did he know that much?

“Chase LaBreque.”

Sophia had heard Rafe talk about Chase and wasn’t so sure he was the best influence. But Rafe was being raised by a Hells Angel, so if she was worried about any example, it should be that one. Regardless, she had no right to complain. She was lucky Starkey allowed her to be involved with Rafe. He wasn’t pleased that she’d gone into law enforcement, felt it put him at risk just to associate with her. The others in the club were obviously unhappy that she was part of his life. They, too, would’ve preferred Leonard Taylor to be chief of police. Leonard was one of the good ol’ boys who turned a blind eye to certain activities Sophia was unwilling to ignore.

“Have him get in touch with me when he gets back, will you?” she said.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Thanks.” She started to close the door, but he stopped it with one of his giant paws. “Hey, wait! Guess who I saw?”

Not particularly interested, she covered a yawn. “Who?”

“Roderick Guerrero. You remember him, don’t ya?”

Of course she did. She immediately recalled the café au lait skin and dark eyes of the boy she knew in high school. They’d been in the same grade growing up. But when it came to girls, he’d always kept to himself, and she’d been more than happy to let him. He’d approached life with a belligerence that made her uncomfortable, frequently getting into fights.

But he’d surprised her once. It was during their sophomore year, his last year in school. Despite having a minimal relationship—she’d been in one class with him and knew he watched her a great deal—he’d asked if she’d go to the Homecoming Dance with him. He didn’t generally attend school dances. For one thing, he couldn’t afford it. And he didn’t go that year, either. She agreed to go, then stood him up when she got a better offer and, thanks to one particular girlfriend of hers, word of that spread all over the school.

Sophia was still embarrassed about the fact that she hadn’t even tried to contact him and that she’d humiliated him so publicly. She’d never apologized or offered any explanation, either. She’d been young and stupid and hadn’t known how to approach it. But she’d never forget the way he looked at her when he saw her at school after that weekend. She’d thought he was too tough, too mean, to be hurt. That was what she’d told herself when she ditched him. But as soon as their eyes met, she knew she’d hurt him deeply….

Those weren’t comfortable memories. Kids could be callous, and she’d been no different. Which was why she preferred to forget. But she was too curious about what Roderick might be like now to just let the subject go. “Seriously? It was Roderick? You’re sure?”

“Positive. Spotted him coming out of Bailey’s Breakfast Dive and pulled over to say hello.”

“I didn’t realize you even knew him. He’s my age.”

“He had an uncle who was a few years older—Arturo. I hung out with him for a year or two before he skipped town.”

“I never met the uncle.”

Starkey whistled. “He was one bad dude.”

Roderick hadn’t struck her as much nicer. In those days, her father hadn’t yet lost his business, his marriage or his life, so she’d been oblivious to other people’s needs. She’d been living in the idyllic bubble that had burst soon afterward and thrown her into the arms of Starkey.

“What’s he doing in town?” She definitely didn’t need this. Life was hard enough right now.

Starkey grinned. “I was waitin’ for you to ask me that. You ready?”

She tightened the belt on her robe. “Ready for what?”

“He said he’s here to investigate the UDA murders.”

Her mouth fell open. “What’d you say?”

He chortled at her reaction. “I thought you’d like that. He’s an ‘operative’ for a private security company in California. Those guys are bad asses. And they get paid the big bucks.” She couldn’t miss the twinkle in his eye that told her he wasn’t finished with her yet. “When I told him you’re the chief of police, he looked about as stunned as you do now.”

“So he’s staying longer than a few days?”

“Few weeks, at least. Haven’t you been listenin’? He’s tryin’ to steal your case.”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. That’s definitely not going to happen.”

“Any chance you’d like to thank me for the notice?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Thank you in what way?”

He sighed. “Didn’t think so.”

Ignoring his reference to thanking him, she moved on to her next question. “Where’s he staying?”

“Don’t know. But it can’t be far.” He clapped his hands together. “Anyway, it’s been fun but I gotta dash. Someone’s waitin’ for me.”

She didn’t ask who. She didn’t want to know about Starkey’s dealings because most of them were illegal. She was too preoccupied at the moment, anyway. “Right.” She waved numbly but made no move to go back inside.

Several seconds passed before a neighbor called good-morning and she realized she was still standing in the doorway, staring after Starkey.

With a polite nod for old man Phil, who shuffled past her on his morning walk, she went back into the house, trying to convince herself that Roderick Guerrero had forgotten all about that Homecoming incident. But the memory of returning home to hear from her mother that he’d shown up in a suit and was carrying a corsage made her groan.

Who was she kidding? He’d remember….

7

“Rod? You in there?”

It was his father. Already. Jorge must’ve told him. Or Starkey. Or someone else who’d seen him having breakfast at Bailey’s.

Reluctant to be disturbed, he raised his head from the pillow. “I’m sleeping!”

“I brought you something” came the response.

“Whatever it is, I don’t want it.”

“I think you will. Open the door.”

Rod muttered a curse. This was his own fault for driving out to the ranch this morning. But it didn’t matter. His father would’ve learned of his presence sooner or later. Bordertown was too small for anyone to remain anonymous for long. “Will you go away if I do?”

There was a slight pause. “If that’s what you want.”

Kicking off the sheet, he rolled out of bed and yanked on a pair of shorts. “What now?” he demanded as he jerked open the door.

Bruce handed him a stack of newspapers. “These have articles about the killings. I thought you might like to read them. They’ll give you a feel for what’s happened and what’s been done about it so far.”

This was the one thing Bruce could’ve brought that Rod wouldn’t be angry about. “Fine. Great. Thank you.”

“And I wanted to tell you there’s no need to pay for a motel. You can stay out at the ranch, if you like.”

Rod leaned against the doorjamb. “What did you say?”

“I said you’re welcome at the ranch.”

“What—one of the shacks is available?”

Color rose in his father’s cheeks. “No. There’s plenty of room at the house.”

His house? The rambling two-story pueblo-style structure with the red roof and the fountain out front? What Rod wouldn’t have given just to see inside it as a child. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all. It’s a big house, and it’s mostly empty now that the boys have moved out.”

But Jorge had said Patrick and Stuart were still at the ranch. “Where are ‘the boys’?”

“Patrick is married and living in a house of his own at the other end of the property. Stuart has his own place, too, next door to his brother.”

“Stuart’s not married?”

“Nope. I’m hoping he’ll be ready for that soon. I’d like grandkids someday and Patrick’s wife doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. She owns the nail salon in town and says she’s too busy.”

Rod had seen the shop. “So he married a business-woman.”

Although Bruce didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed, Rod doubted Edna would approve of having a lowly cosmetologist for a daughter-in-law, even if she was a hardworking one. “More or less, I guess. Anyway, the house is available, as I said, and it’s comfortable, roomy.”

Bruce was trying too hard, which made the situation even more awkward than it already was.

Determined not to succumb to his bitterness, Rod bit back the harsh retort that sprang to his lips. “No, thank you. I’m fine here.”

The flatness of his response, and what it indicated, didn’t seem to register. Bruce maintained his cordial cheer. “Well, keep it in mind. If this mess drags on, living in a motel might get old. And we’d love to have you.”

Again, Rod was tempted to ask if he’d forgotten the past, when Bruce couldn’t stay far enough away from him and his mother. But revealing his anger would make it look as if he cared. Why give Bruce, Edna and their sons the satisfaction of knowing they’d been so successful at making him feel inferior and unwanted?

For the second time, he managed to reel in a scathing comment, but only by ignoring his father’s rejoinder. “Thanks for the papers.”

Applauding himself for his courteous veneer, he started to close the door—then jerked it open again. “By the way…”

Obviously eager to prolong the conversation, his father stepped back to the door. “Yes?”

“Is it true that Sophia St. Claire is the chief of police?”

“Sure, why? You know her?”

He knew her, all right. He’d had a terrible crush on her when they were in high school and had screwed up the courage to ask her to Homecoming for their sophomore year. Elated when she accepted, he’d thought maybe he’d been wrong about Bordertown, about his chances of succeeding in this place. It was only a school dance, but it’d seemed like a promise of hope. Never had he been so excited about life, about change. He’d spent everything he had on a suit and flowers, and eagerly counted the days until the big dance. When he found out that she’d stood him up and gone with a more popular boy, he’d felt as if she’d made a joke out of the belief that he could be more than he was. It felt like the most personal of rejections. Somehow that had cut deeper than almost anything else he’d experienced, probably because he’d been young and vulnerable back then in a way he hadn’t been since. He’d made sure of that. “We were in the same class. When I went to school, of course.”

Unwilling to address the negative aspects of the past—or, it seemed, to even remember them—Bruce skimmed over Rod’s reference to dropping out. “She’s a beauty.” He added a whistle. “Stuart talks about her all the time.”

“His wife doesn’t mind?”

“It’s Patrick who’s married, not Stuart. Chief St. Claire is single, too. For now, anyway. There’re about a dozen men who’d like to change that.”

Including Stuart, apparently. “Who’s she dating?”

“She goes out with Stuart now and then, but I don’t get the impression she’s all that serious about him. She used to see Dick Callahan, the pastor over at First Calvary Church, but that didn’t go anywhere, either.”

What, he’d figured out that her soul wasn’t worth saving? “Why not?”

“Got some young girl pregnant. It was a big scandal, as you can imagine—a church man sleeping with an underage member of his flock. To save face, and his job, he claimed to love her. And maybe he really does. Who knows? He married her. The baby’s due anytime.”

“Poor Sophia.” Rod couldn’t think of anyone who deserved to be jilted more but he tried to cloak the sarcasm in those two words. Not because he cared whether or not others found out he wasn’t all that impressed with Sophia St. Claire—he didn’t want to give his father an excuse to hang around by asking questions. “She any good at her job?” He wanted to know what he had to work with, whether or not she’d be a competent and cooperative partner in the investigation.

“Seems to be,” Bruce replied. “But she’s had a rough few months. First, she had to deal with the people in town who were opposed to seeing a woman take charge, a young woman at that. If not for Paul Fedorko and a couple others on the city council who were adamantly opposed to her main competitor, she wouldn’t have had the opportunity. But she did. And she braved the backlash. Then these killings started. If she can’t solve them in a relatively short period of time, it’ll give her opponents the leverage they need to get her fired.”

Hearing this, Roderick had half a mind to sit back and do nothing, to wait and see if she could rescue herself. He certainly wasn’t inclined to do her any favors. But he couldn’t risk the lives of innocent people just to feed an old grudge. She didn’t matter. Maybe he’d once had feelings for Sophia, but he hadn’t thought of her in years.

Well, not in the past few months, anyway…. For whatever reason, no other woman had ever affected him in the same way.

“Do you think she’ll be willing to work with me on this?”

“I don’t see why she wouldn’t. Someone with your reputation. I’m sure she can use all the help she can get. Last I heard, the sheriff had assigned a detective to the case, but he should’ve assigned two or three.”

“She’s got a lot going against her.”

“Exactly.”

Rod remembered what she’d done to him well enough that this news didn’t make him entirely unhappy. He’d been so thrilled, as that naive teenager who thought he finally had a chance with the girl he’d always wanted. But she’d set him up, probably so she and her friends could have a good laugh. “I’ll pay her a visit.”

“It’ll relieve the city council to have you involved in the investigation.”

And Rod definitely wanted to please the good ol’ boys on the city council. He swallowed a pained sigh. He hated small-town politics, but this dynamic would work in his favor so he didn’t complain. Frightened of losing her job and in need of help, Sophia would be much more likely to cooperate with him. Experience had taught him that local cops with less incentive could be very stingy with information. “Glad to hear it.”

His father didn’t seem to pick up on his lack of enthusiasm. “You need an introduction or anything else, you let me know.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Again, Bruce seemed to miss the dry note that should’ve told him that Rod had no intention of coming to him for anything.

“By the way, I brought you something else.”

Now what? Rod stretched up and gripped the top of the door frame with his fingertips. “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

“I’ll get it.” He walked to the passenger side of his big gray double-axle pickup truck and retrieved a manila envelope.

Rod dropped his arms to his sides but didn’t comment as he accepted it. Opening the flap, which was unsealed, he withdrew a stack of money orders—the ones he’d sent at sixteen and seventeen, when he was trying to pay off his mother’s funeral. He didn’t want them, but he wasn’t going to argue over them, either. He’d done what he could for his mother. He’d repaid the debt—whether Bruce allowed him to or not.

“I don’t want these, and you know it.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d take them. I can’t explain why, but…it’s important to me.”

“Whatever.” Rod was about to close the flap and toss the envelope onto the small table by the door when his fingers encountered something with an entirely different texture. What was this?

When he pulled it from the envelope, he saw a snapshot of him and his mother standing outside their shack at the ranch. Carolina, young, beautiful and still healthy, was wearing one of her inexpensive cotton shirts, a wide-brimmed hat to protect her from the sun and a pair of jeans that had been cut off at the knees and rolled up a few inches. She was smiling and hugging him close.

Rod was maybe three or four, too young to remember having the photo taken. “Where did you get this?”

It was harder now, harder to keep the anger under control. Looking at Carolina, he could understand why Bruce had been attracted to her. She was beautiful. But that didn’t make Rod willing to forgive him for taking advantage of her, not when Bruce already had everything a man could ever want.

“I took the picture myself.” His father must’ve known from Rod’s expression or the tension in his body that it was time to leave because he mumbled a quick goodbye and walked away.

Rod didn’t respond. He could no longer speak or move. All he could do was stare at that picture as memories of his mother crashed over him.

Sweat rolled between Sophia’s shoulder blades, making her feel sticky and uncomfortable in her uniform as she went from trailer to trailer, getting formal statements from everyone who could have heard the gunshots that killed José and Benita Sanchez. Three shots had been fired. She knew that from the spent casings. But only one person—Debbie Berke, in the closest trailer—had heard enough noise to get her out of bed. Mac White, who lived next to Earl and Marlene, said he “might’ve” heard something. He told her he’d been awakened but shrugged off whatever had disturbed him. He was too used to Earl and Marlene’s fights to worry about a little yelling. Randy Pinegar said he had a sleep disorder for which he’d taken a sleeping aid. But everyone knew he was an alcoholic. Sophia guessed he’d been in a stupor. And Ralph Newlin, the only other neighbor in that circle of trailers, had been in Phoenix, picking up his daughter from the home of his ex-wife. He was still gone, on his way to Disneyland.

Planning to ask Debbie a few more questions about the “thumps” she’d heard, Sophia had just stepped onto the landing when her cell phone rang. According to caller ID, it was Detective Lindstrom.

She nearly ignored it. But Councilman Fedorko had called this morning and added even more pressure to what she was already feeling. He’d told her the other city council members were getting nervous, that they were wondering if she had the experience to get the job done. He implied that there were two members, in particular, who were talking about replacing her. He claimed Mayor Schilling was even lamenting the fact that they hadn’t promoted Leonard. Paul seemed to believe that, questionable character aside, Leonard would have a better chance of catching the UDA killer. Sophia knew it was fear that was making the city council second-guess their decision. They were scared that someone who wasn’t a UDA would get shot and a battle would erupt between the two factions. But she didn’t appreciate their lack of faith.

Bottom line, she had to cooperate with Lindstrom, had to trust the detective despite the warning bells in her head and the sick feeling in her gut. She couldn’t do this alone. There was too much work.

She hit the talk button. “Chief St. Claire.”

“You identified the victims?”

She’d left Lindstrom a message to that effect after her chat with Fedorko. “I did.”

“How?”

“Naco was worth the trip.”

“I let the Mexican consulate know about the murders. You might want to alert them to this new development.”

“I already did.”

“Who’d you speak with?”

“Same guy you did. Deputy Consul Rudy Ruybal.” He’d been their contact from the beginning.

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