Warily, I unlocked the front door and let Conor in.
“A tribal police car drove past but didn’t stop. I think we’re in the clear,” he said.
“Good to know.”
We continued down a short hallway and verified that the two cozy bedrooms and only bathroom were unoccupied, as was a utility room with a stacked washer and dryer.
“I swear, I heard somebody knock something over,” I said, rechecking one of the bedrooms. “Wait a minute.”
I found a bowl of kibble on the floor.
“Looks like Delgado has a cat,” Conor called from the bathroom. “Found a litter box.”
I rechecked under the bed and noticed a pair of eyes, like glowing coals. “Hello, kitty.”
I met Conor in the hallway.
“Also found this,” he said, holding up my Taser.
I holstered my Ruger and tucked the Taser into my waistband. “So they were here.”
“Aye, but it looks like they bugged out.”
“Now what?”
“Nothing of interest here,” he replied. “We could conduct a stakeout.”
“Doesn’t seem promising. Let me see if Becca’s got anything else on Delgado.”
I called and updated her on our situation. From the noise in the background, I could tell she was working at the Hub today.
“I’ve done some digging around. He goes by Richie. He posts a lot on Facebook and Twitter, but nothing significant. He’s got a brother named Christopher Delgado. Nothing of interest on his bank statements. The only recent transaction on his bank card was an authorization for a car rental. No recent activity on his cell phone account.”
My phone buzzed. “I got another call coming in, Becks. Let me know what else you find out.”
“Will do.”
I clicked over to the other call, hoping my little phishing expedition from the night before was finally paying off. “Hello?”
“Ms. Ballou? This is Sadie Levinson. Where are you on the Schwartz case?”
“Sadie! How the hell are you? Good news, I’m closing in, hoping to have her in custody by the end of the day.”
“Really?” She didn’t sound convinced. “Sounds like one of Fiddler’s cock-and-bull stories.”
“Ouch! Sadie, you wound me.”
“Cut the theatrics, Ms. Ballou. Schwartz’s bond goes up for summary judgment first thing Wednesday. I can’t afford to lose this. I’ll be out of business, and so will you.”
I sighed. “We’ll find her. Don’t worry.”
“Hold on, love. Looks like we got company.” Conor spun me around and lifted the corner of the living room curtain. A tribal police patrol car had pulled up behind Conor’s Charger.
“Who’s we?” Sadie asked. “Is that Conor Doyle I hear?”
Aw, shit. Shit, shit, shit. “Oh, that? Naw, just the TV.”
“That was Conor. I’d know that Irish brogue anywhere.”
I made crackling sounds with my mouth. “What’s that? Can’t . . . hear . . . breaking up.”
“You’re not fooling me. I told you that I specifically did not—”
“Gotta go . . . fugitives to catch.” I ended the call. Because apparently I was an eight-year-old in a twenty-nine-year-old’s body.
“Sadie?” Conor asked.
“Yeah,” I said, keeping my eye on the police cruiser outside. “One of these days you’re going to tell me what the hell happened between you two.”
He grimaced. “Another time. Right now, we have more immediate concerns.”
The officer stepped out of his cruiser and circled our vehicles, then turned toward us peering out the window. “Aw, crap.”
40
There was a solid knock on the front door. I pushed Conor aside. “Let me handle it. People like me.”
Conor cough-laughed. “Oh really? I’ve met sandpaper less abrasive than you.”
I gave him an eat-shit look. “Don’t push me, Doyle.” I pulled off my ballistic vest and tactical belt, tossed them to the side, and opened the door.
Officer Quiroz, whose name was on a brass name tag, was slender with a smallish face, wary eyes, and a pleasant smile, which I tried to return as convincingly as I could.
“Hi,” I said. “What’s up?” Mentally, I kicked myself. Could I sound more like a vapid teenager?
“Afternoon, ma’am. Are you the owner of the house?”
I thought about saying yes but didn’t figure I could pull it off. “No, I’m afraid the owner of the house isn’t here right now. I’m house-sitting. Is something wrong?”
“When will the owner be back?”
I shrugged. “Hard to say. He’s out of town on family business.” Sounded vague enough to be reasonable.
“The owner is Richie Delgado, is that correct?” He took out his notepad and started writing.
My stomach sank. Conor approached as if to “handle the situation,” but I was in no mood. I gave him a back-off glare. “Oh yeah, good ol’ Richie. We go way back.”
“Really? That’s interesting. Is he up at his brother’s cabin in Payson?” Clearly, Officer Quiroz knew more than he was letting on. How long before this guy was slapping the cuffs on me for B&E?
“You know, I think he did mention Payson. Yeah.”
“That so? Because his brother’s cabin is in Prescott.”
Crap. “Prescott. Payson. I get them confused sometimes.”
“Tell me something, ma’am. What happened to your face?”
Conor stepped between us and held up his bail enforcement agent shield. “Look, Officer Quiroz, the truth is we’re looking for a fugitive named Holly Schwartz who is charged with the murder of her mother. Mr. Delgado has been actively interfering in her recapture.”
“Really? You have any paperwork backing up these claims?”
“In my truck.” I led him out to Jake’s truck, with Conor shutting the front door behind us. I showed Quiroz the paperwork authorizing me to apprehend Holly Schwartz.
“You have proof that Richie is involved in this?”
I was done playing nice. “I found him hiding Schwartz in a Phoenix motel room under an assumed name and using a stolen credit card. When I attempted to apprehend my fugitive, Delgado assaulted me. I had reason to believe he might have brought her back here.”
“You know,” Quiroz said, gazing out at the very blue horizon, “Richie’s my cousin. Known him my whole life. Sweetest, most gentle soul I’ve met. Can’t imagine him doing anything like what you claim.”
“Don’t believe me? Call the Desert View Inn on Black Canyon Highway. Ask for the head manager.”
Quiroz stared at me, then Conor for a few moments before saying, “I should charge you both with trespassing.”
“We are authorized to . . .” I was about to launch into my speech about the historic court case authorizing bounty hunters to enter, when Quiroz held up his hand.
“But I’ll let you go with a warning. And the warning is this. If I ever catch either of you in this community, breaking into a home without the owner’s permission, I will run you in. If you so much as drive one mile an hour over the speed limit, I will hit you with every violation I can. You understand?”
I considered our options. Clearly Schwartz wasn’t here. Time to move on. “Yes, sir,” I said.
“Now get out of my sight before I change my mind.”
I climbed into Jake’s truck, and Conor hopped into his Charger. I turned north on Fifty-First Avenue headed back to Phoenix and talked into my walkie. “Hey, Conor. You copy?”
“I copy, love. What’s the plan?”
“I think we need to find this cabin in Prescott Officer Quiroz was talking about.”
“Be a brilliant place to hide someone.”
“Let’s stop by the Hub and see if Becca can give us a location.”
“Roger that.”
As I turned east onto I-10, my phone rang again. “Jinx Ballou.”
“Good news, sis,” Jake said. “Your Pathfinder looks good as new. My fri
end squeezed you in right away.”
“So soon? It’s barely been a day.” I took a sniff and was sure I could smell a hint of Mandy Tipton’s vomit.
“Looks better than new, actually. Tell me where you are, and we can swap vehicles.”
“You know, I should really get your truck detailed. It’s the least I can do.”
“Forget it. I use it for construction. Doesn’t need to be clean. Just functional. Besides, how dirty could it be?”
“Okay.” I sighed. Maybe he wouldn’t notice. “I’m on my way to the Hub.”
“I can be there in half an hour. Will that work?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Something wrong?”
“Not at all. I’ll see you at the Hub.” I took another sniff. It definitely still smelled like puke.
41
The Hub was located at the three-way intersection of Grand Avenue, Roosevelt Street, and Fifteenth Avenue. The old building reminded me of an inverted boat, with a keel that rose into the sky. It started out as a car dealership, later converted to a bank, then became the home for the Phoenix Council on the Arts.
For the past few years, it had served as a coworking space for solo entrepreneurs. Most members were in the tech industry, a few were artists, and then there was me, a bounty hunter.
The parking lot was small, but Conor and I managed to grab the last two spaces and hustled inside the glass doors to get out of the heat.
The interior was an open grungy industrial space with a cracked cement slab for a floor, pockmarked with divots from where they’d pulled out the walls. Dozens of collapsible tables served as desks with a wild assortment of secondhand chairs, from fancy super adjustable executive-style thrones to flimsy plastic folding numbers.
The hypnotic beat of electronic dance music thrummed from unseen speakers. Overhead lighting was subdued. Conor and I strolled across the room to where Becca stared vacantly at a pair of flat screens. “S’up?” Becca asked without a glance.
“I have a lead on where Delgado may have taken Holly Schwartz. His brother has a cabin up in Prescott somewhere.”
“Interesting. I’ve done more digging on Delgado. No criminal record. Good credit. Worked as a nurse for much of his adult life. First at the Gila River Medical Center, then as a visiting nurse for Compassionate Care. As far as I can see, he’s clean as a whistle.”
“So why is he helping hide Schwartz?”
“Beats me.” Becca went through a series of mouse clicks and keystrokes. “Christopher Delgado, age forty-two. Real estate developer. Owner of Stardust Properties Corporation. Makes good money too.”
“Great. Where’s the cabin?”
“Let me take a look.” She cycled through a number of screens. “Aha! Yes, he owns a property in Prescott.” She typed the address into a map. “Looks like it’s down off of Senator Highway south of Prescott.”
“Gotcha, you son of a bitch!” I shouted a little too loud. A half dozen people around us looked up. I flushed. “Sorry.”
I returned to the task at hand. “So how exactly do we get there?”
“I’ll print you out a map. You’ll be taking some forest service roads, most of which aren’t paved. Not all intersections are well marked, either.”
“Thanks. I’m sure between Conor and me, we can figure it out.”
My brother walked up. Becca sat up straighter, beaming at him. She’d never admit it, but she’d always had a crush on him, even when we were in high school. She was disappointed when she learned he was gay. Not that it stopped her from embarrassing herself whenever he was around.
“Hi, Jake,” she said, gushing like a schoolgirl.
“Hi, Becca. Conor.” He gave me a hug and handed me my keys. “Hey, sis. I parked your Gray Ghost on Thirteenth Avenue. Couldn’t find a closer parking space.”
“I’ll manage. Thanks for doing this so quickly.”
“You owe me big-time. And I intend to collect.”
“How?” I asked warily.
“Just closed on a house near Northern and Thirty-Ninth. Needs some serious demo work. You’re going to help me this coming Saturday.”
“Fine. Just tell me the house has AC.”
“Power’s turned off, but I’ve got some portable swamp coolers I can bring in.”
I sighed. “Fine. Fair’s fair.” I pulled his keys out of my pocket, hoping again he didn’t notice the puke smell in his truck. “Thanks for the quick turnaround.”
He gave me a mischievous grin. “See you Saturday. Bring lots of Gatorade.”
What have I gotten myself into? I wondered. As he turned to leave, I asked, “You tell Mom and Dad about you know what?”
He sighed. “I’m working up to it. Talk to you later.”
I turned to Conor when Jake left. “I don’t think your Charger will do so well on the back roads of Prescott National Forest.”
“Aye. I’ve been up there a few times. Lots of tranny rocks.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Tranny rocks?”
“Aye, tranny rocks. They’re rocks that stick up out of the road, waiting for some dumb bloke in a car. When he drives over the rock, it rips the tranny right out from the undercarriage.”
I rolled my eyes. “Tranny as in transmission. Got it.”
Conor flushed. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t think about the other meaning.”
“Let’s just go before I decide to rip out your undercarriage.” I pushed him toward the door. “Thanks for the info, Becks,” I said over my shoulder.
“Hey, wait!” she called. “You need to see this.”
“What? We’re losing daylight.” I returned to her desk. She had some news articles on her screen.
“There are rumors floating around that Christopher Delgado may be laundering money for the Sinaloa cartel. Watch your ass, Jinx.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
42
Conor drove me to where the Gray Ghost was parked on Thirteenth Avenue. My brother was right. On the outside, it looked like a brand-new vehicle. The dented, scraped-up, dull-gray side panels were now gleaming silver, like a newly minted coin. Maybe a little too new. Not nearly as invisible as before. But at least Fiddler’s spray-painted epithets were gone.
When we stopped at Conor’s, we loaded up on a little extra firepower—his assault rifle, a shotgun, boxes of ammo, my trusty battering ram, plus a few flash bangs for good measure. We had no idea what we were walking into, so I wanted to be prepared.
The drive up Black Canyon Highway to Prescott took a few hours. I started out driving, then at Cortes Junction, we switched places. From there, we took Highway 69 through Prescott Valley and grabbed a quick bite to eat at a Tastee Freez.
My phone rang. It was my lawyer. “What’s up, Kirsten?”
“Bad news. The FBI is looking like they want to press charges for your interference in their sting operation at Volkov’s warehouse.”
“We had every right to be there. We had good intel.”
“If it was good intel, we wouldn’t be talking, would we?”
I sighed. “Crap. So what do we do?”
“They want you in their office for further questioning tomorrow morning. I gave them my word you’d be there.”
“Are they going to arrest us?”
“Possibly. Unless you can think of something to offer them. Intel on Volkov they don’t have. Like where he’s hiding out. He has been contacting you, right?”
“He’s a sick chaser, but I have no idea where he is, nor do I want to.”
“Be at their offices tomorrow at nine a.m. Dress professional. That goes for Conor too.”
“I’m busy on a case. I’m almost out of time.”
“You’ll be cooling your heels in federal lockup if you don’t show, Jinx.”
I sighed. “Fine. We’ll be there.”
“What’s up?” Conor asked. I filled him in. He was almost as overjoyed as I was. Damn feds!
The shadows were getting long and the sun was sitting on the mountains to the
west when we pulled onto Gurley Street in Prescott and finally turned left onto South Senator Highway.
I’d always loved this part of Prescott. Older homes, some dating back to when Arizona was still a territory, were crowded on tiny lots under stately oaks and ponderosa pines.
I rolled down the windows and was treated to the cool mountain air scented with juniper and pine. The drone of cicadas brought back memories of childhood camping trips. The effect was hypnotic. I started to wish we could forget about chasing Holly and grab a room in one of the old hotels off Prescott’s Courthouse Square.
“So where the hell are we going?” Conor asked as the road went from paved to gravel on the outskirts of town.
“Looks like stay on this road for another couple of miles, then bear sort of left onto Stone Mill Road.” I flicked on the light from the visor’s vanity mirror to get a better look at the map. “After that, the road winds around for about five miles and then we take another left—no, wait.” I rotated the printout, trying to make sense of the twisty road. “No, it’s a right onto Davis Homestead Trail. David or Davis, I’m not sure which. Can’t read it in this light.”
“Let me see that.” Conor grabbed the map, and we hit a deep divot in the road. “Damn it!”
“Keep your eyes on the road, will you? Last thing we need to do is blow a tire or run off the side of a mountain.”
The farther we went, the harder it became to negotiate. The last glimmers of twilight were fading. Deep ruts and large rocks troubled the road. Conor slowed to a snail’s pace, making me all the more tense.
“There, turn there!” I pointed at a gap in the trees off to the left.
“Bloody hell! Is that even a road?”
I wasn’t entirely convinced, but there appeared to be a parallel set of wheel ruts with tall weeds growing between them. “I think so,” I replied. “Maybe.”
We turned, and the road smoothed out for a mile before growing considerably more rocky and uneven. My headache was back, pounding out a primal beat of pain that ran from the top of my skull down my spine. I felt at any minute we’d blow the shocks.
Chaser_A Jinx Ballou Novel Page 20
