Howard Young had led a troop of well-armed men to a house in one corner of the compound. They were shooting at any sound they heard, but with little effect in the darkness.
Linda said, “Howard is asking for Mike Damson. He doesn’t trust the sheriff not to kill his men if they surrender. Do you know where he is?”
“He’s on the phone,” Allen said.
Next I could hear Linda speak directly into the phone. “You moron, why aren’t you here when I need you. I built you up as the most rational man in the place and you’re not even here.”
I explained the situation to Linda, and she insisted that I could get them to surrender even if I had to do it by phone. After a series of delays and negotiations to even get the phone to Howard Young, I began to try and talk the situation down. After the two hours of give and take, I was losing my voice and my cell phone was almost dead, but we had an agreement. The governor had approved it. Howard and his men surrendered. The governor agreed to appoint an independent group that would include several prominent religious leaders to investigate who had actually fired the first shot at the Freedom First Ranch. All women and children under fifteen would be released immediately, and only the men who were armed during the first confrontation would be taken into custody. That was fifteen men and two boys of sixteen.
After the deal was set, Sheriff Taylor asked for the phone. “I heard about the bank going bust,” he said in a tired voice. “I’ll talk with the county manager and county attorney tomorrow and get this suspension business behind us. Thanks for your help tonight. Mike, I want you and Chad to know that I sent you back to Sedona for a good reason. Let’s discuss it sometime when we’re not exhausted.”
I was also too tired to want to discuss the sheriff’s actions. Maybe things would seem better in the morning, but it was difficult to forget that the sheriff had followed the politically expedient course when he suspended me. He was certainly ready to toss me out to avoid a confrontation with the county commissioners, and he was ready to ignore a murder suspect because of a lawsuit. He must have suspected the bank’s involvement in Dr. Thatcher’s murder. At least, I was very pleased that no one else had been killed at the Freedom First Ranch.
Margaret and I collapsed into bed around 3:30.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
I smelled coffee. The sun was already bright on the red rock panorama visible through the bedroom windows. Margaret’s side of the bed was empty. The alarm clock indicated that it was already 8:30, the time Margaret normally left for work. I’d been having one of those flying dreams. I was the pilot of a World War I biplane flying over the trenches in France. Somehow, Wilson Mountain and Sedona had gotten moved to Verdun, and I’d been bombing a trench in the Jordan Park area of town. Flying dreams are supposed to mean something, but I couldn’t remember what.
Margaret entered the room bringing a cup of rich black coffee, Organic Zen dark roast from Bashas’. She leaned over and kissed me and said, “Sweetie, I’m headed for work. You did a great job last night talking those men into surrendering.”
“Biplane. I was flying a biplane,” I said.
“Go back to sleep and enjoy your dream. I’ll make you German chocolate walnut brownies with toffee cream cheese icing to celebrate tonight.”
“There’s something important about biplanes,” I said as she put on her coat and left the room.
I stayed in bed until the phone rang at 9:15. “Partner, have you heard the news? The standoff ended last night without any fatalities,” Chad said.
“Yes, I heard about it. I guess things will be back to normal in the office soon,” I said.
“The sheriff gave everyone who was up there the day off. The deputies should all be back tomorrow morning. Can you believe those swat guys could pull this off without killing anyone? The Phoenix PD must be proud of them.” His enthusiasm was reasonable, but somehow I couldn’t share it. It had worked, but negotiations might have accomplished the same thing with less risk. The issue of who fired the first shot was also bothering me. We’d lost four men up there. Was it because of poor fire discipline and incompetent planning?
“Any word from the Cottonwood Police about Griffin’s arrest?” I asked.
“No. I’ll call them right now and call you back. Are you still in bed at 9:15? You sound like you were asleep. You’re enjoying this suspension too much. It’s time to get you back to work.”
I turned on CNN as I showered and dressed. There was a small report about the favorable ending to the siege at Freedom First Ranch, but major terrorist bombings in Islamabad and Kabul dominated the morning news. There was no mention of Bank E & A or Henry Griffin. They were old news, forgotten until something else broke on the stories.
I was surprised when Chad had still not called back at 10:00. I assumed he was calling when the phone rang at 10:15, but it was Sheriff Taylor welcoming me back to the department, full reinstatement with retroactive pay adjustment. He said that he’d put a commendation in my file for my actions in rescuing him and for my successful negotiations with Howard Young. The sheriff explained that Chad would bring my department Explorer to the house at noon, and he wanted me at work this afternoon. The Quentin Thatcher murder was the highest priority of the Sedona office, and the connection with Bank E & A should be an important focus of our investigation.
“I’d assumed that you would ignored your suspension and continued to work the case. I sent you and Chad back to Sedona because I knew you’d focus on Bank E & A, even though I’d agreed that the department would stop that part of the investigation. Now that you’re officially back on the case, I want some progress,” Sheriff Taylor said.
I was back on the force, but I still wasn’t certain that I wanted to be. I hadn’t asked the sheriff why he called our principal suspect’s private phone, and he hadn’t volunteered any information about it.
At noon Chad came by with my Explorer and wanted to buy me lunch to celebrate my reinstatement. I was enjoying fish tacos at the Javalina Cantina in Hillside Sedona while he was explaining the problems in New York. The news ruined my appetite. The Cottonwood police didn’t know much except that Mr. Griffin wasn’t home when the New York cops went to his condo to arrest him. Chad had finally tracked down a Detective Macmillan in New York who’d been to the Griffin condo and interviewed the Griffins’ cleaning lady.
Chad had learned that Mrs. Griffin had gone to Europe a few days ago claiming she was visiting her parents. However, they had no information about where Henry Griffin might be. There was nothing missing from his condo to indicate that he’d fled. All the suitcases and clothes were in his closet, and his watch, his billfold, and the keys to both cars were still in his dressing room. All of his credit cards, his international driver’s license, and over five hundred dollars were in his billfold. The TV was turned on to FOX News in the master bedroom. The doorman was certain that Mr. Griffin had not left either through the front door or the garage exit. Both of the Griffins’ cars were still in their parking places.
“I knew he’d run,” I said.
“Well, the New York police are not even sure of that. He angered a lot of people when he sunk Bank E & A. Griffin had reported several threats on his life, and the cleaning lady said that was the real reason for Mrs. Griffin to leave town. They don’t know if he’s on the run or been killed,” Chad said.
“He’s a smart man. Leaving the wallet with the money and the TV on are just ways of confusing us. He’d known not to use the credit cards, and leaving $500 in the wallet is a clever move. It’s not much money to him, but it’s enough so that most people would have taken it.” I was very sure that he had a plan. The odds of catching him now were poor. I was angry that we hadn’t been a day or two quicker.
“But he didn’t even take any clothing,” Chad said.
“He’s not going to dress like an investment banker anymore. He’ll be in work clothes he buys at Wal-Mart or maybe a complete disguise. There’s no reason for him to take anything except cash,” I said. I was certain.
“What about transportation?” Chad asked.
“Who knows?” I said. “He could get anywhere in the US by bus or car without being questioned and without leaving any record of his trip. It may not be easy to get into the US now, but I’ll bet it’s not difficult to get from the US to Canada or Mexico.”
“How do we stop him?” Chad said.
“Damned if I know. He could already have crossed into Canada. We should spend our time on finding out who was working with him here in northern Arizona,” I said.
“Good, where to after lunch?” Chad asked.
“I keep thinking about the biplanes. Let’s go to the airport,” I said.
After lunch we drove to the Sedona airport, stopping at the office of the company that flew the biplane for local tourists. It was fire engine red and a very common sight around town. The young woman who booked tours and served as an office manager was able to confirm that the red plane was chartered for late in the afternoon on the day Quentin Thatcher was murdered. She also confirmed that it was customary to show tourists the north side of Wilson Mountain near Vultee Arch.
After a half-hour wait, Zeak Patton walked into the waiting room dressed in a brown leather jacket. Snoopy style goggles were hanging around his neck. He could have been a character from the Red Baron movie with his impressive mustache and wind burned face. We introduced ourselves and explained that we wanted to know if he’d seen anything unusual on the afternoon that Quentin was killed.
“Holy shit fellows. You can’t expect me to remember people on the ground on a flight a couple of weeks ago. I couldn’t answer that question for the flight I just finished,” Zeak said.
“Maybe the tourists would remember more about the trip since it’s not routine to them,” Chad said.
“Maybe, but your best bet is the tape,” Zeak said.
My face reddened, and both men looked my way because of my sharp intake of breath. That was what had been lodged in the back of my mind trying to work its way out. A year earlier, two guests from Santa Barbara had taken the biplane tour. Our houseguests, Cynthia and Jeff, had returned from their flight with a video record of the flight on a CD. The biplanes were rigged to alternate shots of the tourists in the open cockpit with shots of the scenery they were watching. There might be a record that showed Quentin Thatcher hiking to the Sinaguan ruin where he was killed. It might show who was with him on his last walk.
Chad was born and raised in the area, and like New Yorkers who’ve never visited the Statue of Liberty; he’d never even considered a tourist flight. I was the one who should have remembered that the airplanes carried video cameras.
“Do you keep copies of the recordings?” I asked.
“No way. We’d have thousands of them around here. We only make one copy and give it to the guests who’ve chartered the plane. You’ll have to get it from them,” Zeak said. He went to his office manager and found the name and address of the tourists who’d been on the flight.
“I remember them now, a young couple on their honeymoon. They got the tour as a wedding gift. Some people do that now. They had their guests pay for different parts of the honeymoon rather than give them another toaster. Candice and Aaron Wooford of Goodyear, Arizona, here’s their address and phone number,” Zeak said handing us a 3 by 5 card.
GALLUP, NEW MEXICO:
Henry Griffin had suffered a restless night because of the frequent passage of the trains. He’d chosen this low budget motel because it would be an anonymous place, the kind of place where the owners were not surprised to be paid in advance with cash. He hadn’t realized how many trains came through the crude little town.
The drive had been exhausting. He’d driven twenty-four hours straight before his first night’s rest. His back ached and his mind was fuzzy with exhaustion. This was only his second rest since he’d left Manhattan. He’d never considered driving across this huge country before, and he regretted that he’d needed to. Most of it was either boring or ugly. He would take care of business this evening and then spend twelve hours sleeping once he reached Phoenix tonight.
Except for the long drive, his escape had been easy. He’d purchased a car for $2,500 in cash in Spanish Harlem. He’d bought the Walther P99, complete with a Walther red dot laser scope, in the same neighborhood for slightly less. He could never have found the German handgun in London, but everything is available in New York for the right price. The few items he’d need for the silencer should be available at Wal-Mart in Flagstaff. The Internet was a wonderful source of useful information. He liked the feel of the Walther’s grip in his hand. He’d be sorry to bury it in the desert after it served his purpose. Maybe he'd buy another one when his trip was over. He needed cleaning supplies for the car and gloves for this evening’s fun. There was plenty of time to pick up everything in Flagstaff.
Since he didn’t change the car’s registration, there was no record anywhere to connect him to the ten-year-old Toyota. He’d picked it because a white Japanese car was forgettable and because it had Florida tags. He could abandon it in San Diego without leaving anything to show he’d gone to that area. Once his fingerprints had been cleaned up, he planned to leave it in the long-term airport parking and walk the mile to the San Diego Trolley for the trip down to Tijuana. It was a good thing he was much smarter than the fools who were looking for him.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
I called the phone number listed on the card. The Woofords’ machine answered. I assumed that the newlyweds were back at work and that they’d be home in the evening. Goodyear is on Interstate 10 west of Phoenix, about a two-hour drive from Sedona. Goodyear was once a small farming town where irrigated cotton fields stretched for miles. The desert-devouring monster of metropolitan Phoenix was now moving west, and Goodyear was in the line of that growth. In recent years, Goodyear had become home to many young married couples who traded the long commute for more affordable housing.
Since we actually wanted to pick up the videotape to protect the chain of custody, we decided to drive to Goodyear. We’d wait for the Woofords to come home from work and ask to view the tape. If there were anything useful on it, we’d bring it back to Coconino County.
I called Margaret to let her know that I wouldn’t be home until 9:00 or later. I still wanted those brownies that she was making for dinner. We drove to Phoenix in my newly returned Explorer. As Interstate 17 descended into the Valley of the Sun, Arizona’s largest city spread before us, cloaked in its brown haze with an occasional mountain peaking above the ugly cloud. It’s not a bad drive using the 101 Freeway; we bypassed the downtown area of the notorious Stack where I-10 and I-17 join. Phoenix residents love to complain about their traffic problems and bad air. Since I’d lived in LA my whole life until a few years ago, the Phoenix traffic seemed light and easily managed. It was about 4:30 when we pulled up in front of the newly built home to wait for the couple to get home. It was the typical tan stucco home with pink cement tile roof and patch of cactus and gravel in the front yard.
Aaron Wooford drove into his driveway at 5:30. He noticed the Coconino County Sheriff’s Department markings on my Explorer and walked to the curb to see what was up.
“Are you guys lost?” he asked with a smile.
“Are you Aaron Wooford?” Chad said.
Aaron’s smile vanished. “What’s this about?”
“We drove down from Sedona to ask a favor,” I said. He nodded still wondering if he was suspected of something. “We’d like to take a look at the video recording that was made on your biplane flight in Sedona. We’re hoping to see something on the DVD that will help with a homicide investigation.”
Aaron invited us in, found the DVD, and played it for us. The first time through we didn’t catch it, but the second time, Chad thought he saw something. We paused it at a spot where two hikers were visible crossing over a mesa rather than on the Vultee Arch Trail. The two hikers were only visible in the distance for an instant. However, the black man was the right height and dressed exactly as
Quentin had been when we found his body.
The view would need some electronic enhancement to be useful in court, but the other man was much larger than Quentin. The second man wore a white muscle style T-shirt and hiking shorts that revealed enormous shoulders and arms. He had distinctive red hair and wraparound style sunglasses. The larger man seemed to be leading the way across a wilderness area without a regular trail. They were about half way between the Bank E & A retreat center and Vultee Arch. The murderer had avoided taking either the Vultee Arch or Sterling Pass trails. He wanted to make certain that no one saw them together. Reggie probably had been waiting for them with the rattlesnake at the Sinaguan ruin, but the tape didn’t show that specific location.
“That looks like Chris Moore to me,” Chad said.
“We need to get this photo enhanced before we can get an arrest warrant. Let’s drive to Digital Video Productions in Flagstaff. That girl that you dated last year does their editing,” I said.
“Sure, I’ll call Cassie and ask her to meet us at the editing room. We can arrest Chris at his home in Cottonwood tonight,” Chad said.
I called Sheriff Taylor with an update. He agreed to meet us at the DV Productions studio at 9:30. If we could prove Chris Moore was with Quentin for his final hike, the sheriff wanted him in custody tonight. We drove to Flagstaff and pulled into the company’s parking lot at 9:20. The sheriff joined us in the editing room a few minutes after we started.
Cassie converted the few seconds of the recording that showed Quentin into a digital image in her computer. She ran software that enhanced the picture and zoomed in on the hikers. Ten minutes after we arrived, the image was clear on her forty-four inch ViewSonic monitor.
The Victim at Vultee Arch Page 25