At that point, Frank had placed his hand on the legal pad and pushed it back toward his attorney. “I’m not taking the prosecutor’s deal,” he said aloud, “and I’m not naming names. I’ll take my chances and go to trial.”

  “That’s totally up to you,” Banks had said, closing the legal pad and slipping it into his briefcase. “It’s probably just as well to have this over and done with. See you in court.”

  Even before the counteroffer was on the table, Frank had already made up his mind to plead guilty, but for strategic reasons, he waited until the day of the trial before actually doing so. He wanted to know exactly who the feds had lined up to testify against him. That morning, as he and Banks waited in a conference room before entering the courtroom, Frank had asked if he could see the prosecutor’s list of proposed witnesses. Obligingly Banks had handed it over. On it were several names Frank recognized—Danielle’s, of course, but also those of two homicide cops from Pasadena PD—Jack Littleton and Hal Holden.

  The night of Alysha’s parking lot shooting, Frank had been at the club, but he had managed to disappear into the woodwork before homicide cops ever appeared on the scene, so someone—Danielle, most likely—had brought his presence to their attention. Frank had no doubt the homicide cops were the ones who had alerted the feds to what went on behind the scenes at BJ’s.

  When Frank returned the witness list, Banks had handed him a business card on the back of which was a handwritten note containing the name “Nicholas” and a phone number. Because the area code was the same as Melinda’s, Frank understood this was a Las Vegas number. His sister’s presence may have been an excuse for wanting to move to Vegas, but the phone number on the card was the real reason he’d done so.

  “Hang on to this,” Banks had advised. “When you get out, call the number. Ask to speak with Nicholas and tell him I sent you. He’s someone who’ll give you a helping hand.”

  Frank studied both the name and the string of numbers for a long time, burning them into his memory before returning the card.

  Banks appeared puzzled as he took it back. “I thought you’d want to keep it,” he said with a frown.

  “I am keeping it,” Frank told him, tapping the side of his head, “in here where it’ll be safe.”

  That’s all that had been said aloud, but Frank had understood what was really going on. Nicholas, whoever he might be, was the guy in charge of overseeing Frank’s payout.

  Years later, out on parole and after arriving in Vegas, he’d finally gotten around to calling that memorized number. The phone was answered by a woman who said, “Hi-Roller Fitness. May I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to Nicholas.”

  “Nico’s not in right now,” she said. “May I take a message?”

  “My name’s Frank Muñoz,” he told her. “William Banks is a friend of mine. He suggested that I give Nicholas a call.”

  She took Frank’s number, saying she’d pass it along. An hour and a half later he got a call from an unknown number.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Muñoz,” a pleasant male voice said. “Nicholas Fratelli here. Glad to make your acquaintance. I understand you may be in need of some assistance. Do you happen to be in Vegas at the moment?”

  “Nearby,” Frank replied. “I’m currently staying in Henderson with my sister.”

  “Do you have transportation?”

  After their mother’s death, Melinda had held on to Lupé’s twelve-year-old Honda, and had used it as her kids’ vehicle of choice when they were learning to drive. By the time Frank showed up, the kids had moved on to newer vehicles, and Melinda had signed the Honda over to him. Having an old beater suited him. It wouldn’t do for someone fresh out of the slammer to be driving around in something flashy.

  “Yes, I do,” he answered.

  “Why don’t you drop by the Hi-Roller Fitness location on Alta tomorrow afternoon around two and let’s see what we can do?”

  The next day Frank had shown up at the appointed hour. Nico Fratelli knew everything there was to know about the payout. It didn’t take long for Frank to realize that the fitness part of the gym was little more than a front, providing appropriate camouflage for a well-organized money-laundering operation. Unlike a bank, Hi-Roller didn’t come with the convenience of ATMs, and although there were twenty-some locations in the Las Vegas metropolitan area, the one on Alta was the only one where funds were actually disbursed.

  After that initial contact, whenever Frank needed money, he would drop by the gym and make a discreet visit to the attendant in charge of the back room. To most of the people who frequented the gym, Frank was buff enough that he looked like he belonged. That was one thing being in prison had done for him. With nothing else to keep himself occupied, he had worked out for hours almost every day, and he had been released in far better physical condition than when he’d been arrested.

  “Just so you know,” Nico said, “a number of our local constabulary have back-room privileges, but if you don’t bother them, they won’t bother you.”

  Knowing that made Frank uneasy, but he shrugged it off. “Fair enough,” he said.

  “One more thing,” Nico added. “That number you used to call me?”

  “What about it?” Frank asked.

  “Lose it. If you need to speak to me again, just mention it to the guy in charge of the back room. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Frank had replied.

  Obviously his silence on the phone to his sister had gone on for far too long. “Well,” Melinda pressed impatiently, “are you coming over or not? The kids would love to see you.”

  That was Melinda being bossy again, and the last bit about the kids was an outright lie. Frank’s niece and nephew were both in college now, and they weren’t at all interested in their uncle Frank or in anyone else, for that matter. Most of the time they kept their noses buried in their cell phones or iPads and were totally oblivious to everything around them.

  “No, thanks,” Frank replied. “I’ll just hang around here.”

  “Are you sure? I hate to think of you being alone on New Year’s Day.”

  “No, really,” Frank insisted. “I’ll be fine. I appreciate the invitation, but I just don’t feel all that much like socializing today. Maybe next time.”

  “Next time I may not have homemade tamales,” Melinda warned.

  Frank laughed at that. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll take my chances.”

  “All right, spoilsport,” Melinda retorted. “Go ahead and be a hermit. See if I care.”

  “But I’m still going to watch the game,” he told her. “Who are you rooting for, the Ducks or the Badgers?”

  “Oregon, of course,” Melinda told him. “I’m from the West Coast. Why would I cheer for Wisconsin?”

  Frank was relieved when the call ended. It was coming up on noon now. Rose Bowl Game or not, whatever had happened in Arizona was most likely already over and done with. Once he knew the final outcome of that, he’d be ready to move on to the final chapter. He was a bit concerned about the two events happening in such close proximity, but he didn’t believe the cops would make a connection between them. Why would they?

  So today it was Hal Holden’s turn. Later this week would be Sylvia’s. To Frank’s way of thinking, it was high time his ex-wife finally got hers, too.

  CHAPTER 2

  SEDONA, ARIZONA

  Wednesday, January 1, 2020, 9:00 a.m. (MST)

  Once Hal Holden punched the code into the keypad, the gate slowly swung open wide enough to admit his turquoise ’76 Lincoln Mark V. He eased the old-fashioned vehicle, one he affectionally referred to as his “Luxo-barge,” through the narrow opening and up the steep incline to his client’s home. Only a few days earlier, when he’d dropped off the same customer, snow had made the driveway impassable, and he’d been forced to use his other vehicle, a four-wheel-drive Escalade. Because of that model’s popularity with funeral directors, he referred to the Caddy as “the hearse,” but only in private.

  When a severe winter storm had blown through Arizona just before Christmas, Hal had been forced to use that one exclusively for several days while shuttling holiday travelers back and forth between the Verde Valley and Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix. On this clear New Year’s Day, however, that storm was history. No doubt plenty of white stuff still lingered up on the Mogollon Rim as well as in and around Flagstaff, but Sedona was at a lower elevation. Down here ice on roadways and private drives had melted away.

  Hal steered the Lincoln into the residence’s spacious turnaround and shifted into park. Then, with the engine still idling, he waited for his client, B. Simpson, to put in an appearance. Hal checked his watch—B. had a midafternoon flight on British Airways. He was someone who always wanted to arrive at the airport several hours early, and that suited Hal just fine. When passengers booked trips too close to their scheduled departures, the ninety-mile drive to Phoenix could devolve into a nail-biting nightmare. Today’s trip would be much less stressful.

  Both men were well over six feet tall. With the Lincoln’s bucket seats pushed all the way back, they’d be able to enjoy a comfortable ride in what Hal considered to be a glorious piece of American engineering. For Hal, driving this piece of highly polished US of A sheet metal was as much of a patriotic experience as saluting the flag.

  A widower now for seven years, Hal had taken up an airport-shuttle-driving gig five years earlier, and not because he needed the money. With his beloved Rosie gone, he was lonely and bored. While putting in his twenty-five years as a cop for the Pasadena Police Department, Hal had never imagined being able to retire someplace in the Arizona desert or having the luxury of a Cadillac Escalade as his day-to-day vehicle with his antique Mark V reserved for special occasions. That wonderfully refurbished Lincoln, complete with a brand-new vinyl top and old-fashioned white-wall tires, had been a gift from Rose in honor of Hal’s sixtieth birthday, the last birthday the two of them had celebrated together.

  Of course, retiring to Arizona had also been a gift from his wife. Despite the fact that Hal and Rose had been lifelong residents of the same city, they might never have met had it not been for one of those proverbial “little old ladies from Pasadena.”

  The little old lady in question happened to be one Edith Givens, age seventy-eight, who had suffered a massive stroke in the parking lot of her neighborhood Walgreens. When her deadweight foot landed full force on the gas pedal of her Lexus, it had shot into the store-front building through the glass-doored entrance and mowed down both sides of the cosmetics aisle before finally coming to a stop against the back wall next to the pharmacy.

  When the incident happened, Hal, a longtime homicide detective with Pasadena PD, had been next door having a pre-shift cup of joe at Starbucks. Consequently, he was the first officer to arrive on the scene. As the on-duty pharmacist at Walgreens, Rose Turnbull was there, too. Together they had provided first aid until EMS arrived to take over and transport Edith to the nearest hospital.

  Once the excitement had died down, Hal invited Rose to join him for coffee at the undamaged coffee shop next door, and the rest was history. Rose, a widow, and twice-divorced Hal had married a bare two months later. Due to having received treatment in the immediate aftermath of her stroke, Edith Givens had made a remarkable recovery, and she had been the guest of honor at their wedding.

  Rose and her first husband, Alex, had met and married while they were attending pharmacy school. The childless couple had made a successful life together with both of them working as pharmacists. Due to Alex’s careful management of their finances, the two of them amassed a good deal of money during their working years. When Alex passed away, Rose could easily have stopped working, but she didn’t. She enjoyed what she was doing, and she wasn’t ready to give it up, but she had told Hal up-front that once she did retire, she was moving to Arizona, like it or not. As it turned out, the idea of moving to Arizona suited Hal just fine.

  Rose’s small bungalow in Pasadena happened to be on a large lot in a desirable neighborhood. After two days on the market followed by a bidding war, it had sold with no contingencies for an eye-popping amount that enabled them to pay all cash for a small, older home that backed up to the golf course in the Village of Oak Creek.

  For the next few years Hal and Rose went on several cruises, but all that came to an abrupt halt when she was diagnosed with stage four liver cancer shortly before Hal’s sixtieth birthday. That was when she had gifted him with the Mark V. Two months later, Rose was gone, leaving Hal financially secure but broken-hearted because their happily ever after had ended so soon.

  During Hal’s days in law enforcement, he had golfed occasionally and badly, but once he and Rose moved to the village, he’d gone ahead and taken up golf since the course was literally just outside their back door. Both before and after Rose’s passing, he played with a group of fellow retirees, old geezers from the neighborhood, who enjoyed lunching together afterward more than they enjoyed playing the game.

  Over burgers and beer they would reminisce about what they’d done prior to retirement. Unlike his golfing chums, Hal wasn’t interested in talking about his old days. He had seen enough bad things during his time on the job, and he didn’t want to relive them. Once Hal pulled the plug, he was done. He wasn’t interested in chatting about those things with a bunch of guys who had never worn a badge and didn’t know the first thing about what he’d witnessed along the way. Nor was Hal interested in striking up conversations with other retired LEOs. He was out of it and wanted to stay that way.

  The closest he’d come to rejoining some of his old colleagues had been last fall when someone had sent him an envelope containing a copy of a Los Angeles Times article concerning the death of his longtime partner, Jack Littleton. Hal and Jack had worked together for years. Jack, five years older than Hal, had been regarded as the “old man” of the duo while Hal had been called the “young ’un.” They had gotten along fine when they worked together, but neither had bothered staying in touch after retirement.

  According to the article, on October 3, 2019, Jack, a widower living alone and reportedly suffering from ill health, had been found dead in his home, the apparent victim of a gunshot wound to the head. According to the ME, he had died several days before the body was found. Officers on the scene presumed his death to be a suicide, although the coroner’s office later listed his manner of death as undetermined.

  Hal had been saddened by the news, but he was no more surprised by the outcome than the responding officers had been. These days, suicides among former law enforcement officers were all too common.

  The very end of the article provided details about Jack’s funeral services. For a brief moment Hal had considered attending but eventually decided against it. Far too many retired officers, haunted by things they could never unsee or unfeel, often resorted to suicide as their only escape hatch. At officer memorials suicide was always the elephant in the room, and Hal didn’t want to be part of that conversation when it came to Jack Littleton. He wanted to remember his old partner as the man he had once been—back when both of them had been tough, honest cops, working together and devoted to the job. When faced with Jack’s funeral, Hal had used the needs of his shuttle passengers as his excuse for not attending.

  The truth was, these days he regarded the people who rode in his vehicles as his customers. Initially he had worked for an established company and had driven their vehicles. Over time he learned that Verde Valley’s weekend travelers came in two distinct categories. Vacationers tended to be rowdy, rude, and occasionally downright obnoxious. Hal much preferred the more serious commuters—people who lived in and around the Sedona area but had jobs and business interests that took them to other cities or other continents during the week. Although those two groups weren’t at all compatible, they tended to come and go from the airport at about the same time.

  Commuters heading back to the airport for work purposes on Sunday afternoons were often already in work mode while the vacationers were likely to still be living it up. Shuttle companies were interested in filling their vans to capacity, even when doing so meant having passengers with two very different mindsets in the same vehicle. To Hal’s way of thinking, that was bad for business.

  Eventually he had decided to leave the vans and his previous employer behind and branch out on his own. Along the way, Hal siphoned off a number of those serious commuter types, taking those along with him—B. Simpson included.

  B. and his wife, Ali Reynolds, ran High Noon Enterprises, a tech company of some kind, and B. traveled internationally on almost a weekly basis. Hal had no idea why B. went by his initial only rather than a first name, but that was none of the limo driver’s business, and he didn’t ask. Occasionally B.’s wife traveled with him. In those instances, Hal used the Escalade because he thought it rude to expect paying passengers to climb into the back seat of a two-door car, but when B. traveled solo, it was always in the Mark V.

  Early on, while engaging in idle chitchat, Hal had learned that B. was something of a car buff, speaking fondly of a high school friend whose ride had been a seventies vintage Lincoln. The next time Hal drove B. to Phoenix, he had picked him up in the Mark V as a treat. Now it was a regular occurrence.

  A light tap at the passenger window roused Hal from his reverie. He exited the car and hurried around back to open the trunk. B. handed over his customary luggage, a larger rolling bag and a much smaller carry-on, but he held on to his briefcase.

  “Happy New Year,” Hal said. “How’s it going?”

  “Pretty well,” B. answered. “Can’t complain. How about you?”

  Hal grinned. “Still on the right side of the grass,” he remarked. “Where to today—British Airways?”

  Camille Lee, the young woman who handled B.’s travel arrangements, had sent Hal a complete itinerary, but it was always best to verify, just in case.