Bad Country: A Novel (16 page)

No. What do you want that for? she asked.

It might have some potential contacts in it, some clues to his death.

It’s my telephone! the old woman shouted. I paid for it. It never was his. He just used it. You just do your job. Now that you stole my money do your job.

Rodeo had already done as thorough an Internet search as he was capable of, visited the police officer in charge of the investigation, interviewed a potential witness the police had not interviewed and visited the site of the boy’s death. By professional standards that was enough to justify a day’s pay. For some private investigators that amount of work would have constituted a week’s paycheck and he himself had had clients willing to spend ten times that amount just to find a missing child who was staying with friends or off on a drug-fueled road trip.

All right, Mrs. Rocha, said Rodeo. I’m doing my job.

Well, I just called that motel where you said you were going to stay and they said you weren’t even registered. Are you even in town here?

I am in Tucson, Mrs. Rocha, Rodeo said. And I been working for you since yesterday.

I only paid for one day! the old woman yelled. You can’t charge me for yesterday on top of everything else. I won’t stand for it.

What time would you like me to come by and present the report I’m working on for you, Mrs. Rocha? Rodeo moved off the truck seat and shut the door behind him, moved around the driver’s side and opened that door.

I don’t want a report! I’m not paying you for any report. I can get a report from the newspapers. You’re supposed to be working, not reporting, the woman said.

All right, Mrs. Rocha. Rodeo got in the pickup and slammed the door. I’ll check Samuel’s parents out.

I didn’t say to check them out, the woman said. Leave them alone. Good riddance to them.

Rodeo started the truck and put his cell phone on the dashboard, put the truck in reverse and backed out of his parking space.

Mrs. Rocha, you’re breaking up … What? Repeat that please, Mrs. Rocha. I can’t hear you.

He put the phone back to his ear.

Worthless, the woman said. Corrupt and worthless.

Rodeo terminated the call before his client could.

*   *   *

Near nine o’clock Rodeo drove slowly through the parking lot of the Kettle and spotted through the restaurant’s front plate glass a Kool-Aid hairdo bobbing near the salad bar. The PI still had an hour until Rose’s shift was over, so he found the address of Samuel’s parents. The old woman’s handwriting on the notepaper was cramped but dramatic, the cursive practically gouged into the paper as if Katherine Rocha had meant to excise the address from her memory more than make it clear.

Rodeo called the number Mrs. Rocha had given him for her son, Alonzo Rocha, but the phone was shunted to an officially recorded message that indicated the number was no longer in service. Rodeo entered the address of Sam’s parents into his GPS and headed west toward the Tucson Mountains.

Alonzo Rocha’s house was near Katherine Rocha’s house, north instead of south on Mark Street, but not separated but by two hundred yards. The residence of Samuel’s parents was concrete block painted industrial gray with an aluminum porch, two picture windows on either side of a metal door and a dirt yard covered in weeds and trash. It was a small and untidy house though not any smaller or more untidy than some of its neighbors. A car so stripped of parts the make and model were not recognizable was propped on spare tires in the side yard. A mailbox tilted precariously on a splintered landscaping timber wedged into a stack of cinder blocks near the road in front of the house.

Rodeo parked on the dirt sidewalk and bade his dog stay put. He opened the mailbox as he passed it but did not pause to look inside, walked directly to the house. He knocked and the reinforced metal door rattled against its several protected hinges as if someone or something heavy was slamming into it. Rodeo waited, knocked again. The vertical blinds on the front windows were closed but as Rodeo moved away from the door a huge dog thrust its head through the metal blinds and rammed it against the window glass. Rodeo jumped back as the pit bull rattled the panes and began to bark hoarsely. Rodeo’s own dog started howling from the pickup.

Cállate! Si
ė
ntete! When Rodeo yelled his own dog immediately quieted as did the watchdog in the house.

A side window of the house next door opened and a man yelled at Rodeo as aggressively as Rodeo had yelled at the dogs. Cállate! Que quieres aqui!?

Rodeo walked to the neighbor’s house with his hands held open to his sides.

Estoy buscando La Familia Rocha, Rodeo said. I’m looking for La Familia Rocha, señor. Necessito hablar con Alonzo Rocha. I need to talk to the Rochas who live next door.

The man in the window was old and wary.

Que me quieres? the old man asked. La Migra? Policia?

I just want to talk to you, señor, Rodeo said. Estoy un investigador privado, he said.

Que? the old man asked.

Estoy un “private investigator,” Rodeo said. Like on the telenovelas. Usted hablas Ingles?

Espanol aqui solimente! Nada mas! Lega! The man slammed his window shut.

Rodeo walked back around the Rocha house, trying to peer into windows but the ferocious pit bull followed him from room to room, slamming his thick head into the window glass anytime Rodeo got near. The windowpanes were covered with dog drool and in places severely cracked. Rodeo could see through the cracked blinds that the house seemed deserted but for the pit bull though some furniture, appliances and fixtures were still inside. Rodeo proceeded to the other side of the house and knocked on another neighbor’s door.

A middle-aged woman appeared from a back room, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She brought the smells of pozole and pig’s feet with her as she stopped three feet from the heavy screen door and inclined her head.

Buenas, señor. Que desea?

Puedo hablar con Señor ó Señora Rocha? Donde esta la familia Rocha?

They left, the woman said. She frowned. I don’t know where they went. We weren’t friends, just vecinos, neighbors.

I am a private investigator, investigating the death of their son, said Rodeo. And I thought they might speak to me about Samuel.

Esta muerto, said the woman. He’s dead, señor.

I know that, said Rodeo. I am trying to find out how and why Samuel Rocha died.

No se, señor.

But you know where Samuel’s parents are? Rodeo asked.

No, señor. I only know they left. The little girl died tambien. Somebody killed her too, back in the spring—around the time of Cinco de Mayo. The woman pointed down Mark Street toward Starr Pass Road. There was a shrine there for a long time but I think the City they finally took it all away. She brushed at her eyes. She used to play near the road all the time when her parents were drinking and she would even walk across the big road to go to her abuela’s house on the other side. Six years old, can you believe it.

Rodeo shook his head sadly.

I said, “This will lead to tragedy.” The woman wiped her eyes with the back of a hand.

And it did, said Rodeo.

Eso verdad, pero it does not seem right. Children play in the streets all night around here and so they should have more streetlights. The woman sniffed and shrugged. Quien sabe, señor? Who knows God’s will?

Rodeo shook his head. He waited a moment then asked more questions.

So Alonzo and his wife have moved away from here?

Elizabet the wife left first with someone. A tribal policeman, I think came for her and she did not return. And then Alonzo he left after that, but he comes back sometimes for a night or two.

Do you remember when Elizabet left?

Right after the little one, Farrah’s funeral. Alonzo he comes and goes since Samuel died.

They left permanente this time, you think?

The woman shrugged. Quien sabe? Sometimes people leave and then come back and sometimes they don’t. I haven’t seen Alonzo all this week.

There’s a dog in their house, Rodeo said.

The dog didn’t leave, I guess, the woman said.

Rodeo shook his head. How long has that dog been locked up in that house?

It’s not my house, señor, the woman said. How would I know how long? Perdoneme. I have to cook now. She turned back to the interior gloom of her house.

Rodeo knocked on four more doors. No one else knew when or where the Rochas had gone. No one knew anything about the dog in the house.

On his way back to the truck Rodeo casually pulled the Rocha’s mail out of the box and took it to his truck. The bulk of the USPS mail was third class junk, so the only envelope that interested the private investigator was from Tucson Power and Electric, which indicated that service was now terminated at this address.

Rodeo called Animal Control and anonymously reported a dog locked in a vacant house. He gave the address.

It’s a very large pit bull with a very bad attitude, he said. Probably half starved, so come armed and be prepared.

*   *   *

On his way back to the Kettle, Rodeo stopped again at the Circle K near Katherine Rocha’s house because he saw a Reservation Police cruiser parked in the shade beside the convenience store. A cop was sitting in the car, so Rodeo parked beside it cowboy conference style, turned off his truck’s engine, leaned out his window and lifted a hand in greeting. For a long moment the cop inside the vehicle ignored Rodeo but then the window went slowly down.

Rodeo did not recognize the policeman.

What can I do for you, guy? The Reservation cop sounded bored but wary.

My name is Rodeo Grace Garnet and I am a private investigator looking into the death of Samuel Rocha, the local kid who fell off the Starr Pass Road bridge near the end of July.

The policeman’s broad face was blank.

And I was just wondering if you knew anything about it? Rodeo asked.

Knew what about it?

Just knew about it in a general way, said Rodeo. Who did the kid hang out with? Who killed him?

The officer seemed to consider the question seriously.

Who did you say you were?

Garnet. Rodeo Garnet. Clint Overman, Lead Detective with the City Police knows me. And I talked to Officer Monjano before about this, so he knows me too.

I’m sure a lot of people know you, guy, but I’m not one of them.

The cop rolled up his window and pulled away from the store without looking at Rodeo again. Rodeo used the public telephone bracketed to the wall of the building to call the nearest police station.

Tohono O’odham Police Department, a dispatcher answered.

May I speak with Officer Monjano? Carlos Monjano?

Who’s calling please?

Mr. Bill Early, said Rodeo. I might have some information for Officer Monjano on a case he’s working.

Hold please.

Rodeo waited for almost half a minute.

Mr. Early, the dispatcher said. Officer Monjano is not available currently. I will connect you with another officer. Hold please.

Rodeo hung up, went back to his truck and sat for a long moment just thinking. He glanced in his rearview. Across the street another Res cruiser was parked on the shoulder of Starr Pass Road, the cop inside talking into his cell phone. After a minute the cop pulled his cruiser off slowly. Rodeo went inside the store and poured and drank a cup of Latin Flavors coffee and tossed the Styrofoam cup in the garbage, then squirted an extra-large Icee and paid for that, returned to his truck and headed west on Starr Pass Road toward the Casino.

After he had gone only a quarter of a mile he checked his rearview mirror and saw a police cruiser behind him. He sped up and turned his truck into the big parking lot of the Casino. He braked behind a tour bus and glanced around but the cop car did not seem to be following him.

He drank his Icee and waited five minutes then dumped the Icee cup on the parking lot and drove back onto Starr Pass Road to the Kettle where he once again drove the truck through the restaurant parking lot slowly. He spotted the pink hairdo still working inside the restaurant, so he circled around the La Quinta and parked in the shade of a palm tree near the motel’s swimming pool in view of the main entrance of the restaurant. He pulled out his cell phone and punched 2ARRWS.

What’s up, brother?

I think I found a sniper’s nest, said Rodeo. On A-Mountain.

Luis said nothing for a moment.

Who’s he shooting at from Sentinel Peak? Luis asked this as if Luis knew who “he” was.

Maybe the potential Congressman Randy Miller I heard from a drunk at The Buffet, Rodeo said. And I found some evidence that would indicate Samuel was in the tow of Ronald.

So?

So maybe Samuel found out about Ronald’s plan and was going to snitch on his “uncle” and Ronald popped the kid while he was walking across the Starr Pass Road bridge.

Luis was silent for a long moment. You got the evidence?

I got some snapshots of the nest, but I never called it in and by the time I got back the place was clean, real clean.

If you can’t prove it to Police, then don’t say it out loud to anybody else, brother. Not about Ronald Rocha.

I don’t even know if Ronald Rocha knows I’m looking for him.

If you know about Ronald it’s a good bet he knows about you, brother. Ronald he has contacts all over your town and into the desert where you live. Including well-placed types like Randy Miller.

What do I do, Luis? You got me into this boondoggle.

Just get out of your deal in Tuxson and be finished with this, Rodeo. I think you’re in over your head now.

You know how I am, Luis.

I know how you are, said Luis. You got a job to do and all that bullshit. But this is fast getting to be a Bad Job. So just give the old lady back her quarters and I’ll cover you on that deal and forgive your day’s pay in back money you owe me, so you won’t be at no loss whatsoever by just coming back home to The Hole. I made a mistake setting you up with this job.

I’m trying to figure out why you did, Luis.

Luis said nothing but stayed on the line.

Because you thought Ronald Rocha might have killed Samuel Rocha. You thought that all along, Rodeo said. You heard about the kid being dead. And since Sam was shot off a bridge and since you knew the kid was connected up with Ronald Rocha, your sharpshooting, elk-hunting buddy who likes to kill things long distance, you figured it was Ronald that hit him.