Robert Crais - Taken

“If he’s the right Sanchez, he may have had contact with a woman I’m trying to find. But he might not be my guy. I won’t know that until I talk to him.”

“Good luck with that.”

“You found him?”

“I found him. No criminal record. Not even a ticket.”

I was half a beat behind her.

“Then why is he in the system?”

“He was found murdered by gunshot last Saturday afternoon. They fished him out of the Salton Sea.”

I felt the dropsick feeling you get when your stomach washes with acid.

“Is this the same Sanchez?”

“Yes, Cole, I’m sure. Rudolfo Sanchez of Coachella.”

“Sanchez and Sons Tow Service?”

“Jesus, Cole, yes, I’m looking at it right here. Owner of Sanchez and Sons Tow Service, Coachella, California. That would be your Rudolfo Sanchez. They found him backstrokin’ last Saturday afternoon.”

Saturday. Krista Morales and Jack Berman disappeared Friday night.

Starkey kept going, reading from her computer.

“No suspects at this time, anyone with information contact Sergeant Mike Bowers of the Coachella Police Department, blah blah blah.”

I thought about Pike and the desert, and what we have found there.

“What kind of gun?”

“Nine-millimeter. Plugged him five times with the nine, and put a load of buckshot in him. A nine-millimeter and a shotgun. You know anything about this?”

“Just what I told you.”

“Who’s the woman?”

“A college student.”

“Anything I should know?”

“It’s like I said, Starkey. I’m not even sure he’s the right Sanchez. You know how many Sanchezes there are?”

“I know it’s the eighth most common Spanish name in America. That’s a lot of Sanchezes.”

“Yeah. I better get back to work.”

“And I know you better not leave me hanging on this. You understand?”

“I understand.”

I hung up and stared at my phone. Then I looked at the address in Coachella. Sanchez amp; Sons. It was three minutes after four. I called Joe Pike.

“Still there?”

“Yes.”

“I’m coming back.”

The I-10 pulsed through Covina to Pomona, but I was on the phone with the Information operator by Ontario. Information showed thirty-two Sanchezes in the desert communities. One was listed as Rudolfo Junior, one as Rudy. Rudy’s address was the same as his place of business. Rudolfo Junior’s address appeared to be a condo or apartment in Coachella.

I copied Junior’s address and phone, then asked for the number for Sanchez amp; Sons Tow.

“Emergency or business?”

“Business.”

She connected me, and a male voice answered on the third ring.

“Towing.”

“Ah, hey, this is Billy Dale. I didn’t know if you’d be open, considering.”

“We’re open.”

“Ah, is this Rudy Junior?”

“Eddie. Hold on, I’ll get him.”

“That’s okay. I thought you might be one of the sons, and wanted to pay my respects. I heard what happened, and, man, it just floored me.”

Eddie hesitated for a moment, then sounded more relaxed.

“Thanks. I’m the middle brother, Eddie. It’s hit us pretty hard.”

Middle implied three. At least one other was on the premises.

“They get the guy who did it? I mean, they can’t just let some bastard get away with this. Rudy was a great guy.”

“No. No, they haven’t made any arrests. Thanks for asking.”

“Ah, listen, I had some business with your dad. Could I stop around for a few minutes?”

“We’re open till six.”

“That’d be swell. Thanks.”

Swell.

Six gave me fifty-two minutes.

I phoned Pike as I raced through Fontana to Redlands, where the 10 dropped south to the Banning Pass. Pike, already in the desert, had gone direct to their address.

“I’m thirty out. You on it?”

“Block away outside a building supply, opposite side of the street. I’m not alone.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Taco stand on the opposite corner. Asian male in a tan Subaru. Windows up for his AC. Second time I passed, saw him with binos.”

“Police surveillance?”

“Whatever. He’s watching.”

I wondered if the police had learned Rudy Sanchez was a coyote, or if they had always known it. The police would make dealing with the brothers more difficult, but not impossible.

“Okay. What’s he seeing?”

“Five men on the yard, one just left with a wrecker. Multiple trucks. Small office in the rear. Looks like a real business.”

“Locano said it’s legit. I spoke with one of the brothers.”

“You think they know?”

“We’ll see. They close at six. I’m twenty-five out. I’ll cruise the yard, then we can figure this out.”

“There’s a Ralphs market a few blocks west on the other side of the freeway. You’ll see me.”

Pike killed the call, and I picked up the pace.

Coachella was low, flat, and gray despite heavy irrigation. The buildings all seemed to be built of concrete block or stucco, and most were as charming as storage units. Thirsty trees struggled against the onslaught of dry heat, and patchy lawns were never quite green, as if their true color was hidden by a thin film of dust that the locals could sweep away, but never defeat. A gentle desert breeze dropped powdery sand from the sky like fairy dust. It left Coachella looking like an outlet mall.

Pike was gone when I arrived at Sanchez amp; Sons, but the man in the Subaru was parked a car-length away from a tiny white taqueria stand with an easy view of the tow yard on the opposite side of the street. He was slumped behind the wheel exactly as Pike described, wearing shades as if they made him invisible, and a stylish gray porkpie hat. Three scruffy, dusty men who looked like they worked hard were lined up for tacos. They ignored the hat man, and he ignored them. He watched the tow yard.

Sanchez amp; Sons Tow Service was a large truck yard on the wrong side of the freeway. A chain-link fence circled the perimeter with a small office building at the rear that used to be a gas station. Block-letter signs on the fence read: TURN JUNK INTO CA$H! WE BUY OLD CARS! 24/7 SERVICE! LOCAL AND LONG DIST TOWS! Six white tow trucks all bearing Sanchez amp; Sons logos were parked behind the signs. The trucks ranged from light-duty wheel-lift trucks to medium-duty wreckers with blue cranes on their beds to a couple of flatbed lifters large enough to piggyback an RV. A sliding gate for the trucks to come and go was open, with a drooping black bow to acknowledge Sanchez’s death. A young guy wearing a greasy blue work shirt was hosing one of the trucks. An older man was working under the hood of a different truck. Neither appeared armed or particularly threatening, but I hadn’t expected banditos. I was more concerned about the hat in the Subaru. The police would have come the day Sanchez’s body was identified. Depending on what they knew, they would have informed the family, then questioned both his family and employees about his activities on the days leading up to his murder. If they maintained a surveillance, it meant they knew of or suspected Rudy’s extracurricular activities, which might make it more difficult to get information about Krista Morales. Three minutes later, I pulled up beside Pike, and got out of my car. We stood between our cars to talk.

Pike said, “The hat?”

“Still there, in front of the taco stand like you said.”

“Mm.”

“I’m thinking I’ll go in alone, while you keep an eye on the hat.”

“What about the brothers?”

“I’ll feel them out. They may not even know what their father was doing.”

Pike turned away without another word, slipped into his Jeep, and left. Mr. Small Talk.