Abby sat at her desk with the file and remembered that the suspect, Javon Curtis, had stood next to the grieving parents at many of the numerous press conferences while they pleaded for any witnesses to come forward. What a Judas. She and Bill were the only ones who suspected him, but there was no evidence. When Curtis claimed to have been out of town at the time the murder occurred and provided his buccal swab for testing in order to exclude, she’d wondered then if her instincts had betrayed her.
He snowed everyone with his easy compliance—tried to throw us off. Abby’s annoyance was tempered by the knowledge that he couldn’t fool the science of an exact match. But match notwithstanding, she wanted a confession. Abby hated relying solely on DNA in court. As strong as a DNA match like this was, she wanted an admission and, if possible, a little contrition. She rarely got the contrition; usually criminals only felt bad about getting caught. But a case where someone actually expressed remorse always made her feel a little better.
Abby had kept tabs on Curtis and a finger on the pulse of the neighborhood in the months since the murder. There had been understandable anger over the lab situation. But the Joiners were patient, churchgoing people. They had faith they’d get their answers, and Abby was overjoyed that it appeared their faith would be rewarded today.
Bill walked in, and Abby hit him with the news before he could fill up his coffee mug.
It was just before 9 a.m. when they arrived in the quiet neighborhood and knocked on the front door of the suspect’s residence. The only precaution they’d taken was having a black-and-white cruise the alley to be certain the man didn’t flee. But neither Abby nor Bill expected the suspect would give them any trouble.
He didn’t. Javon Curtis invited them inside his house and then quietly accepted being handcuffed after they informed him that DNA identified him as at least a rapist and at most a killer.
Then everything went sideways.
Abby stepped out of the house onto the porch, Bill and Javon behind her. Bill pulled the door closed, and Abby turned to take the first step down. She snatched her weapon from its holster as training kicked in.
There was a man on the lawn pointing a gun at them.
From the corner of her eye she saw Javon try to bolt left. Bill grabbed at him while conflicting emotions swirled through Abby’s insides like a debris-filled tornado. The man with the gun was her victim’s father, Clayton Joiner.
“Put the gun down now!” she ordered, reflexively shifting left to shield Bill and Javon.
Joiner ignored her, also stepping to the left. “He murdered my baby!”
“Please, Clayton.” Abby’s gun was up and on target. A thousand questions begging—most of all: How did Clayton know?
“He’ll be charged; he’ll pay. Put the gun down.”
Something like a sob and a groan escaped his lips. He raised his gun and fired.
So did Abby.
CHAPTER
-2-
“I USED TO LIKE Hee Haw.”
Luke cast a sideways glance toward Woody in the passenger seat. “What? Was that a show or a catcall?” His truck bounced down the rough dirt road, on the way to check on an address in rural Riverside County. Robert “Woody” Woods had come along for the ride, and they’d been chatting about a lot of things, eventually getting to TV shows.
“Ha. It was a music show, and funny, a comedy. Wholesome, too. Nowadays you turn on the TV and all you see are people playing musical beds.”
“Yeah, I can’t argue with you there. I’m very careful about what my daughter watches. Seems like I have to say no more than I can say yes. . . . Looks like we’re here.”
Luke Murphy pulled his truck to the side of the dusty dirt road and turned off the ignition. He looked around at the bleak, dry landscape and wondered if they were on a wild-goose chase. Rural Riverside County was a world away from his normal stomping grounds in Long Beach. They’d stopped at the local sheriff’s substation for directions since his GPS didn’t seem to recognize the address he was looking for. The deputies had told him it was in a dead zone, and even with their guidance, he wondered if perhaps he’d taken a wrong turn. But this was a neighborhood of sorts. The lots were large and the structures far apart, but the presence of mailboxes told him the area was not too remote for mail delivery.
“It’s a perfect hiding place, if this is your guy,” Woody said.
Luke agreed but said nothing. He really didn’t think they’d find the fugitive he was looking for here. Together they climbed out of the truck and met at the tailgate.
Deciding to work this like a training exercise, Luke turned to Woody. “If you were still in uniform, how would you handle this?”
“Well . . .” Woody rubbed his chin and did a slow 360, taking in the whole area. “Once you’re certain this is the place, I’ll follow the fence toward the rear of the house, keep an eye on things there. Fugitives have been known to make backdoor getaways. If he does split, I’ll try to get a plate for you. If not, just pick me up after you talk to the guy.”
“I don’t want to put you in jeopardy.”
Woody frowned and gave a dismissive wave. “I’m old and retired but not feeble, and I am armed.” He tapped the fanny pack that Luke knew held a small .380 automatic. Woody had applied for and received a concealed carry weapon permit.
Luke chuckled and walked to one of the bent, dented, and aged mailboxes and double-checked the number he’d written down. “Yep, this is the right spot. You want me to give you a few minutes?”
The lot looked to be fenced all the way around. Woody started to walk to the corner of the enclosure. “Just a couple. It looks like when I reach the third fence post, I’ll be out of sight of the front door. If he hasn’t seen us already, I’ll be fine.”
“10-4.”
As a private investigator, Luke specialized in finding missing people. This particular case was not his. He’d said yes as a favor to a PI from Arizona who’d called and asked if he could check out this address. Luke didn’t normally do work for other PIs; he had enough of his own. But the Arizona PI’s story was compelling, so he agreed to help. She’d admitted it was a long shot, one in a million, but she wanted him to look for a convicted murderer who’d absconded from parole. The provocative thing about her case was that the guy had been on the lam for thirty years.
Luke was intrigued when the Arizona PI told him the story of Oscar Cardoza, how he’d been hitchhiking in Montana in 1975. He shot and killed the man who picked him up, then stole the victim’s car. Eventually apprehended, tried, convicted, Oscar spent several years in prison before becoming eligible for parole in 1984. He was paroled to California because he had family here, and that was when he disappeared.
Since the state of Montana didn’t seem to be in a hurry to find the man, the grandson of the murdered man, who now lived in Arizona, had hired her, hoping she’d pick up a thirty-year cold trail. The first thing she’d found out was that the family member Oscar had been paroled to, his brother, was long dead, but he had lived in Riverside. She then uncovered a couple of aliases Oscar had used over the years. One, Dan Parker, was the name that led the PI to this address, the name of the owner on record. And that was why Luke was with Woody in the middle of nowhere, standing at a battered mailbox looking for any signs of life in a run-down double-wide trailer.
Oscar would be in his sixties now. Luke had a copy of the wanted bulletin with a picture of the man at twenty-five upon conviction, and an age-enhanced photo of what he could look like now. The age-enhanced photo didn’t impress him. It could never account for what a person might go through over the years that could age them. But Oscar did have a couple of distinguishing marks. He had prison tattoos on his knuckles and a large tattoo of a woman on his left arm. Unless the man had spent money to have the tats professionally and cleanly removed, Luke was certain he’d know right away if he’d found the fugitive or not.
This search, with all its uncertainty, was a welcome break for Luke. He and Woody were in the process of inte
rviewing and testing for a task force job with the federal government, investigating cold cases. But things had stalled in the process. Since Woody had retired after thirty-four years as a police officer, he’d taken to working with Luke, even considered getting his own PI license. In the last three months, together they’d found two girls who were just eighteen and who didn’t want to go home, but at least now their folks knew they were okay. Their most satisfying find was a war veteran suffering from PTSD who went off his meds and disappeared. Luke and Woody found the poor kid living under a bridge in Pasadena. It did Luke’s heart good to reunite the young man with his mother and mental health professionals who could help him.
Woody seemed to like the work, and while Luke’s old partner was still going through therapy to rehab a badly broken ankle and was not even certain she wanted to come back to the PI business, Luke was happy for the company and the help. They’d be partners if and when the cold case squad ever got up and running. In the meantime it was nice to know they worked well together.
Woody was well along the side fence line as Luke approached the gravel driveway leading to the manufactured home. There was a padlocked gate across the drive, and No Trespassing and No Soliciting signs were posted. Luke walked to the lock and studied the structure, trying to ascertain whether anyone was home. All the blinds in front were drawn, so it was a good bet they had not been seen yet if someone was there. There was a bit of landscaping in front of the tired, bleak structure—pots and containers with plants and flowers that were green and colorful, indicating that someone was watering and caring for them. There was also an old car off to the side, a minivan Luke guessed was from the eighties, but it didn’t look broken-down. In fact, the driveway and area in front of the house were free of weeds. Someone moved the van and drove it in and out with some regularity.
Taking a chance, Luke cupped his hands in front of his mouth. “Hello! Is anyone home?”
Woody was out of sight behind the house now, but Luke was sure he’d heard.
He repeated the question a couple of times and waited. Just as he was about to give up, the door to the home opened and an old man stepped out. A jolt of fear spiked in Luke. He thought the man had a gun, but as the man moved forward, he could see that it was a cane.
“What do you want?” the man hollered in a strong voice that belied his appearance.
“I’m looking for someone. I wonder if you can help me.”
The man cursed, and Luke feared he’d disappear back into the house and that would be the end of the inquiry.
But he seemed to reconsider and made his way down the stairs. He walked okay, just slowly, and it appeared that he needed the cane only for balance. Luke sized him up. While he knew you couldn’t judge a book by its cover—or a fugitive by his wrinkles—he didn’t get any dangerous vibes from the guy.
“Who do you want?” the man asked when he reached the gate.
“I’m a private investigator and—”
“A private investigator?” He frowned and Luke studied him. He could be the face in the age-enhanced photo, but this guy looked to be in his eighties, not his sixties. Was that the result of a hard life on the run? He was about four inches shorter than Luke and thin. His skin was tan, creased, and leathery, like someone who spent a lot of time in the sun. From his sharp jawline to his thin frame, there was nothing soft about him; he was all hard angles. His bald head sported a couple of scars and a clean Band-Aid on the right side.
“Yes, here’s my identification.” Luke pulled out his ID and handed it to the man, reaching over the gate, hoping he’d take it. That would give Luke the opportunity to look at his hands.
The old man did what Luke hoped: reached out and took the ID. Luke saw faded ink splotches on the man’s knuckles. He’d read that the tattoos originally spelled HATE on the right and COPS on the left. A blurry H was all Luke could make out for certain. Further up on the left arm was another tat. It could have been a woman, but on the old, wrinkled arm, it was just a blotchy mess.
Luke had his man. His pulse jumped, not with fear, but with satisfaction that this trip had been a success, in spite of his doubts. He and Woody had discussed the possibility and planned to return to the sheriff’s office, tell them what they’d found, and let law enforcement proceed with the arrest. Montana would extradite, so Luke knew the sheriff would make an arrest.
All I have to do is ask a couple of inane questions, say good-bye, pick Woody up, and head back to the sheriff.
“And what do you want with me, Mr. Murphy?” The old guy looked up at him and handed back the ID.
“I’m looking for Dan Parker. Does he live here?”
“Dan Parker?” The man chuckled. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”
“Do you know him?”
Something in the man’s demeanor changed—it was subtle, but Luke caught it and it made his guard go up. He wished he’d parked his truck closer. There was no cover out here if this leathery fugitive got contentious. It was not Luke’s job to get into a confrontation, especially out here in the middle of nowhere. If the man had a weapon, elderly or not, he was dangerous.
The deputy’s voice saying, “Dead zone” rang in Luke’s ears. Yeah, he thought, and a great place to hide bodies. His and Woody’s.
“I used to know him. What’s he done? What do you want him for?”
“I don’t want him at all. Someone in Arizona is looking for him. I’m just doing an Arizona PI a favor.” He gave a generic explanation about the woman’s call and professional courtesy.
The man took a step back and rubbed his chin. “Do you want to come in the yard and look around?”
“No,” Luke said, “I’ll take your word on it. You have an honest face. Is Parker here?”
The man seemed to think about it, leaning on his cane and studying Luke. For his part Luke watched as conflicting emotions crossed the man’s face. An angry frown gave way to resignation, he thought.
“What took you so long?” he asked after a long minute.
“You’re Oscar, aren’t you?” Luke asked by reflex, hands at his sides, balanced stance, bracing himself for whatever might come next.
Nodding, the man leaned his left hand on the cane and reached into his pocket with his right. Out came a small handgun—a .22, Luke guessed as he stared down the barrel.
CHAPTER
-3-
“HEY! Earth to Molly. You with me here?”
Molly shook her head to clear the confusion from her mind and turned to face her partner.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m with you.” Am I? she wondered as she bent to help him with the ambulance stretcher after tossing the emergency equipment bags on top. They pulled the gurney from the back of the ambulance and jerked it toward the crash, to the scene that had captured her attention and sent her insides twisting into a fist of paralyzing fear.
They were on a lonely stretch of two-lane highway out in the desert, crowded now with emergency vehicles, lights flashing, and stinking with the acrid smell of flares. It was a single-car crash; the driver probably fell asleep and wrapped the car around a tree.
Firefighters had ripped the crushed car open with the Jaws of Life to free the passenger, a young girl about the same age Molly had been when she was trapped in the trunk of a car ten years ago.
But Molly’s ordeal had not been the result of an accident.
And now the horror of that black day clutched at her from the past, seizing her by the throat. And she didn’t know why. She’d worked through that day long before this, put it behind her, come to terms with it. All the normal platitudes had been applied to her situation and she’d moved on. The fact that she did this job—well, according to the commendations on her wall—bolstered her confidence.
So why was the past, that dark incident, stalking her, striking with sharp teeth at her heart when she could least afford it?
Concentrate, she told herself as she gritted her teeth, knowing her partner and—most of all—this young girl depended on her
to keep it together.
But it was only the grip she had on the rail of the stretcher that kept her hands from shaking. She wondered if she’d lose it altogether right here and suddenly need rescue herself.
CHAPTER
-4-
LUKE SAW HIS LIFE pass before him. He thought of his daughter, his mother, and he thought of Abby Hart.
He stepped back and looked for cover or an escape route. The gate still separated them. There was no way he could take the gun away from the fugitive.
“Kinda sorry you did that favor now, aren’t you?” Oscar said, viciousness in his eyes.
Luke peered over Oscar’s shoulder and held his breath. Woody, gun in hand, was slowly creeping up behind him.
Cardoza noticed Luke’s gaze and sneered. “You think I’m gonna fall for that trick, you’re crazy. I haven’t stayed free all these years by being stupid. Step over to the padlock. I’ll show you what I do with nosy PIs.” He dropped his free hand to the ring of keys on his belt.
“Think.” Luke raised his hands, stalling, giving Woody time to get closer. “I don’t have to tell anyone you’re here. I can keep a secret.”
The old man cursed. “The only reason I won’t shoot you where you stand is because I can’t drag your body where I want it. You shouldn’t be poking your face into other people’s business.”
“And you shouldn’t be hiding out on a property with holes in the fence.” Woody placed the barrel of his gun in the old man’s back.
Luke watched the shock spread, saw Oscar blanch. The gun dropped from his hand.
Hands raised, he stammered, “Aw, I was just trying to scare you. I wasn’t serious.”
“Yeah, right,” Woody said. “And I’m a big gray-headed Easter bunny.” He unclipped the ring of keys from Oscar’s belt and tossed them to Luke. “Open the gate, partner. Let’s secure this clown.”
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