Body Heat (10 page)

Patrick's voice turned slightly sulky. “No, but it didn't help that you were always challenging us.”

“By being
alive?
” he said with another laugh. “I'm the product, buddy, not the cause. Your father's the one who was taking advantage of the migrants who worked for him.”

“I think he cared about your mother.”

“He had a damn fine way of showing it.”

“What happened was as hard on him as anyone.”

“Forgive me if I don't get all misty-eyed over
his
pain. I don't know how many times I'll have to say this, but I don't give a shit. I'm not here to see you, your father or your brother.” He motioned toward the truck. “Do you mind?”

Tension filled Patrick's face, evidence of some emotion. But whether it was embarrassment or regret or perhaps frustration Rod had no idea. “It's not like I was offering you a damn olive branch.”

“Great. Move your car.”

“I had another reason for coming by.”

“I'm waiting.”

“I have information on the murders of those, er, Mexican nationals.”

Rod leaned against the Hummer and crossed his feet. “Since when did you become so politically correct? Don't you prefer the term
wetbacks?
I believe that's what you used to call me. You even made up a song about the wetback bastard with brown eyes the size of saucers. Remember? It was a catchy tune. Made all your friends laugh.”

Pat flinched. “Yeah, well—” he rubbed his neck “—I
hope I've grown up a bit since then. My, um, wife's half Mexican.”

If he thought that would give them common ground, he was sadly mistaken. “And she's living with
you?
God, she has my sympathies.”

“She's a good woman. Better than I deserve.”

Carolina had been a good woman, too, yet they'd called her a spic and a whore and did everything they could to make her life miserable. One day she found that someone had gotten into her lunch box—most of the workers left their food in the shade while they worked—and replaced the meat in her sandwich with dog shit. No one came forward to take responsibility for that, but there'd never been any question in Rod's mind that it had been one or both of his half brothers.

“I'm happy for you.” He made the words a meaningless platitude by adding a careless shrug of his shoulder.

“I'll bet you are.”

“Listen, you have nothing to fear from me. You
or
your brother. I'm not after your father's love, attention or money, if that's what you're worried about. As soon as I solve this case, I'm gone.”

“Fine, forget it.” He pivoted to go, but Rod stopped him.

“You said you have information on the murders.”

He paused, deliberated and eventually blew out a sigh. “I heard Leonard Taylor talking in the barbershop the other day.”

“Who's Leonard Taylor?”

“Moved here about ten years ago from Douglas, when he was hired as a police officer.”

“What'd he have to say?”

“He was going on and on about the killings, which isn't
so unusual. Everyone has something to say about them and how we should prepare to retaliate. It was the way he was talking that got my attention. It was completely callous. He seemed almost…gleeful. He's hoping this case gets Sophia St. Claire fired.”

Rod felt a flicker of guilt. He probably hadn't helped Sophia's situation when he'd made her look inept during that merry chase through town. But he didn't owe her anything. She wasn't any better than his half brothers. “Why would he want to see her fired?”

“She took his job. Before the previous chief retired, he had two officers under him—her and Leonard. Leonard had a lot more experience and was the most likely to succeed him. The council was all set to promote him when Sophia came forward with an illegal immigrant who claimed he'd caught her in the desert south of town and offered her a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“Sex in exchange for her freedom.”

“That's some deal. Did you say he's related to your father?”

Pat ignored the insult. “It caused a pretty big stink with just about everyone in town choosing sides.”

“How did Sophia find the woman? Did she come in to the station or—”

“No, some Mexican guy she'd thrown in the drunk tank was talking about how the police had done his sister wrong. No one else paid him any mind, but Sophia followed up on what he said and tracked the woman down. Sure enough, she claimed it was true.”

“Did this asshole—this Leonard Taylor—lose his job?”

“No. The Mexican woman and her brother disappeared
soon after, and without either of them, the D.A. couldn't build a case. Taylor's reputation was damaged, and he lost the position as chief to St. Claire, but he could've stayed on. It wasn't like they'd proven anything. There was just the accusation.”

“Only then he'd have to work for his nemesis.”

“Exactly. His ego couldn't tolerate it, so he quit. Went back to working with livestock. Actually, that's what he did in Douglas before he entered the police academy. Now he manages a chicken ranch.”

Taylor was definitely someone Rod needed to speak with. “Where does he live?”

“On the edge of town, not far from the intersection of Ray and Saguaro. That's also where he supposedly had sex with the Mexican woman—in his own backyard.”

“You don't believe it?”

“I don't know what to believe. Seems unlikely a police officer would do a thing like that…but if he thought he could get away with it, I suppose anything's possible. Leonard's wife was in Albuquerque at the time, at a craft fair. She makes dolls. His older daughters were at sports camp. The smallest girl was the only one home with him. She said she heard daddy making funny sounds out in the trees, and he shouted for her to stay away when she tried to find him, but you can't convict a man based on a five-year-old's testimony of grunting and ‘don't come out here.'”

Rod folded his arms. “So this man would've been chief of police if not for Sophia St. Claire.”

“That's right. To top it all off, his wife left him and took the kids. She's living with her folks in Prescott.”

Rod straightened. “I'll pay him a visit this afternoon.”

“Be careful. I think he's got an arsenal out there,” he said, and walked back to his truck.

Rod told himself to let the encounter go at that, but he couldn't. “Why did you tell me about Leonard?” he called out.

His half brother turned. “Isn't it obvious? He might have something to do with the murders.”

“But everyone already knows his story. Chief St. Claire or someone else would've told me about it.”

Patrick stared at his feet before meeting Rod's eyes. “My wife sent me over here,” he admitted. “She wanted me to invite you to dinner.”

Rod wondered about the conversation Pat must've had with his wife. “She
is
better than you deserve.”

He squinted against the sun. “That's still a no, isn't it?”

“I can't imagine Stuart would be pleased about my coming to your place for dinner.”

“Doesn't matter. As my wife says, you're my brother, too.”

Rod had never dreamed he'd hear those words from Patrick. He wasn't sure how to react now that they'd been uttered. Why was Patrick's wife getting involved? Rod had never even met her. “Tell her she's worrying for nothing. Everything's as it should be.”

“She won't believe it, not as long as we're enemies. I'm telling you, I married Mother Teresa.”

“I guess that's one way to gain a conscience,” he said and climbed into the Hummer while waiting for Patrick to move his truck.

K
evin Simpson owned thirty-five thousand acres along the border. Together with several of the ranchers from Douglas, he and his son and wife had taken to patrolling their own property in an effort to stop the illegal immigrants from cutting through. His son even had a blog on which he claimed that together they'd detained more than twelve thousand UDAs in the past ten years, which they'd turned over to the border patrol.

It was a staggering number, but only a fraction of the people who came through. Sophia had heard that the border patrol had apprehended twenty-three thousand UDAs on another ranch in one month. That was one ranch, and since they caught maybe one in five, a lot more made it through. As she stood next to Kevin and James, his son, who was holding the reins of the horses they'd ridden to this remote location, she saw what they'd brought her here to see—the highway of garbage that'd been left behind.

“Look here.” A cowboy hat shaded Kevin's weathered face as he pointed to the water bottles, T-shirts, toilet paper and food wrappers that littered the hillside. “This is just from the past few months. I've about given up trying to keep it collected. Doesn't do any good. As soon as
you pick it up, more of 'em come through and toss
their
garbage on the ground.”

“And a cow's stupid enough to eat anything.” James, dressed in Wranglers, cowboy boots and a Western shirt like his father, pushed his horse away from the thorny bush it was trying to nibble.

“So it's dangerous for the cattle.” She knew this, of course. They'd been trying to get her out here to see it since she became chief of police. But they'd been very vocal in supporting Leonard Taylor, despite his corruption, so she hadn't been in any hurry to let them cry on her shoulder, especially because there was little she could do. This was a federal problem. She'd told them to take it up with the border patrol. Since the killings, however, she had a different perspective. She wanted to keep the Simpsons talking, hear what they had to say about illegal immigration and the damage it caused.

“Costs us several head a year,” James said.

“And that's not all,” Kevin added. “They break our pipes, and the water can run for a day or two before we catch it. They knock down fences. The cattle don't like having people come through, so they move around more and end up weighing less. And last year illegals slaughtered two of our calves.” He pulled out a cigarette and, after lifting his eyebrows to make sure it was okay with her if he smoked, he lit up. “It's probably cost us five million over the past several years, but it's a losing battle. No one on this side of the border will even believe it's this bad unless they come out here and take a look.”

Sophia had seen pictures of the mess on their blog, but the Simpsons were right—it made a much bigger impact in person.

Kevin adjusted his hat. “Our lawmakers say they're
gonna to do something about it, but they're too busy kissing Mexico's ass to take a stand.”

She noted his tone. He was aggravated, angry, bitter. But did those emotions run deep enough that he'd resort to murder? He certainly had a motive. His property was being ruined and he wasn't receiving any redress from the government. He also had plenty of opportunity, weapons and years of experience tracking illegal immigrants.

“What's that?” She pointed to a white fleck way off in the distance.

He used the binoculars hanging around his neck to have a look, but his son answered before he could get them focused.

“She's talking about the water tank.”

Kevin nodded. “Yeah, that's a water tank. Some idiot put it out there, thinking he's saving lives. Instead, he's tempting more hapless souls into the desert.”

It was hot, more than a hundred degrees. Sophia couldn't imagine walking through the Sonoran Desert with less than a gallon of water, which was what most UDAs carried. “Why don't you take it down?”

James patted his horse's nose. “It's not on our land.”

She accepted the binoculars Kevin handed her; through them she could easily see the water tank. “Your neighbor put it out there?”

“Hell, no. That's federal land. It's someone who doesn't have a clue about what he's doing. Someone who doesn't worry about the garbage left behind. Someone who feels no responsibility to clean up the mess. Someone who might even provide a safe house for the ones who cross.”

“Those safe houses aren't cheap,” James chimed in. “They charge five dollars a night for nothing—a square
of cement to sleep on. Food and water are extra. That's a lot of money for the people who come through here.”

Kevin jumped in again. “You might think the guys who erect water tanks are being such humanitarians.” He laughed without humor. “In most cases, that isn't true at all. It's good old-fashioned self-interest at work. They want to make it easy for illegals to cross so they can sell them life's necessities.”

James waved his hand, which was gloved in leather. “It's a real racket.”

Sophia took the pictures of José and his wife from her pocket. She hadn't asked about them yet. She'd said she was here to talk about the border problem. She'd been trying to figure out just how much Kevin and his son hated illegal aliens. And they'd made that clear. They were so upset with UDAs they were happy to have someone listen to their complaints, even someone who couldn't do much about the problem except support politicians who promised tougher immigration enforcement. “Any chance you were out patrolling last Friday or Saturday night?”

James patted his horse's nose. “I did a cursory run. Didn't find anyone. But that doesn't mean they didn't come through. I do what I can, but I can't sit out here night after night. Why?”

“That's when these people crossed.” She showed Kevin the pictures. “I need to come up with a suspect, and I'm thinking those who saw them last might be able to help.” That included the border patrol agents who'd encountered them, if the Simpsons could help her narrow down which ones they were.

Kevin handed the photos to his son. “I
thought
that's why you dropped by.”

She knew they had to have considered it. “These victims bring the total to twelve.”

“Poor bastards,” James muttered.

Kevin took exception to his son's sympathy. “I don't feel sorry for them.” He climbed onto his horse. “They had no business breaking the law in the first place.”

Sophia squinted up at him. “We're talking about murder, Mr. Simpson. As bad as the situation may be, becoming a vigilante isn't the way to solve it.”

He stiffened in the saddle. “Which is why
I
haven't become a vigilante, Chief.”

She took the pictures back from James. “You have friends who are border patrol agents, isn't that right?”

“Most people in this area have friends in the CBP.”

“Since you and the agents are both trying to stop these people from breaking the law, you probably have more than most.”

“Maybe. I have enough interaction with them, I guess.”

“Have you heard any talk?”

Kevin squinted at her despite the shade provided by his hat. “What kind of talk?”

“About killing Mexicans. Bragging. Someone who seems to be losing it or is especially angry or bitter.”

“No. None.”

“You haven't noticed anything odd or unusual.”

Both men spoke at once. “No.”

“Would you tell me if you had?”

Kevin used a bandanna he pulled out of his pocket to mop the sweat from his forehead. “I'd like to say I would. But I'm guessing you'll ask the border patrol agents the same thing about us, and I'm hoping they don't see anything I've said or done as ‘unusual,' either. Besides, the
government's never been much help to me. I'm not sure I'd be too eager to bend over backward now that the shoe's on the other foot.”

“We're not talking about the government. We're talking about a very tense situation that could blow up in our faces.” Sophia turned to James. “What about you?”

“I haven't heard a thing, and have no idea who's killing these people. But…”

“But?” she echoed.

“I'd be lying if I said I wasn't glad
someone's
finally doing
something.
”

“Even if that something includes murder?”

“If people were punished for breaking the immigration laws, maybe we wouldn't have such a terrible problem to begin with.” He swung into the saddle and reached down to help her up behind him.

These men, who in most ways seemed like such decent, hard-working citizens, were definitely jaded by what they'd experienced. Were they really telling her everything they knew? “Who else should I talk to?”

Kevin merely shrugged and trotted on ahead of them.

But when they arrived at the ranch and James helped her down, he whispered, “Try Charlie Sumpter. He said he called the border patrol on a pretty big group that came through his property last weekend. He hates them as much as we do, especially since his best friend was murdered by illegals.”

“Last I heard, that hadn't been proven.”

“The poor guy had just called to say he'd stumbled upon a group of Mexicans and was found dead an hour later. Draw your own conclusions.”

Was that the start of all this? She couldn't picture
Charlie as dangerous, but she knew how he felt about UDAs, particularly after Byron Gifford's murder six months ago.

 

Leonard Taylor's trailer looked empty and probably was. It was midafternoon. Chances were he was at work.

Roderick stood on the landing and leaned over the railing to see through the kitchen window.

A cat jumped onto the counter, startling him, but that seemed to be the only movement—other than the dog chained up under a tree in a fenced-off section of yard. He'd been barking ever since Rod drove up.

“Shut up already,” Rod grumbled when the dog kept at it, and walked around to the back. He had no right to snoop, but he wasn't a cop, and that allowed him a little leeway. That leeway could get him into trouble, and did on occasion, but Milt was pretty good about bailing him out of jams. Rod was beginning to rely on it.

“Mr. Taylor? Anyone home?” He knocked at the back door, then tried the knob. Open. Taylor didn't have much worth stealing and, after losing his family, he obviously didn't care enough about what was left to bother protecting it.

From the looks of the trailer, anything of value had already been carted off by Mrs. Taylor. Leonard had an old TV he'd probably pulled out of some landfill, and a recliner that could've come from the same place. The rest of the furniture was gone. Pictures had been stripped from the walls, and area rugs had been taken off the floors, which was easy to tell because of the rectangles of cleaner carpet beneath. Instead of feeding the cat in a bowl, some
one had simply ripped open an entire bag of the dried stuff and left it spilling out on the linoleum.

“Wow, buddy. You're living in a world of hurt.” Rod picked his way through the mess. He was particularly interested in finding the “arsenal” Patrick had mentioned. He'd bet Mrs. Taylor hadn't taken her husband's guns.

Turned out he was right. In one bedroom wallpapered with pink roses—what had most likely been one of the daughters' rooms—Rod found a Czech .32-caliber pistol, a Rohm .22-caliber revolver, an F.I.E. model A27 .25-caliber pistol and a Ruger .22-caliber rifle sitting on the top shelf of the closet.

If Leonard was becoming as dangerous as it seemed, his wife had been smart to take the kids and get out.

After using his cell phone to snap a picture, Rod moved into the master bedroom. There, he saw a mattress lying on the floor, with clothes piled along the periphery. Even the shower was missing its curtain, but there was enough hair in the tub to suggest Leonard was using it.

“Pathetic.” With a grimace, he turned away from the filthy bathroom. He needed to leave. It was getting late enough that Leonard could show up at any moment—and he wasn't in a good mental state. But then a splash of red caught Rod's eye. Something was taped to the back of the bedroom door.

Closing it the rest of the way, Rod pulled out his cell phone again. He had to take a photograph of this. Chief St. Claire was staring back at him from a newspaper clipping. The headline below read Sophia St. Claire Named Chief of Police. Her lips were curved in a gorgeous smile. But that wasn't why he wanted to record what he'd found. Leonard or someone else had written with a red marker across her face:
Die, Bitch!

 

It was time for Rod Guerrero to realize he couldn't flout her authority simply because she was a woman.

Sophia thought about calling one of her officers in for backup. She would've felt more comfortable with reinforcements, even if they consisted of a twenty-three-year-old man who was probably a bit too gentle to be in law enforcement and a thirty-nine-year-old who'd come to the job later in life and was too heavy to run or fight. But, for some reason, it was important to her that she be able to solve this problem all by herself. He'd never respect her if she didn't. She'd never be able to respect herself, either, because this went deeper than just a pissing contest between her and an old classmate. She had to handle this little problem as decisively as any man. Maybe she didn't have Rod's brawn. But she had a brain, and she was going to use it to insure that she gained possession of the evidence he'd taken. If he refused to give it to her, she'd arrest him, but she hoped it wouldn't go that way.

There was only one small problem. While she was getting gas, she'd run into Stuart Dunlap, who'd been in the foulest mood she'd ever seen. He was complaining that his father had coaxed Rod (“the dirty bastard”) back to Bordertown for no good reason except that he'd been obsessed with him ever since Rod had become a Navy SEAL.