Deadeye (21 page)

Even though Ducey's comments weren't politically correct, Lee understood. Having written Haster's password on a scrap of paper, she sat at his computer and went to work. Lee was familiar with the general outlines of the case, having read some of Haster's stuff earlier.

But now she was reading the material with a completely different attitude. Rather than skimming, looking for potential connections to the Screed abduction, she was reading Haster's files the way a homicide detective would. As a result, she was paying attention to details such as
how
Rictor had been killed and
where
the body had been found. Both of which had been withheld from the news media as well as the dead man's family. Lots of police departments did that so they could use the information to sort suspects.

And the way Rictor had been killed was very unusual. His body had been found with an aluminum arrow sticking out of his chest. Specifically, a tan arrow with a nock made out of injection-molded polycarbonate. That made it a very sophisticated weapon, which had probably been manufactured in Pacifica or another high-tech enclave.

All of which was interesting but beside the point. The real so-what was the fact that Hermoza and his gang were all about killing people with firearms. Hermoza's .50 caliber handgun was an excellent example of that preference. So it seemed likely that the person or persons responsible for Rictor's death killed him for reasons that had nothing to do with Hermoza or the gang leader's wife. And those individuals might know who Tom-Tom was.

Then there was the matter of where the body had been found. And that was in a remote spot on the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Reservation located ten miles east of Phoenix. There were plenty of photos to look at, and as Lee swiped through them, she saw that the murder had taken place in front of an ancient Airstream trailer.

And, judging from where the body was found, it appeared that Rictor had been standing in front of the trailer when the arrow entered his chest. According to the coroner's report the “. . . arrow's trocar tip punched through the victim's sternum. Subsequent to impact, two stainless-steel blades were released. They cut grooves through internal organs, resulting in death. And, if the arrow hadn't been blocked by Mr. Rictor's spine, it would have exited through his back. That suggests that the arrow was fired by a very powerful bow.”

So, because the body had been found on an Indian reservation, it was tempting to hypothesize that a Native American had been responsible for Rictor's death. But Lee had taught herself to resist that sort of thinking. All sorts of people used bows for hunting—and all sorts of people had access to the reservation. Still, the murderer
could
have been a Native American, and the same possibility had occurred to Haster. That was why he had contacted the Salt River Police Department and requested assistance.

The SRPD had been created back in 1967 but had fallen on hard times since the plague, when more than half of the department's officers lost their lives. Now the once-proud department was down to three officers, who were forced to rely on support from the sheriff's department where serious crimes were concerned. And one of those policemen, a lieutenant named Bo-Jack, had been scheduled to meet with Haster the day
after
the Tecs attacked.

Lee made some calls, got the number she needed, and was able to reach Bo-Jack on his cell phone. After a brief conversation, they agreed to meet at three that afternoon.

Omo wanted to go but couldn't because of a hearing related to Hermoza's death. So Lee borrowed Omo's truck, performed a 360 on the vehicle, and set off for the reservation.

Lee's route took her up I-17 to I-10, and from there to 202. Lee kept an eye on the rearview mirror and took three random side trips in an effort to identify a tail if there was one. It was something she hesitated to do when Omo was present. He'd be willing, no doubt about that, but Lee saw the battle with the Bonebreaker as a personal problem. And something she didn't want to impose on her partner if she could avoid it.

Having failed to spot a tail, Lee returned to 202 and followed it to 87. That took her to the point where she could access the East Indian Bend Road. It was more of a track than a road and badly in need of maintenance. According to the instructions from Officer Bo-Jack, she was to follow the road west for 5.6 miles. After that, she was supposed to watch for the sign that read,
MINER'S CREEK
, and turn right on the next dirt road.

So Lee set the truck's trip meter to zero and drove into the heart of the reservation. The outside temperature was in the nineties by then—and the land was so desolate that she couldn't imagine how anyone could live there without modern amenities. But people had. And plants still did. As Lee bounced along, she saw stately saguaros, desert hackberry, and white thorn acacia on both sides of the track.

The terrain was anything but flat. As the four-by-four continued west, there were lots of hills and water-cut gullies to deal with. That, plus the washboardlike surface of the road, forced Lee to keep her speed down. And that raised an interesting question. What the hell was Rictor doing out on the Indian reservation to begin with? Maybe Officer Bo-Jack would be able to offer a theory.

Lee passed a dramatic outcropping of rock on the left and saw the barely legible
MINER'S CREEK
sign shortly after. The creek was dry, and she had to slow down to five miles per hour in order to lurch up and out of it. Then it was time to shift down into second as the truck bucked up and over the rise beyond.

The dirt road came up rather quickly thereafter, and as Lee made the turn, she could see fresh tire tracks up ahead. It looked as though Bo-Jack was on time, and she was grateful for that. After winding its way between some rock formations the trail came to an abrupt stop. The Airstream was there, along with some old mining equipment, and a clutch of three palm trees.

A four-wheel-drive truck similar to the one she was driving was parked off to one side and positioned to depart in a hurry if necessary. It had a winch, a light bar on the roof, and a whip-style antenna. The windshield was cracked, and the Salt River Police logo was mostly obscured by a thick layer of dirt.

Lee stopped, put the truck in park, and killed the engine. Her boots produced puffs of bone dry dust as her feet hit the ground. “You're a norm.” The voice came from behind Lee, and she was reaching for the Glock as she turned. The man had been able to approach her without making a sound. He raised his hands palm out. “Whoa . . . That was an observation. Not an insult. My name is Bo-Jack.” It sounded like a single word the way he said it.

Lee removed her hand from the Glock. Bo-Jack's skin was covered with slightly iridescent scales, and he was dressed western style. The outfit included a flat-brimmed black hat with a domed crown, a tee shirt that said
POLICE
across the front, jeans, and a pair of dusty cowboy boots. Bo-Jack didn't appear to be wearing a pistol. But he was carrying a knife in a cross-draw sheath. A five-pointed star was attached to a slider on his western-style belt. Lee nodded. “My name is Detective Lee . . . I work for the Los Angeles Police Department.”

Bo-Jack produced a boyish grin. “You're a long way from home, Detective Lee.
Why?
”

Lee gave him the short version. Amanda Screed had been kidnapped, and the trail led to Rictor. So, in an effort to get a lead on where she might be, Lee was looking into the trafficker's death. “I see,” Bo-Jack said. “How can I help?”

“Tell me what happened here and why.”

Bo-Jack shrugged. “I can tell you what
might
have taken place here . . . But there's no way to be sure.”

“Okay, tell me what
might
have taken place.”

“You read Haster's reports? And saw the photos?”

Lee nodded.

“Okay then . . . Based on evidence collected immediately after the crime, it looks like Rictor came out here to meet someone. Maybe he was in the trailer poking around when the other person arrived.”

“What makes you think it was only one person?” Lee asked.

Bo-Jack smiled tolerantly. “Tracks. When I arrived, there were two sets of vehicle tracks—plus a pattern of footprints consistent with the presence of two people.”

Bo-Jack was no fool. That was apparent from both his reasoning and the way he spoke. Lee nodded. “Okay . . . Thanks.”

“No problem. So maybe Rictor hears the other vehicle arrive and steps out of the trailer. Then the two of them had words. Or, maybe they
didn't
have words. It's possible that the killer planned to kill Rictor from the git-go. All he had to do was raise his bow, pull the string back, and let fly. Either way, the arrow hit Rictor in the chest. Meeting adjourned.”

Lee frowned. “Okay, let's say that's how it went down. Why were they here?”

Bo-Jack shrugged. “The most likely reason is a business meeting. Rictor was a gangbanger—but some people say he did deals on the side.”

Lee nodded. “That lines up with what we know.”

“So let's say he came out here to do a deal,” Bo-Jack said, “but it was a trap.”

By that time, Lee had the distinct impression that Bo-Jack was leading her somewhere. “Okay, I'll bite . . . Who would set such a trap? And why?”

“I don't know for sure,” Bo-Jack answered carefully, “but revenge is a distinct possibility. Rumor has it that Rictor snatched a girl off the reservation. A sweet young thing named Mary. Not to sell as a surrogate, since she was a mutant, but for the D-Dawgs to enjoy during a big party. Some say the D-Dawgs raped her so brutally that she suffered internal injuries. Then they dumped her next to Highway 87. That's where one of our tribal members found her. Mary told him about Rictor, about what had been done to her, and he rushed her to a hospital. She didn't make it.”

Lee stared at him. “Did you arrest Rictor?”

“No,” Bo-Jack said bitterly. “He had an airtight alibi. Six members of the D-Dawg gang swore that he was in Tucson that night. As for what the tribal member had to say, well, that was hearsay.”

Lee looked from Bo-Jack to his truck and back. “Would you mind if I take a look inside your vehicle?”

Bo-Jack produced the same little-boy smile she'd seen before. “No, ma'am . . . Help yourself.”

Lee could feel the sun biting into the back of her neck as she made the short journey to the truck. It was unlocked, and when she pulled the door open, she could see the rifle rack. It was hanging on the wire-mesh partition that separated the front from the back. The top slot was occupied by a scope-mounted military assault rifle. But below that, hanging on a second pair of hooks, was a compound bow. And dangling next to it was a tube half-filled with arrows.

Lee removed one of the shafts and turned it over in her fingers. If Bo-Jack murdered Rictor, which seemed quite likely, why use a bow? One possibility was that arrows weren't like bullets. It would be difficult if not impossible to match one to a particular bow and get that to stand up in court. But she could conceive of a second reason as well. Once the cause of death was known to the public, it would send a message: Kill someone from the reservation and expect to be killed in return. Lee turned and carried the arrow back to where Bo-Jack was waiting. “I'm no expert,” she said, “but this arrow looks identical to the one that killed Rictor.”

“It's similar,” Bo-Jack admitted, “but there are lots of those around. Numar is a popular brand out here. Their stuff is made in Pacifica.”

Lee could see the challenge in his icy blue eyes. She knew he was the one who had killed Rictor, he knew that she knew, and odds were that everyone on the rez knew too. And Lee didn't blame him. That was something everyone except his mother could agree on: Rictor needed to die.

“Thank you,” Lee said as she gave him the arrow. “One last question. A witness told us that Rictor sold Amanda to a man with two heads—which is to say a pair of conjoined twins collectively known as Tom-Tom. Do you know anyone like that?”

The surprise on Bo-Jack's face was plain to see. “You must be joking,” he said. “The Ebben twins would never do something like that.”

Suddenly, it was Lee's turn to be surprised. “So you know them?”

“Of course. Everyone on the rez knows the twins. They were born and raised here. They work for the Nickels Corporation.”

Lee frowned. “Maybe we're talking about different people—although Tom-Tom is a very distinctive name.”

“Could be,” Bo-Jack agreed. “Like I said, the twins I'm talking about were born here. Their father thought it would be funny to name both of them Thomas, so he did. They have different middle names, however. But you know how kids are . . . Whenever we referred to the twins as a unit, we called them Tom-Tom.”

“So you're the same age as the twins?”

“I'm two years younger.”

“But you like them.”

Bo-Jack nodded. “They built a medical clinic for the rez. We have our own doctors now—and that's a big deal.”

“So where do the Ebben twins live?”

“Down in Tucson,” Bo-Jack said. “That's where the Nickels Corporation is headquartered.”

“Thank you,” Lee said. “You've been very helpful. Take care, Officer Bo-Jack . . . Let me know if you visit LA. I'll buy you a beer.”

Bo-Jack brought the arrow up to the brim of his hat by way of a salute and watched her return to the truck. He was still there when Lee turned and drove down the road.

It was late afternoon by then, and Lee was grateful for the fact that she had some daylight left to work with. The road back to the freeway was bad enough during the day. Darkness would make it that much worse.

Once she was on 87, it was a simple matter to backtrack to Phoenix and Omo's home. The garage door opened when Lee pressed the remote, and she saw that the rent-a-wreck was inside.