by all of her colleagues.

“Good morning,” Hackberry said.

Pam held her eyes on his without replying.

“Something wrong?” he said.

“An Immigration and Customs Enforcement guy by the name of Clawson just left. His business card is on your desk.”

“What does he want?”

“Probably your ass.”

“Pardon?”

“He wants to know why you didn’t call in for help when you found the bodies,” she replied.

“He asked you that?”

“He seems to think I’m the departmental snitch.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“To take a walk.”

Hackberry started toward his office. Through the window he could see the flag straightening on the metal pole in the yard, the sun behind clouds that offered no rain, dust gusting down a broken street lined by stucco and stone buildings that had been constructed no later than the 1920s.

“I heard him talking on his cell outside,” Pam said at his back.

When he turned around, her eyes were fixed on his, one tooth biting down on the corner of her lip.

“Will you just say it, please?”

“The guy’s a prick,” she replied.

“I don’t know who’s worse, you or Maydeen. Will y’all stop using that kind of language while you’re on the job?”

“I heard him talking outside on his cell. I think they know the identity of the witness who called in the shots fired. They think you know his identity, too. They think you’re protecting him.”

“Why would I protect a nine-one-one caller?”

“You have a cousin name of William Robert Holland?”

“What about him?”

“I heard Clawson use the name, that’s all. I got the impression Holland might be your relative, that maybe he knows the nine-one-one caller. I was hearing only half of the conversation.”

“Don’t go anywhere,” Hackberry said. He went into his office and found the Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent’s business card centered squarely in the middle of his desk blotter. A cell phone number was written across the top; the area code was 713, Houston. He punched in the number on his desk phone.

“Clawson,” a man’s voice said.

“This is Sheriff Holland. I’m sorry I missed you this morning. What can I help you with?”

“I tried your home, but your message machine wasn’t on.”

“It doesn’t always work. What is it you want to know?”

“A significant lapse of time occurred between your discovery of the bodies out by the church and your call to your dispatcher. Can you clear me up on that?”

“I’m not quite sure what the question is.”

“You wanted to dig them up by yourself?”

“We’re short on manpower.”

“Are you related to a former Texas Ranger by the name of—”

“Billy Bob Holland, yeah, I am. He’s an attorney. So am I, although I don’t practice anymore.”

“That’s interesting. We need to have a chat, Sheriff Holland. I don’t like getting to a crime scene hours after local law enforcement has tracked it up from one end to the other.”

“Why is ICE involved in a homicide investigation?” Hackberry asked. He could hear the chain rattling on the flagpole, a trash can clattering drily on a curbstone. “Do you have the identity of the nine-one-one caller?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that right now.”

“Excuse me, sir, but I have the impression that you consider a con versation a monologue in which other people answer your questions. Don’t come bird-dogging my deputies again.”

“What did you say?”

Hackberry replaced the receiver in the phone cradle. He walked back into the outer office. Pam Tibbs looked up from her paperwork, a slice of sunlight cutting her face. Her eyes were a deep brown, bright, fixed on his, waiting.

“You drive,” he said.

THE AIR WAS muggy and warm when she parked the cruiser in the abandoned Pure filling station across from the stucco shell of the old church. Hackberry got out on the passenger side and looked at the phone booth on the perimeter of the concrete. The clear plastic panels were sprayed and scratched with graffiti, the phone box itself unbolted and removed. The sun had gone behind a cloud, and the hills had turned as dark as a bruise.

“The feds took the box?” Pam said.

“They’ll dust it and all the coins inside and keep us out of the loop at the same time.”

“Who owns the land behind the church?”

“A consortium in Delaware. They bought it from the roach paste people after the Superfund cleaned it up. I don’t think they’re players, though.”

“Where’d the killers get the dozer to bury the bodies? They had to have some familiarity with the area. There were no prints on the shell casings?”

“Nope.”

“Why would anyone kill all these women? What kind of bastard would do this?”

“Somebody who looks like