In the cool gray light near dawn a deputy sheriff on the eastern slope of the Sierras spotted a late model black Hummer parked off the road under trees up Rock Creek Canyon. After spotting the Hummer the deputy pulled over and put his light on it. He got out with a flashlight and looked inside. When he shined his light through the driver’s window he saw a woman slumped against the passenger door and assumed she was sleeping.
Then his flashlight beam caught the wound at her throat. He held the light there a long moment and then moved it down, saw broad dark stains on her shirt, her skirt, the seat. Blood was everywhere, and yet, it still took him a moment to absorb what he was looking at. He leaned over, looking in, and then took his hand off the car roof and stepped back, realizing he shouldn’t even touch the vehicle. He shouldn’t touch any more than he already had. He walked around to the back, wrote down the license plates and ran them. The registered owner was a Raymond Mendoza with an LA address.
He reported an apparent homicide and within an hour, somewhere, someone connected Raymond ‘Rayman’ Mendoza to an ongoing DEA investigation and lapped that into the Bureau’s widening search for Maria Marquez and Jack Gant. Marquez got the call from Desault. That was at 8:30 in the morning after he’d been trying for hours to reach Maria by cell phone. He found his wallet, keys, creds, and badge as his muscles went weak with fear. His hands shook. Rock Creek was north of Bishop in country he knew well. It would take him five hours to get down there, maybe less if he pushed hard.
‘They’re moving the victim in the next hour or so, and we’re impounding the vehicle. The Bureau is getting involved. There’s no identity on the woman yet. She’s approximately twenty-five with brown hair, and hazel eyes, and John, this is very hard to say, but from the description we can’t rule out Maria. They’ll fax me a photo. Why don’t you come into San Francisco and wait here with me.’
‘It’s not her.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’
‘She’s with two friends, but I’ll drive there now.’
‘You don’t need to do that.’
Desault almost said, you don’t need to do that yet. He barely caught himself. Marquez walked out to his truck, still talking to Desault as he started the engine.
‘Raymond Mendoza is who you gave the message for Stoval to, correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mendoza is in custody. We picked him up at home this morning. He claims the Hummer was stolen and that he didn’t report it stolen because he was traveling. Or some story like that. A neighbor who hates both the vehicle and Mendoza, and pays attention to his coming and going in it, says Mendoza was home last night and the night before, but not his vehicle.’
Desault tried to talk him into turning around, but he couldn’t do that. He drove and tried Maria’s cell several times and got through to one of her friends and learned they’d smuggled Maria out of Yosemite last night and she and two others were supposed to be camped at June Lake on the eastern side. Marquez got the names of the friends and the car make and model and called the Mono County Sheriff’s Office.
But they didn’t find the car in the time it took him to cross the Sierras. By then he had called Katherine at work, though he didn’t tell her the homicide victim’s physical characteristics were similar enough that the FBI was faxing a photo of Maria. He couldn’t do that, and Desault was right; Maria was fine. She and her friends had ditched the FBI last night and were somewhere no one would think to look for them.
When his phone rang next he could barely breathe as he answered. It was Desault calling with the victim’s identity.