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
12
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
U.S
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?”
“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.”
13
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.