Duel to the Death

by J. A. Jance

  An hour later, the manager of the public golf course dialed 911 to report that his course marshal was dealing with an “agitated” individual who had been found wandering the back nine. No one in the pro shop had seen the guy before, but he insisted that while his back was turned someone had stolen his golf cart and his clubs. Once the operator verified that the man in question was wearing an Arizona Cardinals tracksuit, patrol officers went straight there to collect him and bring him to the substation.

  When Clarence showed up, the ensuing scene was one Deputy Lauren Harper would never forget. Martha was overjoyed beyond belief, while Clarence, agitated and angry, continued to rave about his stolen golf clubs.

  “It’s okay, Clarence honey,” the old woman said soothingly, taking one of his hands and stroking the back of it. “You gave those clubs away, don’t you remember?”

  He paused and stared at her. “I did?”

  “Yes, a long time ago.”

  “And who are you?”

  “I’m Martha, your wife.”

  “I have a wife?”

  Nodding, she reached into the purse once more and pulled out the photo. “That’s us,” she said. “At our anniversary party two years ago.”

  Clarence looked at the photo and shook his head. “That can’t be us,” he said. “Those people are old.”

  Martha put the photo away. “Yes, they are,” she agreed. “Come on. Let’s go home and have some dinner. You’re missing your game.”

  Her voice seemed to settle him. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go home and watch the game.” When Martha limped out of the building, leaning on her walker, he followed docilely behind, his missing golf clubs totally forgotten.

  For the first time in her young life, Deputy Lauren Harper had a glimpse of what it meant to be old and frail. Not just as old as her parents were. No, Clarence and Martha were even older than Lauren’s grandparents, and still they were a team. Despite their many deficits, mental and physical, they were still making it work.

  And for Lauren, although what she had done didn’t seem anything at all like saving the world, she had helped Clarence and Martha Fisher in a very real way.

  By the time the patrol officers finished their paperwork and left, it was almost five and time to close up shop for the night. Lauren was within minutes of leaving herself when the phone rang.

  “Deputy Harper?”

  She didn’t exactly recognize the voice. “Yes.”

  “It’s Tim again—Tim Brice from the Crime Lab. Do you believe in coincidences?”

  “Not really.”

  “Me neither, but I’ve got one for you. My folks live down near Marana in one of those active-adult communities north of town. I keep a Tucson news feed on my computer so I know what’s going on down there.”

  “And?”

  “That guy whose print you sent me? Somebody murdered him last night—blew up the RV where he was staying. They destroyed the motorhome, and torched a two-car garage and a double-wide. They just now released the victim’s name—Ronald Webster. I’m not sure if this has anything to do with your property crime case, but it sounds like he might have gotten mixed up in something pretty bad. I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Thanks,” Lauren murmured. “I appreciate it.”

  When the phone call ended, even though it was past quitting time, Lauren sat back down at her desk and studied the handwritten report she had taken from Ali Reynolds. On Friday afternoon, a man now presumed to be Webster had gained access to the High Noon Enterprises premises by claiming to be a Yavapai County building inspector. Now that same man was dead. Were those two incidents somehow related? And what was Lauren’s responsibility here? She had clearly overstepped in just sending the print down to the lab, to say nothing of checking on the status of it later. In her conversation with Tim Brice she had led him to believe that she was part of the property crimes unit even though she wasn’t.

  The easy thing would have been to just let it go. Marana was in Pima County—three counties away. It wasn’t any of Lauren’s business, not really. And yet, there had been a homicide. A man was dead, and the information Lauren had inadvertently discovered might have something to do with what had happened.

  The deputies who were around the substation most often were generally the ones who lived in the area. One of those was Dave Holman, the county’s chief homicide investigator. She was utterly in awe of the man, even though most of the time when he turned up in the office he was far too preoccupied to do more than say hello and good-bye.

  Finally she picked up the phone, found Holman’s number in the directory, and dialed it. Since a homicide was involved—even an out-of-jurisdiction homicide—it made sense to take it to him.

  37

  While B. took the thumb drive to go retrieve the video footage, Stu donned the headset again and switched it back on. As soon as he did so, an audio alert sounded in his ear—a familiar tune, in a minor key, and played on the piano. Stu knew he had heard the piece before, but right that moment he couldn’t quite place it or put a name to it.

  “What’s that piece of music?” At the time Stu was speaking more to himself than to anyone else, but it turned out that even without being officially summoned, Frigg was listening, too. She answered at once. “That would be ‘In the Hall of the Mountain King,’ fourth movement in Suite Number One, Opus Forty-six, composed by Edvard Grieg for Act Two of Henrik Ibsen’s Peer Gynt, and first performed in Christiania (now Oslo) on February 24, 1876. It was Odin’s favorite audio alert. If you would prefer my using another audio alert instead . . .”

  “Don’t bother changing it,” Stu said. “That one’s fine for right now, but does this mean that the facial rec file finished updating?”

  “No,” Frigg replied. “That update is not yet complete, but I was preparing to send you an additional file, and wondered if you wanted me to send it to CC or upload it to one of the monitors. I see that all six are online and currently available. You’ll be able to use the CC keyboard to scroll up and down.”

  “What additional file?” Stu asked.

  “It’s the dossier I’ve compiled on Lucienne Graciella Miramar.”

  “You’ve compiled a background check on the accountant in Panama? I never asked you to do that.”

  “Odin always had me do complete background checks on anyone with whom he had business dealings. Since you’ll need to be in contact with her about the banking issues, I thought you would find it beneficial to have that information at your disposal. Most of the information was already on file although more recent information may be forthcoming. Of course, if you would rather not receive it . . .”

  “No,” Stu said. “Go ahead and send it, and putting it on one of the larger monitors will be fine.”

  When the file showed up, it was massive, starting with Graciella’s date of birth at a hospital in Panama City, Panama, in 1983, born to Christina Andress Miramar and Guillermo Octavio Miramar. There were records from any number of schools—mostly private schools, at that—all over the US. Stu quickly lost interest in the overabundance of these records. His more immediate concern was with the person Graciella was now, the one he’d be dealing with on the phone first thing in the morning. That’s where he wanted detailed info, so he skipped to the end of the file and scrolled back from there.

  Graciella had been employed by Recursos Empresariales Internationales for the past ten years. Stu regarded that as good news. She had been there for a long time, starting out as an account manager when she was fresh out of school. Obviously she was bright. Otherwise how could she have ended up with an MBA from the Wharton School when she was still in her early twenties? As for her work record? That told him she was most likely a dependable and loyal employee.

  Stu’s bigger worry right then had more to do with the company she worked for. Recursos Empresariales Internationales was involved in Bitcoin mining and transfers. Was all of that totally on the up-and-up, or was it possible that some of it wasn’t exactly squeaky-clean? The fa
ct that Owen Hansen had been part of their client base was a clear indication of that. Still, just because Owen had been a crook didn’t mean Graciella Miramar was a crook or that the company itself was crooked, either. But as long as Frigg was online and on the job, Stu figured she might as well make herself useful.

  “Frigg,” Stu said aloud.

  “Yes, Mr. Ramey, how may I be of service?”

  “Please prepare a dossier on Recursos Empresariales Internationales,” Stu said into the headset. “I want to know how long they’ve been in business and who their clients are.”

  B. came back into the room carrying a steaming cup of coffee. “Alonso just showed up with freshly made coffee and a crockpot full of beef stew.” He stopped in mid-stride and looked up at the lines of text showing on one of the wall-mounted screens. “What’s all this?” he asked.

  “It’s a dossier on Graciella Miramar, the account rep in charge of those bank accounts down in Panama.”

  “A dossier?” B. repeated, handing over the thumb drive. “Where did that come from?”

  “From Frigg.”

  “Wait, you asked her to do a background check on the banker down in Panama, and she’s already created one and sent it to you?”

  “I didn’t ask her for it,” Stu replied. “She gave it to me. It was a report she had previously prepared for Owen Hansen. According to her, he liked having background information on the people he dealt with. Since Frigg knows I’ll be contacting Ms. Miramar tomorrow morning to deal with the account situation, she thought I’d be interested in seeing it as well.”

  “Does that mean,” B. asked, “that as far as Frigg is concerned, you’re her new Odin?”

  “That’s a scary thought.”

  Stu held up his hand as a second musical alert sounded in his ear. “Frigg?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ramey, how can I be of service?”

  “I heard an alert. Is the facial rec update is complete?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “All right, then,” Stu continued, “I’ve loaded some video footage and a separate photo into the thumb drive at CC. Run it through the facial rec program and let’s see if it gets a hit. Please reply via text on one of the wall monitors.”

  While Stu set about inserting the thumb drive and calling up the video file, a second monitor lit up and the words Very well, Mr. Ramey appeared in the middle of the screen.

  “That’s pretty amazing,” B. said. “Her voice recognition capability goes way beyond anything I would have thought possible.”

  “Yes, it is,” Stu agreed, “amazing and more than a little disturbing. That’s why I turned the audio off. I wanted us to be able to talk without her listening.”

  In the meantime, Cami had entered the room without either B. or Stu noticing her arrival. “Without who listening?” she asked.

  “Frigg,” Stu said.

  “So she’s up and running?”

  “Seems like.”

  “Is she behaving?”

  “So far,” Stu answered, “but we’ll see.”

  Cami walked over to where Stu sat and placed a grocery bag down on the table next to the Macintosh. “I stopped by your place and brought you a change of clothes. I also brought you this.” She held out a closed fist.

  “What is it?”

  “A little something I took out of an electrical outlet box in the new computer lab. I know our initial plan was to leave all the surveillance equipment in place for the time being, but I wanted to know what we were up against. I also figured that if one unit went off-line and the others didn’t, whoever was listening might not be all that concerned.”

  The item Cami handed over was a metal disc no larger than a nickel. Holding it in his open palm, Stu squinted down at it. “Something’s engraved on the surface, but it’s too small for me to read.”

  “You wouldn’t be able to read it even if the printing was big enough,” Cami told him. “It’s written in Chinese. I had to borrow a pair of Shirley’s reading glasses to make it out. The top line is the name of the company—Spy Toys. The second line is the model: 007. The third line is a serial number. I looked Spy Toys up before I came here. The company is based in Chengdu and specializes in second-tier surveillance equipment. The first-rate stuff comes from Israel. This is more the bargain-basement variety.”

  “Audio only?” Stu asked.

  “That one for sure is audio only,” Cami answered. “Because it’s tapped into the wiring with no batteries needed, the devices can be smaller and easier to conceal. It’s probably a big seller with soon-to-be former wives looking to get the goods on soon-to-be former husbands. I was hoping we’d be able to reach out to the company and locate a point of sale or maybe even an end user, but that’s not going to work. Most of Spy Toys’ business is conducted over the dark Web.”

  “It figures,” Stu muttered.

  “Don’t sound so glum,” Cami told him. “I did something else while I was at the office—something you’re going to like. I sent a message via those remaining listening devices.”

  “What kind of message?”

  “Remember when we talked earlier about trying to coax whoever’s gunning for you and Frigg out into the open? I decided it was time to give that a try, so while I was in the computer lab, I made a big show of talking on the phone—of pretending to talk on the phone, that is. I acted like I was talking to my dad. I said that you had unexpectedly come into possession of a major piece of intellectual property—a functioning AI—and I asked him how much he thought it would be worth if you auctioned it off in the open market.”

  “Did you and your make-believe dad happen to settle on a price?” Stu asked.

  “Actually, we did,” Cami replied with a grin. “I said you should open the bidding wars at four million, not counting hardware, and go from there.”

  “You may have been kidding around,” B. said, “but if Stu does decide to unload Frigg, asking four mil for starters probably isn’t all that far off the mark.”

  “Crap,” Stu said. “More money? Between Friday morning and now, I’ve turned into a multimillionaire—on paper, at least. This can’t be happening.”

  While they were all pondering that bit of news, the image of an Arizona driver’s license popped up on one of the monitors, drawing everyone’s eyes to a newly activated screen. Cami was the first one to make the connection.

  “Wait,” she said. “Isn’t that him—the guy who’s on our security video?”

  “It sure as hell looks like it,” Stu said, reading off the screen, “Ronald Dawson Webster of West Lambert Lane, Marana, Arizona.”

  “Where’s that information coming from?” Cami asked.

  “From the state’s facial rec program.”

  “So your friend Jeff let you in?”

  “Oddly enough, Jeff still hasn’t called me back. This is all Frigg’s doing.”

  “Wait,” Cami said in disbelief. “You’re telling me the AI was able to hack into that? I thought that software was super-secure.”

  “I’m pretty sure Jeff Swanson thinks so, too.”

  Frigg’s next words appeared on one of the other monitors. Will there be anything else? she asked.

  “Yes,” Stu answered, typing his reply on the CC keyboard. “Please do a complete background check on Ronald Dawson Webster.”

  The individual I located in the facial recognition database?

  “Yes,” Stu said. “That’s the one.”

  Of course, Mr. Ramey, Frigg replied. I’ll do so at once.

  38

  When Ali awakened, she had no idea how long she’d been out. The chaise next to hers, the one where B. had been sleeping earlier, was empty now. Outside the window, twilight was falling over Sedona’s distant red rocks. It may have been evening for everyone else, but according to Ali’s interior clock it felt more like morning.

  As she rose and stumbled away from her makeshift cot, she realized that although the chaise may have functioned adequately as far as sleeping was concerned, it was definitely
not okay for her back. Out from under the covers, she was shocked by how cold the room was. Retrieving a blanket, she wrapped that around her shoulders as she made her way into the bathroom.

  She was standing at the sink and splashing water on her face when her cell phone rang. The phone was on the counter next to the sink, and when she saw Dave Holman’s name in the caller ID window, she picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  “What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?” he demanded abruptly.

  “Good afternoon to you, too,” she said. “Or should I say good evening?”

  “There’s nothing good about it. I just got off the phone with a Detective Genevieve Wasser, a homicide cop down in Pima County. She’s investigating an arson case that happened overnight in Marana.”

  “What does an arson case down in Marana have to do with me?” Ali asked.

  “Remember that guy whose fingerprint you passed along to Deputy Harper?”

  “Yes,” Ali answered. “What about him?”

  “His name’s Ronald Dawson Webster, and he’s dead as a doornail. In the wee hours of the morning, right around two a.m., somebody riding a speeding Harley rolled some kind of incendiary device under the floorboards of his motorhome and blew the poor guy to kingdom come. That initial blast was followed by a couple more. Not only was Webster’s RV completely destroyed, his parents’ garage was burned to the ground right along with their double-wide. The whole place is a complete loss.”

  “Okay,” Ali said. “I get it. This Webster guy is dead, but why are you coming after me? Yesterday you gave me the brush-off about investigating that possible intrusion at the office. I believe you said something about my overreacting. Now because he’s turned up dead, you automatically leap to the conclusion that I must have had something to do with it? How could I? For one thing, I didn’t know who the hell he was. For another, I spent most of last night shuttling back and forth between Cottonwood and Sedona. Marana’s what, two hundred miles from here? So unless I’ve somehow managed to defeat the laws of physics, I couldn’t very well be here and in Marana setting fire to an RV at the same time.”