by Robert Crais
Pike circled the area, but did not have to go far. Twenty feet away, he found an irregular brown amoeba-shaped stain almost two feet across on the dusty shale. The brown had faded, and was almost the color of dust, but Pike had seen similar stains in similar deserts all over the world, and knew it had once been red.
Something bad had happened here.
Someone had died here.
And the shooters had taken the body.
Pike had been on the scene for one hour and twelve minutes. It was almost three o’clock. He marked the spot, then jogged back to his Jeep to call Elvis Cole.
Elvis Cole:
four days before he is taken
12.
The bathroom felt cold when Pike told me what he had found.
“Big group. Can’t tell how many, but more than ten. Two or three smaller vehicles came hard for the quad. Looks like three, but I can’t confirm.”
“The quad was there first? The others came after?”
“The quad wasn’t running. He was probably stopped when they hit.”
“They followed him?”
“Or knew he would come and waited nearby. He parked, people got out, the bad guys hit.”
“So everyone ran, but got rounded up and put back aboard?”
“Way it looks. At least one man went down. From the amount of blood, KIA.”
“Jesus.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Anything else on the kids?”
“No, but I can stay longer.”
I was thinking about it when a man in his thirties with neatly trimmed blond hair opened the door and told me Mr. Locano was ready. He had a faint Russian accent and wore a UCLA class ring. One of Locano’s associates. I told Pike I would call back, and followed the man to Mr. Locano’s office. As before, he was behind his desk when I arrived and came around to speak with me, but this time we did not sit.
He said, “There is a man.”
“Isn’t there always?”
“Rudy Sanchez. Rudolfo. Mr. Sanchez is well established, and is known to deal with groups.”
“Thanks, Mr. Locano. This won’t get back to you.”
“Wait. You’ll want his address.”
He gave me a white index card on which he had written Sanchez & Sons Towing, along with a Coachella address. Both the address and the business surprised me.
“He lives in Coachella?”
“They tell me he’s an American, and the business is real.”
I put the card away. Maybe a man in the towing business would be confident driving a large truck over rough ground, but maybe the overlap of business and large trucks was only a coincidence. Maybe Krista’s Sanchez and Rudy Sanchez weren’t the same coyote, and maybe Mary Sue was wrong about Q COY SANCHEZ, and the Sanchez in the note wasn’t a coyote, but a shy flirt who was after Krista’s boyfriend. Rudy Sanchez might never have heard of Krista Morales, and she might never have heard of or contacted him.
I said, “I spoke with my associate while I was waiting. There appears to be evidence of some kind of abduction at the crash site.”
“Evidence the girl was taken?”
“Nothing specific to Krista Morales, no, sir, but what he’s found isn’t good.”
“Then let’s hope for the best.”
He pursed his lips as if wrestling with how much he wanted to say, then finally told me.
“Have you seen news accounts of the mass graves found south of the border?”
I nodded. Mass graves containing scores of murder victims were sometimes found, and were so horrific they made national news in the U.S.
He said, “These were immigrants abducted for ransom, Mr. Cole. Bajadores leave no witnesses. Let us hold a good thought until we know more.”
I thanked Mr. Locano for his help, and went out to my car. I wanted to talk with Pike about what he had found, but Starkey called as I got into my car.
“I got your DMV on that Mustang. Can you talk?”
“Sure.”
“No one owns it.”
“What do you mean, no one owns it?”
“The owner of record isn’t a person. DMV shows it’s owned by the Arrowhead Trust. That means whoever owns it didn’t buy the car as an individual, but bought it through the trust or transferred title to the trust. Rich people do that for tax reasons.”
“I know, Starkey. Thanks.”
“I know you know. Just sayin’. You want the address?”
“Yeah.”
She didn’t give me the address Mary Sue found in Krista’s computer. She gave me a Wilshire Boulevard address not far from UCLA, on a stretch of Wilshire lined with corporate high-rises.
“One-oh-eight-eight-six Wilshire Boulevard, tenth floor, Westwood, nine-oh-oh-two-four.”
She repeated it without my having to ask. Though trusts can and did hold title to anything, Mustangs weren’t typically the type of vehicle held in trust. Trusts were used to shelter high-ticket items like yachts, Ferraris, and multimillion-dollar homes from inheritance taxes.
I said, “Starkey, you at the office?”
“Yeah. I’m done for the day. You want to swing by and pick me up?”
“No. I want you to check a name for me. Rudolfo or Rudy Sanchez. Has a business in Coachella called Sanchez and Sons Tow.”
I gave her the address, and explained his occupation. If Sanchez had ever been arrested in California, his history would show on the California Department of Justice system. I could hear Starkey curse as she typed, and I didn’t blame her. Officers couldn’t tap into the system any time they wanted for any reason at all. She would have to enter a case number and her badge number, which meant her supervisor would be notified of her request, and she would have to justify the search. Fabricating a reason for checking out Rudolfo Sanchez was no big deal, but the paperwork was annoying.
Then she stopped cursing, and lowered her voice.
“Who’s this guy Sanchez to you?”
“If he’s the right Sanchez, he may have had contact with a woman I’m trying to find. But he might not be my guy. I won’t know that until I talk to him.”
“Good luck with that.”
“You found him?”
“I found him. No criminal record. Not even a ticket.”
I was half a beat behind her.
“Then why is he in the system?”
“He was found murdered by gunshot last Saturday afternoon. They fished him out of the Salton Sea.”
I felt the dropsick feeling you get when your stomach washes with acid.
“Is this the same Sanchez?”
“Yes, Cole, I’m sure. Rudolfo Sanchez of Coachella.”
“Sanchez and Sons Tow Service?”
“Jesus, Cole, yes, I’m looking at it right here. Owner of Sanchez and Sons Tow Service, Coachella, California. That would be your Rudolfo Sanchez. They found him backstrokin’ last Saturday afternoon.”
Saturday. Krista Morales and Jack Berman disappeared Friday night.
Starkey kept going, reading from her computer.
“No suspects at this time, anyone with information contact Sergeant Mike Bowers of the Coachella Police Department, blah blah blah.”
I thought about Pike and the desert, and what we have found there.
“What kind of gun?”
“Nine-millimeter. Plugged him five times with the nine, and put a load of buckshot in him. A nine-millimeter and a shotgun. You know anything about this?”
“Just what I told you.”
“Who’s the woman?”
“A college student.”
“Anything I should know?”
“It’s like I said, Starkey. I’m not even sure he’s the right Sanchez. You know how many Sanchezes there are?”
“I know it’s the eighth most common Spanish name in America. That’s a lot of Sanchezes.”
“Yeah. I better get back to work.”
“And I know you better not leave me hanging on this. You understand?”
“I understand.”
/> I hung up and stared at my phone. Then I looked at the address in Coachella. Sanchez & Sons. It was three minutes after four. I called Joe Pike.
“Still there?”
“Yes.”
“I’m coming back.”
13.
The I-10 pulsed through Covina to Pomona, but I was on the phone with the Information operator by Ontario. Information showed thirty-two Sanchezes in the desert communities. One was listed as Rudolfo Junior, one as Rudy. Rudy’s address was the same as his place of business. Rudolfo Junior’s address appeared to be a condo or apartment in Coachella.
I copied Junior’s address and phone, then asked for the number for Sanchez & Sons Tow.
“Emergency or business?”
“Business.”
She connected me, and a male voice answered on the third ring.
“Towing.”
“Ah, hey, this is Billy Dale. I didn’t know if you’d be open, considering.”
“We’re open.”
“Ah, is this Rudy Junior?”
“Eddie. Hold on, I’ll get him.”
“That’s okay. I thought you might be one of the sons, and wanted to pay my respects. I heard what happened, and, man, it just floored me.”
Eddie hesitated for a moment, then sounded more relaxed.
“Thanks. I’m the middle brother, Eddie. It’s hit us pretty hard.”
Middle implied three. At least one other was on the premises.
“They get the guy who did it? I mean, they can’t just let some bastard get away with this. Rudy was a great guy.”
“No. No, they haven’t made any arrests. Thanks for asking.”
“Ah, listen, I had some business with your dad. Could I stop around for a few minutes?”
“We’re open till six.”
“That’d be swell. Thanks.”
Swell.
Six gave me fifty-two minutes.
I phoned Pike as I raced through Fontana to Redlands, where the 10 dropped south to the Banning Pass. Pike, already in the desert, had gone direct to their address.
“I’m thirty out. You on it?”
“Block away outside a building supply, opposite side of the street. I’m not alone.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Taco stand on the opposite corner. Asian male in a tan Subaru. Windows up for his AC. Second time I passed, saw him with binos.”
“Police surveillance?”
“Whatever. He’s watching.”
I wondered if the police had learned Rudy Sanchez was a coyote, or if they had always known it. The police would make dealing with the brothers more difficult, but not impossible.
“Okay. What’s he seeing?”
“Five men on the yard, one just left with a wrecker. Multiple trucks. Small office in the rear. Looks like a real business.”
“Locano said it’s legit. I spoke with one of the brothers.”
“You think they know?”
“We’ll see. They close at six. I’m twenty-five out. I’ll cruise the yard, then we can figure this out.”
“There’s a Ralphs market a few blocks west on the other side of the freeway. You’ll see me.”
Pike killed the call, and I picked up the pace.
Coachella was low, flat, and gray despite heavy irrigation. The buildings all seemed to be built of concrete block or stucco, and most were as charming as storage units. Thirsty trees struggled against the onslaught of dry heat, and patchy lawns were never quite green, as if their true color was hidden by a thin film of dust that the locals could sweep away, but never defeat. A gentle desert breeze dropped powdery sand from the sky like fairy dust. It left Coachella looking like an outlet mall.
Pike was gone when I arrived at Sanchez & Sons, but the man in the Subaru was parked a car-length away from a tiny white taqueria stand with an easy view of the tow yard on the opposite side of the street. He was slumped behind the wheel exactly as Pike described, wearing shades as if they made him invisible, and a stylish gray porkpie hat. Three scruffy, dusty men who looked like they worked hard were lined up for tacos. They ignored the hat man, and he ignored them. He watched the tow yard.
Sanchez & Sons Tow Service was a large truck yard on the wrong side of the freeway. A chain-link fence circled the perimeter with a small office building at the rear that used to be a gas station. Block-letter signs on the fence read: TURN JUNK INTO CA$H! WE BUY OLD CARS! 24/7 SERVICE! LOCAL AND LONG DIST TOWS! Six white tow trucks all bearing Sanchez & Sons logos were parked behind the signs. The trucks ranged from light-duty wheel-lift trucks to medium-duty wreckers with blue cranes on their beds to a couple of flatbed lifters large enough to piggyback an RV. A sliding gate for the trucks to come and go was open, with a drooping black bow to acknowledge Sanchez’s death. A young guy wearing a greasy blue work shirt was hosing one of the trucks. An older man was working under the hood of a different truck. Neither appeared armed or particularly threatening, but I hadn’t expected banditos. I was more concerned about the hat in the Subaru. The police would have come the day Sanchez’s body was identified. Depending on what they knew, they would have informed the family, then questioned both his family and employees about his activities on the days leading up to his murder. If they maintained a surveillance, it meant they knew of or suspected Rudy’s extracurricular activities, which might make it more difficult to get information about Krista Morales. Three minutes later, I pulled up beside Pike, and got out of my car. We stood between our cars to talk.
Pike said, “The hat?”
“Still there, in front of the taco stand like you said.”
“Mm.”
“I’m thinking I’ll go in alone, while you keep an eye on the hat.”
“What about the brothers?”
“I’ll feel them out. They may not even know what their father was doing.”
Pike turned away without another word, slipped into his Jeep, and left. Mr. Small Talk.
Sixty-five seconds later, I parked on the street across from the gate, and no one except the hat man paid attention as I walked to the little office. The young guy washing the wrecker kept washing while an older man I hadn’t seen before climbed aboard a light wheel-lifter, and backed past me toward the street. Off to help a stranded motorist. I couldn’t see Pike and didn’t know where he was, but neither did they. Especially the hat in the Subaru.
Cold air hit like a meat cooler when I entered the office. Two men were seated at a desk, one behind it with his chair rocked back, and the other beside it with his legs stretched out. They turned when I entered. The younger was in his late twenties and the man behind the desk was in his early thirties. The younger wore a blue work shirt with Eddie stitched on his left chest. The older wore a bright green Islander decorated with yellow palm trees and pink flamingos. This was probably Rudy Junior. Both had bruised eyes, lumps on their cheeks, and Rudy’s upper lip was swollen. I could see the resemblance even under the bruises.
I said, “Hey.”
The older guy said, “Hey. Can I help you?”
“I spoke with Eddie here earlier. You Rudy Junior?”
Rudy arched his eyebrows at his brother, who recognized my voice.
“This is the guy who called. He knew the old man.”
I looked from Eddie to his brother.
“My condolences.”
“Eddie said you had business with our dad?”
“That’s right. I’m looking for Krista Morales. Either of you know her?”
They glanced at each other, with Eddie shaking his head.
Rudy Junior said, “Sorry, friend. Should we?”
“I’m pretty sure your father knew her, or at least spoke with her. I was hoping one of you might know what they talked about. Here, she wrote this—”
I took out the note and held it so they could see. While they looked, I noticed a black-and-white picture on the wall showing Eddie and Rudy J with the young guy washing the wrecker outside, and a much older man. The older man would be their father. All
of them were smiling.
Eddie read the note aloud.
“Q coy Sanchez. What’s it mean?”
“It means ask the coyote Sanchez. She wanted to know about bringing people up from the south. Your dad say anything about it?”
I watched Rudy J when I said it, trying to gauge his reaction. Eddie stood first, but Rudy Junior followed, moving with measured purpose.
“Who are you?”
“The man who’s looking for Krista Morales. She’s my interest here. Nothing else.”
Eddie said, “He’s a federal fucking agent.”
Rudy Junior shrugged.
“Doesn’t matter what he is. He’s got the wrong Sanchezes. There’s a lot of us. We’re like Smith and Jones, only brown.”
I said, “Why don’t we ask your other brother? Maybe he knows something.”
Rudy Junior pointed at a round clock on the wall. It wasn’t Pinocchio.
“It’s six. We’re closed. You need to leave, or I’ll call the police.”
Eddie said, “Asshole fed.”
They were glaring at me when Eddie suddenly focused on something behind me, and his face sagged.
“Oh shit.”
I turned as Rudy J reached behind his desk for a baseball bat, and then the door opened.
A tough-looking Asian man in a nice suit and sunglasses swaggered in first. He had been born with a thick neck and large bones, but time in a gym gave him sharp cuts and rude angles. He grinned when he saw the baseball bat, then stepped aside as two more Asian men pushed the third brother inside ahead of them. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen. They were lean and hard with no-bullshit expressions, and something told me they weren’t police officers.
The second man held the youngest brother by the upper arm, and spoke to Rudy J as if I wasn’t present, even though I was only three feet away.
“We gave you much time. Now you pay.”
He barked the words in a heavy accent, each word a separate explosion.
Rudy J dipped his head toward me. He was afraid, but he was more afraid of what they would do to his brother than what I might overhear.