Body Heat

He’d never dreamed he’d have such a golden opportunity to plant them. Detective Lindstrom had called him on her way home from work to complain about Sophia and to tell him she wished she could be working with him instead, and she’d mentioned that Sophia was going to Mexico tonight. The second those words were out of her mouth, he’d known that it was time.

Under the guise of saying hello to Officer Lawrence, who was dating a distant cousin of his, he’d stopped by the station first. He’d had to sit around shooting the bull with Grant for more than an hour before Grant finally excused himself to go to the restroom. Then he’d stepped into Sophia’s office and set the pen on a ledge under her desk. Even if she found it, that pen would look as if it had somehow fallen out of one of her drawers.

Bugging her office had taken all of five or ten seconds. He was back in his seat before Grant could flush the toilet. When Grant returned, Leonard casually said he had to be at work early in the morning and should be getting home.

From there, he’d driven down Sophia’s street to make sure her neighbors were in bed, parked a good distance away and walked to her house. He’d been prepared to break in; he’d brought the tools. But that hadn’t been necessary. He’d found her spare key under a decorative turtle in her front planter. Maybe, because she carried a gun, a baton and a Taser, she wasn’t as worried about safety as another woman might be. Or, more likely, she left that spare key where it was for Rafe’s benefit. She loved Starkey’s boy. He knew that from how much she’d talked about him when they’d worked together.

Now he just needed to figure out where to place the pretend plug adapter. He wanted it somewhere central. That would increase his chances of picking up most of her conversations. So, tempted as he was by the bedroom—simply because that seemed like even more of an invasion of privacy, which she deserved—he avoided it. The transmitter should go in the living room, he decided. The living room was between the kitchen and the bedroom, plus the screened-in porch at the back. He’d be able to listen in on more conversations there than anywhere else.

Turning in a circle on her living room rug, he searched for the outlet he wanted and spotted one behind a table that held nothing but framed photographs. If he had his bet, this outlet never got used. She’d probably forgotten it was even there.

“Perfect,” he murmured once he’d had a chance to test the device using his transmitter. “And now for the car.”

Striding into the kitchen, he checked the keys hanging on hooks near the cupboards, identified the set that went with the cruiser sitting out front and walked outside to unlock it and put the pen under the dash. This was the trickiest part, since he could be spotted by any neighbor who happened to get up for a drink of water, so he made quick work of it. Then he locked up and headed back down the street.

He was whistling by the time he reached his vehicle. Maybe it’d taken a while to collect the money he needed, and it had taken even longer to catch Sophia on a night when she was out of town…

But his patience had been well rewarded.

It was after midnight and the man who’d walked away with her photographs of José and his wife hadn’t returned. Sophia wasn’t sure how long she should wait. Had he given up and gone home? Was she sitting here, wasting time? If he hadn’t been able to get any information, there was no guarantee he’d come back to tell her….

The cantina was beginning to empty, but the table at the front was still occupied. The man who’d called her a puta and one of his friends had followed her into the bar and seated themselves close to the door. They’d stayed there ever since, brooding, drinking and glaring at her. Sophia knew they were trying to intimidate her. What she didn’t know was whether they’d act on the not-so-subtle threat in their eyes.

Feeling the pressure of her Glock against her calf, she glanced at her watch and decided to wait another fifteen minutes. Any longer was too dangerous. She didn’t want to be the last to leave the bar. That would give her friends near the front an easy opportunity to get her alone. The gun made her fairly confident that she could defend herself if attacked. But she didn’t want to shoot anyone, especially in Mexico. There was no telling how that would go down with the local police or the Mexican government. They might not believe she’d acted in self-defense, and the fact that she’d brought a weapon into the country wouldn’t be a point in her favor.

Waving the waitress away when the girl circled back to see if she wanted another ginger ale, Sophia toyed with the change on the table. Why hadn’t she asked Starkey to come down here with her? He would’ve loved the chance to play protector. He enjoyed nothing more than acting tough. He was tough. But she knew better than to accept any favors from him. That would only get his hopes up that she’d take him back, and she didn’t need that right now, not after years of trying to convince him that they were over for good.

Still, giving him a call would help pass the time and take her mind off the two thugs at the door, one of whom had basically threatened her with rape. The way she’d spouted off about the money she’d be willing to pay for information made robbery another possibility….

She checked her watch again. The minute hand was creeping toward 12:25 a.m., but there was no need to worry that she might wake Starkey. She’d never known him to go to bed before two or three. He partied with the other Angels almost every night.

Pulling her cell from her pocket, she hit the key for Starkey’s number. She expected it to go through its usual speed-dial sequence, but she got an error message instead, warning her that she was out of network range. Because she was within twenty miles of the town where she lived, she hadn’t realized her phone wouldn’t work. But, of course, that made sense. She wasn’t in the States, anymore.

“Oh, boy,” she muttered, and put the phone away.

Ten more minutes passed before she stood. She’d promised herself she’d stay fifteen, but another four people had sauntered toward the exit, making her worry that she’d delayed her departure too long already. Bracing for what could happen when she passed that front table, she started to leave. But as she took a step toward the door, the man she’d been waiting for came charging into the cantina, along with two lanky companions. At least twenty years younger than their sturdier counterpart, they looked like identical twins—until they came close enough for Sophia to see that they were only siblings. “Señorita, I have what you want,” the man she’d hired stated proudly.

This was promising—if it was real and not something he’d concocted in an effort to get paid.

As she sank into her seat, she gestured for the men to join her.

They were short a chair, but borrowed one from an empty table.

“Juan can help you.” Indicating the guy to his left, the man who’d accepted her offer tapped the pictures. “He and his brother, they act as polleros…er—” deep groves lined his forehead as he struggled with English “—guides? Sí, guides, for these people. They take them across la frontera.”

“They’re coyotes?”

“No. They work for a coyote who can no longer cross.”

“Why can’t he cross?”

“He get caught by La Migra? The CBP? He go to jail. You understand?”

“He’s on the list. If he gets caught trying to cross again, they’ll prosecute him.”

He nodded emphatically. “Sí. These are his runners.”

She pulled out a small pad of paper and a pen she’d shoved into her back pocket. “And who are you?”

“Enrique.”

“Enrique what?”

“Castillo.”

She wrote that down. “And your friends?”

“Juan and Miguel Martinez.”

As soon as she’d recorded this, she eyed Enrique’s friends. “Can you tell me who these people are?”

They looked confused until Enrique jumped in. “Juan y Miguel no hablan inglés, señorita. I translate. But first, we talk price. One hundred U.S.” He tapped Juan’s shoulder, then Miguel’s and then his own chest to make sure she understood that they each expected one hundred American dollars.

Sitting back, she folded her arms. “That’s more than I offered.”

A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. “We have to live, to eat. And we have to pay the police, no?”

Juan and Miguel seemed to understand that Enrique was arguing for higher pay. They made noises of agreement.

She arched her eyebrows. “You expect me to cover your bribes?”

“They have to be paid or we no work.”

Some coyotes made several thousand dollars a week even after they shelled out the standard ten percent to the Mexican military and police. Many camped along the border, sometimes for days at a time, tracking border agent activity, searching for any vulnerability. Among other things, the bribes helped insure that the Mexican police wouldn’t interfere with their reconnaissance. But if Enrique went to the extra effort of scouting the guards, Sophia had a feeling he wasn’t too successful. “There are no snitches here to tell anyone about our deal,” she pointed out. “Why get greedy?”

His pitiable expression changed to grave. “They will find out. Soplónes…snitches…they are everywhere.”

An additional hundred wasn’t enough to argue about, not when it was getting so late. Sophia calculated the amount of money she had in her pocket. “I have two hundred and fifty-three dollars. That’s all. Take it or leave it. And I’ll pay you only after you’ve given me what I want.” If they could give her what she wanted. She had no delusions; these men would cheat her if they could.

They conferred and quickly agreed, as she’d expected them to. Everything in Mexico was negotiable. “Gracias, señorita.”

“What can you tell me?” she asked.

“Nombres.” Enrique nudged Juan, who pointed at the two pictures.

“José y Benita.”

Sophia’s heart began to race. She hadn’t mentioned that she knew the man’s first name. Enrique wasn’t trying to con her. He’d found the people she needed to talk to.

“Can you give me a last name?”

Her words made no sense to Juan, but Enrique explained.

“Sanchez” came the response.

“José and Benita Sanchez,” she repeated. “He’s sure?”

“Sí.” All three men nodded in agreement and apparent satisfaction.

“Does he also remember where they’re from?”

Again, Enrique addressed his companions before responding. “Nayarit.”

Sophia didn’t recognize the location. Despite growing up so close to the border, she’d spent very little time in Mexico and hadn’t studied it except as it related to basic American history. “That’s a city?”

“A state.”

“Where? Is it far?”

“Sí,” Enrique answered soberly. “It is south, near the ocean.”

The two men at the front table leaned toward each other, talking. They paused every now and then, their eyes shooting imaginary daggers at Sophia. They weren’t happy that she’d found the help she needed. But she ignored them. She’d decide what to do about them later. “How did they get here from so far away?”

“Probably by bus.” He checked with Juan, who agreed. Bus was easy to understand in either language.

Juan’s brother spoke up, and Enrique listened to what he had to say before passing it on. “Miguel, he go to meet them when they arrive.”

“When was that? How long ago?”

There was more conversation between them, and Sophia heard the word cuatro, which made sense when Enrique answered, “Four days. They rest at hotel on Thursday. Friday, they wait for night. And then—”

“Which hotel?” she broke in.

“Hotel California. That way.” He motioned to indicate south.

“And then what?” she asked.

“And then Juan and Miguel, they pick them up at—” there was a rapid burst of Spanish before he finished “—seven-thirty.”

“Just them? Or were there others?”

This question was passed on before it was answered. “Many others. A…” He rubbed his hands together as he again struggled to find the right English word. “A…group. About thirty.”

“That many?” she asked in surprise.

“Sí. Mucho. Is better.”

Sophia could see that there might be some safety in numbers. She also knew that coyotes often sent out smaller groups as decoys to confuse the patrol officers. But if the CBP couldn’t keep groups of thirty from crossing the border, America didn’t have much hope of stopping illegal immigration. “Who else was in this group? Can he give me a list of names?”

The men discussed this but Enrique ultimately shook his head. “No, señorita. Some names, maybe. He take groups two, three times a week, you understand? He no remember every one.”

“He remembered Benita and José.”

“Because she was muy bonita—pretty, eh? And scared. He tried to talk to her, to calm her. And her esposo, her husband, he no like it.”

Okay, so the Sanchezes’ youth, looks and relationship had set them apart, made them memorable. That was encouraging. What else could she get from these men while she had the chance? Because of the language barrier, it wasn’t as if they’d volunteer information. She had to ask for it. “Where did Juan and Miguel take this group? Where did they cross?”

“There is an abandoned cattle rancho. About cinco kilometers from here. They go there to cross, after the fence turns to barbwire.” He walked two fingers across the table to make sure she understood that they went on foot.

Sophia tried to imagine what that day must’ve been like for José and his wife. Leaving their families, their home. Arriving in this dirty town from somewhere deep in Mexico, a place that was bound to be cleaner if not more affluent. Being met by Miguel and shown to a hotel to wait for night. Being taken to a ranch and herded across the border like cattle. Being chased by the CBP.

“If José and Benita left with thirty people, how’d they end up alone?” she asked. “How is it that Juan and Miguel are sitting here alive and well, and this couple is dead?”

“La Migra,” he said simply.

“You’re saying the CBP killed them.”

“No, the…the sensors give them away.”

He was talking about the Virtual Presence and Extended Defense System, technology that could detect pedestrians and vehicles, even differentiate between them.

“Sensors go off, but no one knows, eh? Only agents at the command. They call other agents.” He pretended to be driving, closing in on a target. “Mexicans run.” Making an explosion with his hands, he tried to clarify, and Sophia knew exactly what he meant. She’d heard border patrol agents use the term going quail. The CBP had shown up and everyone had scattered.

But the illegals didn’t always run. Sometimes they were too exhausted. Apparently, this group had been found early enough that they still had the energy to make a break for it.

“And this couple?” she asked. “Did they return to Mexico?”

“No.”

“Did Juan or Miguel see them leave with anyone else?”

He shook his head but checked with his companions to be sure. “He was running himself.”

“What about everyone else? What happened to them?”

Enrique told her that some of the same people who’d been “VPed,” or caught by the new security system and repatriated to Mexico, had crossed the border the very next night without a problem. But he had no idea what’d happened to the others.

“Is there any talk of this on the street? About a particular border patrol agent, for example?”

“Not a particular agent. They’d all like to shoot us.”

“That’s not true.”

“You don’t know what goes on out there,” he said grimly.

She was beginning to learn. And she didn’t like what she heard. Becoming familiar with the unvarnished truth made her uncomfortable because there didn’t seem to be any way to solve the problem and still be sensitive to the needs of Americans and Mexicans alike. “So no one has any idea who’s doing this.”

“None. But it sounds as if you do. It sounds as if you think it’s the CBP.”

“That’s not what I think. I’m just being cautious enough to look at every possibility. If it is a Federal agent, it’s one random officer gone bad, which you can find in any organization.” She certainly didn’t mean to villainize the whole force. She knew too many of the officers, saw how hard they worked to maintain their humanity while fulfilling the requirements of the job.

“You ask me? They’re all bad,” he said. “At least half are the children of Mexicans who snuck across the border a generation ago. How does that make them any better than us?”

“You consider them disloyal.”

“Sí.”

“What about your part in all this?” she asked.

Confusion lined his forehead. “Señorita?”

“You don’t feel guilty—bad—about the people who get hurt because of what you do?”

“I no shoot them,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest.

“You’re encouraging others to break the law. You’re helping them do it, which is putting them in a very dangerous situation. If it wasn’t for Juan and Miguel, José and Benita might not have been killed.”

“Maybe. Or someone else might have taken them across,” he said indifferently. “Maybe me. Es sólo un trabajo.”

If she understood him right, he’d said it was just a job. “Maybe that’s how the Mexican-American border agents feel, too.”

Unconvinced, he smacked the table. “They cannot blame us for helping people do what their parents did twenty, thirty years ago.”

Except that twelve people had been murdered in the past six weeks and these men were still encouraging illegal immigration. But there was no point in arguing. She wasn’t going to change his mind, so she withdrew the money from her pocket and handed it over. “I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

“Gracias.” Enrique eagerly accepted the worn bills and the three of them hurried outside.

Sophia was putting away her pad and pen and digging out the key to her Harley when she realized the cantina owner was waving to get her attention. Speaking in Spanish, he made shooing motions toward the saloon-style door. He was trying to close.

Her eyes gravitated to the front table. It was empty. The man who’d called her a puta and his friend had already been asked to leave.

But they weren’t gone. She could see them standing outside, waiting for her.

6

Sophia considered asking the cantina owner to walk her to her bike, but she doubted she could string together enough Spanish to make herself understood. Not only that, she couldn’t think of any reason he might be willing to put his life on the line for some gringo he’d never met before. Maybe she was being ungenerous and her nationality wouldn’t enter into his decision, but she knew it could. Racism cut both ways.

She thought about heading down the dimly lit hallway where a sign promised Los Baños. But even if the restrooms had a window through which she could crawl into a back alley, what good would it do? As soon as the man who’d called her a whore figured out that she’d given him the slip, he’d simply cross over to her bike. He’d seen her drive up, knew where she’d parked. It was only a stone’s throw from where he and his friend were standing.

She couldn’t use her cell phone to call for help. And she didn’t know a soul here in Mexico that she could depend on. She’d already let Enrique and his friends leave without asking them to escort her safely to her Harley. But that wasn’t necessarily a bad decision. As far as she could tell, they were friends with the loser who seemed so bent on harassing her and could just as easily come to his aid if forced to choose sides. No, she preferred to keep the numbers small and manageable. There’d be fewer variables.

Taking her gun from under her pant leg, she held it against and slightly behind her body as she strolled out of the bar. She had no idea whether these guys were armed, but she had to assume the worst. It was too dangerous to do otherwise. Their behavior was aggressive enough to suggest it.

The breath she held burned in her chest as she reached the man who’d been doing his best to make her uncomfortable. He’d stationed himself so that she couldn’t avoid walking past him.

She was prepared when his hand whipped out to grab her left arm. Letting him jerk her around to face him, she brought up her gun, using the momentum of his own action to shove the barrel between his ribs. “Let go or I’ll kill you,” she ground out, teeth clenched.

Fear replaced the menace in his eyes. She’d gotten the drop on him. He hadn’t expected her to be armed.

But, wary as he’d become, he didn’t release her.

Adrenaline poured through her body, which made her feel a little shaky, but she had to sell her “hard chick” performance. His life, and possibly her own, depended on whether or not he bought it. “You have three seconds. I’ll even count en español, comprendes?”

At first, he couldn’t seem to decide how to react. But his friend scrambled away so fast he fell in his hurry to put some distance between them.

“Uno…dos…” She knew she couldn’t pull the trigger, not at this range. Although she’d had to use her firearm twice in the line of duty, she’d never actually killed a man. Unless he did something more than grab her arm, something to prove his intentions were what she feared, her threat was only a bluff. But she had the image she’d created with her bike, her tattoos and the swagger she’d learned from the Hells Angels working to convince him otherwise.

She prayed it would be enough.

Before she could get to three, he muttered what sounded like “fucking loca” and stepped away with his hands up. By this time, his friend had darted around the corner and was no longer in sight.

“That’s it,” she murmured. “Nice and easy. No need to make me nervous.”

“Puta!”

“You used that one already.”

Hatred glittered in his eyes. “You better not ever come back here.”

She smiled. “But this is such a nice place to visit.”

Keeping the gun trained on him, she backed across the street. Then she shoved her Glock into her waistband, where she could grab it again, if necessary, got on her bike and rode away.

Only when she was in line to get out of the country did she pull her shirt down to cover her weapon. And it wasn’t until after she’d crossed the border and was nearly home that she put it back in its holster. Maybe she was safe from the man who’d scared her in Naco, but the area wasn’t as empty as the dark streets implied. Even as she flew down the road, there were coyotes smuggling bands of illegal immigrants into the country—and there was a killer lurking somewhere, waiting to shoot the unsuspecting in cold blood.

Roderick felt like roadkill. Unable to get a flight to Tucson, he’d gone to Phoenix, but it’d been after eleven-thirty when he got in. Then he’d had to wait for his luggage and go through the tedious paperwork involved in renting a car before driving four hours southeast to Bordertown. Other than a fifteen-minute nap on the plane, he’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours.

But, tired though he was, he couldn’t bring himself to pull into the Mother Lode Motel and get a room. The sun wasn’t up yet. Arriving so early gave him a short window of time during which he could drive around unnoticed, familiarize himself with what had changed and reacquaint himself with what hadn’t—all before having to face his father or anyone else he might know from those early days. For an hour or so, he wouldn’t need to don the mask of indifference he’d soon wear, wouldn’t need to pretend that what’d happened here didn’t bother him anymore.

“Welcome home,” he muttered as he passed the drugstore, the family-owned grocery, Serrano’s Western Wear and the Catholic church his mother used to drag him to each Sunday. She’d insisted her younger brother go to church with them, but religion hadn’t been enough to keep Arturo on the right track. Was he even alive?

Roderick stretched the tight muscles in his neck. Maybe, when he was finished in Bordertown, he’d head down to Mexico and look for Arturo.