With a nod that indicated that he considered their conversation over, he firmly pushed the elevator button and gestured for her to step inside when the door to the empty car arrived.
Sierra pressed the button to hold the elevator without breaking eye contact. “All that’s great, but I’m here to prove to you,” she said, “that Ace Colton’s not a perpetrator, just one more of those victims—and I plan to start by finding this so-called witness you seem to have misplaced.”
* * *
Sierra walked along downtown’s main drag the next morning, acknowledging that she had screwed up big-time announcing her next move to the straight-arrow Sergeant Spencer Colton. Already, he had made it clear that he didn’t believe that nice women ended up trailed by Las Vegas gangsters. Or maybe he was more annoyed by the way she’d broken his stupid no-contact directive before telling him she was hell-bent on undermining his case against Ace Colton.
Though she’d liked to imagine the sergeant had meant what he had told her about wanting to find the real truth, he’d clearly put the word out among his fellow cops that she wasn’t to be trusted. Or at least, she couldn’t get a thing out of the officers she’d attempted to chat up after happening upon them yesterday, one on his meal break at Bubba’s Diner and two others making separate stops at a coffee house called Java Jane’s.
She held out hope the bank might offer her an untainted source of information today. Stepping inside the lobby, she approached a matronly looking teller who walked her through the process of depositing Selina’s cashier’s check and even chatted a bit about the woman’s plans for an upcoming vacation with her grown children.
“Speaking of family,” Sierra ventured. “I happen to know that Destiny Jones’s is very eager to have her home this Thanksgiving. Would you have heard anything from her lately? I promised I’d pass along whatever I—”
The friendliness in the teller’s brown eyes was instantly extinguished, replaced by a look of glazed panic as she quickly shook her head. “I can’t—I can’t talk about that with you. Personnel matters here are...strictly confidential.”
Her breathing quick and noisy, her gaze darted about as she looked to her fellow tellers for help.
Afraid that at any moment some nervous Nellie might hit the silent alarm, leaving her with a lot of explaining to do when the police came, Sierra raised her palms and peered at the woman’s name tag. “It’s all right, Ms.—Ms. Harding. Jane. I’m not trying to get anybody into trouble. I’d just like to help Destiny’s family. They’re very worried, and I thought that maybe you might’ve heard—”
“I said no,” she repeated, this time loudly enough that the words echoed across the marble-floored lobby.
From his spot two stations over, a younger male teller scratched his nose and cut Sierra a meaningful look from his own station. But before she could do anything about it, the bank’s manager clicked over in her high heels and escorted Sierra out with such firm insistence that she quickly found herself on the doorstep.
“Wowza,” she murmured to herself of her brusque ejection. Did Spencer somehow get to her, too, or is that woman hiding something instead? Something she doesn’t want me to know about her bank and the missing Destiny Jones?
Her instincts insisting it was the latter, Sierra headed out to where she’d parked her car, pausing in front of a shop undergoing renovations, where she raised her eyebrows to see a photo in the window featuring the magnetic gaze of a middle-aged blonde woman. Below it hung a hand-lettered sign profusely thanking Micheline Anderson and the Affirmation Alliance Group for their help with earthquake recovery efforts.
“Hmm,” Sierra murmured, wondering how such generosity fit in with the less savory rumors she’d heard about the center the woman had established outside of town.
With no time to ponder the question, she rounded the corner, she stopped abruptly at the sight of a slightly built female officer, a long, dark brown ponytail trailing down her back as she used a flashlight to peer inside the dented Camry’s tinted windows. As Sierra stepped back out of sight, her stomach tightened as the cop drew her holstered weapon—as if she expected to find a clown car’s worth of additional trouble out of Vegas. Or maybe, at the sergeant’s direction, she was looking for some excuse to arrest Sierra, too.
It was enough to convince her to ditch the damaged Camry sooner rather than later, so after waiting until the ponytailed officer climbed into her patrol vehicle and drove away, Sierra headed for a small car lot she’d spotted when she’d first driven into Mustang Valley. In a rundown area not far past a biker joint called Joe’s Bar, Alonso & Sons was marked by older model vehicles, sagging strings of tired-looking plastic flags, and hand-printed signs boasting E-Z Credit and Make Your Weekly Payment Here!
In less than an hour’s time, she’d made a deal, trading the Camry, which was years newer than any of the beaters on the lot, for a low-mileage older Chevy with the Arizona plate attached and no nonsense about tax or registration, since she didn’t haggle over the cash price. After she slipped a few hundred dollars extra his way, she had the salesman repeat the words, “I don’t know the guy who bought it. It must’ve been my old man who sold him that car.”
“Perfect.” Climbing into the sun-faded blue Chevy, she checked some notes she’d made soon after her arrival in Mustang Valley, after conferring with Nikolas Slater, the PI Selina had originally hired to find Ace. Though Nikolas had seemed less than enthusiastic about Sierra’s insistence that she meant to bring in Ace, he had been professional enough to give her a few helpful pieces of information he’d uncovered—including the address of the witness who’d reported the missing man’s supposed confession.
Gratified to find the information quickly, Sierra verified the location on her phone before heading to check in with Destiny’s neighbors over at her small apartment complex, tucked within a residential neighborhood only a few blocks from downtown. Here, too, evidence remained of the trembler that had struck the region, including one tumbled-down garage and a modest dwelling with a blue plastic tarp over a collapsed roof on an addition. For the most part, however, the area appeared to have moved on, thanks in large part, she’d heard, to the efforts of local volunteers.
Few of the second-floor residents answered Sierra’s knocks, and of those, none claimed to know the attractive blonde in her early thirties who’d vanished so abruptly. The only person willing to talk at all was a bony older man with jutting ears who used her introduction as the launchpad for a diatribe regarding the “troubles” with young women these days.
“They’re out there takin’ over every kind of man’s job, and blowin’ about as free as tumbleweeds instead of settlin’ down to raise good families,” he said over the sound of his whistling hearing aids, waving toward Sierra’s bare left hand with a pucker of disapproval. “You ask me, we were better off back when a gal went from her daddy’s house straight to her husband’s, with no time for courtin’ trouble in between.”
“Yes, sir,” Sierra said, raising her voice to be sure he heard her. “Appreciate the information, but you’ll have to excuse me...” she added, already edging toward the staircase and the promise of escape.
“And another thing. Back then the women used to dress like ladies,” he continued, his speckled scalp flushing beneath the thin, white strands combed across it as he scowled over her jeans and dusty boots, along with the form-fitting tactical charcoal jacket she found so useful for stowing gear and hiding weapons. “Put on some pretty lipstick or maybe some nice earrings before their man came home to dinner on the table.”
“Thank you, sir, but I really have to go and find Ms. Jones now,” Sierra repeated, frustrated. So often it seemed the only people who ever wanted to talk when she was on the job were the type who had, not useful information, but a lifetime of opinions they couldn’t wait to unload.
As she turned to flee, the clump-slide of his rapid steps echoed on the landing just behind her.
“Wait!” he called.
She froze, eyes closing, before turning with a tight smile that she hoped disguised her grimace. “Yes?”
He lifted one hand from his walker to point down over the railing. “You maybe oughta ask that fella right there about my missing neighbor. I’ve seen him here a few times, comin’ out of her apartment. My guess is that he’s pickin’ up some of her things before the landlord tosses ’em.”
Sierra looked down toward the parking lot where a thick-necked man with a black soul patch, wearing a gray sweatshirt and a cap with the Arizona Cardinals logo, held a large cardboard box near the open rear gate of a beat-up dark red van. He stood frozen for a moment, his dark eyes flicking a wary look from the old man’s outstretched hand to Sierra’s face.
“Hi, neighbor. Just moving in?” she called down to him, offering what she hoped would appear a friendly wave as she took a couple of more steps toward the staircase.
“Didn’t you hear what I just told you?” the old man put in, his words ringing off the concrete landing. “That’s Destiny Jones’s boyfriend, clearin’ out her stuff.”
In the lot below, the man in the ball cap cursed, shoving the box into his van and slamming down the hatch.
As he raced to jump inside, Sierra pounded down the steel stairs, shouting after him, “I just have a few questions, that’s all! I swear I’m not a cop!”
But he was peeling off by the time she reached the lot, moving too fast for her to catch more than the first few digits on his license plate. Digging out her keys, she climbed into her new ride, cranked the engine and took off in pursuit. But the van’s head start enabled the driver to lose her in the tight maze of mainly residential streets.
Defeated, she pulled over in front of a small neighborhood park where she grabbed her cell, thinking of calling 911 and asking the dispatcher to have police put out a Be On the Lookout alert. But what could she say that would get anyone to listen to her?
Instead, she impulsively pressed to connect with Ainsley Colton’s number from her list of recent callers. On the second ring, Ace’s younger sister, an attorney for Colton Oil who’d seemed especially concerned about her brother’s welfare, picked up.
“Can you believe it?” she blurted, clearly upset, before Sierra could get a word out. “They’ve gone and transferred him to the jail infirmary first thing this morning—and they still aren’t letting me or anybody from the family see him. Poor Nova’s going crazy, knowing he’s this close and she still can’t meet him.”
“You need to listen to me, Ainsley,” Sierra said brusquely, though her heart twisted at the thought of Ace stuck behind bars on what she was now more certain than ever was a setup. “If you really want him walking free again, I need you to make a call for me now without wasting time with a lot of questions. Can you do that?”
“Of course I will,” she said, pulling herself together with admirable efficiency. “Just tell me what you need.”
Sierra ran it down for Ainsley, asking her to reach out to Spencer and tell him that she’d spotted Destiny Jones’s alleged boyfriend fleeing her apartment. After rattling off a description of the man and vehicle, along with the partial plate number, Sierra added, “You need to see if he can have his patrol officers pick this guy up before he gets too far, because I’m certain he knows something—and Destiny’s the key.”
Once she ended the call, Sierra resumed driving, cruising the streets as she tried to plan out her next move. As she crossed over the main drag, she instead spotted something else of interest—the same slim, neatly dressed male teller who had tried to catch her attention before the bank manager asked her to leave.
Turning to follow him, she watched him head into Java Jane’s, probably on his break, and decided to seize on the opportunity.
Finding no open parking spaces nearby, she quickly hung a right, intending to make the block. It was then she caught a glimpse, several cross streets ahead, of the deep red van she’d lost earlier.
“Finally, a little luck.” Pumping the air with her fist, she abandoned the idea of trying to pry information from the teller and hurried off in pursuit.
Apparently confident he had lost her, the van’s driver, recognizable in his Cardinals ball cap, proceeded at a normal rate of speed as he wended his way toward another residential neighborhood not far past the high school. If he so much as glanced at his rearview mirror, she didn’t see it, since she stayed several car lengths back in the hope of avoiding detection.
She slowed, pulling to the roadside a few houses short when he swung into the gravel driveway of one bungalow, more rundown that most of its neighbors’ with two dead palm trees in an overgrown front yard. After parking inside an even more dilapidated wooden garage, he quickly bailed out and pulled closed the barn-style double doors before heading toward what Sierra presumed to be a back door.
But Sierra wasn’t the only person watching, she realized, a thrill zinging through her veins when she spotted the stirring of a curtain in one of the house’s windows and caught a glimmer of sunlight off a platinum-blond head. That had to be the same pixie cut she’d seen in the missing teller’s last social media postings, a look that made the petite woman’s large, honey-brown eyes and plump, pink lips stand out in contrast. Attractive as the other woman was, Sierra dismissed the tiny twinge she felt when she wondered if Ace’s confession had come on the heels of a passionate tryst. As far as Sierra was concerned, every word of Destiny’s story stunk to high heaven.
Pulling out her phone, she placed a call directly to the police station and asked to be put through to Sergeant Colton.
Expecting to get his voice mail, she was surprised when Spencer picked up in person. And not at all shocked to hear how annoyed he sounded when she identified herself.
“What is this? You want me to put out another BOLO now, or do you have another wild goose chase you’re hoping I can run down for you?”
“I take it you spoke with Ainsley, then. Good.” Sierra made a huffing sound. “Now, if we’re done with the small talk, I have the address where Destiny Jones has been hiding.”
“You’re sure about that?” he asked, his irritation seeming to fall away.
“I’d bet your goodwill on it,” she said, just to yank the sergeant’s chain. “I saw her at the window. Single residence at 2961 Saguaro Street, with a man I believe to be her boyfriend.”
“Same white or Hispanic male in the red van from her apartment?” Spencer asked.
“Yeah. I spotted the guy and tailed him over here.”
“Do not approach,” the sergeant ordered. “I know that address—and that suspect. We’re almost certain he’s a drug dealer, very likely to be armed and dangerous—and I seriously doubt that he’s alone... Ms. Madden?”
Dropping her phone as she heard a sound just behind her driver’s side door, Sierra gasped and reached for her gun before remembering it hadn’t yet been returned to her after its recovery following the motel shootout. Her split-second indecision gave the person who’d crept up behind her the time needed to fling open her door and bellow, “Freeze!” before she could hit the door lock or put the car in Drive.
Chapter 7
The uniformed officer was no older than his midtwenties and clearly nervous, a flush in his fair cheeks and a slight tremor shaking the barrel of the weapon he’d trained on Sierra.
But his voice was firm, as was the look in his hazel eyes when he ordered, “Step out of the car, please, miss. That’s it. Now turn around and put your hands against the car.”
“Was all this really necessary?” Sierra grumbled as he frisked her, quickly but professionally, for any weapons—a search that turned up nothing more interesting that the zip ties she kept on her belt, which he decided to let her keep after she’d shown him both her bail bond agent ID card and Nevada driver’s license. “If Destiny and her boyfriend didn’t know we were here before, I’m sure they
do by now.”
“Look, I’m sorry if I startled you,” said the cop, whose name tag read Ofc J. Donovan, “but my orders were to make sure we didn’t end up having a civilian triggering another shoot-out like the one at the motel the other night.”
“I’m not the one who started that,” she reminded him. “Not that you would know it based on your department’s persecution of one of the intended victims—not to mention the person who’s gone ahead and tracked down not one but two missing persons for you in the short time I’ve been in town...not that I’m implying your department needs to step up its game in that arena.”
Judging from his scowl, the look she’d slanted his way may have suggested otherwise. Could she help it if she had outspoken eyebrows?
“Don’t get so cocky quite yet,” he said. “We haven’t determined Destiny Jones is inside that house, but as soon as my backup gets here...”
He turned his head as an unmarked car pulled up a few doors down the street and Sergeant Colton climbed out, along with what she assumed to be a plainclothes male officer, maybe a detective or someone pitching in from the administration since the department was a small one. Both were wearing vests, she saw, and Spencer quickly ordered Donovan to put his on, as well.
“And as for you,” the sergeant told her, “we appreciate your call, but you need to stay in your car. And completely clear of this operation. Do you understand?”
“Fine by me,” Sierra told him before cutting an annoyed look toward the younger cop who’d searched her. “I only hope they didn’t slip out the back while Officer Obvious was alerting the whole neighborhood by frisking me right out on the street.”
Hunting the Colton Fugitive Page 8