Body Heat (8 page)

He was referring to a man whose family had lived in the area for fifty years. “He was stabbed to death on his own land last March.”

“That's right. He'd just called in to say he'd found some Mexican nationals suffering from dehydration and was assisting them.”

Rod stretched the cramped muscles in his neck. “Do you think there's any connection between that incident and what's been happening lately?”

“I don't know. But even if there isn't, what if illegals arm themselves? Try to retaliate?”

“We've got to make sure it doesn't escalate,” he muttered.

Jorge nodded in satisfaction. “Yes.”

That increased Rod's dedication to finding the person responsible for all the bloodshed, but it didn't change anything else for him, not where his father was concerned. He glanced toward the house. “I gotta be on my way. Take care of yourself.”

“What? No! Stay. You don't have to go. Your father would be happy to see you.”

“There's no need to upset Edna and her boys.”

“Bah! Who cares about Edna?” he teased. “And those boys? They won't bother you these days. They'd be able to tell just by looking at you that it wouldn't be a good idea.”

“It's not only them. Regardless of what Bruce might feel or what he's been through, I'd rather not see him,” Rod clarified. “I don't consider him to be any relation.”

The expression on the old man's face led Rod to believe he'd hoped for more. “Forgive him, Roderick,” he said, grabbing his forearm again.
“Deja ir el pasado.”

Let the past go…. “That's what I'm trying to do. Only I want him to go with it.”

“That's not what she hoped for you.”

A pickup began to move in the clearing. Someone was starting work. Roderick couldn't put off his departure any longer without risking some type of confrontation. He didn't want to hear what Jorge was trying to tell him, anyway. Just because his mother wouldn't give up on Bruce didn't mean
he'd
hang on till the bitter end. “It was great to see you,” he said, and covered Jorge's hand with his own.

Jorge nodded but seemed troubled as Rod backed up
and headed out. Fortunately, the person in the pickup had taken the opposite direction, toward the lettuce fields. Was it his father or one of his half brothers driving? Rod couldn't tell. He could see only the taillights, back bumper and the dust kicked up by the tires.

He imagined confronting Stuart or Patrick now that he was older. He wanted them to demand he step out of the way, willing to take them both on at once, just as they'd always preferred. But…what was the point? He wouldn't feel any better afterward. That wasn't the kind of man he wanted to be.

Forget them,
he told himself. But he'd been telling himself that for so long, it'd lost all meaning.

 

When the phone awakened Sophia from a dead sleep, her heart nearly seized in her chest. She was sure it was one of her officers or county dispatch, calling to inform her that more people had been killed. But a second later, the sound repeated itself and she breathed a sigh of relief. She'd been dreaming. It wasn't the phone. Someone was at the door.

With a groan, she rolled out of bed and went into the living room of her little one-bedroom hacienda-style house. There, she leaned against the door, squinting to see through the peephole.

It was Starkey. As usual, he was wearing his leather vest—or cut as they called it—with the patches that held so much significance for him, jeans and biker boots. His blond hair and his mustache, which was a shade darker than his hair, were longer than when she'd last seen him. He'd also put on a few pounds—but he wasn't fat. His biceps bulged when he crossed his arms. And he had a new tattoo to add to the skull and all the others: FTW.

She didn't plan to ask what it stood for. She already knew she wouldn't approve.

“Give me a minute.” She hurried back to her bedroom so she could grab a robe to cover her T-shirt and men's boxers. Then she let him in. “Hey, what's up?”

His eyes ran over her disheveled hair, her robe, which she'd had for so long he probably recognized it from when they were dating nine years ago, her bare feet. “You okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Why?”

“I got a call from you last night. I got three, actually. But no messages.”

Three
calls? She'd tried to reach him from Mexico, but she'd been out of network range…. “I was hoping to speak to Rafe, but—”

“At one in the morning?”

“No, earlier,” she lied. “Your number was in my recent call history. I must've pocket-dialed you.”

“Fortunately, I didn't hear it ring, or I would've gone nuts wondering why you wouldn't say anything. I was at a party and the music was too damn loud.”

She was glad of that. If he'd been aware of her calls, he would've been waiting for her when she got home last night, and she might've had to arrest him for driving under the influence. If he'd been at a party, there was no way he'd been drinking soda.

“What did you want with Rafe?” he asked.

“Just checking in, seeing how the week's going for him.” She didn't usually lie, and already she'd lied twice. But now that she was out of Naco, she didn't really want to explain that she'd turned to him in her hour of need, so to speak. He'd take that to mean more than it did.

“He's fine. At some camp with a friend. Won't be back for four days.”

Some
camp? He didn't know which one? This was part of her problem with Starkey. He was a loving father but he didn't pay much attention to the kind of details most parents considered important. “Which friend?” Did he know that much?

“Chase LaBreque.”

Sophia had heard Rafe talk about Chase and wasn't so sure he was the best influence. But Rafe was being raised by a Hells Angel, so if she was worried about any example, it should be that one. Regardless, she had no right to complain. She was lucky Starkey allowed her to be involved with Rafe. He wasn't pleased that she'd gone into law enforcement, felt it put him at risk just to associate with her. The others in the club were obviously unhappy that she was part of his life. They, too, would've preferred Leonard Taylor to be chief of police. Leonard was one of the good ol' boys who turned a blind eye to certain activities Sophia was unwilling to ignore.

“Have him get in touch with me when he gets back, will you?” she said.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Thanks.” She started to close the door, but he stopped it with one of his giant paws. “Hey, wait! Guess who I saw?”

Not particularly interested, she covered a yawn. “Who?”

“Roderick Guerrero. You remember him, don't ya?”

Of course she did. She immediately recalled the café au lait skin and dark eyes of the boy she knew in high school. They'd been in the same grade growing up. But when it came to girls, he'd always kept to himself, and
she'd been more than happy to let him. He'd approached life with a belligerence that made her uncomfortable, frequently getting into fights.

But he'd surprised her once. It was during their sophomore year, his last year in school. Despite having a minimal relationship—she'd been in one class with him and knew he watched her a great deal—he'd asked if she'd go to the Homecoming Dance with him. He didn't generally attend school dances. For one thing, he couldn't afford it. And he didn't go that year, either. She agreed to go, then stood him up when she got a better offer and, thanks to one particular girlfriend of hers, word of that spread all over the school.

Sophia was still embarrassed about the fact that she hadn't even tried to contact him and that she'd humiliated him so publicly. She'd never apologized or offered any explanation, either. She'd been young and stupid and hadn't known how to approach it. But she'd never forget the way he looked at her when he saw her at school after that weekend. She'd thought he was too tough, too mean, to be hurt. That was what she'd told herself when she ditched him. But as soon as their eyes met, she knew she'd hurt him deeply….

Those weren't comfortable memories. Kids could be callous, and she'd been no different. Which was why she preferred to forget. But she was too curious about what Roderick might be like now to just let the subject go. “Seriously? It was
Roderick?
You're sure?”

“Positive. Spotted him coming out of Bailey's Breakfast Dive and pulled over to say hello.”

“I didn't realize you even knew him. He's my age.”

“He had an uncle who was a few years older—Arturo.
I hung out with him for a year or two before he skipped town.”

“I never met the uncle.”

Starkey whistled. “He was one bad dude.”

Roderick hadn't struck her as much nicer. In those days, her father hadn't yet lost his business, his marriage or his life, so she'd been oblivious to other people's needs. She'd been living in the idyllic bubble that had burst soon afterward and thrown her into the arms of Starkey.

“What's he doing in town?” She definitely didn't need this. Life was hard enough right now.

Starkey grinned. “I was waitin' for you to ask me that. You ready?”

She tightened the belt on her robe. “Ready for what?”

“He said he's here to investigate the UDA murders.”

Her mouth fell open.
“What'd you say?”

He chortled at her reaction. “I thought you'd like that. He's an ‘operative' for a private security company in California. Those guys are
bad
asses. And they get paid the big bucks.” She couldn't miss the twinkle in his eye that told her he wasn't finished with her yet. “When I told him
you're
the chief of police, he looked about as stunned as you do now.”

“So he's staying longer than a few days?”

“Few weeks, at least. Haven't you been listenin'? He's tryin' to steal your case.”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. That's definitely
not
going to happen.”

“Any chance you'd like to thank me for the notice?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Thank you in what way?”

He sighed. “Didn't think so.”

Ignoring his reference to thanking him, she moved on to her next question. “Where's he staying?”

“Don't know. But it can't be far.” He clapped his hands together. “Anyway, it's been fun but I gotta dash. Someone's waitin' for me.”

She didn't ask who. She didn't want to know about Starkey's dealings because most of them were illegal. She was too preoccupied at the moment, anyway. “Right.” She waved numbly but made no move to go back inside.

Several seconds passed before a neighbor called good-morning and she realized she was still standing in the doorway, staring after Starkey.

With a polite nod for old man Phil, who shuffled past her on his morning walk, she went back into the house, trying to convince herself that Roderick Guerrero had forgotten all about that Homecoming incident. But the memory of returning home to hear from her mother that he'd shown up in a suit and was carrying a corsage made her groan.

Who was she kidding? He'd remember….

“R
od? You in there?”

It was his father. Already. Jorge must've told him. Or Starkey. Or someone else who'd seen him having breakfast at Bailey's.

Reluctant to be disturbed, he raised his head from the pillow. “I'm sleeping!”

“I brought you something” came the response.

“Whatever it is, I don't want it.”

“I think you will. Open the door.”

Rod muttered a curse. This was his own fault for driving out to the ranch this morning. But it didn't matter. His father would've learned of his presence sooner or later. Bordertown was too small for anyone to remain anonymous for long. “Will you go away if I do?”

There was a slight pause. “If that's what you want.”

Kicking off the sheet, he rolled out of bed and yanked on a pair of shorts. “What now?” he demanded as he jerked open the door.

Bruce handed him a stack of newspapers. “These have articles about the killings. I thought you might like to read them. They'll give you a feel for what's happened and what's been done about it so far.”

This was the one thing Bruce could've brought that Rod wouldn't be angry about. “Fine. Great. Thank you.”

“And I wanted to tell you there's no need to pay for a motel. You can stay out at the ranch, if you like.”

Rod leaned against the doorjamb. “What did you say?”

“I said you're welcome at the ranch.”

“What—one of the shacks is available?”

Color rose in his father's cheeks. “No. There's plenty of room at the house.”

His
house? The rambling two-story pueblo-style structure with the red roof and the fountain out front? What Rod wouldn't have given just to
see
inside it as a child. “You're kidding, right?”

“Not at all. It's a big house, and it's mostly empty now that the boys have moved out.”

But Jorge had said Patrick and Stuart were still at the ranch. “Where are ‘the boys'?”

“Patrick is married and living in a house of his own at the other end of the property. Stuart has his own place, too, next door to his brother.”

“Stuart's not married?”

“Nope. I'm hoping he'll be ready for that soon. I'd like grandkids someday and Patrick's wife doesn't seem to be in any hurry. She owns the nail salon in town and says she's too busy.”

Rod had seen the shop. “So he married a business-woman.”

Although Bruce didn't seem the least bit embarrassed, Rod doubted Edna would approve of having a lowly cosmetologist for a daughter-in-law, even if she was a hardworking one. “More or less, I guess. Anyway, the house is available, as I said, and it's comfortable, roomy.”

Bruce was trying too hard, which made the situation even more awkward than it already was.

Determined not to succumb to his bitterness, Rod bit back the harsh retort that sprang to his lips. “No, thank you. I'm fine here.”

The flatness of his response, and what it indicated, didn't seem to register. Bruce maintained his cordial cheer. “Well, keep it in mind. If this mess drags on, living in a motel might get old. And we'd love to have you.”

Again, Rod was tempted to ask if he'd forgotten the past, when Bruce couldn't stay far enough away from him and his mother. But revealing his anger would make it look as if he cared. Why give Bruce, Edna and their sons the satisfaction of knowing they'd been so successful at making him feel inferior and unwanted?

For the second time, he managed to reel in a scathing comment, but only by ignoring his father's rejoinder. “Thanks for the papers.”

Applauding himself for his courteous veneer, he started to close the door—then jerked it open again. “By the way…”

Obviously eager to prolong the conversation, his father stepped back to the door. “Yes?”

“Is it true that Sophia St. Claire is the chief of police?”

“Sure, why? You know her?”

He knew her, all right. He'd had a terrible crush on her when they were in high school and had screwed up the courage to ask her to Homecoming for their sophomore year. Elated when she accepted, he'd thought maybe he'd been wrong about Bordertown, about his chances of succeeding in this place. It was only a school dance, but it'd seemed like a promise of hope. Never had he been so
excited about life, about change. He'd spent everything he had on a suit and flowers, and eagerly counted the days until the big dance. When he found out that she'd stood him up and gone with a more popular boy, he'd felt as if she'd made a joke out of the belief that he could be more than he was. It felt like the most personal of rejections. Somehow that had cut deeper than almost anything else he'd experienced, probably because he'd been young and vulnerable back then in a way he hadn't been since. He'd made sure of that. “We were in the same class. When I went to school, of course.”

Unwilling to address the negative aspects of the past—or, it seemed, to even remember them—Bruce skimmed over Rod's reference to dropping out. “She's a beauty.” He added a whistle. “Stuart talks about her all the time.”

“His wife doesn't mind?”

“It's Patrick who's married, not Stuart. Chief St. Claire is single, too. For now, anyway. There're about a dozen men who'd like to change that.”

Including Stuart, apparently. “Who's she dating?”

“She goes out with Stuart now and then, but I don't get the impression she's all that serious about him. She used to see Dick Callahan, the pastor over at First Calvary Church, but that didn't go anywhere, either.”

What, he'd figured out that her soul wasn't worth saving? “Why not?”

“Got some young girl pregnant. It was a big scandal, as you can imagine—a church man sleeping with an underage member of his flock. To save face, and his job, he claimed to love her. And maybe he really does. Who knows? He married her. The baby's due anytime.”

“Poor Sophia.” Rod couldn't think of anyone who deserved to be jilted more but he tried to cloak the sarcasm
in those two words. Not because he cared whether or not others found out he wasn't all that impressed with Sophia St. Claire—he didn't want to give his father an excuse to hang around by asking questions. “She any good at her job?” He wanted to know what he had to work with, whether or not she'd be a competent and cooperative partner in the investigation.

“Seems to be,” Bruce replied. “But she's had a rough few months. First, she had to deal with the people in town who were opposed to seeing a woman take charge, a young woman at that. If not for Paul Fedorko and a couple others on the city council who were adamantly opposed to her main competitor, she wouldn't have had the opportunity. But she did. And she braved the backlash. Then these killings started. If she can't solve them in a relatively short period of time, it'll give her opponents the leverage they need to get her fired.”

Hearing this, Roderick had half a mind to sit back and do nothing, to wait and see if she could rescue herself. He certainly wasn't inclined to do her any favors. But he couldn't risk the lives of innocent people just to feed an old grudge. She didn't matter. Maybe he'd once had feelings for Sophia, but he hadn't thought of her in years.

Well, not in the past few months, anyway…. For whatever reason, no other woman had ever affected him in the same way.

“Do you think she'll be willing to work with me on this?”

“I don't see why she wouldn't. Someone with your reputation. I'm sure she can use all the help she can get. Last I heard, the sheriff had assigned a detective to the case, but he should've assigned two or three.”

“She's got a lot going against her.”

“Exactly.”

Rod remembered what she'd done to him well enough that this news didn't make him entirely unhappy. He'd been so thrilled, as that naive teenager who thought he finally had a chance with the girl he'd always wanted. But she'd set him up, probably so she and her friends could have a good laugh. “I'll pay her a visit.”

“It'll relieve the city council to have you involved in the investigation.”

And Rod definitely wanted to please the good ol' boys on the city council. He swallowed a pained sigh. He hated small-town politics, but this dynamic would work in his favor so he didn't complain. Frightened of losing her job and in need of help, Sophia would be much more likely to cooperate with him. Experience had taught him that local cops with less incentive could be very stingy with information. “Glad to hear it.”

His father didn't seem to pick up on his lack of enthusiasm. “You need an introduction or anything else, you let me know.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Again, Bruce seemed to miss the dry note that should've told him that Rod had no intention of coming to him for anything.

“By the way, I brought you something else.”

Now what? Rod stretched up and gripped the top of the door frame with his fingertips. “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

“I'll get it.” He walked to the passenger side of his big gray double-axle pickup truck and retrieved a manila envelope.

Rod dropped his arms to his sides but didn't comment as he accepted it. Opening the flap, which was unsealed,
he withdrew a stack of money orders—the ones he'd sent at sixteen and seventeen, when he was trying to pay off his mother's funeral. He didn't want them, but he wasn't going to argue over them, either. He'd done what he could for his mother. He'd repaid the debt—whether Bruce allowed him to or not.

“I don't want these, and you know it.”

“I'd appreciate it if you'd take them. I can't explain why, but…it's important to me.”

“Whatever.” Rod was about to close the flap and toss the envelope onto the small table by the door when his fingers encountered something with an entirely different texture. What was this?

When he pulled it from the envelope, he saw a snapshot of him and his mother standing outside their shack at the ranch. Carolina, young, beautiful and still healthy, was wearing one of her inexpensive cotton shirts, a wide-brimmed hat to protect her from the sun and a pair of jeans that had been cut off at the knees and rolled up a few inches. She was smiling and hugging him close.

Rod was maybe three or four, too young to remember having the photo taken. “Where did you get this?”

It was harder now, harder to keep the anger under control. Looking at Carolina, he could understand why Bruce had been attracted to her. She was beautiful. But that didn't make Rod willing to forgive him for taking advantage of her, not when Bruce already had everything a man could ever want.

“I took the picture myself.” His father must've known from Rod's expression or the tension in his body that it was time to leave because he mumbled a quick goodbye and walked away.

Rod didn't respond. He could no longer speak or move.
All he could do was stare at that picture as memories of his mother crashed over him.

 

Sweat rolled between Sophia's shoulder blades, making her feel sticky and uncomfortable in her uniform as she went from trailer to trailer, getting formal statements from everyone who could have heard the gunshots that killed José and Benita Sanchez. Three shots had been fired. She knew that from the spent casings. But only one person—Debbie Berke, in the closest trailer—had heard enough noise to get her out of bed. Mac White, who lived next to Earl and Marlene, said he “might've” heard something. He told her he'd been awakened but shrugged off whatever had disturbed him. He was too used to Earl and Marlene's fights to worry about a little yelling. Randy Pinegar said he had a sleep disorder for which he'd taken a sleeping aid. But everyone knew he was an alcoholic. Sophia guessed he'd been in a stupor. And Ralph Newlin, the only other neighbor in that circle of trailers, had been in Phoenix, picking up his daughter from the home of his ex-wife. He was still gone, on his way to Disneyland.

Planning to ask Debbie a few more questions about the “thumps” she'd heard, Sophia had just stepped onto the landing when her cell phone rang. According to caller ID, it was Detective Lindstrom.

She nearly ignored it. But Councilman Fedorko had called this morning and added even more pressure to what she was already feeling. He'd told her the other city council members were getting nervous, that they were wondering if she had the experience to get the job done. He implied that there were two members, in particular, who were talking about replacing her. He claimed Mayor Schilling was even lamenting the fact that they hadn't promoted
Leonard. Paul seemed to believe that, questionable character aside, Leonard would have a better chance of catching the UDA killer. Sophia knew it was fear that was making the city council second-guess their decision. They were scared that someone who wasn't a UDA would get shot and a battle would erupt between the two factions. But she didn't appreciate their lack of faith.

Bottom line, she had to cooperate with Lindstrom, had to trust the detective despite the warning bells in her head and the sick feeling in her gut. She couldn't do this alone. There was too much work.

She hit the talk button. “Chief St. Claire.”

“You identified the victims?”

She'd left Lindstrom a message to that effect after her chat with Fedorko. “I did.”

“How?”

“Naco was worth the trip.”

“I let the Mexican consulate know about the murders. You might want to alert them to this new development.”

“I already did.”

“Who'd you speak with?”

“Same guy you did. Deputy Consul Rudy Ruybal.” He'd been their contact from the beginning.

“I pushed him to do the DNA testing for Philip Moreno. Did he say anything about it?”

Philip Moreno was among the victims in the second incident. They'd identified him via SIRLI, by posting a picture of the unusual eyeglass case found near his body and the logo on his T-shirt. “He didn't mention it.”