by J. A. Jance
“For the time being, yes,” Easy answered. “Possible but not likely.”
Easy went back outside. Ali packed up her computer, and Dave helped carry that and her luggage out to her car. “Do you want me to come with you?” he asked.
“No. You go get Mom. I’m sure she’s worried sick. Just make sure that no one follows you when you bring her to the house. Although,” she added ruefully, patting the pocket of her jeans where she had stowed the GPS device Easy Washington had given her, “I now know that it’s sometimes harder to know you’re being followed than one would think.”
“I’ll be careful,” Dave said. “Besides, I don’t think the media routinely passes out GPS tracking devices.”
“Let’s hope,” Ali said.
He opened the car door to let her inside and touched her shoulder tentatively as she did so. “Be careful,” he said.
“I will.”
By then it was late enough that, other than a long parade of slow-moving semis, traffic into the city was relatively light. Among all those trucks, the Cayenne might as well have been invisible.
Propped up by cup after cup of coffee, Ali was tired but nonetheless wide awake as she drove. As the miles sped by, she couldn’t help thinking about Paul. Did the fact that he had been working with the authorities at the time of his death mean he was, in fact, some kind of hero?
During that fateful phone call from Roseanne, he had evidently told her that he would go to the authorities but only after both his wedding and honeymoon. That delay—most likely done out of deference for April—had given the Joaquins the ammunition they needed and the opportunity to take him out. The irony was that they had killed Paul because they suspected he might possibly go to the cops when in fact he had already done so. That wasn’t lost on Ali, either. She knew those were facets of the story she would need to address when it came time to write Easy Washington’s promised exclusive for cutlooseblog.com.
Most of the time what appeared in cutloose consisted of opinion—Ali’s opinions and those of her readers. After months of using the blog to revile Paul Grayson for his two-timing treatment of her, it was difficult for Ali to think of him in any context other than worm. She wondered if she’d somehow be able to muster the necessary distance and evenhandedness to write the rest of the story and do justice to it. For that, Ali would have to revert to her old self and to her original training as a journalist—with one minor exception. Well, a major exception, actually. Most of the time reporters were expected to relate what happened without actually being involved. In this situation, Ali could hardly claim to be a disinterested bystander.
Lost in those complicated thoughts and driving on automatic pilot, Ali steered the Cayenne up the familiar steep curves of Robert Lane. When she arrived at the entrance, she was surprised to see that the broken gate had been repaired. It was standing open, but the broken post had been mended and the wrought-iron gate itself had been reattached to the hinges. Once inside the gate she rolled down her window and attempted to use the free-standing keypad to punch in what she remembered as the old gate-closing code. To her surprise, the gate swung shut.
She had decided on her way into town that it would probably be best if, for the time being, she and her mother stayed in the pool house. There were two bedrooms there and it would be better for her to stay in what had been Chris’s apartment for the past several years rather than venturing into the house where April and Paul had been living together in her absence. Eventually Ali would have to deal with April’s things and with Paul’s, too, but not right now. Not tonight. Not with so much of what had happened to those people still far too fresh.
So, after rolling the window back up, Ali headed for the pool house with its attached carport. Even if it was locked, she knew Chris had always left an extra key in the utility cabinet at the front of the carport. As she drove through the yard, the motion-activated security lights came on. Passing the garage, she was surprised to see the garage doors standing open. Before she could react, though, a figure emerged from the garage doorway—a figure carrying a gun. Her first thought was simply, No! Not again!
She knew it was Jake Maxwell before she even saw his face. And when he used the barrel of the gun to rap sharply on the window next to her head, she knew exactly what he wanted and did it at once. She put on the brakes and stopped.
Even though she couldn’t hear him very well through the closed window and over the sound of the engine, it was easy enough to read his lips. “Roll down the window!” he ordered.
With a weapon trained at her head and with her own Glock packed away in some crime scene investigator’s evidence storage locker, Ali had no choice but to comply. She rolled down her window.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Jake ignored the question. “I need your car,” he said, “and I need it now. Get out.”
There was a splotch of grease on the front of Jake’s otherwise white shirt and grease on his shirtsleeves as well. He had been doing something in the garage, something mechanical. Or at least he’d been trying to. His face was drenched in sweat. He looked desperate. And scared.
In that moment Ali recognized something about the man that she had never known before. Jake Maxwell was a coward. Whatever crimes he may have participated in, it was unlikely he had ever done his own dirty work.
“No,” she said simply. “I won’t.”
Jake was almost beside himself. “I’ve got a gun. What do you mean you won’t?”
Just like in the restaurant, Ali was making calculations in her head. She had probably left the Claim Jumper several minutes before Dave had, although she wasn’t sure by how much. And she had most likely driven faster than he had. When it came to power, his little Nissan didn’t compare with the Cayenne’s V-8. Maybe he had fudged the speed limit coming into town—Ali certainly had—but she doubted it. And once he got to the city, he would be going first to the Motel 6 to collect Edie. How much longer would that take him? Half an hour? Forty-five minutes? Could she stall Jake that long? Ali realized that her best bet was to engage him in conversation.
“What’s going on, Jake?” she said as calmly as she could manage. “Why the gun? We’ve known each other for a long time. You don’t mean this. You wouldn’t hurt me.”
“I’ll hurt you if I have to,” he insisted. “I need your car! Get out.”
“Can’t we talk about this?” she asked.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Jake said. “The cops are after me. So are some other people. Either way, I’m a dead man. Give me your car.”
Ali knew now that Jake was as frightened of the Joaquins as Roseanne had been.
“Surely it can’t be as bad as all this,” Ali said. “Get in. I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”
Much to Ali’s amazement and without an additional word, he walked around the front of the car. There were a few short seconds when she might have jammed her foot on the gas pedal and run him down. That would have ended the confrontation there and then, but something—basic humanity, maybe?—held her back. She was betting the farm that he wouldn’t gun her down in cold blood because she was someone he knew. The problem was, that was her situation as well. Ali couldn’t kill Jake for the exact same reason—she knew him. They had once been friends—at least she had always thought they were.
Ali punched the “unlock” button on the car and let him inside.
“Where to?” she asked.
“Mexico,” he said. “And not down the I-5, either. They’ll be checking the border there. Head for Julian. Know where that is?”
Ali nodded. Julian was in the mountains east of Escondido. If you passed Julian and continued on over that particular range, you came out north of Brawley—and near what was considered to be more of a back-door entrance into Mexico through Calexico. But going that way was anything but direct. Ali suspected Jake was probably right in terms of people not thinking he’d attempt to go that way. There would be far more focus on the main I-5 corridor and far less o
n secondary routes.
She wondered how closely Jake had been following the situation on the ground as the takedowns happened and whether or not he had any idea that most of the Joaquin organization along with Tracy McLaughlin and Roseanne had all been taken into custody.
“Sounds like you’re headed the same place Roseanne is,” Ali ventured casually. “And considering she knows all about you and Amber, I doubt she’ll be thrilled to see you when you show up.”
“You know about Oaxaca?” Jake demanded. “How?”
Ali hadn’t known where they were headed in Mexico exactly—but now she did. And she also knew from Jake’s reaction that he had no idea Roseanne had been placed under arrest.
“Roseanne told me,” Ali said, goading just to see how he’d react to the news. “She called me because she needed cash in a hurry and wanted to unload some of her jewelry. I took a few pieces off her hands.”
“But she’s still all right?”
“You mean have your friends the Joaquins caught up with her? Not yet.”
From the dismayed look on Jake’s face, Ali knew he was taken aback. “How do you know so much about all this?” he wanted to know.
Ali decided to choose a Joaquin—any Joaquin—to turn into a fall guy. “Reynaldo,” Ali said. “He’s made a deal with the Feds. From what I hear, he’s giving them an earful and spilling his guts about everything that’s been going on around here. By morning the whole organization will be in custody. You sure you want to be the last man standing?”
Once again Jake waved the gun in her direction. “Why are we still sitting here?” he demanded. “I told you to drive.”
Ali’s phone rang just then, startling them both. “Don’t answer,” Jake began, but Ali already had, hoping beyond hope the caller would be Dave and that she would somehow be able to let him know what was going on.
“Ms. Reynolds?” an unfamiliar male voice asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m so sorry to disturb you at such a late hour. My name is Fred Macon. You know, with Three Palms, the mortuary?”
Ali struggled to conceal her disappointment. “What can I do for you, Mr. Macon?”
“Your husband’s remains have just been transported to our facility here. There seems to be some confusion with the paperwork. I had been told that April Gaddis was the person to be consulted about services and so forth, but it’s been brought to my attention that Ms. Gaddis is also deceased at this time, and since yours is the only other contact number available to us…”
“It’s well after midnight, Mr. Macon,” Ali pointed out. “Do we really need to have this discussion right now? Can’t we plan my husband’s funeral during daylight hours?”
“Well, yes, certainly,” Fred Macon said quickly. “There’s one check mark on the form that wasn’t properly handled over in Riverside, however, and it would be a big help to all of us here if we could get that one straightened out as soon as possible.”
“What check mark?” Ali asked.
“Embalming,” Fred Macon said. “It would be helpful to us to know whether or not you intend to have Mr. Grayson’s remains embalmed.”
Paul had died on Thursday night. It was now edging toward dawn on Tuesday morning. That went a long way to explaining Mr. Macon’s middle-of-the-night urgency. Embalming was probably long overdue.
“By all means,” Ali said.
“Thank you,” Fred said. “Thank you so much. So I can note on the file that you gave me a verbal authorization to do so over the phone?”
“Yes.”
“And I can let the office know that you’ll be in touch to finalize arrangements for the services tomorrow…later on today, actually?”
“That, too,” Ali told him.
“And, if you’ll pardon my asking. Our information about Ms. Gaddis didn’t come through what you would call official channels. I just happened to see it on the news and made the connection. Will you be handling arrangements for her as well? If a joint service is required—”
“No,” Ali said. “I believe someone else will be in charge of that.”
“Oh,” Fred said. He sounded disappointed, as though he had somehow missed the opportunity to drum up some extra nightshift business. Ali wondered if perhaps he actually made a commission. “All right then,” he added. “Thanks so much, and again, I’m sorry to disturb you in the middle of the night.”
“That’s quite all right,” Ali said.
She ended the call. “The mortuary,” she explained to Jake. “Calling about Paul’s services. You already knew he was dead when you came to court on Friday, didn’t you?” she added.
“I said drive,” Jake said, but she noted a lack of conviction in his voice, and that uncertainty gave her courage.
“No,” she said suddenly. “We’re not going anywhere. I think you know who the guilty party is. I want to know who killed Paul and why.”
“Ali, I’m telling you,” Jake said menacingly. “If I have to shoot you, I will. Don’t make me do it.”
The window on Ali’s side of the car was still open. With a speed that surprised her and caught Jake totally flat-footed, Ali shut off the ignition, extracted the car key, and flung it out through the open window. She welcomed the tiny whisper of a splash as the leather-topped key landed in the nearby swimming pool and sank to what she knew was the bottom of the diving end.
Jake heard it, too, and was outraged. “You bitch!” he screamed at her. “Are you nuts? What the hell are you thinking? Now we’ll never get out of here.”
That’s the whole idea, Ali thought.
“Maybe it’s time you thought about calling the cops and turning yourself in,” she suggested.
“Goddamn it!” he roared furiously. “Get out! Get the hell out of this car! I was working trying to hot-wire Paul’s Land Rover when you showed up. It’s a lot harder than it looks, but I almost had it. Once I get it running, we’ll take that instead. Go on! Move it. You’re driving.”
Ali did as she was told. She moved. She was headed for the Land Rover when a new set of headlights rounded the last curve on Robert Lane and stopped just outside the gate.
Ali’s heart quickened within her. She was sure the new arrival had to be Dave, that once again he had somehow ridden to her rescue. Then she heard Chris’s voice.
“Mom?” he called. “Is that you? The gate is closed, and I don’t have a clicker. Come let me in.”
Ali’s insides lurched. It wasn’t Dave at all. It was her son. Her baby.
Jake grabbed Ali’s arm from behind. She felt the barrel of the gun press into her back. “We’re coming to you,” Jake called. “Stay right where you are. I have a gun, and I’m not afraid to use it. If you move or make so much as a sound, your mother dies. Understand?”
They came around the corner of the pool house to the spot where Ali could see Chris standing beside Edie’s idling Olds.
She wanted to urge him to run. Or to tumble down the bank of lush pampas grass her neighbors had allowed to flourish on the steep hillside. But with the gun pressed against her spine, and with her arm twisted almost up to her shoulder, she said nothing. It would be bad enough if Jake shot her. The idea that he might hurt Chris was unthinkable.
At last they reached the gatepost. “Open it,” Jake ordered, propelling her forward.
Ali punched the keypad, and the gate swung open.
“In,” Jake said, waving his weapon in the direction of Chris’s car. “You drive. Your mother and I will sit in back.”
“Mom,” Chris asked. “Did he hurt you? Are you all right?”
“Shut up,” Jake said.
Chris did as he was told, too. He shut up and got back into the driver’s seat while Jake heaved Ali into the car and across the backseat. He shoved her hard enough that her shoulder smashed painfully into the door on the far side.
Jake settled in behind her and slammed the door. “Thanks,” he said to the back of Chris’s head. “You couldn’t have come at a better time. Now take us to the Ten and go ea
st, and do it in a hell of a hurry.”
{ CHAPTER 20 }
Mom, who is this jerk?” Chris demanded. “If you hurt her, I swear I’ll—”
“I said shut up and drive,” Jake repeated. “And I meant it.”
Ali rubbed her bruised shoulder. It hurt, but not nearly as much as her bruised ego. How had she allowed this calamity to happen? It seemed to her that somehow, in a week full of disasters, she should have seen this one coming and been able to prevent it.
“I’m all right, Chris,” she said. “Do what he says so no one gets hurt.”
Chris was outraged. “For God’s sake, Mom. How can you say that? The man was holding a gun to your head!”
“And now I’m holding one to yours,” Jake reminded him. “So you’d best pay attention. Turn the car around and get going.”
Chris complied by slamming his foot on the accelerator. He backed away from the gate so fast that he came perilously close to the edge of the road. Then, after pulling a swift U-turn, the Alero sped back down Robert Lane.
“Have a ball,” Chris declared. “Shoot away. Then we’ll all see exactly how well Grandma’s Olds drives with no one behind the wheel! I don’t think this model comes equipped with a self-guidance system.”
Ali knew that “Go ahead and shoot me” often qualify as famous last words. In fact, she suspected they had been included in the Darwin Awards as an often-quoted exit line.
For God’s sake, don’t antagonize him, Ali thought. “Chris,” she cautioned. “Please.”
“Slow down,” Jake said as Chris raced through the stop sign at the bottom of the hill. “The last thing we need is for the cops to come after us because you ran a damned stop sign.”
Chris slowed slightly. They traveled for the better part of a mile in silence.
“So what are you?” Chris asked finally, studying Jake’s face in the rearview mirror. “Somebody who’s just been profiled on America’s Most Wanted? An escaped convict? What?”
“He’s a friend of Paul’s,” Ali supplied. “Used to be a friend of Paul’s.”
