Day Of The Dead Part 27

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 cla.s.sic 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 h.e.l.l gives you the right to ask such a cra.s.s 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 h.e.l.l 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." 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 Arizona Daily Sun was spread out in front of him. 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 s.p.a.ced 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 voila voila. 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 grat.i.tude. "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."

And Lani and Diana won't ever be safe, Brandon thought. Making up his mind, he stood up and slapped a five-dollar bill down on the table. "Come on." Brandon thought. Making up his mind, he stood up and slapped a five-dollar bill down on the table. "Come on."

With that, Brandon headed for the patio exit. Brian Fellows padded after him, carrying the Burger King bag. "Where are you going?"

"Medicos for Mexico."

"Why? What we've been talking about sounds good to us, but so far it's pure speculation. We don't have anything that gives us probable cause."

Brandon Walker stopped short. "See there, Brian? That's the difference between you and me. You're a cop. Cops have to worry about little details like probable cause, so go get it. Take that d.a.m.ned coffee cup to Alvin Miller and see if he can give you enough probable cause for a warrant. As for me? I'm retired. These days Brandon Walker is nothing but an ordinary private citizen. I have absolutely no intention of arresting the guy-couldn't do it if I wanted to. So I don't need probable cause, but I'll tell you this: I'm going to stick to Larry Stryker like flies on s.h.i.t. If he makes a move in the direction of Mexico, I'll be there to slow him down."

Brandon was already unlocking the Suburban. "Do you have a gun?" Brian asked.

Brandon nodded and patted his underarm holster. "Took it out of my gun safe and cleaned it just this morning."

"What about a vest?" Brian asked.

"I don't have one," Brandon Walker said. "Turned mine in when I retired."

Brian was already unb.u.t.toning his shirt. "Take mine," he said. "I'll pick up my other one when I go back to the department."

"But..." Brandon began.

"No buts," Brian told him. "If I let you go without a vest and something happens to you, Diana will kill me, and I wouldn't blame her."

Gayle Stryker was at her desk, talking to her private banker and moving funds around when Larry stumbled into her office. His face was red, his tie askew. His white shirt was spotted with what looked like a spray of coffee. He was hyperventilating. "I've gotta talk to you," he gasped. at her desk, talking to her private banker and moving funds around when Larry stumbled into her office. His face was red, his tie askew. His white shirt was spotted with what looked like a spray of coffee. He was hyperventilating. "I've gotta talk to you," he gasped.

"I'll call you back," she said into the phone, and then put down the receiver. "Larry, what's the matter? You look like h.e.l.l. Don't you know there are reporters out there?"

"Brandon Walker's the matter," Larry stammered. "I just talked to him. I swear, he knows all about Roseanne Orozco. Yes, I saw the media people camped out outside the front lobby. Why the h.e.l.l do you think I came in through the delivery door? What are we going to do?"

"I handed Denise a written statement to give to the press. If you want to read it..."

"I don't give a rat's a.s.s about that," Larry interrupted impatiently. "What are we going to do about Brandon Walker?"

"Come on, Larry." Gayle kept her demeanor calm. Larry was upset, and she didn't want to make things worse. "What do you mean, Walker knows about Roseanne? What did he say?"

"He came right out and asked me if I was the father of her child. How could he possibly know to ask me that? n.o.body else ever figured it out. Why would he?"

"You're right," Gayle said. "This does sound serious."

"What should we do?"

"I think it's time we headed south," she said quietly.

"Permanently?" he asked.

She nodded. "I was just on the phone checking the money situation. We'll be fine. If we leave now-today-by the time anyone figures it out, it'll be too late. Once we're across the border, we're home free. There are no legal problems in Mexico that can't be fixed with the right amount of money put into the right hands."

"But what about the house? What if someone goes through it and comes across the room in the bas.e.m.e.nt? I've cleaned it as well as possible, but there's always a chance..."

"I'll take care of the house, Larry," she a.s.sured him. "You know very well that it's always been my intention to take care of the house. Is there anything you want from there, anything you want to take along with us?"

He paused and seemed to consider. "No," he answered at last. "There's nothing I want."

"Good," she said. "I'll call for a jet to take us to Cabo. By contract we have to give them eight hours' advance notice, but they may well have a plane available to pick us up sooner than that. I have some errands to run, then I'll head out to the ranch and take care of things there. You hold down the fort here, but keep a low profile. Don't talk to the media. Don't grant any interviews."

For several long seconds, Larry appeared to be seized with indecision. Gayle was afraid he hadn't heard a word she'd said.

Finally he nodded. "All right." Then, making what seemed to be a supreme effort to pull himself together, he added, "You're sure you won't need my help out at the ranch?"

She smiled at him then. Things always worked more smoothly when she was the one who came up with the plan and all Larry had to do was follow orders.

"I can handle it," she said.