Chapter 27

Tavish hesitated. The guard was watching the chaos outside the building and hadn’t yet noticed her. She’d never stolen anything in her life.

It’s not really stealing when it’s your mother’s company and her car. But if her mother was somehow involved in all this, she could make a pretty good case that Tavish was a carjacker. She reached for the crystal. Oh right. It was gone. And Marley was out of reach.

What should I do? She couldn’t go far, only as far as the gas in the tank would take her. She didn’t even have the dollar the man gave her.

Trust in the Lord. The words of the homeless woman and her grandmother’s wisdom echoed in her mind. “Okay, Lord. I trust you. Now what?” she whispered.

Nothing happened. The world didn’t shift. A big voice didn’t shout an answer from the sky. An angel didn’t hand her a solution. She was still homeless, broke, missing her dog, and with people sincerely wanting her dead.

The security guard’s interest in the chaotic parking lot was waning and he started to look around. Tavish crouched behind the car.

Her mother strolled through the milling crowd, parting them like royalty through a throng of beggars. She did have a commanding presence, something Tavish had longed for. That, and maybe just a little attention.

Tavish hugged herself. She’d had a loving grandmother. A grandmother who’d left her a fortune. Was that motive for attempted murder?

A man approached Helen and spoke to her. Tavish couldn’t see his face, but whatever he said made her mother shake her head. He reached in his jacket and pulled out something, showed it to her, and put it away. Her mother stiffened. He turned toward Tavish and pointed to a beige Toyota Camry parked nearby.

It was Dali-mustache man.

Tavish stood. Before she could move, her mother had crawled into the car. The man jumped in beside her and the car pulled out of the visitors’ parking. Shortly a white sedan followed. The driver was the fake cop. He appeared to be following the Camry.

Tavish dashed toward the security station by the gate to the company cars.

The guard picked up a pen and clipboard, then stopped. “Whoa, what happened to you?”

“When the alarm sounded, the sprinkler system went off. I got caught in the downpour.” She smiled in what she hoped was a convincing grin. “Helen Richmond told me I could go home and change.”

“She said you could take a company car?”

Tavish held up the keys.

The guard took the keys and checked the number. Tavish shifted from one foot to the other, trying to watch the rapidly disappearing Camry without drawing attention.

“Sign here, print your name here.” He handed her the clipboard. “It’s the white sedan over there.” He pointed.

She swiftly signed and printed an illegible name, grabbed the keys, and trotted to the car. She just hoped she’d be able to catch up with her mother—and the men with her.

*  *  *

Sawyer stared at the professor, unable to think of what to say.

“Howard was a friend of Vince’s. And now this all makes so much sense.” She waved her hand at the water container, file, and drawing.

“Um, could you explain?”

“It’s not an admirable thing to dislike your son, but I did. When his father died in Afghanistan, Howard was a teen. He . . . went wild. I couldn’t control him. I finally kicked him out when I found him having a party with drugs and girls while I was out of town. We barely saw each other for several years. I went back to my maiden name, but Howard knew where I lived. Then one day he showed up here.”

“When was that?”

“Um . . . maybe five or six months ago? He offered to help. Guess how?”

“Transporting water containers?”

“Bingo.” She didn’t speak for a few moments. “I let it slip that you were coming and were with the FBI.” She shook her head. “He always was a con man.”

A con man with a record. Not a coincidence. There are connections.

“So tell me,” Patricia asked, “why did Tavish draw him?”

“They were engaged.”

“Were? They’re not anymore?”

She didn’t know her son was dead. He said a quick prayer. “Patricia, I have some bad news.” He explained her son’s suicide.

Patricia didn’t move, her gaze never leaving his face, her skin turning parchment white. Only when he’d finished did she do anything. She stood, straightened her back, and headed to her tent.

Sawyer stayed for several hours, but it was clear Patricia wanted to grieve alone. He collected the file and Tavish’s sketch.

The setting sun was casting a crimson and orange glow on the Sandia Mountains by the time Sawyer returned to Albuquerque. For the duration of his undercover work, when he wasn’t at the dig he’d been booked into a decent hotel with an open, airy atrium in the center. He had a bedroom suite, allowing him to use the living area as an extended office.

With the deputies and detectives from the different agencies meeting in the morning, he needed to update his research to be prepared.

Once in his room, he ordered a dinner of salmon and tossed salad from room service, then laid out the files and computer on the caramel-colored wood desk. He could access the police files from his laptop. He stared at the drawing Tavish had done of Howard. A con man. After her money. Scum.

Sawyer pulled out his yellow legal pad. He’d work on a timeline.

January 1	Paintings stolen.
January–March	Thefts occurred at archaeological sites. Howard shows up.
March	FBI called in to investigate theft. Stealing stops.
March–April	Howard “falls in love” with Tavish. John Coyote seeks out Tavish for commission.
April 30	Shootout at Four Corners. Vince killed. Paintings and artifacts recovered. Suspect 2nd person. Howard?
May 2	Howard commits suicide.
May 6	Paintings returned.
May 28	Tavish goes to Pat Caron’s house, thinking it belonged to John Coyote.
May 30	Marley shows up. Tavish finds John’s body.

He stood and moved to the window. He had a clear view of the lights of downtown Albuquerque. “You stole some paintings, Andrew, or Howard, or whatever you called yourself, you and your friend Vince. You killed a man in the process. But you find out you can’t exactly get rid of them, at least not as easily as you thought. Bet that was a surprise. So you moved on to something more portable, ancient Native American artifacts. More portable, more salable, but hard and dirty work. And not nearly so profitable. Move on to Plan C: woo a millionaire heiress. Tavish.”

He tried not to think about where Tavish might be at the moment. “I’m not sure how John fits in just yet, but I’d guess you had some connections, and I’d just bet that Fake Cop was one of them.” He paced. “But why would a beautiful woman fall for you?”

A soft knock on the door indicated his dinner had arrived. He signed for it but left it untouched. He’d lost his appetite thinking about Tavish.

Returning to his desk, he did a quick internet image search on Evelyn McTavish.

The page of photos loaded.

He stared at the images. This can’t be right. The photos showed a much heavier woman with mousy brown hair, baggy sweats, and no makeup. She bore little resemblance to the woman he met at the gallery and dig. The images were at least a year or two old.

She’d mentioned all the life changes she’d made after her grandmother’s death. Could she still see herself as looking like this?

No wonder she fell hard for the con man Howard. And was terrified of any feelings for me.

“That’s hardly the type of thing I need to present tomorrow at the meeting.” He stood and paced. “Get organized. What don’t you know? What events might connect? And how big is this thing?”

Picking up his yellow legal pad, he sat on the bed and began to write.

*  *  *

Tavish drove as swiftly as she dared, looking for the Camry or the sedan driven by the fake cop. For once, luck and a red light were in her favor. She spotted them at the second intersection. Keeping a few vehicles between them, she followed. She knew the route well. They were driving toward her mother’s estate.

As they approached the neighborhood, Tavish slowed, then turned down a side street. The sedan had parked where Fake Cop could see into her mother’s driveway. She didn’t want to drive past him. There was a break in the landscaping on this side of the estate where she could see what was going on. She parked, got out of the car, and trotted over to the fence.

Her mother had left the car, as had Dali-mustache man. Helen’s body language spelled fury. She pointed at the man, then toward the driveway exit. She couldn’t hear exactly what her mother was saying, but her last words were clear. “Don’t you dare threaten me!”

He got into the car and started to turn around.

A falling-out among thieves? If they’d been working together in the past, it would seem the partnership was at an end.

Tavish could confront her mother now point-blank, ask her about Softmode, John Coyote, Dali-mustache man, Fake Cop, and Mrs. Montez and the money . . . but her mother could simply lie about everything. Lie, then call someone to take care of her once and for all.

A heavy weight pressed on her shoulders. Her mother had never really loved her, but Tavish always thought her mother at least cared. After Andrew died, Helen had gotten her help, instructed her staff to buy clothes and food and . . . Her staff. Not her.

Shouldn’t I have seen the writing on the wall?

But not loving a child wasn’t the same as having her murdered. Tavish couldn’t, wouldn’t believe it.

I’m after revenge for Marley. I have to see this through, no matter where it may lead.

She couldn’t see Fake Cop from this angle, but if she wanted to know more, she’d have to move. She raced back to her sedan, then did a U-turn and aimed for the road she knew they’d have to be on.

Sure enough, both the Camry and Fake Cop’s security car drove past. Not slowing down for the stop sign, she swerved into the street behind them. An angry driver laid on his horn.

“Sorry,” she muttered. The two vehicles were ahead with a truck between. She fell into line.

They drove steadily out of town. She kept several cars or trucks blocking their view in case someone looked out the rear window. The final set of turns had her slowing almost to a crawl. Both vehicles had turned off the main road and onto Loco Drive, which led to Patricia Caron’s home. A warning sign beside the pavement noted Road Closed, Local Traffic Only.

The road was a dead-end trap. She’d be an obvious target if she turned to follow them.

A row of middle-class, neatly tended homes lined the street across from the turnoff to Loco Drive. Tavish pulled over and stopped in front of one of the houses. She could see anyone coming from the closed-off road. After shutting down the engine, she slid down in the seat. There was nothing left of the Caron house, according to Detective Mullins. What did anyone expect to find?

Wait. The garage was separate from the house. Could that have been spared? So many questions banged around in her skull she was getting a headache—or make that building on the dull headache she already had. She’d never seen anything in the garage except John Coyote’s car, but she’d never looked for something suspicious either.

Those two men could have been responsible for Coyote’s, Kevin’s, and Dusty’s deaths, as well as the attempts on her life.

Just turn around. She could use this opportunity to confront her mother, with the two of them accounted for.

The warm sun soon heated the inside of the car to an uncomfortable temperature.

A curtain in the nearest house twitched. Great. She’d waited too long in one spot. She gulped air, started the engine, and checked the rearview mirror.

When she looked forward again, her jaw dropped.

Fake Cop had returned, slowed at the stop sign, then sped off in the opposite direction, away from town.

She waited a few moments for Dali-mustache man to follow. The few minutes turned into twenty. The car was running low on gas. She pulled out and turned onto the road. She’d drive past the remains of Patricia Caron’s house and park somewhere on the road beyond.

The devastation was immense, having leveled an area roughly the size of a large city block. A crater showed where the pipe carrying the gas had been. After she reached the first destroyed home, now cordoned off with yellow and black warning tape, it took her a moment to realize it was the remains of Kevin’s place. The blackened shell looked like a dinosaur’s rib cage. The next house was the same. Mustache man had parked the Camry between the road and the crater. She kept her face forward in case he was watching. I wonder if he knows this isn’t Caron’s house.

Of course he knows. He confronted me here the first time we met.

She continued up the road until the end, then turned around and parked out of sight. If she climbed the hillside behind the houses, she would be able to see what was going on, but the cover would be thin—and there would be the problem of rattlesnakes and scorpions.

Her skin crawled. Maybe just a cautious approach down the street. Most of the houses at this end of the road had plantings in front for privacy.

This is a stupid idea.

What choice did she have? She’d already gone to the police several times and they’d concluded she was mental. Her mother would confirm it. At least she wasn’t identifiable in her present state to anyone who knew her. She hoped.

The road sloped gently downhill, and enough trees shaded the street to keep it relatively cool. The air smelled of burned timbers and scorched earth. At the open gate to Caron’s house, she paused. The garage seemed to be in one piece with no evidence that anyone had been ransacking it. Cautiously she approached, making sure she made as little noise as possible.

Looking through the window, she saw an empty building. A black metal storage cabinet stood open and empty. Circling the structure, she discovered a stained rag and an empty metal coffee container with a faint odor she couldn’t identify.

A trail behind the burned-out house appeared to lead to the next lot, where Dali-mustache man had parked the Camry. She ended up at the back of that property.

Mustache-man was sitting in the driver’s seat.

The blood rushed from her face. She ducked behind a shrub.

Mustache didn’t move.

Despite the heat, Tavish felt chilled. Something about his complete stillness was wrong. Very wrong.

She stood and moved forward, sliding down the burned ditch, sending rocks rattling to the bottom.

No reaction.

She crawled up the other side and approached the car.

He was staring straight ahead.

Her steps grew shorter, her legs heavier.

The gun glinted from the ground beside the driver’s side door. She bent over and stared at it. Did she need a weapon? Some way to defend herself? No. She’d never fired a gun before, and this one had already killed one person. A fly buzzed through the open window, landing on his sightless eye.

Hands trembling, Tavish reached through the window and pulled open his jacket.

A crimson patch stained his shirt over his heart.

She couldn’t breathe. A buzzing started in her head, and the world faded except for the crimson stain.

“Oh, Lord, help me, not now, stay with me, don’t faint, don’t faint,” she gasped out.

The buzzing faded. She tore her gaze from his chest to his jacket. With great effort she released her grip. Her hand was smeared with blood. She wiped it off on her T-shirt, then reached for the pocket. His wallet. After yanking it out, she opened it. His driver’s license said he was Jack Cave. A second card identified him as a licensed insurance investigator.

The wallet dropped from her suddenly numb fingers. He was the investigator after all.

Sweat beaded on her forehead, and the numbness took over her body.

Obviously Fake Cop had killed him. Were her mother and Fake Cop working together? If they were, that could mean Helen had arranged to have her own paintings stolen in order to collect the insurance money. And maybe she’d never paid it back.