Who the hell are you guys? Durrie thought.
“Well, I guess we know where things stand now, huh?” Larson said.
Durrie wished he’d been listening to the conversation alone, but because of Peter’s mandate, the freelance assassin had to come along. To leave him behind would have brought an angry phone call, and Durrie’s immediate removal from the mop-up job.
“I’m not sure we’re ready to call this one yet,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” Larson asked. “Did you not just hear that? They know about the car, which means they probably know about us. The guy’s going to report it, for God’s sake.”
“I can take care of that. No one will listen to him.”
Larson stared at Durrie as if the cleaner had lost his mind. “Do you not understand what’s going on here? We have a breach that needs to be closed. No wonder Peter sent me back.”
Durrie turned on him, his face suddenly full of rage. “We have a breach because you got sloppy! If you did your job the way you were supposed to—”
“Oh, don’t even go—”
“Shut the fuck up! I’ve got seniority here. And, no matter what, I’m still in charge. If you have a problem with that, you can call Peter. In the meantime, we’ll take care of things as I see fit.”
Neither of them said anything for nearly a minute. Just down the street, the Charger pulled away from the curb. Because he no longer needed to keep them in sight due to the location transponders in the rear fenders of both the Charger and the Civic, Durrie gave it a bit of a lead, then pulled into traffic.
“Are these people friends of yours or something?” Larson asked. “I mean, what’s the deal?”
“There’s no deal.”
“Then why are you protecting them?”
“I’m not,” Durrie said. “I’m just trying to make sure we know everything first.”
That sounded good, but Durrie knew it wasn’t really the truth. Larson was right. He was protecting the cops. More specifically, he was protecting Oliver. The kid had achieved a whole hell of a lot with very little, and Durrie wanted to know how. That would be pretty hard to find out if Larson put a gun to the kid’s head and pulled the trigger.
They followed the two rookie cops all the way back to the diner. There, Officer Oliver got out and climbed into his own car.
“Maybe we should split up,” Larson suggested. “You can take the girl. I’ll take the guy.”
As much as he didn’t like it, Durrie knew it was a good idea. “You take the girl,” he said, then tossed the tracking receiver tuned to the beacon in the woman’s car onto Larson’s lap.
Larson shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me.”
When the assassin didn’t move, Durrie said, “I’m not giving you this car. Get out and find your own.”
A quick derisive laugh escaped Larson’s lips. “That attitude of yours is going to come back and bite you someday.”
“Maybe. But you’ll never know. Your ego will get you killed before then.”
All humor left Larson’s face. Durrie could tell the guy was contemplating offing him right there. He almost wished Larson would try. Durrie was a lot faster, and stronger than most people gave him credit for. Any gun aimed at him would soon be pointed back at its owner.
But Larson finally opened his door and climbed out.
“You’re only observing,” Durrie called out. “Anything else, you consult with me first.”
Larson looked back, his face blank, then shut the door and walked away.
15
Jake gave himself a couple of hours to think everything through again in case he’d missed something, but he had no new revelations. Knowing he could put it off no longer, he took a shower, got into a fresh uniform, then headed to work.
The detectives handling the Goodman Ranch Road murder were partners named Young and Hubbard. Jake found them in the detectives’ room they were using, in lieu of their downtown office, because of its proximity to the murder scene.
“We’re a little busy right now. What the hell did you say your name was?” Hubbard asked.
“Oliver.”
“Right. Sorry, Oliver. You’ll have to catch us later.”
Both men were pulling their jackets off the backs of their seats, apparently getting ready to leave.
“I…ah…I might have a lead for you,” Jake said.
That stopped them.
“A lead for what?” Young asked.
“The Goodman Ranch Road murder.”
Jake’s phone vibrated in his pocket. It was the second call he’d received in the last few minutes. The first had come in as he was walking into the room where the detectives were, and he’d ignored it as he tried to steel himself for the task ahead. Whoever was trying to reach him was being persistent, but they were going to have to wait until he was done.
“What could you possibly know about that?” Hubbard asked, surprised.
Jake froze for a moment, wishing suddenly he hadn’t come in here at all. In his pocket, his phone stopped vibrating.
“Are you going to tell us? Or are we supposed to guess?” Young asked.
“I, ah, found something…then did a little…checking, and, and, I, uh, think I might know who’s responsible.”
Hubbard’s eyes narrowed. “You did a little…checking?”
“Yes, sir.”
The two detectives exchanged a look, then Young said, “Maybe you should have a seat.”
* * *
Berit grunted in frustration as Jake once more didn’t answer his phone. Unlike her previous attempt, she left a message this time.
“You’re not going to believe this. I found the BMW. At least I think I did. It got towed into an impound yard yesterday. Same description, same license plate number.” She glanced at her watch. The yard would be closing in an hour and a half, and it would take her at least twenty minutes to get there. “Look, I’m going to go check it out and see if it’s the same one. I’ll call you once I’m there.”
She considered putting her uniform on again, but decided against it. There was good chance she’d run into a cop or two at the impound yard. If one was an officer from her station, they might know she wasn’t on duty. If she was caught wearing a uniform on her day off, especially since she was a rookie, she’d be lucky to still be on the force come tomorrow.
The only thing she took with her was her badge.
* * *
Larson knew from the conversation he and Durrie had overheard that today was the woman’s day off. Once he’d established that she was inside her townhouse, he’d settled into the Jeep Cherokee he’d liberated from a box-store parking lot, and turned the air conditioner to full blast.
Why anyone chose to live in this oven, he’d never know. As far as he was concerned, it had already passed unbearable at least ten degrees earlier. And it was only May, for God’s sake. May! Give him a nice seacoast town with a constant breeze and steady seventy-degree temperature and he’d be in heaven.
When he left here two days earlier, he’d been hoping he wouldn’t have to come back for a long time, if at all. But then that bastard from the Office had called him, and insisted he get back here to “help clean up the mess” that the guy implied he had created. Last he checked, his job wasn’t cleanup. His job was killing. And he’d done that—twice, as a matter of fact. As far as he was concerned, any problems now rested squarely on the shoulders of that dipshit Durrie.
But as annoyed as he was, he was smart enough to realize that he should do what Peter asked. The guy was a revenue stream, and revenue streams were everything. So if coming back and taking care of the “mess” meant Peter would look on him more favorably, then so be it.
Durrie was a separate problem. As much as Larson hated the fact, the son of a bitch was in charge. Peter had told him as much when they’d talked on the phone. But screw Durrie. If the time came and Larson needed to show a little initiative of his own, he’d do it.
He looked back at the monotonous row of
Spanish-style townhouses. The woman apparently wasn’t going anywhere today. Smart, in this heat. But it made Larson all the more antsy.
Then, thirty minutes later, the Dodge Charger appeared at the carport exit.
For the first time in hours, Larson smiled.
* * *
By the time Jake finished explaining everything, three other detectives had joined Young and Hubbard. On the desk was the printout of Mr. Redman and Mr. Walters from the entrance of the Lawrence Hotel, the matchbook in a plastic baggie, printouts of the pictures Jake had taken of the marks in the sand around the barn, and a piece of paper with the BMW’s license plate number written on it. Jake had not shown the picture of the third man from the hotel, since the only evidence that he might have been involved was the subtle reaction of Mr. Redman in the elevator when the man had entered the car.
Hubbard picked up the plastic bag and studied the matchbook inside. “So you found this at the crime scene.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You didn’t tell any of the investigators who were there?”
“I wasn’t sure if it was even important,” Jake said. “I was told the area had already been checked.”
A detective named Kearns said, “Well, don’t you think that—”
Hubbard held up a hand, cutting the man off. “Officer Oliver, do you mind waiting here for a minute? I need to consult with my partner.”
“Of course. No problem.”
Hubbard smiled, then gathered up the items Jake had displayed, and went out into the hallway with Detective Young. The other detectives hung there for a moment, then walked off. Kearns was last to leave. There was pity on his face as he finally went to his desk and picked up his phone.
It’s done. I did the right thing, Jake thought.
But the words didn’t give him as much comfort as he wished.
* * *
The impound yard was on the outskirts of town, a large fenced-off lot bordered on one side by desert and the other side by a concrete manufacturing facility. There were hundreds of cars on the lot, separated in an order that probably made sense to someone.
Berit parked in the visitor area out front, and headed into the office. There were five people queued up in the small, dirty lobby, and a sixth at the counter being helped by a bored-looking white guy who had to be pushing eighty.
She bypassed the line, and walked up to the counter.
“Hey!” a waiting guy called out. “Are you blind? Why do you think we’re standing here?”
She didn’t even bother replying. She merely pulled out her badge and flashed it at him, knowing that would shut him up.
“Is Stanley here?” she asked the old guy.
“What?” He looked at her, annoyed.
She showed him her badge. “Stanley. Is he here?”
He looked into the back office area, and called out, “Stanley. There’s a cop here to see you.”
A few moments later, a much younger man came out of the back. Younger, yes, but with the same tired look on his face that told Berit he had to be related to the old man.
“Can I help you?” Stanley said.
She showed him her badge and said, “I’m Berit Davies, with Phoenix PD. We talked earlier?”
“Right. What can I do for you, Detective?”
She cringed a little on the inside as he made an assumption of her position, but said nothing to correct him. “We talked about a car that had been brought in here yesterday. I’d like to take a look at it if I could.”
“Sure thing. This way.”
He put a hand under the counter and lifted a section like a drawbridge so she could get through, then led her out a back door into the lot. As they stepped outside, the machinery at the concrete plant whined and churned in a constant rhythm, creating a rumbling soundtrack that paid no attention to property lines.
The first row of cars was actually a double stack of vehicles, the top cars raised into the air by metal car holders to create space for another to be parked underneath. As far as Berit could tell, all these slots were filled.
“The newer cars are over this way,” Stanley said, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the machinery noise. He took her around the stackers to the third row back. No stackers here, just two parallel rows of cars parked side to side and trunk to trunk. “That was a Mercedes, right?”
“BMW,” she told him.
“Oh, right. Yeah, I remember now. It’s right down here.”
They walked past more than a dozen cars — sedans, station wagons, trucks, SUVs, Fords, Toyotas, Hyundais, Volkswagens. Whatever the make or model, the yard seemed to have one.
She saw the BMW before they reached it. Its black coat showed a layer of dust and grime that had accumulated since the night the car’s image had been captured by the traffic camera.
“This is it, right?” Stanley asked.
She checked the license plate number. “Yeah. This is it.”
“I gotta head back inside. Take as long as you need.” He started to turn away, then stopped. “Doors are unlocked. Didn’t have a key.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
She waited for him to move away, then she walked around the car. As she did, she removed a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and pulled them on. If Jake was right, this car would soon be part of a crime investigation, and the last thing she wanted was for her own fingerprints to cover up any evidence.
She was careful, though, not to touch anything on this first pass, and used only her eyes to do the examination. She’d hoped that she might spot some obvious fingerprints brought to life by the dust, but no such luck. When she reached the point where she’d started, she was satisfied that there was nothing else she could learn without getting more physically involved, so she opened the driver’s door, and looked inside.
No visible hairs or marks. A little dirt on the floor mats, but in the desert that was to be expected. She leaned in and looked under the seat. Nothing. Not even a scrap of paper or a candy wrapper.
The center console had two empty cup holders and a fold-down armrest that appeared to have a storage compartment under the padded leather. She wanted to open it, but she knew that would probably be pushing things too far. Leave that to the detectives if the car did indeed turn out to be evidence.
She stood back up and opened the rear door. The backseat and footwells were empty. Not even any dirt on the floor. She moved around to the other side and opened the front passenger door. This time she went against her better instincts and popped open the glove compartment. Absolutely nothing inside. She was pretty sure the car had been stolen, but it was hard to believe that the owner hadn’t at least kept a manual or his registration in the box. The men who had stolen it must have emptied it out, then wiped it down.
She closed the box, did a fruitless search for any hair or visible fingerprints on the seat and dash, then shut the door. The only thing left to check was the trunk.
She went around back, unlatched the hood, and lifted it.
* * *
Larson assumed the woman was probably going to visit a friend as she headed toward the edge of town. At least that’s what he thought until she pulled into the parking lot of the auto storage facility.
He coasted to a stop at the side of the road, and watched the woman walk from her car into the main building.
Wait, or what?
He frowned. She could be there for any number of reasons. She was a cop after all, right? Cops had cases they had to deal with. Cases with cars: accidents, drunk drivers, illegal parking, and…stolen vehicles.
Or what, he decided. He pulled into the lot, parked his stolen car three slots from the Charger, and climbed out.
* * *
The BMW’s trunk was lined with gray carpet. There were a couple of bungee cords lying to the side, and a blue zip-up bag with a red cross on it pushed to the back. Ostensibly, it was a first-aid kit, but the bag could be acting as a diversion for what was really inside. Her desire to unzip it was nearly overwhelming
, but, again, she knew it would be a mistake.
What she did do was check under the carpet but the only visible thing she found was the spare tire. There could have been something underneath it, but she wasn’t going to move the tire to check, so she dropped the carpet back down.
There was really nothing else to speak of. A little wear, maybe, and a couple of marks that looked like they’d been there for a long time, but nothing that would tie to the crime on Goodman Ranch Road.
She knew she should be happy she’d found the car — that was huge, actually — but she couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed. She’d been hoping for something concrete that would prove Jake was right.
She pulled out her phone, suddenly wondering if maybe the reason she hadn’t heard back from him was because she didn’t have a signal out here. But though the signal wasn’t as strong as it could be, there was enough to receive a call.
He must be meeting with the detectives, she guessed. If so, she hoped it was going well.
She slipped the phone into her pocket, then reached up to close the trunk.
* * *
The security measure used by the impound lot was definitely enough to keep most people out, but most people weren’t Larson. He spent ninety seconds assessing the situation, and thirty-five getting from one side of the fence to the other.
Once on the inside, he crouched down behind a blue Dodge Caravan and paused for a full minute, waiting for someone to rush out of the building in response to some unseen motion sensor he might have tripped. No one came.
Carefully, he stepped out from his position and scanned the yard. He didn’t see anyone around, but a row of double-stacked cars hid much of the lot from him, so someone could have easily been beyond it.
He headed down the aisle on the far right. It was the farthest away from the main building he could get, lowering the odds that he might be seen.
When he reached the first perpendicular aisle, he paused. He could now see beyond the row of double-stacked cars. Even better, they were now shielding his presence from anyone who might look out from the building.
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