Again, Brian was left twiddling his thumbs while Alex scanned the information that had been dumped into her computer.
“Okay,” she said finally. “It looks like he stopped using his cell phone Monday night, so there’s no chance of using that to pinpoint his location. He’s probably got himself a new one by now.”
“There were no phones at all found at the crime scene on the reservation,” Brian told her.
“So he may be using a victim’s cell phone? Can you get a court order for any of those?” Mumford asked.
Not likely, Brian thought, especially since I’ve been thrown off the case. “Sounds like you might have better luck with that than I would.”
“All right,” she said. “If you can get those numbers, send them over to me. Since we’re handling this as a joint operation, I might be able to get court orders for those, too.”
The Aces would not be pleased to hear that bit of news, and Brian guessed that Detectives Abernathy and Adams would have a hard time keeping up with Alex Mumford.
“Great,” Brian said, smiling to himself. “I’ll send you those numbers as soon as I have them.”
“Can you dispatch deputies to the airport?” Alex asked.
The Aces weren’t there yet, so why the hell not?
“Will do,” Brian replied. “The one here has only two concourses, so covering those shouldn’t be too tough. I’ll pull up his driver’s license photo and hand out copies of that.”
“Good,” Alex said. “What about car rental agencies?”
“I’ll check with those and also with the local FBOs. If that 401(k) cash is burning a hole in his pocket, he just might pop for a charter to get where he wants to go in a hurry. If he goes to Phoenix to fly out, however, Sky Harbor is a lot tougher to cover as far as concourses are concerned, and there are lots more FBOs there as well. It’s also a hundred miles from here and out of my jurisdiction.”
“Do you want me to contact someone there?”
“You can try. One other question,” Brian added. “Did you find any brass at your scene?”
“Lots,” she said. “All nine-millimeter. What about on your end?”
“Nobody found any last night, but some could have turned up now that it’s daylight. The last I heard, CSI was still working the scene. Where’d Southard get a nine-millimeter?”
“He bought it,” she said. “From a local gun shop here in Thousand Oaks. Even got himself a CWP. For defensive purposes only.”
“Right,” Brian said. “For protection only. I’m sure that’s what the asshole told his dead wife and kids.”
Twelve
Sells, Tohono O’odham Nation, Arizona
Sunday, June 7, 2009, 10:30 a.m.
86? Fahrenheit
Dan had been standing outside the hospital’s front entrance to make his phone call to Detective Fellows. On the way back inside, he stopped off long enough to speak to the charge nurse. “Any word on when Angie Enos’s relatives are going to show up?” he asked.
“Not so far,” she said.
Dan started to go back to the room, then changed his mind and went back outside, dialing his cell phone as he went.
He’d managed a couple of hours of sleep in that dreadful chair, but he wasn’t rested enough to stay awake through another ten-hour shift. It was already after ten in the morning. That didn’t leave him sufficient time to drive home, grab some z’s, and be back up and at ’em in time for his shift. Besides, what if Angie’s relatives never appeared? What would happen to her then?
Dan Pardee already knew the answer to that question. Some unfailingly earnest CPS caseworker would ride up on her broom and whisk Angie off to foster care. Dan Pardee understood all too well about what was wrong with that scenario.
Marco Benevedez, the sergeant on duty, answered his call.
“Hey,” Dan said, casting around for a plausible excuse, “I stopped by the feast house at Vamori last night. I think I picked up a trace of food poisoning.”
“No shit!” Marco said, laughing aloud at his own joke.
“Just the opposite,” Dan said. He hoped he sounded suitably unamused.
“Are you telling me you won’t be in?” Marco asked.
“Not today.” And not Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday, either, Dan thought, since those were his regular days off.
“We need a full report on your involvement with that Komelik shooting.”
“No problem,” Dan said. “All I did was come across the victims after they’d been shot, but I’ll be glad to type something up and send it.”
One of the side benefits of working for a far-flung unit was that reports could be e-mailed in rather than delivered in person.
“Drugs, do you think?”
Dan knew that Marco’s question was off the record. Stopping the flow of drugs and people across the border was one of the Shadow Wolves’ main areas of responsibility. Naturally Marco wanted to know if this shooting had anything to do with their mission. As far as Dan was concerned, the deaths of the people outside Komelik had nothing to do with smuggling. If what Brian Fellows had said was true, it was some nutcase from California going around killing people-starting with the people he should have loved above all others. That wasn’t a Border Patrol problem. It was a humanity problem.
“I doubt it,” Dan said. “Time will tell. Gotta go,” he added.
“Right,” Marco said, thinking Dan meant something else entirely. “So by all means, go!”
“Did you bring me another coloring book?” Angie asked when he came back into her room. “I’ve used up all the stickers for this one.”
And you already have me pegged for a sucker, he thought. “Not right now,” he said.
“When is lunch?” she asked. “I’m hungry.”
“Soon,” he said, and hoped like hell it was true.
Sonoita, Arizona
Sunday, June 7, 2009, 10:00 a.m.
73? Fahrenheit
When Brandon went inside to interview June Holmes, he left the convertible parked in the generous shade of a towering cottonwood. As Diana and Damsel settled in to wait, Diana wasn’t surprised when Garrison Ladd was the next one of her unending collection of bad boys to show up. Why wouldn’t he?
Even though she’d been expecting him, it was disturbing that he appeared right beside her in the driver’s seat, sitting there with both hands on the wheel. At least Max Cooper had stayed in the backseat where he belonged. The good news about that was that the remains of the exit wound in his head were mostly invisible to her.
“No matter what you think, sometimes suicide is the best solution for all concerned,” he said, taking up Max’s line of attack.
“You of all people should know about that,” Diana said derisively. “After all, that was your solution of choice. By my count you’ve been dead for more than thirty years.”
“But don’t bother selling the car,” he went on as though he hadn’t heard a word she said. “If you’re gonna do it, you’re gonna do it. It’s as simple as that. Brandon has a gun. You know where he keeps it. Even someone as dim as you are should be able to figure out how to use it.”
This was nothing new. Garrison Ladd had always maintained that Diana was pretty much too stupid to live.
