Clark Bush rubbed his temples and nursed a glass of sherry, the only alcohol he could find in his mother’s kitchen. Things could hardly get much worse.
Detective Larry Bison had confirmed his suspicions. The cashier’s check Fern had given to Rod Stone had been deposited into an account at a mid-town branch of Bank of America. Then the entire proceeds—all two hundred thousand dollars--had then been wired to an internet bank back east.
Clark poured more sherry and capped the bottle. The detective had said he would try to get the money back, but in reality there was not much he could do. Rod Stone’s promise of high-interest returns amounted to a load of horse pucky. The fine print on the papers Fern had signed, but hadn’t understood, stated she might or might not receive any interest on her investment. She also had no recourse if she lost the principal. Stone wasn’t a licensed broker or financial advisor, and Fern had accepted that condition with her signature. She had also confirmed that she was of sound mind and body and able to make decisions for herself.
Stone’s carefully drafted language might stave off attempts to claw back her money.
Detective Bison had asked the FBI to coerce the internet bank and Bank of America to rescind the transfer of Fern’s money, on the grounds that the funds had been obtained through deceit and elder abuse
The banks were stalling, consulting their lawyers. Clark saw only a long, dark tunnel, with no daylight ahead. Was the money gone for good? So many what-ifs and barriers remained to be overcome.
By now, Rod Stone must be aware that Fern had changed her mind and was battling to get her funds back. No doubt he was packing his bags, if he hadn’t already disappeared.
Clark rinsed his glass out in the sink. He’d checked on his mom a half hour ago, found her sound asleep in the living room. She seemed to spend a lot of time resting. Clark was the opposite; unlike his mom, he could hardly sleep.
He started at a noise in the front of the house.
As he reached the living room, he heard Fern’s soft snoring from the couch.
Then he heard someone tapping on the front door. Maybe it was Cait Zapata and Jack Gallegos. Strange they hadn’t called first.
He approached the door and looked through the peephole. A tall man stood on the dark porch with his back to the door, hugging something to his chest.
Maybe a neighbor, Clark thought. He toggled a wall switch to turn on the outside light. The porch stayed dark; the bulb must be burned out.
He opened the door. The visitor turned quickly.
A concrete block smashed into Clark’s face. He collapsed like he’d been shot between the eyes. His assailant nudged Clark with the toe of a shoe, stepped over him like he was a dead dog, and entered the house.
***
Cait and Jack melted into the shadows in front of the vacant house off Sandario Road. He raised the night scope and scanned the exterior of Christy Mossman’s house.
“Soon as we spot Rod Stone, we call Larry Bison. Remind him the FBI wants this guy bad.” Jack kept his voice low.
“Fine with me. I’m certainly not going after him.” Cait pushed away last year’s hard memories of fighting for her life. Back then, Rod Stone had called himself Eric Larson. He rammed her vehicle into a desert wash outside Gallup, where she and a friend had almost drowned in a flash flood. Next, he’d lured her to a vacant home near Santa Fe and tried to strangle her. Then attacked her and left her for dead in a cave in the Ortiz Mountains northeast of Albuquerque.
As Jack watched the Mossman home, Cait used the light of her cell phone to ready the drone. Sunset colors had long since seeped away. She shivered and hunched inside her coat as she looked up into the night-time sky. With no moon yet to dim their brilliance, the stars were center stage. Even with Tucson’s electric glow, she could make out Orion the Hunter in the south, accompanied by faithful Canus Major, clutching the pulsating Sirius in its jaws.
She felt Jack stiffen. “Christy Mossman entered the front door.” He squinted through the scope. “She was sneaking around in the dark. How long has she been outside?”
Cait blew into her hands to warm them. “Wonder what story Stone told her about why people are after him? And why isn’t the FBI here looking for a wanted murderer?”
Jack kept his eyes on the house. “Bison said the feds talked to her this afternoon. She claimed she met Rod Stone at a Meetup singles mixer and went on a few dates. Says she was supposed to have lunch with him today at Tohono Chul but he stood her up.”
“Are they that gullible?”
“The feds are close-mouthed. They probably got a warrant to listen in on her cell phone calls and read her texts. Maybe they stuck a bug in the house when they stopped by.” Jack lowered the scope and rubbed his eyes. “If they know where Rod Stone is, they won’t tell us.”
“You’d think they’d be more forthcoming, considering our history with this guy,” Cait said.
“That’s why we’re here. There’s the old saw that if you need something done right, do it yourself. Don’t forget last year. It seemed like you were the only one determined to find the con man of many names. Now, I guess an old lady cheated out of her money isn’t a priority for the FBI or the locals.”
Faint traffic sounds rose and fell from somewhere out in the desert. Dogs barked and sirens wailed far away. Cait focused on the thrum of an approaching vehicle that slowed to a crawl along Sandario Road. Headlights cut out as the vehicle stopped near the driveway to the vacant home, engine purring.
Unease prickled up her back. She squeezed his arm but Jack was already looking toward the road.
Car doors opened. The vehicle’s dome light had been turned off. A voice murmured, answered by a sharp hiss. Dark shapes moved up the driveway, gravel crunching underfoot.
Everything happened quickly. Jack and Cait instinctively dropped to the ground as the figures—she assumed they were men—raised weapons and blitzed away at the vacant house.
Automatic fire battered the stucco and shattered windows. Cait and Jack kept low and zigzagged back to the Jeep, parked just off the road. Slipped inside, careful not to slam the doors.
Cait’s hands shook as she started the engine, her feet working the clutch and gas pedals while speed-shifting the gear knob. They roared onto the pavement and raced to the intersection with Mile Wide Road and the dark expanse of Tucson Mountain Park.
“Who the hell were they?” Jack stared behind them. “Thank God they didn’t see us. All that racket masked our getaway, but they’ll be coming and fast.”
“That place was empty. Who were they shooting at?” Cait flicked on the headlights to follow the narrow, curving ribbon of Kinney Road. “I left the drone. Three hundred bucks down the drain.”
“Someone’s on our tail.” Jack eyed a glimmer behind them. “I don’t want to go up against assault rifles.”
“Some kind of event going on,” Cait said. They blew past a sign for the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum just ahead. A line of vehicles coming toward them from Tucson slowed to take the turn for the museum. She braked at the last minute and shot onto the narrow museum drive, almost hitting the curb on the far side of the lane.
“Whew! Barely made it. We’ll blend in with the crowd. Those guys after us won’t shoot snow birds, will they?” She followed a procession of vehicles into the lot and parked between two large pickups. Light poles circling the asphalt perimeter were decorated with “Sonoran Winter Skies” banners.
“We’ll find out.” Jack got out of the jeep and looked back as a steady stream of cars proceeded up the entry drive.
A burst of mariachi music issued from somewhere on the museum grounds. They trotted to the ticket booth and hurried inside. Clumps of people strolled on winding paths past groomed xeriscape displays and animal enclosures designed to mimic natural environments.
“Look.” Cait gestured at a cliff set back from the path behind a tall gridded fence. Cave-like entrances pockmarked the bluff. “Something moved.”
They stared at shadowed crevices. “Right there. Yellow eyes.” Cait pointed.
“Mountain lion. Looking back at us.”
“At least we’re not dinner,” she said.
“I’d rather deal with that cat than thugs with automatic weapons.” Jack eyed everyone wandering past them for signs of trouble.
Further down the path, a throng of visitors in warm jackets gathered by a turnout on the trail. They looked skyward as a museum docent talked about constellations visible on southern Arizona winter nights.
Cait and Jack stepped aside to avoid a steady stream of passersby. He touched her arm. “Let’s get out of here while others are leaving. That way we won’t be alone on the road.”
They returned to the Jeep in time to join a trio of SUVs exiting the parking lot. The drive back to Tucson was uneventful.
Once they were surrounded by metro traffic on Speedway Boulevard, Cait breathed easier. “What was all that shooting about?”
Jack’s brow furrowed. “I’m going to take a wild guess. Do you have a flashlight?”
“In the glove compartment. Why?”
“Pull into that Denny’s parking lot. I think I know what’s going on.”