Hector drove east, fast, a gumball on top to clear the traffic and the windows cracked for the good cool air. McMichael tossed aside the map book and watched San Diego turn into La Mesa, El Cajon, Alpine, Japutul, Pine Valley. They climbed into the huge rock formations of the San Vicente Mountains, tremendous tan boulders piled precariously skyward as if dumped there by a god with leftover material.
Rattlesnake Gorge Road looped north into Anza-Borrego State Park. McMichael could see a helicopter hovering above a glint of metal far out in the desert. Hector turned onto a dirt road, breaking the tires loose with a satisfied grin, rocks popping off the undercarriage of the Crown Vic as he gunned it to outrun the dust.
There were two INS trucks, three sheriff's cruisers and an evidence van parked in a line along the right side of the road. Hector slowed well in advance and rolled in behind the van. The helicopter was fixed in the sky as if painted on.
They trudged abreast through the rocky terrain. McMichael picked his way around the cholla cacti, their needles blond and brilliant in the raw desert sun. Tan sand. Tan boulders rising against the sky. Two vultures circling high as if this was old news to them, which, McMichael realized, it was.
They stood with the other men outside a rectangle of crime scene ribbon wrapped around a spindly ocotillo and three cholla. Before them a young woman lay facedown in a shallow hole. Black hair, dark skin, black remnants of clothing stuck to her swollen body, a black leather jacket caught on one wrist but otherwise pulled completely off and inverted. One hand had been chewed off. Her left boot lay ten yards away with part of her leg still in it. Large green flies droned above her without marked enthusiasm, strangely audible within the broader sound of the chopper.
"Fuck," said Hector.
"That's eloquent," said one of the INS agents.
"Fuck you," McMichael said quietly. "How's that?"
"We're the ones who found her," said the agent. "Following some illegals through the hills."
"And we found some money and her driver's license snapped in one of the jacket pockets," said a deputy. "My watch commander is tight with Captain Rawlings, so we got the word to you fast."
McMichael looked back to the road. It was only eighty feet away and both the INS and San Diego sheriff's vehicles were parked well short of where the dumper's vehicle would likely have been parked. But the recent storm would have made it this far east, he knew, destroying any tire tracks, footprints or drag marks. Looking down at the ground around him McMichael saw no marks at all, just desert soil, cleaned by rain and baked hard again by the sun. Even the animal tracks had been washed away.
Two hours later Bob Harley and Erik Fiore had put what was left of Courtney Gonzalez into a body bag and the body bag into an SDPD Field Evidence Team van. Harley said it looked to him like the body had been there for at least two weeks, but Stiles would be able to tell better when he got her on the table. Hector had told Barbara to stay with Flagler while he worked the second fish bat- nothing to do out in the desert but watch the crime scene guys scoop up a girl who didn't deserve to die.
The INS and sheriff's were gone, leaving just McMichael and Hector standing near the shallow grave as the evidence van wobbled away down the dirt road.
"Victor?" asked McMichael. "Kill the thing you love but can't have?"
Hector shook his head. "But he can't even drive. Not supposed to drive, anyway."
"Then you try," said McMichael.
Hector walked around the grave, toed a rock, looked up at the mountains of boulders surrounding them. "There's the brothers, not willing to take a chance on Victor blabbing company secrets to the girl of his dreams. And Angel blabbing those secrets to customers, or us."
"I can buy that," said McMichael. "Or maybe she already talked. Maybe this was just payback from Auto Leather International. Basic damage control."
Hector thought about this, kicked a rock. "There's lots of creeps who prey on the working girls. Maybe Angel just got unlucky."
McMichael nodded, squinting in the ferocious sunlight. "I don't think it's a coincidence, Heck."
"No such thing," said Hector.
"Let's see what Mr. Assault and Solicitation was up to that night."
Andre Proulx was tall, lean and handsome. He was thirty-one, with an assault conviction on a prostitute in New Orleans in 1994 and a soliciting conviction in Los Angeles in '96. He was the lead chef and one-third partner in a Gaslamp restaurant called Provençal, which is where McMichael and Hector found him at three o'clock that afternoon.
He stood at a counter in his kitchen whites with a knife in one hand and a bunch of carrots in the other.
"It is not always good to see the police," he said with a wry smile. His voice was deep and clear and accented.
"It's never good to see creeps like you," said Hector, sliding his badge back into his pocket. "Put that knife down and come over here."
Proulx set the knife on the counter and tossed the carrots beside it. He was goateed and sharp-nosed, with a shaved head and a gold stud in his left ear. His face was compact and well proportioned.
"How can I help you?" he asked.
"Tell us about January second," said McMichael. "Thursday night."
"May I go to my calendar? It is in the office, over here."
Hector held out his hand and Proulx ambled through the kitchen, past the stoves and freezers, to a storage corner piled with white plastic tubs. He moved with a lanky ease, something casually superior in his walk. At the far wall he swung open a door.
The office was small and cluttered, with a steel desk and folding metal chairs, two telephones, a computer and printer. The walls had posters of the French countryside and American dragsters taped at careless angles.
Proulx went behind the desk and sat, then tapped the keyboard and stared at the monitor.
"I was working, of course," he said. "It was one of my kitchen nights. Bad weather. We served forty dinners. The scallops did not arrive and we disappointed several customers."
"When was your last seating?" asked McMichael.
"Approximately ten."
"When did they leave?" asked Hector.
Proulx looked up at them. "I think eleven-thirty."
"Then what?" asked McMichael.
"I walked over to Libertad to smoke and relax. I let the manager and crew do the scrubbing and cleaning that night. I was in the kitchen from morning on. Very tired."
McMichael and Hector traded glances, and it hit McMichael.
I met a nice guy last week. Local restaurateur. Very French. Very handsome, very mysterious.
"Why do you need a computer to tell that?" asked Hector.
Proulx smiled. It was a happy, uneven grin. "It just helps me remember. These winter nights? They all seem very similar."
"Tell me about Libertad," said McMichael.
"I stayed there for maybe one hour. I talked to the owner. At twelve-thirty I walked back here to my apartment. It is over us, on floor four."
"Then what?" asked Hector.
"I drank two glasses of Bordeaux and showered. I was in the bed by one or one-thirty."
"Alone?" asked McMichael.
Proulx looked down with an air of reluctance, rolled his shoulders. "I was with a woman."
"Raegan," said McMichael. He stared at Proulx, but saw Hector glance his way.
Proulx smiled his sunny smile but the rest of his face was dark. "Yes. Do you know her?"
"She's my sister."
Proulx looked at McMichael as if he'd been caught at something but wasn't quite sure what. "What am I being asked to do?"
"To answer simple questions," said Hector.
"Am I not to date a policeman's sister?"
"You're not to beat women or solicit prostitutes in my city," said McMichael. "I'm not so sure you should even be in my city."
"Yes, I am," said Proulx. "I have resident status. I am documented. All of that trouble is the past."
Hector leaned across the desk and looked at Proulx like he was something in a zoo. "This guy doesn't get it, Tom."
"Not fully."
"What do you got inside that skull of yours, Andre- onions?"
"Shallots, of course."
Hector pushed back from the desk, shaking his head. "Let's just deport him."
"You can't," said Proulx. "I have resident sta-"
"You tell Raegan about your criminal record?" McMichael asked.
Proulx's face hardened into a look of dinged pride. "No."
"You jerk-wad cowards never do," said Hector.
Proulx stared at him. "It's the past. I'm trying to forget it and be a better man."
"Take it easy," said Hector. "I'll tell Raegan for you."
"Please don't. I like her very much."
"But you beat the shit out of women you don't like quite so much?" asked McMichael.
"Never again," said Proulx. "Look, I was very young. And foolish. The assault was a slap, when my money was stolen. The solicitation was when I was drunk and unhappy. Never again. I have a business now, and we're doing well here. I have no time for these things."
"Any time for Angel Gonzalez?" asked McMichael.
He watched Proulx's face closely but saw no deceit in it, which meant nothing.
"I don't know Angel Gonzalez."
"Sure you do," said Hector. "She's the working girl with the pretty face and the dimples. Been up and down the sidewalk out there about a million times."
"No. I haven't seen her."
"Well, some people saw you," said McMichael. "Thursday, January two. You were in your pretty new SUV, picked up Angel Gonzalez on Broadway, drove toward the harbor."
Proulx frowned and shook his head. McMichael saw the first signs of worry in his face. "Impossible. Ask Raegan."
"If her story is any different than yours," said Hector, "I'm going to throw you back in jail."
"That's okay," said Proulx.
"What is?" asked McMichael.
"She will drop me. Raegan will drop me, but that's okay."
"My heart's breaking," said Hector.
Proulx shot a look at him, and in it McMichael saw anger and control.
"I will tell her myself," he said.
"Too late for that," said McMichael.
They sat across the street at Bombay, drinking coffee outside and waiting for Andre to come hustling out, bound for Libertad and a scene with Raegan. McMichael called her on his cell phone and confirmed that Andre Proulx had indeed been in her company on the night in question. Raegan was unhappy to learn of Andre's past but did a cavalier job of hiding it. She had always fought pain with good humor.
Proulx came outside Provençal just once, to write the specials on the sidewalk menu in bright pink chalk. Squatting in front of the stand, he traced a line down the back of the hostess's calf and she bapped him with a handful of menus, giggling.
"Creep," said Hector. "See, that's what I was saying about women. Why they put up with guys like that while it takes me two, three nights of yapping to come up with a phone number. I don't get it."
"I guess Andre does."
"Hire them for sex, beat them, lie to them. And Raegan? She's smart. She's been around, knows the score."
McMichael didn't get it either.
Just before five o'clock, a disheveled Arthur Flagler came into the Team Three pen to announce that he'd found microscopic bone fragments on Fish Whack'r #2, and that Bob Harley had coaxed fingerprints and a "respectable partial palm print" from the handle using the bench laser.
"Unfortunately, there aren't many palm prints in the fingerprint registers," he said. "Give me three days for a DNA comparison on the bone frags. I did a visual comparison of Lance Wood's prints and the prints on the inside of the gloves. No match."
McMichael smiled. "You're amazing, Arthur."
"I know."
San Diego Times reporter Rob Skelton called a little after six.
"Can you help me round out a suspect profile on Sally Rainwater?" he asked.
McMichael told him he couldn't discuss an active case or ongoing investigation- department policy. Public Information might be able to help him.
"I really don't enjoy being nosy, but were you involved with her?" asked Skelton.
"I can't discuss an active case or ongoing investigation," McMichael said again, his heart plummeting toward the lobby four floors below.
"I'm going with what I have, then," said the reporter.
McMichael hung up. Gene Goldman, he thought- Sally's lawyer- loading the cannons for battle.
He called the women's jail out in Santee.
McMichael walked into the jail at seven-thirty and said he was there to see inmate Sally Rainwater. A few minutes later the amused deputy said that he would be allowed a contact visit, not the standard phoner between the glass. He was told there would be no touching of any kind- no hugging or shaking hands- nothing.
McMichael surrendered his weapon and was pat searched before being led into a glass-walled room.
Sally came in wearing the jail suit- blue, too big, the same plastic shower sandals Jimmy Thigpen had. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and her face looked caved and haunted.
They sat across a table from each other.
"You've got the wrong person," she said.
"Were you set up?"
"All the way."
"Do you know who?"
"I've got no idea."
"I'm doing what I can. Things aren't lining up just right."
"For you or for me?"
He nodded. "For anybody. Look, the press is onto us. I figure Goldman is trying to make the PD look bad. I thought we'd both be better off without bringing that in. What I'm saying is, we don't have to talk about it."
She shook her head. "I haven't told him."
McMichael saw a female deputy stroll by on the other side of the glass wall, trying to look disinterested.
"I haven't told anyone," she said. "So it had to come from your side."
McMichael felt cool pricks of sweat on his scalp. Bland. Rawlings. Barbara and Sergeant Hatter. IAD and their foot soldiers, the Professional Standards Unit. Right on down to Rob Skelton at the Times.
"Then I've got a problem," he said.
"It's going to be mine, too. Though Gene might not see it that way. I guess we could be a large embarrassment to the department."
McMichael looked straight into her dark brown eyes, saw exhaustion. "You should have told me about Florida," he said.
Sally shook her head. "It was an ugly thing and it made me ashamed, even though I had to do what I did. You know what it's like to carry around a memory like that? When I think of it, it all comes back. I can feel his body and smell his breath. I wasn't ready to go there. Not in front of you."
"It looks bad, the circumstances being similar."
"They weren't similar at all. That man in Florida came at me fast and hard. Stronger than hell. He was going to do it. He was going to rape me right there in the kitchen. It wasn't part of my job to get raped. Did you come to threaten me with that?"
"No, please. I didn't. I'm not."
"Why did you come?"
"I wanted to make sure you were okay."
"I'm fine. You're pathetic."
McMichael nodded and went to the door.
"You don't know quality when you see it," said Sally.
He waited while the deputy moved toward the door to let him out.
"Anna's hummingbird," she said. "The one you found at my place? That wasn't from Pete's. Pete's was genuine. The one they planted in my home was fake. It was obvious."
"I'll have it examined."
"You do that."
The deputy let McMichael out. When he looked back through the glass the room was empty.
He sat with Hector in a corner of Libertad, lost in the smoke of a Churchill, a tumbler of tequila on the coffee table in front of him. He watched Raegan making her rounds. She looked waiflike as she moved through the crowded room, red hair bouncing and her eyes set like peridots in her fair, thrifty face. A group of pretty young women had taken Teofilo's Room and McMichael could see them through the glass, noting how absolutely they ignored him. A batch of young San Diego firemen occupied Papa's Place, and the Cuba Room was filled with a raucous birthday celebration featuring much howling and a dancer in a thong and silver heels. Through the big windows McMichael could see Fifth Avenue, busy for a post-stormy Monday, pedestrians hustling through the traffic and diners still waiting for tables at nine.
Raegan broke away and sat down with them, setting her martini glass on the table. McMichael knew it was only water, but Raegan floated a twist in it to set a festive tone for her establishment. She looked a little dark in the eyes.
"You handsome brutes behaving yourselves?"
"I'm trying my best," said Hector. "But it doesn't come naturally."
She glanced into Teofilo's. "Tom, I happen to know that one of those young ladies likes the way you look."
McMichael nodded but said nothing. You don't know quality when you see it.
"She have a friend?" asked Hector.
"Dozens. You guys look wrung out as I feel. Long day?"
McMichael nodded and sipped his drink. "Sorry about Andre. But his name came up and we had to check him out."
He told her about the sighting of the wine-colored SUV, and the list of new owners given to him by Charley Farrell. She squinted just slightly, McMichael able to trace this look of deliberation back as long as he had known her, held her on his lap, rocked with her, held her hand as she put one miniature shoe in front of the other and learned to walk.
"To tell you the truth," she said, "Andre's sell-by date was already up."
"You can do a lot better than him," said Hector. "And be careful of him. These roosters, when you ruffle their little feathers…"
"Thanks, Heck," she said with a weak smile. "Well, back on the chain gang!"
She gulped the water dramatically, messed up Hector's shining black hair, kicked McMichael's leg and edged back into her crowd.
Just after ten the Axelgaard brothers and two other men walked in, all smiles for the ladies in Teofilo's. One of the women held open the door and in walked the four men. The brothers were well muscled and walked with an air of importance. Mason- balding, mustachioed- wore a black leather sport coat and jeans. Golden-haired Martin, the U.S. Customs man, was dressed in a black suit that swayed expensively as he walked. The other two were Mexican and dressed for nightclubbing. Could be anything from DEA to cartel enforcers, thought McMichael; this close to the border, the lines got blurred.
Hector buried his face in a magazine. McMichael headed for the restroom on the other side of the room. He didn't think that Martin remembered him from the border crossing, which suggested arrogance and a low level of attention. McMichael had often found dull people to be the most explosive and, oddly enough, the most successful criminals.
Hector met him in the bathroom. McMichael leaned against the door and Hector hit the hand dryer. "If we stay, they'll make us," he said.
Hector nodded. "Let's wait outside and tail them."
"I'll get Raegan's keys. We're dead in the Ford."
They sat across the street in Raegan's ride, a little BMW sports car with nifty analog gauges and a red leather interior. An hour later, the brothers came out with two pretty women and got into a black Mercedes four-door parked in a red zone. The men took the front seats, women the back. A moment later the car slid away from the curb with a chirp of tires.
"Maybe the other two guys are looking for people like us," said Hector. "Is there a back way out of Raegan's?"
"Yeah, but she won't let customers use it."
"Smart girl. I wonder where the party is."
It was at the Hyatt, site of Jimmy Thigpen's attempted celebration back in December. The Mercedes pulled into self parking so McMichael did, too, finding a space far enough away to watch. The fab four walked across the lot, each brother coupled up with one of the women. The women both wore high-heeled shoes and their long blonde hair shone in the lot lights.
McMichael and Hector climbed out of the little car and followed at a distance, talking loudly about the Super Bowl- it would come down to defense and special teams if you asked Hector, McMichael braying about the underdogs and five points but sticking with the overs and unders for serious money.
They stopped and backed into the shadow of the big building when the brothers and their dates turned for the lobby.
"I don't think we're invited," said Hector.
They stood in the shadow for a while, watching an occasional car head past them for the parking lot. McMichael looked up at the clear sky and the stars sprinkled in the dark, saw a falling star and wished his son would become a good man.
"I wonder what Jimmy did with his cash," said Hector. "All those border runs. Something tells me he made a lot more than three hundred grand."
"Yeah," said McMichael. "If you're running cartel loads across the line with a Mack truck, you're in for some good money."
They had just stepped out of the shadows when a familiar Ford sedan glided down the drive toward the parking lot. Just instinct, then, as McMichael saw the radio antenna on top and pulled Hector back into the darkness.
They waited two minutes to see Jerry Bland come marching toward the lobby, dressed in a gray suit and carrying a leather briefcase. McMichael had to stare at him an extra beat just to believe his own eyes.
Half an hour later Bland strode back across the parking lot and let himself into the sedan as McMichael and Hector watched from the cramped little sports car. Bland swung the briefcase into the back, shut the door quietly and climbed into the driver's seat.
"He was in on it with Thigpen," said Hector. "That's why he's been riding your ass about what Jimmy knows. So worried about how his department is going to look. Assistant goddamned fucking chief of police."
McMichael just stared. Bland pulled from his space and swung onto the drive. McMichael started Raegan's car and followed a long way back.
"And he had IAD take those pictures of you and the nurse, just to keep you busy with something else," said Hector.
McMichael watched the sedan roll toward the boulevard. He let a Caddy that was leaving the hotel go in front of him, then a Porsche.
Then a clear picture cracked in McMichael's mind, like lightning in a black sky.
Boom.
"What about this, Hector-Pete went to Bland about Jimmy. That's why nobody else at San Diego PD ever knew. But Pete wondered why Bland didn't do anything. Pete wanted action. Bland put him off as long as he could, then had him shut up."
"How?"
"He went to the Axelgaards for help- it's their problem, too, right?- and they put him onto a clean cartel boy from south of the border- no prints, no record. Get him up for the job, get him back the same night. Pete got hit on a Wednesday night. That's Tijuana night. Everybody was in place. Clean."
"Bland," muttered Hector. "What's he do to earn his keep with these guys?"
"He's police protection upstairs, seventh floor," said McMichael. "He keeps the department off of Jimmy and the brothers. And what about the distribution end- they're moving seventy-five kilos of something through the border every week. It's got to make the streets here. Bland knows what Narcotics is up to- the assistant chiefs have full access to all department operations except IAD's. With him on the inside, the sellers know where the heat's going to be."
"Oooh," crooned Hector. "This is getting good in lots of bad ways."
"Why not?"
"I didn't say I didn't like it. Keep going, Mick."
"Let's get particular- Bland took care of Zeke at the party. He knew about Sally being with Pete five days a week and figured she was good to hang a frame on. He set her up with some stolen property. Like you said, I walked into the mess and got my picture taken. More diversion. More clutter."
"Sure. Okay."
"And I think you were right, back in Rattlesnake Gorge- these guys took out Angel because Victor would tell her anything to get a date. Victor's the liability but Angel paid the price. I like that. It lines up."
Hector exhaled, shaking his head. "None of them drives a wine-colored sport ute with Pete Braga plates."
"I can't explain that yet," said McMichael. "I'm going to lean on the dealership guy, though."
"How did Bland get the earrings out of Pete's place?"
"Same way the hitter got in. He just waited until Sally and Pete went on an errand."
"He wouldn't know the combination to the floor safe," said Hector.
"The earrings weren't in the floor safe. They were in the jewelry box in Anna's old dresser."
Hector looked hard at McMichael. "But why would Bland frame the nurse with a cheap hummingbird instead of the real one?"
"So he could pocket the real thing."
"Who spiked Pete's wine?"
"The hitter, on his way out," said McMichael. "Just like Bland told him to."
"The hitter, not the nurse?"
"No meperedine in Pete's system, right? That's because it was a postmortem spike. The drug wasn't for Pete, it was to implicate Sally. Just like the two fish clubs were for us. That's the beauty of it- Bland knew the layout at Pete's place, right down to the Fish Whack'r. I'm liking this, Hector. You're liking it, too, I know you are."
"Getting the nurse out of jail is what you'd like."
"Sure as hell would."
Hector leaned closer. "How about this, McMichael- you like taking down an assistant chief for dope and murder?"
"Sure," said McMichael. His throat felt thick and his heart was pounding hard. "Why not?"
"I wonder where he does his banking," said Hector.
They followed Bland, safely padded by at least two cars, McMichael vaguely remembering that the assistant chief lived in Kensington. Thirteen minutes later Bland turned onto a residential street of clean little houses. It looked like a street from the thirties, cute porches and rose beds and everybody's lawn happy and neat. McMichael pulled over and cut the lights. The Ford slid into a garage as the door scrolled up to a stop. The welcome-home light was already on. A tiny gray-haired woman in a robe came from the side door and hugged him when he got out of the car.
Twenty minutes later they woke up Captain Rawlings in his home out in Alpine. He answered the door with an unhappy expression on his face and a.357 magnum revolver in his hand.
They sat in his den with the door closed and told him the story. Rawlings sat in the dim lamplight, an aging man in a worn robe.
By the time McMichael was finished telling him what they'd seen, Rawlings seemed to have grown smaller. "When's the next run to Tijuana?" he asked quietly.
"Day after tomorrow," said McMichael. "Wednesday."
"We can arrest the brothers at the border, and serve Bland a search warrant one minute later. I'll go to Judge Abella tomorrow. He can keep a secret for forty-eight hours. Maybe."
"That gives Bland two days to lose the money," said Hector.
Rawlings thought for a moment. "I'll get PSU to surveil him until then. Shouldn't be hard, since he spends ten hours a day at work. He's not going anywhere tonight, right?"
"He's shacked up at home with the luggage and the wife," said Hector.
"Mitzi," said Rawlings. "Christ. This is going to be something. Professional Standards Unit shadowing their own boss."
"Maybe we should use Team Three homicide," said McMichael. "He's not our boss."
Rawlings studied him. His eyes were moist black pits in his pale face. "I like that idea. As much as I like anything about this mess. Do it. Don't get caught."