His half brother turned. “Isn’t it obvious? He might have something to do with the murders.”
“But everyone already knows his story. Chief St. Claire or someone else would’ve told me about it.”
Patrick stared at his feet before meeting Rod’s eyes. “My wife sent me over here,” he admitted. “She wanted me to invite you to dinner.”
Rod wondered about the conversation Pat must’ve had with his wife. “She is better than you deserve.”
He squinted against the sun. “That’s still a no, isn’t it?”
“I can’t imagine Stuart would be pleased about my coming to your place for dinner.”
“Doesn’t matter. As my wife says, you’re my brother, too.”
Rod had never dreamed he’d hear those words from Patrick. He wasn’t sure how to react now that they’d been uttered. Why was Patrick’s wife getting involved? Rod had never even met her. “Tell her she’s worrying for nothing. Everything’s as it should be.”
“She won’t believe it, not as long as we’re enemies. I’m telling you, I married Mother Teresa.”
“I guess that’s one way to gain a conscience,” he said and climbed into the Hummer while waiting for Patrick to move his truck.
9
Kevin Simpson owned thirty-five thousand acres along the border. Together with several of the ranchers from Douglas, he and his son and wife had taken to patrolling their own property in an effort to stop the illegal immigrants from cutting through. His son even had a blog on which he claimed that together they’d detained more than twelve thousand UDAs in the past ten years, which they’d turned over to the border patrol.
It was a staggering number, but only a fraction of the people who came through. Sophia had heard that the border patrol had apprehended twenty-three thousand UDAs on another ranch in one month. That was one ranch, and since they caught maybe one in five, a lot more made it through. As she stood next to Kevin and James, his son, who was holding the reins of the horses they’d ridden to this remote location, she saw what they’d brought her here to see—the highway of garbage that’d been left behind.
“Look here.” A cowboy hat shaded Kevin’s weathered face as he pointed to the water bottles, T-shirts, toilet paper and food wrappers that littered the hillside. “This is just from the past few months. I’ve about given up trying to keep it collected. Doesn’t do any good. As soon as you pick it up, more of ’em come through and toss their garbage on the ground.”
“And a cow’s stupid enough to eat anything.” James, dressed in Wranglers, cowboy boots and a Western shirt like his father, pushed his horse away from the thorny bush it was trying to nibble.
“So it’s dangerous for the cattle.” She knew this, of course. They’d been trying to get her out here to see it since she became chief of police. But they’d been very vocal in supporting Leonard Taylor, despite his corruption, so she hadn’t been in any hurry to let them cry on her shoulder, especially because there was little she could do. This was a federal problem. She’d told them to take it up with the border patrol. Since the killings, however, she had a different perspective. She wanted to keep the Simpsons talking, hear what they had to say about illegal immigration and the damage it caused.
“Costs us several head a year,” James said.
“And that’s not all,” Kevin added. “They break our pipes, and the water can run for a day or two before we catch it. They knock down fences. The cattle don’t like having people come through, so they move around more and end up weighing less. And last year illegals slaughtered two of our calves.” He pulled out a cigarette and, after lifting his eyebrows to make sure it was okay with her if he smoked, he lit up. “It’s probably cost us five million over the past several years, but it’s a losing battle. No one on this side of the border will even believe it’s this bad unless they come out here and take a look.”
Sophia had seen pictures of the mess on their blog, but the Simpsons were right—it made a much bigger impact in person.
Kevin adjusted his hat. “Our lawmakers say they’re gonna to do something about it, but they’re too busy kissing Mexico’s ass to take a stand.”
She noted his tone. He was aggravated, angry, bitter. But did those emotions run deep enough that he’d resort to murder? He certainly had a motive. His property was being ruined and he wasn’t receiving any redress from the government. He also had plenty of opportunity, weapons and years of experience tracking illegal immigrants.
“What’s that?” She pointed to a white fleck way off in the distance.
He used the binoculars hanging around his neck to have a look, but his son answered before he could get them focused.
“She’s talking about the water tank.”
Kevin nodded. “Yeah, that’s a water tank. Some idiot put it out there, thinking he’s saving lives. Instead, he’s tempting more hapless souls into the desert.”
It was hot, more than a hundred degrees. Sophia couldn’t imagine walking through the Sonoran Desert with less than a gallon of water, which was what most UDAs carried. “Why don’t you take it down?”
James patted his horse’s nose. “It’s not on our land.”
She accepted the binoculars Kevin handed her; through them she could easily see the water tank. “Your neighbor put it out there?”
“Hell, no. That’s federal land. It’s someone who doesn’t have a clue about what he’s doing. Someone who doesn’t worry about the garbage left behind. Someone who feels no responsibility to clean up the mess. Someone who might even provide a safe house for the ones who cross.”
“Those safe houses aren’t cheap,” James chimed in. “They charge five dollars a night for nothing—a square of cement to sleep on. Food and water are extra. That’s a lot of money for the people who come through here.”
Kevin jumped in again. “You might think the guys who erect water tanks are being such humanitarians.” He laughed without humor. “In most cases, that isn’t true at all. It’s good old-fashioned self-interest at work. They want to make it easy for illegals to cross so they can sell them life’s necessities.”
James waved his hand, which was gloved in leather. “It’s a real racket.”
Sophia took the pictures of José and his wife from her pocket. She hadn’t asked about them yet. She’d said she was here to talk about the border problem. She’d been trying to figure out just how much Kevin and his son hated illegal aliens. And they’d made that clear. They were so upset with UDAs they were happy to have someone listen to their complaints, even someone who couldn’t do much about the problem except support politicians who promised tougher immigration enforcement. “Any chance you were out patrolling last Friday or Saturday night?”