The Territory A Novel

SEVEN



“Don’t look through the sights yet. Get used to raising the gun and shooting. If a lowlife draws, you think you’ll have time to stop and aim? Find the sights?”

Pegasus faced the hill, sweat rolling down her neck and between her shoulder blades. It was almost six o’clock and she was irritated, hungry, and her hands were developing blisters from the awkward way she was forced to hold a pistol built for a man. Her fingers weren’t strong enough to pull the carbine back and flip the locking mechanism in place in the smooth motion Kenny had demonstrated a dozen times. She could get it, but she had to hold the gun lopsided, the barrel facing up and out. If speed were an issue, she would be dead before she ever advanced a bullet into the chamber.

“You know how to load and unload the bullets. You’ll never get speed with either of these guns, but they’re the best I’ve got for you. Turn around so I can mix them up again,” he said.

Pegasus turned her back to the tailgate of Kenny’s pickup and faced the hill as he mixed two calibers of bullets and set out both magazines and pistols. They were on a patch of federal land miles from town, where he poached for deer. He had made a crude frame out of two-by-fours he had pulled from a trash pile behind Red’s place. He duct-taped a large trash bag in the middle of the frame for her to shoot at. Masking tape outlined the shape of a man’s head and chest.

After he shuffled the pieces, Kenny said, “Show me a quick load and shoot. No aiming.”

Pegasus turned back to the tailgate and surveyed the guns and bullets.

“You’re in the trailer, by yourself. You see a light outside the door, hear several men’s voices. Talk me through what you do. Go.”

She took a deep breath and surveyed the guns. “I’ll use the Smith and Wesson pistol. The magazine holds ten bullets instead of six. Good if there are several people outside.” She picked up the correct magazine and loaded ten .45-caliber bullets, shoving them into the spring-loaded chamber with quite a bit of effort. She popped the magazine up into the butt of the gun. “I heard the bullet advance. I’m putting my finger just above the trigger and turning to focus on the chest area of the man in front.”

Pegasus pivoted, planted her feet, and brought both hands up in a smooth level motion, aimed at the target, looked over the gun sight, but did not stop to focus.

“Shoot!” Kenny yelled.

She leaned into the shot, tensing her muscles to prepare for the kickback, and pulled the trigger without thinking. The shot landed dead center of the trash bag.

Kenny smiled and patted her on the back. “Nice work, sis. Very nice.”

She laughed out loud.

“How’d it feel?” he asked.

“My ears are still buzzing. The sound’s caught in my head like a bee.”

“And?”

“It felt good. I can do this.”

“Now empty the cartridge into the hillside and watch where the bullets hit. Go.”

Pegasus turned, shot until she fired one empty round. Her ears pounded. She had shot nine bullets but had little sense of where they landed in relation to her aim.

“Eject the magazine into the trunk and load up again,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “It is ninety degrees and I’m hungry. I need a supper break.”

“Damn it, this isn’t a joke! You think the people who stole Red’s guns won’t come back for you?” Kenny had the wide-eyed look that had made her nervous since they were kids. His hair was sweat-soaked, and he looked like he needed a shower. He seemed to realize he was coming on too strong and dropped his voice. “Life is seriously messed up out here. You need to move on if you aren’t willing to prepare.”

She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of both hands and sighed. “I have thirty-six dollars in my purse. Where exactly do you think I’m headed?”

“Then you better get serious. No more screwing around.”

Pegasus looked up at her brother. She was five foot eight and he stood over a foot taller than her, thin, with a swagger she had always admired. She appreciated him checking on her and staying a few days, more than she could ever tell him. He refused to stay in the trailer, or tell her where he was staying, but that was fine. His presence was enough.

Ignoring his lecture, Pegasus quickly reloaded five bullets, spun, and faced the target again, discharging all five rounds. She finished, counted multiple holes within a one-foot radius of the center of the trash bag, and turned back to face Kenny with a look of triumph, her ears now completely numb, her hands tingling and sweaty.

Kenny smiled. “I’d say those son of a bitches ought to think twice before knocking on your door.”

* * *

Josie sat at Winning’s picnic table with a set of six photos, all taken from basically the same angle. She had started at Red’s house, holding each photo up to compare the picture to the scene in front of her, but the angle was too far to the left. Josie matched up the picnic table just outside Winning’s trailer, and found an exact match with her own digital camera. Red had sat at the table, probably nursing a beer, she imagined, and taken pictures of Winning through her curtainless windows.

Josie’s stomach growled and she realized she had skipped lunch again. She glanced at her watch. At four o’clock, with at least another two hours’ worth of work, there was no way she could pull off lasagna for Dillon by seven. She would settle for spaghetti as a backup and hope she made it to her house before he did. The image of her mother’s car, parked at Manny’s, crossed her mind. Josie just hoped she could hold her off one more day.

She retrieved her evidence kit and toolbox from her jeep, where they had already gotten almost too hot to handle. She was setting her equipment on the picnic table when Pegasus Winning pulled down the lane and parked beside Josie’s police vehicle. The rusty car door squealed as she slammed it shut and faced Josie. Winning was wearing a white V-neck T-shirt and cut-off jean shorts. Her hair was in a ponytail behind her back, and her face was sunburned and dirty, with streaks of sweat down her cheeks and neck.

As Winning approached her, Josie lifted the photos up but didn’t show them to her. “Were you aware Red had been taking pictures of you inside your trailer?”

Winning rolled her eyes. “Ask me if I’m surprised. The sick bastard.”

“Had you noticed anyone hanging around outside your trailer?”

She shrugged.

“Any trash in your yard, that kind of thing?”

Pegasus shook her head no.

Josie leaned back against the picnic table and crossed her arms. “Here’s the plan, then. Officer Marta Cruz will be here shortly. She’ll be taking pictures, both inside and out. She’ll help me tape up your windows inside so we can get your trailer dark. I’ll be spraying a solution over your walls and carpet to check for bloodstains. The solution won’t hurt your fabric, and it isn’t harmful to humans. We hope to finish in about an hour. Do you have somewhere you can go for an hour or so? Or you’re welcome to stay in the trailer.”

She smirked. “I’ll stay.”

Josie shrugged. “Suit yourself. Any word from your brother?”

“No. Why?”

Josie considered her. “Well, he’s your brother. He invited you here and then left. I thought he might have found out about Red getting killed in his trailer and come home. Doesn’t seem like an unreasonable question.”

“I never said it was,” Winning said. She turned from Josie and walked toward her trailer.

Josie noted the anger in her abrupt departure, and wondered what secrets she was hiding.

Turning away from her, Josie looked under the trees and picnic table for evidence that Red may have left behind. As she turned, she noticed the trees weren’t uniformly green. The tips of one of the tree branches, at eye level to her, were a deep brown. She stepped back to view the tree from a distance. The brown coloring was primarily on one branch, in a small area. She looked at the coloring up close and was certain the color lay on top of the pine needles; it didn’t seem like an illness or disease that caused the branch to change color. She gently pulled the branches apart and peered into the trunk of the tree, where she saw the bark was cut and something appeared to be protruding.

She forced herself to step back and think through the steps. If she moved ahead too quickly, she might disturb evidence that could be crucial to the investigation. She retrieved her 35-millimeter camera from her evidence case sitting under the picnic table, where it was slightly shaded.

She snapped a dozen pictures of the tree, which looked about twenty feet high with a fifteen-foot spread and deep green needles that were stiff like a bristle brush. Josie backed up twenty feet, then snapped pictures from several angles, showing the tree’s relation to the house, and finally took close-up pictures of the branch and the brown covering. By now she figured it was Red’s blood.

As she began to part the branches again, Marta drove up the road in her jeep and parked beside Winning’s car. Josie waved and called her up. She was glad to see her; Marta’s attention to detail in an investigation made her excellent in processing a crime scene.

Marta walked up with her hands on her hips. “Find anything yet?”

Josie smiled. “That I did. Give me two minutes.” She pushed through the branches and dug at the trunk of the tree with a screwdriver she had pulled from her toolbox.

Josie finally emerged, cursing the sticky pine needles, and handed Marta a small plastic bag. Josie dusted the needles off her uniform as Marta smiled in sudden recognition of her discovery.

“Think this is the bullet that killed Red?” Marta asked.

“I’d lay money on it.” Josie labeled the evidence bag and locked it in her jeep along with the branch from the pine tree that contained what she assumed was blood on the needles.

As they walked toward the trailer, Josie said, “I’d like you to snap pictures as I spray the luminol.”

“If someone shot Red outside, then moved him immediately to the trailer, there could be traces of blood in there we didn’t notice.”

“I’m counting on it.”

* * *

As Josie and Marta taped black plastic trash bags over the windows in the kitchen and living room, Winning sat at her kitchen table painting her finger- and toenails. After the taping was done, the trailer was dark enough to effectively use the luminol solution to test for bloodstains. Josie sat at the table across from Winning and mixed the solutions in the kit, carefully measuring, shaking, and pouring the mixture into a spray bottle. Winning turned off all the lights in the front of the trailer, and they were in almost total darkness. Marta turned on the black light and walked behind Josie as she lightly sprayed the solution on the brown carpet in front of the imprint where the couch had been. Several seconds later, two bright green dots appeared on the floor, approximately a quarter inch in diameter. Josie took a picture of the blood spots, and Marta drew a diagram in case the picture didn’t develop. Josie then sprayed the solution in a swath from the couch to the trailer door. Nothing appeared in the black light until she sprayed around the door, at which point, a quarter-sized area on the threshold appeared bright green.

“Is that blood on the floor?” Winning asked from her seat at the table.

Marta held the black light closer, and there was no doubt.

Josie asked Winning to turn on the kitchen light. They stood and stared at the drop of blood, now just barely visible in the dust and dirt that had collected at the bottom of the doorway.

Josie flipped the light back off and pointed to the dollop of blood. “It’s perfectly round. Imagine two men carrying Red through the door, one at his head and one at his feet. The blood would have dropped from the back of his head, straight down from the bullet wound.”

Marta took additional pictures and measurements around the door, then scraped the dried blood from the threshold and collected several flakes with a cotton swab. She dropped them into a small glass vial and said she would get the blood to the laboratory drop box that night to request a DNA scan.

“So, somebody carried Red’s body into the trailer and laid him down on my couch?” Winning asked.

Josie noted the surprise in her voice. She hadn’t made the coroner’s findings public, so no one knew the bullet had exited Red’s skull, and Winning certainly didn’t know Josie had just dug the bullet out of her pine tree.

“Any theories on why someone would do that?” Marta asked Winning.

“Why would the people he ran with do anything?” Winning responded.

Josie said, “Generally, when a murder victim is staged, the killer is either trying to send a message or create a diversion. Was the killer sending a message to you?”

* * *

After searching Red’s house again and finding nothing new of any interest, Otto left and drove to Paul Fallow’s house. He lived north of town in a small, ritzy subdivision with half a dozen stucco homes, each with three thousand to four thousand square feet of living space. By comparison to his neighbors’ homes, Fallow’s was a fairly modest beige-colored two story with wooden lintels and Spanish arches. Otto parked and knocked on the front door but heard no movement inside. The garage door was open to display two white midsized Acura sedans, so he walked around the back of the house, where he found Fallow in golf shorts and a light blue tank top, raking sand.

Otto stood at the corner of the house for a moment and watched Fallow walk the perimeter of a Japanese garden, about ten feet by ten feet, raking gray sand in a pattern to form concentric squares. His wife, a high school English teacher, sat on a mat at the center of the yard in the lotus position with her eyes closed. Otto wondered how in the world a guy like Fallow ended up in a group like the Gunners.

Fallow looked up and saw Otto as he approached the backyard. Fallow waved slightly, and then he tiptoed across small rocks positioned strategically to get him out of the garden without disturbing the sand.

Fallow used a bandanna tied around his neck to wipe the sweat off his face and pointed toward the front of the house. “She’s deep within,” he said in a whisper. “Let’s not disturb her.”

They went inside Fallow’s home and sat in a blue room filled with puffy beige furniture. Oversized paintings of pastel geometric shapes covered most of the wall space. Otto felt his body sink a foot into the couch cushion and worried he wouldn’t be able to push himself up and out. He pulled his steno pad and pen out of his shirt pocket and rested them on his knee.

“Can I get you a cold beverage?”

Otto realized he was suddenly annoyed with the man sitting across from him.

Otto ignored the question. “We received some new information about the Gunners. It’s time you come clean on what you know about Red and his guns.” Otto waited for a reaction—something more than the wide-eyed stare Fallow was offering. When Otto got nothing more, he pulled several pictures out of the steno pad that he carried and offered them to Fallow, who stood to retrieve them.

“That’s Red in the top picture, standing next to a couple of men who are confirmed members of La Bestia. That second picture? That’s Miguel Gutiérrez, a member of La Bestia. We have him locked up in the Arroyo County Jail for murdering his uncle in broad daylight at our Trauma Unit.”

Fallow’s face turned white and his lips curled down. He looked as if he might vomit.

“These are some bad fellows that old Red was dealing with, Dr. Fallow. I don’t think you want to mess with these guys.”

Fallow looked up suddenly, his eyes bright and teary. “Who says I’m messing with them! I don’t know these men. That was Red’s business! Go talk to Hack Bloster if you want details. I want no part of this.” He clapped his hands together as if the topic were closed.

Otto didn’t move. “Go ahead and look at that last photo. That’s a picture of a police officer that pissed one of those other fellows off. Notice his head is gone? It’s in the trash can to the right of the body. Don’t think you can clap your hands and this will go away.”

Fallow leaned forward and stared at the picture in his hands.

“We suspect these individuals killed Red Goff. We’re taking the position that anyone associated with the Gunners is in grave danger.”

“This is so unfair. I did nothing wrong.”

Otto cleared his throat. “Mr. Fallow, I need to know who Red was working with.”

He looked up, his eyes pleading. “I swear to you, I don’t know. I’m pretty sure he and Hack were trading guns. That’s all I know, and that’s a guess on my part. They never allowed me into their private meetings.”

* * *

At 6:35 P.M., Josie, Otto, and Marta met at the police department to discuss findings before Josie and Otto logged off. Sheriff Martínez had stopped by to ask about the prisoner’s connection to La Bestia, and they all stood in the lobby area talking by the dispatcher’s station. Josie was explaining to the sheriff everything they’d discovered with a worried eye on her watch. She had twenty minutes to drive home, change, and get water on to boil before Dillon arrived for dinner and a bottle of wine she had promised and not purchased. She needed a private, sit-down talk with Martínez about Deputy Bloster, but it would have to wait.

Josie’s back was to the entrance door, but she heard the bell ring as they wrapped up. She turned and watched a petite woman with dyed maroon hair, red lips, and red fingernails enter the department.

“Well, if it isn’t the elusive Josie Gray,” the woman said. She spoke with a heavy drinker’s rasp.

Josie gave the other three officers a look and said she would check in with them later. Mercifully, they apparently understood that whatever was about to transpire was personal and, most likely, humiliating. Otto and Marta turned and walked toward the upstairs office. The sheriff walked around the woman, who turned and watched him exit the building.

“That man’s got a backside worth watching, now. All these cops you run around with that good looking?” she asked, winking and smiling widely at Josie.

Josie felt her face redden. She was very aware that Lou was still at the dispatcher’s desk, listening to every word and most likely taking notes.

Josie pushed the door open, and then walked behind her mom into the evening heat. She felt her hands go sweaty and her stomach seize into a knot: the same physical reaction her mother had been producing in her through years of humiliating scenes. Her body had instantly recalled and replicated the physical sensations of fifteen years ago.

With distaste, Josie watched the flex of her mother’s tight back muscles through an open-back halter top and the intentional sway of her rear end. Her five-foot-five mother could paralyze her like no robber, rapist, or drug dealer she had ever encountered, and the realization depressed the hell out of her.

Her mother struck a cocky pose on the sidewalk and looked Josie over as if assessing the damage after a car crash. “You didn’t think I’d come, did you? You ought to know, if I say it, I do it.”

Josie could have laughed or cried in equal measure. Her mother had never followed through on anything unless it benefited her in a significant and personal way.

“I had no idea you were coming. If I’d known, I would have set time aside. I have plans tonight. And I can’t cancel,” Josie said. “We can have dinner tomorrow.”

“So break the plans. I drive two thousand miles, and you can’t show me a little courtesy?” Her mother shook her head, her eyes wide with exaggerated shock. “You’re a piece a work.”

“I don’t want to have this conversation streetside,” said Josie. “I explained that I have plans I can’t cancel. If you want to meet for lunch, stop by here tomorrow around noon and we can get a bite to eat.” She pulled a business card out of her front shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Just call first in case I’m out on a call.”

“Well, don’t let me hold you back, darlin’.” She turned from Josie and walked away, one hand in the air, the other on her hip. “It won’t take me nothing to find myself some entertainment tonight.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Josie had left her front door open and was hurrying to the bedroom. She threw her clothes, bulletproof vest, holster, and gun into a heap on her closet floor before jumping into a cool shower. She left her hair in a clip but soaped up, rinsed the day down the drain, and toweled off before stepping out.

“Josie?”

She smiled. His voice was coming from just outside the bathroom, in her bedroom.

“Five minutes, then I’ll get supper going,” she called. “There’s some cheese in the fridge if you’re starved.”

Josie swiped on concealer to cover up the dark circles under her eyes, brushed her teeth, and dressed in an ancient pair of Levi’s and a gauzy sleeveless white shirt that hung loose over her thin body. She took her damp hair down, brushed it, and pulled it back up into the clip. She found Dillon propped against the couch on the living room floor with her hound dog’s head in his lap.

“Chester missed me.”

Dillon smiled up at her with his sad eyes, and Josie’s chest tightened at the sight of him. She realized she had almost lost him. She let out a long slow breath and forced herself to relax into the moment.

She sat beside Dillon and stretched her legs out next to his. “I’m sorry about dinner. I don’t even have the bottle of wine.”

He reached around the dog and sat a grocery sack on his lap. “I have you covered.” He pulled out a six-pack of Killian’s Red and a plastic bag with whole avocados, red onions, lemons, and other ingredients she knew would turn into the best fresh guacamole in Texas.

“I heard you could use a smile,” he said.

“Oh, yeah?”

“As I was leaving work tonight, Otto stopped by. He said the Queen Mother made an appearance at the department. He also said if I wanted to eat tonight, I’d better bring my own food.”

Josie shook her head, not sure if she should be angry with Otto or touched that he had intervened in her behalf.

“Don’t be mad at him. I asked the questions. He just told the truth.”

“That would be Otto.”

“How long is your mom staying?”

She shrugged. “I talked with her all of two minutes.”

He stood, extended his arms out to her, and pulled her up to stand in front of him. “Let’s eat. Forget work. Tell me about your life the past six months. We’ll talk about Red and the Queen later.”

* * *

After he mixed up a batch of guacamole in the kitchen, Josie turned up the stereo to the best of Creedence Clearwater Revival and led Dillon to the back porch. She and her neighbor, Dell, had recently built a pergola out of local wood he had dried and cured in his barn. Four large posts supported eight-foot-long limbs that stretched across the frame to make a roof to shade the area from the harsh afternoon sun.

“This is nice,” he said, looking at the handiwork. “Dell build this?”

She nodded and rubbed her fingers along one of the smooth wood posts. “He’s proud of the roof. It’s hard to find a straight eight-foot length of wood out here that’s native.” She flipped a switch located by the sliding door, and a fine mist sprayed from a line that ran the length of the porch. The air cooled by ten degrees almost instantly.

Dillon sat the guacamole and chips on the redwood picnic table. “You’re moving up in the world.”

They ate side by side, facing several hundred acres of Dell’s ranch land that ran a gentle grade up into the Chimiso Mountains. Josie pointed out two red-tailed hawks, and Dillon smiled as one of them screeched, then swooped down to the ground, most likely for a field mouse. The muted browns and grays of the scrub that dominated West Texas spread across the land behind her home, but the mountains were streaked with red and copper that intensified with the setting sun, and the pasture had clumps of deep green pine and cedar trees fenced off from his cattle. It was the kind of land she had seen as a kid watching old John Wayne movies with her father, and the rough beauty still made her throat contract at unexpected times.

Through dinner, Dillon explained what he had learned about Red’s finances. Red made about forty-four thousand dollars per year as a heavy equipment operator. His expenses, purchases, as well as living expenses, debt, travel, and savings, were more in line with a man earning around eighty-five thousand per year.

“There’s no question that Red was selling guns, and that’s where his extra income was coming from. I counted fourteen invoices for what looked to be a wide variety of guns. Most of the transactions, though, were just referenced by a customer number. You need the file that cross-references the numbers with the customers.”

“None of the receipts had customer names?” she asked.

Dillon frowned. “I recognized two local names, but most of the invoices didn’t contain a name. I found one that had the city San Miguel de Allende written at the bottom of the paper. And there were three with Juárez noted on the back. There were only two invoices that raised a big red flag, though. Together, they total $3,846. Both transactions were during the month of August. And both had what appeared to be the guns’ serial number as well as another number that most likely identified the customer.”

“Where’s the red flag?”

Dillon stood and retrieved the box from the house. He put it on the picnic table and pulled out both receipts for Josie to examine.

Her eyes widened and she looked up from the paper. “This is written out to the Arroyo County Sheriff’s Department! Since when do they spend four thousand dollars on two guns? We can barely afford to pay utilities right now.”

Dillon sat back down at the table. “Isn’t your pal, Deputy Bloster, a member of Red’s gun club?”

Josie rubbed at her temples. “How could the sheriff let this happen? He signs off on all department expenses, just like I do, before they get approved by the council. He had to approve these invoices.”

“Don’t rush judgment. Go talk to the sheriff tomorrow. Just watch your back.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

He folded his hands and stared at her, apparently considering his words. “You have a solid reputation, and you’re well respected for the job you do.”

“But?”

“But you’re still a female in a male-dominated profession.”

“And?”

“And I know you’re friends with Martínez, but there’s still plenty of good old boy vibes running through this town. If things turn ugly, you aren’t in the club.”

She resisted the urge to defend Martínez. He was a fellow cop, a person she had admired and trusted, sought counsel from in her role as chief, and she didn’t want to believe he would sacrifice her over a piece of scum like Bloster. But she nodded agreement and let the statement go until she could think through the information later in silence.

Josie stood and began cleaning up. “Based on everything you saw, and knowing Red’s history, give me your theory on what happened to him,” Josie said.

“I need to get into his files a little deeper before—”

She cut him off. “Gut instinct. What do you think happened?”

He steepled his fingers and rested them against his lips as he put together his thoughts. Watching him, Josie realized how important his reactions were to her.

“I think Red was brokering guns, most likely to Mexicans. But I doubt he realized just how evil the people he was dealing with are. I imagine it was that ignorance as much as greed that killed him.”

* * *

After Josie logged off for the evening, Otto conducted interviews at the police department with three additional members of the Gunners. The goal was to get a better sense of the organization and its possible ties to either Medrano or La Bestia. His first interview, with Jimmy Johnson, took place in the upstairs office at the conference table where Otto had talked with Bloster and Fallow. Johnson worked at a body shop in town and still wore his blue mechanic’s uniform. Otto noted the black stains around his fingernails and on the front of his work shirt.

Otto left his stack of file folders and notes with Fallow’s and Bloster’s names on them in open view so that Johnson would see them. Otto also laid a file folder on the table with Johnson’s name written across the tab. He placed the folder so that it faced Johnson’s chair. Otto had shoved it full of paper he pulled from the recycling box so that it would look as if he already had significant information collected.

As Otto hoped, Johnson spent the first part of the interview glancing at the file folder with his name on it. He was an average-sized man with a significant potbelly and large square glasses that magnified watery blue eyes. He appeared confused and repeatedly squeezed his hands together into fists.

Johnson gave the same generic information that Otto had already heard about the Gunners. Finally, Otto pulled the Johnson folder in front of him, opened it, and rifled through the papers. Johnson asked, “So, what are you so interested in me for?”

Otto closed the folder again and took his time responding. He gave Johnson a stern look. “A good friend of yours, an associate you trade and sell guns with, has been murdered. It’s come to our attention that Red may have been trading and selling guns to Mexican drug cartels. We suspect you may be doing the same.”

Johnson’s eyes opened even wider and his jaw dropped. “Where the hell did you get that idea? I don’t even know any Mexicans to sell guns to!”

Otto smirked. “You don’t know any Mexicans?”

Johnson looked even more flustered. “Well, of course I know some. I mean, I don’t know anyone who I would sell guns to. I mean, I could sell guns to people. I just don’t know any cartel members to trade with. That’s what I meant.”

Johnson’s responses didn’t get any better. After another fifteen minutes, Otto cut him loose. He felt sorry for the man. He looked so worried standing at the door to leave that Otto tried to reassure him.

“Mr. Johnson, just go home tonight and think about our conversation. If you think of anything that might help us find Red’s killer, you give me a call. Even if it seems insignificant, call me anyway.”

Fred Grant arrived shortly after Johnson left. Grant owned a small cattle ranch north of town and drove a four-wheel-drive pickup with monster-sized wheels and no muffler. He strolled into the department wearing an untucked flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off, blue jeans, and dusty boots.

When Otto turned the questioning to Red’s involvement with the cartels, Grant raised his voice in anger. “I don’t know who’s feeding you that nonsense, but they’re flat-out lying. The Mexicans killed his dad! He formed the Gunners to protect our town. He would never turn on us like that.”

“Mr. Grant, I have invoices that show Red was selling guns south of the border.”

“So what? There’s a big difference between south of the border and selling to the cartels. I’d lay my life on the fact that Red Goff never did business with the cartels.”

“What do you know about Hack Bloster and Red selling guns together?”

He gave an exaggerated shrug. “And? Big deal! They sold guns.”

“We suspect they were selling guns to the Medrano cartel,” Otto said.

Grant looked away as if disgusted. “They sold guns to make money for the Gunners.” He looked back at Otto, his eyes squinted, shaking his head in disbelief. “Have you forgotten that Red was murdered? Don’t go trying to turn him into the bad guy because you can’t figure out who killed him.”

“Were you selling guns with them?”

“This is ridiculous. I’m through talking to you. You got anything else to ask, do it through my lawyer.”

Otto got nothing out of Grant. He suspected Grant had more to tell, but he also didn’t think involving an attorney at this point would garner any new information.

The last member of the Gunners he talked with was a truck driver named Jerry Irons. Otto had known Jerry for years, and he and Delores occasionally had dinner with Jerry and his wife, Sandy. Jerry was a level-headed man with right-wing political leanings that he kept to himself unless asked. He and his wife were transplants from Vermont who moved to the desert for the warmer climate.

After several minutes of small talk about the wives and weather, Otto asked Jerry to discuss his thoughts about Red’s murder.

“It’s scary, Otto. What’s happening to our town? I know Red had enemies. He was arrogant, and a lot of people didn’t like him, but murdered? Shot in the head?”

Otto nodded. He had his own fears about the safety of his family. “Jerry, can you give me anything? Any gossip, any worries you have about various members? Bad relationships Red had with someone that might have led to his death?”

Jerry scooted his chair back, crossed one leg over the other, and rubbed at a smudge on his boot as he considered the question. “That’s tough. It just doesn’t look like something local. I guess that sounds naïve, but it just doesn’t play out like a hate killing. Why kill him and then drag his body back inside that girl’s trailer? You asked about the Gunners. I don’t see anyone in the group killing him in that manner. Just doesn’t work for me.”

Otto finally signed off duty with the night dispatcher, feeling exhausted and frustrated. So far, it appeared the only Gunners with a connection to cartel members were Fallow, Bloster, and Red. Now one of them was dead, and the other two weren’t talking. He called Delores on his cell phone to tell her what time he would be home. Fifteen minutes later, he pulled down his lane. The Podowski ranch lay about ten miles north of the river, and consisted of sixty-five acres of pasture that held a small herd of milk goats. A split-rail fence surrounded a small three-bedroom bungalow covered in white aluminum siding with a deep brick porch on the front of the house. Mangy thirty-year-old bushes lined the front of the house with little else in the way of plantings. Otto drew great satisfaction feeding and watering the goats, clearing the fence rows of brush, battling the invading prickly pear, yucca and cholla, and tinkering on a tractor that spent more hours torn down than up and running. Otherwise, landscaping didn’t interest him, and Delores claimed a black thumb, but the woman could cook like no other.

Each night as he drove home from work, Otto anticipated the smells from his kitchen: sausage, apples, onions, garlic, kraut, meatballs—an endless tribute to Polish tradition. As she did most nights, Delores met him at the door, an apron over her calico-print housedress, her silver hair pulled up into a neat bun behind her head. She smiled, her blue eyes surrounded by wrinkles, and pushed the screen door open for him. After a quick peck on her lips, Otto walked through the living room and into the kitchen, dragging his briefcase. Delores followed on his heels.

“What’s for supper?” he asked.

“I could feel it in my bones. I knew it was a bad one. Apple dumplings with fresh whipping cream. Sit down at the table.” Delores took his briefcase from him and scooted a chair out at the kitchen table. He felt like a boy, a feeling she had nurtured in him since their first date forty years ago. He was perfectly happy letting Delores take over.

“Sit down, sit down,” she said, ushering him to the chair before pouring him a glass of milk.

The smell of cinnamon and cream and butter made him dizzy. He sat at the table and watched her hovering over the stove, his perfectly capable wife, her body soft and inviting. All his life, he had seen other men chasing skinny women in high heels with hard stomachs and hard breasts, and the idea made him shudder. How could anything compare to the vision of Delores on her way to the table with a platter of steaming apple dumplings?

“So, tell me,” she said.

“Not so much to tell as there should be. The man shot at the Trauma Center was killed by rival gang members from Mexico. How do we tackle that? And Josie thinks Red was killed trading guns to the Mexicans. How do we tackle that one, too?”

Delores set the platter of dumplings on the table and stood for a moment, hands on her hips. “You said, ‘Josie thinks.’ Does that mean you don’t?”

“What’s the gossip on the street about Red Goff and the Gunners?” he asked.

“The girls think the Gunners club is a drug cartel, no different from the Mexican versions,” she said.

Otto smiled at her reference to the girls. It was a group of eleven old women who gathered once a week and called themselves the Homemakers. Delores was one of the younger ones at fifty-seven. They rotated homes for meetings, brought food to sample, created a craft project each week, and quilted baby blankets for foster babies. They were a nice group of ladies, but girls they were not.

“For a bunch of old women, you’re on target more than you aren’t.”

She smiled, pleased. “Helen claims her husband buys guns off Red all the time. Claims his prices are better than Walmart.”

“You said drug cartel. What do drugs have to do with it?” he asked.

Delores wove an intricate tale of he said/she said and so-and-so is related to so-and-so, who was arrested for some odd thing. When she talked gossip like this, his attention faded. He nodded and forked another dumpling into his mouth, his teeth sinking into the sweet dough, his tongue distinguishing the subtle differences among the cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves in the rich sauce. He washed his bite down and said, “In the middle of all this mess, Josie’s mother showed up today from Indiana.”

Delores sat across from Otto with her own plate and glass of milk. “What did she look like?”

Otto’s eyebrows knitted together. “I don’t know. Like a floozy. Josie had a date with Dillon Reese tonight, and her mother showed up out of the blue, demanding attention.”

“Maybe you should invite Josie and her mother over for dinner this week. Help her out a little.”

Otto ignored the idea. As much as he liked Josie, he’d heard enough about Beverly Gray from her to know that he did not want to spend an evening entertaining the woman. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and asked, “No meat tonight?”

“Just dumplings. If we don’t start watching our weight, you’ll end up with both knees on the operating table.”

* * *

At midnight, Josie walked Dillon to his car. The air was soft on her skin, and a billion stars and a fat white moon lit up the night. Dillon leaned against his car door instead of getting inside and put his arms out to her. He pulled her toward him, rested his hands on her hips, and offered a half grin that she couldn’t read.

“Nothing’s changed, Josie, but I can’t stay away any longer.”

She felt the familiarity of a fight coming on. “I’ve tried to explain…”

He put a finger up to her lips and shook his head. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not passing judgment. I just miss you. I need to be around you. You make me smile, and I want to make you smile. You have this gigantic heart that’s locked up inside you that I want to open up.”

She took a step back. “Don’t speak in metaphors! What does that mean—I have a heart locked up? If I need to change, then give it to me in black and white.”

He laughed at her anger and pulled her back in again, kissed her to shut her up, then kissed her again, soft and long, his hands down her back pulling goose bumps up her arms. He finally kissed her forehead and cradled her face in his hands. She had a perfect heart, he told her, that needed sleep. Then, he drove off down the dusty road toward town.