“It’s more like reality profiling,” Al said. “Those people don’t have buckets of cash hanging around.”
They left the library with the requested images safely stored on Detective Rush’s computer.
“Where to now?” Al asked.
“Physicians Medical Center,” Rush said. “I want to see if we can keep Rose’s family from going public. We’ve got a potential survivor of a serial killer. I want to keep Rose Ventana alive.”
Once outside the building, Detective Rush was back on her phone. “Okay,” she said to one of her cohorts in Phoenix, “I think I may have a line on the vehicle in the Chico Hernandez homicide. We need to check security tapes of all businesses in the area where the body was found. We’re looking for a white panel van. There’s a Rug Runner logo on it-at least there was on Friday, but I’m thinking it may be one of those magnetic signs that can be changed out in a minute. So look for a white van with any kind of logo; or no logo, for that matter. The plates that were on it were stolen, so the license number isn’t going to help us much, but I want you to put both the plate number and the sign information out on a BOLO. Right this minute those are the only tentative pieces we have on this puzzle, and we just might get lucky.”
By the time she finished the call, they were back in Detective Rush’s patrol car and headed for the hospital.
“Thanks,” Al said.
“For what?”
“For treating me like I have a brain.”
“You have a brain, all right,” Detective Rush said. “And it’s because of your taking the initiative that we have a chance of solving this case.”
“Sergeant Dobbs isn’t wild about any of his people taking the initiative.”
“That’s his problem,” Detective Rush said. “One of his problems,” she added. “And before we’re finished, he may have several more.”
“Sweet,” Al Gutierrez said as he buckled his seat belt. “It doesn’t get any better than that.”
40
2:30 P.M., Monday, April 12
Patagonia, Arizona
Settling in to wait, Ali studied the silent woman who stood next to an old red Camaro. From the pile of cigarette butts at her feet, she had obviously been here for some time, watching the police activity.
“Friend of yours?” Ali asked, nodding toward the house across the street, where most of the activity seemed to center around a detached one-car garage.
“Yes,” the woman said. “Name’s Phil Tewksbury. He was a coworker. Hell of a nice guy.”
“I’m sorry,” Ali murmured.
“Me, too. And who are you?” the woman asked. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around these parts before.”
“My name is Ali Reynolds. I’m from Sedona. Jose Reyes is a friend of mine. I came down to help after I heard what happened to him. He’s in Physicians Medical Center, and now so is his wife. She had her baby.”
“I’m Patty Patton,” the woman said. “I run the post office. So what’d Teresa have, a boy or a girl?”
“A boy. Carmine’s a few weeks early, but he’s fine, and so is his mother.”
“How about Jose?”
“Better,” Ali said. “At least he’s out of the ICU. That’s a big improvement.”
“Tough for Teresa, though,” Patty said. “New baby. Sick husband. I overheard you say something about a break-in. Not their house, I hope.”
“It was their house. And it’s not just a break-in. Someone went to a lot of trouble to mess up everything within reach.”
“Jerks,” Patty said. “When it’s time to put together a cleanup crew, you let me know. I’ll put up an announcement on the bulletin board at the post office.”
Ali smiled inwardly to realize that she had stumbled into a place where the post office was still more important than Facebook.
A man in a law enforcement uniform emerged from the garage. As soon as he put a white Stetson on his head and headed for one of the parked cars, Ali figured he was most likely Sheriff Renteria. Leaving Patty Patton behind, Ali hurried to catch up with him. “Excuse me,” she said. “Sheriff Renteria?”
He stopped, turned, and removed the hat. “Yes?” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“My name is Ali Reynolds,” she said. “I’m a friend of Jose Reyes. Are you aware that someone broke into their house?”
“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said. “We’ve been a little busy around here today. I am aware of the break-in. Since there were no injuries, I determined that it wasn’t urgent. I’ve only now been able to spare a deputy long enough to send one out there. He’s probably there by now.”
“It is urgent,” Ali objected. “What’s going to happen to the family? Jose is seriously injured. Teresa just underwent a C-section. They’ll be coming home with three kids, including a new baby, to a house that is virtually uninhabitable.”
“Unfortunate, of course,” Renteria said. “And I and my department will do everything in our power to find the people responsible and bring them to justice.”
“Sure you will,” Ali said. “And will the people doing the investigating be the same people you’ve forbidden to visit Jose’s hospital room?”
Sheriff Renteria looked pained. “I’m not sure where you’re getting your information, but you’re right. I did issue an order telling my people, sworn officers and civilians both, to stay away from PMC. This is a part of the country where dealing with Mexican drug cartels is a way of life. I have a very small department. I warned my people to stay away because I didn’t want to put them at risk. For people like that, groups of cops can be an inviting target. We’re already struggling to fill shifts and answer calls when we’re just one officer down. If we ended up losing a couple more, it would be devastating.”
“But not supporting an injured officer-”
“I’m sorry you disagree with my take on the situation,” Sheriff Renteria said, “but you’re evidently not from around here. I doubt you understand.”
“It looks to me like you’ve simply abandoned the Reyes family, especially since the man who is supposed to be investigating the shooting seems to be far more concerned with accusing Jose and his wife of engaging in unlawful behavior than he is with finding out who shot him.”
“I know Lieutenant Lattimore,” Sheriff Renteria said. “I’m sure he’s conducting his investigation to the very best of his ability. It’s not my investigation, and I’m not commenting on it one way or the other.”
“What if Jose is being framed?” Ali asked.
“If you have reason to believe that’s true, you should take your concerns to Detective Lattimore. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go.”
The sheriff got in the car and drove away, leaving Ali to fume. Just then three people-all of them wearing uniforms-emerged from the garage. One carried a banker’s box. The other two, wearing latex gloves, each carried two red, white, and blue flat-rate postal boxes.
At the sight of those, Patty Patton sprang to life. “Hey,” she said, dropping her most recent cigarette butt and hurrying after them. “What are you doing with those flat-rate boxes? They belong at the post office.”
The third man in line stopped. He turned back to Patty and held his burden in her direction. “I don’t think so, Patty,” he said. “Take a whiff.”
She stepped forward, sniffed, and then made a face. “Yuck. What is that?”
“That would be marijuana,” he said. “I don’t think you want this stuff going through the U.S. mail.”
Patty Patton looked stricken. “Are you kidding me? You found that in Phil’s garage?”
Another man emerged from the garage. This one wore gray slacks and a navy blue sport jacket. Ali immediately pegged him as a detective. He stopped long enough to lock the door before slapping a string of police tape across the doorway.
