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  A white Chevy Tahoe bounced over the gravel and skidded to a stop. The doors were emblazoned with a blue “7 News” inside a circle. El Paso television reporter Anita Alvarez stepped out, her dark hair cascading to her shoulders. She wore a turquoise blouse with a deep neckline, a linen jacket, designer jeans, and running shoes. Damn, Garcia thought. She always looked good. Hadn’t aged a day from high school. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.

  She hurried toward him, holding a reporter’s notebook to shade her eyes. “Thanks for the call, Raoul. I can’t believe someone would kill—” She caught her breath as she saw the body, then turned away, wincing. “Oh, Jesus.”

  The medical technicians noisily zipped the bag shut. They groaned as they heaved it onto a gurney, which they shoved into the back of the ambulance and slammed the doors shut. They climbed into the cab, revved the engine, and drove off. Garcia watched the vehicle disappear in the scrub before bouncing onto the paved road.

  “Did the Borrego cartel do this?” Anita asked, squinting in the sunlight.

  Garcia lifted his hat and ran a hand over his head stubble. “A lot people in Juárez could do this.”

  “Why Sam Dawson? Everybody loved him.”

  “Not everybody.”

  “Ten years of covering the drug wars. Thousands dead. This one hits close to home.”

  “Yeah, it does.” Garcia walked to his unmarked black SUV, opened the door, and climbed in. He lowered the tinted glass window.

  “Hey, I need to talk to you,” Anita said.

  “Go talk to those guys,” Garcia said, pointing a thumb at the Dona Ana County Sheriff’s Department truck. “They got jurisdiction here.”

  “The sheriff doesn’t know crap.”

  Garcia shrugged.

  “Does Kyle know about this?”

  “I’m calling him now.” Garcia showed her his phone.

  Anita looked at him. “Raoul?”

  “What?”

  “Thanks for making the call.”

  Garcia nodded again and waited until she returned to her vehicle, where she slid into the front seat and made a call. Her cameraman stood nearby, panning the scene.

  Garcia tapped the speed dial and held the phone to his ear.

  Chapter 3

  Washington, D.C.

  Dawson sat at his cluttered desk, wondering when Frankel would have an answer to his request. He needed a break from the campaign. Badly. His junked-up desk was a hazard of the business, he told himself, due to the endless blizzard of press releases, studies, and reports, each spiral-bound, stapled, or glued. Much of it he refused to toss. Reference material. Someday it would come in handy. He subscribed to the bumper sticker philosophy another reporter had pasted on the side of his computer: “A clean desk is the sign of a sick mind.” And this? Healthy chaos.

  He leaned back in his chair, switched on the computer, and thought about the story he was about to write. It was short on details, but the link to Madsen, now in the throes of a presidential election, gave it strong news value.

  Madsen’s dead staffer had only come on board six months earlier. A third-year student majoring in political science. Madsen’s office said the kid had been vetted, but apparently not well enough. The staffer had no apparent involvement in the drug trade or a criminal record. Jobs like the one this student had were political payoffs to friends and donors. That a twenty-one-year-old was walking around with half a million dollars was no accident. Nor was the fact that he was with those Mexicans. But Madsen’s office wouldn’t comment, which was why he had tracked down the man himself.

  They were “looking into it,” Madsen had said. It was a weak response. Dawson chuckled to himself. He’d found out that the kid was the nephew of Jodie Serna’s husband, Trini. That set off alarm bells. Trini Serna was Madsen’s right-hand man and had been for years. He was officially listed as a senior advisor. Maybe that’s why they’d missed something in the kid’s background. They weren’t really looking.

  His cell phone buzzed. He picked it up, read the number, and held it to his ear. “Raoul. What’s up?”

  “Uhhh,” Garcia said slowly. “Got a second?”

  “You don’t sound happy.”

  “The police just found a body.”

  “Where are you?”

  “State Road Nine. West of Rancho la Peña.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s your father, Kyle.”

  Dawson’s blood went cold, his mouth dry. He swallowed hard. “My...father?” He took a deep, halting breath and exhaled.

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, Kyle. They just collected his body and took it to the morgue.”

  “Jesus.” Dawson stared at his desk as visions of the desert filled his head. “What...what happened?”

  “He was shot.”

  Dawson sucked in another deep breath as his stomach knotted.

  “Back of the head.”

  “An execution?” Dawson said softly. “This is... Who would... I don’t...understand. Why would...” He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor.

  “He was kidnapped after leaving the country club. We think there were several of them. It was clean. Very professional, though I use the word loosely.”

  Dawson straightened up and massaged a temple slowly as he looked across the newsroom. “Well…uhh...I need to get out there.”

  “Yeah. You do.”

  “Does Jacquelyn know yet?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “She’ll be a wreck. What about my mother?”

  “I haven’t called anyone except you.”

  “I’ll call them.” Dawson sighed deeply. “After all these years, my mother still loved him.”

  “She still has you.”

  “Yeah. She does.”

  Chapter 4

  Washington, D.C.

  Dawson put the phone down, staring at it as he struggled to accept what he’d just been told. He opened his desk drawer and fished through a sea of clutter until he found what he was looking for—an old leather baseball. He turned it a few times, his thoughts going back to a day with his father when he was eight years old.

  They were living in Florida at the time. He and his father had climbed into Sam’s Cadillac Coupe de Ville and headed for the baseball park. The Coupe de Ville was a yellow two-door, and the back quarter-panel of the roof was white vinyl. Kyle thought it was the fanciest car he’d ever seen. He relished each and every ride, even though he had to stretch up to see out from the deep back seat.

  But that day, Kyle rode in the front. The day was hot and humid, and, like always, the back of his legs stuck to the hot leather seat. They drove to Fort Meyers, where they walked into the biggest stadium he’d ever seen. He clung to his father’s hand as they passed through the turnstiles. Amid shouts and echoes careening inside the cavernous structure, they made their way through the crowd to buy hot dogs and sodas. His mind racing, his pulse throbbing, he rode the roar of the crowd and the thunderous applause and cheers like a roller coaster.

  Their seats were close behind first base, where he could feel the force of every pitch and the smack of the ball in the catcher’s glove rippling through his thin body. As the innings wore on and his excitement waned, the sharp crack of a bat turned his head to home plate. The ball sailed high. But rather than going into the outfield, it curved toward him, falling fast. He panicked for a moment. Sam stood, whipped off his cap, and reached out over his head. Whup! The ball was in Sam’s hat.

  Kyle looked up, blinking into the harsh sun as his dad shouted and danced, waving the ball to the cheering crowd. Sam reached down, grabbed Kyle’s hand, and slapped the ball into it. “Here ya go, son. Don’t say I never gave ya nothin’.” Sam laughed and squeezed his shoulder. Kyle grinned, his momentary fright replaced by the heart-pounding thrill of a prized baseball in his hand.

  Later, his stomach bloated by the ballpark hotdogs and sodas, Kyle’s face, arms, and legs began to burn on the way home. He remembered his moth
er yelling at Sam, saying it was his fault as she sprayed him with Solarcaine to soothe his seared skin. He lay in his bed that night, heat radiating from his sunburned body as he traced the red stitching of the baseball and inhaled the scent of the smooth, white leather.

  The ball was stained brown now, the threads frayed. Dawson hefted it a couple of times. Leaning back in his chair, he pulled off his glasses, squeezed his eyes shut, and massaged the bridge of his nose. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts and keep a headache at bay. He slowly swiped his hand down his face. Jesus. Now what? Still gripping the baseball, he stood. Feeling off-balance, he caught himself, then trudged through the maze of desks back to Frankel’s office where he put a heavy hand on the door frame and leaned in.

  Frankel again swiveled from his computer screen. “Change your mind?”

  “Uh…I know this is a bad time,” Dawson said, swallowing hard. “But I need to take some time off.”

  Frankel frowned. “You just said you wanted to go to El Paso! And we’re in the middle of a presidential campaign.” He lowered his voice. “What’s the problem?”

  “My father. He was found dead.”

  Frankel’s face dropped. “Jesus Christ, Dawson. That’s terrible.” He lowered his eyes, lacing his fingers on the desktop, then looked up. “In El Paso?”

  “Near.” Dawson massaged the baseball. “Southern New Mexico.” He debated whether to divulge the details, then decided Frankel ought to know. “He was murdered. Shot to death.”

  “Oh, God. That’s awful.” Frankel cleared his throat. “Have a seat,” he said, motioning to a chair. Dawson sat stiffly. “Did it happen near the border? Was it the cartels?”

  Dawson’s stomach tightened as he glared at Frankel. “My father was a land developer, not a drug dealer.”

  “Just sayin’. Look, I’m sorry. I guess I’m not so good at talking about these things.”

  Frankel winced, glanced out the window, then back at Dawson. “You gonna be OK?”

  Dawson twisted the ball. “It makes no sense.”

  “It rarely does. It’s always hard when your father dies. A piece of you is missing.”

  Dawson stared at the baseball, his mind whirling. “I’ve been out of touch with him for years. Now, just like that, he’s gone.” He looked up at Frankel, searching for an answer. “He did some things he shouldn’t have. But he paid his debt to society. He didn’t deserve to die like that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It was a long time ago,” Dawson said, squeezing the ball and looking down at the carpet.

  “You don’t have to like everything the man did.”

  Frankel’s words hit home. He didn’t like what Sam had done. No, not at all. And he had thrown up a wall between them. For far longer than he should have. Now he regretted it.

  “How much time you need off?”

  “A week, maybe two.” As soon as he’d spoken, he wanted the words back. How much time? Who the hell knows? Dedication was part and parcel of the profession. The news never stopped. Only people did. Maybe it was his turn to bail out.

  Frankel leaned back in his chair. “Take three. You have bereavement leave, so don’t worry about it.”

  Dawson took a deep breath and stood. “Thanks.” As he left the office and made his way back to his desk, he felt a burden had been lifted.

  Chapter 5

  El Paso, Texas

  Dawson shoved his carry-on into the overhead bin and settled in for the plane ride back to El Paso. With a tight connection in Dallas, he’d be home before sundown. Home? Yeah. Despite having been gone for twenty-five years, El Paso still felt like home.

  Another trip to El Paso many years earlier roiled in his memory and caught in his throat as he closed his eyes for takeoff. He’d been born in El Paso, back when Sam was selling used cars under the name of Big Sam Dawson. His father’s name was in neon atop a towering sign. Sam had a mechanic, Juan Garcia, who had an instinct for auto repair that verged on mystical. He could take the worst wreck Sam could find to his shop and turn it into a serviceable vehicle with brakes that didn’t squeal and a motor that purred. Sam would hire boys to clean and fix the upholstery, then he’d mount the car with retreads and put it on the lot.

  Juan had a pretty young sister, Mercedes, who kept his books. Soon she and Sam, then a lean and lanky Texan, were dating. Six months later, they were married, and nine months after that, Kyle was born. Juan had three children, two boys and a girl. The oldest of the boys, Raoul, was born the same year as Kyle, and as far as he was concerned they were brothers.

  But selling used cars had never been enough for Sam. He had dragged Kyle and his mother across the South, finally settling in Florida where Sam struggled to hit it big—in construction, alligator farms, demolition derbies—anything for a quick buck. The early years of Kyle’s life had been spent moving from one town to another and entering one new school after another—he’d hated it. Always the new kid, wondering what it would be like to live in one place.

  Not long after they’d gone to that baseball game, black squad cars had pulled up in front of their apartment building. Pounding on the door, detectives burst in. Sam left in handcuffs, collared, Kyle learned later, for his part in a fraudulent land sales scheme.

  Kyle had sat with his mother in the courtroom behind Sam and his lawyer, feeling uncomfortable in the starched white shirt, the new coat and tie, his face scrubbed nearly raw, his hair neatly combed and parted. It had been for the benefit of the judge and jury: Sam the family man. It hadn’t worked.

  “Your father has to go away for a while,” his mother told him afterwards. She had tried not to sound worried, talking as if it was a normal thing. But even then Kyle sensed her fear. It left a hollow, empty feeling inside him that only grew as he rode in the wide back seat when Sam drove his Cadillac to Fort Myers to begin serving his time. They climbed out of the long, yellow car and stood on the curving brick walkway, his father’s face contorted with regret.

  Kyle’s eyes welled with tears and his chin quivered uncontrollably as he reached out for his father, hugging him tightly around the waist. They stood like that for an interminable time, it seemed, until Sam finally let go and stepped back. Sam’s strong hand gripped Kyle’s shoulder.

  “Now I don’t want the two of you to go worryin’ about me,” Sam said. “I’m gonna be fine. The time’s gonna go by faster’n you think. Y’all can come visit me most any time ya want, and I hope to God you see fit to do that. Kyle, I want you to be a strong young man for your mother. Ya hear me? Got that?” He squeezed Kyle’s shoulder again. “You mind what she says.”

  Sam took Mercedes in his arms. “It’ll be all right. It’ll be all right.” He held her close, patting her back. “I’ll call you as soon as I can. I’ll let you know where they’re gonna put me. Now git on home before we make a spectacle of ourselves.” His father turned and walked into the police station, leaving Kyle and his mother to wipe away their tears in the midday sun.

  With Sam gone, Mercedes worked multiple jobs. When she cleaned hotel rooms, Kyle collected the dirty towels and helped her tuck in the crisp, white sheets. When she waited tables at a local diner, he filled salt-and-pepper shakers, wrapped napkins around the silverware, and cleared dishes when things got busy. When things were slow, she made him sit at the back of the restaurant, where he did his homework. Mostly, he just tried to be a good kid.

  Dawson gritted his teeth at the memory. Eight years old. Left alone to be the man of the house. Helpless to do a damned thing about it. Too young to work, too old to be a child. Yeah. You were a bastard, Sam. A damned bastard.

  His chest tightened as Dawson drew a deep, halting breath, remembering the morning after Sam was released. Mercedes couldn’t contain her excitement. She cleaned the apartment several times and prepared a fancy meal. That was even more emotional for Kyle and his mother than when Sam had gone to prison because now they believed they could breathe a sigh of relief. The two long years of struggle were over
. Or so they thought.

  The next day, Sam cast a restless eye around the sparse apartment. He began talking about going back to El Paso. People were flocking to the Sun Belt, he said, fleeing the closed factories in the Midwest Rust Belt. There was money to be made—big money.

  Two days later, Kyle again fought back tears as his father backed the yellow Cadillac out of the parking lot and drove away. “It won’t be long,” Sam promised. “Y’all just wait till I call, and take care of yerselves.”

  It was too much for Mercedes. She lasted only six more months, then quit her jobs. She stuffed what little they had into two large suitcases, and they climbed into a Greyhound bus back to El Paso. Kyle stared out the bus window, his resentment of Sam smoldering with every passing mile. The lush, green landscapes of Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana ultimately gave way to the brown of West Texas.

  Back in El Paso, Sam wanted nothing to do with Mercedes. He’d hit it big, he said, with some desert land deal along the southern New Mexico border, just west of El Paso. Some big money people were behind it, and Sam was in the middle. He’d finally found what he was looking for, and that included a new woman, Jacquelyn. Rejected and disgusted, Mercedes went back across the border and lived in Juárez with her parents. Despite Kyle’s objections, after the divorce she took him back to Texas to live with Sam and his new wife. It was a better life for him, she had insisted, as tears streamed down her cheeks. Kyle had gone, but he had not forgotten.

  * * *

  The flight attendant’s voice blared from the speaker overhead: “Please ensure that your seat is in the upright and locked position and that your tray table is securely stowed.”