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 amp; 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 amp; 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 amp; 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.”
