Frank sat on the rock and got the hang of the drone. He’d used it before in the field, but never on an extensive search like this. Once he adjusted for wind and light, he was able to maneuver the device effectively, looking at his computer to see what the drone camera saw. It had rained early this morning, a hard, pounding storm that came in and out in two hours. That might help him find any new streams. Temporary water flows that could very well run over the slag and create a shallow, toxic pond.
He felt almost giddy, like he was twelve again and flying a kite with his dad.
Frank made sure he kept a detailed log of every place he searched and everything he saw, whether relevant to his investigation or not. If he found anything illegal or suspicious, he wanted his case to stand up in court.
But that was really the job of the attorney general, not him. His job would be to clean up any contamination.
Frank slowly relaxed. He could barely hear the drone anymore, but to see what it saw and he marveled at the technology. He leaned back and watched and hoped he could find the source of the contamination.
For the wildlife, for himself, but mostly for Emma.
Chapter 5
Friday evening
Patagonia, Arizona
KARA QUINN SHOULD HAVE been a bartender instead of a cop.
Two weeks into this undercover gig and she felt as if she’d been here for a year. Everyone knew her name, and she knew all the regulars. She liked most of them. Blue-collar workers, all with a story to tell. They loved her because she was a new face—and, she admitted, because she was a young, cute blonde with attitude. Based on her early recon, that was the persona she determined would work best in this tiny middle-of-nowhere historic town of Patagonia, Arizona.
No one realized that she’d cased the place before she applied for the part-time job. She needed to understand the clientele, the owners, the overall vibe. Then she created an undercover profile that would guarantee that they not only would hire her but that she would fit in without a hitch. She was that good.
She’d been a con artist before she was a cop, and being an undercover cop was, essentially, being a con artist, but with a badge.
The only thing she never pretended to be was a veteran. Veterans had questions that only veterans could answer. Too many little details that could get you hung up. Where you went for basic training, where you were stationed, what your rank was, who your commanding officer was. Details about weapons and jobs and deployment. Acronyms that made her head spin. Colton, her sometime LAPD partner, had served in the Marines for three years right out of high school, and he played the role perfectly. He even went undercover once when a group of active-duty marines was smuggling opium from overseas. She’d played his girlfriend. It was a dangerous gig, intense, but fun.
Yes, she had an odd view of fun.
Kara looked over to the three sixty-something Vietnam vets and said, “Another?”
Tom, Russ and Javier nodded and pushed their glasses toward her on the bar almost in unison. They came in late every afternoon, between four and four thirty. They drank three to five drafts each and shared a large pizza or got burgers—pretty much the only items on the menu, other than a club sandwich, which was Kara’s favorite. They argued about everything from politics to religion and every untouchable subject in between, but they had one another’s backs.
Kara was already half in love with the trio.
She was already pouring their third round. They all walked to the Wrangler, and they all walked home. She didn’t have to worry about grabbing keys or calling a ride.
Today they were arguing about Iran. Kara didn’t pay much attention. If there was one thing she disliked more than domestic politics, it was international politics.
Honestly, she cared about only two things. Bad guys and catching them.
“We need a surgical strike. Cut off their head,” Russ was saying.
“Two more will grow back,” Tom said. “Leave them alone. We get involved in too many of these conflicts as it is.”
“They’ll never go away,” Russ said. “They sponsor terrorism around the world, and we need to stop them before they get a nuclear bomb.”
Tom snorted. “A lot of good we’ve been doing these last thirty years. Right, Javi?”
Javi sipped his fresh beer. “We need to do something, but we have to be smart about it.”
And so it went. The three didn’t agree about much, but they argued good-naturedly.
Too bad the rest of society couldn’t learn from them.
Kara took the empty mugs, rinsed them and slid them into the dishwasher under the bar. She wiped down the counter while assessing the other patrons. Friday night, the bar was already half-full and it was only five thirty. By six, it’d be packed.
Employees of Southwest Copper Refinery drank, socialized and blew off steam at the Wrangler. It was their watering hole, the place to hang and relax. In a town the size of Patagonia, there weren’t many places to go. The other bar in town, only two blocks away, was attached to the “big” hotel—if you could call a three-story building with thirty-two guest rooms a hotel. A sports bar and grill on the edge of town catered mostly to the few young people in the area and tourists passing through. There were a couple of other small hotels, and a motel with twelve rooms next to the sports bar. They’d all be booked for Memorial Day weekend.
No one wanted to be in Patagonia after that, when daily temperatures exceeded 100 degrees through September. Even today at 90 was a bit toasty for Kara, though the bar was comfortably air-conditioned. The art festival brought thousands of people into town, which would sustain the local economy for the four-month dead period when daily temperatures could exceed 120.
Kara really hoped they wrapped up this case before she had to feel those 120-degree temperatures.
“Well, look who just walked in,” Tom said.
Kara didn’t have to look.
“He’s been coming in virtually every night, for the last couple of weeks,” Javier said, looking straight at Kara as she wiped down the bar, loud enough to make sure she could hear him.
The trio chuckled.
Kara said, “You all act like a bunch of twelve-year-olds.”
Of course she noticed that Joe Molina, the son of the owner of Southwest Copper, came in often. He always sat at the bar and found an excuse to talk to her. Part of her undercover assignment was Joe Molina. She was tasked with befriending him and watching his back in case someone was watching him. To gain his trust and confidence. At least that was how Matt Costa detailed the assignment. Befriend, he’d said.
She couldn’t help it if Joe was attracted to her. And being friends wasn’t going to get her inside his head. So she flirted when he flirted. It was clear he was preoccupied with everything going on at Southwest Copper, since it was his family’s business. She had sympathy for the awkward position he’d found himself in, but she also admired that when the FBI approached him to cooperate with the investigation, he agreed to help. That he was willing to help when the FBI didn’t have any real leverage over him—simply because it was the right thing to do—was a rarity in Kara’s world.