Body Heat (15 page)

Determined to get moving, she scrambled to her feet and called Lindstrom to tell her about the meeting. Then she headed for the shower. But the phone rang before she could turn on the water, and caller ID showed her a number she couldn't resist. It was a number she'd called again and again and again—the one she'd found in José's sock.

“H
ello?”

The man on the other end of the line had the same strong accent Sophia had heard on his voice-mail recording. “You left me a message?”

“Yes. My name is Sophia St. Claire. I'm the chief of police here in Bordertown, Arizona. Who are you?”

“I'd rather not say.”

He didn't have papers. He was afraid she'd turn him in and he'd be deported. She was astonished he'd even called.

“You were trying to contact me about José Sanchez,” he said.

“Yes.”

“What about him? Has he done anything wrong?”

This man hadn't heard about the shootings. Which meant he hadn't been in recent contact with José's or Benita's families. Surely the Mexican consulate had notified them by now. “I'm afraid I have some very bad news.”

“They're dead?”

“Yes.”

“
That's
why I haven't heard from him.” The fatalistic note in his voice said he'd expected something terrible
like this. “How did it happen? Did they get lost? Run out of water?”

“They were shot and killed early Sunday morning.”

“By the border patrol?”

“No. It was a random act of violence. We're still looking for the perpetrator.”

“I promised him it would be okay,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“You encouraged him to cross?” she asked.

“He was already set on it. He wanted to bring his wife here. I told him I'd help him get a start.”

“So he was planning on meeting up with you?”

“He and his wife were going to live with me until he could get a job and they could move out on their own.”

She eyed the clock. The minutes were ticking by, but she couldn't risk asking if she could call this man back for fear he'd change his mind about talking to her. “Can you tell me anything that might help me track down the people they met along the way?”

“I recommended a good coyote. And I told them about a safe house in Bordertown.”

She'd found their coyote, so she focused on the other part of that statement. “I'd like to talk to the people who run that safe house. Can you tell me how to find it?”

“No. I don't dare.”

“I have no interest in shutting it down.” That wasn't her job. “I can't promise it won't happen, but I only want to find José and Benita's killer. I need your help in order to do that. I'm guessing you're a friend or a relative of some sort, right? So you want to see justice done. The person who killed your friends has killed before—ten other Mexican nationals. We have to stop him before he acts again.”

“
Pero
…I could get in trouble if I say too much. There are people who will be angry if I give out this information.”

“You're talking about the owners of the safe house?”

“
Sí.
I think it might be the Mexican Mafia. That's what they act like. Anyway, whoever owns it won't be happy that you know about it.”

She got the impression he'd done some work for the Mafia, maybe as a mule for drugs. Otherwise, he wouldn't have assumed they were affiliated with the safe house. “I'll say I found the address on José's body. They can't do anything to him now.”

He blew out a sigh. “You're asking me to be disloyal, to help the
policía.
”

“I'm not your adversary. I'm trying to solve José's and Benita's murders.”

Nothing.

“Do it for José,” she prodded.

Finally he responded. “It's at Wildflower and Dugan Drive—2944 Dugan Drive.”

“Thank you. Thank you for doing the right thing.”

“I hope you find the person who killed them. And I hope he goes to prison for the rest of his life.” A click sounded in her ear and he was gone.

 

First, Lindstrom. Now the Feds. Until the UDA shootings, Sophia had never joined forces with another police entity. This was only her second murder investigation. The first one had involved a jealous husband and a cheating wife. The evidence had been overwhelming and the husband had been apprehended shortly after leaving the scene.

Unfortunately, this case wasn't as easy. It was going
nowhere fast and becoming a political hot potato. On her way out of town, Sophia had spotted two different news vans, one at Bailey's Breakfast Dive and the other at the hardware store. Although she hadn't turned on her television set in more than a week, she was guessing that the national media had picked up on what had been reported in the local papers. They'd broken the story on a much bigger scale and were now swooping in to monitor developments. From here on out, they'd be attempting to scoop each other, and she'd be hounded constantly for more detail and commentary. Unlike some of the bigger police departments, she had no media-relations personnel. The buck stopped with her in every respect. And she felt the weight of it from the minute she arrived at the meeting and was introduced to the FBI agents.

“Chief St. Claire?”

Sophia blinked and refocused on Special Agent Charles Van Dormer, who sat across a large oak desk from her, Roderick, Lindstrom, Sean Carver and Glen Billerbeck, the other two FBI agents assigned to the task force. She'd already briefed them on everything she knew about the murders. Everything except the information she'd just received on the safe house. She wasn't quite sure she wanted to share that in mixed company, so to speak. Her desire to trust the FBI warred with her
dis
trust of Lindstrom, who was also part of the conversation. “Yes?”

“When you submitted the cigarette butt found at the last scene, did the state crime lab give you any indication of how long it would take to process?”

She shot a glance at Rod. When she'd entered the room, she'd purposely taken the seat farthest from him. Still, he'd been kind enough not to reveal that he'd found the butt
after
she'd finished processing the scene. She hadn't lied
about its discovery; she'd merely presented the information in a general way, talked about
what
was found instead of how and when. And he hadn't added any further detail.

“It's not at the state crime lab,” she said.

“Where is it?”

Rod cut in. “I recommended a lab I've worked with before, in San Diego.”

Van Dormer leaned back in his chair. “Who cleared that?”

Again, Rod answered. “No one. But it's a reputable lab. And they'll be much quicker.”

“If you didn't get clearance, it might be hard to get the state to pick up the tab.”

“I'll pay the tab,” he said.

“Suit yourself.” Van Dormer shrugged; then he began to discuss the various ways in which he wanted to support the investigation. He talked about canvassing gun shops and pawn shops and, for that, Sophia was grateful. Going from location to location would take a lot of man-hours she didn't have.

“We won't leave a single stone unturned. We'll find the bastard who's doing this, and we'll make him pay,” Van Dormer said.

One of the other agents brought up the ranchers again, which they'd already discussed.

“It could easily be a rancher,” Van Dormer agreed. “Which is why I want every landowner between Bordertown and Mexico interviewed, too.”

As the meeting progressed, Sophia pretended not to notice the hostility of Lindstrom's icy glare. But while the others were busy getting out an assessor's map, Lindstrom scooted closer.

“Cigarette butt? You told me you found spent shell
casings,” she muttered. “You never mentioned a cigarette butt.”

Because
she
hadn't found it; Rod had. And her knowledge of its existence had occurred after she'd last spoken with Lindstrom. But she couldn't admit that without revealing that she'd missed an important piece of evidence, something she wasn't eager to volunteer, especially to Lindstrom, who was keeping a running log of her shortcomings and missteps. “I wasn't sure it would tell us anything,” she said. “I'm still not.”

“You're
unreal.
You know that?”

There was no time to respond. Van Dormer had the map spread out on his desk. If she continued to talk she'd only call attention to their little side conversation.

“Who owns this parcel?” he asked, pointing.

Sophia immediately recognized the property. She'd used a similar map, pored over it so many times that she knew the information by heart. On her map, she'd marked the locations of the murders, and she'd measured the distance between them in an attempt to do some rudimentary geographic profiling. She didn't have any training in that area, but she'd thought seeing one crime scene in relation to another might tell her
something.

Unfortunately, it hadn't. Except that the killer was keeping his work inside the city limits. And each kill was about three miles from the one before. The triangle formed when she connected the dots encompassed most of the town. She'd already guessed the perpetrator lived close by.

“That piece belongs to Kevin and Alma Simpson,” she volunteered. “They're cattle ranchers. They have a son, James, who lives with them. I went out there a few days ago.”

“And? What did they have to say?” Van Dormer asked.

Sophia actually liked the SAC. Thanks partly to the way FBI agents were often portrayed on TV, she'd expected someone who was bland and homogenous, if not arrogant and stuffy. But Van Dormer wasn't any of those things. Maybe ten years older than she was, he had gray hair at his temples, nice hazel eyes and a strong jaw and chin. Not only was he handsome, he seemed capable, professional and easy to work with. But
anyone
would be an improvement over Lindstrom.

The other FBI agents weren't so attractive. Sean had considerably more gray hair, a paunch that wasn't hidden by his suit and short, stubby legs. Glen was tall and skinny with a dated tie, a bad haircut and acne scars. They all wore wedding rings.

“The Simpsons hate UDAs,” Sophia said. “And they make no secret of it. They even have a blog to try and impact public opinion on the issue of tougher immigration enforcement. I can give you the URL, in case you'd like to take a look at it.”

He shoved a piece of paper toward her so she could write it down. “Do you think they hate illegals enough to start killing them?”

“It's possible. Or maybe one member of the family's snapped and decided to do something drastic to protect the other two from the threats they perceive.”

“If you had to pick one, who would it be?”

This surprised Sophia. He wasn't asking her for hard evidence. He knew if she had any, she would've presented it already. He was asking for her opinion—as if he valued
it despite her lack of experience working big cases like this one.

Remembering Kevin Simpson's callous responses when she'd mentioned the victims, Sophia had no trouble deciding on her answer. “The father. He's grown tired of the situation and has no empathy for the illegal immigrants. He acts like they're not even human.”

“Good to know. Instinct counts for a lot in police work.” He pointed to another spot on the map. “What about this parcel?”

“That's Charlie Sumpter's place,” she said. “I've been trying to reach him but can't get a response.”

“I know Charlie,” Roderick put in. “He was a friend of my father's, used to come by the ranch quite a bit.”

Sophia could tell the word
father
left a bitter taste in Rod's mouth, but he'd used it for ease of explanation.

“He's probably in Wyoming.” Rod went on. “From the bits and pieces I overheard as a child, he used to go there for several weeks every summer.”

“Not anymore.” Sophia's gaze had automatically moved to Rod, since he was the one speaking, but the sight of him with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles and one elbow slung over the back of his chair reminded her of what'd happened at her house an hour and a half earlier. So she directed her attention to Van Dormer instead.

“He's gotten too old for that,” she continued. “I'm guessing he's with his daughter and her family in Yuma. When I bumped into him at the café not too long ago, he mentioned planning to see her over the summer. He said he can't handle Wyoming anymore but felt he could manage driving someplace that's only a few hours away. I didn't get the impression that he'd be gone for an extended visit, so he should be back soon.”

“Any idea how he feels about UDAs?”

“Ever since that rancher near Portal was killed—apparently by an illegal alien—he's been pretty vocal about his hatred.” Sophia had heard him spouting off plenty of times, but it had seemed harmless enough, a reaction to the loss of a friend. “He and the victim were close. They went to the same school when they were young, at least for a few years, and became lifelong friends.”

“Then he's someone to watch,” Van Dormer said.

The SAC pointed out several more parcels, and Sophia gave him the owner information. She'd talked to almost all the ranchers in the past six weeks, including Charlie, but now that there were new victims, they needed to be interviewed again.

“Are you considering calling someone in to do behavioral profiling?” she asked when he'd split up the workload by geographic area and given them their assignments.

“I'm not a strong believer in that,” he admitted. “Unless you know quite a bit about a killer or he has a very unique signature, it can mislead as much as it can help. But—” he rubbed his chin as if deep in thought “—maybe. Let's get what's out there already and meet again day after tomorrow.”

They arranged a time. Then everyone stood. Sophia had her assignment and was about to leave without mentioning the safe house. She didn't want Lindstrom leaking word of it to Leonard, or at least not before she could visit there. She preferred to call Van Dormer about the house and its location. Except then she'd have to explain why she hadn't shared it with the group, and telling him that Lindstrom might have a conflict of interest could make her look paranoid, petty or both.