Body Heat. Brenda Novak

you think she’ll be willing to work with me on this?”

      “I don’t see why she wouldn’t. Someone with your reputation. I’m sure she can use all the help she can get. Last I heard, the sheriff had assigned a detective to the case, but he should’ve assigned two or three.”

      “She’s got a lot going against her.”

      “Exactly.”

      Rod remembered what she’d done to him well enough that this news didn’t make him entirely unhappy. He’d been so thrilled, as that naive teenager who thought he finally had a chance with the girl he’d always wanted. But she’d set him up, probably so she and her friends could have a good laugh. “I’ll pay her a visit.”

      “It’ll relieve the city council to have you involved in the investigation.”

      And Rod definitely wanted to please the good ol’ boys on the city council. He swallowed a pained sigh. He hated small-town politics, but this dynamic would work in his favor so he didn’t complain. Frightened of losing her job and in need of help, Sophia would be much more likely to cooperate with him. Experience had taught him that local cops with less incentive could be very stingy with information. “Glad to hear it.”

      His father didn’t seem to pick up on his lack of enthusiasm. “You need an introduction or anything else, you let me know.”

      “Yeah, sure.”

      Again, Bruce seemed to miss the dry note that should’ve told him that Rod had no intention of coming to him for anything.

      “By the way, I brought you something else.”

      Now what? Rod stretched up and gripped the top of the door frame with his fingertips. “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

      “I’ll get it.” He walked to the passenger side of his big gray double-axle pickup truck and retrieved a manila envelope.

      Rod dropped his arms to his sides but didn’t comment as he accepted it. Opening the flap, which was unsealed, he withdrew a stack of money orders—the ones he’d sent at sixteen and seventeen, when he was trying to pay off his mother’s funeral. He didn’t want them, but he wasn’t going to argue over them, either. He’d done what he could for his mother. He’d repaid the debt—whether Bruce allowed him to or not.

      “I don’t want these, and you know it.”

      “I’d appreciate it if you’d take them. I can’t explain why, but…it’s important to me.”

      “Whatever.” Rod was about to close the flap and toss the envelope onto the small table by the door when his fingers encountered something with an entirely different texture. What was this?

      When he pulled it from the envelope, he saw a snapshot of him and his mother standing outside their shack at the ranch. Carolina, young, beautiful and still healthy, was wearing one of her inexpensive cotton shirts, a wide-brimmed hat to protect her from the sun and a pair of jeans that had been cut off at the knees and rolled up a few inches. She was smiling and hugging him close.

      Rod was maybe three or four, too young to remember having the photo taken. “Where did you get this?”

      It was harder now, harder to keep the anger under control. Looking at Carolina, he could understand why Bruce had been attracted to her. She was beautiful. But that didn’t make Rod willing to forgive him for taking advantage of her, not when Bruce already had everything a man could ever want.

      “I took the picture myself.” His father must’ve known from Rod’s expression or the tension in his body that it was time to leave because he mumbled a quick goodbye and walked away.

      Rod didn’t respond. He could no longer speak or move. All he could do was stare at that picture as memories of his mother crashed over him.

      Sweat rolled between Sophia’s shoulder blades, making her feel sticky and uncomfortable in her uniform as she went from trailer to trailer, getting formal statements from everyone who could have heard the gunshots that killed José and Benita Sanchez. Three shots had been fired. She knew that from the spent casings. But only one person—Debbie Berke, in the closest trailer—had heard enough noise to get her out of bed. Mac White, who lived next to Earl and Marlene, said he “might’ve” heard something. He told her he’d been awakened but shrugged off whatever had disturbed him. He was too used to Earl and Marlene’s fights to worry about a little yelling. Randy Pinegar said he had a sleep disorder for which he’d taken a sleeping aid. But everyone knew he was an alcoholic. Sophia guessed he’d been in a stupor. And Ralph Newlin, the only other neighbor in that circle of trailers, had been in Phoenix, picking up his daughter from the home of his ex-wife. He was still gone, on his way to Disneyland.

      Planning to ask Debbie a few more questions about the “thumps” she’d heard, Sophia had just stepped onto the landing when her cell phone rang. According to caller ID, it was Detective Lindstrom.

      She nearly ignored it. But Councilman Fedorko had called this morning and added even more pressure to what she was already feeling. He’d told her the other city council members were getting nervous, that they were wondering if she had the experience to get the job done. He implied that there were two members, in particular, who were talking about replacing her. He claimed Mayor Schilling was even lamenting the fact that they hadn’t promoted Leonard. Paul seemed to believe that, questionable character aside, Leonard would have a better chance of catching the UDA killer. Sophia knew it was fear that was making the city council second-guess their decision. They were scared that someone who wasn’t a UDA would get shot and a battle would erupt between the two factions. But she didn’t appreciate their lack of faith.

      Bottom line, she had to cooperate with Lindstrom, had to trust the detective despite the warning bells in her head and the sick feeling in her gut. She couldn’t do this alone. There was too much work.

      She hit the talk button. “Chief St. Claire.”

      “You identified the victims?”

      She’d left Lindstrom a message to that effect after her chat with Fedorko. “I did.”

      “How?”

      “Naco was worth the trip.”

      “I let the Mexican consulate know about the murders. You might want to alert them to this new development.”

      “I already did.”

      “Who’d you speak with?”

      “Same guy you did. Deputy Consul Rudy Ruybal.” He’d been their contact from the beginning.