Page 51 of The Texas Murders

“Drive on by,” I say. “We’re not exactly inconspicuous in this tribal police vehicle.”

As she turns the corner, I crane my neck to look down the alley at the backside of the building. While the front of the building showed no signs of life, the back of the building is bustling with activity. One man carries clear garbage bags full of something—maybe bedsheets—and tosses them into the back of a parked pickup truck. Another comes out with an armload of paperwork and shoves it into a fifty-gallon drum, which is already piled high with discarded papers.

A bottle of lighter fluid sits on the ground next to the barrel.

“They’re clearing out,” I say. “They’re about to burn their evidence.”

“You think this is one of the brothels?” Ava asks, looking in her rearview mirror but not altering the way she drives so as not to call attention to us.

“Must be,” I say. “Pull over up here.”

“What should we do?” Ava asks, easing to the curb.

“Better let Ryan know,” I say, grabbing my phone while looking around to see if anyone has noticed us.

When the FBI agent answers, he says, “I’m heading to the airport now. I should be there in about two hours.”

“Something’s going on,” I say. “It might be over in two hours.”

As quickly as I can, I relay what I saw at the massage parlor.

“Just sit tight,” he says. “Keep an eye on them.”

“And if they clear out before you get here?” I say. “What if they burn evidence?”

“Just stay put,” he tells me.

“There could be victims in there right now, Ryan,” I say, losing my patience. “What if they load up a van full of missing women and drive them away?”

“Follow them and don’t get spotted,” he says, and I want to argue with him that we can’t exactly keep a low profile in Ava’s police SUV.

The civility and friendliness Ryan spoke with earlier is gone, and he’s taking a tone like a parent talking to a child he knows is about to do something against the rules.

“You’re there in an observation role only, Rory. Do not engage with these people in any way. I’ll be there with a team as soon as I can.”

“Shit,” I say after he hangs up.

In the rearview mirror, I spot a van pulling into the alleyway. It’s white, not blue, but otherwise it looks similar to Llewellyn Carpenter’s van. Perfect for hiding people in the back.

“They’re going to load up the women,” Ava says in a panic.

I step out of the car and tug off my tie and untuck my dress shirt and undo the buttons, letting it hang open overmy T-shirt. I remove my gun belt but stick my SIG Sauer in the back of my pants, wedged in by my belt and covered by the untucked shirt.

I drop my hat onto the car seat. Then I unpin the star on my shirt and toss it next to the hat.

“Do I look like a cop?” I say.

“No,” she says, “but you don’t exactly blend in. I don’t think people wear dress pants with cowboy boots around here.” She pops open the glove box and pulls out a trucker hat with the wordsTOMBSTONEARIZONAstenciled across the front panel and an illustration of a grave marker next to it.

“Here,” she says. “This is Marcos’s.”

I put the hat on.

“Better,” Ava says. “What’s the plan? What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But I can’t let that van leave with any women in it.”

I tell her to stay put. There’s no need to discuss the prospect of her coming with me. My disguise might not be perfect, but she’s wearing her Tigua Tribal Police uniform—she’s even more conspicuous than the car we’re driving.

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