by J. A. Jance
There had been an abandoned workbench complete with tools in the garage when Ava had bought the place. She’d mostly ignored the tools as she came and went, but there was one thing there on the bench that she needed now in the very worst way—duct tape. She picked up the roll, ripped off an eight-inch-long strip, and returned to the passenger side of the car.
Ava kept the tape out of the victim’s sight until she knelt down beside the woman who, half in and half out of the car, was struggling desperately against her restraints.
“Hold still,” Ava said calmly. “Let me cut you loose.”
As soon as the woman quieted, Ava slapped the tape across her face. Then she stood up without noticing that, in the process of her covering the writhing woman’s mouth, Ava’s prized olla had somehow spilled out of her pocket.
She straightened up and stood for a few moments considering what to do next. She’d have to decide on a permanent solution for the captive woman eventually. She couldn’t very well shoot her right here in the garage. There wasn’t as much soundproofing here as in the house. But for now, at least, there would be no screaming for help. Ava definitely couldn’t tolerate any screaming—not now and not tonight.
CHAPTER 27
EVEN TO THIS DAY, NAWOJ, if you go to that water hole, you will hear Shining Falls singing. The sound of her voice is so soft and sweet that, if you listen to it long enough, you may fall asleep. Sometimes, even the White-Winged Doves who are always there at the water hole fall asleep, too.
AVA UNDERSTOOD THAT PANIC WAS her enemy. She had put a good deal of time and effort into making sure none of her DNA would be found in the house. She had planned on one final scrubdown of the things she knew she’d touched after the cleaning—her wineglass, Henry’s shot glass, the doorknob to the back door. That was why she had sat so still, waiting for him. She hadn’t wanted to risk leaving behind any trace evidence, but in her rush to retrieve the car keys and move the car, she’d handled Henry’s body without first putting on a pair of latex gloves. She understood that these days it was possible to lift fingerprints and DNA from a victim’s clothing. Time and the elements had worked their evidence-destroying magic on the bodies of Amos Warren and Kenny Mangum, but this time she wouldn’t have that luxury.
She paused for several long moments in the living room, staring at Henry’s still body and worrying, then she did the only thing that made sense. She stripped off all Jane Dobson’s clothing, donned a pair of latex gloves, and went to work, removing Henry’s bloodied shirt, pants, and underwear and sticking them in a garbage bag. Henry would stay here when she finished; his clothes would be going somewhere else.
BRANDON DIDN’T EXACTLY FOLLOW HIS own advice. He disregarded every speed limit sign he saw. Luckily, he didn’t get caught. Twenty-three minutes after leaving Gates Pass he arrived on Calle de Justicia. The houses all had two-car attached garages. A few had an extra car or two parked either in the driveway or out on the street. None of the visible vehicles were Lani’s bright red Fusion.
Brandon redialed Todd Hatcher’s number. “Is the phone still pinging from the same spot?” he asked.
“Hasn’t moved,” Todd replied.
“Good,” Brandon said. “Thanks.”
He went around the block and parked on the next street over, S. Avenida de Aventura. He couldn’t very well go into battle with guns blazing. He already knew that Carlos and Paul José had died in a hail of automatic gunfire. That probably meant that he was severely outgunned from the get-go. He was at a physical disadvantage as well. Henry Rojas was a couple of decades younger than Brandon Walker and most likely hadn’t had a triple bypass, either. Brandon knew that Bozo could possibly level the playing field some, but he didn’t know by how much.
He fumbled in the glove box and found the leash he kept there. He fastened that to Bozo’s collar, then the two of them scrambled out of the SUV and onto the pavement.
Over the years, Brandon had enjoyed watching Dan Pardee work with and train his dogs—first Bozo and later Hulk. Brandon had always been fascinated to see how each dog magically became an extension of Dan himself. Over time, Brandon had become acquainted with the simple but useful commands Dan used—find, quiet, get him, wait, off, leave it. He also remembered the dogs’ joyous barks after successfully executing one of those commands.
Tonight Brandon worried that a spontaneous bark might warn Henry Rojas that Brandon and Bozo were outside—that they were onto him.
Bozo was already on the ground and shivering with anticipation when Brandon brought out the scrap of material that was Lani’s bikini. He held it up to the dog’s nose.
“Quiet,” he ordered first. Then, a moment later, he added, “Find.”
Brandon had no way of knowing if the swimsuit had been laundered. At the very least, it would have been rinsed out. Would there be enough of Lani’s scent present for the dog to get a reading? The only way to find out for sure was to try. Brandon and Bozo set out at a brisk pace, with Brandon hoping that they looked like nothing more threatening than a man and his dog out for a late-evening walk.
Looking down at Bozo, Brandon was gratified to see that the dog was on full alert. His ears and tail were up, his head swinging from side to side. Brandon was lost in thought when Bozo made a sudden jerk to the right and lunged up an empty driveway. Taken by surprise, Brandon almost fell on his face as the charging dog dragged him toward a closed garage door. While the dog stood with his nose pressed to the lit crack under the door, Brandon leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Good dog, Bozo. Good find.”
Then, hauling back on the leash, Brandon dragged the dog away from the door and far enough down the driveway that he was able to glimpse the house number. Bozo wasn’t ready to quit, but eventually he stopped fighting the leash.
“Here’s the deal,” Brandon found himself whispering to the dog as they walked back around the block to the car. “I’m worried Henry will try to take off before Dan gets here, so we’re going to create a deterrent. In a pissing match between a parked Escalade and a Ford Fusion, the F car loses every time, and my Caddy isn’t going anywhere. Get in.”
Without turning on the lights, Brandon drove the SUV around the corner and parked it at an odd angle in the middle of the driveway in a way he hoped would effectively block both sides of the garage.
Bozo was ready to get out again, but Brandon reasoned they were better off staying inside the vehicle for the time being. They’d be safer, for one thing, and if a resident happened to drive by, they’d be much less visible.
Then, phone in hand, he sent a text to Todd Hatcher:
Parked in front of 5850 S. Calle de Justicia. Dog says Lani is inside the garage. Can you give me any info on residence. Text. Do NOT call.
Finished with that, he sent a text to Dan Pardee as well:
Address is 5850 S. Calle de Justicia. Bozo says Lani is here. Blocking the driveway so he can’t get out. Waiting for you to show up before making a move. If he tries to leave before that, all bets are off.
In the time it had taken Brandon to key in the text to Dan, a reply came back from Todd:
Owner of that address is Miss Jane Dobson, age 69. Retired schoolteacher. Drives a 2006 Acura, AZ: License 583-AMV. Sending driver’s license photo next.
The photo that appeared a moment later showed a perfectly ordinary-looking woman, maybe a few years younger than Brandon and Diana.
“So what’s Henry Rojas’s relationship with Ms. Dobson?” Brandon asked, amused by the fact that he was once again conversing with Bozo, who thumped his tail in reply. Dan’s replying text arrived at the same time.
On I-10. GPS says I’m five minutes out. Wait for me.
LANI HAD MANAGED TO GET enough purchase on the car seat with her left foot to push herself up off the floor and into a semisitting position. It wasn’t a huge improvement, but it took some of the weight off her aching shoulders.
Half an hour later when the door from inside the house opened, Lani expected to see Henry Rojas emerge. He did not.
What came out instead was the silver-haired woman Lani had seen before. This time she was stark naked, except for a pair of latex gloves and a pair of bedroom slippers. In one hand she carried a black plastic garbage bag. The other hand held Henry’s gym bag. Lani heard the woman open the trunk of a silver vehicle that was parked next to the Fusion.
Lani figured parading around naked meant one of two things: either the woman was completely nuts or else she had nothing to lose. If it turned out to be the latter, Lani worried that she herself had everything to lose. One thing Lani noticed was the difference between the woman’s body and her face. From the face and hair she looked to be close to seventy. Her body was that of someone decades younger. How could that be?
Over the course of the next several minutes, the woman made two more trips back and forth, loading things into the other car each time she came and went. The last time she entered the garage, she was dressed in a muumuu and a pair of chartreuse tennis shoes. She was carrying a walker she apparently didn’t need to use. After stowing the walker in the trunk of the vehicle and slamming the trunk lid shut, she walked over to Lani and knelt at her side. Lani noticed that the woman had brought a large purse along with her and that she was still wearing the gloves.
“Okay now,” the woman said, “I don’t know who you are, but you have a choice here. Henry was considerate enough to bring along some very nice meds. You can either hold still for a shot or two, or else I use my Glock. It’s totally up to you.”
As she spoke she set three clear glass vials down on the floor next to Lani.
Whatever it was, Lani knew that the medication in the vials was far less potent than Henry had thought. She’d already had two shots of the stuff. But would three more be too many? However, the choice between being given a possibly not-too-powerful drug and being shot in the head at close range wasn’t much of a choice at all.
She looked at the needle and nodded.
“Good girl,” the woman said. “Hold still now.”
Lani watched as the woman plunged the needle into her upper arm with practiced ease. By the time it came to the third vial, Lani noticed that the woman was reusing the second syringe, but the familiar lassitude was already creeping up through her body, and she really didn’t care. The last thing she heard was the woman saying, “Okay now. That should do the trick.”
Lani felt the drug’s rush immediately, noting with some irony that she’d missed her only chance to do any head-butting. Too bad.
EXPECTING DAN’S EXPLORER TO ROUND the corner at any moment, Brandon was dismayed when the garage door started to open. He didn’t want to get into some kind of confrontation with either Henry or Jane Dobson on his own. That meant he needed to play for time.
He grabbed for Bozo’s leash and was about to exit the Escalade when all hell broke loose. A silver car, driving in reverse, shot out of the garage and slammed dead on into the front bumper of the Caddy. The blow was hard enough to rattle Brandon’s teeth, hard enough for the air bag to deploy, but not hard enough to hurt him. And as soon as the air bag deflated, a skittish Bozo came scrambling out of the back cabin into the front.
This was far better than Brandon had hoped. The driver hadn’t even glanced in the rearview mirror. He had simply assumed that his driveway was empty and hit the gas. Tough luck for him. Brandon supposed he had seen Henry Rojas on occasion, but would he recognize Brandon in this unfamiliar place in the middle of the night? Maybe not.
But then the driver’s door of the other car—Jane Dobson’s aging Acura—opened. Jane herself, presumably, stepped out and marched toward him, clearly enraged. There was no sign of Henry.
Brandon still held the leash. “Come on, Bozo. Time for old age and trickery to win out. Let’s put on a show.”
He opened the car door. With the dog in tow, he staggered out onto the driveway and meandered halfway across the front yard before righting himself and walking tipsily back.
“Who are you?” he demanded of the woman, while swaying drunkenly on his feet. “Where are Adam and Grace?” He slurred the words as best he could. Grace came out more like Grathe.
“Who are Adam and Grace?”
“I’m staying with them. Isn’t this their house?”
“It’s my house, you incredible moron. Get that wreck out of my way.”
“Oh my,” Brandon slurred. “I stopped for a leak and must have hit the wrong driveway. So shorry. Looks like your car took a real hit. Maybe we should try to pull the back bumper forward an inch or so. Otherwise it’s gonna wreck your tire.”
Bending over, Brandon pretended to examine the Acura’s smashed back bumper while he was really trying to see if Henry Rojas was seated in the passenger seat. As far as he could tell the vehicle held no other occupants.
“My car is fine. I don’t need your help. Now get that thing out of my way. I was just leaving. If I don’t go now, I’ll be late.”
“Lemme get my insurance info. It’s in the car.”
“I already told you, I’ll handle the damage. Just get the hell out of my way.”
The urgency in her voice was unmistakable. Just then a pair of headlights pulled up behind Brandon. Out of the corner of his eye, Brandon recognized Dan’s Explorer. “Hey, here’s Adam now. He’s a mechanic. Maybe he should take a look at your car and see if it’s okay.”
Bozo had already recognized the car and was barking eagerly as he headed in that direction. Now two cars blocked Jane Dobson’s driveway.
When Dan opened the door to step out, Brandon pretended to fall against him. “You’re Adam,” he whispered urgently. “You live up the street. Bozo says Lani’s inside somewhere. No sign of Rojas.”
Dan got out of the Explorer with Hulk on his own leash. Brandon passed Bozo’s leash to Dan, then stumbled to the passenger side of the Escalade and made a show of rummaging through the glove box.
“Ma’am,” he heard Dan saying behind him. “I’m Adam, from just up the street. Sorry about my friend. I’m afraid he’s had a bit too much to drink, but you really shouldn’t try driving a vehicle with that kind of damage.”
“I want you both out of my way. Now!”
There was desperation in Jane Dobson’s voice now, along with the very real expectation that whatever order she issued would be instantly obeyed. Brandon turned back toward her carrying a fistful of paperwork, supposedly the insurance documentation that she didn’t want or need. He was pretending to be dead drunk. He had parked in the wrong driveway. The accident was clearly his fault, and yet she didn’t care about making an insurance claim? There was something wrong about that—something very wrong.
As Brandon stepped toward her, the woman moved back to the Acura’s open driver’s side door. Leaning inside, she emerged carrying a leather purse. When Brandon saw her shift the purse from her right hand to her left and then reach inside with her right, the hairs rose on the back of his neck. She could have been reaching for a cell phone, but his gut said she wasn’t. She had to be reaching for a weapon.
With his Glock in a small-of-the-back holster, Brandon knew there was no way he could manage any kind of gunslinger quick draw. “Gun!” he shouted, hitting the deck and hoping that Dan would do the same.
What Brandon didn’t realize—what he hadn’t observed in any of Dan Pardee’s dog-training sessions—was that, in the world of combat dogs and their handlers, that single word, “Gun!,” was an urgent command all its own. Hulk didn’t react immediately because his master hadn’t issued the command. Brandon had done so, and Bozo was Brandon’s dog now. The shepherd’s crouch-powered spring covered the distance between him and the woman in a single leap. He knocked her flat and was all over her while the offending gun went spinning harmlessly out of reach.
“Get him off. Get him off!” she scr
eamed. “He’s hurting me!”
“Off!” Brandon and Dan ordered together. “Leave it,” Dan added for good measure. Obligingly, Bozo stepped away.
Jane sat up and used the frame of the car to pull herself to her feet. The gray wig she was wearing had been knocked askew. Blood flowed from her damaged right wrist.
“That dog is vicious and needs to be put down. I’m calling the cops.”
“Please do,” Brandon said. “Actually, I can hear sirens, so one of your neighbors must have already phoned it in. Dan, you and Hulk keep an eye on her. Don’t let her go anywhere. In the meantime, there’s something Bozo and I need to do.”
Brandon stepped forward and picked up Bozo’s lead. Then he drew a strip of colorful material out of his pocket and held it out to Bozo. “Find,” he ordered. A moment later, Bozo was standing at the back of Lani’s Fusion barking his head off.
With his heart racing in his chest, Brandon walked over and pressed the trunk release. At first glance, Lani was so still that he thought she was dead. After a heart-stopping moment, he realized she was asleep. Not asleep—unconscious. A moment after that he spotted the tiny but still-bleeding puncture wound on her arm.
He spun around and strode back to the woman, who was leaning against her car. “What have you done to her?” he demanded, brandishing his fist. “If she dies . . .”
Brandon might have gone after her then and there, but Dan barred his way, Dan and Hulk together.
“The cops are here,” Dan said. “Let them handle the situation.”
“Lani’s there. We need to get her out of the vehicle.”
“No,” Dan told him. “The cops need to see it—all of it.”
A patrol car pulled up behind Dan’s Explorer, followed by an aid car and a fire truck. The young patrol officer who walked up the driveway toward them was exactly the kind of cop Brandon had worried might walk into this mess—someone who was inexperienced and still wet behind the ears. The name plate pinned to his shirt identified him as Officer Lopez.