Milla wasn’t a prude, but his use of the word “fuck” made her uncomfortable. For her it was primarily a sex word, regardless of how it was used as an adjective, adverb, interjection, and exclamation these days. Her dealings with Diaz were already dicey enough; she didn’t want anything sexual, even language, to make matters more tense. Odd how Olivia could use the word and be funny; hearing it from Diaz made Milla want to squirm.
She pulled back into traffic, concentrating on her driving so she wouldn’t have to think about anything else right now. Silence reigned, and she let it lengthen, let the minutes add up. There were times when even an uncomfortable silence was better than words.
“Don’t go after him yourself,” he said as he checked the traffic around them. “No matter what, don’t go by yourself. Not even if you hear he’s sitting outside your office, and you haven’t seen me in a week. Don’t go yourself.”
“I never go by myself,” she said, startled. “There’s always someone with me when I go on assignment. But if Pavón is outside my office, I’m not making any promises.”
“You were alone in Guadalupe.”
“Brian was there and you know it.”
“He was on the other side of the cemetery. He had no idea I was anywhere around. I could have snapped your neck, and there was nothing he could have done about it.”
That was inarguable. She hadn’t known he was there until he was on her. Besides, he wasn’t telling her to do anything she didn’t already practice. “I’m as careful as possible,” she told him. “I know my limitations.”
“Another missing woman turned up in Juarez last night. Her body did, anyway. This one was an American college student named Paige Sisk. She and her boyfriend were in Chihuahua; she went to the bathroom one night and never came back.”
There was a serial killer in Juarez, she knew; numerous articles had been in the newspaper. The FBI had worked with the Mexican authorities—the first time they had ever been asked to help with a Mexican investigation—and concluded that all the murders were single homicides. If so, a lot of young women had gone missing and turned up dead since 1993. A couple of criminologists agreed: it wasn’t a serial killer, it was two serial killers, possibly more. The pickings were rich in Juarez.
Finally, two bus drivers had been arrested, and supposedly the killings had stopped. Now Diaz was telling her they hadn’t.
“Is it the same M.O.?”
“No.” He checked the traffic again. “She was eviscerated.”
Nausea roiled in Milla’s stomach. “My God.”
“Yeah. So do what I tell you, and stay out of Mexico right now. Let me handle this.”
“If I can,” she murmured, and he had to be content with that, because she wasn’t going to promise him she would play it safe, not when getting some information about Justin was at stake. She wouldn’t be foolish, she wouldn’t lie, but neither would she let an opportunity pass by.
“It’s going to rain,” Diaz said in a complete change of subject, staring at the purple edge of clouds just showing on the western horizon.
“Good. Maybe it’ll break the heat.” The heat wave was killing old people and driving everyone else insane with misery. Granted, El Paso was usually hot during the summer, but not this hot.
“Yes, maybe,” he murmured. “Let me out here.”
“Here?” They were in the middle of a busy intersection.
“Here.”
She put on her brakes and turned on her right signal at the same time, wedged her way into the right-hand lane, then pulled to the side. A horn blared at her, but she didn’t blame the offended driver, so she didn’t bother looking. Diaz unhooked his seat belt, got out, and walked away without a word of good-bye or a hint of when he would turn up next. Milla watched to see where he went, noticing the catlike way he walked, as if his legs were spring-loaded. He disappeared behind a utility truck, and didn’t reappear. Still she waited, but somehow he used the utility truck, traffic signs, and other vehicles for cover, because she didn’t see him again. Either that or he went down a manhole. Or had slithered under the utility truck and was clinging to the undercarriage. Or—
She had no idea where he’d gone, and she wished he’d stop doing that.
Diaz made his way back to where he’d parked his dusty blue pickup. There was absolutely nothing remarkable about the vehicle, except perhaps that it was in perfect working condition. It wasn’t pretty, but it could run. He could afford a newer model but he didn’t see any reason to get rid of this one. It suited him, and didn’t attract attention.
He’d spent most of his life not attracting attention. He instinctively knew the best camouflage, and whenever anyone noticed him, it was because he wanted them to. Even as a child he had been silent and solitary, prompting his mother to have him tested for autism, mental retardation, anything that would explain the way he just sat and stared at the people around him but seldom joined in any conversation or activity. Even knowing that his mother had worried about him at first and later was simply uneasy around him hadn’t stirred any emotion or response in him.
He watched people. He watched how their faces, their bodies, would tell a different story from their words. And contrary to his mother’s belief, he wasn’t an inactive child. When she wasn’t there to see, or when she was asleep, he roamed the house, or—depending on where they were at the time—the neighborhood or the countryside. He was as at home in the night as the other predators. From the time he was so small he had to stand on tiptoe to reach the doorknob, he had slipped outside at night and explored. He liked animals better than he did people. Animals were honest; no animal, not even a snake, knew what it was to lie. Their body language expressed exactly what they were thinking and feeling, and he respected that.