J. Jance - Day of the Dead

As Brian headed back to the department, he called PeeWee from the car. “Where the hell have you been?” Brian’s partner asked irritably. “You walk out for a cup of coffee. Next thing I know, you’ve disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“Trust me, PeeWee, I’m working. I was meeting with an informant.” In the current climate, that was by far the best way to refer to Brandon Walker. Every detective had his own private stable of informants. Partners might share almost everything else, but not informants. “Now I need a favor,” Brian added.

“What?”

“You remember that old file we dredged up-the one from 1970?”

“Sure. Roseanne Orozco. I’ve got it right here. Why?”

“As I recall, there were several sheets of latent prints in the paper file. Can you see any record that they’ve been entered into

Brian waited and listened while PeeWee thumbed through the paperwork. “Nope,” he said. “No sign that they have.”

“I want you to hand-carry them down to Alvin Miller. Tell him we need those old prints fed into the AFIS ASAP.”

“Are you saying the Orozco case is about to go active again?”

“I hope so,” Brian returned.

“Goddamn it, Brian, if you’re holding out on me…”

“I’m not holding out,” Brian countered. “When I know for sure, you’ll be the first to hear.”

Leaving Old Pueblo Grill, Brandon switched his phone ringer off silent before he headed back to the Medicos for Mexico office. The cell phone’s readout reported one missed call, but it wasn’t from anyone he recognized.

In the Medicos parking lot the two matching LS 430s still sat in their respective reserved and shaded spots. The front of the building was awash in media vehicles. Right that minute, media scrutiny was something Brandon fervently wished to avoid. Rather than pulling into the lot, he drove around the block and parked in a residential neighborhood that backed up onto the businesses that lined East Broadway.

It was hard to maintain his concentration. This last week in April, early-afternoon temperatures had soared into the midnineties. The air-conditioning unit in the Suburban was excellent, but idling in Tucson with the AC running was a good way to screw up the engine. Brandon found himself wishing he’d brought along the iced tea he’d left behind on the table at the Old Pueblo Grill.

Sitting and waiting and watching nothing happen gave Brandon time to reflect. Brian was right. Doing this on his own and without backup was stupid, but as long as Brandon kept Larry Stryker under surveillance, the man wouldn’t be on the loose and able to pose a threat to Diana or Lani.

Was Larry a serial killer? If the answer to that question was yes, then what were the chances he was armed? As a sworn law enforcement officer, Brandon would have had access to gun-licensing records. He would have known if Larry Stryker had a legal weapon but not an illegal one. As a TLC operative, Brandon wasn’t privy to any of that information. What if he observed the Strykers making a headlong run for the border? What would Brandon do then? Call for reinforcements? From Bill Forsythe? As Ralph Ames had quickly grasped, that was a no-brainer, unless Alvin Miller came up with the right kind of print information…

At the rear of Medicos for Mexico a metal door marked DELIVERIES ONLY opened. Gayle Stryker hurried across the parking lot, unlocking one of the Lexus sedans as she went. Intent on avoiding the reporters camped out front, she quickly started the car and sped out the back way.

It would have been simple to follow her, but Brandon was torn. Should he go after her, or wait for his real prey-Larry Stryker? Had Brandon Walker been blessed with a partner right then-one with another vehicle-it would have been possible for him to follow Gayle while his partner kept an eye on Larry’s activities. Forced to choose, Brandon opted to stay where he was.

His cell phone rang. Brandon leaped to answer, hoping Brian would be calling with some news. “Hi,” Diana said. “The car’s clean and Lani’s on her way home from Smitty’s. We’re going to come back into town for lunch. I’m sure she’s dying for Mexican food. We’re going to Karichimaka. Care to join us?”

“I’m busy right now,” Brandon told her. “I’ll have to pass.”

“You won’t get a better offer,” Diana told him with a laugh.

Brandon knew it was true, but the best part about missing lunch with his wife and daughter was knowing Diana and Lani would be out together-in public. That was better than their being home alone and trusting their safety to a passing deputy. Lani and Diana were safe, leaving Brandon free to keep watch on Larry Stryker.

It doesn’t get any better than that.

Gayle went by her house and picked up a few essentials-including her loaded Davis Industries P-380, which she slipped into her jacket pocket. After hastily stuffing two suitcases, she loaded those, along with three empty briefcases, into the back of the Lexus.

Then she began her circuit of three separate banks, visiting each in turn, going through the safe-deposit boxes and removing everything of value she found there. She’d learned it was wise to have close banking relationships with several different banks, and the loot she’d managed to squirrel away in all of them over the years was quite impressive. The problem was, she couldn’t simply waltz into a bank and waltz right back out again. She was an important customer in every one of them. The people who worked there-managers and tellers alike-wanted to visit with her and chat her up. One or two even expressed careful sympathy over the “unfortunate” situation with Mr. LaGrange.

Gayle tried to keep things light. More than that, she tried to keep things moving. When leaving a vault, she attempted to carry her briefcase with the same casual indifference she’d used when carrying it in. That wasn’t easy, since loaded briefcases were far heavier than empties.

Finally, when the safe-deposit boxes were cleaned out and the Lexus fully loaded, Gayle headed for The Flying C. She wouldn’t have gone at all except, unlike Larry, there were a few items she wanted from the ranch. Some of the artwork was too valuable to just abandon. She’d put the pieces she wanted in the backseat and drop them off at her storage unit on the way to the airport.

As she headed north, Gayle called the office. When Denise answered, she was crying.

“What’s wrong?” Gayle asked.

“Haven’t you heard?” Denise sobbed.

“Heard what?”

“About Erik?”

“What about him?”

“He’s dead, Mrs. Stryker. One of the reporters just told me. He committed suicide in jail. I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it!”

You’d better believe it, bitch, Gayle thought. If he hadn’t been sniffing after you, maybe he’d still be alive. That’s not what she said. “What terrible news. Does Dr. Stryker know?”

“I haven’t told him, but someone else might have.”

“Put me through to him, then,” Gayle said.

“What about the reporters? They want to talk to either you or Dr. Stryker.”

“I already handed you a copy of our standard no-comment response, Denise,” Gayle said firmly. “All you give them is that. Do not answer questions. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” Denise sniffled.

“Now put me through to my husband.”

“Hold on, then,” Denise told her. “I’ll have to knock on his door. He has DND selected on his extension.”

Denise Lindsay came back on the line a minute or so later. “He’s not there,” she said.

“What do you mean, he’s not there?” Gayle demanded. “Maybe he’s in the rest room.”

“He’s not,” Denise said. “I checked. His car’s not in the parking lot either. He left without telling me. He must have gone out the back way.”