Morales says, “I like the way you think.”

Rosaria smiles. “So do I.” With her warm and moist hands, she reaches into her jacket, removes a business card, passes it over. “You and I both know that in a few minutes, your chief is going to show up, your crime scene folks, maybe more state troopers and the Texas Rangers. But I would sure love to talk to you directly, without having to go through the chain of command. Especially if you can get an idea of who the victims were, why they were here, and what they were protecting.”

Morales nods, passes over her own business card. “When did you know it was your Army officer?”

“What?”

Morales says, “A few minutes ago, you said the shooter was a she. Earlier, you said him or her. What made you decide?”

Rosaria gives her a wide smile, and Morales smiles in return when she says, “Female intuition, what else?”

Morales takes one more glance at the house. “Sad, isn’t it?”

“The two dead guys?”

“No, this nice little house. Once upon a time, it was probably a sweet home for a nice family, raising kids, watching them grow up and succeed. Know what I mean?”

“No,” Rosaria says.

Five minutes later, Rosaria is back in her rental car and she feels like she needs to brief her boss, but first, she needs a cold drink, and as she’s driving up the main road in Three Rivers, she spots a McDonald’s and pulls in.

And then she sees something else, and her SIG Sauer is in her hand, at her side in the car.

Parked at the rear of the McDonald’s lot, partially hidden by a green dumpster, is a black pickup truck with an extended cab and overhead light rack.

CHAPTER 62

AFTER WORKING for his first jefe, Antonio Garcia no longer believes in Jesus, the Blessed Virgin, the Holy Saints, or nearly anybody else, but he’s beginning to reconsider his atheism as his day proceeds. Back here in the McDonald’s parking lot he finds a strong signal for his cell phone, and with dread in his bones, he calls his jefe to tell him how everything has gone wrong.

But his boss isn’t home!

On the phone is one of his lieutenants, a grim, sour little man called Pedro, and Pedro is demanding to know why Antonio is calling, but he won’t answer the man’s questions. Each day working for the jefe is a balancing act, keeping him happy, watching the rivals in the organization who will stab you in your back—literally!—if the opportunity arises.

Antonio says, “Look, when will he be back?”

Pedro swears and says, “How should I know? All I know is that he had the urge to go visit his wife and do some serious drinking and humping, and now he’s gone.”

Antonio says, “Which wife?” and he’s not joking, for like most cartel heads in Mexico, strong men with strong appetites have three or four wives scattered across the country or in the States.