How do you survive being shot and left for dead in the Chihuahuan Desert? By being found by a beautiful wildlife photographer willing to risk her life to save yours.
A bitter ex-cop fights for his life after he runs to the sound of gunfire on the Ri...
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Mendocino didn't have to think long about Amos's idea.
Tillie went to her studio to polish more photographs and he went back to work in his makeshift office. As she headed out, Mendocino cautioned her. "Keep your phone with you. You're still out of my sight."
She laughed as she walked away. "You've got cameras on the driveway, the house, and the studio. Next, you'll have them in the bathroom."
"What makes you think they're not already there?"
She turned, knitting her brows with a grin. "A little over-protective, don't you think?"
She hadn't a clue how wicked people could be.
He telephoned Amos, who'd hurried out with a burrito in a paper towel to eat on his drive to work. "I'm calling LeBeouf here in a little bit. Going to try Dallas, too. Swing by later and I'll fill you in."
"Ten-four. I'll bring Mike's burgers since you fed me breakfast."
"Sounds good," Mendocino said. "I tried a Google search on him. Nothing."
"Figures," Amos said. "Later."
Then Mendocino dug through papers, locating Agent Louis LeBeouf's business card. He dialed the number. Straight to voice mail. El Paso was on Mountain Time.
"LeBeouf. Mendocino Jones. I've got something you should know. Call me back at this number if you're interested." That was a carrot the old codger should go for. Then he went back to the Aldonado files.
He'd reviewed more witness statements the day before, after talking to Lisa. The last person known to speak to John David was his wife. April told investigators her husband told her not to wait up. He had a late meeting. But no one the deputies questioned knew anything about his late meeting. No one admitted having been with him. Was he having an affair? Did he meet a woman at the line camp? Who?
According to the toxicology screen, Watson was legally drunk when he died. An empty pint of Maker's Mark in the passenger seat of his truck. If he had a tryst with a woman at the cabin and they drank together, there should have been glasses in the house with fingerprints. None. If he met a woman, you'd think the bed would have been slept in, too. It wasn't. What if he met at her place? Then why was he at the line camp?
Nothing and no one explained his supposed meeting, why he was at the remote cabin at such a late hour, or where he was earlier. Why would he lie to his wife about a meeting if it wasn't about a woman? Where had he been? The files contained no evidence investigators tracked his cellphone or his truck's GPS. A GMC Denali would have a navigation system. It wouldn't have been difficult to trace his steps on the day of his death. Why wasn't that done?
He jotted notes of everything missing; all the steps he would have taken had he overseen the investigation. His cell phone rang.
"Mr. Jones. It's Louis LeBeouf." The agent's voice was cold. "What can I do for you?"
