“Where did they take AJ?” he asked.

  “Beaverton PD,” Hiram answered. “I called but couldn’t get any information. I’m guessing he’ll call when he can.”

  “Take me there,” Ramon said. “I’ve done some work with Beaverton cops. Did anyone mention the name of the detective handling the case?”

  “Are you kidding?” Hiram asked. “I’m African American. Nobody told me nothin’.”

  “Well then,” Ramon replied, “maybe they’ll talk to me.”

  At the department, he and Hiram walked inside together. Luckily, the cop at the desk happened to be someone who recognized Ramon on sight.

  “Hey,” he said, “I heard about the fire—too bad. Are your folks gonna be okay?”

  “Probably,” Ramon answered. “But that’s why I’m here. Who’s the detective on the case?”

  “Lew Wallace.”

  Detective Wallace was also someone Ramon knew personally. They had met when the detective had been working sex crimes. As far as Ramon was concerned, Wallace was a good cop and a good guy.

  “I need to talk to him,” Ramon said.

  “I’m pretty sure he’s interviewing a suspect right now.”

  “That suspect is the reason I’m here. Please let him know I’m here.”

  The officer disappeared. It took several minutes, but finally he returned with the detective in tow.

  “Tough day,” Wallace said, shaking Ramon’s hand. “I understand you were at the house this morning?”

  Ramon nodded. “In the cottage out back. I just left my folks at the hospital.”

  “Are they all right?”

  “They’re both in surgery, but they should be okay.”

  “I’m going to need to interview you, but right now…”

  “Right now, you’re interviewing AJ Wilson,” Ramon interrupted. “And there are a few things you need to know about him. No matter what your eyewitness says, AJ didn’t throw that firebomb. He delivers newspapers, and my folks are on his route. That’s what he threw at the house—my dad’s packet of newspapers—the Oregonian and the Wall Street Journal. There was a box sitting on the front porch. When the papers hit the box, it exploded. That’s what started the fire—whatever was in the box.”

  Wallace studied Ramon’s face for a moment, then glanced in Hiram’s direction. “Who’s this?”

  “I’m Hiram Jones, AJ’s grandfather,” Hiram said.

  “He’s also the man who picked me up from the hospital and gave me a ride here,” Ramon added.

  “Glad to meet you, Mr. Jones,” Wallace said. After a pause he added, “I guess you’d both better come on back.”

  Wallace led them to a cubicle and then pulled up an extra chair so they could all sit. “How do you know about the box?” he asked.

  “AJ told me about it when I came running outside, right after the bomb went off. He called nine-one-one while I went back into the house to help my folks.”

  “If he’s innocent, why didn’t he hang around long enough to mention any of this to officers on the scene? Why did he take off?”

  “Because he took me to the hospital,” Ramon replied impatiently. “Dad rode in the ambulance with Mom, but my car was stuck behind the fire trucks with no way for me to get it out, so AJ offered to give me a lift. Once he dropped me off, he went out to finish delivering his papers.”

  Wallace shook his head dubiously. “I suppose you know that’s the same story AJ told me,” he said, “about throwing the newspapers and having the box explode. But how much did those papers weigh? Seems like it would take one heck of a throw to hit something hard enough for…”

  Ramon cut Wallace off in midsentence. “Do you happen to follow Beaverton High baseball?” he asked.

  “I’m more into football and basketball,” the detective admitted, “so no, not much. Why?”

  “Because last year the Beavers’ varsity baseball team won the state championship. AJ Wilson was only a junior, but he was also their star pitcher, and this is how he keeps his pitching arm in shape during the off season—by throwing newspapers onto porches and trying to hit his customers’ doorknobs. And you’re right—he does have one heck of a throw.”

  That remark seemed to win the day. “All right.” Wallace sighed. “Wait here.”

  Ramon and Hiram remained in place even though the detective was gone for the better part of an hour, but when he returned, AJ was with him.

  “He can go, then?” Hiram asked.

  Wallace nodded. “He’s been a big help.” Hiram stood up, and so did Ramon, but Wallace shook his head. “Not you,” he said. “As long as you’re here, we should get your interview out of the way.”

  “But I don’t have my car,” Ramon objected.

  “Not to worry,” Wallace said. “When we’re done, I’ll give you a ride wherever you need to go.”

  In the interview room, Ramon related the story again, beginning to end. This time the interview was being recorded, and for the most part, Wallace just listened. Only when Ramon ran out of steam did the detective finally begin asking questions, and there weren’t many of those.

  “AJ mentioned seeing an unfamiliar vehicle in the neighborhood the last several mornings,” Wallace said. “What about you?”

  “I haven’t been out running for several days in a row,” Ramon admitted. “We had out-of-town company.”

  “And do you know of anyone who would wish your parents harm?”

  That was a question Ramon was more than ready to answer. “I do, actually,” he said. “Frank Muñoz, my mother’s ex-husband. He’s a disgraced ex-cop who was recently paroled from the Lompoc Federal Correctional Complex after being in prison for the past fifteen years.”

  Wallace gaped at him. “Do you really think your father would be capable of something like this?”

  The issue of whether or not Frank Muñoz was Ramon’s father was too complex to deal with right then, so he didn’t challenge Lew’s entirely understandable assumption.

  “I do,” Ramon replied. “I didn’t know anything about it until this morning when my stepdad told me. After my father was arrested, he expected Mom to bail him out. She refused. He didn’t take it well, and he threatened her.”

  “Threatened to kill her?” Wallace asked.

  Ramon nodded.

  “That may be what your stepfather said,” Detective Wallace countered, “but what do you think?”

  “I personally believe Frank Muñoz is the scum of the earth.”

  Wallace paused a beat before saying anything more. “All right, then. Do you have any contact information for him?”

  “We’re not on good terms,” Ramon answered. “Supposedly he lives in Las Vegas, but since you’re a cop, if he’s on parole, you should be able to find him.”

  The interview ended shortly after that. When they stood up, Wallace asked, “Do you still need a ride?”

  Ramon nodded. “Please. My car’s at the house—at least I hope it’s still there. It was parked out on the street.”

  “Let’s go, then,” Wallace said. “With ATF still on the scene, you’ll need some help getting past the crime scene tape.”

  Even though Ramon had already seen a photo of the charred remains of the house, it was still a shock to see it in person.

  “How could it burn as fast as it did?” Ramon mused aloud as he stared at the wreckage.

  Wallace pointed at a guy wearing an ATF jacket and talking on a phone. “Why don’t we go ask him? Come on.”

  The detective opened the car door and exited the vehicle with Ramon hot on his heels. The ATF guy appeared to be about to tell them to get lost, but once Lew flashed his badge, he underwent a change in attitude.

  “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “This is Ramon Muñoz,” Lew explained, “and this is his parents’ place. I brought him by so he could pick up his vehicle. Is that it?” he asked, tipping his head in the direction of the parked 4Runner, the only non–law enforcement vehicle visible on the street.

  Ramon nodded. “Yes,” he said.

  Lew turned back to the ATF agent. “Seems like the fire burned pretty fast and furious, doing a lot of damage in a short period of time. Any idea what caused it?”

  The agent glanced in Ramon’s direction, but eventually he answered. “One of our accelerant-sniffing dogs alerted on the front porch,” he said gruffly. “We’ve gathered samples to bring to the lab, but one of the firefighters told me that pouring water on the fire made it burn even hotter, so my best guess would be some kind of homemade napalm.”

  Someone called the agent by name just then, and he hurried away.

  “If my father did this, he really meant for my mom and her husband to die,” Ramon murmured. It was a tough pill to swallow.

  “Yes, I believe he did,” Wallace said quietly, “and if you hadn’t gone back into that house to bring them out, he might well have succeeded.”

  CHAPTER 32

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  Friday, January 3, 2020, 8:00 a.m. (PST)

  Frank had spent an almost-sleepless night awaiting the big event—his finale. Sal had said it would happen in the early-morning hours. Then, when he finally did fall asleep, he was so far under that he didn’t awaken until after eight, far later than planned. Fully expecting to be able to take a victory lap and wanting to see the results of his handiwork, he logged on to his computer and got ready to see how things had turned out. He entered bomb/beaverton into his search engine and immediately hit pay dirt:

  BEAVERTON NEIGHBORHOOD ROCKED BY EXPLOSION

  A quiet Beaverton neighborhood was rocked by a massive explosion early this morning when a bomb was detonated on the front porch of a home on NW Telshire Drive.

  Although the home was extensively damaged in the blast and resulting fire, no one was seriously injured although one resident was transported to the hospital for observation due to a possible medical emergency.

  At this time Beaverton PD is investigating the incident, and agents from the ATF are also at the scene. A spokesman for Beaverton PD told reporters that it is unlikely that the incident is terrorist-related.

  One person of interest was taken into custody at the scene, but police are asking that anyone seeing unusual overnight activity in the area contact Beaverton PD at their non-emergency number.

  This is a developing story. Please check back for updates.

  By the time he reached the bottom of the brief article, Frank was livid. One person was injured in the blast? That was the best Sal Moroni could do for ten thousand bucks? And who had been taken into custody? Was it someone who would spill the beans?

  As far as Frank could tell, Hal Holden remained among the living and now so did Sylvia. Still, rather than fly off the handle and raise hell with Sal, Frank waited, hoping that subsequent news reports would tell him what he wanted to hear. That didn’t happen. Midafternoon found him writing a furious message into Sal’s draft file.

  What the hell?

  Sorry. Someone screwed up.

  Do you think? Someone screwed up AGAIN! Hal Holden is still alive and so is Sylvia. I think it’s time for two refunds instead of just one.

  I’ll take care of it.

  Which, give me my money back or finish the job? You’d better do something about this, or I’ll blow the whistle on your whole damned operation.

  Are you threatening me? If I go down, you go down.

  Then you’d better figure out how to deliver that refund. By my calculations I’m out twenty thou with nothing to show for it. And you’d better make it fast. Sometime soon, I may be heading out of the country.

  With that, Frank slammed the lid shut on his laptop. Throwing on some clothes, he headed for the gym. He spent an hour walking on the treadmill, still seething. All this time he had thought Salvatore Moroni was the real deal, but maybe he was wrong. What if everything he’d heard about him pulling off that hit in Montenegro was just so much bull? What if this was nothing but a scam, one that raked in ten thousand bucks a pop?

  After walking for a while, Frank began to get a grip and realized that what he’d said to Sal had been little more than an empty threat. Sal was right. If someone squealed on Sal, he’d return the favor. At this point Frank had far more to lose than Sal. After all, Sal was still in prison; Frank wasn’t, and he wanted to stay that way.

  What’s gone is gone, he advised himself as he stepped off the treadmill. Just let it go.

  CHAPTER 33

  PHOENIX, ARIZONA

  Friday, January 3, 2020, 12:00 p.m. (MST)

  The last-minute itinerary Cami had put together for Ali’s trip home worked flawlessly. Ali had boarded her flight in London and stayed awake long enough to have her plane-fare breakfast. Once that was cleared away, she had leaned her seat back, donned her eye mask, wrapped herself in her blanket, and slept for the remainder of the flight.

  To speed up the deplaning process, Ali had traveled with a single carry-on, leaving the rest of her luggage for Cami to drag home later. While working her way through customs at LAX, she tried phoning Sister Anselm to see what was up with B.’s surgery. Feeling uneasy when her call went to voice mail, Ali dialed the office in Cottonwood.

  “How are things on the home front?” she asked.

  “Yesterday was a tough day back in the lab, but things seem to be under control now,” Shirley said. “But I wouldn’t recommend talking to Stu. He’s Mr. Growly Bear today. On the bright side, I just heard from Cami. She flies home to Phoenix tomorrow afternoon and has booked the shuttle, so no one will need to drive down to pick her up.”

  “I tried calling Sister Anselm to check on B.,” Ali said, “but she didn’t pick up. Is she all right? Is he?”

  “Sister Anselm is probably busy,” Shirley replied. “There was a terrible accident down in Cochise County last night. She and Sister Cecelia were both called away.”

  “What happened?”

  “A Suburban loaded with thirty migrants was going the wrong way on I-10 and crashed head-on into a semi. People with serious injuries ended up in every ER within a fifty-mile radius.”

  “And all of them in need of patient advocates,” Ali breathed.

  “Exactly,” Shirley agreed. “She was concerned about leaving B. on his own in advance of today’s surgery, but he told her not to worry. With you on your way home, and with Hal’s daughter there to look after him, B. said she and Sister Cecelia should go take care of people who needed their help more than he and Hal did.”

  “Have you had any word on the surgery?”

  “Not yet,” Shirley answered. “It was scheduled to start at nine, but I don’t know if it did.”

  Just then Ali reached the head of the customs line. “Thanks, Shirley. I’ve gotta go. I’ll call the hospital.”

  Minutes later, in a shuttle on the way to the FBO, Ali managed to get through to the hospital, where she learned that B. was out of surgery and in recovery. By the time she got there, he’d be back in his room.

  Relieved, Ali boarded her charter flight. While Phoenix-bound, she used the aircraft’s Wi-Fi to deal with some routine High Noon business transactions, then she spent the rest of the time answering the batch of texts and emails that had come in during her twelve-hour hiatus from electronic communication. Sometimes she missed the world where mail came and went on a once-a-day basis rather than at all hours of the day or night.

  Once in Phoenix, she drove her rental car straight to the hospital, where she was relieved to find B. in his room, awake and in good spirits. The fractures in his upper arm had been set with no rods needed and the damaged shoulder had been replaced. Due to the meds, he was feeling no pain.

  “What does the doctor say?” she asked.

  “That I’ll be almost as good as new after three months of intense physical therapy.”

  “How’s Hal?”

  “Stable, but still critical and still on the ventilator,” B. said. “I guess you heard that Sister Anselm was called away?”

  “I did,” Ali answered. “Shirley told me about the wreck down in Cochise County. Did the doctor say when you might be released?”

  “Tomorrow, most likely.”

  “And is anything going on with the investigation?”

  “Nothing much,” B. said. “Biba seems to be focused on you and likely to remain so, but I spoke to Stu a little while ago. He and Frigg have launched an investigation into Hal as the possible target, and he claims they may be onto something. My big concern is this: If they do come up with something incriminating, how do we pass that information along to law enforcement without blowing the whistle on Frigg?”

  “Not to worry,” Ali assured him. “We’ll figure it out.”

  They chatted for the better part of two hours. When B. grew dozy, Ali took her leave. On her way out of the hospital, Ali detoured through the ICU. Inside Hal’s room, she caught sight of a middle-aged woman napping in the visitor’s chair positioned next to the bed. Ali left without disturbing either of them.

  Ali drove north, her mind returning to what B. had said. If she and B. were the focus of Biba’s investigation, that meant Hal Holden’s part of the equation was officially being ignored, and it sounded as though Stu and Frigg were addressing that issue. Despite Shirley’s warning about Stu’s black mood, she called him anyway. As soon as she asked about the Holden inquiry, he became downright evasive.

  “I’m not sure,” he said guardedly. “Frigg has been working on it all day, but I’ve been too busy to read her updates.”

  Knowing Stu, that seemed highly unlikely, but Ali didn’t call him out on it. “I’m on my way home from the hospital, just passing the prison north of Phoenix,” she told him. “How about if I stop by the office so we can talk?”

  “I’d rather meet you at my place,” he said.

  Meet at home instead of the office? Ali wondered. That also seemed out of character but rather than ask why, she settled for an easier question. “What time?”

  “Five thirty?” Stu asked, but he didn’t sound at all happy about it.

  “All right,” Ali said. “See you there.”

  CHAPTER 34