Robert Crais - Taken

Something about this bothered him, so Pike backtracked a few feet the way he had come, and discovered the tracks leading to the road were clear. A few feet farther away from the road, and overlapping shoe prints covered the tracks. The line between shoes and no shoes on the quad tracks was clear.

Pike realized he now knew the truck had come from the south, rolled up the centerline to this spot near the crashed airplane, and stopped. A group of people had gotten off or gotten on at the rear of the truck, after which the truck departed toward the road where his Jeep was now parked.

Pike said, “Mm.”

Pike searched for a depression where the truck’s weight would have pressed into the soil when it sat parked. He located the first depression, then two of the remaining three. He paced off the distance between the rear tires and the fronts, which gave him the wheel base. The truck was about twenty feet long with a fourteen-foot box. This was about the size used for local meat deliveries or rented to do-it-yourself movers.

Pike was considering the size of the truck when he noticed a long arcing skid where one of the smaller vehicles crushed a cluster of furry cholla cactus as it raced into the brush. Pike left the quad for a closer look, and saw a path of broken ocotillos and creosote. The creosotes were large, heavy plants, and would have damaged the vehicle, but the driver hadn’t cared. Five more nine-millimeter casings were scattered along the hardpack.

The smaller track was easy to follow. Broken shrubs and deep ruts where the tires dug for traction led in a curving arc through the brush. Forty yards from the landing strip, Pike found four deep sideways skids where the vehicle made a hard, sliding stop. A few feet away, Pike spotted seven nine-millimeter casings and three yellow shotgun shells. Someone had driven hard to this place, stood on the brakes, then fired off rounds. Two guns, so Pike guessed two men. Chased something. Caught it. Killed it.

Pike circled the area, but did not have to go far. Twenty feet away, he found an irregular brown amoeba-shaped stain almost two feet across on the dusty shale. The brown had faded, and was almost the color of dust, but Pike had seen similar stains in similar deserts all over the world, and knew it had once been red.

Something bad had happened here.

Someone had died here.

And the shooters had taken the body.

Pike had been on the scene for one hour and twelve minutes. It was almost three o’clock. He marked the spot, then jogged back to his Jeep to call Elvis Cole.

Elvis Cole: four days before he is taken

The bathroom felt cold when Pike told me what he had found.

“Big group. Can’t tell how many, but more than ten. Two or three smaller vehicles came hard for the quad. Looks like three, but I can’t confirm.”

“The quad was there first? The others came after?”

“The quad wasn’t running. He was probably stopped when they hit.”

“They followed him?”

“Or knew he would come and waited nearby. He parked, people got out, the bad guys hit.”

“So everyone ran, but got rounded up and put back aboard?”

“Way it looks. At least one man went down. From the amount of blood, KIA.”

“Jesus.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Anything else on the kids?”

“No, but I can stay longer.”

I was thinking about it when a man in his thirties with neatly trimmed blond hair opened the door and told me Mr. Locano was ready. He had a faint Russian accent and wore a UCLA class ring. One of Locano’s associates. I told Pike I would call back, and followed the man to Mr. Locano’s office. As before, he was behind his desk when I arrived and came around to speak with me, but this time we did not sit.

He said, “There is a man.”

“Isn’t there always?”

“Rudy Sanchez. Rudolfo. Mr. Sanchez is well established, and is known to deal with groups.”

“Thanks, Mr. Locano. This won’t get back to you.”

“Wait. You’ll want his address.”

He gave me a white index card on which he had written Sanchez amp; Sons Towing, along with a Coachella address. Both the address and the business surprised me.

“He lives in Coachella?”

“They tell me he’s an American, and the business is real.”

I put the card away. Maybe a man in the towing business would be confident driving a large truck over rough ground, but maybe the overlap of business and large trucks was only a coincidence. Maybe Krista’s Sanchez and Rudy Sanchez weren’t the same coyote, and maybe Mary Sue was wrong about Q COY SANCHEZ, and the Sanchez in the note wasn’t a coyote, but a shy flirt who was after Krista’s boyfriend. Rudy Sanchez might never have heard of Krista Morales, and she might never have heard of or contacted him.

I said, “I spoke with my associate while I was waiting. There appears to be evidence of some kind of abduction at the crash site.”

“Evidence the girl was taken?”

“Nothing specific to Krista Morales, no, sir, but what he’s found isn’t good.”

“Then let’s hope for the best.”

He pursed his lips as if wrestling with how much he wanted to say, then finally told me.

“Have you seen news accounts of the mass graves found south of the border?”

I nodded. Mass graves containing scores of murder victims were sometimes found, and were so horrific they made national news in the

He said, “These were immigrants abducted for ransom, Mr. Cole. Bajadores leave no witnesses. Let us hold a good thought until we know more.”

I thanked Mr. Locano for his help, and went out to my car. I wanted to talk with Pike about what he had found, but Starkey called as I got into my car.

“I got your DMV on that Mustang. Can you talk?”

“Sure.”

“No one owns it.”

“What do you mean, no one owns it?”

“The owner of record isn’t a person. DMV shows it’s owned by the Arrowhead Trust. That means whoever owns it didn’t buy the car as an individual, but bought it through the trust or transferred title to the trust. Rich people do that for tax reasons.”

“I know, Starkey. Thanks.”

“I know you know. Just sayin’. You want the address?”

“Yeah.”

She didn’t give me the address Mary Sue found in Krista’s computer. She gave me a Wilshire Boulevard address not far from UCLA, on a stretch of Wilshire lined with corporate high-rises.

“One-oh-eight-eight-six Wilshire Boulevard, tenth floor, Westwood, nine-oh-oh-two-four.”

She repeated it without my having to ask. Though trusts can and did hold title to anything, Mustangs weren’t typically the type of vehicle held in trust. Trusts were used to shelter high-ticket items like yachts, Ferraris, and multimillion-dollar homes from inheritance taxes.

I said, “Starkey, you at the office?”

“Yeah. I’m done for the day. You want to swing by and pick me up?”

“No. I want you to check a name for me. Rudolfo or Rudy Sanchez. Has a business in Coachella called Sanchez and Sons Tow.”

I gave her the address, and explained his occupation. If Sanchez had ever been arrested in California, his history would show on the California Department of Justice system. I could hear Starkey curse as she typed, and I didn’t blame her. Officers couldn’t tap into the system any time they wanted for any reason at all. She would have to enter a case number and her badge number, which meant her supervisor would be notified of her request, and she would have to justify the search. Fabricating a reason for checking out Rudolfo Sanchez was no big deal, but the paperwork was annoying.

Then she stopped cursing, and lowered her voice.

“Who’s this guy Sanchez to you?”