T. Parker - Cold Pursuit

"Fuck," said Hector.

"That's eloquent," said one of the INS agents.

"Fuck you ," McMichael said quietly. "How's that?"

"We're the ones who found her," said the agent. "Following some illegals through the hills."

"And we found some money and her driver's license snapped in one of the jacket pockets," said a deputy. "My watch commander is tight with Captain Rawlings, so we got the word to you fast."

McMichael looked back to the road. It was only eighty feet away and both the INS and San Diego sheriff's vehicles were parked well short of where the dumper's vehicle would likely have been parked. But the recent storm would have made it this far east, he knew, destroying any tire tracks, footprints or drag marks. Looking down at the ground around him McMichael saw no marks at all, just desert soil, cleaned by rain and baked hard again by the sun. Even the animal tracks had been washed away.

Two hours later Bob Harley and Erik Fiore had put what was left of Courtney Gonzalez into a body bag and the body bag into an SDPD Field Evidence Team van. Harley said it looked to him like the body had been there for at least two weeks, but Stiles would be able to tell better when he got her on the table. Hector had told Barbara to stay with Flagler while he worked the second fish bat- nothing to do out in the desert but watch the crime scene guys scoop up a girl who didn't deserve to die.

The INS and sheriff's were gone, leaving just McMichael and Hector standing near the shallow grave as the evidence van wobbled away down the dirt road.

"Victor?" asked McMichael. "Kill the thing you love but can't have?"

Hector shook his head. "But he can't even drive. Not supposed to drive, anyway."

"Then you try," said McMichael.

Hector walked around the grave, toed a rock, looked up at the mountains of boulders surrounding them. "There's the brothers, not willing to take a chance on Victor blabbing company secrets to the girl of his dreams. And Angel blabbing those secrets to customers, or us."

"I can buy that," said McMichael. "Or maybe she already talked. Maybe this was just payback from Auto Leather International. Basic damage control."

Hector thought about this, kicked a rock. "There's lots of creeps who prey on the working girls. Maybe Angel just got unlucky."

McMichael nodded, squinting in the ferocious sunlight. "I don't think it's a coincidence, Heck."

"No such thing," said Hector.

"Let's see what Mr. Assault and Solicitation was up to that night."

Andre Proulx was tall, lean and handsome. He was thirty-one, with an assault conviction on a prostitute in New Orleans in 1994 and a soliciting conviction in Los Angeles in '96. He was the lead chef and one-third partner in a Gaslamp restaurant called Provençal, which is where McMichael and Hector found him at three o'clock that afternoon.

He stood at a counter in his kitchen whites with a knife in one hand and a bunch of carrots in the other.

"It is not always good to see the police," he said with a wry smile. His voice was deep and clear and accented.

"It's never good to see creeps like you," said Hector, sliding his badge back into his pocket. "Put that knife down and come over here."

Proulx set the knife on the counter and tossed the carrots beside it. He was goateed and sharp-nosed, with a shaved head and a gold stud in his left ear. His face was compact and well proportioned.

"How can I help you?" he asked.

"Tell us about January second," said McMichael. "Thursday night."

"May I go to my calendar? It is in the office, over here."

Hector held out his hand and Proulx ambled through the kitchen, past the stoves and freezers, to a storage corner piled with white plastic tubs. He moved with a lanky ease, something casually superior in his walk. At the far wall he swung open a door.

The office was small and cluttered, with a steel desk and folding metal chairs, two telephones, a computer and printer. The walls had posters of the French countryside and American dragsters taped at careless angles.

Proulx went behind the desk and sat, then tapped the keyboard and stared at the monitor.

"I was working, of course," he said. "It was one of my kitchen nights. Bad weather. We served forty dinners. The scallops did not arrive and we disappointed several customers."

"When was your last seating?" asked McMichael.

"Approximately ten."

"When did they leave?" asked Hector.

Proulx looked up at them. "I think eleven-thirty."

"Then what?" asked McMichael.

"I walked over to Libertad to smoke and relax. I let the manager and crew do the scrubbing and cleaning that night. I was in the kitchen from morning on. Very tired."

McMichael and Hector traded glances, and it hit McMichael.

I met a nice guy last week. Local restaurateur. Very French. Very handsome, very mysterious .

"Why do you need a computer to tell that?" asked Hector.

Proulx smiled. It was a happy, uneven grin. "It just helps me remember. These winter nights? They all seem very similar."

"Tell me about Libertad ," said McMichael.

"I stayed there for maybe one hour. I talked to the owner. At twelve-thirty I walked back here to my apartment. It is over us, on floor four."

"Then what?" asked Hector.

"I drank two glasses of Bordeaux and showered. I was in the bed by one or one-thirty."

"Alone?" asked McMichael.

Proulx looked down with an air of reluctance, rolled his shoulders. "I was with a woman."

"Raegan," said McMichael. He stared at Proulx, but saw Hector glance his way.

Proulx smiled his sunny smile but the rest of his face was dark. "Yes. Do you know her?"

"She's my sister."

Proulx looked at McMichael as if he'd been caught at something but wasn't quite sure what. "What am I being asked to do?"

"To answer simple questions," said Hector.

"Am I not to date a policeman's sister?"

"You're not to beat women or solicit prostitutes in my city," said McMichael. "I'm not so sure you should even be in my city."

"Yes, I am," said Proulx. "I have resident status. I am documented. All of that trouble is the past."

Hector leaned across the desk and looked at Proulx like he was something in a zoo. "This guy doesn't get it, Tom."

"Not fully."

"What do you got inside that skull of yours, Andre- onions?"

"Shallots, of course."

Hector pushed back from the desk, shaking his head. "Let's just deport him."

"You can't," said Proulx. "I have resident sta-"

"You tell Raegan about your criminal record?" McMichael asked.

Proulx's face hardened into a look of dinged pride. "No."

"You jerk-wad cowards never do," said Hector.

Proulx stared at him. "It's the past. I'm trying to forget it and be a better man."

"Take it easy," said Hector. "I'll tell Raegan for you."

"Please don't. I like her very much."

"But you beat the shit out of women you don't like quite so much?" asked McMichael.

"Never again," said Proulx. "Look, I was very young. And foolish. The assault was a slap, when my money was stolen. The solicitation was when I was drunk and unhappy. Never again. I have a business now, and we're doing well here. I have no time for these things."

"Any time for Angel Gonzalez?" asked McMichael.

He watched Proulx's face closely but saw no deceit in it, which meant nothing.

"I don't know Angel Gonzalez."

"Sure you do," said Hector. "She's the working girl with the pretty face and the dimples. Been up and down the sidewalk out there about a million times."

"No. I haven't seen her."

"Well, some people saw you," said McMichael. "Thursday, January two. You were in your pretty new SUV, picked up Angel Gonzalez on Broadway, drove toward the harbor."