“I had no idea you Homicide guys had to count staples and paper clips like the rest of the Department.”

  “If the public only knew. Sometimes it feels like the accountants are in charge.”

  “Tell me about it,” she said. “If it weren’t for the money we get from seizing assets, our listening equipment would consist of two cups and a string.”

  “In situations like these, I’ve learned to trust my instincts,” Sam said. “There are ways to get around the bean counters.”

  “Like a freelance stakeout. No ops plan and no backup.” She grinned. “This has some serious caca potential.”

  “You still on board?” he asked.

  “Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

  “Good, because Pablo may have heard we’re looking for him. We put out a lot of feelers today to get a bead on his location. What time is it?”

  Veranda checked the dash clock. “Almost four. SAU should set up their command post in an hour.”

  The official plan had been for the tactical unit to deploy after daybreak to take Pablo into custody. Sam and Veranda had opted to keep an eye on his residence to make sure he didn’t take off before that happened.

  “I’m not going to be happy until this asshole is in handcuffs,” Sam said. “He’s our only lead.”

  “Yeah, and he’s—hey, what’s that?” Veranda pointed down the street when a light came on inside Pablo’s house. She squinted as the door to the carport opened and a shadowy figure stepped out.

  “It’s Pablo,” Sam said, binoculars protruding from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “He threw a duffel bag into that BMW before he got behind the wheel.”

  The dark sports car backed out of the driveway. She buckled her seat belt. “We can’t lose him.”

  “On it.” Sam tossed the binoculars in the back seat and cranked the engine. “I’ll hang back, but he’ll make us soon. Nobody’s up yet, it’s a ghost town.”

  “You want me to call for backup?”

  “Hell yes,” Sam said, throwing the car in gear. “He could have a rocket launcher in that bag for all we know.”

  Veranda snatched the microphone and keyed it. “Charlie thirty-four, requesting nine-oh-seven for a homicide suspect.” She used Sam’s coded designator so the dispatcher would know Homicide detectives needed backup.

  A smooth female voice responded immediately. “Charlie thirty-four, go ahead.”

  “We’re in an unmarked silver Charger following a black BMW sedan westbound on Roosevelt approaching Ninth Street. Driver of the vehicle is Pablo Moreno. We have a warrant for homicide. Suspect known to carry multiple weapons. We need a felony vehicle stop, air support, and K-9.”

  The dispatcher responded with an order for everyone on the channel to suspend routine radio traffic. “All units, ten-twelve. Units in the area of Central City, South Mountain, and Estrella Mountain precincts, assistance needed with a felony vehicle stop. Suspect wanted for homicide and considered armed and dangerous. Charlie unit, please provide current location and suspect description.”

  Veranda rapidly delivered the information as they made several sharp turns. Sam jerked the steering wheel hard to the left. “Shit! He’s made us.”

  The BMW shot forward and careened around a corner. The Charger’s tires squealed as Sam goosed the powerful V-8 engine to keep up.

  Veranda keyed the microphone again. “Charlie thirty-four, suspect has identified us and is actively fleeing. We are now in pursuit. Suspect is westbound on West Van Buren turning south on First Street heading toward the Warehouse District.”

  The dispatcher picked up the pace. “Any patrol supervisor in the vicinity, please respond.”

  A gruff male voice answered. “Forty-two King, I’m monitoring. I need two units to take over the pursuit and the rest to run parallel routes and set up bull’s-eye perimeters. Is the helicopter up?”

  The dispatcher responded. “Air unit is coming from Deer Valley, ETA six minutes. Two K-9’s are on the way to your location.”

  Veranda struggled to keep herself in her seat, clutching the door handle with her right hand as they skidded through a tight turn. She held the mic in her left hand, calling out changes in direction for responding patrol cars to intercept Pablo. Spinning the steering wheel, Sam grimaced as the car fishtailed around corners.

  Suddenly, the BMW slid sideways, screeching to a halt in the middle of the road directly across their path. The driver powered the window down. The muzzle of an AK-47 poked out.

  Sam stomped on the brakes. The staccato sound of automatic gunfire thundered in Veranda’s ears as a barrage of bullets slammed into their windshield. Jagged circles fractured around entry holes in the glass as rounds hit the seat cushion next to her shoulder and face.

  Veranda ducked beneath the dashboard with the microphone. “Shots fired! Thirteen hundred West Lincoln Avenue.”

  The dispatcher broadcast an emergency tone and a nine-nine-nine “officer needs help” code.

  Veranda yanked her Glock out of its hip holster and glanced at Sam. “You hit?”

  “I’m good,” Sam said, pulling out his gun.

  They both popped up, leaned out the side windows, and opened fire on the BMW. Adrenaline rocketed through Veranda’s body. Time slowed. Her senses dimmed to exclude anything that did not affect her immediate survival. The deafening gun blasts, the scent of burning rubber and smoking brake pads, and the taste of blood in her mouth from a bitten lip receded into the background. Her vision constricted into a circle of light and focused on her muzzle flashes. The momentary glare illuminated each bullet as it slammed into the driver’s door of the BMW.

  The AK-47’s barrel appeared in the window again. Another fusillade of shots ripped through the Charger’s hood. Sam and Veranda hunkered back down under the dash, seeking the protection of the engine block.

  “You still okay?” Sam asked. “That was full auto.”

  Over the ringing in her ears, Veranda heard tires screech and a powerful engine roar off.

  Sam scrambled back into his seat and stomped on the accelerator as Veranda fumbled for the microphone. Their car sputtered, clunked, and died. Sam twisted the key in the ignition.

  Nothing.

  “All responding units,” Veranda said into the radio. “We’ve taken fire. Suspect is in possession of a fully automatic weapon. We have no injuries, but our car is disabled. We cannot pursue. Suspect vehicle last seen southbound on Thirteenth Avenue heading toward Buckeye Road.”

  “Shit!” Sam slammed his palms against the steering wheel. “We’ll be lucky if we ever see that asshole outside of Mexico.”

  “Forty-two King,” the patrol supervisor’s calm voice carried over the radio. “Dispatcher to provide last location and direction of travel to helicopter and K-9. Responding units lock down the perimeter.”

  A male voice rose above the sound of whirring helicopter blades, “This is Air Four. We’re on your frequency. ETA three minutes.”

  Veranda listened to sporadic radio traffic as everyone in the area attempted to spot and contain the fleeing BMW.

  “They can’t find him,” Sam said after a few minutes. “Pablo must’ve dumped his car somewhere out of sight.”

  Veranda closed her eyes and leaned back against the headrest. “Yep, this is definitely the caca scenario. We lost our only lead while we were on an unauthorized stakeout, our car looks like it just came back from Fallujah.” She rubbed her temples. “And I’ve already got PSB up my ass.”

  Sam glanced at her. “Just leave the supervisors and internal affairs to me.”

  “Fine for you to say. You’re not on double secret probation.”

  “Trust me. I’ve been in worse situations. Let me do the talking.”

  Her hands trembled slightly as the last of the adrenaline left her body. She considered the significance of Pablo’s escape. Without him, they were back to square one. They still hadn’t found out where Flaco had been killed, so there was no crime scene to examine. The warehouse where the tractor-trailer had been going was empty by the time the tactical team made entry. She couldn’t get traction on this investigation.

  Another question occurred to her. How had Pablo known to leave before dawn? Those she pursued seemed to be one step ahead of her at every turn. With Pablo gone, Bartolo had won another round.

  Chapter 12

  Veranda’s knee bounced as she sat in the vacant cubicle next to Sam’s. “How long have they been in there?”

  Sam glanced at his watch. “About an hour. Shouldn’t be much longer.”

  Exhausted but wired from too much coffee, Veranda stood to peer at Commander Webster’s closed office door. She heard raised voices, then the door swung open and Lieutenant Aldridge stalked out, Sergeants Diaz and Jackson on his heels.

  Jackson veered toward her. “Cruz, Stark, come with me.” He pivoted and headed to his office.

  Sam rose and ambled through the cubicle maze with Veranda in tow. His body language was relaxed as he cast a knowing smile over his shoulder.

  They sat in a pair of stiff chairs facing the sergeant’s desk while he closed the door and folded his lanky body into his seat.

  “Commander Webster persuaded PSB that your escapade earlier this morning was warranted,” Jackson said.

  Sam crossed his arms over his chest. “The commander backed us up because we were right. None of this would have happened if we’d gotten approval for the undercover stakeout I requested.”

  Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “The fact that you were proven correct and that we now need Detective Cruz’s help finding the suspect played a large part in the commander’s decision.”

  “I’ve already provided intel on every possible safe house where Pablo might be hiding,” Veranda said.

  Jackson inclined his head a fraction. “Given the amount of damage caused to your vehicle, and the use of deadly force, Sergeant Diaz from the Professional Standards Bureau will conduct an investigation.” Veranda started to speak, but Jackson talked over her. “PSB will not, however, be looking at you two for insubordination, which means you both can keep your badges and stay on the case.”

  “Glad that’s settled.” Sam moved to stand.

  Jackson held up a hand. “Stay where you are, Stark. Lieutenant Aldridge was furious that you violated his orders. He wanted your hides.”

  “Which brings up a question.” Sam leaned forward in his chair. “Why didn’t he authorize a stakeout and do this the right way? We’d have Pablo in custody, and I’d still have my car.”

  “It’s the city’s car,” Jackson said. “And the lieutenant pointed out that we had no reason to believe Pablo knew we were on to him, making overnight surveillance unnecessary when we were already scheduled to set up on his place at oh-five-hundred hours. Most importantly, the identities of any undercover Narcotics detectives we might use on a stakeout—as well as their vehicle descriptions—may have already been compromised by Flaco.”

  “Let’s not forget”—Sam added in a sarcastic tone—“the overtime cost to call out an entire recon team.”

  Jackson bristled. “It’s not your place to second-guess a direct order.”

  “Even if I was right and that order allowed our only suspect to get away?”

  “You’re getting a pass this time, Stark. Don’t push it.”

  Sam and Veranda stood and left the office. He grinned down at her. “Told you we’d be okay.”

  She was about to thank him, but the words died on her lips when she saw Sergeant Diaz.

  “A word, Detective Cruz,” he said to her.

  Veranda considered picturing Diaz the next time she sparred with Jake. “I already gave you my official statement about the stakeout.”

  “This is about the other investigation.” He glanced at Sam. “You can wait for her back at your desk.”

  Sam’s jaw muscles tightened. “I don’t appreciate being sent to my room . . . Sergeant.”

  Diaz took a step toward Sam. “Either I speak to Detective Cruz alone now, or I take her over to PSB and turn on the recorder for an official statement. Again.”

  Veranda had no interest in another interrogation session with Diaz. “It’s okay, Sam. I’d rather get it out of the way here.”

  Sam continued to glare at Diaz for a moment, then turned and walked through the maze of cubicles. Diaz led her to a nearby alcove where they could speak privately.

  Veranda looked up into a pair of eyes so dark they were almost black. She could not read his expression. “What is it now, Sergeant?”

  “How long was Flaco dealing at South Phoenix High before you recruited him?”

  Her pulse spiked. What had Diaz discovered? She paused, pretending to search her memory. “I’m not exactly sure. I think he told me he’d been there a while. Why?”

  “Something about South Phoenix High clicked in my mind when I was going over my notes last night. I googled the school and found a news story from a couple of months before your first contact with Flaco. Turns out a different Villalobos dealer was arrested for selling drugs to the students. It made the news because one of the kids died after overdosing on heroin.” He leaned in, as if anticipating a reaction.

  With a show of indifference, she shrugged. “That must have been why Sonny Dench asked me to keep an eye on the vehicle traffic. Makes sense to me.”

  “Is there more you want to tell me?”

  “No.” Sensing that she needed more of a reply, she added, “If I remember anything else, I’ll let you know.”

  Nerves on edge, Veranda turned to find Sam. Diaz was getting close. If he kept ferreting around, he would stumble on the truth.

  Chapter 13

  Veranda and Sam drove out of the headquarters parking lot in an ancient, sun-bleached, dented Chevy Malibu.

  “Jackson knows I like Chargers—hell, I’ve held on to this one for years because they’re discontinued—so he made sure I got the crappiest POS car in the loaner fleet,” Sam said.

  “I’m just glad we’re still on the case after that clusterfuck this morning,” she said.

  Sam grunted. “We’re going to have to get some sleep, but I need to eat first and then I’ll drop you at your place. It’s almost lunchtime already. You can pick the restaurant today.”

  Veranda gave him a wide smile. “I know a great little place in South Phoenix. Head over the bridge and I’ll tell you how to get there.”

  Twenty minutes later, Veranda scooted onto a well-worn corner booth cushion at her family’s restaurant. A dose of her mother’s cooking was the best tonic for her frazzled nerves.

  Sam slid in opposite her. “I didn’t know your relatives own Casa Cruz Cocina. Heard good things but never got a chance to try it.”

  “You’re in for a treat if you like authentic Mexican food,” Veranda said. “My mother, aunts, and uncles get up before dawn every morning to make the food fresh. Some places use frozen stuff they buy at wholesale stores. Mamá says she would close the restaurant before she would serve prepackaged food to her customers.”

  As Sam pulled reading glasses from his shirt pocket and picked up a menu, Veranda noticed a handsome silver band with intricately worked symmetrical designs on the third finger of his left hand. “That’s a very nice ring.”

  Sam glanced down. “My wife, Sarah, gave this to me last year for our twentieth anniversary. Handcrafted by a Navajo artisan on the reservation. She loves Native American jewelry. A stickler about only buying authentic stuff from local artists.” He turned his hand over. “I get a lot of compliments on it.”

  Veranda smiled when her mother approached. “Sam, this is my mother, Lorena Cruz-Gomez.”

  Lorena scowled and plunked down a small bowl of salsa and a basket of tortilla chips. “Excuse us a moment.” She pulled her daughter up from the table whispering, “Come with me.”

  Veranda flashed an embarrassed grimace back at Sam as her mother tugged her toward the kitchen. “Mamá, that was so rude. What are you doing?”

  Lorena dragged her daughter into the kitchen and let the doors swing shut. Veranda’s Uncle Rico and Aunt Juana stood by the gleaming stainless steel countertops, hands on hips. Her mother joined them. Everyone was glaring at her.

  “What’s going on?” Veranda wanted to know.

  Her uncle spoke first. “Mija, he is too old for you.”

  Aunt Juana chimed in, “That cochino viejo could pass for your father. It’s disgraceful.”

  Understanding dawned and Veranda burst out laughing. “He’s not a dirty old man. He’s my new partner.” She shrugged. “And besides, he’s married.”

  Lorena’s hand flew to her mouth. Aunt Juana crossed herself. Uncle Rico swore under his breath.

  Veranda held up both hands. “Let me explain. There’s nothing between Sam and me except work.” They still stared at her, so she sighed and went on, “I never got a chance to tell you all that I’ve been transferred to the Violent Crimes Bureau. That man you just called a cochino viejo is the most respected Homicide detective in the Department. He’s training me because he’s the best.”

  “Ay, mija,” Lorena smiled and swept her into a tight hug. “Some of our customers tell us your name is on the news. Something about that dreadful Villalobos family.” Her mother shuddered. “We do not have time to watch TV, so all we got was bits and pieces. Then when we did not hear from you . . .”

  “I left you a voicemail telling you I was okay,” she said. “Knew you’d worry.”

  “I know, but I need to talk to you about it.” Lorena reached up to run her fingertips over her heavy silver choker. A sure sign that she was anxious.

  “Mamá, I don’t have time now. I’m going straight home after we eat.” She yawned. “Haven’t slept all night.”

  “Of course.” Uncle Rico gently pulled her out of her mother’s embrace and began ushering her back to the table. “You must be tired. Now please introduce us to this famous detective.”

  Sam looked up as the foursome arrived at the corner booth.

  “Detective Sam Stark.” Veranda motioned to her family. “You’ve already met my mother.” This time Lorena beamed at him as her daughter pointed to each of the others in turn. “This is my tío Rico and my tía Juana.”