by J. A. Jance
“Tell the courier to meet me at Cutter Aviation at the Deer Valley Airport in forty-five,” she said, scrambling out of bed and heading for the bathroom. “Since I’m on call, the aircraft is already fully fueled. All I’ll need to do is my preflight check.”
As predicted, there was zero traffic on I-17 as Tanna headed north. By the time the courier arrived at the FBO and handed her the distinctive cooler box labeled HUMAN BLOOD it was going on five a.m. The flight was smooth and uneventful—dark with glittering stars in a black sky as she flew north and with the sun fully up when she headed back south at 7:30.
Soaring over the mostly brown landscape, Tanna realized that she’d be landing in full rush hour. It would probably take her longer to drive home from the airport than it would take to fly from Kingman to Phoenix.
Her return flight path took her south over Wickenburg and then above Highway 60 before vectoring the aircraft in for an east/west landing at Deer Valley Airport. Tanna was already at a fairly low altitude in her gradual descent as she approached Loop 303. An occasional flight instructor, she’d often flown over this area with students doing touch-and-go landings. Nearby a huge but deserted gravel pit in the middle of nowhere was a recognizable landmark. When sunlight glinted off something down there, it caught her attention. Peering down she saw a vehicle there—a single vehicle.
Flights loaded with precious cargo—blood flights—were straight up and down affairs, but the trips home were usually much more leisurely, with occasional stops along the way for breakfast or lunch. This time, something about a single vehicle parked in a lonely gravel pit at that hour of the morning bothered her. Maybe it was the Silver Alert she’d seen earlier on her way to the airport—an elderly missing man driving a white Ford F-150 pickup truck.
Shrugging to herself, she turned back and sent the Cherokee into a series of turns around a point, all the while keeping the vehicle in the gravel pit in view. As the plane flew lower and lower, more details came into focus. Yes, it was a pickup truck—a white pickup truck. Then, taking the plane even lower, she saw what looked like two people lying on the ground. They didn’t move as the shadow of the plane flew over them, and she knew at once that they were dead.
Pulling back on the yoke, she brought the plane climbing back into the air, calling it in as she went. “I’ve just spotted two people on the ground in a deserted gravel pit between the 60 and I-17, north of the 303. Can’t tell for sure, but I think they’re both dead.”
32
Haley and Gram lingered over breakfast at the Sugarloaf Café. Gram had her usual, but Haley was happy to have bacon and eggs rather than oatmeal for a change. She was also glad to have someone else doing the cooking.
“How do you suppose she knew?” Gram asked.
The question barely registered. On her side of the table, Haley had been busy creating a mental must-do list: arrange funerals, reopen office, go to the bank, buy new saucepan.
“Who are we talking about?” she asked.
“Jessica Denton,” Gram answered. “When she came to the house last night, she already knew Dan and Millie were dead. But Eric Drinkwater just told us that they still haven’t released the names.”
“She probably talked to one of the girls from the office,” Haley said. “It wasn’t exactly top secret.”
Haley’s phone rang just then, with the words “UNKNOWN CALLER” showing on the screen.
“Ms. Jackson?” Agent Ferris inquired.
“Yes.”
“I know you’re anxious to be back up and running. We’ve sorted through the paper files and digitally copied and catalogued everything we need from them. We’ve copied the computer files as well. A truck is on its way back up I-17 right now to bring all your stuff back to you.”
“What about a key to the office?” Haley asked. “You changed the locks, remember?”
“The driver will have one for you. You’ll need to make copies.”
Gee thanks, Haley thought as she ended the call, and have a nice day to you, too!
“What?” Gram asked.
“The SEC is returning our files. I’ll need to call the girls and have them come in.”
“Well, take me home first,” Gram said. “With all you’ll need to do today, you won’t want me in your way.”
“I’ll take you home on one condition,” Haley said.
“What’s that?”
“You promise not to try cleaning that burned saucepan. It’s wrecked, and I don’t want you going after it with scouring pads or sandpaper.”
“That’s the problem with people these days,” Gram grumbled. “They’d rather buy new than work at fixing what they’ve got.”
“Promise?” Haley insisted.
“Oh, all right.”
Feeling energized, Haley paid the bill and drove back to Art Barn Road. On the way, she called Carmen. “Call out the troops,” she said. “A truck is coming up from Phoenix with our files, and I’d like everyone on hand. Let them know there’s no need to dress up. This is going to be more like a moving day than a working day. We’ll be in the office, but we won’t be open for business. I have a feeling what the SEC is sending back to us won’t be nearly as well organized as it was when they hauled it away.”
When Haley and Gram entered the house, the smell of charred oatmeal assailed their nostrils despite the fact that Haley had opened all the windows before they left for breakfast. While Haley went to change into something more suitable than shorts and flip-flops, Gram set about going around the house closing the windows.
“Haley,” Gram called urgently a minute or so later. “Come look at this.”
“What?” Haley asked, zipping up a pair of jeans as she hurried out of the bedroom. She found Gram in the laundry room, standing in front of the window.
“Someone’s been here,” Gram said. “Look at the screen.”
The bottom of the screen had been sliced open right along the frame. Some effort may have been made to push the screen back into place, but it had bowed back out, leaving a visible gap at the bottom.
“Do you think whoever did it is still here?” Gram whispered.
Haley looked out. In order to access the window, someone would have had to use a ladder, and no ladder was visible. The dead bolts on both the front and back doors were still locked. That meant that the intruder must have exited the house the same way he had entered.
“I’m sure they’re gone.”
“Do we call 911?”
“Let’s see if anything is missing first.”
Together, they explored the whole house. The few valuables they had were still where they belonged, but Haley could tell that everything in her room had been subjected to a quick but thorough search. Whoever it was had been looking for something specific, but what? And why? The idea of some stranger pawing through her underwear drawer and clothing left Haley feeling queasy.
Her first thought was that maybe it was some kid, playing hooky and doing a little breaking and entering on the side. No, she realized. This was something far more sinister than a youthful lark.
“Come on, Gram,” Haley said. “Like it or not, you’re spending the day with me at the office. No way I’m leaving you home alone.”
“Shouldn’t we call the cops?” Gram asked again.
“And tell them what? That someone broke into our home and took nothing? When it comes to attention from law enforcement, breaking and entering is a long way down the list of priorities, especially in terms of a police department suddenly faced with a double homicide.”
Haley thought she knew how Eric Drinkwater would react. Something on the order of “If someone broke into your house, searched it, but didn’t take anything, what do you suppose they were looking for? And is there a chance that this has something to do with the Frazier homicides?”
“No,” she added aloud to Gram. “I don’t need another visit from Eric Drinkwater today.”
“But,” Gram objected, “if I come to your office, I’ll miss Judge Judy and Dr. Phil.”
“No you won’t,” Haley told her. “There’s a TV set in the break room. You can watch on that.”
Arriving at the office before the truck or any of the staff, Haley was shaken by what she saw there. The flower arrangements that had been mounded around the front entrance had been knocked over and scattered. The message “Thou Shalt Not Steal!” had been scrawled in vivid red paint and three-foot-tall letters across the entire expanse of the storefront.
Leaving Gram in the Honda for the moment, Haley began cleaning up the mess, salvaging the arrangements that were still relatively intact and dragging the rest to a nearby Dumpster. She wasn’t at all surprised that Carmen—always on time and always ready to help—was the first to arrive.
“What do you need me to do?”
Haley went back to the car and pulled her wallet out of her purse. “Go over to the hardware store,” she said, handing over several twenties. “Buy a five-gallon bucket, some squeegees, and a gallon or so of graffiti remover. Maybe, before the truck gets here, we can get rid of most of the paint on the windows and walls.”
By the time the truck finally arrived, the graffiti had mostly been wiped clean and the flower wreckage had been cleaned up. A two-man crew plus Agent Ferris and a driver had come to Sedona to remove the files. The return trip was accomplished with a crew of one—a surly driver—who didn’t take kindly to being told dumping the boxed files out on the sidewalk was unacceptable.
Haley saw at once that her concerns about the state of the returning files were well founded. What had left the office in neatly organized and well-labeled Bankers Boxes came back in a muddled mess. The boxes, many of them missing tops, ended up in teetering, haphazard stacks just inside the front door. Office computers, treated with the same contempt, were left in a pile of hardware that looked more like spilled pieces from a mechanical jigsaw puzzle than they did any kind of working office equipment.
As the driver carried the last box in from the truck, he dropped it from waist height, spilling the contents and sending a spray of files slithering across the tiled floor. Surprisingly enough, Haley couldn’t have been more pleased. She recognized the spilled files as ones from her own desk. That meant she’d been spared the effort of going through the boxes searching for that particular one.
“That’s it, then,” the driver said, dusting off his hands as if relieved to be finished with some distasteful task. He turned to go, but Haley followed on his heels.
“Key, please,” she demanded, holding out her hand.
“Oh yeah,” he muttered, reaching for his pocket. “That’s right. I almost forgot.”
Like hell you did, Haley thought, suspecting that his supposed case of forgetfulness had been far more deliberate than accidental. She wanted to slap him, but she didn’t.
Instead, she turned and marched back into the building, where Carmen was getting ready to rake up the spilled files.
“Thanks,” Haley said. “Don’t bother with those. I’ll take care of them. They actually came from my desk.”
Halfway through picking up the files Haley located the one she needed. It was labeled FINAL DIRECTIVES. Inside she found three envelopes—one for Carol Hotchkiss, one for Dan Frazier, and one for Millie. Carol Hotchkiss was still very much alive. As for Dan and Millie?
Fighting back tears, Haley finished refilling the Bankers Box and carried it back to her desk. Then, slipping the Dan and Millie envelopes into her purse, she headed for the door. Carmen was back at the reception desk, still fielding phone calls and turning away the occasional customer.
“I’m going to be out for a while,” Haley said. “Can you look in on my grandmother occasionally?”
“Sure thing.”
“As for all those messages? When I get back, I’ll start returning those phone calls.”
33
When Cami Lee had hired on with High Noon Enterprises, her official title was assistant to Stu Ramey. Most of the time, things were fine between them. She had figured out early on that a big part of Stu’s brilliance had to do with Asperger’s syndrome. She may have been called his “assistant,” but in a very real way he was also her charge.
Early on, too, she realized that trying to steer him away from his steady diet of junk food wasn’t a good plan for either of them, so she did what she was asked to do—shadowed Stuart as much as possible; tried her best to learn his skills and techniques; and attempted to smooth the roiling waters when something disturbed him. The man may have been totally at home in front of a keyboard and at ferreting out cyber information, but he was at a loss when it came to ordinary human intercourse.
All of this meant that Cami walked a fine line every day. There were times when his abrupt mood swings were too much even for her to handle, and today was one of those days. The half-hour drive from Cottonwood to Sedona would give Cami a chance to cool off and get her temper back under control.
She called B.’s number. When he didn’t answer, she left a message. “I read the transcript you sent and saw the phone tracker clip,” she said. “Since Stu’s having one of his bad days, I’m ducking out of the office. If you need me, I’m headed to Sedona to see if I can get a line on the landscaping truck Mr. Larson said was at the crime scene. The truck may have nothing to do with it, but I thought we should cover that base anyway, just in case.”
During the remainder of the drive, Cami more than half expected Mr. Simpson or Ali would phone back to call her off. After all, she was doing this strictly on her own initiative. No one had asked her or told her to look for the truck, nor was finding it remotely related to her official job description. Still, striking out on her own to do something useful felt pretty damned good. By the time she’d pulled over and stopped at the corner of Elberta Drive and Orchard Lane, put on her lanyard, and grabbed her iPad and purse, she was feeling even better.
Cami Lee had always wanted to be a detective. Now, striding up that first walkway and preparing to ring her first doorbell, she felt as though she was finally doing what she’d been supposed to do the whole time. She might be little more than a self-appointed detective, but she was a detective nonetheless, searching for answers in a double homicide investigation. One thing Cami knew for certain was this: if her parents had the foggiest inkling of what she was doing right then, they would have been appalled.
Her parents lived in the world of academia and engaged in a kind of oppressive snobbishness that drove Cami nuts. Her father, Cheng Lee, had come to the U.S. from Taiwan in the mid-1980s. Now a distinguished professor of robotics at Stanford, he was incredibly proud of having lived up to the name his parents had bestowed on him, as if by giving him the name Cheng, which means “accomplished,” they had somehow foreshadowed his future success.
Cami’s mother, Sue Ling Lee, came from somewhat more humble beginnings. Her parents, Cami’s grandparents, still owned and operated a family restaurant in Chinatown. It was now a second-generation business, and they had fully expected their daughter, Xiu Ling, to follow in their footsteps and make it a third-generation. Much to her parents’ dismay, Xiu Ling had zero interest in operating a restaurant. She had won a scholarship to UCLA, where she had majored in French literature, another puzzling choice that had mystified her parents.
Determined to turn away from her roots, the moment Xiu had turned twenty-one, she had gone to court and changed her name from Xiu (“beautiful”) Ling to just plain Sue Ling. The following year at an antiwar rally, she met a handsome young graduate student from Taiwan whose student visa was about to run out. The rest, as they say, is history.
Cami sometimes joked that her parents’ relationship was a “green card marriage gone bad,” in that the two of them had never quite gotten around to getting a divorce. They were both full professors teaching at Stanford. They lived in the same household but operated in different hemispheres. The only thing they had in common was their daughter, which made Cami a constant bone of contention. Cheng had adamantly opposed naming his daughter Camille, but Sue, with her own history as well
as her background in French literature, had argued for something that wasn’t Chinese but still sounded “exotic.” Cheng wanted a traditional daughter—one who was smart and dutiful and did as she was told. Sue wanted a rebel. And then there were Cami’s maternal grandparents, who had targeted Cami as the next likely prospect for taking over the restaurant.
For a time it looked as though Cami’s father would come out on top in the three-way tug-of-war. Cami was a shy and bookish youngster. Then, at age 7, her life took an abrupt turn with the release of the movie Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Cami was both astonished and enchanted to see a girl who looked just like her doing such amazing things. How was that possible?
As soon as the movie came out on DVD, Cami bought a copy and wore it out with repeated playings. But she did something else as well—she asked her parents if she could study martial arts. Her father and grandparents both said no; her mother not only said yes, she also made it happen by packing Cami off to a gym, where she had exceeded everyone’s expectations, including her own, in the art of kung fu. On her first day of high school when a kid on the bus was teasing her about her name and wondering if she was “Chinee or Frenchee,” she had simply decked him. She had also gotten detention for the first time ever, but there was no more bullying about her name, ever.
The punch-out on the bus wasn’t the absolute end of Cami’s being her father’s dutiful daughter. No longer shy, she had still been bookish and smart. Her desire to go into law enforcement so she could “help people” was a career choice her parents and grandparents had all derided in unison. It was one of the few instances where Cami could ever remember all of them being in complete agreement.