“Clever, but not clever enough. They’re planning to pick up fake IDs at Picardo’s at three. Conor and I will be there when they do.”
“So my search was a waste of time.”
“Not at all. It just confirms my suspicions. I was afraid they’d be on to us. But since they put the tickets in their fake names, it tells me that everything’s going according to plan. Our plan, that is, not theirs. I’ll be in touch soon.”
After a shower, my head felt clearer than it had in days. Conor wrapped an ACE bandage around my chest after the pain worsened. As I watched him stretch the bandage around me, I decided that knowing his past didn’t change anything for me. We were two imperfect people with past lives we’d rather forget. Sometimes we treated each other kinda shitty, even taking the other for granted. But I, for one, still wanted him in my life.
“That too tight?”
I took a breath and grimaced as my rib cage pressed against the bandage. “No, that’s good. Thanks.”
“We good?” He gave me that wounded-puppy-dog look.
I took him in my arms and kissed him. “We’re good.”
From my place, we headed over to Conor’s bunker so he could replace the Glock he’d lost in Prescott. From the mini-arsenal in his walk-in closet, he opted for a Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum. He was always a Dirty Harry fan, and we were both in a Dirty Harry kind of mood. We then hit the road toward Picardo’s.
Picardo lived in a nice house in east Phoenix, not far from the Papago Buttes, a cluster of wind-carved sandstone hills. We ran into a wall of traffic on the I-10 between the Deck Park Tunnel and the Loop 202 turnoff thanks to a four-car pileup blocking two lanes. It was three thirty by the time I parked the Gray Ghost a couple of doors down from Picardo’s.
I grabbed the sawed-off shotgun, Conor the TEC-9, and we charged down the street, hoping not to draw too much attention from neighbors. I pounded on the door only to find it unlatched.
“That can’t be good,” I said.
“Picardo?” Conor pushed past me and stepped inside, his TEC-9 raised. I followed, ready for anything.
Picardo, a skinny Latino, lay on the dining room floor. The side of his face was smeared with blood. His bottle-thick glasses were askew.
Conor checked his pulse. “He’s alive.” Conor shook him. “Hey, Picardo. Wakey, wakey!”
The skinny man groaned and winced, straining his eyes to open. “What? Where am I?”
“You’re at your place, mate. What happened?”
We helped Picardo into a chair. “Y’all are late.” He glared at us.
“We got delayed,” I said. “Major accident on the highway. Where’s our fugitive?”
“Gone.”
“Shit!” I grabbed a small towel from his kitchen and handed it to him. “How long ago did they leave?”
“I dunno.” He pressed the towel to his head and glanced at his watch. “Maybe twenty minutes ago. When I told them their IDs weren’t finished, they demanded their money back. They weren’t thrilled about my no-refund policy. That was when the chick punched me. I swear, for a little thing, she packs a wallop.”
“Any idea where they went from here?” I asked.
“How the hell should I know? You know, not being able to deliver as promised isn’t good for business.”
“Relax, mate. You got paid fifty percent on a job you didn’t even have to deliver on. That’s something.”
Picardo didn’t look pleased. He patted his back pocket. “Shit! Wallet’s gone. I had nearly a grand in there. Dammit to hell.”
My phone rang. It was Becca. “One of the phones you have me tracking? Just made a call to Tijuana.”
“Any idea who in TJ they were calling?” I asked. “Or where they were when they called?”
“No idea who was on the other end. At the time of the call, they were on McDowell and Fifty-Second Street heading east, but then the phone went offline again.”
“No worries. I know where they’re heading. Thanks for the update, Becks!”
I hung up and grabbed Conor. “We got to get to the bus station.”
“Hey, wait a minute!” Picardo grumbled. “What about me?”
“Oh, you want to come too?” Conor asked with a smirk as he and I rushed to the front door.
“I did y’all a solid, and your fugitives beat me up and robbed me. I think some compensation’s in order.”
“Have to settle up later, mate.” Conor slammed the door behind him.
I could still hear Picardo shouting from inside his house as we scrambled into the Gray Ghost.
I had to hand it to the Delgados. Booking multiple tickets going to multiple destinations via multiple forms of transportation was clever. But calling someone down in Tijuana gave them away. One of the bus tickets was for San Ysidro, California, just this side of the border from Tijuana. If we could catch them at the Greyhound station before the bus left, we could grab Holly.
48
The Greyhound station was just the other side of Sky Harbor International Airport, which wasn’t far from Picardo’s. Unfortunately, when we reached the station, the parking lot was near capacity.
I pulled up to the passenger drop-off area and turned to Conor. “I’m running in. You find a parking space.” I removed the Glocks and the shoulder rig as well as my Ruger and the Rossi revolver, as weapons were banned inside the bus station.
Conor didn’t look pleased that I was leaving him with the job of finding a parking space, but he didn’t argue, either. By the time he pulled away from the curb, I’d stepped inside the glass doors and surveyed the bustling terminal.
People swarmed in all directions, like ants after someone kicked their nest. Many wore sports jerseys I didn’t recognize. I wondered if a soccer tournament was in town. I wasn’t a fan myself, but the sport was very popular in the Latino community. Just my luck that Holly picked this time to get the hell out of Dodge.
I hustled to where an overhead schedule of departures was displayed near the ticket counter. The bus bound for San Ysidro was due to leave in ten minutes from Gate Four. Great. So where the hell was Gate Four?
As I glanced around looking for signs directing me to the right gate, I spotted a familiar petite figure with bristly dark hair walking down the corridor, dragging two large suitcases. I pushed my way through the press of people, getting angry glances and obscenities muttered in Spanish and English.
When she was in reach, I grabbed her by the back of the collar and drove her hard to the floor. “Gotcha this time. Holly Schwartz, you’re under arrest.”
She yelled and squirmed under me. “¡Ayudeme! Security! Help!”
As I reached for my handcuffs, I realized the voice was deeper and strongly accented. I turned her over. It wasn’t Holly. The woman was Latina, probably in her midforties.
“Aw, shit.” I was tempted to help her up, but two Phoenix police officers were working their way through the crowd, headed in my direction.
“Sorry,” I muttered and took off running toward the gate.
I was just passing Gate Five when I spotted Chris Delgado leaning against the wall, talking on a cellphone. I grabbed him by the front of the collar. “Where is she, asshole?”
His eyes grew wide. “You’re alive?”
I leaned into him. “Tell me where Holly is, or you won’t be.”
He pushed me away and straightened his shirt. “Gone where you can’t reach her.”
“She’s a fugitive, wanted for murder. You realize helping a fugitive is a felony, right?”
“What are you going to do? Arrest me? You’re not a cop. You’re just a pathetic little bounty hunter.”
Over the PA system came the announcement, “Last call for Bus Number 534 for San Ysidro, California, Gate Four.”
The sign for Gate Four caught my eye. I was about to rush toward it when a hand gripped my shoulder. “Excuse me, ma’am.”
I turned to see one of the uniforms with a stern expression on his face. “Did you assault this woman?”
The other uniform was standing with the woman I had mistaken for Holly. The two of them blocked my access to Gate Four.
Meanwhile, Chris Delgado nonchalantly disappeared into the crowd, giving me a little fuck-you wave and blowing me a kiss. I didn’t have time for this. I had a skip to catch.
I pivoted out of the one cop’s grip and bolted back toward the terminal’s main entrance, ignoring all commands to stop. I bobbed and weaved through the swarm of people, using all of my parkour skills.
I vaulted over benches and leapt through the narrowest gaps between clusters of impatient passengers. Unfortunately, I was getting farther and farther from the gate. I dodged a heavyset man gazing at a map. Bounded over a cluster of toddlers herded by a frazzled-looking woman. Zipped down the railing of a short flight of stairs. Leapt atop a bank of pay phones and grabbed hold of the overhead sign to swing over a dozen or so people. Skidded underneath the zigzag queue lines of passengers waiting at the ticket counter and jumped over it, ricocheted off the back wall, then rolled to my right and into the back personnel area.
Uniformed employees gave me quizzical looks as I raced past offices, pushed through a door, and burst into the bright sunlight. I looked around. To my left were a string of buses side-by-side in various stages of boarding and unboarding. To my immediate right was a large green dumpster. Beyond that stood the fueling bays for the buses.
From the other side of the door came the sounds of shouting and leather soles slapping tile. I heaved the dumpster in front of the door, its wheels squealing in protest, then took off running toward the buses, in hopes of catching the one bound for San Ysidro.
I pushed past people waiting to board while also glancing at the digital destination signs on the front of the buses. Tucson. Los Angeles. Albuquerque. A bus slowly backed away from the building. It had to be the San Ysidro bus. Crap!
Behind me, I heard the cops shouting for me to stop. The dumpster must not have been much of an obstacle after all. I grabbed the side mirror of the nearest bus and swung onto its roof. From there, I vaulted across to the bus next to it and the two next to that one.
The San Ysidro bus was still pulling away from the gate. I poured on speed, sprinting the length of the bus I was on, and leapt with all my might across the twenty-foot gap. For an instant, I was soaring. And then the roof of the San Ysidro bus flew at me with blinding speed.
I landed hard on the roof, my legs smacking the side windows. My chest exploded in pain. I felt myself starting to slide off. I slapped my hands flat on the scorching-hot sheet metal. Somehow I got purchase in a ridge, while my boots pushed off the top edge of a window. Ignoring the agony of my torso, I dragged my body onto the roof, even as the bus itself maneuvered out of the terminal lot and onto the surface streets.
As the wind speed blowing across my face increased, my eyes began to water. I shimmied to one of the roof hatches that served as both an emergency exit and a vent. Try as I might, I couldn’t open it from the outside. I had nothing to use as a pry bar. What the hell was I thinking?
With one hand clinging to the hatch, I pulled out my phone with the other and called Conor.
“Where are ya, love? Ya sound like you’re in a wind tunnel.”
“On the San Ysidro bus,” I said through clenched teeth, doing my best to ignore the pain.
“Ya got her in custody?”
“No, I’m on top of the bus. Pulling onto the I-10 as we speak.”
“Did you say you’re on top of the bus?”
“Yes. For the moment, anyway.”
“Hold on, Jinxie! I’m on my way.”
I put away my phone and began pounding on the roof with my free hand. Cars around me were honking. When the I-10 turned west near the Loop 202 interchange, my legs began to swing right toward the edge of the roof. I white-knuckled my two-handed grip on the roof hatch, desperately hoping not to slide off into early rush hour traffic.
When the bus straightened again, I resumed my pounding with my last remaining strength. As we approached the Deck Park Tunnel, I pressed myself flat against the roof of the bus, terrified I’d get swept off by the roof of the tunnel. I heard the whoosh of cross supports breezing past just above my head.
When we reemerged into daylight, the bus moved left into the carpool lane and began picking up speed. The wind became a roar in my ears. I wanted to continue pounding, but it was all I could do to hang on.
After what felt like an eternity, I heard the shrill scream of police sirens. At first I thought it might be just the wind whistling in my ears. But then the bus began to slow, changing lanes to the right until we pulled off onto the shoulder. In the distance I could see the signs for the Verrado Way exit. We were at the far reaches of the west valley, a few miles outside the Loop 303.
My heart thundered in my heaving chest. Sweat dripped down my forehead and burned my eyes. I was in a daze. I struggled to figure out a next move.
“What the hell you think you’re doing, lady?” called a voice on the right side of the bus.
I crawled to the edge of the roof and swung down using the side mirror. The driver was an African-American woman with a name tag that read Flo.
“Trying to stop a murderer,” I said between gulps of air. “My name is Jinx Ballou. Bail enforcement agent.”
She raised an eyebrow. “A murderer? On my bus?”
I nodded. Flashing lights caught my eye. Two Phoenix PD cruisers had parked behind the bus. The unis emerged, weapons drawn. Flo pointed at me.
“Aw, shit.”
I was grabbed by an officer a few years older than me with a cheesy Magnum PI mustache. He threw me to the ground and cuffed me. “You’re under arrest for trespassing and assault.”
“Get off me! I’m a bail enforcement agent! I have a fugitive who skipped bail on a murder charge on that bus.” I pointed my head in the direction of the bus. “You really want to let a murderer escape justice?”
Officer Magnum lifted me to my feet and glanced at my Kevlar vest. “Do you have proof to back up your story?”
“If you uncuff me.” I twisted around and held out my cuffed hands.
Magnum removed the handcuffs. I showed him my ID as a licensed bail enforcement agent.
“Who’s your fugitive?”
“Holly Schwartz. Murdered her mother. She has an accomplice on board too—a guy named Richie Delgado.”
Another uniform showed up just as I noticed the Gray Ghost pulling off behind the farthest patrol car.
49
“You know what she looks like?” Magnum asked.
I pulled out my phone and showed her photo. “Her hair’s been buzzed short since this photo.”
Conor walked up, and I introduced him to the two officers. Once we’d established our bona fides, the driver escorted us on board.
I’d never been on a cross-country bus before, and I was honestly impressed. It was a lot nicer than the rattling hunk of junk that used to take my classmates and me to elementary school.
I crept down the aisle, scanning the faces, but didn’t see Holly or Richie. Had they actually boarded, or was this whole thing another ruse by Christopher to throw us off the trail? I was almost to the back of the bus when I noticed a couple of empty seats in the otherwise filled bus. I ducked down and spotted Holly trying to hide under the bench seat.
She darted out, quick as a bunny, slamming into the rear emergency exit. She was still fumbling with the mechanism to open it when I grabbed her.
“No!” she said, twisting and swinging and punching like a maniac. “No, you’re not taking me back. No, no, no!”
There wasn’t a lot of room to grapple. In the struggle, she kicked the back door open, and an alarm sounded. I wrapped her in a bear hug. She tried to bite me, and I spun her around, pinned her to the floor in the aisle, and cuffed her.
“Stop it, Holly. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“No, I can’t go back to jail. Please don’t do this to me.”
I nearly lost my grip on Holly when someone gra
bbed my ponytail and started pulling. I turned and ducked just in time to dodge a blow from Richie. Conor grabbed him and tackled him to the floor, then turned him over to one of the officers.
Richie cried out as the cop dragged him to the front of the bus. “Leave her alone! It’s not her fault.”
“Get him out of here.” I turned my attention back to Holly, who continued to scream and struggle. “Settle down!”
“Please, please don’t send me back to jail. I’m just a kid. She was killing me.” She bawled and howled like a toddler who’d been told that her beloved kitten was dead.
As mad as I was for all the shit she’d put me through, it got to me. She might have been almost eighteen, but in so many ways she was still a frightened kid, robbed of her childhood by a deranged mother.
“Settle down. I know you don’t want to go back to jail. But maybe I can help you if you cooperate.”
She stopped struggling. “How?”
“I got a really good lawyer. She’s offered to help you. Maybe she’ll let you plead self-defense.” Hell, the girl had convinced me. Who was to say she couldn’t sway a jury?
“I ain’t got no money. Spent all I had on the fake IDs we never got.”
“That the money that was stashed in your mom’s bathroom?” I asked, remembering the money machine.
“How’d you know about that?”
“Call it an educated guess.”
“She had about ten thousand. But it’s gone now.”
“Well, you’re in luck. My lawyer’s agreed to take your case pro bono.” She certainly never did that with mine, unfortunately.
“What’s that mean?”
“Means you don’t have to pay. But only if you come along quietly back to jail.”
She let out a deep breath, like a punctured tire. “All right. What about Richie?”
“I’m afraid Richie’s got problems of his own. At the very least, for assaulting me in that hotel room. Possibly for harboring a fugitive.”
Chaser_A Jinx Ballou Novel Page 23
