Page 50 of The Texas Murders

“Are those words?” I wonder aloud.

Ava and I and the other cops are squinting, trying to figure out what we’re looking at. It’s hard to make out all the smudges—we’ll need to dust for prints to do that—but it doesn’t appear that they are random.

“It’s upside down,” Ava says, tilting her head sideways.

I do the same, and then I see it. Once we’ve dusted for prints, the message will be more visible, but I can see enough to make out the muddled, uneven words:

MARTA RIVERA

HELP

CHAPTER 42

I CALL RYAN LOGAN and tell him what we found.

“Hot damn,” he says, excited. “Good work, Yates.”

“It was Ava, actually, who spotted the prints.”

“Well, good work, Ava!” he says.

Those are words I never thought I’d hear him utter.

All animosity between us seemingly forgotten, Ryan says he’s going to take an FBI plane to Phoenix and lead the team of technicians who will scrutinize it for more evidence.

“You and Ava can head back to El Paso, if you want,” he says.

Despite the heat, the sun is lowering in the sky. Sunset is probably only an hour or two away.

“We might as well stay the night,” I tell Ryan. “Anything you want us to do while we wait on you?”

“No,” he says. “You’ve done good work. Go find a hotel with a pool and take it easy.”

When I hang up, I relay our conversation to Ava.

“I guess whatever stick was stuck up his ass finally fell out,” she says, and we both burst out laughing.

I’m glad the Tempe officers have gone back into their air-conditioned vehicles and didn’t hear that. But it feels good to laugh. We’re giddy, I guess. Finding this car has us both feeling like there’s hope to find Marta Rivera alive.

“Well,” Ava says, “for once, I think Ryan Logan has a good suggestion. Let’s go find a hotel with a pool and get the hell out of this heat.”

I give her a look that says,I’ve got another idea.

“We could do that,” I say, then point inside the car to the brochure in the cup holder, “or we could go check out this massage parlor.”

She gives me her own look:Are you sure we should?

“It can’t hurt to drive by,” I say. “We don’t have to go in and order Swedish massages.”

Ava asks if we should call Ryan Logan and let him know what we’re doing. I already know what he would say. He wouldn’t want us interfering. But the hope that Marta Rivera is alive is spreading inside me like a wildfire. I can’t sit idly by a swimming pool when I might be able to do something to help.

“Nah,” I say. “No need to involve him until we know something.”

We say goodbye to the Tempe police officers, and we drive over an invisible city line to Scottsdale, where the shopping centers become more upscale and the houses get bigger and more expensive-looking.

I expect the parlor to be in a strip mall, but the SUV’s navigation system takes us off the main thoroughfare. At the threshold to a residential area stands a small brick building with a sign that saysMASSAGEUTOPIA. The nondescript structure itself looks more like a dentist’s or optometrist’s office, with nothing except the no-frills sign to suggest otherwise. The blinds are all drawn and there are no cars in the small parking lot.

ACLOSEDsign hangs in the window.

---