Morales nods. “Yeah. The duct tape. Looks like the big guy here got caught or stunned, was secured by the duct tape, but was strong enough and pissed enough to tear himself free. And look at this.”
Morales steps over the dead man’s thick and outstretched legs, points down to the floor between him and the couch. “Don’t touch it, but it looks like a Beretta nine mill down there. I did a quick check before you showed up. There’s weapons stashed all over the place. Way I figure it, he was down for the count but managed to break free, find a weapon, and he was zapped before he could use it.”
“All right,” Rosaria says, noting the bloody and gaping wound in the man’s mouth and head. Flies are starting to come in and buzz around. Morales goes into the tiny kitchen and Rosaria follows, careful to keep her footsteps slow and careful. It wouldn’t do to slip on the paper booties and fall on your ass in front of a local.
In the kitchen is another dead man, also shot, splayed out against a kitchen counter, broken dishes and glassware on the floor. This one is younger and slimmer than his companion in the living room. Morales says, “Looks like junior here took the brunt of the assault. At least three wounds I can see, and no duct tape.”
Rosaria nods, says to Morales, “Mind if I check the refrigerator and cabinets?”
“Sure. You hungry?”
“Not yet.”
The cabinets are mostly empty, save for bags of potato chips and tortilla chips, some containers of salsa. The refrigerator is nearly empty as well, but the freezer is full of Swanson frozen meals.
Rosaria says, “Temporary quarters for temporary guests.”
“You got it.”
She sees a book on the floor, near the dead man. It’s a Spanish-language Bible. “What do you think of this?” Rosaria asks.
Morales says, “Looks like the guy had a ‘come to Jesus’ moment before the bullets started flying.”
Rosaria says, “I wonder what Jesus might be saying to him now.”
Rosaria carefully goes through the rest of the house. Another siren in the distance. Two bedrooms, each with a bed and a mattress on the floor.
“Looks like four guys,” she says. “Waiting…but for what?”
“Not for a hit,” Morales says. “But really…”
The sound of the siren grows louder.
“Go on,” Rosaria says. “What were you going to say?”
“It wasn’t a hit, it was a snatch,” she says. “We got a report of two guys running across the field after the shooting started. We got two dead guys here. That means our two runners were probably the shooter and somebody else. And if you were just coming in to hit the residents, you wouldn’t be running away with another guy in tow.”
Rosaria says, “You got sleeping arrangements for four.”
“Yeah, and we also know that a large tricked-out pickup truck left before the shooting started. Maybe that guy betrayed his friends here. Went out to make a phone call, and then the hit comes. Might be halfway to the border by now.”
Rosaria nods and just walks quietly out of the house and, on the worn, beaten-down brown lawn, tugs off the gloves and the booties. Morales keeps hers on. Rosaria says, “But it certainly wasn’t a hit.”
“How are you so sure?” Morales asks.
“The guy with the duct tape. It means the shooter came in with mercy on her mind. She didn’t want to kill anybody right off. But she killed when she had to…and then she left with the man she was here to take. If this had been a hit, there would have been no duct tape…just a shooter coming in with an M4 or an Uzi or AK-47, just hose down every room.”
Morales says, “I like the way you think.”
Rosaria smiles. “So do I.” With her warm and moist hands, she reaches into her jacket, removes a business card, passes it over. “You and I both know that in a few minutes, your chief is going to show up, your crime scene folks, maybe more state troopers and the Texas Rangers. But I would sure love to talk to you directly, without having to go through the chain of command. Especially if you can get an idea of who the victims were, why they were here, and what they were protecting.”
Morales nods, passes over her own business card. “When did you know it was your Army officer?”
“What?”
Morales says, “A few minutes ago, you said the shooter was a she. Earlier, you said him or her. What made you decide?”
Rosaria gives her a wide smile, and Morales smiles in return when she says, “Female intuition, what else?”
Morales takes one more glance at the house. “Sad, isn’t it?”
“The two dead guys?”
“No, this nice little house. Once upon a time, it was probably a sweet home for a nice family, raising kids, watching them grow up and succeed. Know what I mean?”
“No,” Rosaria says.
Five minutes later, Rosaria is back in her rental car and she feels like she needs to brief her boss, but first, she needs a cold drink, and as she’s driving up the main road in Three Rivers, she spots a McDonald’s and pulls in.
And then she sees something else, and her SIG Sauer is in her hand, at her side in the car.
Parked at the rear of the McDonald’s lot, partially hidden by a green dumpster, is a black pickup truck with an extended cab and overhead light rack.
CHAPTER 62
AFTER WORKING for his first jefe, Antonio Garcia no longer believes in Jesus, the Blessed Virgin, the Holy Saints, or nearly anybody else, but he’s beginning to reconsider his atheism as his day proceeds. Back here in the McDonald’s parking lot he finds a strong signal for his cell phone, and with dread in his bones, he calls his jefe to tell him how everything has gone wrong.
But his boss isn’t home!
On the phone is one of his lieutenants, a grim, sour little man called Pedro, and Pedro is demanding to know why Antonio is calling, but he won’t answer the man’s questions. Each day working for the jefe is a balancing act, keeping him happy, watching the rivals in the organization who will stab you in your back—literally!—if the opportunity arises.
Antonio says, “Look, when will he be back?”
Pedro swears and says, “How should I know? All I know is that he had the urge to go visit his wife and do some serious drinking and humping, and now he’s gone.”
Antonio says, “Which wife?” and he’s not joking, for like most cartel heads in Mexico, strong men with strong appetites have three or four wives scattered across the country or in the States.
Pedro says, “I think the one in Puerto Vallarta. She’s the one that he likes seeing in those dental-floss bathing suits.”
Antonio swivels in his seat, to see if any police are in the area. No, just a McDonald’s worker, a woman in one of those brown shirts, walking from car to car, holding a brown paper bag.
Other than that, clear.
He says, “All right, do you have a number for him?”
“I do, but you’re not getting it unless you tell me why you need it.”
Antonio swears at Pedro and says, “Look, I’m not getting into some school dispute with you, amigo. It’ll be on you when the jefe finds out you’ve been dicking around.”