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Jane wore colorful muumuus, used a walker, and drove a ten-year-old Acura. She seemed to have serious health issues and never went anywhere without being hooked to a portable oxygen pack in the basket of her walker—one of Harold’s rejects. Jane had told both the real estate agent and the neighbors that she had an abusive husband. (Harold would have been so surprised!) That’s why she needed a bolt-hole if things ever got too bad at home. As far as the neighborhood knew, the lady in the late-model Mercedes and the Native American man who stopped by periodically and let themselves into her garage? According to Jane, they were her well-to-do younger sister and her nephew, both of whom came by now and then to check on the place for her.
Ava’s bags were packed and ready to be carted out to the car when she made one last trip through the family room. Pausing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, Ava stared down at the cityscape beneath her. She couldn’t help feeling a little sad, actually. She knew she’d never be coming back here. Tucson had been good to her—far better than she could ever have imagined—and she knew she would miss it.
Walking back across the room she passed the bar, and there was Fito. Poor Fito. How she wished she could take that lump of limestone with its toothy captive along with her. Jack and Susan would never be smart enough to sell the piece for what it was worth. Unfortunately, Fito was far too big for Ava to carry.
Then her eye fell on the pot—the tiny pot. Jack and Susan wouldn’t know what that was worth either, but what it meant to Ava was far more than any mere monetary value. It was a trophy—a reminder of her first kill, a kill she’d gotten away with then and would still get away with now.
When JFA’s attorneys had poked their noses into John Lassiter’s case, they must have hoped to have his life sentence reduced to something considerably less than that, but as of today, his life sentence would become a death sentence. Somewhere around five that afternoon, John Lassiter would be a thing of the past, and so would Max José. And once Henry Rojas was out of the way, too, there would be no one left to co
As for Ava? With Jane Dobson’s aging Acura decked out in a new set of plates, she would drive to L.A. and to another equally unassuming safe house—a condo in a massive development not far from LAX. On the way she’d stop by a Postal Minders shop off Sepulveda and pick up the collection of packages she’d sent ahead to Jane Carruthers—another of her guises—from one of the shipping centers at the Gem and Mineral Show a few weeks earlier. Lots of people shipped their gem-show purchases home from there, and her packages of blood diamonds had no doubt blended in with the crowd.
Ava plucked the tiny pot from its place of honor on the shelf and slipped it into the pocket of her denim jacket. With all her ducks in a row, she had no reason to leave her good luck charm behind.
She turned down the hall to the guest wing where Harold spent most of his waking hours these days. He was in his easy chair, sitting in front of a TV set watching what appeared to be one of the many Judge Whatever shows. The shows were uniformly mindless and plotless and were enough to keep Harold occupied. The nurse was standing in the doorway as Ava leaned down to give him a quick peck on the cheek. From Ava’s point of view, nothing could have been better.
“I’m going now,” she said. “I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
Harold waved at her absently, without really looking away from the screen. “Drive carefully,” he said.
She smiled at him and nodded in the nurse’s direction. “I will,” she said. “I always do.”
LANI SHOWERED. THEN, WITH HER hair still wet, she lay on the bed and tried to sleep. Dan had taken the kids and gone off to help Leo look for Gabe. The house was quiet. She was weary beyond words, but sleep wouldn’t come. Like Gabe’s mother, Lani was appalled that Gabe could be involved in something like this and with people who were beyond dangerous.
Gabe Ortiz and Tim José. She remembered Timmy as a little kid, coming into the hospital because he’d been playing around his grandmother’s woodpile and had been bitten by a snake. He’d been cute back then, just as Gabe had been. She heard again the sound of that single early-morning gunshot and understood its heartbreaking significance. The first rounds of gunfire had brought down Carlos and Paul. The final one must have been for Tim—Timmy.
Lani had not yet dozed off when her phone rang. Leo’s name appeared on the screen. “Any luck?” she asked.
“Maybe a little,” Leo answered. “I’ve looked everywhere I can think of. I started out by stopping by the José place, thinking Gabe and Tim might have holed up there. Nothing, but I asked around. It turns out nobody’s seen Tim since early yesterday evening.”
Lani took a deep breath. Leo’s last words had just confirmed her worst suspicions about Tim José. “But you said you’d made some progress,” she managed.
“Yes,” Leo said, “just now when I stopped by the garage to get some gas, I talked to Martin Cruz and his father. Do you know them?”
“The old blind man with the drunken son?” Lani didn’t know the pair personally, but she had seen them often enough, always walking together on the shoulder of the road, the older man limping along with his hand resting on his son’s shoulder. Lani had been told that most of the pair’s walking trips involved going to or from their preferred bootlegger. “What about them?”
“A lot of the time Joseph and Martin come by the garage in the mornings and sit outside at the picnic table under that big palo verde tree. Martin said they were there today. He claims he saw a pickup—a black pickup—stop by our house. He says Gabe got in and rode off with whoever was driving.”
“Did he get into the vehicle under his own steam?” Lani asked. “Or was he forced into it against his will?”
“That’s what it sounded like, but I’m not sure how reliable Martin is. The old man is blind, and Martin smells like he’s blind drunk. He had no idea about the truck’s make and model and couldn’t identify the driver. I’m not sure what to do.”
“Have you told Delia?”
“I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Look, Leo,” Lani said. “If Gabe was forced into the vehicle, you and I both know that this is far more serious than Gabe just wandering off on his own. Are those FBI agents still in town?”
“As far as I know. The last I saw their Suburban was parked over by the café.”
“We need to report this,” Lani said, scrambling out of bed. “Has anyone reported Tim as missing?”
“I doubt it. Who would? Max is in jail. Paul and Carlos are dead. Their mother is in the hospital.”
“Then we have to,” Lani insisted. “The FBI agents need to know that both Gabe and Tim are missing and that, because of the note, we know Gabe may be tied in with whatever the José brothers have been up to. You go tell Delia. Don’t tell her over the phone. Talk to her in person. I’ll track down the agents and talk to them.”
“Wouldn’t you rather talk to Delia?” he asked.
“Sorry, Leo,” Lani said. “I’ll take the easy duty—Milgahn FBI over a pissed-off Delia Ortiz, any day. After you talk to Delia, you need to let Law and Order know about this, too.”
When Lani arrived at the café the Suburban was gone, and only one of the two agents lingered inside. Agent Howell was there; Agent Armstrong wasn’t. The first time Lani had met Agent Howell, she had been at a distinct disadvantage. Therefore, it was no accident that she showed up at the café in full M.D. regalia—a pair of scrubs topped by a lab coat and with her name tag fully visible. Clearly a