Queen of the Night

Eleven

Tucson, Arizona

Sunday, June 7, 2009, 6:30 a.m.

71º Fahrenheit

Armed with the licensing information, it didn’t take long for Records to come up with Jonathan Southard’s silver Dodge Grand Caravan minivan and an address in Thousand Oaks, California. Mildred Harrison had called it gray, but the DMV said silver.

“Can you get me a phone number on that?” Brian asked.

That took a little longer. While Brian waited, he considered his options.

Under most circumstances, he would have called the other jurisdiction and involved them in the process. But for right then, the easiest thing to do was to call the house directly and find out if the guy was at home. If he was, that would mean someone else was driving Southard’s car, which, at this point, had not been reported stolen. If he wasn’t home or if his wife had no idea where he was, then that would be the time to call for reinforcements.

The Records clerk came back on the line and gave Brian a number in Thousand Oaks. He wondered briefly if it was too early to call, but then he realized this was summer. That meant California and Arizona were on the same time zone. The phone rang four times. Just when Brian was convinced the call was going to go to voice mail, someone-a woman-picked up.

“Hello,” Brian said. “Is Jonathan Southard there?”

“Who’s calling, please?” the woman asked.

Brian didn’t want to go into all that if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, but the woman wasn’t leaving him a lot of wiggle room.

“Just tell me,” Brian said irritably. “Is he there or not?”

“This is Detective Alexandra Mumford with the Thousand Oaks Police Department,” she said frostily. “Maybe you’d like to tell me what your business is with Mr. Southard.”

Brian was taken aback. “It turns out I’m a detective, too,” he said. “Detective Brian Fellows with the Pima County Sheriff’s Department in Arizona. I’m investigating a quadruple homicide that occurred in our jurisdiction some time last evening. Four people were gunned down. A vehicle matching the description of Mr. Southard’s had been spotted in the vicinity of one of the victims’ homes-”

“What victims?” Detective Mumford interjected.

“One of them, Abby Tennant, is apparently Mr. Southard’s mother.”

“Crap!”

“What does that mean?” Brian asked.

“I’ve spent most of the night in Mr. Southard’s home in Thousand Oaks,” Alex Mumford told him. “We had a call from his wife’s sister down in San Diego last night. She was concerned that she hadn’t heard from her sister, Esther, in several days. A couple of uniforms were dispatched to the Southards’ residence to do a welfare check. They’re the ones who found the bodies.”

“Bodies?” Brian repeated. “What bodies? How many?”

“Three in all. One adult female and two children, a boy and a girl. Oh, and also the family dog. The dead woman’s sister drove up from San Diego and gave us a positive identification on the mother.”

Brian was stunned. “So we’re up to seven victims now? Crap is right! If Southard has murdered his wife and kids and his mother and stepfather, who else is left?”

“That would be his father,” Alex told him. “He lives somewhere in Ohio. Let me see what I can find out about that, and I’ll call you back. Does this number work for you?”

“Yes.”

Detective Mumford was all business. “I’ll see about getting a court order to go after Southard’s cell phone records. We may be able to get a line on him that way. I’ll get back to you.”

“Good,” Brian said.

When she hung up, Brian didn’t bother closing his phone. Instead, he called Kath. “I won’t be at church,” he said. “The victim count just went up, three in California and four here.”

“That’s the problem with the cartels,” Kath said. “They’re mobile.”

“This is worse than a cartel,” Brian said. “It’s personal. It’s some asshole who’s decided to target his whole family. He’s taken out his wife, kids, and mother so far, plus his stepfather and two innocent bystanders. We think he may be on his way to Ohio to take out his father as well unless we can get a line on him first.”

Brian heard his wife’s sharp intake of breath. “You’re right,” she said. “That’s far worse than cartels. Where are you now?”

“On my way in to the office.”

“Be safe then,” Kath said. “See you whenever you get here.”

Sells, Tohono O’odham Nation, Arizona

Sunday, June 7, 2009, 9:00 a.m.

71º Fahrenheit

For a long time after Delia left, Lani sat there thinking, wondering what was the best thing to do about Angie, the right thing to do.

She knew that even offering to foster the child could well mean long-term heartbreak for both of them. Yes, Delia had said that both sets of grandparents had already indicated that they weren’t interested in caring for Angie and that the father was a nonstarter in that regard. But what would happen to Lani and to Angie if they formed a bond only to have some other person, a closer relation than a mere second cousin, come forward to claim the child? What then?

And what if that other person could offer Angie a home where she would have the benefit of both a mother and a father? Lani understood full well that she would be taking on child rearing as a single parent, one who came with odd working hours and a very demanding job. Or what if the father threw a wrench in the works by refusing to sign over his parental rights? Lani knew from dealings with child welfare folks in Denver that they were always predisposed to return children to their natural parents, even when said parents had very little going for them.

But not being able to offer Angie a home with both a mother and a father was no excuse for Lani to refuse to take her in. As far as she could see, even when Delphina was alive, Angie hadn’t had the benefit of a father figure in her life. Donald Rios might have been able to offer her that, but Donald Rios was dead.

Lani was tempted to pick up the phone and call her brother or her parents to ask for their opinions and advice, but she didn’t. Davy was dealing with his own difficult family issues right now. It wasn’t fair to involve him. As for asking her parents? Lani glanced at her watch. She had no doubt that her father would be up by now, probably making his Sunday-morning breakfast special of blueberry muffins and a spinach frittata. She knew where his feelings would lie. Lani understood better than anyone that Brandon Walker’s supposedly gruff demeanor did little to conceal his notoriously soft heart.

Take Damsel, for example. Lani had been away at school that Thanksgiving morning when someone had abandoned a bedraggled, starving puppy on her parents’ doorstep. Diana had found the dog and would have called Animal Control to come get it. Brandon was the one who had lobbied to keep the poor animal. He was also the one who had come up with the name, Damsel. And much as he might grumble about “that damn dog,” Lani knew how much he cared about her and how often he slipped her supposedly forbidden treats.

Lani smiled now, thinking about how Brandon had done the same for her, both when she was little and later on as well. When she was going to school and later during her residency, a note from her dad, usually one sent for no particular occasion, could always be counted on to have a stray hundred-dollar bill tucked inside it, along with a written admonition not to spend it all in one place.

Lani knew without asking that her parents would accept Angie as their own. If Lani brought the child into the family, Angie would instantly have two loving grandparents, which was apparently two more than she had at the moment. But the real question to be answered was whether saying yes to Delia’s proposition was the right thing to do.

This was a momentous decision and one that shouldn’t be hastily made. On the other hand, if there was any delay, Angie would be released from the hospital into the care and keeping of Child Protective Services. Lani knew that once children were caught up in the bureaucratic nightmare of “the system,” they seldom emerged unscathed.

In a contest between what Lani had to offer Angie Enos and what the child welfare system could offer, there was really no question. On that score, Lani was the hands-down winner. As things stood now, she and she alone had a chance to save Angie Enos from that fate, but was that what she was supposed to do?

Looking for an answer and almost without thinking, Lani stood up and walked into her bedroom, where she opened the top drawer of her dresser and removed her medicine basket, the one she had woven during her sixteen-day exile on Ioligam. In the tightly woven basket she kept the treasures Understanding Woman had given her granddaughter, Rita Antone, as well as the ones Rita and Fat Crack had passed along to Lani. From the bottom of the basket Lani retrieved two leather pouches. The soft one held Fat Crack’s crystals. The other one, cracked and ancient, had once belonged to Fat Crack’s blind mentor Looks at Nothing. Now, as then, it held a properly gathered supply of wiw, Indian tobacco.

Taking both pouches with her, Lani returned to the living room. She set the tobacco pouch aside for the moment and opened the other one, letting the four sacred crystals fall into the palm of her hand. She had learned over the years that the crystals, when properly used, could be a tool of discernment.

Fat Crack had taught her that it was always best to look at an image of the object in question rather than at the object itself. In this case the object in question was Angelina Enos. Lani had no photo of the child, nothing that she could use. But since the question had to do with whether Lani should take Angie into her life, maybe a photo of Lani would do.

The lanyard with Lani’s hospital ID, complete with a photograph, was right there on the coffee table. She picked it up. One crystal at a time, she viewed the photo through the intervening lens. The distortion from one crystal made it look as though she was laughing while another made her look sad even though the photo itself remained unchanged.

But the very process of focusing on the image with absolute concentration worked its particular magic. Suddenly she could see what Delia had been trying to tell her. Yes, she and Angie were blood kin, but their real connection was far greater than that.

What had happened long ago to the Ant-Bit Child was happening again to this Ghost Child. Rather than being accepted by their blood relations, they were both being shunned by them. And it turned out, they were the same blood relations-the Escalante clan from Nolic. It was almost as though I’itoi himself had laid out the pattern. It was as though the two of them were two sides of the same coin.

“Yes,” Lani said aloud to herself. “I can see why Angie and I were meant to be together.”

She was still holding the crystals in her hand. She had been awake for the better part of twenty-four hours. When she stopped concentrating all her focus and energy on the photo, it wasn’t surprising that she fell asleep, dozing off for a time while still sitting upright on her worn secondhand couch.

Tucson, Arizona

Sunday, June 7, 2009, 7:00 a.m.

72º Fahrenheit

Always an early riser, Brandon Walker was up by five. By seven he was totally engrossed in his Sunday-morning culinary tradition. The blueberry muffins were just coming out of one oven and his spinach frittata was on its way into the other when Diana came down the hall. She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. An Arizona Cardinals baseball cap was perched on her head.

“Smells good,” she said, sniffing the air and pouring herself a cup of coffee.

“Brandon Walker’s Sunday-morning surprise,” he answered with a grin, although that was hardly a surprise since those were the same dishes he made pretty much every Sunday morning. “If we’re going to go out and tackle the desert, we’ll have to keep up our strength. And if we’re taking the Invicta, we need to head out before it gets too hot.”

Brandon was the cook in the family. Cooking wasn’t something that really interested Diana Ladd. If she had to, she could cook well enough to survive, but that was about it. For a long time, Nana Dahd had done the cooking for the family. Once she was gone, Brandon had stepped into the breach.

“I see you’re dressed for travel,” he said as he set glasses and silverware on the breakfast bar in the kitchen.

“Yup, sunscreen and all,” she replied.

For a long time now, for weeks, Diana had seemed lost in a kind of despair that Brandon hadn’t been able to penetrate. She had always been reserved and quiet, preferring to observe those around her rather than being the life of the party. But this had seemed more serious than that, especially in light of what was going on with her publisher.

Brandon had gone so far as to suggest that perhaps they should see a doctor and look into the possibility of having Diana take antidepressants. That suggestion had met with firm disapproval. This morning, however, the fog seemed to have lifted. Diana’s answering smile gave him cause to hope. Maybe he had been pushing panic buttons for no reason.

“I sent June Holmes an e-mail and told her we’d be there around nine-thirty or so. If we go any later than that, we’ll roast. Or else we’ll have to ride with the top up, which,” he added, nodding toward the baseball cap, “probably isn’t what you had in mind.”

“Yes,” she said. “Definitely top down.”

“And what about Damsel?” Brandon asked.

Diana shrugged. “She’s welcome to come along, as long as she doesn’t mind riding in the backseat. When you go in to interview the lady, the two of us will stay with the car or in the car, depending on if you park in the shade.”

Diana’s good mood held all through breakfast and during the initial part of the drive to Sonoita. Speeding down the freeway with the sun broiling down on them and with the wind roaring in their ears, there wasn’t much chance to talk. From time to time, Brandon glanced in the rearview mirror at Damsel, who sat with her nose thrust outside the car and with her long ears flapping in the breeze. Soon after they exited I-10 onto Highway 83, Diana suddenly went somber again. The change in her mood was so abrupt it was as though a bank of clouds had suddenly passed in front of the sun or someone had flipped a switch.

Damn, Brandon thought. I was hoping it would last all day.

Highway 83, South of Tucson, Arizona

Sunday, June 7, 2009, 8:30 a.m.

75º Fahrenheit

D iana saw Max Cooper sitting there in the backseat out of the corner of her eye.

Her father-or rather the man she had always thought to be her father-was dressed the way she remembered him dressing back when she was a child and still believed he was her father.

He wore a pair of rough work pants held up by heavy-duty suspenders. Even though it was the dead of summer, he still wore a set of flesh-colored long johns, the kind he had always worn for working in the woods and for overseeing the garbage dump in Joseph, Oregon. His chin was covered with rough stubble, and the anger that had always burned in his eyes when he looked at her was still there, as malevolent as ever.

He’s dead, Diana reminded herself. He isn’t here, not really. My mind is playing tricks on me.

Max Cooper had succumbed to cirrhosis of the liver at least a decade earlier. Diana had no idea what had become of Francine, his second wife, and she didn’t care. But here he was with his arms folded belligerently across his chest, glowering at her from the backseat of her Invicta while Damsel, unaware of his threatening presence, continued to stare at the passing scenery.

“It won’t work,” he said. “You can sell the car if you want, but getting rid of it won’t keep you from doing what needs to be done. Why don’t you just go with the flow, take the easy way out?”

Ignoring him, Diana stared at the road unspooling ahead of them, at a hot ribbon of pavement winding over parched rolling hills topped with tinder-dry winter grass.

“Diana,” Brandon asked. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“Go away,” she said. “Leave me alone.”

Of course, she meant those words for Max Cooper. In this case, Brandon was an innocent bystander. Max had appeared there in the backseat of the moving vehicle as if by magic. Diana wanted him to disappear that same way.

“I know what you had in mind,” Max said with a snide smile. “Take this thing off the same curve out by Gates Pass, the one where Lani wrecked years ago. No seat belt. No roll bars. No nothing. You’d be gone just like that. Best for all concerned, don’t you think?”

Max snapped his fingers. To Diana’s surprise she could hear that finger snap, even over the rushing wind. How did he know she had thought such a thing? And how did he know that was exactly why she wanted to unload her Invicta? So she wouldn’t be tempted. If what the future held for her was drifting further and further into some kind of dementia or even Alzheimer’s, that was bad enough. Her committing suicide wouldn’t help anyone, most especially the people she loved.

She turned to Brandon. “How soon do you think you can get this up to Scottsdale for the auction?”

“Are you sure you want to sell this old boat?” he asked. “You’ve always loved it, and nobody makes cars like this anymore.”

“I’m sure,” she insisted. “I’m ready to let it go.”

“If it’s going to be car-show worthy, then it’ll have to be detailed,” Brandon said. “Since Leo Ortiz did the original restoration work on it, I could check with him and see if he has time to do it.”

Diana nodded, then turned to look at Max Cooper to see what he thought of that.

Naturally he wasn’t there. By then the only passenger in the backseat was Damsel-Damsel and nobody else.

It’s coming, Diana thought. I can still remember Brandon’s name and mine, but I still can’t remember Davy’s wife’s name. And I’m seeing people who aren’t there. At least I don’t think they’re there, but what if other people can see them, too, like little Gabe Ortiz did the other day? What does that mean? Do they exist, or am I just losing it?

She looked over at Brandon. He was wearing sunglasses, but she could see the frown behind the green lenses. He wasn’t frowning because he was concentrating on driving. He was worried about her. She loved him for that, but she didn’t want to be the cause of it.

About the time Andrew Carlisle had gotten out of prison and come looking for Diana, Brandon’s father had taken off in Brandon’s Pima County patrol car. They’d found him much later, wandering in the desert near Benson. Ultimately he had died of exposure, turning a seemingly harmless joyride into tragedy.

Exposure. That’s what the death certificate had said, but that was back in the seventies. People didn’t talk about Alzheimer’s then the way they did now. That was what had really gotten Toby Walker, and Diana understood it was likely to get her, too. Driving the Invicta off a cliff was tempting-a siren call urging Diana onto the rocks when she knew it would take more courage to stay and face whatever was coming.

In Diana Ladd Walker’s heart of hearts, she knew that leaving Brandon too early would hurt him more than staying and facing down the enemy together.

Grateful for Brandon’s reassuring presence, she reached over and rested her hand on his thigh. His frown lifted. He turned and smiled at her. Then he squeezed her hand and lifted it to his lips.

And that’s why, she thought, deliberately shaking off the evil spell Max’s unwanted presence had cast over them. Because he loves me more right now than Max Cooper ever loved anybody.

Max Cooper had married a girl who was pregnant with another man’s child. In small-town Joseph, Oregon, he had grudgingly given her illegitimate daughter, Diana, the benefit of his own slender claim on small-town respectability, but that was all he had given her-his name and that was it. As a child, she had faced his constant torment-the beatings and the verbal abuse-with implacable resistance and without even once rewarding him with what he wanted-with tears or whimpers.

She had fought him then and she would fight him now. If Max Cooper was in favor of Diana’s committing suicide, then she would be against it-to her very last dying breath.

Sells, Tohono O’odham Nation, Arizona

Sunday, June 7, 2009, 8:00 a.m.

69º Fahrenheit

There was silence for a time after Dr. Walker left Angie’s room. Dan could easily imagine someone being hospitalized for a snakebite. That was entirely understandable, but he had a difficult time getting his head around the idea of nearly dying of ant bites. That was far more difficult to fathom. But from the number of blemishes left on the doctor’s skin, not just the visible ones but the ones that had to be hidden under her clothing as well, there must have been hundreds of bites. No wonder she had almost died from the poison.

“I got bit by an ant once,” Angie told him conversationally. “Will I have a spot, too?”

“Do you have a spot now?” Dan asked.

Angie shook her head.

“Then you probably won’t,” Dan assured her. “Dr. Walker probably had so many bites that they got infected. That’s what caused the scarring.”

“I’m scared of ants,” Angie said. “Are you?”

“I wasn’t before,” he said, “but maybe I am now.”

Angie pushed away the table with her empty breakfast tray on it. “When can I go home?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Dan said. “I’m sure someone will tell us.”

“But I won’t be going home with my mommy.”

“No,” Dan said. “Not your mommy.”

It hurt him to know that the reality of her situation was finally penetrating. The place she had lived with her murdered mother was most likely now a designated crime scene. It was reasonable to assume that Angie wouldn’t ever be going back there, and wherever she did go, her mother would never be there.

Turning her face away from Dan, Angie lay back down on the bed and cried herself to sleep. Once she drifted off, Dan took Bozo and hurried out of the room. He drove to Basha’s, where he bought food for Bozo, another set of nearly out-of-date sandwiches for himself, and three children’s books for Angie. As far as books were concerned, the pickings were thin. He came away with one about a talking dump truck, one about a princess, and a coloring book about someone named SpongeBob SquarePants, whoever that was. He also bought a big box of crayons.

Angie was awake when he returned. “Where were you?” she demanded.

“I had to get some food for Bozo and for me,” he told her.

“Why didn’t you eat some of mine?”

“Hospitals don’t work that way,” he said with a smile. “That food is all for you, but I did find these.” He handed her his peace offering.

Time passed slowly. There were stickers on the last several pages of the coloring book, and those were a far bigger hit than the crayons were. Watching Angie apply them with studied concentration, Dan found himself wondering how this little girl’s life would turn out. Would there be some loving grandparent to take up the slack, as Micah Duarte had done for him?

“He was a bad man,” Angie said eventually.

She was obviously thinking about the Milghan man with the gun. “Yes,” Dan agreed. “He was.”

Dan’s lifestyle had given him very little contact with young children. He had no idea how much she understood of what had happened or how soon she would be able to process it.

“I’m sorry Donald is dead, too,” Angie added matter-of-factly. “He was a nice man. I liked him. He gave me this.” She held up the pink-and-yellow pinwheel that she had kept hold of waking and sleeping.

Dan nodded. “I’m sorry about Donald, too,” he said.

There was another long period of quiet. Other people might have been tempted to fill it with conversation-to try to steer Angie away from dwelling on what had happened to her and to her family. Instinctively Dan knew better than to try to talk her out of it. After all, the life she had known had been destroyed. Now she was trying to make sense of what was left. He knew that she’d be doing that for the rest of her life-just as he was.

“His arm was broken,” Angie added eventually.

“Excuse me?”

“The bad man,” she said. “His arm.”

“What do you mean, it was broken? Was it in a cast?” Dan asked.

Angie shook her head. “I don’t know about a cast. It was in one of those things around his neck.”

“You mean it was in a sling?”

She nodded.

“And if you saw him again, would you know his face?”

She nodded again. “I would know him,” she said.

“Can you tell me what he looked like?”

“Anglo,” she said. “He didn’t have much hair, and he was carrying a gun.”

Daniel knew at once that he had just gained access to three important pieces of the puzzle, maybe three essential pieces. Solving the shooting wasn’t part of Daniel Pardee’s job description, but regardless of jurisdictional issues, Dan was now in possession of vital information that he intended to pass along to Detective Fellows. Immediately.

“I need to go make a phone call,” he said. “Do you mind waiting here with Bozo?”

“Will you be back?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

“Okay then,” she said. “We’ll wait.”

Sonoita, Arizona

Sunday, June 7, 2009, 9:30 a.m.

73º Fahrenheit

Leaving Diana and Damsel parked in the shade of a towering cottonwood, Brandon stepped up onto the front porch of June Holmes’s Sonoita home and rang the bell. The silver-haired woman who opened the door was dressed in a church-worthy suit with a slim skirt and jacket, along with low heels and hose.

“Mr. Walker?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, fumbling for his identification, but she waved that aside.

“I’m sure that’s not necessary. Please come in.”

Brandon stepped into a darkened living room. The blinds were closed and the curtains drawn. A single lamp burned next to an easy chair. Just inside the door sat a small old-fashioned suitcase, one without rollers. Next to it was a cardboard cat container complete with a vocal and very unhappy cat who was yowling its heart out.

June went to the easy chair where she had evidently been sitting before the doorbell rang. She closed the book that was on a nearby end table. On his way to the sofa, Brandon found it easy to make out the gold-leaf letters on the worn black leather cover- The Book of Mormon.

“Please excuse Miss Kitty,” June said, folding her hands in her lap. “Traveling anywhere makes her nervous.”

In his years as an investigator, Brandon had seen enough body language to recognize that June Holmes was every bit as nervous as her unhappy cat.

“The two of you are going on a trip then?” Brandon asked. Hoping to put June at ease, he tried to keep his voice casual and conversational.

“I suppose so,” June replied. “Miss Kitty isn’t going far. My neighbor up the road has agreed to keep her while I’m gone, but she hates traveling so much that it’s impossible to take her even that far if she isn’t in a crate. Otherwise, she’d disappear the moment I open the door.”

“If you’re on a tight schedule, then,” Brandon said, “perhaps we should get started. As you know, G. T. Farrell is in ill health at the moment and has been since before you sent him that note inviting him to stop by to see you. That’s why I’m here. He’s not in any condition to travel and probably won’t be any time soon.”

“I’m sorry he’s ill,” June said regretfully. “I know he’s been involved in this case from the beginning. It must have been difficult having to pass it along to someone else.”

“Yes,” Brandon agreed. “I’m sure that’s why he held on to it for so long. He thought eventually he’d be well enough to come see you himself. When it became apparent that wouldn’t be possible, he called me.”

“Let’s get to it, then,” June said. She picked up the book and slipped it into a large open purse that sat on the floor next to her chair. “There’s no sense beating about the bush.”

“This is about the murder of Ursula Brinker?” Brandon asked.

June nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I called her Sully back then. That’s what everyone called her.”

“You were friends?”

June nodded again. “We were,” she said. “Good friends. Best friends.”

“Tell me about spring break of 1959,” Brandon said.

June closed her eyes for a moment before she answered. “Five of us drove over to San Diego in Margo Mansfield’s 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air.”

“Who all went?” Brandon asked. He already knew the answer. The five names had been carefully listed in Geet’s notebook.

“Margo, of course,” June said. “She drove. Then there was Sully, Deanna Rogers, Kathy Wallace, and me. We drove over on Friday afternoon after the last classes let out.”

“What did you do once you got there?”

“To San Diego? We checked into our hotel. We had a room that opened right on the beach.”

“One room for all five of you?” Brandon asked.

“It was a big room with two double beds and a roll-away.”

“What happened after you got there?”

“We’d stopped for dinner in Yuma on the way over, so we went for a walk on the beach.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“All of us, all five. But on the beach Sully and I hung out together-that night and the next day, too. We were sort of… well, you know… acting up. My parents were strict Mormons. I wanted to sow some wild oats while I still had the chance, and I figured being out of town on spring break was the best time to do it. We smoked and we drank-we drank way too much. You know how wild kids can be when they set their minds to it.”

Brandon nodded. He knew exactly how wild kids could be.

“What happened?” he asked.

June sighed, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable. “I thought Sully and I were just friends, but it turned out she wanted to be more than that, and right then so did I. This was the next afternoon, Saturday. We were in the room, changing into our bathing suits, when she came over and kissed me-on the lips. I was bombed out of my gourd on rum and Coke. At the time it didn’t seem like such a bad idea. After all, considering the rum and Coke, going to bed with another girl was just another bit of forbidden fruit. We were on one of the beds, doing it, when one of the other girls walked in on us. I’ve always suspected it was Margo, but I’m not sure. It could have been any one of them.”

“What happened then?”

“I was ready to die of embarrassment. I mean, I knew Sully was different, but I’d never put a name on it before. I don’t think she had, either. I remember she just kept smiling at me, like what had happened between us was our perfect little secret. The thing is, as soon as I sobered up, I knew that wasn’t for me-that it wasn’t what I wanted. But Sully looked so happy-so over the moon-that I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her.”

“And then?” Brandon prompted.

“That evening we had a bonfire on the beach. We roasted hot dogs and marshmallows and drank lots more booze. At least I had more booze. I don’t know about Sully. She was still out by the fire when I went to bed.” She paused. “That’s not true,” she corrected. “The part about going to bed. First I was sick. Then I passed out.”

“But Sully was still outside.”

June nodded.

“By herself?”

“As far as I know. The last time I remember seeing her, she was sitting there in her bathing suit, looking at the moon on the water. The next thing I knew, it was morning. Someone was outside the room screaming and screaming. That’s when I found out Sully was dead, that she’d been stabbed to death.”

“The San Diego cops investigated?”

“Yes,” June said. “We all had to go into the police station for questioning. It seemed like we were there for days on end, but none of us knew anything. One moment she was alive and on the beach with everybody else. The next moment she was dead. Finally the cops turned us loose, and we drove back to Tempe.”

“What happened then?”

“First there was the funeral. Her parents were heartbroken. After that I really don’t remember much. The rest of that semester was like living in a nightmare.”

“Did you tell Sully’s parents about what had happened between you and their daughter?”

June shook her head. “No,” she answered. “Why would I? Finding out something like that about their dead daughter would have made things that much worse for them. Besides, I kept thinking that eventually we’d find out who had done it-that there would be some closure-but months went by and then years, and nothing happened. We all talked about it among ourselves. We figured her killer must have been someone-some stranger-who had found her alone on the beach. That’s what I always believed, anyway.”

Brandon heard that last throwaway sentence and immediately understood the implication.

“Now you know better?” he asked.

June nodded. First she smoothed her skirt, then she straightened her shoulders. “Yes, I do,” she murmured, but her voice was barely audible.

By then Brandon’s eyes had adjusted to the dim light. Every flat surface in the room and most of the wall spaces as well were covered with a collection of photos. He could tell from June’s voice that they were venturing into dangerous waters, and he wanted to make it easier for her.

“Your kids?” he asked, nodding toward the nearest set of photos and breaking the tension.

June nodded. “Seven kids, fourteen grandkids, and two greats,” she replied. “Fred died two months short of our fiftieth.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “He died two months ago-about the time I sent that note to Mr. Farrell.”

“And that was because…” Brandon prompted.

“Because Fred did it,” June Holmes declared. Her lips trembled as she said the damning words. “He’s the one who killed Sully.”

“And how do you know this?” Brandon asked.

“Because he told me so himself-five years ago, when he was first diagnosed with lung cancer. He wanted me to be grateful and to understand what he had done for me.”

“For you?” Brandon asked.

June nodded. “I told you my parents were strict Mormons. So was Fred. The LDS Church doesn’t countenance homosexuality now and it certainly didn’t back then, either. The very fact that I’d had that one encounter with Sully-one other people knew about-made me damaged goods. When I came home from San Diego, I expected Fred to drop me like a hot potato if he heard any gossip about what had happened. So I told him myself. I thought he’d break our engagement, but he didn’t. He said he could hate the sin and still love the sinner.”

The imprisoned cat finally gave up and shut up. June seemed to be waiting for Brandon to say something more. When he said nothing, she continued. “Fred wasn’t ever what you could call a forgiving kind of guy. I should have wondered about that, but I didn’t. I was so incredibly grateful that he didn’t turn his back on me and walk away. No one would have blamed him if he had.”

“In other words, he got big points for standing by you?”

She nodded. “To say nothing of a proper marriage in the Temple-a marriage for time and all eternity, as they say. Then, five years ago, he got his cancer diagnosis and dropped his bomb.”

“About Sully?”

June nodded again. “He told me one of his friends was in San Diego that spring break, too. He heard about what had happened, and he was the one who called Fred. Fred’s father had just died. His mother was getting ready to sell their house and needed to have it painted. That’s what Fred was doing over spring break-painting the house inside and out. Someone-this unnamed friend-called Fred that afternoon and told him what had happened. He drove over that night. After he did it, he walked into the ocean and rinsed off the blood. He left Phoenix after his mother went to bed and was back home before she woke up in the morning. As far as she was concerned, he never left. When he got back to his mother’s house, he burned all the clothing he was wearing that night-even his shoes.”

“Was he ever considered to be a suspect?” Brandon asked.

“Not as far as I know,” June answered. “There may have been a few questions asked about him in the beginning, but his mother’s word carried the day, especially since no one remembered seeing him in San Diego, no one who knew him, that is. He came and went without anyone being the wiser. Back in those days there were no credit cards. He paid cash for his gas and food.”

“If he got away with it for that long, why did he bother telling you?” Brandon asked.

June shrugged. “I guess his conscience was bothering him,” she said. “He thought he was dying. The doctors only gave him six months or so. That was before they let him into that first chemo protocol. He said he hoped that I could do the same thing for him that he had done for me.”

“As in hate the sin and love the sinner?”

“I tried,” June said. “But I couldn’t do it. I had been in touch with Sully’s parents from time to time. I went to both her father’s funeral and, much later, her mother’s. I knew how much it had hurt them to lose their precious daughter, and it hurt me to think it was my fault.”

“You weren’t the one wielding the knife,” Brandon said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“But if Sully and I hadn’t had that encounter-if Fred hadn’t found out about it…” June’s voice dwindled to nothing.

“What happened after he told you?” Brandon asked.

“It was just a few months after Fred told me that I heard from Mr. Farrell again. I was surprised that he was still working on the case after all those years, but Sully’s mother had won a bunch of money in one of the big lotteries, and she was using it to start a cold-case organization of some kind.”

“Yes,” Brandon said. “It’s called TLC-The Last Chance.”

“Mr. Farrell said he was going back through the case and interviewing everyone who had been connected to Sully. He wanted to talk to me, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t face telling him the truth and have my children’s father go to prison. I was afraid they’d want me to testify against Fred, and I couldn’t do that. Besides, to be honest, I guess I didn’t want my children to know about what I had done, either. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to live down that one indiscretion, but it’s always there with me. It never goes away. I also didn’t want to lie to Mr. Farrell.”

“Did your husband offer you any proof of what he’d done?”

“He didn’t offer it to me, but I think I found it.” June reached into her purse and pulled out a Ziploc bag, which she handed over to him. Inside it was an old hunting knife. Through the clear plastic, Brandon could see that the blade was dull and rusty, as though it had been left untouched for a very long time.

“One of my sons found this hidden in the back of one of Fred’s toolboxes out in the garage. In all the years we were married, I never saw this one before. I know from watching TV that sometimes it’s possible for investigators to get usable DNA evidence from items like this.”

“You’re giving it to me?” Brandon asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I want you to take it and do whatever you need to do to find out for sure.”

“All right,” Brandon said, dropping the bag into his jacket pocket.

“So that’s it,” June said, using the arms of the chair to rise to her feet. “I’m ready to go whenever you are. I just have to drop the cat off on the way.”

“On the way where?” Brandon asked.

“To jail,” June answered. “Isn’t that what this is all about? Aren’t you here to arrest me? Doesn’t all this make me some kind of accessory after the fact?”

Suddenly the suitcase and the crated Miss Kitty made sense. June Holmes had invited Brandon into her home with the expectation that he was there to take her into custody.

“No,” Brandon said. “I came to find some answers, and you’ve provided those, but I’m not here to arrest you.”

June seemed astonished. “Are you sure? I thought that since I knew about it and didn’t tell…”

“No,” Brandon said. “Knowing about it isn’t the same as doing it.”

Momentary relief flashed across June Holmes’s face, then the doorbell rang.

“Now who can that be?” she asked. “I certainly wasn’t expecting anyone. I’m usually at church at this time of day.”

Tucson, Arizona

Sunday, June 7, 2009, 9:40 a.m.

84º Fahrenheit

Brian Fellows had gone back to his office, where he spent the better part of the early-morning hours on the telephone. Detective Mumford had gone to a hotel to interview Corrine Lapin, Jonathan Southard’s dead wife’s sister. Brian and Alex had agreed that he could participate in the interview by long distance. Brian knew that eventually some departmental bean counter would give him hell about racking up so many long-distance charges, but he would handle that when the time came. Right now, he and Alex Mumford were both on the trail of the same killer.

Corrine was able to provide a lot of information about what had been going on in Jonathan and Esther Southard’s family in the previous several years-or at least what her murdered sister had told her about what was going on. Jonathan Southard had been let go by his bank and had been unable to find another job. He had been depressed and angry.

Corrine said she suspected there had been some instances of physical abuse, but she didn’t know that for sure. She allowed as how she “thought” Esther might have been seeing someone, but she was coy about it. She either didn’t know who the boyfriend was or wouldn’t say. Brian was pretty sure the boyfriend’s identity would become obvious once they gained access to Esther’s telephone records.

“So Esther was planning on leaving Jonathan, but she was holding out for the arrival of Jonathan’s 401(k) payout?” Alex asked.

“That’s pretty much the size of it,” Corrine admitted. “But Esther is the victim here. The way you’re asking the questions, it sounds as though you’re going to drag her name through the mud right along with her husband’s.”

“We’re just trying to get the lay of the land,” Alex assured her.

“About that 401(k). Do you have any idea about when those monies were due to arrive?”

Brian was the one who asked that question, and that was the real advantage of participating in a real-time interview. He was able to ask his own questions.

“The last time I spoke to Esther, she told me she expected the check to arrive anytime. As in the next few days.”

And it probably did, Brian thought. Rather than share it with his soon-to-be-ex-wife, Southard converted it into cash. That’s what he’s using for running money.

“How much money was it?” Detective Mumford asked. The question let Brian know that she was following the same set of assumptions.

“Esther thought it was going to be close to half a million dollars. She expected them to split it fifty-fifty.”

“The prospect of a quarter-of-a-million-dollar payoff makes it worthwhile for her to wait around,” Alex Mumford said.

That comment had Brian Fellows’s full agreement. It’s also enough to kill for, he thought, but he didn’t say that aloud.

Brian’s cell phone rang. With the landline receiver still at his ear, he pulled his cell out of his pocket. He thought the caller might be Kath, letting him know that she and the girls were on their way to church. Not recognizing the caller ID number, Brian put the interview line on hold and answered.

“Detective Fellows? It’s Dan Pardee.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I was talking to Angie a couple of minutes ago. She told me the bad guy’s arm was hurt. It may even be broken. I believe he was wearing a sling of some kind.”

“So Major did get him,” Brian murmured.

“Major?” Dan asked. “Who’s Major?”

Detective Fellows paused for a moment before he answered. Dan Pardee was not an official part of the investigation into the Komelik shooting, but for some reason Brian Fellows didn’t understand, the man seemed to have skin in this game. The Border Patrol agent was involved enough and cared enough that he was still at the hospital and still looking out for Angelina Enos long after most other officers would have gone home. And if Jonathan Southard was as screwed up as he appeared to be, Fellows reasoned that Angie might very well need to have someone looking out for her, preferably someone armed with a handgun and trained in the use of it.

“Major was Jonathan Southard’s wife’s dog,” Brian said.

“Was?” Dan asked. “And who’s Jonathan Southard?”

“Abby Tennant’s son,” Brian replied. “Her estranged son. Major was the son’s wife’s dog. We believe the dog died attempting to protect his owner, Esther Southard, Jonathan’s wife. Major is dead and so is Esther, and so are their two kids. All three of them were shot to death. The bodies were found in Thousand Oaks, California, late last night or early this morning. I’m not sure which.”

There was a period of stark silence before Dan Pardee spoke again. “He wiped out his whole family. When?” he asked. “How long ago did they die?”

“Long enough ago for Southard to get here from Southern California,” Brian said. “Long enough for him to track down Jack and Abby Tennant and blow them away. His father and stepmother live in Ohio. We’re concerned that he may try to target them next. That’s my next call-to let them know what’s happened but also to notify them that they, too, might be in danger.”

“What about Angie?” Dan objected. “If what’s-his-name, Southard, finds out he left a witness behind, what happens then? Who’s to say he won’t come back looking for her as well?”

“It’s not a matter of if he finds out,” Brian Fellows said. “Somebody already let that cat out of the bag. Mention of a surviving witness, an unidentified child, was on a TV news report earlier this morning. With a little motivated effort, the bad guy could probably find out who she is and where she is.”

“Great,” Dan muttered sarcastically. “That’s just terrific.”

“How long do you expect to hang around?” Brian asked.

“I told Angie I’d stay on until one of her family members shows up to take her home. I figured someone would have come for her by now.”

“If and when someone does come by to pick her up, give me a call back on this same number,” Brian said. “That way I can clue Law and Order in so they can keep an eye out, too.”

“All right,” Dan said. “Will do.”

The interview line was still lit-still on hold-but now the desk phone was ringing again on the second line.

“Oops,” Brian said. “Gotta go. There’s another call.”

This time when Brian picked up, the departmental operator was on the line. “A call from the big guy,” she said.

Around the Pima County Sheriff’s Department, “the big guy” was none other than Sheriff William Forsythe. It was not a term of endearment.

“You should have called me!” Forsythe said accusingly, once Brian came on the line. “The people who run Tohono Chul are constituents of mine-important constituents. Once you made that connection, you should have called.”

Brian had pulled an all-nighter. The idea of being bitched out by the sheriff himself didn’t go down very well right about then.

“It was five-thirty or six before we made the Tohono Chul connection,” Brian said civilly. “So far we’ve got what looks like at least seven victims-three in California and four here.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the out-of-town victims,” Sheriff Forsythe bellowed. “Those are none of my concern, and none of yours, either. Law and Order can run the reservation part of the investigation. I want some hands-on treatment for these local folks. That part of the investigation should be handled by one of our A-teams, not somebody working solo. I believe the Aces are next up. I’ve already called them, and they’re on the way. Once they show up at the department, turn over whatever you’ve got to them, and go home.”

Brian Fellows seethed with indignation. As long as Forsythe figured the victims were Indians or illegal aliens, he had no problem tapping Brian for the job. Once it was expedient to do so, the sheriff didn’t hesitate for a moment about calling in the big dogs. Everyone in the department understood that the Aces, Detectives Abernathy and Adams, were Forsythe’s go-to guys when it came to cases with the potential for any kind of political fallout.

“Right,” Brian said through gritted teeth. “Will do.”

When Sheriff Forsythe ended the call, Brian returned to the other phone. The interview with Corrine Lapin had ended, but Alex Mumford was still on the line, waiting for him. He might have mentioned to her that he’d just been sent to the locker room, but he didn’t.

“How long do you think Southard had been planning this?” Brian asked.

“There’s no way to tell. From what Corrine told us, I believe Esther intended to leave as soon as she had her share of the money.”

“Did Jonathan know she was about to exit stage left?”

“Hard to tell,” Alex said. “Some guys are so full of themselves that they can’t imagine anyone would ever up and leave them. In other words, maybe he knew and maybe he didn’t. Corrine indicated that regardless of whether charges were filed, there was some history of physical abuse.”

Brian knew where she was going. In relationships where domestic violence is part of the equation, the moment one spouse tries to leave, things can get ugly.

“Wait a minute,” Alex said. “The banking records I requested are just now coming in. Hang on.”

Brian waited impatiently, drumming his fingers on the desk.

“Okay,” Alex said after a long pause. “Okay. It looks like the 401(k) money landed in their joint account on Wednesday of last week, but it isn’t there now. It was withdrawn on Friday, as soon as the check cleared.”

“The whole amount?” Brian asked.

“Every bit of it,” Alex answered. “I’ve also spoken to a neighbor who reported hearing two people, a man and a woman, involved in a screaming battle on Sunday night. She also said that by Monday morning things seemed to have settled down. Quiet, anyway.”

“So Esther discovered that Jonathan had hidden the money from her, and the two of them went to war over it.”

“Right,” Alex agreed. “The only reason it was quiet on Monday is that Esther and the kids were already dead.”

“The question is, was this his plan all along?” Brian asked. “Had he already gone to the trouble of setting himself up with another identity and made arrangements for fake IDs?”

Detective Mumford thought about that. “Those can always be had for a price, but you have to have some connection in that world. I have warrants for his phone and Internet records, and I’ll know more once we have access. Banking records just showed up, but so far nothing else.”

Brian was impressed. The investigation into the Thousand Oaks homicides was only a few hours old. Already Alex Mumford had managed to come up with court orders to cover banking and phone records. Considering it was 10:00 A.M. on a Sunday morning, that was pretty impressive.

“He obviously drove from California to Tucson in his minivan. If we put out an APB with information on his vehicle, we might find him. Then again, we may not. So far he must be paying cash for his gasoline purchases. There’s no sign of any credit card activity. Since he evidently has plenty of cash, he may try to ditch his Dodge Caravan for something else in hopes of slipping by us. If he’s trying to travel by air, my guess is that he’ll still be using his own ID, or at least trying to.”

“Have you released any information about finding the bodies on your end?” Brian asked.

“Not yet. We’re still waiting on additional next-of-kin notifications.”

“That won’t last forever, but it’s good for us. For right now Southard may not realize we’ve made the connection. If it hadn’t been for that neighborhood block watch lady, we wouldn’t have.”

“Hang on,” Alex said. “Here comes the phone record info.”

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.”