and allowed as how he’d let me know about it if and when the connection was verified. That’s why I’m calling you. Tell me about that other case.”
“Last night three homicides and a dead dog turned up shot to death in Thousand Oaks, California,” he said. “The victims had been dead for several days. We suspect it’s the same shooter. Let me give you the lead detective’s contact information.”
Once Brian was off the phone, he took the copies of Jonathan Southard’s head shot and set off for Tucson International Airport. When he arrived, two Pima County patrol cars were parked on the departing passenger driveway. That meant that the uniformed officers Brian had asked to be sent to the airport were still there and continuing to interface with the TSA officers at the passenger screening stations. Keeping a few copies of the photo for himself, he parked in the driveway and took the rest of the stack inside.
When he came out, working on a hunch, Brian drove back around the circle and pulled up behind the queue of cabs that were parked near the far end of the terminal building, waiting for fares.
It was ungodly hot. The drivers, several of them smoking, stood in a knot outside their vehicles, looking bored and discouraged. Most of the time they would have been less than interested in talking to a cop, but in this instance they were happy for anything that would take their minds off their shared misery.
“We’re looking for this guy,” Brian said, holding up a copy of the photo. “He may be trying to fly out of town this morning. Have any of you seen him?”
Brian was astonished when one of the drivers raised his hand. “Let me take a closer look,” he said. After examining the photo, he nodded. “Yes, that’s him. I gave this guy a ride about an hour ago.”
Brian’s heart skipped a beat. “Did you bring him here? Did he say what airline?”
“That’s just it. When I picked him up, he told me he was flying American, but when we came up the drive, he said he’d forgotten something back at the hotel and needed to go back.”
“Were the patrol cars here then?” Brian asked.
The driver frowned. “I think so.”
“What happened next?”
“I drove him back to his hotel. When he paid me, I offered to wait for him and bring him back, but he said it wasn’t necessary.”
“What happened then?” Brian asked.
The driver shrugged. “I watched him. He didn’t go back to his room or even into the office. He got in a car and drove away.”
“What kind of car?”
“A silver minivan.”
“What hotel?”
“Los Amigos downtown.”
Los Amigos Motel was a name Brian recognized. It wasn’t the kind of accommodations airport passengers generally preferred on their way in or out of town. It was a dodgy place with a reputation for renting rooms on an hourly basis.
After taking down the cabbie’s name and contact information, Brian thanked him for his help and headed back to his own vehicle. If the driver was correct, Jonathan Southard had already checked out of the hotel, but accessing his registration records would let Brian know if he was still using his own ID or if he had managed to get his hands on a phony one.
The desk clerk at Los Amigos was not happy to see Brian Fellows’s badge. Neither was the manager on duty, but they managed to give Brian what he needed. Jonathan Southard had checked in using his own name and his California driver’s license. He had paid cash for his room, arriving late Saturday night and departing today. And yes, Mr. Southard’s arm had been in a sling. He claimed that he’d been bitten by a neighbor’s Doberman.
Probably thought that sounded better than being bitten by his wife’s beagle, Brian thought.
He immediately relayed what he had learned back to the department to Jake Abernathy’s voice mail. He also passed the same information along to Detective Mumford in Thousand Oaks.
“So he saw the cop cars at the airport and figured out that trying to fly wasn’t going to work,” Alex said. “His next move will be to ditch that car and pick up a new one. Can you cover used-car lots?”
The truth was, Brian Fellows was off the case. He couldn’t “cover” anything, but he didn’t want to admit that to Alex Mumford.
“I doubt he’d use one of those,” Brian said. “If I were in his shoes and on the run, I’d be more likely to pick up a ‘for sale by owner’ vehicle from a street corner somewhere rather than going to a dealer. A private citizen would be only too happy to take a handful of cash. A dealer would be obliged to report it.”
Alex Mumford sighed. “You’re probably right,” she said. “But even that will take time. He’ll have to make contact with the seller. The cabdriver told you you’re only an hour or so behind him. If that’s the case, you may still be able to nail him before he can get out of town.”
“Let’s hope,” Brian agreed. “But there is one piece of good news in all this. I was worried that the shooter might come back looking for our surviving witness, the little girl. But since he was trying to fly out of town, I don’t think he’s focused on her. I’ve had a Border Patrol officer keeping an eye on her. I just left him a message that he can probably stand down.”
“Speaking of phones,” Alex Mumford said, “have you made any progress on tracking the victims’ phones?”
“Not on this end,” Brian admitted.
“It sounds like my chief is a whole lot more motivated than your sheriff. I should be able to add them to my request for a warrant.”
“I’m glad somebody is motivated,” Brian said with a hollow chuckle. “Do what you can, and if you can make it work, call me on this number. Any time night or day.”
“Will do,” Alex said. “Night or day. But if the high-tech solution doesn’t work, maybe the low-tech one will.”
“What’s that?” Brian asked.
“You know,” she said. “That old standby. He gets pulled over for a broken taillight.”
“One can always hope,” Brian said.
Brian knew that buying a car from a dealer was a process that could take several hours, and purchasing one from a private individual wasn’t a slam dunk, either. If Jonathan Southard was trying to replace his vehicle, there was still a window of opportunity to catch him. If anybody was paying attention, that is.
Brian had been dismissed from the case and he had passed on everything he knew to the new team of detectives. It would have been easy to forget about it-to go home for a much-needed nap and let Jonathan Southard be Jake Abernathy’s problem-but there was a big difference between being removed from a case and being able to let it go.
Brian Fellows was a plugger. Yes, he believed there was such a thing as blind luck, but he knew luck came most often to the people who applied themselves and did the grunt work. Rather than heading home, Brian returned to the sheriff’s department, where he settled in behind his desk and started working the phone, calling car-rental agencies and used-car lots.
The Aces wouldn’t mind. Detectives Abernathy and Adams were long on flash and bang, but they weren’t big on gutting it out.
Gutting it out was Brian Fellows’s middle name. He picked up his phone and went to work.
Sells, Tohono O’odham Nation, Arizona
Sunday, June 7, 2009, 1:30 p.m.
91? Fahrenheit
Delia had made it sound as if the court order for Angie’s temporary guardianship was already a done deal, but it took a lot longer for Judge Lawrence to issue the actual paperwork than Lani would have thought possible. As the two women sat side by side in the waiting room outside the tribal judge’s chambers, Lani wondered if this was the same place where her parents had come years earlier when they petitioned for her adoption.
But I was already their foster child by then, Lani thought. They had clothes for me and furniture and all those other things little kids need. I’ve got nothing, and the bedroom that would be Angie’s is full of unpacked boxes of books.
