The Burning Season Page 12

  “Where is he?”

  Lucia looked at him for the first time since she had let him inside. Her eyes were deep-set and haunted. “I don’t know.”

  “How long has he been missing?”

  “A week, I guess. I was afraid maybe he was deported, but I don’t have any way to check. Still, if he was, he would call me when he got to Mexico.”

  “Let me ask you this—was he very sick? About three years ago?”

  “Yes!” Lucia said. “He was. He had to get a . . .”

  “He got a blood marrow donation.”

  “That’s right! How did you know?”

  “It’s my job to know. What was the matter with him?”

  “It was . . . something plastic.”

  “Aplastic anemia?”

  “That’s right. He had to get these blood transplants all the time. He always looked so much better after one that I thought he was well.”

  “But it didn’t last, did it?”

  “No. He kept on getting sick again. Finally he needed a bone marrow transplant, or I was going to lose him.”

  That matched what Belinda Jones had told him. “How could he afford the treatment?”

  “There’s this community center in the neighborhood, the Friends of the East Side Community Center. Mickey Ritz, the guy who runs it, he tries to take care of people. He arranged some money, when Ruben got sick. That paid for his treatment, and the place that provided the marrow took care of that end.”

  “The Indigo Valley Blood Center, right?”

  “I think.”

  “So he got his medical needs taken care of, even though he had no papers.”

  “That’s right. That’s part of why I love this country.”

  Ray’s emotions were torn. The money that went into Ruben’s care might have gone to a citizen. But he and Lucia had been raised here, educated here, and Lucia seemed as patriotic as anyone he’d met, maybe more so because she understood the flip side, what might be waiting for her if she were ever forced to leave her adopted nation. Was there a right side of this situation? Or just a question of degree, of one thing being slightly less wrong than another?

  Ray’s Hippocratic oath told him that making sure Ruben’s aplastic anemia got treated was the less wrong option. He was a law enforcement official as well as a doctor, and he was a taxpayer. But he had grown up as a military brat, born in South Korea and raised on bases around the world. He had been a boy without a country, American in name only, his fellow citizens the people in uniforms and the families who stood behind them. He knew something of what she must have felt as a girl, coming to this strange land, and the outsider status she still lived. Besides, the clinic he volunteered at treated people without regard to citizenship.

  “What about the husband you mentioned earlier?” he asked. “Was he even real?”

  “He’s real,” she said. “Sometimes I wish he wasn’t.”

  “You couldn’t get citizenship through him?”

  “He was illegal too. He took off. I don’t know where he went and I don’t care.”

  “Okay, let’s get back to Ruben. You have no idea where he is?”

  “Not where.”

  That was a dodge. “What do you know?”

  Lucia chewed on her right index finger, looking away from Ray again. She wanted to tell him, but she was scared. Terrified, more accurately.

  “Come on, Lucia. I’ll find out one way or another. You know that, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Tell me what you know.”

  “Okay, fine. Only you can’t ever say it was me, all right?”

  “I can’t promise that. Depending on what you tell me, you might be asked to testify in court.”

  “Then I’ll be deported for sure.”

  “Possibly. Or possibly the district attorney would be able to make some sort of arrangement. I don’t know, that’s not my field. All I do know is that Ruben’s in trouble, and if keeping quiet would help him, he would be home already.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Okay, there’s these smugglers, this gang. Coyotes. They brought one of our cousins over, a few years ago. We helped make the arrangements, helped pay them. I guess that’s how they knew who we were, knew that we didn’t have papers. Once they know, they don’t forget. Some families I know, undocumented, like us—they approach the family, and tell them that if they don’t pay them off they’ll turn them in to Immigration. If the family resists, they’ll abduct a family member and the price goes up. They already know we won’t go to the police. They want the ransom money from family here or back in Mexico, they don’t care.”

  “And that’s what happened to Ruben? They took him?”

  “I think so, because they came to us and said they wanted five thousand dollars to keep quiet about us. We don’t have money like that.”

  “But some families meet their demands?”

  “You have to understand. Ruben and me, we don’t have anybody in Mexico, but a lot of people do. The families in Mexico, they depend on money from here that people send back home. To them, five thousand would be a fortune—but to pay it, any way they can, would be better than not paying and losing the money being sent back every month.”

  “Only you don’t have people to send money to.”

  “That’s right. And because we don’t, we don’t have people who can scrape the ransom together for us.”

  Ray was almost afraid to ask the next question. “This gang—what do they do with the people they abduct? If they don’t get the money?”

  Lucia’s voice quavered as she answered him. “The first thing is, they’ll cut off a hand, and send it to the family. That’s the last warning. They leave one hand so the person can still work. When a family gets that in the mail, usually they can find the money.”

  “Have you received one of Ruben’s hands?”

  “No. But every day, when I get the mail, I worry that it will be in there.”

  “What next?”

  “Sometimes the person dies, after their hand is cut off. Sometimes the money comes in and they let him loose. You see people, men mostly, around the neighborhood with one hand. But if the person dies, then they hide the body somewhere and dump the hand. When a hand is found, word spreads, so we are all worried all the time that we’ll be next.”

  And they were, Ray knew. She hadn’t heard about Ruben’s hand yet. Which probably meant Ruben was dead, that his hand had been left out in the street somewhere as a warning to others, and the dog had found it before any people did.

  The trouble was, he had to tell her. The time had come. If he kept it from her now, it would be dishonest, and any trust he had built up would be shattered.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Lucia.”

  Her hand went back to her mouth. When she bit down on the finger, it reminded Ray of the dog gnawing the hand, and he had to try to block that image from his mind. “What?”

  “One of Ruben’s hands has been found. His left one.”

  “Oh, God, no!” Tears ran from her eyes, soaking her cheeks. She let them flow, unhindered, and spoke through her sobs.

  “I’m very sorry. That’s how I found you in the first place.”

  “And you know it’s his?”

  “We haven’t been able to match the DNA to him yet. But it’s his, I’m quite sure.”

  “So . . . so he’s dead?”

  “I don’t know. I hope not. It might be too late, but the more I can learn about this gang you mentioned, the better our chances are of finding him in time.”

  “I don’t know anything about them.”

  “You said they approached you.”

  “That’s right, but they come to you. They don’t leave a business card or anything like that. You don’t find them, they find you.”

  “I need more than that,” Ray said. “I’ve got to have something to go on.”

  “Why? What’s the point? If they left his hand
someplace instead of sending it, then he’s dead!”

  “Maybe he’s not dead yet. And if he is, then at least you’ll know. If we can find them, we can arrest them, stop them from doing this to other families. Isn’t that worth it?”

  “It won’t bring Ruben back.”

  “If he’s already gone, then nothing will bring him back. All we can do is try.”

  “But I don’t know who they are! Or how to find them.”

  “Where did they grab Ruben?”

  “From here,” she said. “I came home from cleaning a house and he was gone. He must have fought like a tiger. The place was a mess, furniture every which way, some things broken.”

  “And you didn’t call the police?”

  “Like I said, when you don’t have papers, you don’t call the police.”

  “I understand. Where did the struggle take place?”

  “Here. Right here, in this room. He must have answered the door, and when they tried to grab him, he came back inside. They came in after him.”

  “But you cleaned up?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you mind if I look around?”

  “I just said I cleaned up.”

  “And I recognize that you’re a professional housecleaner. Still, you’d be surprised at what people can miss.”

  “Be my guest. If it’ll help find Ruben, you do whatever you want.”

  “I can’t guarantee anything,” Ray said. “But it can’t hurt, and it might help.”

  “Go for it.”

  “I’ll have to go outside, get my field kit. Then I’ll try to make it fast.”

  “Faster the better.”

  “I know. Ruben might not have much time left, if he’s still out there.”

  The whole thing was a long shot. If they only dumped the hands of those who died from the process, then it was long since too late for Ruben. But if something else had happened—say they had removed the hand, then decided there was no point in mailing it because they had already ascertained that Ruben had no family to raise the ransom—there might still be a chance.

  It was a chance Ray had to take.

  He returned from the vehicle with his field kit. Getting down on hands and knees was painful. But if she had missed anything in her clean-up job, it would likely be small, and close to the floor. Nothing he found could be used as evidence in court, because the scene hadn’t been secured in the interim. That didn’t mean that there weren’t clues that might point to Ruben’s abductors, though. Crime scene investigation served multiple purposes, and this could be one of the most crucial.

  The floors in here were hardwood, with carpeting that didn’t quite reach all the way across. Ray started at the edge of the carpeting, then moved to the baseboard along the bottom of the wall. He moved slowly, tweezers and a magnifying glass in his hands.

  As he had told Lucia, he found things she had missed. The first was blood that had leaked between floorboards and turned blue-green when he swabbed with tetramethylbenzidine. TMB was only a presumptive test, and the presence of blood would have to be confirmed, but it was a good start. Once it was confirmed, the identity of the person who had shed it would have to be determined.

  “Did someone bleed over here?” Ray asked. “That you know of?”

  “I found blood on the floor when I came in that night. I cleaned it with floor cleaner and bleach. You found some?”

  “Yes.”

  “I scrubbed and scrubbed.”

  “People often do,” Ray said. “Especially when they’re trying to hide it from us. They’re rarely successful.”

  He went back to combing the floor. He turned up some tiny fibers that looked, at first glance, to be a polyester-cotton blend. Tangled with those, which he had to draw from beneath the baseboard, were two tiny, sparkly metallic disks. He bagged them and kept looking. The next thing he found were minute bits of what looked like skin, little flakes of tissue that might have been scraped off in the fight. He put these in a paper envelope. They’d be tested back at the lab, along with everything else. If they had come from one of Ruben’s attackers and not from the victim, they might help locate him.

  Ray searched for another twenty minutes, but found nothing else that appeared pertinent. “Thanks for your cooperation, Ms. Navarre,” he said.

  “Did you find anything that might help?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but maybe.”

  “I hope so. I’m worried.”

  “I hope so, too.” He didn’t mean to be short with her, but he wanted to rush back and get the trace and DNA techs going on what he had found.

  He didn’t want to have found Ruben Solis, only to have lost him. Somewhere out there, a man needed to be reunited with his left hand, even if it was too late for him to use it again.

  15

  LOUIS VARTANN CALLED some people he knew at the Las Vegas ATF office, and arranged to pay a casual visit to the local headquarters of the Free Citizens of the Republic. Of course, most casual visits didn’t involve four vehicles screaming into the front parking area and a dozen flak-jacketed men and women leaping out with warrants and weapons. But Vartann wanted to get the Free Citizens’ attention, and he figured a big show would do that more efficiently than a quiet conversation.

  Headquarters was a freestanding, one-story, stucco-sided building on the west side of Interstate 15. At night, a person would be able to see the lights of the Strip from there, but not much else. The neighborhood was largely blighted: an abandoned used car dealership sat next door, and on the other side was an empty building that had once been a chain restaurant. The liquor store beyond that remained in business, its windows barred, its walls painted a garish yellow that almost glowed in the afternoon sun. Vartann had been inside it once, investigating a hold-up. A third of the store was walled off by bulletproof glass—the owners held court on that side, pulling booze from the shelves for customers who shouted their orders through metal slots and paid through cutaways in the window.

  The Free Citizens had a small wooden sign with their insignia—an eagle, though not a bald one, wings spread, rifles clutched in one talon and a scroll in the other—mounted beside the door. Except for that, the place could have been any small business that didn’t rely on customers seeking it out in person. With LVPD SWAT cops and ATF agents fanning out around the building, Vartann tried the door. It was unlocked, so he announced himself and went in.

  Inside was chaos.

  There was a reception area in front, with thick carpeting and comfortable chairs and a chest-high counter behind which, presumably, a receptionist usually sat. No one sat there at the moment; instead, Vartann heard running footsteps and shouts from down the hallway beyond. He started down the hall, only to be met by a man in a brown suit, white shirt, and red-and-black striped tie, striding briskly toward him with a fierce scowl on a round, pudgy face. Behind that man were some others, less respectable in appearance. They were bull-necked guys with shaved heads, built like linebackers, wearing dark suits and glaring at Vartann through small eyes. One had a thin, dark mustache riding his upper lip, the other tattoos climbing up from under his dress shirt. The muscle, Vartann figured, to back up the boss.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” the man demanded.

  Vartann held out the warrant. “This is a warrant to search the premises,” he said. “If you’d like to call an attorney, feel free, but we’re going to be looking around in the meantime.”

  “Search for what?” the man asked. “We’ve nothing to hide here.”

  “Then it’ll be easy.”

  “This is an egregious violation of our rights,” the man said. Vartann liked how he did that—went from nothing to hide to being violated in an instant.

  “We’ve been informed that you might be in possession of some illegal firearms, sir. If you can show us proof of legal purchase for any weapons on the premises, we’ll be out of your hair in no time.” He chose, for the moment, not to mention that they were also looking for ammonium nitrate or othe
r bomb-making materials. If the man read the warrant carefully enough, he could reach that conclusion on his own.

  “Let me see that!” the man said, grasping for the warrant. He scanned the pages for a minute, then threw it back at Vartann. “We don’t even recognize your authority! Leave these grounds immediately.”

  “You don’t recognize the Clark County courts?”

  “Their authority is not grounded in anything. It’s vapor, nothing more.”

  “Sir, I have a dozen armed men and women here with the full force of the law behind us. If you don’t recognize that authority, I recommend taking another look.”

  “It’s people like you who are the problem,” the man said. His thugs hadn’t said a word, just stood behind him glowering like extras in a music video.

  “Sir, you’re going to have to ask these men to step aside and let us in, or I’ll have to put all of you under arrest.”

  “Try it.”

  The more the man pulled the defiant act, the more tempted Vartann was. But he hadn’t come looking to make any arrests—he just hoped to ask some questions about the attack on Dennis Daniels, and to warn the group against harassing Catherine. “What’s your name, sir?”

  “My name is Caleb of Leland, Tulsa.”

  “Oh, right, that whole parentheses bit. Clever.”

  “Once again, I’m going to have to insist that you leave these grounds.”

  “Does that mean you don’t intend to comply with the warrant?”

  “I’ve seen nothing that makes me believe you have the authority to enforce it.”

  “Okay, Mr. Parenthesis, on the floor, hands over your head.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’ll be easier on you if you do it yourself.”

  The man’s face was turning so red he was starting to look like a kickball. “Now see here . . .”

  “All right,” Vartann said. He was out of patience. He reached for the man’s wrist, caught it and gave a yank. Leland, if that was really his name, spun around and Vartann slapped a cuff over the wrist. Leland began to struggle then, so Vartann twisted the arm a little harder and snapped the man toward him, then reached for his other hand. He caught it and brought it behind the man, cuffed that hand, and pushed him against a wall—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to immobilize him. The muscle men stood and watched. “You guys supposed to do something, or are you just decor?” Vartann asked.