Partner In Crime (37 page)

Retracing the route Joanna Brady had driven the day before, I was relieved when I finally saw a sign that read: palominas, 10 miles. I knew then that I was on the right track. And with the Kia running on the flat and wound up to a full eighty-five miles per hour, I knew that meant I was six minutes out.

Driving through the desert, I looked ahead. In the distance I saw a long meandering line of greenish-yellow autumn-tinged trees stretching south to north. Near that line of trees I saw what appeared to be a cluster of buildings. That must be the town of Palominas, whatever that means.

Isn’t that some kind of horse?
I wondered.

Crossing a railroad overpass, I caught my first glimpse of flashing red lights as the fast-moving police cars ahead of me swept into that tiny community. I was thrilled to think that I was actually closing the distance between me and them. They had all left the Justice Center a couple of long minutes before I did. Maybe my Kia wasn’t so terribly lame after all.

Soon I was near enough to tell that the rearmost vehicle was signaling for a left-hand turn. About that time, however, I met a pair of oncoming dodoes who never should have been issued driver’s licenses. As soon as one guy pulled out to pass, the other one sped up, thus making the passing process take far longer than it should have. As they rushed toward me side by side in both lanes, I started looking for somewhere to hit the ditch and dodge out of the way. Finally, at the last moment, the passing car gave up and pulled back into the right-hand lane. By the time I looked again, the police cars had disappeared.

As I entered town, I slowed down. When I reached what I assumed to be the correct intersection, I turned left. After a hundred yards or so, the pavement ended and I bounced down a narrow, rutted cow path without another vehicle in sight. I stopped finally, rolled down the window, and listened. I was hoping for sirens. I saw clouds of dirt billowing skyward east of me, but I heard nothing, at least not at first. But then, very, very faintly, I did hear a siren. Not the standard kind of siren we use here in the States. No, this one had a decidedly foreign flavor to it.

I was watching the clouds of dust off to my left and listening to the siren when it finally hit me. I had made a mistake and overshot the turn. The action was there, all right—to the south and east of where I was.

I pulled ahead, looking for a place to turn around so I could go back the way I had come, but then I stumbled on another dirt road. This one, little more than a two-wheel track, was even narrower than the one I was already on, but at least it wandered off toward the southeast, the same general direction I wanted to go. So I went that way as well.

The Kia and I were tooling along just fine until we came up over a ridge and dropped down toward that line of trees I had seen earlier. I knew now for sure that the trees marked a riverbed. In fact, I remembered flying across a bridge back on the highway immediately after I had been looking for a place to ditch. There had been a sign attached to the bridge announcing the name of the river that ran under it, but I didn’t remember the name, and I hadn’t spotted any water, either.

Where I come from, rivers usually contain water. Actually, in the Pacific Northwest, it’s a rule.

Whatever the unknown river’s name might be, water wasn’t required. What it lacked in moisture, however, it made up in sand—loads of it. Ahead of me, the bone-dry riverbed was a good fifty yards wide. On the far side of that long expanse of sand I spotted another narrow set of tire tracks. It seemed reasonable to assume that those tracks might be a continuation of the road I was on.

I paused long enough to consider my options. Going back and taking the other road would use up the better part of half an hour. By then, whatever action there was across the river would be over and done with. If I could cross the sand, though, I might be able to catch up with Joanna and the others before I missed out; before they had Jack Brampton handcuffed and thrown in the back of a patrol car.

Naturally, my low-priced rental Kia wasn’t equipped with four-wheel drive. Even so, I thought that if I built up a good-enough head of steam before I hit the sand, maybe momentum would carry me across.

That was the plan, anyway, and that’s exactly what I did. I shoved the gas pedal all the way to the floor and charged into the riverbed. I was doing fine. In fact, I probably would have made it to the far side without a hitch, except for one thing. All of a sudden, right in the dead center of the sand trap, a horse and rider appeared out of nowhere. They came galloping down the riverbed straight at me.

When I finally realized that the crazy bastard on the horse was headed right for me, I took my foot off the gas and slammed on the brakes. The Kia stopped dead. At the same time, something smashed into and through the windshield. It smacked into the shoulder rest of the passenger seat only a foot or so from where I was sitting. Simultaneously, a spiderweb of tiny cracks spread across the windshield’s safety glass.

By then I had seen the gun and understood that the son of a bitch on the horse was shooting at me—shooting to kill! Covering my head, I dived for cover and put the Kia’s engine block between me and any more flying bullets. Even muffled by sand, I could hear the thud of the horse’s hooves as it pounded by. I waited until I couldn’t hear it anymore. Only then, with my small backup Glock in my hand, I cautiously raised my head and peered out.

Off to the south, the riverbed curved slowly to the left. Horse and rider were fast disappearing around that bend. By then, they were already far beyond the range of my wimpy backup handgun. Shaking my head in disgust, I climbed out of the car. I plowed through deep sand in my once pristine Johnston and Murphys and surveyed the damage. The windshield was a goner. Both axles were buried up to the hubs. It would take time and a well-equipped tow truck to dig me out.

I set out to finish crossing the river on foot. A stiff wind blew from the south, kicking powdery sand into my eyes. As I walked along, half-blinded by the sand, I heard Joanna Brady’s voice calling my name.

“Beaumont, what are you doing down there?” she demanded. “Are you hurt?”

Looking up, I caught sight of her. She stood on the edge of the far bank. The top of her Blazer was barely visible in the background. It hurt my pride to admit it—hurt like hell, in fact—but I had to do it.

“I’m stuck,” I called back, “but the guy on the horse went that way.” I pointed to what I assumed was downriver, although I learned later it was actually up.

Joanna turned her back on me and disappeared from view. I figured she would leave me stranded and go after Brampton without me. Instead, moments later, the speeding Blazer hurtled down the bank. Instead of setting out across the expanse of treacherous sand, she stayed near the edge, where the sand was covered with what looked like a cracked, hard-baked crust.

“Come on,” she yelled, motioning for me to join her. “We haven’t got all day! The border’s only a mile away.”

Running through sand is a joke. My feet sank up to my ankles with every step. I’ve always assumed that quicksand is wet. This was dry, but it was treacherous as hell. I finally lost one shoe altogether and had to go back to retrieve it. At last, shoe in hand, I caught up with the Blazer, wrenched open the door, and clambered inside.

“Did you get a good look at him?” she demanded.

That morning, in the conference room, I had studied Jack Brampton’s mug shots. “It’s him, all right.” I panted. “Believe me, he is armed and dangerous.”

“N
O KIDDING
,” Joanna said.

There was no time to look at him as Beaumont slumped in the passenger seat. Her eyes were glued to the riverbed. Sticking to the shelf of caliche, she headed south.

“The bastard tried to kill me,” Beaumont grumbled. “Shot the hell out of my windshield. I’m lucky he didn’t take me out, too. By the way,” he added in what sounded like a grudging afterthought, “thanks for the vest.”

“You’re welcome,” she returned. “And don’t worry. Brampton won’t get away. Frank went on ahead. He’s meeting up with some
federales.
They’ll be waiting at the border.”

“Right,” Beaumont said. “I heard them.”

“So did Brampton,” Joanna said grimly.

They drove in silence after that. Periodically the narrow shelf of caliche would give way to sand. When they hit that, it took all of Joanna’s considerable driving skill to keep the Blazer moving, even
with
four-wheel drive. She was paying attention to the sand directly in front of them when Beaumont yelled, “There he is.”

Ahead of them, Joanna caught sight of the galloping horse and rider. The little mare, laboring through the treacherous, knee-deep sand, was struggling to maintain the pace. Beyond Princess, Joanna spotted the string of fence posts that marked the international border. Unfortunately, Frank Montoya and his promised squad of
federales
were nowhere to be seen.

Knowing Brampton was almost at the border, Joanna stomped on the gas and the Blazer shot forward. Then, unexpectedly, the horse stopped. She stopped abruptly, but her rider didn’t. Jack Brampton kept right on going. He tumbled headfirst over the horse’s neck and shoulders and then over the fence, where he lay still in the sand.

Tossing her head, Princess wheeled around and started back toward the Blazer. Meanwhile, Joanna jammed on the brakes, stopping twenty yards downriver from the fallen man.

“Hit the dirt!” she ordered. Drawing her weapon, she flung herself out of the Blazer and down onto the sand. On the far side of the Blazer, J.P. Beaumont followed suit.

Princess trotted back toward them and then stood still once more, with her trembling legs spread wide apart and her head drooping. She was close enough to the Blazer that Joanna could hear the exhausted horse’s snorting and labored breathing. Lying flat on the ground, Joanna wriggled a pair of binoculars out of her pocket and looked through them. On the far side of the fence, Jack Brampton lay in a crumpled heap on the ground.

“Freeze!” Joanna shouted. “Don’t move.”

Brampton complied with the order. Joanna and Beau watched for half a minute and detected no sign of movement.

“Closer?” Beaumont asked.

Joanna nodded and stowed the binoculars. “Go!” she said.

With their weapons drawn, they advanced again. When they ducked for cover the third time, Brampton still hadn’t moved. “He’s either knocked out cold or he’s dead,” she said.

Before they moved forward that last time, a gust of wind blew down the bed of the river, bringing with it a sudden flurry of movement. A cloud of something seemed to rise up ghostlike out of the ground beside the fallen man. It floated toward them, eddying in the breeze. As the mini—dust devil came closer, it separated itself into individual pieces of paper. Only when one of them landed beside her did Joanna realize it was a twenty-dollar bill—one of hundreds of other bills, twenties and fifties and hundreds—spiraling through the air.

Blood money,
Joanna thought.

Still the suspect didn’t move. “Shall we take him?” she asked.

Beaumont nodded. “Let’s.”

“Go!” she ordered.

Joanna and Beaumont scrambled to their feet simultaneously and rushed toward Jack Brampton. When they reached the border fence, they stopped. On the far side of it their murder suspect lay lifeless on the ground, his neck twisted back toward them, his eyes open but unmoving. Still strapped to his body was a torn backpack leaking money.

“He must have thought Princess was a jumper,” Joanna Brady muttered as she reholstered her weapon. “Lucky for us, it turns out she wasn’t.”

H
INDSIGHT IS ALWAYS
twenty-twenty. What Joanna Brady and I probably should have done the moment we saw Jack Brampton was grab him by his legs and drag his body back under the fence. Unfortunately, we were so relieved to be alive that neither of us figured that out until it was too late. By then, the
federales
had arrived on the scene, and all bets were off.

I worked the Seattle PD Homicide Unit for the better part of two decades. In all that time, I never had to bring a dead suspect’s body back across an international border. I was about to get a firsthand lesson, and it wouldn’t be pretty.

Sheriff Brady spoke. Frank Montoya translated. The
federales
listened and shook their heads. One of them caught sight of the packets of money spilling out of the fallen backpack. At that point the head-shaking became even more adamant. I believe the applicable term would be “No way, José.” Right then I knew how it was going to play out. Without the personal intervention of Vicente Fox, or even God himself, Jack Brampton wasn’t coming back across the border anytime soon. Neither was the money.

Frustrated beyond belief, I went plowing back down the river, gathering hundred-, fifty-, and twenty-dollar bills as I went. I had a whole fistful of them by the time Joanna Brady, her face clouded with anger, caught up with me. I glanced back at what should have been an official crime scene in time to see the Mexican officers summarily load Jack Brampton’s body onto a stretcher and cart him away, right along with his backpack.