Blind Pursuit

55

He picked up the phone on its fourth ring. “Walker.”

“Okay, Mike. I got what you wanted.”

The slightly whiny voice on the other end of the line belonged to Roger Dickinson of the county tax assessor’s office.

It was 9:25. Walker hadn’t expected his friend to get back to him so quickly. “Fast work, Rog.”

“Yeah, well, you try hanging out in the County Administrative Center when the place is deserted. It’s giving me the creeps.”

“You still there?”

“Sure. In my office. Got the info you wanted right in front of me.”

Walker uncapped a pen and flipped open a memo pad. “Shoot.”

Papers shuffled. “Harold Gund did purchase a ranch outside town. Two and a half acres in an unincorporated area of Pima County. Escrow was recorded on the ninth of February this year. Place must be in piss-poor condition; it was assessed at only $119,000-a bargain for a parcel that size.”

Even so, Walker wondered how Gund could have afforded the down payment on a clerk’s income, much less qualified for the financing.

“Address?” he asked, pen poised over the pad.

“One hundred East Ravine Road.”

As he wrote it down. Walker found himself frowning. The address tickled his memory, though he wasn’t sure why.

“Mike? You there?”

“Sorry, Rog. Just thinking. Look, thanks a lot for your help. I appreciate this.”

“We’re even for those Suns tickets.” It was not a question.

“All square. Thanks again.”

Walker killed the phone, got out a spiral-bound map book, and looked up Ravine Road in the index.

Flipping to the appropriate page, he surprised himself by stating the address aloud.

“One hundred East Ravine Road.”

Suddenly he remembered.

In the clutter of papers on his dining table were the two Tucson Standard articles Gary had given him. He found the one on the deaths of Lincoln and Oliver Connor.

First paragraph. Almost the very first words.

… Lincoln Connor, 46, of 100 E. Ravine Road in the Tucson area

…

The Connor family had lived there. At the ranch. The ranch Harold Gund bought just two months ago.

Fear crawled in Walker’s gut, slimy and cold.

The fact that Gund had purloined a copy of Erin and Annie’s photo portrait might indicate nothing more alarming than an adolescent infatuation with one or both of the women.

But someone who sought out and purchased the old Connor home, paying more to acquire it than he possibly could afford, was in the grip of more-much more-than a harmless schoolboy crush.

Annie might be right about this man Harold Gund.

Walker blinked.

Harold…

The loose end in the Connor case. A missing teenager. First name Harold. Last name unknown.

The same Harold? Harold Gund?

No, couldn’t be. Made no sense.

But Annie’s assistant spending a small fortune to purchase the Connor ranch-that didn’t make sense, either.

Or maybe it did. Maybe it all fit together perfectly in some subtle way Walker couldn’t quite see.

He shook his head. Didn’t matter. Time to puzzle it out later. Now he had to get hold of Annie, tell her what he’d learned.

He dialed her number. A message machine answered.

Not home. Damn. Where would she go?

He remembered her telling him how she’d followed Gund into the desert. Had she gone back, looking for the ranch?

Walker didn’t want to believe that. Wanted to think she had more sense.

But somehow he knew better.

He returned his attention to the map book. Ravine Road was a minor dead-end street, southeast of town, off Houghton.

Didn’t appear as if there were too many roads or ranches in that area. If Annie had gone looking for Gund’s place, she might well have found it.

And if Harold Gund was there, he might have found her.

“Christ.” Walker grabbed his car keys and his walkie-talkie. The ranch was outside T.P.D. jurisdiction, but it would take too long to explain all this to the sheriff’s department.

Out the door. Sprinting to his car, a blue Mustang, parked in the driveway. The engine turned over instantly. At the corner he hooked south.

The Mustang, his personal car, had no siren or light bar. He exceeded the speed limit anyway. He would run red lights if he had to. What the hell. He was a cop.

As the Mustang skidded west on Fort Lowell Road, speeding toward Interstate 10, Walker was speaking into the portable radio microphone, requesting backup.