Brenda Novak - Body Heat

After a cursory glance at her passport, the man waved her through, and the engine thrummed between her legs as she guided her bike into Naco, Sonora. It was just on the other side of the border from its sister city but was ten times the size. With nearly eight thousand residents, it had housing, motels and grocery stores—and plenty of indigents who begged for money.

It also had more than its fair share of coyotes.

Sophia could see them lounging against buildings or loitering on street corners, talking with anyone who passed. Some stood off by themselves—smoking, eyeing the scene, searching for potential customers. For a moment, the babel of voices frightened her. She’d been to Naco before; she knew it well enough to feel as comfortable as one could in a foreign and rather dangerous place. But she didn’t speak much Spanish. She was relying on the fact that many of the people here knew English.

A group of men clustered at the entrance to the ram-shackle motel Su Casa watched her “unass,” as Starkey would’ve described it. She wasn’t sure why she suddenly thought of her ex-boyfriend. Maybe because she sort of wished she’d brought him with her. He was no pillar of the community, but she did enough for Rafe that he treated her cordially, and he could hold his own in the worst of circumstances.

Whistling and grinning as she removed her helmet, the men made their appreciation clear. They also spoke to one another in Spanish, using words like espléndido and atractiva. Despite numerous attempts, Sophia hadn’t been able to reach the person attached to the number she’d found in José’s sock, so she still didn’t have any identification. But, unlike the situation with the previous victims, she had pictures that showed an actual resemblance. She’d downloaded the photographs she’d taken at the scene and printed out several copies of the clearest ones before leaving the station.

As she approached the group, most of whom were in their mid-twenties, she took a photo of each body from her back pocket. “Maybe you can help me.”

Several were dressed in dirty “wifebeater” T-shirts and plain gray pants with thin-soled black canvas shoes. Others wore jeans and various kinds of shirts. They’d all been lounging against whatever was close by—the side of the building, a pillar, a foul-smelling trash can—but once she addressed them they straightened and stepped toward her.

“Can you tell me who these people are?” she asked, holding the photos out for them to see.

The closest one took the pictures and stared down at José and his wife. Then he handed them back. “No hablo Inglés.”

“Nombre.” She pointed at the pictures again and gave them to someone else.

“These people are dead.” The second man’s English was heavily accented but definitely understandable.

“That’s the problem,” she told him. “I’m trying to figure out how they got that way.”

“So…you’re a cop?” He laughed, making his skepticism obvious. “You don’t look like no cop.”

She lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “Right now I’m just a concerned citizen.”

“A concerned citizen,” he repeated, and squinted as he studied the pictures a second time. “These two were killed crossing the border, eh? Like the others?”

It was no surprise that he knew. The previous murders had been in the papers, and Naco was right on the border, only ten miles from where some of the shootings had occurred. “Yes.”

“Who are you?”

The insolence in his eyes unsettled her, but she steeled herself against it. She’d hung out with enough Hells Angels to know better than to reveal vulnerability. “A friend. At least to them.”

He rubbed his fingers together in the classic sign that he wanted her to grease his palm. “How much you willing to pay?”

In a town where men rushed to hold parking places or dashed into the street to wash car windshields, hoping for tips, she’d expected this and planned to use it to her advantage. “Fifty U.S.”

“For…”

“Información. On either one of them. Or anyone you feel might’ve had something to do with their deaths.”

“You pay first?”

She laughed as she shook her head. “Sorry, I’m not estúpida, eh? I’ll wait in the cantina across the street.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Where they came from, how and when they crossed the border, who they were with before they died, if anyone’s seen or heard anything strange or out of the ordinary lately that might be related to their murder.”

“That’s a lot, no?”

“You gotta start somewhere.”

He thought for a moment. “Job like that could take all night, señorita. In the end, I might have nothing to show for my time. How can you be sure they came through here?”

“I’m willing to bet on it. They didn’t die far away. Find me their coyote, someone who saw them or knows them, anything you can. The more you tell me, the more I’ll pay. ¿Entendido?”

“¿Cuánto más?” someone else called.

They were asking how much more. Fifty dollars was peanuts compared to what they were paid for a successful crossing. But not every crossing was successful. “Up to two hundred dollars U.S.,” she said.

The man who’d just yelled out wiped the sweat from his forehead. “And if we find nada?”

“Then you get paid nada.” She had no choice. They’d lie to her if she gave them the slightest incentive.

“Nah.” Shaking their heads, some of the men closest to her turned away. One addressed two women huddled next to a wheeled cart where an old man was selling drinks and corn. “Hey, you want a new life?” he asked her. “You want to go to America? I can take you there.”

He spoke in Spanish but Sophia understood the gist of his message.

One of the women, obviously older than the other, scoffed. “You think I’m a fool? It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s safe,” he insisted. “And easy. I can get you there, no problem. My metal detector can find the sensors.”

“And what about that?” She waved in the direction of the tall metal fence dividing the two countries, but everyone knew the fence was virtually nonexistent in some places.

“You’re worried about three strands of barbed wire?”

“I’m worried about being forced into the desert,” she cried. “Do you want us to die?”

Sophia saw no reason he’d want them to die. He didn’t care one way or the other, as long as he got paid.

He rolled his eyes. “You won’t die in the desert. I know a shortcut. It’s an hour’s walk.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Sophia interrupted. “It’ll take much more than an hour. It could take days. And border patrol agents aren’t the only thing you have to fear. Someone is killing illegal aliens, shooting them in cold blood.”

The woman didn’t seem to understand English. But she recognized the pistol Sophia made with her thumb and finger. Muttering something unintelligible, she grabbed her companion’s hand and scurried away.

The coyote whirled around to confront Sophia. “Hey, you’re costing me money!”

“Twelve people are dead,” she said. “Twelve of your countrymen and -women. If anyone gives a damn, it should be you.”

The man who spoke the best English was openly scornful. “Why should we care? They’re just wetbacks.”

“You make your living off those wetbacks!”

He shrugged. “So?”

“If this killer keeps going, people will be too frightened to cross. Even with a reliable coyote.”

Flexing, he looked pointedly from one bulging bicep to the other, showing off for her. “I can get anyone across. For the right price.”

Since the U.S. had strengthened security along the Naco border, coyotes had a much more difficult job. They had to avoid the stadium lights that were spaced every three miles and equipped with cameras and infrared sensors monitored by agents at central command. They had to figure out ways to circumvent or slip through the Virtual Presence and Extended Defense System, which included the feared ground sensors. And they had to escape the notice of an additional two hundred agents posted at various lookouts. The services of a knowledgeable guide had gone from three hundred dollars to eight hundred dollars. Smuggling undocumented aliens was becoming so lucrative that the Mexican Mafia was beginning to traffic in humans, as well as drugs.