Cait‘s heart beat like a war drum as she studied the copy of Rod Stone’s driver’s license. The man staring back at her had tried his darnedest to kill her the previous summer.
A malevolent con artist, Jerry Fleming had targeted Cait when she had written about the problem of counterfeit Indian jewelry for the Albuquerque Star newspaper. Her investigation had led her to Fleming, who wholesaled fake, high-end Native jewelry to Santa Fe galleries and jewelry stores.
A former University of New Mexico anthropology professor who loved aliases, Fleming had been arrested and charged six months ago with the murder of a Flagstaff man, as well as attempted murder for assaulting Cait and an Albuquerque art dealer.
The shyster had used his talent for deception to escape from the University of New Mexico Medical Center, where he had been taken after he had faked illness in his jail cell.
Before vanishing, he had left Cait a parting gift. A highly venomous Mohave rattlesnake on her doorstep. Authorities had traced Fleming to Las Vegas, but there the trail had grown cold.
Jack leaned in for a closer look at Fleming/Stone. “Whoa. I figured he’d surface sooner or later. The license is fake, of course.”
She paged through Fleming’s rental application for an office space on Broadway. “He listed a residence west of Tucson.” She tapped in the address on her phone, bringing up a map. “Near Saguaro National Park West.”
“Could be phony. He’s probably staying at some motel,” Jack said. “But we should go see.”
They climbed in the Jeep and Cait drove down Broadway, clogged with afternoon traffic. A few turns put them on westbound Speedway, beyond the I-10 freeway that bordered Tucson on the south and west.
Cait thumped her fingers on the steering wheel. “Do you trust Jason? He may not be telling the truth. After all, he joined Los Brutos.”
“I met him before his parents were killed, when Russell and I were trying to find dirt on Sonny Para. Jason said he hated Para, and wanted out of the gang. He offered to try to find out about any drug operations Los Brutos was running. Then he got a threatening voice mail. He claimed it was from Para, who said his parents were as good as dead. A day later they were shot, and Jason fled to L.A. I get the feeling something happened there he won’t talk about. I don’t think he’s a bad kid. He was never a hardcore gang member.”
“Do you think he’ll still help?”
“After what happened to his parents . . .” Jack’s eyes darkened. “I’m hoping he feels vengeful. That sounds self-serving, but I’m hoping he’s motivated to take Para out.”
Houses grew sparse. The saw-toothed Tucson Mountains sliced into the western sky. Speedway Boulevard turned into West Gates Pass Road. The road squeezed down to two lanes with no shoulder, a roller coaster ride through the knife-edge landscape of Tucson Mountain Park, serrated, vertical pileups of rock embedded with thorny flora and all manner of cactus. At Kinney Road they turned right, angled onto Mile Wide Road, and made a left onto Sandario Road, leaving the desert park behind them.
Jack read off the numbers on mailboxes. “Slow down, we’re getting close. It’s that driveway on the right.”
Cait braked, turned onto a sandy lane on the opposite side of the road, and parked away from the asphalt. Jack got out and trotted to a mailbox on the other side of the road. He opened the box lid, thumbed through a few ad mailers and an envelope, and returned them.
“What do you think?” Cait joined him. They couldn’t see the end of the curving driveway.
“Someone named Christy Mossman lives there.”
They walked down the driveway a short distance before the sound of an approaching vehicle sent them dashing behind a creosote bush.
A silver Toyota SUV sped by and turned onto the main road, a woman at the wheel and a man with a baseball cap in the passenger seat.
“Is that Jerry Fleming? I couldn’t tell.” Jack rose and dusted himself off.
“I don’t know. My gut says it was.” A sense of dread coiled in the pit of her stomach.
“Wonder if she’s an accomplice or victim?” Jack looked in the direction the SUV had gone.
Cait brushed aside her fear and used her phone to look up the address on Rod Stone’s rental application. “The tax assessor says this place is owned by the Christy Mossman estate. That could have been her driving. Maybe Rod Stone, aka Jerry Fleming, has got her under his spell. Let’s take a look.”
They jogged down the driveway and found a sprawling Southwest-style home. The front of the stucco house was lined with a half-dozen specimen saguaro cactuses. Large palo verde and mesquite trees bounded the sides and rear of the property.
Cait hurried to a side door and peeked in a window. The kitchen was fancy, with custom cabinets, stone countertops and luxury appliances. The door was unlocked. Inside, the place was quiet, save for ticking of a clock.
Jack was right behind her. Their eyes lighted on a pile of mail on the counter: a few magazines and an opened bank statement.
He slid the bank statement out. Christy Mossman had $18,000 in her checking account and $459,000 in a certificate of deposit. “No wonder the evil professor is drooling over her.”
“They’re back.” Cait leaped toward the side door at the sound of a vehicle roaring up the drive. “Hurry.”
***
Como Rico sat in the gloom of his kitchen. The work day had slipped by without incident, although his heart had skipped a few beats when Joe Tafoya, Sonny Para’s lieutenant, stopped by to bark out orders.
That morning, when Como had arrived at the warehouse, large barrels of candy drugs sat on the cement floor, ready for bagging and packing into cardboard boxes. Tafoya was there, weighing the product and making arrangements for shipping out on trucks.
Now Como realized how much tension he he’d stored in his upper body throughout the day. He dug his fingers into sore neck and shoulder muscles, thankful he had lived to see another sunset.
In the living room, his wife Zena watched a cable rerun of L.A. Law. They had eaten dinner in silence. She wasn’t talking to him after that morning’s revelation about his workplace.
The purr of his cell phone made him start. He picked it up, glancing at the crucifix hanging on the wall. “Huy!” He muttered as he recognized the caller’s number.
“It’s me.”
“Yeah?” Como chewed on a finger.
“I’m alive. I could sure use a friend.” It was Jason Gonzalez.
“Where are you?” Como worried who was listening to them.
“I’ll be back soon. I need to know if your word’s still good and if I can trust you. If you say no, I’ll leave you alone.”
“I’m a man of my word, but I don’t like talking on the phone. Too many things can go wrong, if you get my meaning.” A drop of sweat coursed down Como’s temple. “You show your face, we’ll talk.”
“Fair enough. The next time I call, I’ll be in Burque.” Jason hung up. Como sat at the table and rubbed his head.
“Who was that?” Zena stood in the shadowed doorway, face and limbs dark against an embroidered white Mexican dress.
“Jason, the one whose parents were killed.” Como was glad he couldn’t make out Zena’s expression.
“Como, my parents are gone. I’m an only child, and what relatives I have are shits. It’s you and me. If disaster strikes, we have no one to turn to. I knew you had a job, but I had no idea it involved drugs.” She came closer, and he could see the dark rings under her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
Gunshots blasted the quiet, shattering the living room window, tearing holes in the drywall. They dived for the floor. Zena covered her head and curled up in a ball. Como scuttled on hands and knees toward the living room.
Long cracks radiated from quarter-sized holes in the large window overlooking the street. The big screen TV was shattered, its electronics sizzling in protest.
Como hit the light switch and plunged the room into darkness. He peered around the broken glass. Outside, tail lights blinked as a vehicle turned onto a neighboring street.
The shots were a warning. What was next?