“Okay,” he said. “When I’m not working, I’ll be there.”
They drove the rest of the way to his place in Vail in silence. When he got out of the car, Al Gutierrez felt let down. Something special had happened to him that day. Now it was over.
“Thanks,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. “It’s been a trip.”
“It has been,” she agreed. “For me, too. You’re a smart guy, Al, and a cop at heart. If you ever get tired of chasing illegal immigrants through the mesquite and decide that the Border Patrol isn’t for you, call me. I happen to have more than a little pull with the hiring guys at Phoenix PD. I’ll see to it that they give you a chance.”
“And I can tell Kevin Dobbs to go to hell?”
“Be my guest.”
Detective Rush drove away and left him standing there alone but feeling altogether better.
50
7:00 P.M., Monday, April 12
Nogales, Arizona
Sheriff Renteria was dozing at his desk when the phone rang. “Okay,” Detective Zambrano said. “The two cases are definitely a package deal. The prints on all postal boxes track back to Phil Tewksbury, and his prints match the ones on the lug wrench from the Reyes shooting scene.”
“Have you talked to Lattimore about any of this?”
“Touched bases. He’s planning on meeting with us at the department tomorrow morning at ten.”
“What about the bundles of drugs?” Renteria asked.
“I went into the evidence room and took a look at them. They’re all pretty similar in terms of size and shape. Unless dope smugglers are into some kind of uniform packaging, I’d say they’re all from the same source.”
“Any prints on those?”
“Not a single one.”
“In other words, whoever was doing the packaging wore gloves,” Renteria suggested.
“Seems likely,” Zambrano agreed.
“What about the sunglasses we found in Phil’s truck?”
“Wiped clean, although they may be able to obtain DNA evidence from the nose pads, hinges, and earpieces. I’ve also asked the crime lab to check both the wig and the head scarf for prints. Finding prints on fabric is more difficult than finding prints on hard surfaces, but it’s also harder for crooks to wipe fabric clean, because you don’t wipe prints you can’t see.”
It was just what Renteria had hoped. The fingerprint evidence was telling them what they had expected to find—that the two cases were connected, and Phil Tewksbury was most likely responsible for the Reyes shooting.
“What about prints on the bat?” the sheriff asked.
“Those definitely point to Christine. There were actually two sets of prints on the bat—a very old set that belongs to Phil Tewksbury and several brand-new prints that match Christine’s.”
“What about the rest of it?” Renteria asked.
“The crime lab guy said what he saw on the working end of the bat looks good for possible brain matter, but official verification will take time.”
“How much time?”
“I got the feeling that it depends on who’s asking,” Zambrano said. “You might have better luck than I did. I just heard that the phone company warrants came back tonight, earlier than I expected. I plan to work on phone records first thing in the morning, before our meeting with Lattimore. If we can connect some communication dots between Reyes and Tewksbury, it’ll make our lives a lot easier. I’ll do the Patty Patton interview after we finish up with Lattimore.”
“Where are you now?”
“Stopping off at the Triple T to grab some dinner. There’s nothing like good old-fashioned deep-dish apple pie to take my mind off spatters of brain matter.”
The second line on Sheriff Renteria’s line lit up. “Okay,” he said. “Let me take this other call.” He clicked over. “Sheriff Renteria.”
“We just had a nine-one-one call from Patty Patton,” the watch commander said. “She’s out at the Lazy S Ranch south of Patagonia. She says Oscar Sanchez has been shot. He’s dead.”
Renteria was already on his feet, reaching for his Stetson. “Okay,” he said. “I’m on my way. Any idea where Mrs. Sanchez is?”
“None.”
“What kind of car does she drive?”
“I’ll find out and get back to you. According to Patty, there’s a minivan parked in the front yard. No signs of struggle inside the house.”
“Patty went inside the house?”
“She had to go inside to use the phone.”
“All right,” he said. “I’m on my way to my car. Call Zambrano on his cell and tell him he’ll need to order that deep-dish pie to go. He needs to meet me at the Sanchez place ASAP. Can we get Patty Patton to call me back on my cell? I need to talk to her.”
“I can’t,” the operator said. “She called on the Sanchez home phone, but I told her that since the house is now a crime scene, she should go outside and wait for us to get someone there.”
Sheriff Renteria knew that was the right move, but he was beyond frustrated. “Why the hell doesn’t the woman have a cell phone?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” the operator said. “You’ll need to ask her when you get there.”
Forty minutes later, Renteria pulled into the front yard at the Lazy S and parked his patrol car next to Patty’s Camaro. She was sitting inside the open passenger door, cuddling a shivering Jack Russell terrier.
“His name is Bert,” she said without looking up. “It says so on the tag. I think he must have been Oscar’s dog.”
“Did you touch the body?”
“No, but I know he’s dead.”
Not content to take her word for it, Renteria went to see for himself. It was true. Oscar Sanchez was propped in a chair. The bullet had been shot into the back of his head at an angle and exited through the bottom of the chair. As far as Manuel Renteria was concerned, it gave a whole new meaning to the term “execution-style slaying.” Patty had left the front door open, and the sheriff was able to peek into the living room without having to step inside. Patty was right—there was no sign of a struggle. Nothing seemed to be out of place.
Renteria went back to the Camaro. Since Patty was still in the passenger seat, he slid in behind the steering wheel. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I came to see Olga, but she’s not here.”
“Lucky for you,” Renteria said. “But why did you come to see Olga?”
“About these,” Patty said. She opened her purse, pulled out a packet of envelopes, and handed it to him. “I wanted to let her know about it before I turned these over to you.”
Renteria searched around the visor until he found the switch for the reading light, then he had to pat around in his pockets to find his reading glasses. “Popeye,” he said once he could see the top envelope. “Who the hell is Popeye?”
“That would be Phil Tewksbury,” Patty said. “After Christine told Ali that Phil had a girlfriend—”
“Wait, wait, wait. Who’s Ali?”
“Ali Reynolds. Jose’s friend. You met her today when she came to report the vandalism at Jose’s house. When she went back to Tucson, she stopped by Catalina Vista and talked to Christine—”
“Christine actually talked to someone?”
“Ali said Christine was waiting for Phil to come get her, that she didn’t seem to understand he was dead.
