The Pima County Sheriff’s Department would take over the thankless job of investigating the murder, but as usual with drug crimes, there would be no evidence, no witnesses and a bunch of nameless, faceless suspects.
Clay studied the men and women going about the business of investigating a headless corpse in the desert, and he took a swig of water from his bottle.
“Crazy business.”
“What’s that, Archer?” Espinoza, a homicide detective for the sheriff’s department, looked up from his phone and squinted at Clay.
“Nothing. Just thinking about the insanity that goes on in this town.”
Espinoza spread his arms wide. “Paradise, right?”
“Yeah, some clueless gringo even got that wrong, didn’t he? Paradiso doesn’t even mean Paradise in Spanish.”
“Wrong name—” Espinoza kicked at a pile of sand “—and wrong description.”
Clay and the other Border Patrol agents packed it in, and left the scene to the coroner and the homicide detective. On the way back to his truck, Clay poked Dillon in the back. “You taking some time off?”
“Heading to a rodeo in Wyoming. Can you hold down the fort?” Dillon swept his hat from his head and tossed it onto the passenger seat of his truck.
Jerking his thumb over his shoulder, Clay said, “Unless we find the head or the drugs, especially the drugs, there’s not much for me to do on this one.”
“The drugs will be on the street by the time I come back.” Dillon nodded toward the new agent, hanging back, the green around his gills matching his uniform. “You think he’ll work out?”
“He’ll be okay.” Clay leveled a finger at Dillon. “I remember your first dead body. You didn’t do much better.”
Dillon scooped his hair back from his forehead and flashed his white teeth. “I guess you’re right.”
“Don’t break that pretty face riding one of those bulls.” Clay turned and strode to his truck with Valdez waiting by the passenger side.
“You getting in or staying out here?”
Valdez’s eyes bulged briefly. “Just didn’t want to sit in the truck without the AC. Is that it for the day?”
“That’s it for my day. You’re gonna go back to the office and write up this report. Make sure you check in with the sheriff’s department to see if you can add anything before you send it to the Tucson Sector.”
They both climbed in the truck, and Clay cranked on the air. They’d gone several miles before Valdez turned to him, clasping his hat in his lap.
“Do you think they’ll find the head? What do you think Las Moscas did with it?”
Clay raised his stiff shoulders. “I don’t know. Don’t think about it too much, kid. It’ll make you...”
Clay drilled the desert horizon with narrowed eyes. He didn’t finish his warning to Valdez because he didn’t know what it made you. What had it made him? Bitter? Hard?
He blew out a breath. The work hadn’t done that.
A half hour later, Clay pulled his truck into the parking lot of the Paradiso Border Patrol Office—one of several offices in the Tucson Sector.
For the most part, the residents of Paradiso chose to remain blissfully ignorant about the dangers at the border. The violence of the drug trade didn’t affect them directly, so they were able to carry on with their daily lives—despite people meeting bloody ends several miles down south.
Livestock, lettuce and pecans had been kind to the folks of Paradiso. Its close proximity to the tourist trap of Tombstone hadn’t hurt, either. They lived in a bubble. There hadn’t been a murder within the city limits since...Courtney Hart.
Clay left Valdez in the office and swung by Rosita’s to pick up a burrito on his way home.
As he slapped his cash onto the counter, Rosita put her hand on his. “We heard news of a body at the border.”
Once the Paradiso PD was involved, news traveled fast. He couldn’t blame them. The residents had a right to know—whether they cared or not.
“Unfortunately, that’s true.”
“Drugs?” Rosita’s dark eyes shimmered with tears, and a knife twisted in Clay’s gut.
Rosita’s youngest son had gotten hooked on meth—it hadn’t ended well.
“Yeah, probably a mule.”
“A girl?” She clasped her hands to her chest. “We heard it was a girl this time.”
“A young woman, yes. Ended up on someone’s bad side.” He shoved the money across the counter. “Keep the change, Rosita.”
“Is there a good side when it comes to drugs?” Rosita swept up the bills. “Thanks, Mr. Clay.”
He waved and reached for the door, stepping aside for a couple of customers coming in for dinner. He tossed his bag of food on the passenger seat and took off for home.
His house lay outside the collection of the newer developments that had sprung up in response to the pecan-processing plant. He preferred a little space between him and the next guy.
As he turned down the road that led to his house, he loosened his grip on the steering wheel and flexed his fingers. He swung into the entrance to his long driveway and slammed on the brakes to stop behind an old, white compact sporting New Mexico plates.
His muscles tense, he reached for his weapon wedged in the console and waited in his idling truck. The individual Border Patrol sectors were small enough that the bad guys could discover the identities of the agents if they had a mind to. He held his breath as the driver’s side door of the car swung open, and a...bride stepped out.
Clay whipped the sunglasses from his face and hunched over the steering wheel. Damn, that was no bride. That was bridezilla—April Hart in the flesh.
Leaving his weapon in the truck, he shoved open his door and placed one booted foot on the dirt and gravel of his driveway. He unfolded to his full height, straightening his spine and pinning April in a stare.
She tossed a mangled mane of blond hair over one shoulder and offered up a smile
