“That’s right.”
Albrecht circled back and asked, “Why Anza-Borrego?”
I felt impatient circling back to that question, but knew I couldn’t be.
“For the same reasons the drug traffickers and fugitives like it—the access to the border and it’s close enough to Vegas.”
“How long do you expect to be here?”
“Depends.”
The captain registered that with a noncommittal nod.
“Well, Deputy Nogales knows everybody. He’s the right guy to take you out. But he’s got another job to do as well, so I can only give him to you for a couple of days, unless you’re onto somebody.”
“If that happens there’ll be an army here.” I paused. “Captain, I want to ask you about something else before Pete and I get out there. There was a small plane, a Cessna four-seater that may have been brought down by a bomb. It was definitely brought down by an unusual explosion. Score and burn marks show that. There was the Alagara bar bomb, the pickup bomb, and a car bomb, all made with the same C-4. The plane debris is scattered, but pieces have been retrieved and it’s getting looked at. Are you aware of that plane crash?”
“Sure.”
“I figured you would be. The plane crossed from Mexico and landed and took off again from an airstrip in the Imperial Valley. Do you know anything about that airstrip?”
“Sure, I’ve heard stories.”
“What kind?”
“Drugs. Smugglers. You know how it is down here.”
“Does that airstrip have a rep?”
“Yeah, a little bit of a rep.”
“Thanks.”
We toured Borrego Springs first and then outback places, where everyone living there was off the grid. Nogales knew a cadre of eclectics, antigovernment wackos, retirees, survivalists, parole violators, drug dealers, sportsmen, desert rats, rock collectors, painters, sculptors, and others just drawn to the stark beauty. Nogales networked, and he went to his people now. After the first couple of stops, I felt like a ride along. Nogales was also a natural at asking questions without revealing much. Too bad the Bureau passed on him.
I checked in with Lacey, who was looking at rentals in the area, recent property-sale closings, Craigslist, and everything she could find where an individual looking for a short-term rental would go. Then we made a stop at a bar in Ocotillo Wells. It was alongside the highway, just before a road running out to a gypsum mine. The bar’s windows were coated in gray-white road dust from massive trucks carrying loads from the mine. Even the cool air inside the bar was dust-laden and carried a faint tang of diesel fumes.
The bartender looked at the artist’s sketches Nogales laid down, then a photo of Mondari’s white Mercedes.
“Who are you looking for?” the bartender asked Nogales.
“A stone-cold killer.”
“A stone-cold killer driving a car like that?” The bartender chuckled and asked, “Are you sure you’ve got your story right? Go ask Nora or Crazy Pete or the owners of the general store.”
“The car was stolen from a victim. Do you recognize any of these faces?”
“Not offhand.”
“I’m not interested in offhand,” Nogales said. “Look again. This guy is truly bad.”
“I’d tell you if I recognized anybody.”
“Just take another look at the photos, okay?”
“If he’s a killer, what did he do?”
Nogales nodded toward me, then said, “There was a dismembering here that looks like one of his. Six states have unsolved murders done in the same way. Nevada, California, Oregon, Wyoming, Louisiana, and Missouri.” Nogales rattled them off. “That’s why the FBI is here. We do not want this guy among us.”
“Who says he is?”
I fielded that, saying, “We were tipped. That’s why I’m here.”
The bartender picked up the photos. This time he sifted more slowly but still handed everything back to Nogales and shook his head. We tried the small handful of store owners along the highway, then drove out the dusty gypsum road and made a number of stops before returning to the general store to cobble together some sort of meal.
“Let’s try Nora the Dawn Artist,” Nogales said.
“Nora the what?”
“Dawn Artist. Her family was killed some years ago, and she moved here from LA. She was crazy for a while, then started painting.”
He turned and looked at me.
“It’s different out here, but you know that. Nora lives up here on the left in that building that looks like a little water tower.”
“How was her family killed?”
Nogales told me as we drove to her house.
“A truck ran a red light. The driver was texting his boss. Nora’s husband and two kids died in the car, and she came apart. Now she paints the morning. That’s what her name is about. A week after she got here, I found her fifteen miles out on a desert road, dehydrated and with no water, and brought her back home. She’s never forgotten and we’re pals. Every dawn she paints the sky and the land so that no day is lost. That’s her thing. No day lost.”