The Cornwalls Are Gone

by James Patterson

  “Sure, right down the highway.”

  “Well, I was on my way to Kenedy when I got the information about the shootings here in Three Rivers.”

  Morales frowns. “What, you got some crazy vet, suffering from PTSD, going on some sort of killing rampage?”

  “No, not at all,” Rosaria says.

  “Good. I got two nephews, good boys both, who’ve been to Iraq and Afghanistan. I won’t stand for that shit, anybody dissing our veterans. So why do you think there’s a connection?”

  “I don’t know if there’s a connection,” she says. “That’s why I’m here. It just seems…odd, that my AWOL officer would be spotted in Kenedy, and then there’s a shooting here, not long after.”

  “Your officer a combat veteran?”

  “No, she’s an intelligence officer.”

  “She got family around here?”

  “No, she’s originally from Maine. She’s never been to Texas, has never been stationed in Texas.”

  “She got somebody here she might have a grudge against?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “And you don’t know of any connection between her and my town?”

  “Not at all.”

  Morales slaps at a buzzing fly and says, “Fair enough, you’ve been up front with me. Now it’s my turn. We got a nine-one-one call about twenty minutes ago, saying there were shots fired at this house. No big deal, hearing gunshots, but the caller said the shots came from within the house, and that she had spotted two people running away from the scene. First responder came in, saw bodies and blood, and that’s where we stand.”

  “Any identification of the victims?”

  “Two adult males, that’s all we know. Both died from gunshot wounds.”

  “They rent or own the place?”

  “That’s being tracked down.”

  Rosaria nods. “Mind if I take a peek inside?”

  Morales says, “Think you can stand it?”

  “No,” Rosaria says. “I know I can stand it.”

  CHAPTER 61

  AT THE steps leading into the house, a young male Three Rivers police officer holds a clipboard in his slightly trembling hands, and near his feet there’s an open black plastic case. The door to the house is propped open with a rock.

  Morales bends over the case, comes back up, and hands over a set of light-blue paper booties and latex gloves. As Rosaria and the sergeant start getting dressed, another Three Rivers officer comes over, nearly breathless, and says, “Mister Houston, up two houses, he says the folks who were here had a big black pickup truck, extended cab, with those overhead lights. He said it drove out a while ago, he’s not sure of the time.”

  Morales says, “Okay, then, put it out. I’m busy here.”

  Once they are both dressed, Morales says, “I know you’re a pro, but I still have to say it: be careful where you step, and before you touch anything, ask me first. Savvy?”

  “You got it.”

  At the open door, the officer notes the time and writes down Morales’s name, and Rosaria presents her identification. After the recording is done—essential at any homicide scene to keep track of the traffic—Morales goes in, and Rosaria closely follows.

  The police sergeant stops, and Rosaria takes in the bloody scene. The smell of death is here in this room, and unlike other crime scenes she’s visited over the years, this one is relatively fresh. Too soon for body decomp to have set in, though there’s the aroma of discharged firearms mixed in with the pungent scent of bodies having just been ripped apart by bullets traveling at several thousand feet per second.

  The dead man in this small living room is huge, bulked-up, and Rosaria can imagine the house shuddering when he hit the ground. He’s wearing black shorts and a wrestler-type tank top, and there are torn and twisted strips of gray duct tape around his ankles and wrists.

  What’s visible on his skin are a lot of tattoos, and Morales notices Rosaria’s interest as she leans over the dead man and says, “Rough ink work, right? That’s Mexican prison stuff, right there. Our dead guy here has a lot of blood and bullets under his belt.”

  Rosaria says quietly, “Yeah, plus one through the mouth. Good shooting.”

  “Or accidental. Once bullets start flying, you never know where they’ll end up.”

  A television is on its side, the sound and picture still on, and Rosaria cants her head, says, “Looks like a telenovela.”

  “Good call.”

  Rosaria straightens up and says, “This guy…he wasn’t shot right off when the intruder came to the door. He either recognized the intruder or didn’t think he or she was a threat. And the intruder…violent death wasn’t the goal.”

  Morales nods. “Yeah. The duct tape. Looks like the big guy here got caught or stunned, was secured by the duct tape, but was strong enough and pissed enough to tear himself free. And look at this.”

  Morales steps over the dead man’s thick and outstretched legs, points down to the floor between him and the couch. “Don’t touch it, but it looks like a Beretta nine mill down there. I did a quick check before you showed up. There’s weapons stashed all over the place. Way I figure it, he was down for the count but managed to break free, find a weapon, and he was zapped before he could use it.”

  “All right,” Rosaria says, noting the bloody and gaping wound in the man’s mouth and head. Flies are starting to come in and buzz around. Morales goes into the tiny kitchen and Rosaria follows, careful to keep her footsteps slow and careful. It wouldn’t do to slip on the paper booties and fall on your ass in front of a local.

  In the kitchen is another dead man, also shot, splayed out against a kitchen counter, broken dishes and glassware on the floor. This one is younger and slimmer than his companion in the living room. Morales says, “Looks like junior here took the brunt of the assault. At least three wounds I can see, and no duct tape.”

  Rosaria nods, says to Morales, “Mind if I check the refrigerator and cabinets?”

  “Sure. You hungry?”

  “Not yet.”

  The cabinets are mostly empty, save for bags of potato chips and tortilla chips, some containers of salsa. The refrigerator is nearly empty as well, but the freezer is full of Swanson frozen meals.

  Rosaria says, “Temporary quarters for temporary guests.”

  “You got it.”

  She sees a book on the floor, near the dead man. It’s a Spanish-language Bible. “What do you think of this?” Rosaria asks.

  Morales says, “Looks like the guy had a ‘come to Jesus’ moment before the bullets started flying.”

  Rosaria says, “I wonder what Jesus might be saying to him now.”

  Rosaria carefully goes through the rest of the house. Another siren in the distance. Two bedrooms, each with a bed and a mattress on the floor.

  “Looks like four guys,” she says. “Waiting…but for what?”

  “Not for a hit,” Morales says. “But really…”

  The sound of the siren grows louder.

  “Go on,” Rosaria says. “What were you going to say?”

  “It wasn’t a hit, it was a snatch,” she says. “We got a report of two guys running across the field after the shooting started. We got two dead guys here. That means our two runners were probably the shooter and somebody else. And if you were just coming in to hit the residents, you wouldn’t be running away with another guy in tow.”

  Rosaria says, “You got sleeping arrangements for four.”

  “Yeah, and we also know that a large tricked-out pickup truck left before the shooting started. Maybe that guy betrayed his friends here. Went out to make a phone call, and then the hit comes. Might be halfway to the border by now.”

  Rosaria nods and just walks quietly out of the house and, on the worn, beaten-down brown lawn, tugs off the gloves and the booties. Morales keeps hers on. Rosaria says, “But it certainly wasn’t a hit.”

  “How are you so sure?” Morales asks.

  “The guy with the duct tape. It means
the shooter came in with mercy on her mind. She didn’t want to kill anybody right off. But she killed when she had to…and then she left with the man she was here to take. If this had been a hit, there would have been no duct tape…just a shooter coming in with an M4 or an Uzi or AK-47, just hose down every room.”

  Morales says, “I like the way you think.”

  Rosaria smiles. “So do I.” With her warm and moist hands, she reaches into her jacket, removes a business card, passes it over. “You and I both know that in a few minutes, your chief is going to show up, your crime scene folks, maybe more state troopers and the Texas Rangers. But I would sure love to talk to you directly, without having to go through the chain of command. Especially if you can get an idea of who the victims were, why they were here, and what they were protecting.”

  Morales nods, passes over her own business card. “When did you know it was your Army officer?”

  “What?”

  Morales says, “A few minutes ago, you said the shooter was a she. Earlier, you said him or her. What made you decide?”

  Rosaria gives her a wide smile, and Morales smiles in return when she says, “Female intuition, what else?”

  Morales takes one more glance at the house. “Sad, isn’t it?”

  “The two dead guys?”

  “No, this nice little house. Once upon a time, it was probably a sweet home for a nice family, raising kids, watching them grow up and succeed. Know what I mean?”

  “No,” Rosaria says.

  Five minutes later, Rosaria is back in her rental car and she feels like she needs to brief her boss, but first, she needs a cold drink, and as she’s driving up the main road in Three Rivers, she spots a McDonald’s and pulls in.

  And then she sees something else, and her SIG Sauer is in her hand, at her side in the car.

  Parked at the rear of the McDonald’s lot, partially hidden by a green dumpster, is a black pickup truck with an extended cab and overhead light rack.

  CHAPTER 62

  AFTER WORKING for his first jefe, Antonio Garcia no longer believes in Jesus, the Blessed Virgin, the Holy Saints, or nearly anybody else, but he’s beginning to reconsider his atheism as his day proceeds. Back here in the McDonald’s parking lot he finds a strong signal for his cell phone, and with dread in his bones, he calls his jefe to tell him how everything has gone wrong.

  But his boss isn’t home!

  On the phone is one of his lieutenants, a grim, sour little man called Pedro, and Pedro is demanding to know why Antonio is calling, but he won’t answer the man’s questions. Each day working for the jefe is a balancing act, keeping him happy, watching the rivals in the organization who will stab you in your back—literally!—if the opportunity arises.

  Antonio says, “Look, when will he be back?”

  Pedro swears and says, “How should I know? All I know is that he had the urge to go visit his wife and do some serious drinking and humping, and now he’s gone.”

  Antonio says, “Which wife?” and he’s not joking, for like most cartel heads in Mexico, strong men with strong appetites have three or four wives scattered across the country or in the States.

  Pedro says, “I think the one in Puerto Vallarta. She’s the one that he likes seeing in those dental-floss bathing suits.”

  Antonio swivels in his seat, to see if any police are in the area. No, just a McDonald’s worker, a woman in one of those brown shirts, walking from car to car, holding a brown paper bag.

  Other than that, clear.

  He says, “All right, do you have a number for him?”

  “I do, but you’re not getting it unless you tell me why you need it.”

  Antonio swears at Pedro and says, “Look, I’m not getting into some school dispute with you, amigo. It’ll be on you when the jefe finds out you’ve been dicking around.”

  Pedro laughs. “We’ll see,” and his jefe’s man disconnects the call.

  Okay, then.

  Antonio feels much, much better. Any delay in telling his boss what happened here in this town will be on Pedro. And the delay now gives him time to get a story together.

  What kind of story?

  Any kind of story that will leave Antonio innocent of any foul-ups or wrongdoing.

  A knock on his window makes him jump.

  He turns, his heavy revolver in his right hand.

  It’s the woman from McDonald’s, holding up the paper bag, a dumb grin on her face. “Sir, is this yours? Is this order yours?”

  Antonio snaps, “Go away.”

  She shakes her head, still smiling. “Sir, please, I’ve checked everyone in the parking lot. You’re the last one here. It must be yours.”

  He swears and the woman taps her ear with a free hand. “Sorry, sir, I can’t hear that well. What did you say?”

  Antonio wants to get rid of this bitch as soon as he can, so he lowers the window and starts to talk.

  And he chokes, with a pistol barrel now crowding his mouth.

  CHAPTER 63

  AFTER SPENDING a few bucks for a Quarter Pounder meal and persuading the manager to lend her a worker’s shirt—by flashing her Army identification and spinning a tale of hunting an ISIS spy—Rosaria is now by the open driver’s-side window, her SIG Sauer in the man’s mouth.

  He’s well-built, flashy-looking, and an empty leather shoulder holster is visible. No real evidence that he was the guy at the house back there, because there must be lots of pickup trucks like this roaming around this part of Texas, but Rosaria has a gut feeling it must be him.

  He’s Hispanic, eyes wide but not afraid, like he’s used to having a gun drawn on him.

  Rosaria feels like one of those zoo workers who has successfully grabbed a deadly and angry rattlesnake by the head, only a slip or two away from being poisoned.

  She needs to be careful.

  Rosaria drops the McDonald’s bag on the asphalt and says, “Both hands up, touching the roof. Now.”

  The man slowly complies, both arms lifting up, shirt and jacket sleeves sliding off, to reveal the same type of prison tattoos as the dead guy on Linden Street, plus some gold jewelry and a heavy-looking watch.

  Rosaria spots what looks to be a hand cannon on his lap, and with her left hand, reaches in through the open window, picks up the heavy revolver, and tosses it into the bushes behind her, where it makes one hell of a crashing noise.

  “Now,” she says, “I’m coming in to join you. When I come in, you’re going to slide right over.”

  Again, moving slowly, she opens the door while removing the pistol from the man’s mouth, and in a quick maneuver, she slides her way in, and then quickly pushes her weapon into his side.

  Now she’s in.

  The pistol is jammed into the man’s ribs just below his left armpit.

  She says, “Hands behind your head, interlock your fingers. I promise, this won’t take long.”

  The man spits at her. “Puta.”

  “Really? That’s the best you can do?”

  She shoves the gun in harder.

  “This won’t take long. But you do anything funny, I’ll pull the trigger, and before you can blink, your heart is going to turn into mush. Do I have your attention?”

  The man just nods, eyes lit with hate and fury, and Rosaria stares right back, hoping he can’t tell how goddamn scared she is.

  CHAPTER 64

  A WOMAN! Antonio can’t believe it. A woman has a gun on him…No matter how this turns out, he will make sure this woman ends up dead. There’s no way in hell that he will let her live, to be in a position to tell someone, who will tell someone else, such that the information eventually ends up with the jefe.

  Not on your life. Or anyone’s life.

  He stares at her and says, “Put me under arrest, if you can. And then I want a lawyer.”

  Then another surprise comes to him when she speaks.

  “Who says I’m police?” she says, jamming the gun harder into his ribs. “I’m looking for information, that’s all. I don’t
care about you, or what you’ve done, or what you might be doing. A few answers and then I’ll be on my way, and you can go on yours.”

  “Go to hell.”

  The woman fumbles for a moment in her pocket, pulls out a cell phone, and her thumb is on the glass screen. “Here’s the deal, no talking, no negotiating.”

  He stares, hands behind him, clasped against his head. The bitch doesn’t know it, but his fingers aren’t interlocked. They are resting plain and open on his head…Now, if he could just slap her suddenly—women don’t like being hit in the face—but she speaks again, interrupting his thoughts.

  “This is pre-dialed to nine-one-one. I just press my thumb and in a minute or so, this parking lot is going to be full of police officers, eager to talk to you. Or, you can be stupid and try to hit me or something, and my other finger presses, and you die in this pretty truck.”

  Antonio waits and waits. He can’t have her call the police, not with all the sirens in the distance.

  He also can’t have her live.

  Rosaria says, “Oh, and if I find later you’ve been lying to me, I won’t be happy. I’ll find out in a day, or a week, or a month.”

  She takes the cell phone up, and there’s a whir-whir-whir, and she says, “By then, I’ll know who you are, and who your friends are, dead back at the house, and I’ll also know who you work for. You think he’ll be impressed if these pictures arrive to him, showing you being held at gunpoint? By a girl?”

  Antonio says, “They’re dead? All of them?”

  Rosaria says, “Now that’s something to say. Define all.”

  “What?”

  “How many were in the house besides you?”

  “Three.”

  “Two are dead,” she says. “That means one is missing. Who’s missing?”

  Antonio is thinking things through. All right, he will work this to his advantage. So what if he tells her what has happened? She will give him the facts that he can use later to talk to the jefe and explain what happened…all to Antonio’s benefit.