LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  Friday, January 3, 2020, 1:00 p.m. (PST)

  Detective Juanita Ochoa had been a homicide cop for the Riverside County Sheriff’s Office for going on six years now, and for her, making death notifications remained the most challenging aspect of the job.

  Once Deputy Coroner Leavitt identified the victims using AFIS, Juanita’s next order of business was notifying their families. Tyrone had been living with his grandmother in LA. Locating her was easy, but finding Dante’s wife, Malika, wasn’t. Juanita finally learned that Malika was in LA County’s Century Regional Detention Facility serving a six-month sentence on a drug-possession charge.

  Before leaving, Juanita confirmed that Armando would collect the kids from Nana’s house once he got off his shift. Just after two, she keyed the address of the correction center into her GPS and headed for LA.

  By then she knew that between them, her two victims had a total of five kids. Dante’s children—two boys and a girl—were nine, seven, and five. They had been living in foster care ever since their mother was sent to lockup. Tyrone’s two kids, a five-year-old son and a three-year-old daughter, lived with Tyrone’s grandmother, Ella Mae Jackson, in East LA.

  Given that sad reality, it was only natural that, during her solitary drive, Juanita’s thoughts turned once more to Detective Philip Reyes. The terrible night she met him marked the beginning of Juanita’s own sojourn in foster care. Nonetheless, long after her mother’s killer had been caught and sent to prison, Phil and his wife, Lila, stayed in touch with Juanita, faithfully sending her birthday cards and Christmas cards, usually with a gift card or two enclosed. She loved the ones for Target, which allowed Juanita to purchase new clothing and even new shoes on occasion, rather than always having to wear hand-me-downs, the main staple of foster-care attire.

  Once Juanita had access to an email account, she and Phil had maintained a regular correspondence. He always encouraged her to stay in school and assured her that failing high school algebra the first time around wasn’t the end of the world. When she graduated from high school, he suggested she enroll in the local junior college and helped track down the financial assistance that made that a reality.

  But then, during her second year at Imperial Valley College, the unthinkable happened. Phil and his partner had been called to the scene of a vehicular homicide when Phil suffered a major coronary, and EMTs already on the scene were unable to resuscitate him. When Lila had called Juanita to tell her what had happened, she also asked if Juanita would be willing to say a few words at Phil’s funeral.

  That was how, at nineteen years of age and with her knees trembling beneath her, Juanita Moreno stood in front of a standing-room-only crowd in El Centro’s All Saints’ Catholic Church, telling how, on the night of her mother’s murder, Phil had appeared in her life, becoming both an avenging angel and a knight in shining armor for a child who had lost everything. She had ended her remarks by saying, “Someday I hope to be a cop just like he was.”

  Juanita had been considering that course of action for several years, but it was at Phil’s funeral that she finally stated her intentions aloud and in public. Now, fourteen years later, she had been a police officer for eleven years, six of those in homicide. She and Armando had been married for seven years and had two kids. Phil Reyes was the one Juanita always credited for all those many blessings in her life.

  Each day when she went to work as a cop, two badges went with her. The one she carried in her ID wallet and flashed as needed was her own, while the other was Phil’s. Lila had given it to her on the day of her husband’s funeral. That one Juanita kept in her purse as a constant reminder of the incredible impact his life had exerted on hers. And that was what she prayed for as she drove—that she’d be granted the ability to be the same kind of blessing in the lives of those two grieving families as Phil had been in hers.

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t easy or even possible, at least not with Malika Cox. When she appeared in the visitation room, every inch of her orange-jumpsuit-covered body bristled with anger and resentment. Once the guard directed her to sit, she did so, glaring at Juanita with her arms folded across her chest.

  “What’s this all about?” she demanded.

  Juanita pushed one of her cards across the table. Malika studied it for a moment without touching it. “What do you want with me?” she demanded. “I ain’t done nothin’.”

  Juanita took a breath. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” she said, “but your husband was found shot to death early this morning outside Blythe. According to the coroner, he most likely died sometime in the early hours of January second.”

  Malika’s eyes widened. “You serious? Dante be dead?”

  “Yes,” Juanita answered. “I’m afraid he is.”

  “Why you tellin’ me, then?” Malika wanted to know. “What you ’spect me to do about that when I’m locked up in here?”

  It was not the kind of response Juanita had anticipated. “I have a sworn duty to notify next of kin,” she began, “and if you’d like me to reach out to your children…”

  “Good luck with that,” Malika spat back. “They be in foster care and nobody tol’ me where they took ’em, so you can take your so-called sworn duty and shove it. Dante’s always gettin’ hisself in trouble, and I was fixin’ to get me a divorce. I woulda done it, too, once I got enough money together, but if he be dead, this ain’t got nothin’ to do with me.” With that she turned back to the guard. “I’m ready to go back now,” she announced. “We be done.”

  Malika stood up and huffed from the room. Watching her go, a stunned Detective Ochoa’s heart ached for Dante’s kids. She had done her duty and informed Malika. Eventually she’d tell the children, too, but not today. Finding them would involve negotiating countless bureaucratic hoops. Right then Juanita didn’t have time. She still had to deal with Tyrone’s family.

  Ella Mae Jackson, Tyrone’s grandmother, was listed on his driver’s license application as Tyrone’s next of kin. That detail struck Juanita. If Tyrone had once been married, his wife’s name wasn’t listed, nor were the names of either of his parents. As far as blood relations went, his grandmother was it.

  Ella Mae’s home turned out to be a small, well-kept bungalow on South Wyman Avenue in East LA. The house was surrounded by a chain-link fence, and the hard-packed dirt of the front yard was littered with numerous toys—a faded yellow Big Wheel, a rusty wagon, and a deflated wading pool along with a selection of balls in varying sizes. Given that, it was reasonable to assume that not only did Tyrone and his grandmother live there, but so did his kids.

  At least they’re not in foster care, Juanita thought as she let herself into the yard. The front door was opened by a sprightly, gray-haired Black woman dressed in a floral housecoat. She greeted Juanita with a ready smile.

  “May I help you?”

  A wide-eyed toddler, a little girl, stared up at Juanita from behind the woman’s colorful robe. The sight of the child made Juanita’s heart hurt.

  “I’m Detective Ochoa with the Riverside County Sheriff’s Office,” she said, displaying her badge. “It’s about Tyrone.”

  Ella Mae’s hand went to her throat. “Oh, my! Tyrone? Is he all right?”

  “I’m afraid he’s not, Ms. Jackson,” Juanita told her. “May I come in?”

  Wordlessly Ella Mae ushered Juanita inside and motioned her toward a threadbare sofa. The interior of the house was small but tidy. An assortment of indoor toys was confined to one corner of the room. An old-fashioned Formica kitchen table with a high chair positioned beside it occupied the dining room space.

  “You come with me now, Skye girl,” Ella Mae said, scooping the little girl into her arms. “Let’s go get you a snack.”

  Ella Mae deposited the child in the high chair and then disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later with a box of Goldfish in hand. After dumping some of those onto the tray, she returned to the living room and sat down facing Juanita.

  “Tyrone is dead?” she asked.

  Juanita nodded. “He and his friend were both shot to death.”

  “Dante?” Ella Mae asked, supplying the name without needing to be told.

  Juanita nodded again.

  Ella Mae shook her head. “I always knew that boy was trouble, him and that worthless wife of his. I told Ty to stay away from them, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  Ella Mae fell silent after that, sitting with both hands in her lap, slowly shaking her head from side to side. Juanita had expected tears, but there were none. It was as though Ella Mae regarded this terrible loss as one of life’s inevitable hardships—something to be endured, and the older woman’s quiet dignity touched Juanita’s heart. No doubt the poor woman had been largely responsible for raising Tyrone and had most likely done so without complaint. Now she would shoulder the burden of raising his children with the same unflinching acceptance.

  “You said you found them today,” Ella Mae resumed at last, “but when did this happen and where?”

  “The coroner believes both victims died in the early hours of January second. The bodies weren’t found until six this morning when they were spotted in a wash northwest of Blythe. Did either Dante or Tyrone have connections in Blythe—friends, relatives, or associates living in the area?”

  Ella Mae shook her head. “Not that I know of,” she said.

  “And when’s the last time you saw your grandson?”

  “That would be on Monday,” Ella Mae answered. “Monday morning. I was cleaning up after breakfast when a call came in on my phone. Tyrone’s was broke, so he was using mine. When I answered, I recognized Dante’s voice before I gave Ty the phone. He listened for a while, then he said, ‘Great, tell Eddie I’m in.’ ”

  “Who’s Eddie?” Juanita asked.

  Ella Mae shook her head. “No idea, but when Tyrone handed me back my phone he said, ‘I’m gonna be gone a day or two, Granny,’ he says, ‘but don’t you worry. I’m gonna get us some money to pay off all them Christmas bills.’ A little while later, Dante showed up, and off they went.”

  “That’s the last time you saw him?”

  Ella Mae nodded. “When he didn’t come home that night or the next, I started thinking something was wrong—that something bad had happened. Now I know I was right.”

  By then, however, Juanita wasn’t really listening. She was focused on something Ella Mae had just said. If Dante had called Tyrone’s grandmother’s phone and then gone on to call Eddie on the same phone he’d used to call Tyrone, maybe she had a digital trail to follow.

  “You said Tyrone took Dante’s incoming call on your cell phone?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ella Mae answered. “He most certainly did.”

  “Could I see the call history?”

  In reply, Ella Mae reached into the pocket of her robe and produced a phone. After switching it on and locating her call history, she handed the device to Juanita.

  “The call from Dante came in around nine on Monday morning, just after Ty-Ty left for his friend’s house,” she said.

  Juanita found the proper record and jotted down the number. “Had Tyrone been using your phone for a day or two?”

  Ella Mae nodded. “Several,” she said. “His phone broke just before Christmas—he dropped it somewhere and busted it to pieces. He wanted me to buy him a new one, but I had already used up my money for the month. I told him I’d help him out once my check came in, but by then he was gone.”

  “Is there a chance any of these other calls were made either from him or to him?” Juanita asked, handing the phone back to its owner.

  Ella Mae studied the list with a frown before reading off several other numbers that didn’t have names attached and were unfamiliar to her. Juanita quickly wrote them down, knowing as she did so that they might hold the key to what had happened. At that point, Skye finished her Goldfish and began fussing to get down. The disruption gave Juanita an excuse for making a graceful exit.

  “Thank you for all your help, Ms. Jackson,” she said. “I should be going, but here’s my card. If anything comes up that you think I should know, please call. I’m so sorry for your loss, but believe me when I say that I will do everything in my power to bring Tyrone’s killer or killers to justice.”

  “Thank you,” Ella Mae said. “I hope you do.”

  It was full-on Friday night rush hour by then, and I-10 was wall-to-wall traffic. Rather than drive straight home, Juanita headed for the department’s main office in Riverside. She was eager to hand her list of phone numbers over to the tech unit to see what, if anything, they could do about tracing them without actually having a warrant in hand.

  On the way, she called home to check on Armando and the kids. They were home and having pizza. Next she dialed her direct number at the office, and listened to several voicemail messages. The last one, which had come in more than an hour earlier, caused the hair to stand up on the back of her neck.

  “This is Chief Detective Warren Biba with the Arizona Highway Patrol in Prescott, Arizona. I need to speak to you concerning the two dead bodies located in your jurisdiction earlier today. We got a hit on their prints in AFIS and believe they’re the same individuals who committed a case of vehicular assault on I-17 on New Year’s Day. Here’s my number.”

  Juanita called him back immediately. “Thanks for being in touch,” he told her. “What can you tell me about your vics?”

  Juanita told him what she knew.

  “It sounds like a pair of fine, upstanding young citizens have now met their maker,” he responded.

  Having just left the home of Tyrone’s grieving grandmother, Biba’s sarcastic remark rubbed Juanita the wrong way. For him Tyrone and Dante were suspects while for her they were victims.

  “Any devices found at the scene?” Biba asked.

  “None—no ID, no wallets, and no jewelry either,” Juanita replied, making no mention of the phone numbers she had collected from Ella Mae’s phone. As lead detective on the case, she made the determination about what information could be shared and what couldn’t. For now, those phone numbers were hers.

  “What can you tell me about your incident?” Juanita asked.

  “On New Year’s Day, an airport-bound limo was forced off I-17 by another vehicle,” he said. “No one died in the incident, but the two occupants both suffered serious injuries. The assailants then drove another mile down the highway where they set fire to one stolen vehicle and escaped in another. That one was later found abandoned in Quartzsite, making me believe that your dead guys are my assailants.”

  “Two occupants,” Juanita mused. “So which of them was the target or was it both?”

  “Undetermined at this point,” Biba responded. “No solid suspects, either, although the one victim is a big deal in cybersecurity with a ton of life insurance. I’m thinking his wife might be good for it, but we don’t have anything concrete.”

  Now that Juanita was asking the questions, Biba wasn’t exactly forthcoming, leading her to suspect that she wasn’t the only one holding back information.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’ve just arrived at my destination and have to go in.”

  Hanging up, she hurried into the building, where she handed her list of phone numbers over to the tech team and let them go to work. In the meantime, Juanita went online and did some sleuthing of her own. Using newsfeeds and police reports, she was able to follow the trail of Biba’s incident, starting with the theft of the Subaru in Vegas on New Year’s Eve and then crisscrossing much of Arizona before ending in the bloodbath at the entrance to a culvert outside Blythe, but her case had started days earlier than that—on Monday, with Dante and Tyrone still alive and well in LA.

  This crime spree must have required planning and coordination. How exactly had Dante and Tyrone made their way from LA to Vegas? Juanita hoped once she figured that out, maybe everything else would fall into place.

  An hour later the tech crew came through, confirming that the Monday morning call on Ella Mae’s phone had been placed from a device registered to Dante Cox. With that news in her possession, she headed for Blythe. She didn’t know any warrant-friendly judges in the city of Riverside on a personal basis, but she had one on-call in Blythe—Judge Emmett Carruthers. When cops there needed warrants, he was their go-to guy. And even though she was arriving home at a reasonable hour, she wouldn’t call tonight. Carruthers was a good guy, but there was no sense in pissing him off on a Friday night.

  CHAPTER 35

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  Friday, January 3, 2020, 10:00 p.m. (GMT)

  Cami had barely managed to hold her head up during the afternoon sessions.

  She had spent both breakfast and lunch in meetings with representatives from two different France-based companies. She would be returning home with letters of intent from each for switching their cybersecurity needs over to High Noon.

  In other words, Camille Lee would return from her first-ever international conference with two possible sales to her credit. She doubted anyone would have seen that coming. She certainly hadn’t. And for the first time in her life, she had to admit that in this case, her mother’s insistence on Cami’s being fluent in French had made all the difference.

  Once the last session ended, Cami was toast. Telling Angela that she was done for the night, she went up to the suite, stripped off her clothing, and crawled into bed where she fell fast asleep—for hours. At ten p.m., not only was she wide awake, she was famished. Throwing on some clothes and leaving her name badge on the dresser, she headed downstairs to the bar.

  Naturally the place was filled wall to wall with people. Spotting a solitary seat at the bar, Cami threaded her way through the crowd to that, placing her directly in front of the brightly lit liquor display. When the barman came by, she ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio and also asked for a menu. After ordering the green pea and salmon salad, she settled in to sip her wine.

  For as long as Cami had known B. Simpson, he had been off globetrotting almost on a weekly basis, coming and going without ever exhibiting any obvious ill effects from jet lag. It annoyed her to think that she was still being laid low by it. After all, she was decades younger. If B. could do it, why couldn’t she?