amigos Jacob Johansson y Carl Shipley?”
While the guy talked, Max kept nodding and going, “Si… si…” I didn’t know Max spoke Spanish, and I was impressed. Although I wouldn’t have understood all of it, most likely just snatches, I wished I could have listened in. Max focused intently, and I had the sense it could be important. The conversation went on for ten minutes or so.
“Spill it,” I said when he hung up, eager to hear.
“Well, that was pretty interesting. The guy I was talking to works for the local cop shop in the town down the mountain from El Pueblo de Elijah. He’s the top guy in the station.” Max stopped talking and shook his head. “This is all pretty crazy.”
“And he said?” I prodded.
“They’ve had a lot of problems with the folks living in El Pueblo over the years. Infighting within the sect has sometimes led to violence. Some of it against women and families. The local cops tend to ignore it, because they get no cooperation when they do try to investigate. The town is clannish, circles the wagons when anything happens and won’t assist local authorities,” Max said.
“That sound like any of the folks we know?” I asked, the question rhetorical. “Any of the violence tied to the Johansson family?”
“Not that the guy knows of,” Max said. “They had no issues with Jacob, but Carl Shipley was a frequent problem. He left El Pueblo and drove down to the town, often on his own, where he drank and harassed people. Multiple women complained that he hassled them. He got into a couple of bar fights. They locked Carl up one time, kept him for a few days before Jacob showed up with money to get Carl out.”
“He paid a fine?” I asked.
“I think the guy was suggesting that Jacob paid a bribe,” Max said. “Anyway, things really blew up about a year ago, when Carl started pestering a woman named Señora Maria Sanchez Mendoza. Turns out this señora is the wife of a powerful local politician. Her husband noticed Carl watching the house from the street, taking photos through the windows.”
“This all sure sounds eerily familiar,” I remarked. “What happened?”
“The politician stormed the police station demanding Carl’s arrest. This time they couldn’t ignore the charges. The police drove up the mountain to the pueblo, but when they got there, Carl, Jacob and his family, they were all gone. The folks in the pueblo said that Carl and the Johanssons had moved back to El Norte and assured the local cops that none of them would return.”
“Maybe that was the reason Jacob agreed to return, not Michael and Reba’s need for someone to run the bison ranch, but Carl’s need to get out of Mexico?” I speculated.
“Sounds like it,” Max agreed. “The timing is pretty definitive, I would think.”
I considered what we’d just learned. “So, we know that Laurel wasn’t Carl’s first obsession,” I said. “But your contact didn’t say anything about him going past the photographs, beyond pestering the women?”
“No,” Max said. “That’s it. No assaults or other types of harassment.”
“That would be a big jump, from stalking to committing four murders,” I said. “But it’s not unheard of.”
“No,” Max agreed. “Unfortunately, it’s not.”
I’d turned off the highway and was headed toward Carl’s trailer, but as I drove by the MRJ Ranch, I noticed one of my department’s squad cars parked out on the road watching the house. I wondered what was up, until I saw the long white van with shaded windows in the driveway: the van my family owned. “Who do you think is at the ranch?” I asked Max, although I had my own suspicions.
“Naomi, maybe? That’s odd,” he said. “Is that the squad you have watching over Jeremy? You think she has the baby inside with her?”
“Yup,” I said. “I think that’s exactly what’s going on.”
I turned in, waved at the officer in the squad, and parked next to the van. Out of the back seat, I grabbed the bag I’d filled with Jeremy’s things. At the front door, I knocked. We waited. No one answered. I knocked again, this time shouting, “Mother Naomi, you need to open the door. It’s Clara and Max Anderson.”
Nothing. “You think she’s in there?” Max asked.
I took another look at the van. It had to be her. “Let’s try the side door.”
The third time I pounded, the door eased open so gradually that I didn’t realize it was moving until the hinges squeaked. I saw a