Day of the Dead bw-3

by J. A. Jance

  “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

  AFIS?”

  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.”

  Gayle was upset, but she didn’t allow any of that concern into her voice. “That’s all right, then,” she said. “I’ll try his cell.”

  She did-immediately-but he didn’t pick up, not the first time or the second or the third. That son of a bitch! she muttered. I told him to stay put. What the hell is that damned fool up to?

  When Gayle hit the first traffic tieup on Oracle, she shot over to the freeway. She preferred to take the long way around rather than sitting stuck in stalled traffic.

  J. A. Jance

  Day of the Dead

  Twenty-Eight

  Minutes after Gayle left the Medicos lot, Brandon spotted her husband. Larry Stryker opened the delivery door and furtively checked to see if anyone was looking before hotfooting it across to his Lexus. Brandon pu
t the Suburban in gear and waited to see what would happen. When Larry peeled out through the back entrance, Brandon had to execute a U-turn in order to follow him. He was doing just that when his phone rang.

  “It’s me,” Brian said.

  “What’s the word from Alvin Miller?”

  “Not good,” Brian answered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not what we expected,” Brian said. “Larry Stryker isn’t our guy. None of the Orozco prints match any of the ones on the Burger King cup. But one of the Orozco prints does match one of the unidentified prints we picked up from LaGrange’s house. Ditto for Yuma County.”

  Brandon processed that information in stunned silence. He had invested so much belief and emotion into the idea that Larry Stryker was a serial killer, he couldn’t quite let it go.

  “That leaves us only one viable suspect,” Brian continued. “It has to be someone who was present in 1970 when Roseanne was killed and who was at LaGrange’s house on Saturday night.”

  “Gayle Stryker!” Brandon breathed.

  “You’ve got it,” Brian agreed. “Either her alone or both of them together. I’d love to have a set of her prints, but there aren’t any official ones on file-at least none that Alvin can find that are officially identified as hers. I can’t go for a warrant without something more specific, but I don’t need a warrant to talk to the lady. If I just happened to hand her something and-”

  “Damn!” Brandon muttered.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “She’s gone. She left the Medicos office a few minutes ago. I’m following Larry west on Broadway.”

  “PeeWee’s pulling DMV info on all the Medicos company vehicles. While he’s at it, I’ll have him pull licensing information on Gayle and Larry. Once he has that, we’ll come straight there. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll come back to the office.”

  “That would be nice,” Brandon said, but he didn’t sound hopeful.

  “What are you up to again?” Brian asked.

  Brandon wasn’t eager to say, but he did. “I’m following Larry Stryker through downtown and out toward the freeway. He came racing out of the office a couple of minutes ago, threw a briefcase in his car, and took off.”

  “You’re following him alone?” Brian asked.

  “Looks like,” Brandon said.

  Brian Fellows sighed. “Okay,” he said. “Stick with him. PeeWee and I will leave here in just a couple of minutes. Once we’re under way, I’ll call so you can let us know your location.”

  “Got it,” Brandon said. “And Brian?”

  “What?”

  “Having backup is an excellent idea. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” Brian said. “But do me a big favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Keep your vest on.”

  “I hear you,” Brandon said. “And I will.”

  It was only a little past two, but already northbound traffic was building up. From Miracle Mile on, Oracle was gridlocked. Over and over, Larry had to wait through two full cycles of a light before he could clear a single intersection. The lines of traffic barely moved. Time, on the other hand, seemed to streak by. It was only a matter of hours until they would be out of the country and, if Gayle was right, relatively safe from prosecution. Still, Larry worried. He didn’t want to be late.

  What had happened? For years-for longer than most people stayed married-he and Gayle had maintained an unconventional but relatively untroubled lifestyle. She had allowed him his indulgences, and he had allowed Gayle hers. Last week, everything was fine. This week, the world was falling apart-and all because of a totally unremarkable girl named Roseanne Orozco, someone he barely remembered. She was the ultimate cause of everything coming undone-Roseanne and a jerk of an ex-sheriff named Brandon Walker. What gave that asshole the right to meddle in Larry’s private affairs? Wasn’t that why they’d helped un-elect him-so he couldn’t do that anymore?

  Larry inched his way through another light, crossing River Road just as the light turned red overhead, but squeezing through didn’t do any good. A hundred yards beyond the light, traffic stopped cold again, waiting for a light to change so far ahead that it wasn’t yet visible.

  He glanced at the clock on the dash. Another ten minutes had passed, but he was nowhere near the Tucson city limit. It was just as well they were leaving. The traffic back and forth to the ranch was getting worse every year. Larry Stryker was tired of having to fight his way through it morning and night, coming and going. Didn’t these people understand he was in a hurry? He had to get out to the ranch and back into town before Gayle did.

  Somewhere north of River Road, Larry looked off to the east, toward the spot where he knew Erik LaGrange had lived, and he was struck by a fit of doubt. Gayle had sacrificed that little shit without so much as a backward glance. What if…?

  Plucking his cell phone out of his pocket, he scrolled down until he found the number for CitationShares. “This is Larry Stryker,” he said when an Owner Services rep came on the line. “I just wanted to reconfirm our flight for tonight.”

  “Your wife’s flight from Tucson to Cabo San Lucas?” the rep asked.

  “That’s right,” Larry said. “That’s the one.”

  “It’s scheduled to depart at six P.M.,” the clerk told him.

  Larry caught his breath. “Did you say six?” he asked. “I understood it wasn’t leaving until eight.”

  “No, it’s definitely departing at six. The itinerary calls for one passenger, Mrs. Stryker, leaving for Cabo San Lucas at six P.M. Do you need me to change that, or are you ready to arrange your own departure?”

  Larry could barely speak. “No,” he said. “That’s fine.”

  He ended the call, then pounded the steering wheel with both fists. “That bitch!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “That incredible bitch! She’s planning to take off and leave me holding the bag!”

  By the time he was stopped at the next light, though, Larry had reconsidered. He picked up his phone and hit redial. “This is Dr. Stryker again,” he said. “You’re right. I do need to make my own flight arrangements. I’d like to leave tonight-as soon as you can get a plane here.”

  “Departing from Tucson International?” the reservations clerk asked.

  “No. I’ll be at home, north of the city. I’d rather leave from the FBO at Pinal Air Park.”

  “Will you also be going to Cabo San Lucas?”

  “No,” he said after a moment’s pause. “I’ll be going to Mexico City.”

  “And only one passenger?”

  “That’s right,” he told her. “Only one. But I’d like a Bravo or an Excel-something big enough so I can make it in one shot.”

  “You realize this will be considered simultaneous use. I can’t guarantee you a plane until I check availability. Do you want to stay on the line?”

  “Yes,” Larry said. He almost added “please,” but he managed to stifle himself. The wait was interminable.

  “All right,” the rep said brightly, coming back on the line. “There weren’t any Excels, but I can have a Bravo there at nine-thirty. So that’s one passenger departing from Pinal Air Park.”

  “Wonderful,” he said.

  “Any special catering requirements?” she asked.

  “Scotch,” he told her, letting out his breath. “And plenty of ice.”

  “Cars? A hotel?”

  “Have a car meet me at the executive terminal in Mexico City,” he said. “I’ll decide on the hotel on the way.”

  Brandon’s arm was bothering him again. He had forgotten about it for a while, but now it was aching like crazy. And the Suburban’s air conditioner didn’t seem to be pumping out enough cool air. Nerves, he told himself. And it was true. When his cell phone rang a few minutes later, Brandon jumped as though he’d been shot.

  “Where are you?” Brian asked.

  “Stuck in traffic northbound on Oracle at Orange Grove,” Brandon replied. “At least he’s
not on I-19 headed for Nogales.”

  “If he’s going north on Oracle, Stryker’s most likely going to his ranch,” Brian put in. “It’s The Flying C on the far side of the Tortolitas. That’s the address listed on his driver’s license-101 Flying C Ranch Road. Are you having any difficulty maintaining visual contact?”

  “Are you kidding? We’re crawling along at such a snail’s pace I could walk fast enough to catch up, but I’m also in the Suburban. I’m five or six car lengths back. I’m high enough to see him, but I doubt he can see me. How about you?”

  “PeeWee and I just left the department. With all the construction at I-19 and I-10, we’re taking surface streets. It may take us a while. Do you want us to use the siren?”

  “Don’t bother,” Brandon said. “Traffic’s too heavy for that. I’ll keep you posted, but give me that home address again, just in case. I’ll key it into my GPS. That way, if I do end up losing him, I’ll still have some idea where he’s headed.”

  After ending the call, he started messing around with the GPS controls. The obligatory warning came on, telling him not to make adjustments to the system while the car was in motion, but there was no danger of that. The Suburban was stopped cold at a traffic signal. As soon as the GPS system had located the address and mapped it, Brandon called Brian back.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “The Flying C is off Highway 79. It’s in Pinal County, not Pima. What’s going to happen if Bill Forsythe finds out you’ve strayed into another jurisdiction?”

  “We’re just going to ask a pair of suspects a few questions,” Brian said. “No big deal.”

  But Brandon knew that once Sheriff Forsythe heard what was going on, there would be hell to pay.

  The lunchtime rush was mostly over. Diana and Lani sat at a table in the far corner of the room while Lani picked at her food.