act of concealment, but Tess didn’t want to attract the attention of anyone driving along the road. Tourists and hikers used this road, and she didn’t want to deal with anyone today.
As she’d done the first time, she started seventy yards or so away from the cabin where Hanley had died and walked all the way around. As she walked, she looked down at the ground, but also at the hills and mountains and mining buildings of Credo, paying particular attention to windows, doorways, and trees. With her eyes, she tracked the cabin where Hanley was shot and killed, getting closer with each circuit.
Found “high sign” on an animal path coming down one hill.
Strands of burlap clung to the bushes and mesquite. Burlap meant someone had been moving drugs—most likely marijuana. She found a thread of flannel, as well. Flannel was a good shirt for early spring. The fabric breathed, it could be cool or it could be warm, and repelled burrs and thorns. That was why border crossers often wore flannel shirts.
Tess had a few small plastic evidence bags with her, and tweezers. She took a few samples of the flannel and burlap, and photographed the bush they’d been caught on. Plenty of footprints—maybe even more than last time.
Even though the road was blocked by a padlocked gate, anyone could come through here on foot, or even on horseback. Anyone with wire cutters could get through a four-strand wire fence with horses or mules, or slip in on foot.
She worked her way to the cabin.
Every shell casing—all thirty of them—had been circled with iridescent orange paint before being taken for evidence.
Tess couldn’t think of one instance of an enforcer for one of the cartels killing a US citizen on this side of the border.
She crossed her arms and rested her hands under each armpit, so she would not be tempted to touch anything. She stepped up onto the cabin’s porch. Even at this time of the day, a chill emanated from the doorless entry.
Tess paused outside the doorway. The smell of musty adobe overlaid the membranes of her mouth and nostrils. She peered into the darkness at the opposite wall. Blood everywhere. Geysers of it on what was left of the chalk-like gypsum board.
From the trajectories and blood spatter and the way Hanley was found, Tess was sure her theory was correct: he had been pushed back by the assault, and stumbled backward until he hit the wall.
She closed her eyes. And saw him.
Grouped shots, mostly center mass, Hanley’s neck turned into pudding. Two shots to the face—both eyes.
The duct tape pasted across his mouth.
Hanley’s Denali was a burned-out husk—there would be little, if any, evidence. They’d identified it by the VIN number. Plaster casts had been taken of the tire treads near the place where the Denali had been driven off the road, as well as shoe prints. But they would need something to match them to.
Tess looked around the cabin. There were long sections of the rafters open to the sky, sun and shadow striping the concrete floor.
He’d had a weapon, but didn’t draw it. This surprised Tess. You’d think that out here he would hear someone coming. There was no way someone would be able to sneak up on an ex-cop. Tess knew Hanley would have kept the careful habits that had seen him through his sixty-eight years. If she were him, coming out here late in the day like that, she would have scouted the area. She would have looked for trouble ahead of time.
Looking for trouble was what cops did. Didn’t matter if you’d been out of the life for years. Old habits die hard.
A dove in the rafters shifted and cooed.
It came to Tess just like that, and she knew it was true.
A clatter above, and the dove took off, its wings whickering as it sped away.
Tess froze. She was here alone, in a place known as part of the smuggling corridor.
She heard footsteps on the sand and rock.
Careful to keep away from the stripes of sunlight, Tess stood back from the paneless window and looked in the direction of the footsteps.
A man was walking down the lane toward the ghost town. He’d left his vehicle, an older model Range Rover, near the gate, and had just slipped through the wire.
Looked like a hiker. Hiking boots, the thick socks, the ballcap, the sunglasses, the cargo shorts. He carried a bladder of water on his back, and a drinking tube snaked around to lie on his chest, not far from his lips.
“Stay there!” Tess called. “This is a crime scene.”
The guy looked at her quizzically, but kept coming, his hiking boots skating a little on the rocks as he came down the hill.
“This is private property and a crime scene!” Tess shouted. Aware of her weapon, her hand close. “You are not allowed to be here!”
The guy raised a hand in greeting and kept coming.
He was carrying; a small gun, might be a .32, on his left side—a lefty.
Tess spread her stance. She unsnapped her holster and drew her SIG Sauer—the second time today. As she’d done earlier, she kept it hidden behind her hip. “Sir—I am giving you a warning. Stay where you are.”
He stopped and held up his hands.
“Is that the cabin where George Hanley was shot?” he said. “Looks like it.”
“Do you know George Hanley?”
“May I approach?” His hands still up.
He was a good-looking man, lean and sinewy, somewhere in his mid-to-late thirties. The dark aviator shades made her think of a model in one of those fashion magazines. They also covered his eyes.
“Do you know anything about Mr. Hanley?” Tess repeated. “Are you a friend of his?”
Hands still up. “Can I approach?” He crunched forward and came within fifteen yards of her, saw her face, and then stopped. Whipped off his sunglasses. “Look, I understand why you’d want me to keep my distance—I know that’s standard police procedure. You’re just being a good cop.”
What a strange thing to say. The man did not strike her as cop material, but he spoke about her copness—for want of a better word—with a familiarity that seemed real. She was usually good at pegging people, so this took her aback.
“I’m one of the good guys,” he said. “I work for Pima County Sheriff’s. May I approach? Maybe I could shed a little light here.”
She motioned him the last few yards.
He came fast. Tess stepped back, ready, her eye on his left hand. He kept his hands raised high, nowhere near his weapon.
Still. Her hand closed tighter around the butt of her SIG Sauer.
“Hey! I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you working the Hanley case?”
Now he was too close—infringing on her space. She felt like taking another step back, but didn’t. Pushed her own body forward. “Will you step back, sir?”
He did.
“Do you know anything about what happened here?”
“Not personally, no. You think it was one of the cartels?”
She said nothing.
He grinned. He had a crooked mouth, the only thing that marred his good looks. He didn’t show his teeth.
“If you know anything about this, you need to tell me,” Tess said.
“No, not this particular case, but it might be similar to what I’ve been working on. That’s why I came down here today.”
“In your capacity with the Pima County Sheriff’s? What capacity is that?”
“They depend on me to do a number of things. Recently, I’ve been named to an administrative investigator
