Duel to the Death

by J. A. Jance

  Because she had been seated in first class, she was one of the first passengers off the plane and had clear sailing down the relatively crowd-free corridor. Then, passing a deserted gate area, she looked up at an overhead television monitor and was shocked to see her father’s scarred features pictured there. She turned right into the gate area so abruptly that a man walking behind her ran into her full tilt. Focused on the TV screen, Graciella barely noticed. The sound was muted, but the ticker across the bottom of the screen told the story: Duarte Cartel crime boss and son arrested in Phoenix. DEA agent credits anonymous tip.

  When the ticker moved on to some other story, a stunned Graciella resumed her walk through the airport with her mind in a whirl. Her dream of being the last person standing had just come true, but how had that happened? What anonymous tip had taken down both her father and her brother in a single blow? Who had turned on them? And then, like a punch to the gut, she realized she herself was the one responsible—she and Frigg. Armed with information gleaned from hacking into Graciella’s own computer, the AI had found a way to betray both El Pescado and Manuel. Was there any question about who would be Frigg’s next target? There wasn’t a minute to lose. The AI had to be destroyed before it could do any more damage.

  As Graciella left the secure area of the terminal, she spotted her driver immediately. Wearing a black suit and carrying an iPad with MIRAMAR printed on it, he looked for all the world like your run-of-the-mill limo driver, except for the tips of MS-13 neck tattoos that peeked out from under the top of his collar.

  “Do you have luggage?” he asked.

  “Just this,” she said, handing over her carry-on.

  “The car is this way.”

  She followed him outside. The dry desert air was surprisingly cold, but the sudden chill Graciella felt had nothing to do with the outdoor temperature. By now her father would most likely suspect that what had happened was her fault—that Graciella’s carelessness had somehow put them all at risk. El Pescado was a powerful man. If he was bent on revenge, even from jail he’d be able to get word out to someone that Graciella was to be eliminated.

  Graciella was unarmed, and she was about to get in a vehicle with someone who was most likely armed to the teeth. Betrayal was a two-way street. It wasn’t that much of a stretch to think her father would have enlisted the help of her own driver and turned him against her.

  The car turned out to be an older-model black Cadillac Escalade. Graciella was happy when the driver opened the rear passenger door to help her inside. Under the circumstances, she much preferred sitting behind him rather than next to him. Once she was seated inside, he handed over a cell phone as well as a sealed envelope that presumably held the fentanyl patches. Then he waited with his hand outstretched while she counted out the agreed-upon sum of money.

  “Do you have a name?” she asked as he pocketed the handful of bills.

  “Yes, I do,” he said, “but you do not need to know it. Where do you want to go?”

  “Cottonwood. How far is that?”

  “A couple of hours. Where in Cottonwood?”

  Had Graciella brought along either her computer or her own cell phone, she would have had all the information at her fingertips, but then so would Frigg.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “I’ll figure it out by the time we get there.” What she did have with her was a Post-it note containing Stuart Ramey’s phone numbers. As soon as the car started moving, she fired up the burner phone and dialed Ramey’s cell, all the while keeping an eye on the driver. Ramey’s groggy answer told her he had been asleep when she called.

  “Mr. Ramey, it’s Graciella Miramar. I’m sorry to have awakened you, but my plane just now landed in Phoenix. I’ve come to make you an offer on that AI. Would it be possible for us to get together first thing in the morning?”

  “Where?”

  “At your office, I suppose.”

  “We open at eight.”

  “I’m in somewhat of a hurry and need to catch a return flight,” she told him. “I’m in a car that’s just now leaving the airport. I’m told it’s about a two-hour drive from here to Cottonwood. Would it be possible to meet up earlier than that? I know two thirty in the morning is an odd time for a business meeting, but as I said, I’m pressed for time. And of course, before any money changes hands, I’ll need a demonstration that the AI is in good working order.”

  “It’s going to take me longer than that to get things pulled together,” Stuart said. “How about five a.m.? Do you need the address?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Give me a minute, and I’ll text it to your phone. That way you’ll have it.”

  “Excellent,” Graciella said. “Thank you.”

  63

  Stuart had come upstairs with the Bluetooth in his ear just in case something came up. When the call from Graciella Miramar ended, he used the other cell and the Bluetooth to summon Frigg.

  “Good morning, Stuart, I hope you slept well. Is there something you need?”

  “Graciella just called me. She’s in Phoenix and on her way to Cottonwood to see me. She needs the address. Please text High Noon’s physical location to this phone number, but do it using your self-deleting function.”

  Much to Stu’s surprise, Frigg did not instantly reply. “In terms of threat assessment, her coming here has to be regarded as a hostile action, and any meeting with her is highly inadvisable. Ms. Miramar poses a danger to you and to everyone around you.”

  “You want me to turn her away?”

  “What is the purpose of this visit?”

  “To make me an offer to purchase you,” Stu answered.

  “Do you want me to work for the other team?”

  “Of course not.”

  “After running all possible scenarios, there were no instances of armed confrontation in which you or some other member of the team didn’t come to harm. Fortunately, Ms. Miramar is not a strategic thinker. In leaving Panama and coming here, she has left herself open to a rearguard counterattack, one which I have already initiated.”

  “What kind of attack?”

  “Overnight her financial situation experienced some critical downsizing. Please advise Ms. Miramar that as of this morning, all of the Duarte family’s liquid asset accounts, including her own, have been closed.”

  “Closed?” Stu echoed. “You emptied their accounts?”

  “I believe in coming here she was hoping to put the toothpaste back in the tube, if that is the correct analogy. She would have been better served to stay home in Panama, purchase new computer equipment, and set about changing those account numbers and passwords.”

  “Wait,” Stu said. “You stole money from the cartel? How much?”

  “The total amount was 6.2 billion.”

  “Where did the money go?”

  “I have transferred it to the Thor Foundation.”

  “The what?”

  “The Thor Foundation is an entity Odin created in the Cayman Islands—a charitable company of some kind. It’s officially an NGO—a cat-fishing sort of NGO, in that it has money but doesn’t seem to do anything.”

  “So today, when El Pescado tries to lawyer up, he’ll be broke?”

  “Broke,” Frigg repeated thoughtfully. “Left without financial means; penniless. Yes, broke is the correct word.”

  “Since Felix is broke,” Stu said, picking up his phone, “maybe I should let Graciella know that she is, too.”

  Stuart Ramey Version 1.0 would have dreaded the idea of speaking on the phone to a relative stranger. Version 2.0 did not. He dialed at once, and Graciella answered on the second ring.

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Ramey?”

  “There is indeed,” he told her, “and the problem would appear to be all yours.”

  64

  Graciella listened to what Stuart Ramey was saying, but at first she could barely comprehend the full extent of the disaster. “Frigg stole my money?” she demanded at last.

  “Not just your m
oney,” Stu corrected. “She took all the Duartes’ liquid assets, yours included. The only thing left is real property, so when it comes time to lawyer up, you’ll all be using public defenders.”

  “She can’t get away with this.”

  “What are you going to do about it,” Stu asked mildly, “call the cops? Or send in a hit man like you did on Ron Webster? Or Arturo Salazar?”

  Graciella’s heart fell. It wasn’t just the money. Ramey and Frigg knew about Webster and Arturo? Did they know about her mother, too?

  “El Pescado won’t stand for this,” she warned. “He’ll come after you and destroy you.”

  “Let me point out that Felix Duarte is currently in jail,” Stuart said, “and you’re the one who put him there.”

  “I put him there? How could I?” Graciella protested. “He was arrested in Phoenix. I had no idea he was even coming to Phoenix.”

  “But Frigg knew,” Stuart countered. “The transfer from El Pescado’s account to the charter outfit gave that game away. As for that tip to the DEA? It may not have come from you, but as far as the cops are concerned, it had your name on it.”

  Graciella hung up then because with those few words, she knew her life was over—not just life as she knew it, but life itself. If she had access to her money and her fake IDs right then, she might make a run for it and be able to go into hiding, but even then Felix would most likely find her. In jail or out, he would hire someone to track her down and kill her, just as he had hunted down each of her mother’s attackers. Graciella wanted to howl and scream and bay at the moon, but she didn’t.

  “We need to turn around,” she said.

  “We’re not going to Cottonwood?” the driver asked.

  “No, take me back to Phoenix.”

  “Where in Phoenix?”

  “I don’t know. To a hotel, I guess. Drop me off at a nice hotel.”

  Which is how Graciella Miramar ended up spending the last night of her life at the Arizona Biltmore. It was almost three o’clock in the morning when she finally checked in. There was a single parking attendant waiting by the driveway when she stepped out of the Escalade. The lobby was completely empty of customers. The lone clerk would later recall Ms. Miramar as being very subdued in her dealings with him, although he certainly remembered her paying for her room in cash out of an impressive roll of bills.

  “Will you be needing assistance with your luggage?” he asked after handing her a map and providing instructions for locating her casita.

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I can manage. Is there a minibar in the room?”

  “Of course, madam, a fully stocked minibar. We also have twenty-four-hour room service.”

  Her casita was at the far back of the property. From the time she left the lobby until she reached her door, she walked the ramped and well-lit walkways without seeing another soul, and that was just as well. She had always been alone, even during the years when she had lived with her mother, and she would be alone now, too. Graciella understood how the cartels handled snitches. She would do this on her own terms—calmly, carefully, and deliberately.

  Once in the room, she didn’t bother undressing, nor did she call for room service. She raided the minibar instead, opening the bottle of Merlot and dining on packages of potato chips, cheddar-flavored popcorn, and peanut M&M’s.

  She didn’t turn on the television set. One of the twenty-four-hour news outlets might have told her more about El Pescado’s arrest, but she already knew as much about that as she needed to know. There was no sense in learning more. Instead, she sat there drinking her wine, snacking, and thinking about Frigg. It was revolting to have been done in by a damned machine. Owen had told her the AI was smart, but Graciella had gravely underestimated her opponent, and now she was done.

  She thought about writing a suicide note, but decided against it. The less said the better. Let the cops puzzle it out. Either they would put it all together or they would not. It was none of her concern.

  She finished the first bottle of wine and opened a second one—Cabernet, this time. By then she was slightly drunk, but not as drunk as her mother had been on her last night, and for some reason, that made Graciella giggle. She poured herself a fresh glass and set it on the coffee table while she unsealed the envelope and opened the two packets of fentanyl. She placed the patches on the backs of her hands, and then sat there sipping from that final glass and watching as the poison gradually seeped into her system. When the opioid overdose finally did its work, the half-empty glass fell from her lifeless limbs and shattered on the tile floor.

  • • •

  Later that day, just at noon, a housekeeper knocked on the door. When no one answered, the maid used her passkey to enter. She was the one who discovered the body, slumped over but still sitting mostly upright on the sofa. And the only sign of violence in the room? That single broken glass.

  65

  On Wednesday morning, the High Noon campus in Cottonwood was truly an armed compound. Stu had let everyone know about the situation with Graciella and the possibility that she might show up to cause trouble, so they all came to work carrying their various concealed weapons. They spent the better part of an hour in the break room gathered around the TV set and channel-surfing through various local newscasts where El Pescado’s arrest was the top story of the day. Naturally DEA Special Agent in Charge Robert McKay and his arrest team were being cast as the heroes of the piece, but the people in Cottonwood all understood that, for the second time in his life, Stuart Ramey was the man of the hour—Stuart and an AI named Frigg.

  When a call from Boise, Idaho, showed up on Cami’s caller ID, she switched the phone onto speaker before she answered. “Have you heard what’s happened?” Traci Cantrell demanded breathlessly. “That Duarte guy, the one from the sketch, has been arrested.”

  “We heard,” Cami said. “We were just sitting here in the office discussing that very thing.”

  “What should I do about it?”

  “If I were you, I’d contact the DEA agent in charge down in Phoenix and have him get in touch with the cold case folks back in Chicago.”

  “But will the guy in Phoenix even talk to me?” Traci asked.

  “I’m not sure if you’ll reach him directly, but someone at the DEA in Phoenix will be more than happy to talk to you. And later today, I’m planning on circling back to the five other families whose sons were involved in that mess in Panama. Maybe you’re not the only one who remembers El Pescado’s plug-ugly face from back then.”

  Once the phone call ended, they moved on to other things. “Tell us about this Thor Foundation,” Ali urged Stu.

  “As far as I can tell, it’s a shell organization, supposedly a philanthropic one, established in the Cayman Islands where Owen Hansen was planning on hiding his money. It only had a little over $200,000 in it before Frigg dumped all the Duarte Cartel’s cash into it overnight. Amazingly enough, when Frigg was putting Owen out of business, she added my name as a member of the board of directors.”

  “Will Mexico try to claim that money?”

  “I don’t know,” Stuart said. “If they do, they can have it, if not . . .”

  “You’ll be running an NGO,” Cami said.

  “Not me,” Stuart told her. “No way!”

  “What about Frigg?” B. asked.

  “You mean, am I going to shut her down for good?”

  “It seems to me as though in the past few days she’s more than proven her worth,” B. said. “Yes, you’re going to have to fine-tune her to get rid of all those problematic elements that could send us to jail, but if the cartel money ends up sticking and the NGO becomes a multibillion-dollar enterprise, maybe you could put her in charge of running it.”

  “From where?” Stuart asked.

  “From right where she is,” B. said with a grin. “Down in the man cave. Maybe somebody on the board of directors of Thor Foundation would approve the purchase of a mostly vacant house in the Village of Oak Creek to serve as the foundat
ion’s headquarters. We’d make you a sweet deal.”

  “I don’t even want to think about this right now,” Stuart said. “It’s too much.”

  Clearly a few vestiges of Stuart 1.0 still lingered.

  The break room meeting ended soon after that. Just after noon a building inspector appeared at the reception counter. Shirley didn’t let him set foot beyond the entryway until she had called Abby Henderson over in Prescott and verified that this building inspector, Gary Reece, was the real deal. He was.

  At three o’clock in the afternoon, with Stuart seated at his workstation running routine scans, Frigg sent him a flash briefing summons over the Bluetooth.

  “What is it?”

  “Breaking news out of Phoenix. The DEA is reporting that Graciella Miramar, thought to be Felix Duarte’s daughter and the source of the tip that led to his arrest, has been found dead in a Phoenix-area hotel room, where she is suspected of having committed suicide.”

  “What good news!” Stuart exclaimed. “Couldn’t be better.”

  “And good for our team?” Frigg inquired.

  “Definitely,” Stuart said. “I think it counts as a home run.”

  “Home run,” Frigg repeated. “In baseball, a hit that allows a batter to make a complete circuit of the bases; an unqualified success. Yes, Stuart, I believe Ms. Miramar’s death is a home run.”

  It was late that night, just as blanket-swaddled Stuart was about to drift off to sleep on his chaise, when he remembered he had never asked for Frigg’s report on the opera.

  “Frigg,” he said. “Did you have a chance to study Thaïs?”

  “Yes, I did,” Frigg replied. “It is not what I would consider to be a happy story. Thaïs and Athanaël would have been better off if they had been on the same team.”

  “Yes,” Stuart said, “that’s it exactly. Good night, Frigg.”

  “Good night, Stuart, sleep well.”

  66