Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets. (9 page)

The man jumped in his chair and scowled at Rye.

“Okay,” Rye said, releasing a sigh. “Let’s start with the basics. Tell me your name.”

The prisoner glowered at Rye. “Americano, you can go to hell and burn your soul there forever.” His Spanish accent was heavy and hard to understand.

“Gee, now that is what I call an intelligent response.” Rye put his fists on the table and leaned forward. “Let’s try this again. What’s your name?”

“You can’t scare me—”

“If that’s how you want to play this, then I’ll choose a name for you. I bet when your madre first saw you she said, ‘I have given birth to an idiota.’” The prisoner started to come out of the chair, but the chains around his waist and feet restrained him.

Rye remained outwardly calm at the man’s outburst. Inside, he knew he got to him.
Finally.
“So I’ll call you …” Rye paused glancing at the ceiling as if the answer waited in the yellowing acoustic tiles. Rye snapped his fingers. “Got it! Idiota. I dub you Idiota. Whenever you care to tell me your real name, then I will discontinue using the nickname. Besides, we’re running a trace on your fingerprints. If something turns up, like an earlier deportation to Mexico or a prior arrest—I will know your given name.”

With his lips curling in a snarl, the detainee spat out, “You’re a dead man, cop. When he finds out—”

Rye smacked the table. “WHO IS ‘HE’? Care to elaborate, Idiota? I don’t know this individual. Give me his name. I can pay him a little visit. Work things out. You know, drink a little beer. Chat a little bit. Tell him you’re singing like a scalded canary.”

The prisoner shrugged his shoulders again, but not before dread flashed through his eyes. “No. I’m just an—”

The door swung, and Whitewolf stood in the entrance. His western hat hung low, and his mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes. It never ceased to amaze Rye how imposing the Apache could be when he wanted. Whitewolf stepped into the room and closed the door behind him with a resounding click. Scowling, Whitewolf ambled over to the open chair, turned the chair backwards—metal screeching against tile—and eased his frame into it. He leaned forward to invade the Mexican’s space.

The prisoner leaned backwards as far as the chains would allow.

“This creep is here illegally,” Whitewolf said, his voice low and menacing. “I say let’s turn him over to I.C.E.”

Idiota shot rapid glances between the two cops. “I want a—”

“I don’t care what you want,” Rye snapped. He walked around behind the man. “You tell us what we want before I give a rat’s tail about what you want. What’s your name?”

The Mexican shook his head.

Rye leaned in closer and said, “Okay, Idiota, try this one on. Did you steal from the museum? Did you kill someone last night? ANSWER ME.”

The man’s brow wrinkled. He looked confused. “I … I … I kill no one.”

“So you were at the museum?”

The man hesitated. “Wh … what museum?”

Rye circled around to the front of the man and folded his arms across his chest. “Here’s what I think. You broke into our museum, stole a couple of artifacts, tried to sell them to your mysterious friend. You know, in the canyon where we found him butchered. When the deal turned bad, you killed him. Then you went to the diner to enjoy a breakfast. I think you’re here illegally. Am I right?”

“I didn’t steal nothing from no museum. It was the crazy woman. A lawyer. I want—”

“I don’t care. Lawyers are for US citizens.” Rye had just stretched the truth again but figured the prisoner wouldn’t know American jurisprudence. “You’re one scrawny dude. I bet there’s more than one bubba in the penitentiary who’d love to make you his girlfriend.”

“No, no. That won’t happen. Demonio Amo won’t—” he stopped for several seconds, his eyes darting around the room. Then, Idiota continued with a defeated voice, “Allow it.”

Rye wheeled on the prisoner. “And who is Demonio Amo? ANSWER ME!”

The prisoner lowered his head and sobbed. He shook bodily from crying. When he looked up at Rye, tears stained his splotched cheeks and ran off his chin. “Please help me. Demonio is one very evil man. I fear him more than God. He sell drugs north of border and buy guns from some Americano gringo and bring south into Mexico.” Resignation filled the man’s voice. “Okay, my name I tell you. I am Rod Valdez, and I am now one dead man. Can I see a lawyer now? For my son, I need to make out—how do you Americanos say—my last will and testament.”

“We’re done here. Do the pre-book,” Rye told Whitewolf. “Escort Mr. Valdez to lock-up.”

“Chief, we need to talk—” Whitewolf started to say.

“Start the deportation process,” Rye said, glaring at the prisoner one last time before turning on his heel and stalking out of the room. He slammed the door behind him and measured his strides down the hall, his footsteps squeaking on the polished tile floors. The desire to punch a hole in the wall would have overwhelmed him had he not pushed it deep down into his soul. Finding Juan’s killer took precedence, gnawing at Rye’s gut like a coyote gnawing at a rabbit carcass. A handful of Tums sounded good, but it’d have to wait.

He pushed through a door on his right labeled
Squad Room
where
s
ix desks lined the walls. Teetering piles of paperwork buried Reese’s desk, whereas Whitewolf’s desk waited with neat stacks of paperwork arranged in OCD perfection. Two desks sat vacant, one used for collecting overflow papers and file folders. The other had been Juan’s. Neat stacks of paper and files awaited his return. Rye swallowed and
shifted his focus toward two officers huddled around a monitor at the desk across the aisle from Zach’s.

“Uh-mm,” Rye cleared his throat. The two spun in their chairs like teenagers caught looking at porn. Rye leveled his gaze at the monitor.

The face of the young male officer reddened. “We’re just looking at the new surfboard I bought. It’s, like, a Channel Islands … I got it in the back of my SUV. If you’d like to take a look.”

Rye shook his head. “Right now I’m not interested in surfboards. I know you officers just finished your watch, but we’ve had several incidents this morning, so consider yourselves on overtime. Officer Heilo?” He nodded to the Latina female officer.

She stiffened and grabbed her notepad and a pen.

Rye said, “I need you to check for any deaths in southern Arizona where mutilation with a sharp instrument was used. Start by going back for the last two years.”

“Got it.” She clicked on an icon, typed in a password, and connected to the state criminal records. “Is this related to the crime scene out at the Batts’ property?” she asked over her shoulder while her fingers clacked away at the keyboard.

“Yes. The vic died hard. It involved … mutilation.”

“Is crazy Batts a suspect?”

“He’s just an interested party at this time. We’ll keep him in the suspect pool until we clear him. However, I don’t see him as doing this.”

Rye turned to DePute, a fresh recruit who looked like he should be surfing off Maui. “DePute, search for any illegals caught dealing drugs in surrounding counties. Correlate that with any previous record of deportation. I’m particularly interested in a Rod Valdez.” He removed
the photo from his pocket. “See if you can find the name of the woman in this photo. Send an electronic copy to Yuma if necessary.”

“Dude, I am so on it.” DePute stood and took the photo from Rye’s hand.

Rye clapped a hand on the officer’s shoulder and squeezed. “Don’t call me dude,” Rye said, voice deadpan. “It’s not professional.”

Whitewolf entered the Squad Room and went to his desk. “I’m on the unsub … Chief,” he said.

No. Not that joke again.

Whitewolf chuckled. “My ancestors would cringe if they knew I called a white man Chief.” His laugh sounded hollow and strained in the silence from the others.

“Dude,” DePute said. “That joke was like old before your ancestors were born.”

“Okay, people, you’ve got your assignments,” Rye said above the ensuing chuckles. “Get me that information ASAP.”
While I untangle a cryptic message from a dead man.

Whitewolf leaned over his chair, palms on the desk, a blank stare at the keyboard.

In two steps, Rye stood next to him, a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Noah?”

“You have yet to tell them.” The statement, though level and quiet, sounded like a shout to Rye.

He winced and glanced at the younger officers, whose lighthearted banter had evaporated the moment Rye had addressed Whitewolf by first name.

“You OK, Whitewolf?” DePute said, his gaze flickering between Rye and Whitewolf.

While Rye searched for words, Heilo said, “Tell us what?” She had swiveled her chair to face them.

Rye eased himself onto the edge of Whitewolf’s desk while Whitewolf straightened, standing at attention just behind Rye’s left shoulder, his face a stoic mask, unreflective of the grief in his eyes.

Rye took a deep breath. “This morning, Sgt. Juan Martinez was found murdered out on Batts’ property.” He held up a hand to forestall any questions.

Water welled in Heilo’s eyes. DePute stared at him, the color draining from his face.

“Right now, we don’t know much, but we’re cops, and we’re going to conduct a professional investigation. We will find whoever did this and bring justice to Juan’s memory. But I need all of you to back me on this. Can I count on you?”

At first, no one said anything.

Rye, seconds away from tearing the room apart, gripped the edge of Whitewolf’s desk. “Heilo. DePute. Can I count on you?”

Heilo jumped to her feet. “Yes, Chief.”

“Yes, Chief,” DePute echoed as Heilo rolled the chair behind him, grasped his arm, and sat him down.

“Good.” Unable to say much more, Rye pushed himself off the desk. “Let’s get to work.” And without meeting anyone’s gaze, he left the squad room and paused in the hallway.

He thought of the enigmatic letters scrawled on Juan’s fingers: gs ds DHL DA. So what was Juan trying to say? His last words. Probably knew he was going to be killed. So he had to get a message out.

Gs ds DHL DA
. Rye dropped his head. The letters of the puzzle jumped around in his mind.
DHL? Did he mean the airfreight company?
Doesn’t feel right, but I suppose we need to check it out.

His cell phone rang. “Dawlsen.”

“Doc and Zach just pulled up out front,” said Gabby. “Thought you’d like to know.”

“I’ll be right out.”
Now I’ll have to tell them
.

At the exit into the front lobby, Rye pounded his password—four of the same number—into the keypad, and the metal door swung open. The painted theme of the lobby was administrative gray. The outside wall of smoky glass revealed Whiskey’s main street where Doc had parked his Dodge Ram pickup. A single door led outside. The lobby’s lone wooden bench waited to be used.

In the Dispatch Room, surrounded by computers and a phone system, Gabby smacked gum with a phone perched on her shoulder. Cute though on the heavy side, she wore her dye-aided red hair in Cher style, bangs hanging over darkly lined eyes. She held up a finger to tell Rye to wait and ended her conversation.

He spoke into the slatted hole. “Gabby, call one of the local law firms. See if any of Whiskey’s fine lawyers would represent our latest guest.” Rye held up a hand as Gabby started to protest. “I know it’s not procedure, but he wants to make out a will. Thanks.”

Doc and Zach stood outside the front entrance, talking. Zach sported a white oval eye-patch and was staring at his reflection in the window. He rubbed a gentle finger across the patch.

When the two of them entered, Rye asked, “Hey, how’s the eye?”

“Scratched cornea. Just like I figured,” Doc answered. “He needs to leave the patch on for twenty-four hours. He’s got some antibiotic drops if the eye bothers him. It should be fine within forty-eight hours.”

“It hurts like a—” Zach started to peel off the patch.

Doc slapped Zach’s hand. “Leave it alone, son, you’ll only make it worse.” Doc turned to Rye. “You got my permission to handcuff him if he starts rubbing it. After the patch comes off, his vision may be impaired for a little while.”

Rye folded his arms. “What about work?”

“Give him the day off,” the doctor said, pulling his ponytail.

Zach gestured with his hands. “Doc, really, I’m fine.”

Doc ignored him. “He should be okay to work tomorrow. No heavy lifting. When it hurts, he needs to rest. Gotta go.”

“Wait,” Rye said. “Gabby,” he called over his shoulder. “Can you come out here?”

When she joined them, Rye had them sit on the bench while he paced the room for several moments.

“I have some bad news. Gabby received a call this morning from Johnny Batts. Seems he found a dead body on his property. I took a team, and we investigated it.” He stopped mid-stride and faced them.
I hate doing this
. “Turns out to be Sgt. Juan Martinez.”

Tears filled Gabby’s eyes. Doc lifted his head as if praying to heaven while Zach lowered his head as if a giant weight pressed down on him.