Left for Dead

by J. A. Jance

  Al thought about the assault victim’s bruised and battered face; her missing teeth; her misshapen features. “No,” he said at last. “The way she looks right now, it would take dental records or fingerprints or DNA to tell for sure. She was messed up pretty bad. Whoever did it meant for her to be dead. She was supposed to be dead. If I hadn’t come along when I did and chased them off, she probably would be dead.”

  “And she may still die?”

  Al nodded.

  “So you expect me to tell my wife that you may have found our long-lost daughter, but she may be dying. In fact, by the time you got here to the house, she might have already been dead. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” Fox said. “Maybe you’re not like the other guys. Since you’re not demanding money, maybe your heart’s in the right place, but I’m not going to jump in the car and head for Tucson. Tomorrow I’ll get in touch with the Buckeye Police Department and have someone look into this.”

  “Don’t you want to tell your wife?” Al asked.

  “No, I don’t. Haven’t you been listening? Every time somebody shows up saying they knew where Rose is, Connie gets her hopes up. And every time, when it turns out that they’re lying or deluded or just plain wrong, it breaks her heart all over again. If and when the cops can verify this, I’ll tell her. Not before. Even if the girl you’re talking about is Rose, what would be the point of finding her and having her die anyway? Now get the hell out of here before my wife gets home. Please.”

  Clearly, the conversation was over. Al turned and started away.

  “You got a business card on you?” Fox asked. “I’ll pass your name along to the local guys.”

  The business cards in Al Gutierrez’s wallet were all Border Patrol cards. At that point, however, it didn’t seem to make much difference. Al took one of them out, walked back to Fox, and handed it over.

  “Thanks,” James Fox said, slipping it into his shirt pocket.

  “You’re welcome,” Al told him.

  As he drove away, Fox was standing in front of the house, watching him go. Al was surprised by the man’s lack of urgency. If it had been his kid or his wife’s kid, he was sure he would already have been in the car and on his way to Tucson.

  The two-and-a-half-hour return trip seemed to take less time because Al now knew the way. He spent the whole trip beating himself up for being a fool and for not minding his own business. He had tried to do the right thing. It had blown up in his face. He had expected that Rose’s parents would be thrilled to hear the news and they would come rushing to see their daughter. Instead, he had gotten the brush-off. The stepfather had said he’d contact the Buckeye Police Department. Somehow Al doubted it, but that wasn’t his problem. If Rose Ventana’s family didn’t care whether she was alive or dead, why should he? What Al Gutierrez needed to do was go back to work on Tuesday and forget all about it.

  But he couldn’t. He had saved her life, and as he’d said, nobody else seemed to give a damn. Not her family. Not Kevin Dobbs. No one.

  When Al reached the intersection of Grant and the freeway, he had a decision to make. Keep going east and go home, or turn off and go to the hospital. He turned off.

  26

  3:00 P.M., Sunday, April 11

  Tubac, Arizona

  It was while he was eating his lonely Sunday-night dinner when Manuel Renteria missed Midge the most—Midge and her tamales. Theirs had been a mixed marriage. They were still newlyweds when Manuel’s mother had taken her Anglo daughter-in-law in hand and taught her how to make tortillas and tamales. When Midge was alive, that was what they usually had on Sunday nights—Midge’s homemade tamales.

  Now Sheriff Renteria pushed aside the leavings of his Hungry-Man microwave dinner and sat at his kitchen table, surveying a stack of documents he never should have had in his possession.

  Santa Cruz County was too small and too poor to have a crime lab of its own. As a consequence, any forensic work the county needed done was sent to the state crime lab in Tucson on a contract basis. Sheriff Renteria had been in the law enforcement business in Santa Cruz County for a very long time. He knew most of the people who worked in the crime lab, not just the scientists in the labs but their bosses and their bosses’ bosses. He also knew their wives and their kids—who played soccer; who was going to ASU; who had signed up for the marines.

  In other words, Sheriff Renteria was connected. And when he called in his markers, the people at the crime lab delivered. In this instance, he had run up the flag on the Reyes shooting, even though it was not his case to investigate. Duane Lattimore’s evidence was not Manuel Renteria’s evidence, but he had it anyway.

  Naturally, the reports from the crime lab went first to the DPS investigator, but after that and on an “unofficial basis,” most of that same information turned up on Manuel Renteria’s private fax machine at his home in Tubac. With any luck, Lattimore would never be the wiser.

  Manuel Renteria knew, for instance about the results from the search of Jose and Teresa Reyes’s mobile home in Patagonia. Several plastic containers of grass, each in the neighborhood of three kilos and conveniently packaged for flat-rate USPS shipping, had been found on the floor at the back of the entryway closet. These were amounts that would automatically trigger charges that included the words “intent to distribute.” The sheriff studied that notation for a long time, trying to come to terms with the very idea that either Jose Reyes or his wife, Teresa, could be involved in the drug trade.

  Manuel had known both these people for years. He had seen the couple out in public with Teresa’s two girls in tow on more than one occasion. They struck him as good parents—caring parents—and the idea that they would leave that much grass in a place that was so easily accessible to the girls didn’t fit.

  Then there was the money. According to the crime lab report, a stash of over five thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills had been found in a plastic container in Teresa’s underwear drawer. Only one set of fingerprints had been found on the outside of the container. Due to the location, it was safe to assume the prints would turn out to be Teresa’s, although no copies of her prints were currently available. A notation from Lattimore indicated that her comparison prints were in process, but Sherif Renteria wasn’t sure what that meant.

  The crime lab was proceeding with an examination of the cash, lifting fingerprints whenever and wherever possible. The bills from the dresser drawer, along with the ones that had been found lying loose at the crime scene after Jose’s shooting, all had traces of cocaine and methamphetamines. As far as Sheriff Renteria was concerned, that didn’t mean much. He suspected that most of the hundred-dollar bills currently in circulation in southern Arizona had been used in drug trafficking somewhere along the way and most likely held the same kinds of trace evidence.

  The presence of flat-rate USPS shipping boxes in the search warrant inventory rang an unwelcome bell. He remembered seeing one of those on the ground near Jose Reyes’s vehicle. Was that how crooks were transporting drugs these days? In a way that seemed smart—a lot like hiding something in plain sight—but if that were the case, how did they get the shipments past the various Border Patrol checkpoints where drug-sniffing dogs checked every vehicle?

  Unidentified prints had been found on shipping boxes but not on the packaged bags inside the shipping boxes. The prints had been run through the Automated Fingerprint Identification System, but so far there had been no hits. That was odd. If Deputy Reyes had handled the boxes, his prints would have been there, unless he had used latex gloves. Since he was a police officer, a record of his prints would be in the AFIS database.

  So whose were the unidentified prints? Teresa’s, maybe? If that turned out to be the case, three little kids were about to be left alone, not orphaned but worse. The very thought turned Sheriff Renteria’s stomach. He went into the living room, retrieved a bottle of Jose Cuervo from the liquor cabinet, and poured himself a generous shot.

  Back at the table, he looke
d through the blurry facsimile copies of the crime scene photos, trying to sort out how the shooting had occurred. There was a gravel road, a narrow single-lane track where it left the pavement, which widened into a turnaround at the spot where the shooting had taken place. Situated at the top of a small hill, it was unofficially dubbed Necker’s Knob, because it was a known hangout for teenagers bent on drinking and/or screwing. After the shooting, the other vehicle had been able to drive away without leaving any identifiable tracks.

  A battered lug wrench had been found on the front seat of Jose’s patrol car. It was easy to assume that had been used to blast the dash-mounted camera off its perch. Pieces of the broken mounting system had been found at the scene, but none of the camera. The footage in the camera most likely would have allowed the identification of the vehicle and maybe even the shooter. But how many crooks bothered with that kind of detail? Scared of being caught in the act, they were usually far more preoccupied with getting the job done and then getting the hell out of Dodge.

  There was a copy of search warrant requests that had been submitted on all of the Reyes family telephones, landline and cell phone alike. Phone records, both incoming and outgoing, made otherwise invisible connections obvious. The fact that Teresa’s phone was included in the request suggested that Lattimore suspected her of involvement, at least in the drug movement system and maybe even in the attempted hit on her husband.

  Initially, that had been Sheriff Renteria’s inclination, too—to assume that both Jose and Teresa were involved in whatever was going on. The evidence found in the search of their home should have reinforced that idea. Instead, the sheriff found himself moving in the opposite direction. This was all too easy; too pat. If it was a setup, Teresa had been targeted right along with her husband.

  So who was behind it and why? Who was easier to answer than why. The people who called the drug-dealing shots in and around Nogales were members of the feared Nogo Cartel, based in Nogales, Sonora.

  For as long as he had been sheriff, Renteria had maintained a separate peace with the cartel, due in large measure to the fact that his cousin’s son, Pasquale, a boy Manuel had once dandled on his knee, had risen to the top of the organization. Once Manuel was elected to the office of sheriff, he and Pasquale had hammered out a live-and-let-live agreement. The sheriff would keep his department’s efforts focused on the needs of the people who had elected him while leaving the drug war to others—to the feds, the DEA, and the Border Patrol. In exchange, Pasquale had agreed not to target Santa Cruz County officers.

  Sheriff Renteria wasn’t someone who went looking for a fight, but if the fight came to him, he wouldn’t shy away from it. If the Nogos turned out to be in any way involved in what was going on here, then all bets were off. Sheriff Renteria would do everything in his power to take them down, starting with Pasquale. Renteria would turn whatever he knew about his nephew and his cohorts over to Duane Lattimore.

  Having made up his mind, Sheriff Renteria stacked his papers and locked them in his briefcase. Then, after pouring and downing one last shot of tequila, he went to the bedroom and fell into a dreamless sleep on what he still, after all this time, considered to be his side of the queen-size bed.

  27

  7:00 P.M., Sunday, April 11

  Tucson, Arizona

  Ali’s decision to call Haley Marsh turned out to be nothing short of brilliant. Haley left her son, Liam, with her roommate long enough to come meet Lucy and Carinda and to take them in hand. Two long days in the hospital had taken their toll. The novelty had worn off. The girls were tired and cranky and wanted to be somewhere that wasn’t a hospital waiting room or hallway. Within minutes of meeting Haley, Lucy and Carinda were more than ready to go play at what she assured them them was a “real” house.

  When it was time for them to leave, Jose was sleeping again. Ali was helping load the girls and their gear—clothing, toys, and car and booster seats—into Haley’s minivan when she saw DPS Lieutenant Lattimore striding across the parking lot. Ali was on the phone to Juanita Cisco before he made it into the lobby.

  Juanita had come by earlier and given Jose a retainer to sign, but she had told Ali she wanted to be physically present if Lattimore showed up for fear Jose might say more than was good for him. Ali hurried back inside and was waiting outside the door to Jose’s room when the lieutenant came down the hall from reception.

  “You again,” he said when he saw Ali barring his way.

  “Yes,” she said. “Me again.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re doing here or why you think it’s okay to interfere with a police investigation,” Lattimore said.

  “Jose is a victim of a crime,” Ali countered, stalling for time. “I think you’ve lost sight of that.”

  “I haven’t lost sight of anything. When a crime victim is involved in illegal activities, it’s usually a good place to start looking for the perpetrator. That’s true even if the crime victim happens to be a police officer. I need to talk to Mr. Reyes and see if he can help me clear this case.”

  “He told me the shooter was a woman—a woman wearing a head scarf.”

  “So he’s been talking to you, but he can’t talk to me? And what did he mean by that—that she’s a Muslim or something?”

  “He said a scarf. Just a scarf. And sunglasses. Cataract-style sunglasses.”

  “I’d rather be hearing this from him than from you,” Lattimore said.

  Juanita Cisco arrived on the scene, wearing garden clogs and a loose-fitting smock. It was clear she’d come to the hospital straight from doing yard work. She was short and dumpy, with a set of jowls that made her face resemble that of a pit bull—an angry pit bull.

  “I’m Mr. Reyes’s attorney,” she announced. “You won’t be hearing anything at all from him unless I give you the go-ahead. Understood?”

  Lattimore wasn’t a happy camper, but he nodded. “All right,” he said. “We’ll do it your way.”

  Since no one told her otherwise, Ali followed the attorney and the detective into Jose’s room. There were still machines and plenty of beeping monitors. Jose had been asleep when the girls left, but he was awake now.

  “Jose, it’s Juanita,” the attorney said, reminding him in case the meds had interfered with his recall of her previous visit. “I told you about Mr. Lattimore earlier.” She sat down in the only visitor’s seat in the room, leaving Lattimore standing. “Mr. Lattimore is here to interview you about the shooting,” she continued. “He’s to confine his questions to that. If he strays into other areas, I’ll direct you not to answer.” She nodded in Lattimore’s direction.

  “So what can you tell me?” Lattimore asked Jose.

  “It was a traffic stop. A woman.”

  “How old?”

  “Older. Cataract glasses. And a head scarf—with flowers of some kind.”

  “What happened?”

  “I turned on my lights, but she didn’t pull over right away. Finally, she did, but instead of pulling over on the shoulder, she went up a side road. When she stopped, I got out and approached the vehicle. I told her to put her hands in the air, but by the time I saw her hands, she was already shooting.”

  “So you walked up to the car and she went kerblammo? No exchange of words?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “What kind of vehicle?”

  “Older-model Buick sedan. A Regal maybe.”

  “This isn’t someone you recognize or a vehicle you recognize?”

  “No.”

  “You have no idea who she was?”

  “No.”

  “Was the shooter alone in the vehicle?”

  “I didn’t see anyone else, but there might have been. I’m not sure. It was dark.”

  “Let’s talk about the trunk of your vehicle. What was in it?”

  “The usual stuff. Water, extra ammo, first aid kit, spare tire, a tool kit.”

  “Did you make any other stops of any kind that night?”

  “I made a couple of t
raffic stops, but it was pretty quiet.”

  “Traffic stops only?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing where you might have picked up some contraband?”

  “No.”

  “So what would explain the presence of drugs in your vehicle?” Lattimore asked.

  “What drugs? There weren’t any drugs.”

  “Was it maybe evidence from another case, one you were working on and hadn’t mentioned to anyone else? Maybe you hadn’t quite gotten around to doing the paperwork on it.”

  “If you found drugs in the trunk of my car, someone else must have put them there,” Jose said. “I didn’t.”

  Juanita gave a warning shake of her head. It was meant for Lattimore and Jose. Both of them ignored it.

  “Does any other officer drive that particular patrol car?”

  “No. I’m the only one. I take it home at night.”

  “And where do you park it?”

  “In my yard. In Patagonia. Outside Patagonia.”

  “Is the yard fenced and gated?” Lattimore asked.

  “Both—a fence and a gate. I keep the vehicle locked at all times.”

  “So you’re saying that it would be difficult for someone else to gain access to it when it’s parked at your home?”

  Jose nodded.

  “I’m not liking the direction your questions are taking,” Juanita said. “Let’s go back to the shooting.”

  “Okay, let me understand you. You’re saying that an unidentified woman lured you off the road, shot you, and then left money and drugs in the back of your car?”

  Jose nodded again. “It would have to be. I didn’t put them there.”

  “How many times have you pulled a crack pipe out of someone’s purse or the central console on the car and had the person in custody try to tell you that the contraband wasn’t theirs?”

  “I’m telling you, if you found drugs in my vehicle, they’re not mine. I don’t use drugs. I don’t deal drugs. That’s one of the reasons I became a cop—to take drugs off the street.”