Day of the Dead (37 page)

“Why so late? Car trouble?”

Kath laughed. “Hardly. Before we left
Ban Thak,
one of Fat Crack’s daughters-in-law went into labor. We tried to get Delia to the hospital in Sells, but she ended up having her baby in Diana’s car.”

“What’d she have?”

“A little boy. He’s fine; so is she. We took them to Sells and checked them into the hospital after the fact. Delia told us they’re going to name the baby Gabriel after Fat Crack. And the middle name…Oh, I don’t remember it right now. I must be too tired. The second name comes from Delia’s family—from her father, I believe, the boy’s other grandfather.”

“Manny, by any chance?” Brian asked.

“Right. Manuel, but how come you know that?”

“You should, too,” Brian said. “Delia’s father, Manny Chavez, is the guy you found that time out on the reservation. The one Quentin whacked over the head with a shovel.”

Kath’s jaw dropped. “That guy was Delia’s father?”

Brian nodded.

“I didn’t know that, or if I did, I’d forgotten,” Kath said. “But then I’m a latecomer to the game. You’ve known these people all your life.”

“That may be true,” Brian said, giving his wife a hug. “Luckily for them, though, you’re the one who’s always around in a pinch.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Kath said. “All I did was drive. Lani did everything else.”

“Lani?” Brian asked in surprise. “Are you saying she knows how to deliver a baby?”

“She does now,” Kath said. “And so do I.”

***

By ten o’clock
the next morning, Brandon Walker’s Suburban was parked outside the Medicos for Mexico office on East Broadway. He knew what he wanted, but he wasn’t quite sure how to go about getting it.

Brandon was groggy from lack of sleep. He had evidently strained his arm the other day when they were working on Fat Crack’s grave. The pain had kept him awake overnight, and it was bothering him still.

Out of practice as far as being in stake-out mode, Brandon relieved his boredom by walking across the street to the Circle K for a cup of coffee and to pick up a vending-machine newspaper. Much of the front page was occupied by an article about the homicide suspect who had attempted suicide in his Pima County Jail cell the night before. A small inset article toward the bottom showed a photo of two people Brandon recognized, Dr. Lawrence and Gayle Stryker, beaming out of the paper—Larry in a tux and Gayle in a body-skimming little black dress.

Settling back into the Suburban, Brandon scanned through the article, learning in the process that the prisoner was the man arrested on suspicion of murdering the teenager whose dismembered body had been found near Vail on Saturday. That meant this was Brian’s case, Brandon surmised, and the suspect had been a long-term employee of Medicos for Mexico, the locally based charity founded by Dr. Lawrence and Gayle Stryker.

The Strykers. Recognition surged through Brandon like an electric shock. The Strykers’ proximity to those two separate but similar cases—murdered and dismembered girls found thirty-two years apart—was too close to be considered a harmless coincidence.

Brandon was reaching for his phone to call Brian when it rang. “Good morning,” Ralph Ames said. “How’s it going?”

“I’m on the trail of Larry Stryker’s DNA,” Brandon said.

“How do you propose to do that?” Ralph asked.

“It’s not illegal, but it’s better that you don’t know,” Brandon said with a halfhearted chuckle.

“Don’t ask /don’t tell?” Ralph asked.

“Something like that. Now what’s the deal with getting me some backup?”

“I was thinking about calling the Pima County Sheriff’s Department,” Ralph Ames said. “But then I was going through my copy of the paperwork Research sent you. I saw that the Strykers were some of your opponent’s big-time campaign donors. I decided against it.”

“I could have told you that,” Brandon said.

“But I did talk to Geet Farrell,” Ralph Ames added. “He’s tied up until midafternoon, but he’ll be there this evening. He’ll call as soon as he gets to town. Is that all right?”

While Brandon watched, a pearlescent white Lexus, covered in a layer of dust, pulled into the back parking lot and stopped in a shaded parking place marked RESERVED next to a much cleaner but otherwise identical Lexus sedan.

“It’ll have to be,” Brandon said. “I’ve gotta go.”

As Larry Stryker stepped from his vehicle, Brandon battled to rein in his emotions. He had come here hoping to collect DNA evidence that would link Larry Stryker to Roseanne Orozco’s long-ago murder. Now he was faced with the very real possibility that the man might be a still-active serial killer.

Hoping his face didn’t betray him, Brandon stepped out of the Suburban. “Hey, Larry,” he said as casually as possible. “How’s it going?”

Stryker, once again impeccably dressed, stopped in his tracks and regarded Brandon warily. “You again,” he said. “What now?”

“I have a couple more questions—about the same thing we discussed yesterday,” Brandon responded breezily. “No big deal, but I thought it might be better if we did it in private. How about having a cup of coffee somewhere? Just a few minutes of your time.”

Dr. Stryker was clearly torn. He looked longingly at the door to his office, as if wishing himself inside. “Sure,” he said at last, “as long as it doesn’t take too long. My car or yours?”

“Let’s go in mine,” Brandon said.

Not wanting to risk going somewhere that would serve coffee in real cups, Brandon had already plotted a course to the nearest Burger King—at Speedway and Campbell. Chatting amiably about Diana and Gayle’s long-term friendship, he drove to the fast-food joint’s drive-up order station. “How do you take it?” he asked.

“Cream, no sugar,” Larry said.

“Did you hear that?” he asked the invisible attendant. “We’ll take two of those.”

Once the cups of coffee were safely in the Suburban’s cup holders, Brandon drove into the parking lot and shut off the engine.

“Okay,” Larry said. He picked up his cup and took a tentative sip. “What’s all this about?”

“Roseanne Orozco,” Brandon returned.

“Look, Brandon, we talked about this yesterday. As I told you then, I barely remember the girl. There’s nothing more I can tell you.”

Brandon waited long enough for Larry to raise the cup to his lips for a second sip. “Were you the father of Roseanne’s baby?” Brandon asked.

Larry Stryker’s response to that unexpected question was as classic as it was revealing. He choked. He coughed. Coffee splattered his tie. When he put his cup down, Brandon was gratified to notice that his hand was shaking.

“What the hell gives you the right to ask such a crass question?” Larry Stryker demanded in outrage.

Brandon shrugged. “Well,” he insisted mildly, “were you?”

Larry reached for the door handle and shoved the door open. “I won’t even dignify that accusation with a response.” He stepped down onto the pavement and stood there, his face distorted with outrage.

“Come on, Larry,” Brandon said. “Get in. I’ll give you a ride back to your office.”

“The hell you will. I’d rather walk.” With that, he slammed the door shut and stamped away, leaving Brandon with exactly what he wanted—the coffee cup and what he hoped was a fully retrievable sample of Dr. Lawrence Stryker’s DNA.

But Brandon also had a problem. He had definitely tipped his hand. Larry Stryker was onto him. Geet Farrell wouldn’t arrive a moment too soon.

***

Brian had dragged
himself into the office late that morning. Around eleven-thirty, as he headed for the break room for coffee, his cell phone rang. “Hey, Brandon,” he said cheerfully after checking caller ID. “How’s the local midwife? According to Kath, Lani did herself proud last night.”

“She was still sleeping when I left the house,” Brandon replied. “She was pretty jazzed when she got home last night. I didn’t think we’d ever get her to shut up and go to bed.”

Brian laughed. “I had the same problem with Kath. She was way too wound up to sleep.”

The truth was, Kath had come home from helping deliver Delia Ortiz’s baby with a whole lot more on her mind than talking. Brian had awakened that morning with the distinct impression that Kath Fellows had made up her mind to go off the pill and think about starting a family.

“What’s up?” Brian asked.

“I need to talk to you,” Brandon said urgently. “ASAP. Given my history with the department, it’s probably better for you if I don’t show up there. Could we meet for lunch?”

There was undeniable urgency in Brandon Walker’s voice. “Where?” Brian asked.

“How about the Old Pueblo Grill?”

Brian knew that particular central-area watering hole was far enough off the law enforcement beaten track that there was little danger of the two of them being seen together. “I’ll see you soon,” he said.

On his way out, Brian stopped by the cubicle. Fortunately, PeeWee was away from his desk, so Brian didn’t have to lie about where he was going or what he was going to do. As a kid he had sometimes fantasized about growing up and working a case with Brandon Walker—the man who was the closest thing to a father Brian had ever known. But now that it was happening and his dream was finally coming true, Brian couldn’t tell anyone about it, not even PeeWee. Instead, he had to race off to meet Brandon in secret, as if they were a pair of undercover agents.

Walking into the Old Pueblo Grill, he spotted Brandon sitting under an umbrella at a tall outdoor table in the far corner of the patio. A copy of that morning’s
Arizona Daily Sun
was spread out in front of him.

“What’s up?” Brian asked, hiking himself up onto one of the stools.

Wordlessly, Brandon Walker pushed the newspaper in Brian’s direction. It was folded to reveal the front-page article about Erik LaGrange’s attempted suicide. Brian knew that, as of two hours earlier, LaGrange’s suicide was a fait accompli rather than a mere attempt. A heavy circle of blue ink surrounded a photo of Dr. Lawrence and Gayle Stryker.

Brian nodded. “The suspect’s dead. He was declared brain-dead last night. His organs are being harvested this morning.”

“He worked for Gayle and Larry Stryker.”

It was a statement, not a question. Brian nodded again. “What about them?” he asked.

“What if I told you there’s a good chance Larry Stryker was the father of Roseanne Orozco’s baby?”

The question took Brian by surprise. Before he could respond, a waitress appeared at the table and dropped off Brandon’s iced tea. “Can I get you something?” she asked.

“I’ll have the same,” Brian said, nodding toward the tea. “Can you prove it?” he asked as soon as the waitress walked away.

“I think so,” Brandon said seriously. He picked up a paper bag and handed it over. “There’s a Burger King coffee cup in there—complete with some of Larry Stryker’s DNA. I’m hoping the ME will be able to collect enough DNA from Roseanne’s fetus for us to get a match.”

Stunned, Brian set the bag down without looking inside. “Even if it’s true and he was the father of her child, it doesn’t prove that he killed her.”

“No, but it gives him plenty of motive for wanting to get rid of her.”

Brian nodded while he considered the implications. The deaths of Brandon’s cold-case victim, the Girl in the Box, and the dismembered girl from Vail might indeed be connected. The same could be true of the girl whose remains had been found near Yuma.

Brian took a deep breath. “We’ve discovered that there are several other cases with similar MOs, cases that may or may not be related,” he said. “We’re talking about homicides that have been spaced over a long period of time and spread over a wide geographical area but with distinct similarities—most notably with dismembered remains.”

Brandon Walker sat up straighter. “Cases in addition to Roseanne’s and to this latest one?”

Brian nodded. “That’s right. At the moment there’s only one case with a definite link. A fingerprint we found in Erik LaGrange’s house matches a print found at the scene of a Yuma County cold case. The print was on the inside of a garbage bag.”

It was Brandon Walker’s turn to be stunned. “In other words, there’s a chance Stryker’s been doing this ever since Roseanne Orozco died?”

“Somebody’s been doing it for years,” Brian said grimly. “And he’s been getting away with it.” He picked up the Burger King bag and looked at it with renewed interest. “You say Stryker handled this cup?”

“Yes. So did I.”

“Before it goes to the ME’s office, I’ll take it to Al Miller and have him lift some prints. If any of them match the one from Yuma…” He stopped cold.

“What?” Brandon asked.

“There were latent prints in that old Orozco file…” the detective said.

“…that probably haven’t been entered into AFIS,” Brandon finished.

“They will be soon,” Brian Fellows declared. “If we get a hit, we pick up Stryker and
voilà
. There you have it—cold case solved.”

The waitress showed up with Brian’s tea. “Can I take your order?” she asked.

Brandon waved her away. “There may be a problem with that,” he said, leaning across the table and dropping his voice.

“What kind of problem?”

“I’ve already blown my cover as far as Stryker is concerned. When I talked to him earlier, I let him know I was onto him about Roseanne. When I brought her up, he almost choked to death on his coffee. I know I shouldn’t have done it, Brian, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted to make him squirm and he did, but now I’m afraid he may come after me or Diana or Lani.”

“Where are they?” Brian asked.

“Lani and Diana? At home. At least that’s where they were when I left them.”

“I’ve got a few connections in the Patrol division,” Brian said. “I’ll put in a word for the deputies to keep an eye on your place.”

Brandon let out his breath in gratitude. “Thanks, Brian. I appreciate it.”

“But do you really think he’ll come after you?” Brian asked. “If I were Larry Stryker and thought people were closing in, I’d head for the border.”

“You’re right,” Brandon said. “They have all kinds of connections in Mexico. Once he makes it across the border, we’ve lost him.”

Brian nodded. “Especially if this turns into a death-penalty case,” he said. “Mexico won’t extradite anybody who’s likely to go on trial for a capital crime.”