Chapter 55
CHAPTER 55
AS CARLOS AND I approach the van, Ryan shouts to all the people who’ve been watching our melee, “All right, show’s over. Go back to work. Or turn in your resignation. I don’t give a damn which.”
I catch a few glances from the agents and officers on scene, all of them displeased with Ryan. He’s losing the respect of his team. I can see it.
Why can’t he?
Carlos pats me on the shoulder and says quietly, “If Ava had been here, that would have done the job to regain her trust.”
“Thanks,” I say, and the two of us circle around the van, looking for anything that might give us a clue to where Llewellyn Carpenter—and Marta Rivera—might be now.
Agents have left the side doors and the rear door open, but no one is dusting for prints. I’m guessing they want to get the vehicle to the crime lab for that, although judging by the clouds overhead, I’m not sure they’ll make it.
In Phoenix, with the bright sunlight, we were able to spot the smudges left behind by Marta’s fingerprints. But now it’s almost midnight, and the glare of industrial work lights—not to mention flashing bulbs from atop the cruisers—makes it impossible to spot any kind of print with the naked eye. If Marta Rivera has left us another hidden message, we’ll have to wait to see what it is.
Carlos and I turn our attention to the cab of the van, which is empty except for a large Styrofoam soda cup from a gas station. Otherwise, there’s nothing of interest. No massage parlor brochure stuffed into the remaining cup holder. Nothing in the glove box, which is hanging open.
I ask one of the techs if he’s willing to lift the cup so we can look underneath. He seems put out by the request, but he doesn’t say no. First, though, he takes pictures to preserve its original position, then—with rubber gloves on his hands—raises the cup. Underneath is some kind of paper, scrunched into the bottom of the cup holder.
I lean forward to get a better look, shining a flashlight so I can see clearly.
“Don’t touch it,” the tech cautions.
I tilt my head left and right, trying to make it out. When I figure out what it is, my breath catches in my throat.
“It’s a receipt from the Speaking Rock casino,” I say. “On the Tigua Pueblo.”
“From when Marta was kidnapped?” Carlos asks.
“No,” I say. “It’s time stamped. It’s from earlier today. He must have stopped there and cashed out some chips before dumping the van here.”
“Why would he do that?” Carlos wonders.
What I’m wondering—but not saying aloud—is what did he do with Marta when he was in the casino doing who knows what. It’s entirely possible he injected her with heroin and left her in the back of the van, but he might have dropped her off somewhere. Another brothel or another warehouse.
“Let’s go check it out,” I say to Carlos.
“Should we tell He Who Shall Not Be Named?” Carlos asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I promised him I wouldn’t keep any secrets.”
We go in search of Ryan Logan, who is leaning against a police vehicle with his phone to his ear. He sees us and we wait at a distance until he’s finished.
“What now?” he says, pocketing his phone.
Carlos explains what we found.
“We’re going to go check it out,” I say, then reluctantly add, “If you want to send someone with us, you’re welcome to.”
Carlos adds, “Technically, I’m still on your task force. So if you want to consider me as your representative, I can do that. Unless you kicked me off, too.”
He glares at us. I know he wishes we would just disappear.
“Fine,” he says. “Tell me if you find anything.”
As Carlos and I head toward the truck, I say to him, “You know, when Ava and I found that brochure for the massage parlor in Phoenix, that felt like Carpenter made a mistake. He screwed up by leaving that behind. But this,” I add, “it’s hard to believe he’d make the same mistake twice.”
Carlos says that Carpenter probably never thought we’d find the car in Phoenix. He might not even know that’s how we found the massage parlor. And as for the van, it was pretty well emptied out. Maybe he forgot about the receipt under the cup.
“Maybe,” I say, starting the truck’s engine. Once we’re headed toward the Pueblo, I ask, “Do you want to call Ava and tell her we’re headed her way?”
“Yeah,” Carlos says, pulling out his phone. “It’s time to get the band back together.”