Body Heat (16 page)

No, she had to risk speaking to everyone. She just hoped
the FBI's involvement would keep Lindstrom honest. “One last thing,” she said.

All eyes turned her way.

“I received a call from someone at that number I found on the body of José Sanchez.”

Van Dormer stopped folding the map he'd been trying to wrangle into submission.

“He wouldn't reveal his identity,” she added. “But he told me about a safe house in Bordertown where José and Benita were supposed to spend the night.”

“And you didn't bring this up until
now?
” Lindstrom snapped. “I mean, having you part of this isn't going to work if you keep holding out on everybody.” She looked at Van Dormer. “She does this with everything. She didn't even tell me about the cigarette butt, and we've been working together for a month.”

Van Dormer frowned at Lindstrom, revealing that he wasn't too impressed with her waspish reaction. So Sophia figured less was better and didn't respond to the accusation. “It might be owned by the Mexican Mafia.”

“What makes you think so?” Van Dormer asked.

“That's what my informant believes.”

“Have you pulled up the deed?”

“I did. The owner of the house is listed as a limited partnership—Cochise Partners—but it could be backed by the Mafia.”

Paper crinkled again as he finished with the map. “You know your town better than anyone else, Chief St. Claire. What do you suggest we do?”

“I'd like to go there tonight. See what I can learn. Someone was expecting José and Benita, knew when they were due to arrive. I'd like to find out where that person was at the time of the killings. There's even the possibility that
certain details or suspicions about the murderer are circulating underground. If we could tap into what's being said on the Mexican side, we might come up with additional details.”

“I agree,” he said. “But…you plan to do this alone?”

“I think that would be the least threatening and most effective approach. I—”

Rod interrupted. “No way.”

Glancing up to see him towering over her, Sophia placed her hands on her hips. “Excuse me?”

“You are far too white and far too female for that job.”

“You think it should fall to you.”

“In short, yes.”

Van Dormer didn't get involved. His eyes shifted to her as if awaiting her answer. “But I came up with this lead,” she said.

“I don't care,” Rod responded. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it might be?”

“I'll have my Glock.”

“The possession of which could get you killed quicker than anything else. They won't let you through the front door with it.”

“Then I'll stand on the porch.”

He indicated the tattoo extending several inches below the short sleeve of her uniform shirt. “What, you think you're going to flash that tattoo and they'll believe you're tough?”

“This has nothing to do with size or gender or—or toughness.”

“Sure it does! They won't respect you, won't be willing to give you the information you need, because they won't fear you. If you think American culture can be sexist, you
haven't seen anything until you've experienced Mexican machismo.”

“I know. I'm experiencing it now,” she said. “But it's not as if you look all that Mexican. There are white people with tans as dark as you.”

“So what? At least I speak Spanish. Do you?”

Divulging the truth would put her at even more of a disadvantage, so she began to hedge. “Enough to handle what needs to get done.”

“That's a no.” He turned to Van Dormer. “Obviously, I'm the right candidate for this assignment. Not only am I fluent and more capable of blending in, I'm better prepared to defend myself with or without a weapon.”

Sophia stepped forward. “As a man, you'll be perceived as more of a threat.”

Van Dormer pinched his lips as he decided between them. “Let him do it,” he said at length.

Sophia glanced from the SAC to Rod. These men didn't understand. She didn't want to hide behind them. Her experience in Naco had empowered her, made her feel she could hold her own in any situation. And she
wanted
to prove it. Maybe then her detractors would shut up and quit waiting for her to blow it so they could take her job.

“She won't go along with it,” Lindstrom interjected. “She invites danger. She went into Naco
alone
a few nights ago.”

Sophia had finally had enough of Lindstrom. “And I got the information I went after. Information you were too scared to pursue. What's wrong with that?”

Lindstrom's nostrils flared as if she had a quick retort on the tip of her tongue, but Van Dormer held up his hands. “I don't care if you two like each other or not.
Make this easy on the rest of us and figure out a way to get along, huh?”

“What if I go with
Mr.
Guerrero?” Sophia emphasized his title to convey that he actually had no rank, no business being involved in the first place.

“There's no need for both of you to take that risk,” he said and turned away.

 

Rod tried to catch Sophia before she left. He knew Lindstrom's type, knew she'd been difficult to work with and didn't want Sophia to assume he'd be the same. It was just that he felt strongly about keeping her away from the safe house, especially if there was any chance it was owned by members of the Mexican Mafia, who had no compunction about killing whenever and wherever they wanted.

But she'd turned on her heel and stalked out, and Van Dormer had stopped him to ask a few questions about his background and experience. By the time he'd been free to jog out of the building, she was already on her motorcycle with the engine running.

“Hey, where's your helmet?” he called. Sounding like a bossy parent wasn't the best way to convince her he wasn't a pain in the ass, but he was afraid that was all he'd get in before she took off. He'd heard of too many accidents to feel comfortable having her on the road without that protection. One of his good friends had died in a motorcycle accident. And he knew she owned a helmet. He'd seen it on the seat of her motorcycle earlier, when he'd visited her house, which suggested she normally used it. The fact that she wasn't wearing it today told him she'd been upset before she'd even left the house.

“Are you talking to
me?
” she shouted, then revved the engine, drowning out his response.

He'd never known a person her size who could handle such a big motorcycle, but she seemed skilled enough. “Why are you mad? You know I'm the better candidate to visit that safe house,” he yelled, trying to make himself heard.

With a shake of her head, she put on her sunglasses and raised the kickstand. “Sorry, I can't hear you,” she said, and drove off.

Rod considered jumping in his car and going after her. She had no reason to be so angry. Maybe he'd embarrassed her earlier when he'd pushed the shirt incident too far, but it wasn't as if she hadn't done worse to him. He'd stood in front of her with his hands cuffed behind his back.

So why did he feel so frustrated, so intent on trying to improve her opinion of him?

He pulled out his keys, but didn't move toward his car. The detective from the sheriff's office had just appeared.

“Too bad she's on the case,” Lindstrom grumbled. “She's trouble.”

If not for the uniform, she'd
look
like trouble riding that Harley with her shades and tattoo sleeve. “You don't approve of her?”

“She bristles too easily. Won't let anyone get close to her.”

Sophia was sensitive and high-strung. But Rod sort of liked her mercurial nature. He couldn't always guess what she was thinking, or what she might do next. Who would've thought she'd actually lift her shirt for him?

“She seems to have an aversion to you, too,” he mused.

“I don't understand why. I've done everything I possibly can to get along with her.
I
can't help it if she's not cut out for police work.”

Rod bristled a little himself. “How do you know she's not cut out for it?”

“You heard her. She thinks she should be able to waltz into that safe house and get her own answers.”

“She's got guts. You have to give her that.”

“No, I don't. She's
crazy.
This case would already be solved if we were dealing with someone like Leonard Taylor instead of her.”

If she thought that, she had no clue how long an investigation like this could take. But he didn't react to her inane statement. He was too busy remembering the newspaper article on the back of Leonard Taylor's door. “You're a friend of Leonard's?”

“I grew up hanging out with his sister. It's a shame what the powers that be allowed her to do to him.”

“And what, exactly, was that?”

“You haven't heard? She manufactured some testimony to discredit him, then took his job.”

“His sister told you that?”

“Everyone knows it,” she said.

“Everyone except Rosita Flores.”

She shaded her eyes against the glare of the sun and looked up at him. “Who?”

“The Mexican woman he threatened to hand over to the border patrol if she didn't let him take advantage of her.”

Lindstrom frowned. “Have you ever met this woman?”

The question took him by surprise. “No.”

“I didn't think so,” she said with a superior smile, and pressed the button that would unlock her car.

H
er stepfather was still at the feed store, but so was one of his workers. It wasn't Gus; it was Tony, a kid of nineteen.

Having changed into a white tank top and a pair of jeans now that her meeting with the FBI was over, Sophia sat at the back of the parking lot on her motorcycle, feeling the sun bake the skin on her bare arms. She was waiting for Tony to leave. She knew her stepfather always closed, since he didn't trust anyone else to handle the day's receipts.

He'd be by himself soon. But would she have the nerve to confront him? She preferred to forget what had happened, to sweep it into the dark corners of her mind, as she'd been doing for fourteen years.

But if he had a nude picture of her in his possession, she had to make sure it got destroyed.

Wally Deloit, the only customer left, judging by the lack of cars in the lot, spotted her as he came out the back of the store. “Hey, Chief,” he said with a wave. “What's going on?”

“Not a lot, Wally. How are you?”

“Hot. I'm about ready to become one of them snow-birds who just live in Arizona for the winter.”

The screen on the door slammed shut. Tony had come out with hay hooks so he could load a bale of hay into the back of Wally's pickup. He waved, too, but didn't stop to talk. Gary wouldn't let him socialize while he was on the clock. Despite her stepfather's other weaknesses, he was good at business. He'd turned a feed store that was barely getting by into a solid success. The local paper had done a big write-up on him not long ago.

“You won't like leaving for months at a time,” she told Wally. “This place is in your blood.”

“You're probably right.” He pulled a handkerchief from one of his pockets and mopped the back of his neck. “Any news on those murders?”

“Not yet. But I'm working on it.”

“You seen all them news trucks around town? Leland Jennings and his mother over at the Mother Lode are loving it. The motel's filled up. First time they've had the No-Vacancy sign on in ages. But I can't say I like having to wait for a table at the café when I've never had to wait before.”

So far, Sophia had managed to duck the news crews. Several had stopped by the station. Joe Fitzer, the officer on duty until her shift started at eight, had called to alert her. But they hadn't tracked her down yet. They were just figuring out the characters in this drama and, out of uniform, she hardly looked like the chief of police, especially when she was riding her Harley.

“I'm planning to solve it as quickly as possible so they can all go home,” she said as Tony finished loading the hay and went inside.

Wally grinned at her. “I believe you'll do that, Chief. Yes, I do. You'll show this town what you're made of.”

She flashed him a smile of gratitude for his support as
he got in his truck and left. Then she was alone near the row of tractors and backhoes her stepfather rented out in conjunction with his feed-store business.

Seeking relief from the heat, she climbed off her bike and went to stand beneath the overhang, where there was a strip of shade.

Fifteen minutes later, Tony came out with a spring in his step that signaled he was off work. Her bike was still in the lot, parked not far from his truck, but he didn't seem to notice it or her. He was preoccupied with placing a call on his cell phone. She was preoccupied herself, too stressed to take on the burden of being polite, so she said nothing.

After he drove off, she fidgeted for another few minutes, trying to gather her nerve. Then she went into the store.

Her stepfather was busy counting out the till. He turned when he heard footsteps behind him and smiled, but wariness entered his eyes, and his posture revealed surprise. She never came by after hours. If she visited at all it was by order of her mother—to pick up some hay for Anne's horse or drop off a sack lunch. Even those visits were rare.

“Afternoon.” His voice was casual but his smile seemed a little forced.

Stopping a few feet away, she jumped into her purpose in coming. “I have a question to ask you.”

He looked down at the money in his hands, then put it back in the till. Her tone indicated this would not be an easy question to answer; she could see him mentally preparing.

“No problem. I can take care of this later.” He closed the drawer. “What's on your mind?”

“I'd like to see your wallet.”

He blinked. “My
what?
”

“Your wallet. Will you hand it over?”

“Is this a holdup?” he joked, but she didn't crack a smile. The butterflies in her stomach made her feel nauseated. She was so afraid she'd see a picture of herself in his possession—a picture of her at sixteen or seventeen without any clothes—that she was having a difficult time keeping her voice from shaking. “I'm serious.”

His eyebrows came together. His reaction seemed genuine, but he was
such
a good liar. She couldn't trust his protestations of innocence. He'd lied to her face before—told Anne he'd never been in her bedroom, let alone tried to touch her.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Yes. And I think you know what it is.”

He hesitated, obviously searching for answers he couldn't find. Finally he shook his head. “I'm afraid I don't.”

“Gus told Leonard you have a picture of me in your wallet.”

The confusion didn't clear entirely, but he seemed somewhat relieved. “I do. It's getting a bit tattered after so many years, but it's of all three of us.” He pulled out his wallet and showed her. “It's from Christmas that last year you were living at home, remember?”

Even though he was holding it out to her, she barely glanced at it. “That's not the one I'm talking about.”

He dropped his hand. “I don't have any others, Sophia. I don't know how Gus could say what I carry in my wallet, anyway. It's not something I leave lying around.”

She wasn't sure how Gus knew, but she had to see if
Leonard was right. “I—I need to look through it myself.
Please.
”

Surprisingly, he passed it to her.

She went through every compartment, even searched for secret nooks and crannies but found nothing. Her stepfather had some cash, a few receipts, several credit cards—what most men carried in their billfolds. But the only picture she could find was the one he'd already shown her.

Sophia would've been relieved, except there had to be
some
reason Leonard had said what he did. Had there been a picture that had since been removed? Or was Leonard trying to stir up trouble between her and her mother, between her and her stepfather, and between her and the people who'd been in her corner since the scandal involving Rosita broke?

“What's going on?” Gary asked as she returned his wallet.

She bent over so the blood would reach her head.

“Sophia?”

“Like I told you,” she mumbled, staring at the floor, “Gus claims he's seen a picture of me in your wallet.”

“It was probably this one—”

She didn't look up. She didn't want to see his expression when she told him why she was so upset. “No, in this photo I'm naked.”

“
What?
That doesn't make sense.”

It would to anyone who understood his true nature. But his wife had protected him from exposure, had stood by him at the expense of her relationship with her daughter. How—and why—was Leonard coming up with this all of a sudden?

Gary shoved his billfold back in his pocket. “When did Gus tell you this?”

“He didn't tell me. He told Leonard Taylor at the Firelight last night.”

“Wait—that can't be true. Maybe Gus hangs out at the bar, but he wasn't there last night. He's in Flagstaff, attending a real-estate seminar. He thinks he's going to open his own office someday. I've been shorthanded for the past three days because of it.”

She straightened. “What did you say?”

“I said Gus is out of town. He couldn't have been at the Firelight yesterday.”

She felt her fingernails curve into her palms. “So where the hell is Leonard getting his information?”

“No idea. I've never had a picture like that. Where would I even get one?”

Cursing under her breath, she pivoted and started out, but he stopped her.

“Sophia?”

She paused, one hand on the screen door.

“I'm sorry that we remember what happened when you were living at home so differently.”

She knew better than to take the conversation any further, knew better than to ask. But she couldn't help herself. “How do
you
remember it, Gary?” she asked, whirling around to face him.

“As being what it should be,” he said. “Maybe not
idyllic.
But I was a good provider and—”

“What happened between us has nothing to do with
providing,
and you know it.”

“But I never meant you any harm! I was just trying to love you, to be demonstrative. It wasn't as if you were
getting any hugs or…or affection from your father.” He spread out his hands. “And this is what I get for it?”

His feigned innocence conjured up instant rage. Had he admitted to what he'd done and taken responsibility for it, even privately, she might've been able to forgive him. But he was attempting to rewrite history, to erase his actions altogether. And he was doing it by making
her
the liar, which invalidated all the pain, the fear and the insecurity he'd caused her.

“You didn't do anything because I wouldn't let you get away with it,” she said. “But don't think I'll ever forget how hard you tried.” She slammed the screen door as she went out.

“Sophia, come on.” He stood by the door and held it open. “This grudge of yours—it's killing your mother.”

She faced him again. “So now what happened is
my
fault?”

“I'm not saying that.” He switched to a conciliatory tone. “I'm just saying…let it go, okay? I'm tired of you trying to make me look bad. It wasn't that big a deal.”

How dare he try to minimize what he'd done or make himself out to be the victim! “I believed you were carrying around a picture of me
naked.
That's how big a deal it was,” she said, and got on her bike.

Needing some time alone, some time to deal with the emotions pouring through her and the memories the confrontation had called up, she started her motorcycle and tore out of the lot, hoping for a few minutes of quiet solitude at home.

But as soon as she hit Center Street, a news van began to tail her.

 

Driving downtown, Rod tried to put Sophia out of his mind. He was officially on the case, under the vague title
of “consultant.” And Special Agent Van Dormer had, for the most part, taken charge, so Rod didn't need Sophia's acceptance and cooperation as much as he'd needed it before.

Yet he was still thinking about her.

When he saw her in the parking lot of Denny's surrounded by reporters, he nearly stopped his car. With the dust and the heat, that ring of vans reminded him of a rodeo. She was the calf in the center, being hog-tied. Sophia had been expecting the pressure; they'd discussed it at the meeting—what to say and what not to say should one of them be cornered by a reporter—but she didn't seem comfortable despite being prepped. She kept edging away from them, trying to return to her bike.

Tempted to rescue her, he let his Hummer idle at the next light so long the vehicle behind him honked.

She's fine.
He drove on. Considering the dynamics of their relationship, he should keep out of it. She'd been hell on his ego once before. Why ask for a second helping? Besides, she was part and parcel of this town, a town he was as determined to leave behind now as he'd been fourteen years ago.

Because Van Dormer had asked them to tape their interviews, he pulled into the drugstore lot, parked and went in to see if they had any voice recorders—and nearly bumped into Edna, who was just coming out.

“Excuse me.” He held the door open, as he would for any woman, but averted his gaze so he wouldn't have to look at his father's wife, a woman who wore vast amounts of makeup and owned an extensive wardrobe.

Much to his chagrin, she didn't simply accept his polite gesture and go on her way. “That's all you've got to say to me?”

He clenched his jaw. Apparently, the Dunlaps weren't as willing to ignore him as he was them. “What else do you want?”

“Bruce says you'll be staying with us next week. I would think you could at least
greet
me.”

What was his father doing? He had no plans to stay at the ranch, and he'd made that very clear. He figured this had more to do with a power play between the two of them than whether or not he was ever going to become a houseguest.

Rod hated to weaken his father's position; Edna didn't deserve the relief the truth would bring her. But he wasn't about to get drawn into their games. “Fortunately, your husband's wrong. I won't be staying with you. Ever. Why would I want to?”

The relief he'd expected didn't appear. “How long will you be in town?”

Physically, Patrick took after Bruce, but Stuart resembled his mother. They had the same broad, determined forehead and fathomless gray eyes. Edna had been pretty enough once. She still tanned herself and spent plenty of time doing all the things women liked to do—having her hair and nails done and whatever else. But she was already becoming a mere shadow—or maybe a caricature—of what she'd been in her glory days. Her cheeks drooped like jowls, and her chin seemed to disappear into her neck.

“If I keep my distance, what does it matter?” he asked.

“Can you really be that uncaring? You must understand how difficult it is for me and my children to have my…my husband's…well, you know what you are, showing up all over town, inviting speculation and gossip. Ever since you
arrived, I've had to hear about it from just about everyone I know.”