“You’re following him alone?” Brian asked.
“Looks like,” Brandon said.
Brian Fellows sighed. “Okay,” he said. “Stick with him. PeeWee and I will leave here in just a couple of minutes. Once we’re under way, I’ll call so you can let us know your location.”
“Got it,” Brandon said. “And Brian?”
“What?”
“Having backup is an excellent idea. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Brian said. “But do me a big favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Keep your vest on.”
“I hear you,” Brandon said. “And I will.”
It was only a little past two, but already northbound traffic was building up. From Miracle Mile on, Oracle was gridlocked. Over and over, Larry had to wait through two full cycles of a light before he could clear a single intersection. The lines of traffic barely moved. Time, on the other hand, seemed to streak by. It was only a matter of hours until they would be out of the country and, if Gayle was right, relatively safe from prosecution. Still, Larry worried. He didn’t want to be late.
What had happened? For years-for longer than most people stayed married-he and Gayle had maintained an unconventional but relatively untroubled lifestyle. She had allowed him his indulgences, and he had allowed Gayle hers. Last week, everything was fine. This week, the world was falling apart-and all because of a totally unremarkable girl named Roseanne Orozco, someone he barely remembered. She was the ultimate cause of everything coming undone-Roseanne and a jerk of an ex-sheriff named Brandon Walker. What gave that asshole the right to meddle in Larry’s private affairs? Wasn’t that why they’d helped un-elect him-so he couldn’t do that anymore?
Larry inched his way through another light, crossing River Road just as the light turned red overhead, but squeezing through didn’t do any good. A hundred yards beyond the light, traffic stopped cold again, waiting for a light to change so far ahead that it wasn’t yet visible.
He glanced at the clock on the dash. Another ten minutes had passed, but he was nowhere near the Tucson city limit. It was just as well they were leaving. The traffic back and forth to the ranch was getting worse every year. Larry Stryker was tired of having to fight his way through it morning and night, coming and going. Didn’t these people understand he was in a hurry? He had to get out to the ranch and back into town before Gayle did.
Somewhere north of River Road, Larry looked off to the east, toward the spot where he knew Erik LaGrange had lived, and he was struck by a fit of doubt. Gayle had sacrificed that little shit without so much as a backward glance. What if…?
Plucking his cell phone out of his pocket, he scrolled down until he found the number for CitationShares. “This is Larry Stryker,” he said when an Owner Services rep came on the line. “I just wanted to reconfirm our flight for tonight.”
“Your wife’s flight from Tucson to Cabo San Lucas?” the rep asked.
“That’s right,” Larry said. “That’s the one.”
“It’s scheduled to depart at six P.M.,” the clerk told him.
Larry caught his breath. “Did you say six?” he asked. “I understood it wasn’t leaving until eight.”
“No, it’s definitely departing at six. The itinerary calls for one passenger, Mrs. Stryker, leaving for Cabo San Lucas at six P.M. Do you need me to change that, or are you ready to arrange your own departure?”
Larry could barely speak. “No,” he said. “That’s fine.”
He ended the call, then pounded the steering wheel with both fists. “That bitch!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “That incredible bitch! She’s planning to take off and leave me holding the bag!”
By the time he was stopped at the next light, though, Larry had reconsidered. He picked up his phone and hit redial. “This is Dr. Stryker again,” he said. “You’re right. I do need to make my own flight arrangements. I’d like to leave tonight-as soon as you can get a plane here.”
“Departing from Tucson International?” the reservations clerk asked.
“No. I’ll be at home, north of the city. I’d rather leave from the FBO at Pinal Air Park.”
“Will you also be going to Cabo San Lucas?”
“No,” he said after a moment’s pause. “I’ll be going to Mexico City.”
“And only one passenger?”
“That’s right,” he told her. “Only one. But I’d like a Bravo or an Excel-something big enough so I can make it in one shot.”
“You realize this will be considered simultaneous use. I can’t guarantee you a plane until I check availability. Do you want to stay on the line?”
“Yes,” Larry said. He almost added “please,” but he managed to stifle himself. The wait was interminable.
“All right,” the rep said brightly, coming back on the line. “There weren’t any Excels, but I can have a Bravo there at nine-thirty. So that’s one passenger departing from Pinal Air Park.”
“Wonderful,” he said.
“Any special catering requirements?” she asked.
“Scotch,” he told her, letting out his breath. “And plenty of ice.”
“Cars? A hotel?”
“Have a car meet me at the executive terminal in Mexico City,” he said. “I’ll decide on the hotel on the way.”
Brandon’s arm was bothering him again. He had forgotten about it for a while, but now it was aching like crazy. And the Suburban’s air conditioner didn’t seem to be pumping out enough cool air. Nerves, he told himself. And it was true. When his cell phone rang a few minutes later, Brandon jumped as though he’d been shot.
“Where are you?” Brian asked.
“Stuck in traffic northbound on Oracle at Orange Grove,” Brandon replied. “At least he’s not on I-19 headed for Nogales.”
“If he’s going north on Oracle, Stryker’s most likely going to his ranch,” Brian put in. “It’s The Flying C on the far side of the Tortolitas. That’s the address listed on his driver’s license-101 Flying C Ranch Road. Are you having any difficulty maintaining visual contact?”
“Are you kidding? We’re crawling along at such a snail’s pace I could walk fast enough to catch up, but I’m also in the Suburban. I’m five or six car lengths back. I’m high enough to see him, but I doubt he can see me. How about you?”
“PeeWee and I just left the department. With all the construction at I-19 and I-10, we’re taking surface streets. It may take us a while. Do you want us to use the siren?”
“Don’t bother,” Brandon said. “Traffic’s too heavy for that. I’ll keep you posted, but give me that home address again, just in case. I’ll key it into my GPS. That way, if I do end up losing him, I’ll still have some idea where he’s headed.”
After ending the call, he started messing around with the GPS controls. The obligatory warning came on, telling him not to make adjustments to the system while the car was in motion, but there was no danger of that. The Suburban was stopped cold at a traffic signal. As soon as the GPS system had located the address and mapped it, Brandon called Brian back.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “The Flying C is off Highway 79. It’s in Pinal County, not Pima. What’s going to happen if Bill Forsythe finds out you’ve strayed into another jurisdiction?”
“We’re just going to ask a pair of suspects a few questions,” Brian said. “No big deal.”
But Brandon knew that once Sheriff Forsythe heard what was going on, there would be hell to pay.
The lunchtime rush was mostly over. Diana and Lani sat at a table in the far corner of the room while Lani picked at her food.
“I never saw a Mexican combination plate you didn’t devour on sight,” Diana said to her daughter. “Is something wrong?”
Lani looked at her mother-her Mil-gahn mother-and shook her head. Lani still didn’t understand the terrible
