have to.”
“You’re wrong there, sweetie,” Brandon had told her. “We all have to die.”
Brandon refocused his attention on the present and on Emma Orozco, sitting stolid and still on the living room couch. At first Brandon thought she was still staring at the baskets, but then he realized she wasn’t. She was looking beyond them-through them-in a way that took him back to his days in ’Nam and to the thousand-yard stare.
“But Mr. Ortiz suggested you should see me,” Brandon suggested gently. “My wife said it was something concerning your daughter.”
Emma sighed and nodded. “She’s dead.”
Brandon gave himself points. He had recognized the look on her face, and the hurt, too. “I’m sorry,” Brandon said.
“It’s all right,” Emma returned. “Roseanne’s been dead for a long time.” She paused then, searching for words.
Years in law enforcement had taught Brandon Walker the difficult art of silence. There were times when it was appropriate to ask questions and probe for answers. But there were other times, like this one, when keeping silent was the only thing to do. Emptying a room of sound left behind a vacuum that could only be filled by a torrent of words. Or, as in this case, by a trickle.
“She was murdered,” Emma Orozco whispered hoarsely. “In 1970.”
Suddenly Brandon Walker knew exactly why Emma Orozco was sitting there and why Fat Crack had sent her. “Let me guess,” he offered quietly. “Her killer was never caught.”
Emma nodded again. Brandon could see that, more than thirty years after her daughter’s death, Emma Orozco still found the subject painful to discuss. As the old woman struggled to keep from shedding shameful tears in front of a relative stranger-something firmly frowned upon by her people-Brandon opted to give her privacy.
“I’ll get some iced tea,” he said, rising from the couch. “We’ll drink first, then we’ll talk.”
“Thank you,” Emma whispered. “Thank you very much.”
J. A. Jance
Day of the Dead
Three
While bustling around in the kitchen, gathering glasses and ice, pouring tea, Brandon Walker remembered every word of the unexpected phone call six months earlier that had rescued him from wallowing in a sea of despair and drowning in a pot of self-imposed pity. He had been cranky and bored, tired of being seen by the world as nothing but Mr. Diana Ladd, and disgusted with himself for not being grateful now that Diana’s burgeoning success had made their financial lives more secure than either one of them had ever dreamed possible.
Diana had been somewhere on the East Coast, off on another book tour. Alone with Damsel, Brandon was finishing his second cup of coffee and reading the Wall Street Journal in the shade of the patio when the call came in just after 8 A.M. The caller ID readout said “Private Call,” which probably meant it was some telephone solicitor, but on the off chance that it was Diana calling from a new hotel and a new room, Brandon answered it anyway.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Walker?” an unfamiliar male voice asked.
“Yes,” Brandon growled, adopting his most off-putting, crotchety voice. The last thing he wanted to do was have to convince some slimy salesman that, as owner of a house constructed primarily of river rock, he had no need of vinyl siding.
“My name is Ralph Ames,” the man said. “I hope it’s not too early to call.”
“That depends on what you’re selling,” Brandon grunted in return. He had no intention of making this easy.
“I’m not selling anything,” Ames returned.
Oh, yeah, Brandon thought. That’s what they all say.
“Does the name Geet Farrell ring a bell?” Ralph continued.
Detective G. T. Farrell had been a homicide detective for neighboring Pinal County at the same time Brandon Walker had been in a similar position for the Pima County Sheriff’s Department. Geet Farrell was part of the cavalry who had ridden to the rescue when Andrew Philip Carlisle, newly released from prison, had staged his brazen and nearly successful attempt to silence Diana Ladd permanently. Brandon and Geet had stayed in touch occasionally since then, although they weren’t necessarily close.
“I know Geet Farrell. Don’t tell me he’s gone off the rails and started selling Amway.”
“I can assure you this has nothing to do with Amway,” Ralph Ames said, sounding somewhat offended. “But he’s part of a project I’m in the process of getting up and running. He thought you might be interested in joining us.”
This guy’s a smooth operator, Brandon thought. One who won’t take no for an answer.
“For how much?” he demanded. “What kind of an investment are you looking for?”
“I’d like you to invest as much time as it’ll take for me to buy you lunch,” Ames answered. “I’m driving down to Tucson later this morning. Is there a chance you’re free?”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Brandon allowed.
“Good,” Ames told him. “Meet me at the dining room at the Arizona Inn about eleven-thirty. The table will be under my name.”
So at least the dog-and-pony show is going to be done in style, Brandon thought. And then, because he was bored and lonely and because he was sick and tired of his own cooking, he found himself, against his own better judgment, saying yes instead of no.
“Sure,” he blurted into the phone. “Why not? Eleven-thirty it is. See you there.”
The rest of the morning Brandon berated himself for being such a damned fool. He was so disgusted with himself that when Diana called him from the airport in Atlanta, he didn’t even mention what he’d done. Instead, he poured himself into a starched white shirt, fumbled a once-favored but now slightly spotted tie into an uncomfortable knot around his neck, and then put on a sports coat that was far more snug than it should have been-and than it had been-the last time he’d worn it.
Hoping to beat Ralph Ames to the punch, Brandon Walker arrived at the Arizona Inn annoyingly early-at eleven-fifteen. When he peered into the spacious dining room with its linen-dressed tables, he saw no one and assumed the place was empty. Then, in the far corner of the room, partially hidden behind a huge vase holding an enormous spray of flowers, he noticed a single occupied table. It was set for two, but only one diner was seated there-an impeccably dressed man wearing a smooth gray suit and a blazingly pink tie. Even across the room, Brandon recognized the tie for what it was-expensive as hell.
Damn! Brandon thought. With my luck, that’s got to be him. Maybe if I leave my jacket buttoned, the spot on my own tie won’t show.
“May I help you?” the young hostess asked.
“I’m looking for Ralph Ames,” he told her.
“Yes, of course,” she said with a smile. “Mr. Ames is already here. If you’d be good enough to come right this way…”
Feeling outclassed and out of place, Brandon followed the hostess’s swaying hips through the room. As they neared the table, Ralph Ames rose to his feet and held out a hand, smiling in welcome. Ames wasn’t quite as tall as Brandon, and he was definitely a year or two younger. His razor-cut light brown hair was combed back with only the slightest hint of gray at the temples, making Brandon aware that his own hair probably resembled an unmowed wheat field. Ames was good-looking and seemed to be in disgustingly good shape. The suit fit him well enough that Brandon was forced to conclude it was probably custom-made. Ames exuded the air and self-confidence of someone who had never failed at anything he attempted.
All right, not Amway, then, Brandon concluded irritably. More likely a televangelist.
“Mr. Walker, I presume?” Ames asked. As Brandon had expected, the outrageous pink tie was absolutely blemish-free, but the man’s handshake was firm. Tennis or handball, more than running a television remote for exercise, Brandon decided. Ames’s straight-toothed smile seemed genuine enough and his gaze refreshingly direct.
Still Brandon wasn’t ready to drop his guard. “Yes,” he allowed. “That’s me.”
