Figuring it might help to give her more space, he nodded. “Fine. I’ll see you in an hour.”

She waited politely until he went out. She even waved as if he hadn’t embarrassed her. Then she closed the door and when he heard the dead bolt slide home behind him, he understood she was barring him from more than the house.

Damn, she was an idiot. What had she been thinking?

Sophia slid down the wall to the hardwood floor. She’d just flashed Roderick Guerrero, and he’d looked at her as if he wasn’t the least bit interested or impressed. She couldn’t imagine anything more humiliating, couldn’t imagine feeling more self-conscious than she had in those few seconds when he went silent and still. She usually avoided situations that made her emotionally vulnerable. So why had she taken such a risk? What had she hoped to achieve?

Forgiveness. She’d been sincere about that. And, regardless of the fact that she’d had the law on her side, she regretted bursting into his motel room without even allowing him time to dress.

But still… She’d been crazy to set herself up for his revenge. He’d exacted it so quickly and easily, with a mere look. Or maybe it was the lack of a look. His face had gone completely blank.

Obviously, she wasn’t her usual self. Not only was she fighting a deep-seated fear that she wouldn’t be able to solve the UDA case, she was terrified that there’d be other victims. She didn’t want to feel responsible for their deaths. Roderick was handsome and exciting and he’d created a distraction from the endless worry and doubt. Then there was the drive to prove herself desirable enough to appeal to a man like that. Dick’s behavior—cheating on her with a seventeen-year-old girl—must’ve taken more of a toll on her self-esteem than she’d realized.

So she’d made a mistake. It wasn’t catastrophic. She’d pretend it had never happened and go on. Roderick had wanted to get even, and she’d let him. Done. Over. She had too much going on to worry about the fact that he hadn’t been the slightest bit tempted by what he’d seen. He lived in Southern California, for crying out loud. Hard for natural br**sts to compete with all the surgery-enhanced beach bodies in L.A.

Determined to get moving, she scrambled to her feet and called Lindstrom to tell her about the meeting. Then she headed for the shower. But the phone rang before she could turn on the water, and caller ID showed her a number she couldn’t resist. It was a number she’d called again and again and again—the one she’d found in José’s sock.

14

“Hello?”

The man on the other end of the line had the same strong accent Sophia had heard on his voice-mail recording. “You left me a message?”

“Yes. My name is Sophia St. Claire. I’m the chief of police here in Bordertown, Arizona. Who are you?”

“I’d rather not say.”

He didn’t have papers. He was afraid she’d turn him in and he’d be deported. She was astonished he’d even called.

“You were trying to contact me about José Sanchez,” he said.

“Yes.”

“What about him? Has he done anything wrong?”

This man hadn’t heard about the shootings. Which meant he hadn’t been in recent contact with José’s or Benita’s families. Surely the Mexican consulate had notified them by now. “I’m afraid I have some very bad news.”

“They’re dead?”

“Yes.”

“That’s why I haven’t heard from him.” The fatalistic note in his voice said he’d expected something terrible like this. “How did it happen? Did they get lost? Run out of water?”

“They were shot and killed early Sunday morning.”

“By the border patrol?”

“No. It was a random act of violence. We’re still looking for the perpetrator.”

“I promised him it would be okay,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“You encouraged him to cross?” she asked.

“He was already set on it. He wanted to bring his wife here. I told him I’d help him get a start.”

“So he was planning on meeting up with you?”

“He and his wife were going to live with me until he could get a job and they could move out on their own.”

She eyed the clock. The minutes were ticking by, but she couldn’t risk asking if she could call this man back for fear he’d change his mind about talking to her. “Can you tell me anything that might help me track down the people they met along the way?”

“I recommended a good coyote. And I told them about a safe house in Bordertown.”

She’d found their coyote, so she focused on the other part of that statement. “I’d like to talk to the people who run that safe house. Can you tell me how to find it?”

“No. I don’t dare.”

“I have no interest in shutting it down.” That wasn’t her job. “I can’t promise it won’t happen, but I only want to find José and Benita’s killer. I need your help in order to do that. I’m guessing you’re a friend or a relative of some sort, right? So you want to see justice done. The person who killed your friends has killed before—ten other Mexican nationals. We have to stop him before he acts again.”

“Pero…I could get in trouble if I say too much. There are people who will be angry if I give out this information.”

“You’re talking about the owners of the safe house?”

“Sí. I think it might be the Mexican Mafia. That’s what they act like. Anyway, whoever owns it won’t be happy that you know about it.”

She got the impression he’d done some work for the Mafia, maybe as a mule for drugs. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have assumed they were affiliated with the safe house. “I’ll say I found the address on José’s body. They can’t do anything to him now.”

He blew out a sigh. “You’re asking me to be disloyal, to help the policía.”

“I’m not your adversary. I’m trying to solve José’s and Benita’s murders.”

Nothing.

“Do it for José,” she prodded.

Finally he responded. “It’s at Wildflower and Dugan Drive—2944 Dugan Drive.”

“Thank you. Thank you for doing the right thing.”

“I hope you find the person who killed them. And I hope he goes to prison for the rest of his life.” A click sounded in her ear and he was gone.




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