J. Jance - Day of the Dead

The Strykers. Recognition surged through Brandon like an electric shock. The Strykers’ proximity to those two separate but similar cases-murdered and dismembered girls found thirty-two years apart-was too close to be considered a harmless coincidence.

Brandon was reaching for his phone to call Brian when it rang. “Good morning,” Ralph Ames said. “How’s it going?”

“I’m on the trail of Larry Stryker’s DNA,” Brandon said.

“How do you propose to do that?” Ralph asked.

“It’s not illegal, but it’s better that you don’t know,” Brandon said with a halfhearted chuckle.

“Don’t ask /don’t tell?” Ralph asked.

“Something like that. Now what’s the deal with getting me some backup?”

“I was thinking about calling the Pima County Sheriff’s Department,” Ralph Ames said. “But then I was going through my copy of the paperwork Research sent you. I saw that the Strykers were some of your opponent’s big-time campaign donors. I decided against it.”

“I could have told you that,” Brandon said.

“But I did talk to Geet Farrell,” Ralph Ames added. “He’s tied up until midafternoon, but he’ll be there this evening. He’ll call as soon as he gets to town. Is that all right?”

While Brandon watched, a pearlescent white Lexus, covered in a layer of dust, pulled into the back parking lot and stopped in a shaded parking place marked RESERVED next to a much cleaner but otherwise identical Lexus sedan.

“It’ll have to be,” Brandon said. “I’ve gotta go.”

As Larry Stryker stepped from his vehicle, Brandon battled to rein in his emotions. He had come here hoping to collect DNA evidence that would link Larry Stryker to Roseanne Orozco’s long-ago murder. Now he was faced with the very real possibility that the man might be a still-active serial killer.

Hoping his face didn’t betray him, Brandon stepped out of the Suburban. “Hey, Larry,” he said as casually as possible. “How’s it going?”

Stryker, once again impeccably dressed, stopped in his tracks and regarded Brandon warily. “You again,” he said. “What now?”

“I have a couple more questions-about the same thing we discussed yesterday,” Brandon responded breezily. “No big deal, but I thought it might be better if we did it in private. How about having a cup of coffee somewhere? Just a few minutes of your time.”

Dr. Stryker was clearly torn. He looked longingly at the door to his office, as if wishing himself inside. “Sure,” he said at last, “as long as it doesn’t take too long. My car or yours?”

“Let’s go in mine,” Brandon said.

Not wanting to risk going somewhere that would serve coffee in real cups, Brandon had already plotted a course to the nearest Burger King-at Speedway and Campbell. Chatting amiably about Diana and Gayle’s long-term friendship, he drove to the fast-food joint’s drive-up order station. “How do you take it?” he asked.

“Cream, no sugar,” Larry said.

“Did you hear that?” he asked the invisible attendant. “We’ll take two of those.”

Once the cups of coffee were safely in the Suburban’s cup holders, Brandon drove into the parking lot and shut off the engine.

“Okay,” Larry said. He picked up his cup and took a tentative sip. “What’s all this about?”

“Roseanne Orozco,” Brandon returned.

“Look, Brandon, we talked about this yesterday. As I told you then, I barely remember the girl. There’s nothing more I can tell you.”

Brandon waited long enough for Larry to raise the cup to his lips for a second sip. “Were you the father of Roseanne’s baby?” Brandon asked.

Larry Stryker’s response to that unexpected question was as classic as it was revealing. He choked. He coughed. Coffee splattered his tie. When he put his cup down, Brandon was gratified to notice that his hand was shaking.

“What the hell gives you the right to ask such a crass question?” Larry Stryker demanded in outrage.

Brandon shrugged. “Well,” he insisted mildly, “were you?”

Larry reached for the door handle and shoved the door open. “I won’t even dignify that accusation with a response.” He stepped down onto the pavement and stood there, his face distorted with outrage.

“Come on, Larry,” Brandon said. “Get in. I’ll give you a ride back to your office.”

“The hell you will. I’d rather walk.” With that, he slammed the door shut and stamped away, leaving Brandon with exactly what he wanted-the coffee cup and what he hoped was a fully retrievable sample of Dr. Lawrence Stryker’s DNA.

But Brandon also had a problem. He had definitely tipped his hand. Larry Stryker was onto him. Geet Farrell wouldn’t arrive a moment too soon.

Brian had dragged himself into the office late that morning. Around eleven-thirty, as he headed for the break room for coffee, his cell phone rang. “Hey, Brandon,” he said cheerfully after checking caller ID. “How’s the local midwife? According to Kath, Lani did herself proud last night.”

“She was still sleeping when I left the house,” Brandon replied. “She was pretty jazzed when she got home last night. I didn’t think we’d ever get her to shut up and go to bed.”

Brian laughed. “I had the same problem with Kath. She was way too wound up to sleep.”

The truth was, Kath had come home from helping deliver Delia Ortiz’s baby with a whole lot more on her mind than talking. Brian had awakened that morning with the distinct impression that Kath Fellows had made up her mind to go off the pill and think about starting a family.

“What’s up?” Brian asked.

“I need to talk to you,” Brandon said urgently. “ASAP. Given my history with the department, it’s probably better for you if I don’t show up there. Could we meet for lunch?”

There was undeniable urgency in Brandon Walker’s voice. “Where?” Brian asked.

“How about the Old Pueblo Grill?”

Brian knew that particular central-area watering hole was far enough off the law enforcement beaten track that there was little danger of the two of them being seen together. “I’ll see you soon,” he said.

On his way out, Brian stopped by the cubicle. Fortunately, PeeWee was away from his desk, so Brian didn’t have to lie about where he was going or what he was going to do. As a kid he had sometimes fantasized about growing up and working a case with Brandon Walker-the man who was the closest thing to a father Brian had ever known. But now that it was happening and his dream was finally coming true, Brian couldn’t tell anyone about it, not even PeeWee. Instead, he had to race off to meet Brandon in secret, as if they were a pair of undercover agents.

Walking into the Old Pueblo Grill, he spotted Brandon sitting under an umbrella at a tall outdoor table in the far corner of the patio. A copy of that morning’s Arizona Daily Sun was spread out in front of him.

“What’s up?” Brian asked, hiking himself up onto one of the stools.

Wordlessly, Brandon Walker pushed the newspaper in Brian’s direction. It was folded to reveal the front-page article about Erik LaGrange’s attempted suicide. Brian knew that, as of two hours earlier, LaGrange’s suicide was a fait accompli rather than a mere attempt. A heavy circle of blue ink surrounded a photo of Dr. Lawrence and Gayle Stryker.

Brian nodded. “The suspect’s dead. He was declared brain-dead last night. His organs are being harvested this morning.”

“He worked for Gayle and Larry Stryker.”

It was a statement, not a question. Brian nodded again. “What about them?” he asked.

“What if I told you there’s a good chance Larry Stryker was the father of Roseanne Orozco’s baby?”

The question took Brian by surprise. Before he could respond, a waitress appeared at the table and dropped off Brandon’s iced tea. “Can I get you something?” she asked.