focus.
“Who the attending physician was when Roseanne was admitted for her emergency appendectomy.”
“Did he ask you anything about what happened to her later?”
Larry paused. “No, not that I remember.”
“See there? I’m sure it’s nothing.”
But with Larry off the phone, Gayle knew that wasn’t true. This was something, and it wasn’t good. She had already run up the flag to Bill Forsythe with her claim that Erik LaGrange was doing his best to discredit both Gayle and her husband. That might have worked with Sheriff Forsythe, but it wouldn’t wash with Brandon Walker.
In his current state, Larry was in danger of crumbling like a house of cards as soon as a detective or a reporter asked him a single question. That made Gayle’s husband a liability she could ill afford. He would have to be dealt with. So would Brandon Walker. After all, Walker wasn’t a police officer anymore. He had no more protection than anybody else, and no more legal clout, either. Not only that, Gayle knew where he lived. The question was, could Gayle come up with some kind of elegant solution that would deal with both Larry and Brandon at the same time? To do that, she needed to think. She picked up her phone and dialed the receptionist. Gayle had meant to fire the little man-stealing bitch first thing this morning, but with so many other things on her mind, she hadn’t quite gotten around to it.
“Denise,” Gayle said as civilly as she could manage, “I’ll have to cancel my luncheon at Canyon Ranch this morning. Could you please call Ron Farrell, the manager out there, and let him know? His number’s in the database.”
Outside, Brandon sat in the Suburban, savoring the warmth of the smooth leather seat and trying to come to terms with what he had done. By barging in on Stryker and asking questions, it was possible he had put his whole family at risk-himself, Diana, Lani. And for what? For Emma Orozco?
Not really, he told himself in disgust. I did it because I wanted my old life back-because I wanted to be useful. I wanted to be a hero. But now that my damned ego has jeopardized my whole family, what the hell should I do now?
He used his cell phone to call Ralph Ames. “What’s up?” Ralph asked.
“I may have found Roseanne’s killer,” Brandon said carefully. “But there’s a problem-a big problem. The guy knows me, he knows my family, and he knows where we live. I’m going to need some backup on this, Ralph. If this is our guy, we’ve got to nail him now-or I’ll never sleep again.”
Ralph Ames processed the information and went into his problem-solving mode. “Who is he?” Ralph asked. “Let’s see what our reference librarians can dig up on him. What’s his name?”
“Stryker,” Brandon answered. “S-T-R-Y-K-E-R, Dr. Lawrence. Wife’s name is Gayle. He was out on the reservation working as a doctor at the same time my wife was teaching there. Gayle and Diana taught there together. This isn’t definite, but I suspect Larry Stryker was Roseanne’s attending physician at the time she was hospitalized. I also know that later on-years later-there was a scandal on the reservation about doctors abusing their patients. He may have had something to do with that, but it was all a long time ago. Since then, Stryker and his wife have turned into big deals here in Tucson. They run a nonprofit organization called Medicos for Mexico.”
“In other words, we may find lots of material,” Ralph said.
“That’s right,” Brandon returned. “I’m looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack, and first I need you to find the haystack.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Ralph told him. “You do what you can to keep everyone out of harm’s way. In the meantime, I’ll see about getting you some help. Once we’re set, I’ll be back in touch.”
“Thanks,” Brandon said. “I appreciate it.”
Brian was within minutes of heading out to Kino Hospital for the autopsy when Homicide Captain Julio Hernandez stopped by his desk. “What’s up?” Brian asked.
“The Big Guy wants to see you.”
The Big Guy was none other than Sheriff William Forsythe. In all his years with the Pima County Sheriff’s Department, Detective Brian Fellows had never before been summoned for a personal audience with the top gun. He blinked in surprise.
“Sheriff Forsythe wants to see me?” Brian asked stupidly.
Hernandez nodded. “ASAP.”
Feeling like a grade school student being sent to the principal’s office, Brian made his way to the administrative wing of the building where, after giving his name to a receptionist, he was nodded into Bill Forsythe’s spacious office. The sheriff was on the phone. Frowning, he motioned for Brian to have a chair.
“Sure,” the sheriff said into the phone. “Of course. I know just what you mean, and I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about a thing.”
Forsythe put down the phone and then glowered across his desk at Brian. “Thanks for coming, Detective Fellows,” he said. “I was just looking over the paperwork from yesterday, and I came across your interview with Erik LaGrange.”
“Is there a problem?” Brian asked.
“I’ll say there’s a problem,” Forsythe growled. “Do you know who LaGrange works for?”
“Yes,” Brian answered. “Medicos for Mexico. It says so right there in the report.”
“And Medicos for Mexico is run by…?”
Brian bristled at the condescending, pop-quiz nature of Forsythe’s dressing-down, but he tried not to let it show. “Dr. Lawrence and Gayle Stryker,” he answered carefully.
“Do you have any idea how influential these people are in this community?” Forsythe demanded. “You don’t drag people like them through a homicide investigation just for the hell of it.”
“Gayle Stryker was having an affair with the guy who’s our prime suspect,” Brian interjected. “He claims she’s the only one who can give us an accounting of where he was and what he was doing the night before the murder.”
Forsythe pounced on Brian’s words. “Yes,” he said. “The night before, but not the day of the murder. I’ve looked at the preliminary ME report. Fran Daly estimates time of death as sometime Saturday morning. LaGrange told you himself that the woman left his house the previous evening. That means, Detective Fellows, that Mrs. Stryker’s being with LaGrange on Friday night has nothing whatsoever to do with whether or not the dirtbag has an alibi.”
“But-”
“No buts, mister,” Forsythe interrupted. “I’m giving you the word, and I’m giving you an order. Back off! If you even so much as call Gayle Stryker and ask her a single question, I’ll have your ears and your badge. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Forsythe grumbled irritably. “Now get going.”
J. A. Jance
Day of the Dead
Twenty-Three
The dead baby was so small that they could not place her kneeling as the Desert People place their dead. So they laid the little girl on her bright blankets and very carefully covered her with branches of shegoi-creosote bush and kui-mesquite. Then they picked up the big rocks.
By then the mother could not see. She was looking at the sun. She did not want to be a weak Indian, but she could not watch as they threw the rocks on the little mound of brush. She turned and started down the mountain toward the village. She walked fast and stumbled often.
When the woman reached her house, the first thing she saw was one of the cradles which she had made for her baby. The cradle was swinging from the branches of a mesquite tree. For this nuhkuth she had used a brown blanket. She snatched the cradle down. She folded the blanket and pressed it against that thing inside her which hurt so much. Then she went away from the house because she did not want to be there when the others came back.
The trail led down to the water among the cottonwoods. The woman could not see where she was going, but she did not care.
