Текст книги "The Survivors Club"

Автор книги: J. Black

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CHAPTER 4

Orchard Apartments near Rio Rico was a two-story tan stucco, faded with age. The only landscaping was two spindly agaves ringed with cement blocks. The blacktop edged up to the wild yellow grassland that seemed to take over everything in sight. A large banner had been tied across part of the second story with the legend: MOVE-IN SPECIAL $499 A MONTH – FURNISHED. Across the road was a convenience store, and beyond that, a Motel 6.

Tess met Danny there midmorning. He’d already been up in the Atascosas, driving around talking to potential witnesses.

“You canvassed the whole area?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How’d it go?”

“I made it back to the car alive, so I’d have to say it was a success.”

Danny liked to joke but this time he was serious.

“That bad?”

“It’s like Blade Runnerout there.” He added, “If you’re going to Credo, check them out—I wanna know what you think.”

He looked at the apartments and grimaced. “What’s a retired cop who won the lottery doing living in a dump like this?”

“He gave most of the money to the Humane Society,” Tess reminded him.

“Bet his daughter liked that.”

They’d had to wait for a warrant, so it was midmorning by the time they reached the apartments. Danny rousted the apartment manager from her desk and followed her as she scuttled down the walkway to his door. She’d taken note of their badges and Tess could tell she wanted to ask questions, but Danny just thanked her and closed the door behind them.

They gloved up and started looking around. At first, Tess folded her arms under her armpits and looked at everything without touching.

George Hanley was a neat man. A bachelor’s two-cup coffeemaker sat on the counter, lined up with the toaster. Issues of gun and fishing magazines were stacked neatly on the veneered-oak side table by the chair. Everything in the bathroom was lined up on shelves with military precision. Clean towels, spotless floors.

Tess noticed this because she did the same thing.

Danny took the kitchen while Tess took the bedroom. Again, she looked at everything, taking mental snapshots of the room layout and contents.

Next, she checked the desk by the sliding-glass door in his bedroom. The sun poured in, throwing a lozenge of light on the carpet. The desk top was completely clean, except for a jar of pens and pencils. She went through the desk drawers and found the usual stuff—from Post-its to a stapler to erasers and other detritus that didn’t warrant being seen in the open.

A MacBook Pro laptop sat on the bedside table. Tess called out to Danny. He came in.

He whistled. “Could be a goldmine,” he said.

“If we get it to forensics soon—”

“It’ll probably be a week before they get to it. They’re backed up, what with Guzman.”

The Guzman case was a big one. Several members of a prominent Nogales family had been gunned down during a wedding. The patriarch, Alejandro Guzman, owned several legitimate businesses and was a household name in Nogales for thirty years. But it was widely known that he played both sides of the street. He’d been careful to keep his illicit operations separate from his sweet old grandfather image. But he’d laundered money for the Alacrán.

It had caught up with him in March, when he was shot once through the eye and once through the heart as he toasted his daughter’s wedding.

“They just confiscated about a dozen racehorses,” Danny said. “They’re gonna be busy for a while.”

“Probably,” Tess said. Welcome to the Arizona-Mexico border.She looked at the laptop. She was gloved. The laptop was exactly like her own. She could open the lid, fire it up, and take a look.

Danny hung back in the doorway. They looked at each other.

“I guess we bag it and hope for the best,” Tess said.

“Probably has a password.”

“Yeah.”

“Crap.”

“Double crap with a cherry on top.”

“A fucking crap flambé.”

They both laughed at that.

“I’m gonna go back to his pantry,” Danny said. “Guy must have bought out Costco.”

Hanley had a four-drawer file cabinet. Folders were neatly marked with his credit card bills—one Visa and one American Express card—and several folders holding information on what appeared to be old crimes. Newspaper clippings and printouts, mostly, some of him at homicide scenes. Hanley was meticulous in his filing system. Tess also noticed he held no balance on his credit cards, paying in full every month. She found his rental agreement and a number of other business records. Tess photographed them all in situ and then stacked them and put them in the evidence box she’d brought.

George Hanley was a deliberate man.

She looked through the wall calendar and saw a few notations.

“Danny, check this out.”

Danny ducked his head in. “What?”

She motioned to the calendar. “Nice handwriting. What is that? The Palmer Method? My dad wrote like that.”

One on April 8, with the notation: “finance adv.”

“Financial advisor?” Danny said.

Another notation at the end of April: “SABEL.”

“What’s that?” Danny asked.

Tess typed the letters into her phone and got the answer. “Southern Arizona Buffelgrass Eradication League. Says here it’s a group ‘dedicated to ridding southern Arizona of a highly flammable invasive species of grass.’”

“Jesus. That’s a mouthful.”

“He must have belonged to the group.” Tess photographed the calendar and then took it down. They went through each month, Danny peering over her shoulder.

There were several notations. In January, there was a line across three days and the word “Conference.” In May, another line through three days, and the notation, “LA.” And under that, “look at wading pool.”

“Wading pool?” Danny looked at Tess. “You think…?”

“I dunno.”

“Hey, I know he’s old, but they say that never goes away. You think he was hanging out around the city wading pool trolling for kids?”

“It could mean anything. Maybe he has grandkids, and he was planning on buying them a wading pool for Christmas.”

“Do Pat and Bert have kids?”

Something else to ask them.

Their search went downhill from there. They switched rooms. Now Tess took the living room and kitchen and Danny took the bedroom, bathroom, and linen closet.

The first thing Tess saw was a dog’s water bowl and dish, both empty and sitting in the kitchen sink. “He had a dog?” she called to Danny.

“Looks like it. He’s not here now.”

Tess called the Scofield residence and Bert answered.

“Your father-in-law has a dog.”

“Adele. I took her to the pound this morning.”

“This morning?”

“I picked her up last night.”

Before the crime scene tape went up. “That was quick.”

“I couldn’t leave her there. She was my responsibility.”

“And you took her to the pound today?” Tess was hardly ever surprised at the things people did. Still, this was cold.

Bert must have sensed her disapproval, because he said, “Pat’s allergic to dogs. I don’t know what you think we should have done.”

Then he disconnected.

Tess looked at the bowls sitting in the sink, and thought how fortune can change at a moment’s notice. One minute the dog had an owner who apparently adored her. The next, she was in the dog pound, facing death.

Tess hadn’t liked the Scofields before. Now she disliked them even more.

Danny was in the hallway. “What was that?”

“Bert took Hanley’s dog to the pound.”

“Oh? That was quick.”

It wasn’t her job to like the survivors of a homicide. Her job was to serve justice.

Her job was to get the bad guys. As she stepped out onto the walkway for some air, a cool breeze hit. Down at the far end of the building, she saw a young man holding a bag of trash coming down the steps. He headed out across the parking lot to the Dumpster.

Nobody heard or saw anything. Some people had known Hanley to say “hi” to, but he was so recent to the apartments that he had made little, if any, impression.

Tess stared out at the freeway, trying to figure out what an old man like George Hanley would have to do with drug runners or coyotes.

Thirty rounds fired from a rifle—probably an AK-47, the weapon of choice for all of them—Sinaloa, Alacrán, Zetas, the Javelinas—and he’d been shot from five feet away.

Why use so much firepower on an old man?

“So, what you think, guera?”

“You know what it looks like.”

Danny nodded.

The killer or killers had left footprints—mostly sneaker prints, called “running w’s” because of the tread. There had been no attempt to cover up the footprints, because whoever killed Hanley didn’t care. Whoever killed Hanley had left the casings—all thirty of them—because he didn’t care.

He wasn’t covering up anything.

In fact, it was just the opposite.

Whoever did this appeared to be making an example of George Hanley. Everything played into that—the thirty rounds, the spent casings, the footprints all over the place, and God knew, there were probably fingerprints, too—somewhere. More than that, there was the duct tape on George Hanley’s mouth—to shut him up.

Don’t talk.A message.

“What do you think about the duct tape?” Tess asked Danny.

Danny kept his eyes forward, tracking the tractor-trailer rigs slowing down on the freeway for the exit. Their engines growling through the gears. “My guess, the guy put it on him after he was dead.”

Tess agreed. She thought the tape had been affixed to Hanley’s mouth as an exclamation point.

“I think the guy who killed him was ready for him,” Danny added. “Maybe caught him by the doorway and walked toward him, shooting.”

That was how Tess saw it, Hanley being pushed back by the hail of bullets and falling into the wall of the ruin.

Then whoever killed Hanley drove his car to a ravine a half mile down the road from the ghost town, rolled it to the edge, pushed it over, and torched it. Accelerant had been used. Tess made a note to ask any ranchers or squatters in the neighborhood if they saw the fire the night before. No one had called it in, but the people around here minded their own business.

The object of this kind of killing was to terrorize. But who was there to terrorize in this situation?

George Hanley was a retired cop who owned a dog and gave tours of Credo. What would anyone in a group like Alacrán or Sinaloa want with him?

“ Plata o plomo,” Danny said.

Plata o plomo. Tess had heard the popular narcocorridobefore—a song that glorified the drug runners and cartels. Plata o plomowas the choice in Mexico: silver or lead. Go along with us and you will be paid handsomely; go against us and you will get bullets.

A wind sprang up out of nowhere, blowing sand across the empty parking lot and making the yellow tape shiver. Then it was gone. Another semi shifted down, the sound familiar in the west and comforting. Tess glanced at Danny. “How’s Theresa?”

“ Nada. The doc might induce labor if it goes on much longer.”

“Fingers crossed,” Tess said.

“One way or the other, guera,” Danny said. “You know what they say: what goes in’s gotta come out.”

The warped humor of Danny Rojas.

CHAPTER 5

They split up. Danny would be testifying at a homicide trial just before lunch, and would probably be gone for most of the day.

Tess followed Ruby Road to the end of the blacktop and her plain-wrap Tahoe clunked over the washboard road. It was a long, bone-jarring drive.

This was Border Patrol country. It was rare for Santa Cruz County to send anyone out here—certainly not on patrol. She was alone.

She passed the gate to the ghost town of Credo on the left. The gate was a continuation of wire fence. A wire loop held the gate and the fence post together. The ranch gate could be unlooped and dragged across the road to make way for cars.

Tess noticed a van from the medical examiner inside the fence. She decided to come back when they were gone. When she went back to the crime scene she wanted quiet and a chance to think. She drove around the bend and up another hill.

Around another bend there would be a couple of trailers and an even more primitive camp.

Tess slowed at the sight of an old travel trailer backed into a rocky hill. It sat on a spur off an old ranch lane. Thirty yards beyond the trailer, where the road bottomed out in the streambed, a couple of tree-limb posts were strung with two strands of wire across the wash. Tess noticed that tin cans had been stuck on top of the limbs, and they’d been shot to pieces.

The travel trailer was shaded by a camo tarp. The sixties seemed to be a theme here: a faded Game & Fish truck, pale green, stood out front, the emblem painted over. A campfire ring and a makeshift table made out of scrapwood kept a cheap kitchen chair company under the tarp.

There was a stake and a chain, too—for a dog.

She had a bad feeling about this, partly because of the way the place looked, but also because of Danny’s Blade Runnercomment.

As Tess pulled up, the trailer door squeaked open and a tall tanned man stepped out.

Two things she noticed right off the bat: First, he was really tanned.

The second thing: he was armed with a Winchester repeating rifle.

And it was aimed at her vehicle. “What do you want?” the man yelled.

Tess took him in: he was tall and the color of beef jerky. Gray-blond hair in a ponytail. Flip-flops.

He wore a dirty guayabera shirt and nylon running shorts circa 1970.

“Who the hell are you? What do you want with me?”

Tess buzzed down her window and said, “Santa Cruz County Sheriff’s Office. I want to ask you about a fire the day before yesterday.”

He lowered his rifle an inch. “Fire?”

Tess kept her hands up and palms out. “May I get out of the car?”

“Stay where you are!”

Tess had parked diagonally to the clearing, so if she got out, the engine block of the SUV would be between her and the trailer. She opened the door and held her hands up.

“Come out from behind there,” he said, motioning with his weapon.

“No. You need to put down your rifle. Otherwise, you’ll be facing a lot more law enforcement than just me, and I don’t want us to get off on the wrong foot.”

“I have the right to defend my property.”

The ownership of the property was doubtful, but Tess ignored that. “You have nothing to fear from me. Lay down your weapon and let’s talk.” At the same time, she slid out of the car, canting her body so that her right side was hidden. She inched her hand down to her side, unsnapped the holster, and drew her SIG Sauer. She called out, “Did you see the fire?”

“Fire?” he said again.

“A car was burned about fifteen miles down the road. You must have seen it.”

“I did not! Cease and desist! You are trespassing on my property!”

“Can’t we talk?”

“You can’t be the sheriff! I talked to the sheriff yesterday. He looked nothing like you!”

“That was my partner, Danny.”

“Danny?” He was puzzled. “Another one? How many are there of you? Why are you harassing me? Throw your weapon out. Do it now or I won’t be responsible for what I might do! A man has a right to defend his life and his property.”

“I can’t do that.”

There was a pause. “Okay. Leave your weapon in the car.”

“I will,” Tess lied. She watched as he lowered his rifle again and scratched an ear.

“Okay, then.” He took a deep breath.

“I just want to talk to you. Like the other guy, Danny. Remember? He came by and talked to you and then he drove away.”

“Okay,” he said again. He’d made a one-eighty-degree turnaround in a split second. “I don’t want any trouble. You have backup? They’re not on their way, are they?”

“No. I’m just here to ask you about the fire. Like my partner Danny was. You remember he just asked you some questions and left? Please put down your rifle.”

He lowered his rifle all the way, then walked out from under the tarp and set his rifle carefully on the ground. He stepped back.

“Thank you,” Tess said, easing her SIG Sauer P226 back into her holster but keeping her hand close. “Thank you.”

He nodded. Suddenly he looked shy. “You can’t come in, though. The place is a mess.”

“That’s fine. We can talk out here.” Tess did not move from behind the door and the engine block. “Anybody else live with you? Anyone inside the trailer?”

“No. I ride alone.”

“Did you see the fire?”

“Of course I saw the fire.” Another one-eighty.

“Do you remember what time it was, Mr.…?”

“Name’s Peter. Peter Deuteronomy. Rhymes with lobotomy.” He giggled at his own joke.

“You believe in the Bible,” Tess said. “That’s good.”

He smiled. “You a Christian?”

“Yes.” She was, and she wasn’t, depending on the things she saw on any day. But right now she was a true believer. He hadn’t shot her, for which she was thankful.

“Some of us around here, we have a Bible study. I could ask them, if you want to join.”

“Thank you, but I have my own. What night do you guys meet?”

“Tuesdays at seven o’clock p.m. Over at Matty Thompson’s house.”

“Oh. That’s when we meet, too.”

His face fell. “Too bad, but at least you’re washed in the blood of the Lamb.”

Tess nodded. “So can I ask you about the fire? You saw it? Do you remember what time that was, Peter?”

He looked down at the ground, shifted his feet on the rocks. “I think it was during Pickers. I saw it over that hill.” He pointed. “Just a light, but I could tell it was flames. And smoke.”

“So that would be what time?”

“It was a rerun. They had the American Pickersmarathon. So I can’t rightly remember. It was still light, though.”

“Evening?”

“No. Dusk.”

“Dusk. Like around six p.m.?”

“Uh-huh. You want to hear about the shooting, too?”

“I would, yes.”

“Somebody must’ve been shot up bad. Maybe it was the guy you’re looking for. It was an automatic weapon—an AK-47, I’ll bet. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat! Like that!”

“How long was it between the shooting and the fire?”

“You think the same guy who was shooting set the fire?”

“Could be.”

He looked down at his own rifle. Tess hoped he didn’t have second thoughts. She eased one hand down to her own unsnapped holster.

“How long, do you think?” Tess asked again.

He frowned. “I dunno. Maybe a half hour?”

“Did you call the police?”

“Nope. People are always shooting around here. There are a lot of bad guys. That’s why I tell intruders I shoot first and ask questions later.”

Comforting. “So you think the fire was around six-thirty p.m.?”

“Sounds about right.” He was staring at his weapon again, even took a step toward it. Tess didn’t think he wanted to shoot her. She hoped it was because he just didn’t want to be away from it very long.

He said, “I heard someone start up a car and drive away after the shooting. Then I saw the fire.”

“All this happened between five and six-thirty at night?”

“Pretty sure. Can I get my rifle now?”

“Tell you what. I’m going to get into my car and drive away. Let me get back in the car, okay? And when I drive around that hill, you go pick up your rifle.”

“Sounds fair.” But she could see his hand itching. He was looking at the rifle the way a dog looks at a ball he can’t quite get to.

Tess went to three other squatter camps in the Atascosa Mountains. No one answered at two of them, and an older gentleman in a newer travel trailer invited her in for iced tea and a grilled cheese sandwich. He remembered seeing a light in the sky, but it was too far away for him to hear anything. He, too, thought the time was around sunset.

She had a time frame.

By the time Tess got back to Credo, the place was deserted.

The ghost town looked the same as it did yesterday: adobe dwellings slumping into the earth, wood shacks bent out of shape by the elements, corrugated steel roofs were a patchwork of silver and rust. In mid-April, the mesquite was just budding out in halos of bright green.

The crime scene tape was still wrapped around the falling-down cabin, strung out to include two white oaks.

The Tahoe bumped along the dirt track and she parked behind the stone foundation of the stamp mill. The oaks and mesquite grew wild there, and Tess knew the vehicle couldn’t be seen from the road. It wasn’t an overt act of concealment, but Tess didn’t want to attract the attention of anyone driving along the road. Tourists and hikers used this road, and she didn’t want to deal with anyone today.

As she’d done the first time, she started seventy yards or so away from the cabin where Hanley had died and walked all the way around. As she walked, she looked down at the ground, but also at the hills and mountains and mining buildings of Credo, paying particular attention to windows, doorways, and trees. With her eyes, she tracked the cabin where Hanley was shot and killed, getting closer with each circuit.

Found “high sign” on an animal path coming down one hill.

Strands of burlap clung to the bushes and mesquite. Burlap meant someone had been moving drugs—most likely marijuana. She found a thread of flannel, as well. Flannel was a good shirt for early spring. The fabric breathed, it could be cool or it could be warm, and repelled burrs and thorns. That was why border crossers often wore flannel shirts.

Tess had a few small plastic evidence bags with her, and tweezers. She took a few samples of the flannel and burlap, and photographed the bush they’d been caught on. Plenty of footprints—maybe even more than last time.

Even though the road was blocked by a padlocked gate, anyone could come through here on foot, or even on horseback. Anyone with wire cutters could get through a four-strand wire fence with horses or mules, or slip in on foot.

She worked her way to the cabin.

Every shell casing—all thirty of them—had been circled with iridescent orange paint before being taken for evidence.

Tess couldn’t think of one instance of an enforcer for one of the cartels killing a US citizen on this side of the border.

She crossed her arms and rested her hands under each armpit, so she would not be tempted to touch anything. She stepped up onto the cabin’s porch. Even at this time of the day, a chill emanated from the doorless entry.

Tess paused outside the doorway. The smell of musty adobe overlaid the membranes of her mouth and nostrils. She peered into the darkness at the opposite wall. Blood everywhere. Geysers of it on what was left of the chalk-like gypsum board.

From the trajectories and blood spatter and the way Hanley was found, Tess was sure her theory was correct: he had been pushed back by the assault, and stumbled backward until he hit the wall.

She closed her eyes. And saw him.

Grouped shots, mostly center mass, Hanley’s neck turned into pudding. Two shots to the face—both eyes.

The duct tape pasted across his mouth.

Hanley’s Denali was a burned-out husk—there would be little, if any, evidence. They’d identified it by the VIN number. Plaster casts had been taken of the tire treads near the place where the Denali had been driven off the road, as well as shoe prints. But they would need something to match them to.

Tess looked around the cabin. There were long sections of the rafters open to the sky, sun and shadow striping the concrete floor.

He’d had a weapon, but didn’t draw it. This surprised Tess. You’d think that out here he would hear someone coming. There was no way someone would be able to sneak up on an ex-cop. Tess knew Hanley would have kept the careful habits that had seen him through his sixty-eight years. If she were him, coming out here late in the day like that, she would have scouted the area. She would have looked for trouble ahead of time.

Looking for trouble was what cops did. Didn’t matter if you’d been out of the life for years. Old habits die hard.

A dove in the rafters shifted and cooed.

It came to Tess just like that, and she knew it was true.

He was meeting someone.

A clatter above, and the dove took off, its wings whickering as it sped away.

Tess froze. She was here alone, in a place known as part of the smuggling corridor.

She heard footsteps on the sand and rock.

Careful to keep away from the stripes of sunlight, Tess stood back from the paneless window and looked in the direction of the footsteps.

A man was walking down the lane toward the ghost town. He’d left his vehicle, an older model Range Rover, near the gate, and had just slipped through the wire.

Looked like a hiker. Hiking boots, the thick socks, the ballcap, the sunglasses, the cargo shorts. He carried a bladder of water on his back, and a drinking tube snaked around to lie on his chest, not far from his lips.

“Stay there!” Tess called. “This is a crime scene.”

The guy looked at her quizzically, but kept coming, his hiking boots skating a little on the rocks as he came down the hill.

“This is private property and a crime scene!” Tess shouted. Aware of her weapon, her hand close. “You are not allowed to be here!”

The guy raised a hand in greeting and kept coming.

He was carrying; a small gun, might be a .32, on his left side—a lefty.

Tess spread her stance. She unsnapped her holster and drew her SIG Sauer—the second time today. As she’d done earlier, she kept it hidden behind her hip. “Sir—I am giving you a warning. Stay where you are.”

He stopped and held up his hands. I’m harmless.

“Is that the cabin where George Hanley was shot?” he said. “Looks like it.”

“Do you know George Hanley?”

“May I approach?” His hands still up.

He was a good-looking man, lean and sinewy, somewhere in his mid-to-late thirties. The dark aviator shades made her think of a model in one of those fashion magazines. They also covered his eyes.

“Do you know anything about Mr. Hanley?” Tess repeated. “Are you a friend of his?”

Hands still up. “Can I approach?” He crunched forward and came within fifteen yards of her, saw her face, and then stopped. Whipped off his sunglasses. “Look, I understand why you’d want me to keep my distance—I know that’s standard police procedure. You’re just being a good cop.”

What a strange thing to say. The man did not strike her as cop material, but he spoke about her copness—for want of a better word—with a familiarity that seemed real. She was usually good at pegging people, so this took her aback.

“I’m one of the good guys,” he said. “I work for Pima County Sheriff’s. May I approach? Maybe I could shed a little light here.”

She motioned him the last few yards.

He came fast. Tess stepped back, ready, her eye on his left hand. He kept his hands raised high, nowhere near his weapon.

Still. Her hand closed tighter around the butt of her SIG Sauer.

“Hey! I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you working the Hanley case?”

Now he was too close—infringing on her space. She felt like taking another step back, but didn’t. Pushed her own body forward. “Will you step back, sir?”

He did.

“Do you know anything about what happened here?”

“Not personally, no. You think it was one of the cartels?”

She said nothing.

He grinned. He had a crooked mouth, the only thing that marred his good looks. He didn’t show his teeth.

“If you know anything about this, you need to tell me,” Tess said.

“No, not this particular case, but it might be similar to what I’ve been working on. That’s why I came down here today.”

“In your capacity with the Pima County Sheriff’s? What capacity is that?”

“They depend on me to do a number of things. Recently, I’ve been named to an administrative investigator position.”

That sounded political—made up to keep him or someone he knew happy. She could picture him measuring crime scenes.

He looked beyond her at the cabin. “It says in the paper he was shot multiple times. How many?”

“Sir, I cannot share any details of this case with you. As someone who works in law enforcement, you understand that this is a crime scene, and you need to leave now.”

He stepped toward her. “Hey, look. I’m not trying to steal your case. I’m here to help. I just asked you a question. It said ‘multiple gunshots’ in the paper. I’m just trying to ascertain if that’s true.”

Tess drew her weapon and held it down low behind her back—the second time today. “You need to walk up to your car and go, now.”

“I can see it on your face! It’s true. He wasshot multiple times. I read they burned his car, too.”

“I can’t speak to that, sir.” The phrase “returning to the scene of the crime” was a cliché, but it was also an accurate predictor of suspects in those crimes. Many times a bad guy didreturn to the crime scene, sometimes to gloat. And this guy was a blue-ribbon gloater.

Tess could almost feel the restrained violence in him.

He loomed over her, grinning like a parrot. Now she could see the teeth he’d tried to hide. They peeked out under the crack of his lips—tiny teeth. They didn’t go with the rest of him, his good looks. The expensive hiking outfit.

Manic energy.

Tess said, “You need to walk up the road, get into your car, and drive away. This is the last time I will tell you that.”

“Or what?”

She traded her SIG for cuffs. Cuffed one hand, shoved him, and while he was off balance, cuffed the other.

“You can’t do this! I’m a citizen!”

“This is a crime scene and you are not allowed to be here. You are interfering with an active investigation.” She pushed him in the direction of the gate. “I’ll escort you to the road, sir.”

“I just want to know how many times he was shot! Were they multiple gunshot wounds?”

“Multiple gunshots? What do you mean by that?”

He shut up.

Tess continued to push him up the path.

They reached the gate, and Tess used one hand to pull the loop over, shoved the fence pole sideways to the right so the gate fell into the dirt. She marched him over the strands of the gate and aimed him toward the Range Rover. Pulled him to a stop just shy of the car and felt in his pockets and came up with his wallet and checked his DL. His name was Steve Barkman, thirty-six years old.

“This your car?”

He shut up. He said nothing when she uncuffed him and told him to get into his vehicle. He did as he was told.

She watched him drive away.

She waited for him to turn around and come back.

The sun warm on her head, bearing down on her.

The brightness in her eyes. She watched the hill he’d driven around.

Multiple gunshots.

Why’d he ask her that?