Free Left for Dead by J.A. Jance

Michelle Skidmore who specialized in immigration issues and wrote an ongoing column called “Crossings” that often dealt with crimes against illegal immigrants. That day’s column concerned vandals who routinely destroyed the watering stations that volunteers set up and supplied with potable water to keep migrating illegals from dying of dehydration.
    The assault wasn’t mentioned there or anywhere else in the paper, either, that and the fact that there was no mention of it on the morning news while he was eating breakfast made Al wonder if Dobbs had buried the report. If so, it wouldn’t be the first time.
    The whole idea disgusted him, but Al wasn’t about to run up the flag to the media or to anybody else. The brass had made it clear that contact with the media was forbidden for guys like him. The officers who had made the mistake of complaining to reporters about being told to let up on taking illegals into custody had been put on unpaid leave, and spending time on unpaid leave was something Al Gutierrez couldn’t afford. As for calling in an anonymous tip? He had a feeling those were a lot less anonymous than advertised. Cell phone calls could be traced. E-mails could be traced. And if he tried going over Sergeant Dobbs’s head, there would be hell to pay.
    For right now, there was nothing for Al to do but put on his uniform and go do his shift.
    Whatever had happened to that poor girl south of Three Points was someone else’s problem, not his. And with any kind of luck, over time, maybe Al’s resulting nightmares would go away.

9
    7:00 A.M ., Saturday, April 10
Sedona, Arizona
    Awakening the next morning, Ali heard the steady thrum of B.’s treadmill and the muffled sound of a television news broadcast from the exercise room down the hall. Slipping into a tracksuit she kept at his place for just these occasions, Ali made her way to his tiny but well-equipped gym. When she showed up, B. moved from the treadmill to the free weights. Ali was about to step onto the treadmill in his place when her phone rang. A glance at the caller ID didn’t help. The number was unfamiliar.
    “Hello, Ali?”
    “Yes.”
    “It’s Donnatelle—Donnatelle Craig—from the academy.”
    “Yes, Donnatelle. How are you?” Ali’s caller had enough confidence in her voice to make her unrecognizable. The realization made Ali smile. Clearly, this new Donnatelle was a far cry from the hesitant young woman Ali remembered from her time at the academy in Peoria.
    Two and a half years earlier, Donnatelle had been in despair about her prospects and in danger of washing out of training. Ali had reached out a hand to help Donnatelle along, encouraging her with her firearms handling and target range shooting. In the end, Donnatelle successfully completed the course and graduated along with the rest of her class. The last Ali heard from her, Donnatelle was serving as a sworn deputy with the Yuma County Sheriff’s Department.
    “I hope I’m not calling too early.”
    “Not around here you aren’t,” Ali said. “I’m up and at ’em. How’ve you been?”
    “I’m fine,” Donnatelle said. “But I’m calling with some bad news. Have you heard about Jose? I just got a Blue Alert about it.”
    “You mean Jose Reyes from our class?” Ali asked.
    “Yes,” Donnatelle said. “He’s been working for the Santa Cruz Sheriff’s Department. He was shot last night.”
    Jose Reyes had been another academy classmate. Initially, he and Ali had butted heads, but by the time their training was over, they had not only buried the hatchet, they had acquired a genuine respect and fondness for each other. Jose had helped Ali care for a troubled friend named Brenda Riley when she had shown up in Peoria, drunk and begging for help. After that, Ali had returned the favor by helping Jose and Donnatelle master some of the academic aspects of their training.
    It struck Ali as ironic that without her tutoring, neither Jose nor Donnatelle might have