Power and Empire

“Damn it!” Callahan muttered under her breath. She’d parked behind the other cars on the front lawn so as not to disturb any possible tire-track evidence. “He beat us here.”

“Who beat us?”

A brawny man with a white straw hat stepped around the corner of the house. He wore navy blue dress Wranglers and a starched khaki shirt. The silver cinco peso badge of a Texas Ranger was pinned to his left breast pocket, over a kettledrum chest. The silver horseshoe buckle caught the light of the morning sun and a 1911 pistol rested in a tooled leather holster over his hip. Caruso guessed him to be in his mid-forties. He smiled and tipped his hat when he saw Callahan, revealing a full head of curly blond hair.

“I’m guessing you know him,” Caruso said.

“You might say that,” Callahan grumbled. “We were married once. Worst ten minutes of my life.”

The man hugged Callahan, then gave Caruso what could only be taken as a serious case of stink-eye.

“Lyle Anderson,” the Ranger said, taking Caruso’s callused paw and pumping it up and down like an overgrown Bamm-Bamm Rubble on The Flintstones.

Caruso, not one to measure his manhood, said, “Easy there, hoss, I shoot with those fingers.”

Ranger Anderson’s face spread into a wide grin. “You and I are gonna get along,” he said. “Except for Kelsey, I never met an FBI agent that wasn’t worthless as tits on a boar hog. But I do respect a man who says what’s on his mind.”

Callahan fished a wad of blue nitrile gloves from her vest pocket and peeled them apart. She handed a pair to Caruso.

“What have we got?” she asked, nodding toward the back of the house, ready to move on.

“I’ve been doin’ pretty well,” Anderson said. “Thank you for asking. Good to see you, too, Kelsey.”

Callahan just stared at the Ranger, playing a game of nonverbal chicken.

Anderson finally flinched and flipped open his notebook. “According to Johnson County,” he said, “an anonymous male called in and advised that there were girls out here being held against their will — oh, and, by the way, a few dead bodies to boot.”

“How many girls?”

“Live ones?” the Ranger said. “Two. I’m guessing that neither of them is over fifteen. We’re still waiting for someone to get here who can say more than ‘put your hands on the car’ in Spanish. Paramedics are giving the girls fluids now. They were both recently branded and have been on the receiving end of some pretty nasty whippings. Nothing appears to be broken.” The Ranger shuddered at some memory. “Physically, at least.”

Caruso gave a slow shake of his head. “You said they were branded?”

Ranger Anderson tipped back his hat with the crook of his finger and nodded. “Looks like somebody burned ‘LSM’ on the side of their necks. Not a very professional job, either. I’m thinking they were branded with a red-hot coat hanger or something.” He winced. “Had to hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“LSM…” Caruso said, thinking out loud.

“Or maybe ‘4SM,’” Anderson said. “It’s sorta flowery writing, and, like I said, not very professional-looking. Damnedest thing, really. We’ve seen this brand more than once on dead prostitutes.”

Callahan’s head snapped up. “These girls are prisoners, not prostitutes!”

Anderson held up both hands. “Easy-breezy,” he said. “I didn’t say they were prostitutes. I’m talking about other cases — in which I’m sure the FBI would have no interest.”

Caruso said, “You said something about a couple bodies.”

“Caller said a couple,” Anderson said, turning and motioning for them to follow with a flick of his hand. “We have four so far. Three in the field and a floater in the pool around back.”

Callahan stopped in her tracks, as if steeling herself. “Another girl?”

Anderson shook his head as he walked on. “This one was all grown up. Pretty sure she’s one of the bad guys.”

“Cause of death was drowning?” Caruso asked.

“Nope,” the Ranger said. “She was belly-down in the pool when we got here, but the cause of death was a bullet to the throat. Punched a hole right through her spine.”

Caruso followed Anderson through the open gate in the fence. He stooped beside Callahan on the pool deck to examine the body of a Hispanic female who was laid out faceup on top of a yellow body bag.

“The Johnson County deputies recognize her as Guadalupe Vargas,” the Ranger said. “AKA Lupe or Lupita. She’s been arrested a couple times for heroin and turning tricks in a massage parlor outside of Cleburne, but nobody’s seen her for a year. They were all surprised she was still around.”

“Recognize the tats?” Callahan asked without looking up.

“Death?” Caruso said, scanning the woman’s legs. “…And another death.”

“That female skeleton on her thigh is La Santa Muerte,” Ranger Anderson said. “Patron saint of shitheads. We see it a lot around here, statues, tats, paintings on black velvet.”

“La Santa Muerte…” Dom said. “LSM.”

Anderson raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be damned,” he said.