When they hit the bottom of that bag, Amos shook his head. “Looks like we’re coming up empty.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Miriam replied. “Look here.”

  Holding the newly emptied bag up to the light, she pointed out a place along the bottom of the interior of the case where someone had used a sharp instrument to cut a long but almost invisible slit in the lining. It was a craftsmanlike job. The two layers were held together by strips of Velcro. Once the Velcro strips were parted, Miriam reached inside and pulled out a file folder—one that contained a passport as well as a slew of credit cards and other forms of ID.

  “Bingo,” she said. “Get a load of this.”

  All the items in the folder bore the name of Frank Camacho Rios, but the accompanying photos featured Frank Muñoz’s face. Along with the IDs and credit cards, Miriam found a printed boarding pass for a Qatar Airways flight due to leave JFK at 10:50 a.m. on Tuesday, January 7, bound for Jakarta. That, too, was in the name of Frank Rios.

  While Miriam went through the process of videotaping each separate item, Amos focused on the passport.

  “This is one excellent fake,” he said, “and work of this quality doesn’t come cheap. Did Muñoz have a job?”

  “Nope,” Miriam declared, “not as far as I know. Supposedly he was participating in an unpaid apprenticeship at Hi-Roller Fitness, but I found out this morning that no such program exists. Based on what we’re seeing here, I’m going to assume he has access to some unknown source of cash—lots of it.”

  Amos thought about that. “When Muñoz went to prison originally, he could have gotten a reduced sentence had he spilled the beans on certain organized-crime-based enterprises. He pled guilty to the charges without becoming a snitch and, according to one of my sources, while in custody, he was under what appears to have been mob-related protection.”

  “Maybe he still is,” Miriam suggested, “and maybe that protection includes some spending money.”

  Once the luggage contents had been properly inventoried, Miriam collected the credit cards and IDs and returned them to the folder. They were loading the repacked luggage back into the evidence bins when someone knocked on the conference room door.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Sammy,” a woman’s voice replied. “I brought you a present.”

  Sammy turned out to be a very attractive young woman. “This is Samantha,” Miriam explained. “She’s one of my undercover operatives. What do you have for me?”

  Sammy handed over a clear plastic evidence bag containing what appeared to be a package of Fritos. Opening the bag, Miriam peered inside for a moment before extracting a cell phone.

  “Muñoz’s?” she asked.

  Sammy nodded. “He dropped it into the dumpster out behind Hi-Roller just before he left for the airport. The SIM card is missing.”

  “We’ll need a separate search warrant for this,” Miriam said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sammy agreed. “I’m on it.”

  With everything sorted and put away, Miriam looked approvingly around the room. “I believe we’re done here,” she said. “I’m starved. We still have plenty of time before Frank’s plane is due to take off. How about if we have a bite to eat? It’s going to be a long night, and we’ll need to keep up our strength.”

  There were several upscale restaurants in the terminal, but Miriam led the way to a Shake Shack. Halfway through dinner, her phone rang. After answering, she spent a long time listening in silence.

  “Of course they both lawyered up,” she said finally. “No surprises there, but I’m here at the airport with a colleague of yours, Amos Anderson. Care to join us?” Another brief silence followed before Miriam added, “We’re at the Shake Shack in Terminal 1. We’ll wait for you here.”

  “Juanita Ochoa?” Amos asked as she stowed her phone.

  “Yes, indeed,” Miriam responded. “She’s on her way.”

  CHAPTER 61

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  Monday, January 6, 2020, 10:45 p.m. (PST)

  As Frank settled into his aisle seat, 26C, he let out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t dead. Rochelle and her pal, Eddie, hadn’t turned over his refund, but they hadn’t succeeded in killing him, either. The documents Nicholas had supplied had gotten Frank past TSA scrutiny here, but he’d have to go through the same agonizing process in order to board the Qatar flight. In the meantime, once the plane took off, he planned to sleep.

  Naturally the people seated in the A and B seats of his row didn’t arrive until the last minute, and then there was a big fuss because there wasn’t room for the woman’s carry-on. The lack of space wasn’t Frank’s fault. He had checked everything.

  Eventually the last passenger filed into his seat, and the flight attendants made their door-closing announcement. That’s when everything went to hell. Someone tapped Frank on the shoulder and said, “Mr. Muñoz, you’re going to need to come with me.”

  Frank should have said the guy was mistaken, but he didn’t. “What’s this all about?” he asked.

  “I believe you know what it’s about.”

  Frank wanted to argue further, but the man’s uncompromising stare and the air marshal badge clenched in his fist said this was no mistake. Frank was done. Someone had squealed on him, but who—Rochelle, maybe? She had known he was leaving town, but she didn’t know where he was going or what flight he’d be on. Besides, she thought he was dead. That left only one possibility—Nicholas Fratelli.

  Slowly Frank unfastened his seat belt and got to his feet. He was conscious of all the curious eyes and several cell phone cameras focused on him as he made his way down the long, narrow aisle. Within minutes his name and face would be all over the Internet.

  A flight attendant stood poised at the door, waiting for the Jetway platform to return. Once the door finally opened, Frank knew this marked the end of the road for him. The easy thing would be to make a run for it. No doubt the air marshal was armed, and a bullet in the back might be a preferable alternative to going back to prison. In the end he simply walked toward whatever was coming.

  At this hour of the night, the concourse was far less crowded than it had been hours earlier. Frank expected to retrace his steps. Instead, the marshal directed him to a locked door that opened with the swipe of a key card. Beyond the door a metal staircase led to yet another locked door. This one opened onto the tarmac. Outside, an idling cop car with blazing lights and an open back door awaited them.

  “Hands,” the marshal said.

  Frank knew what that meant. A moment later, a pair of handcuffs snapped shut around his wrists. After that, an invisible hand on the top of his head propelled Frank into the waiting vehicle, which then sped away. When it stopped soon after, a door leading back into the same building was opened by none other than Brad—the guy who had saved his life with that dose of Narcan.

  “You!” he said accusingly.

  “Yup,” Brad replied with a grin. “When it comes to parole officers, Miriam Baxter believes in going the distance.”

  The parole officer, Frank thought. So maybe she wasn’t as stupid as I thought.

  “You were following me?” he asked.

  Brad nodded. “All day long, from the moment you left your apartment this morning. Fortunately for you, I put a tracker inside the back bumper of your car. Otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Come on.”

  As Frank allowed himself to be led through a part of the airport that clearly wasn’t open to the public, he tried to remain calm. He could live with a parole violation, but if that anonymous Crime Stopper’s tip was ever traced back to him, he’d be going to prison under an inmate-imposed death sentence. Salvatore Moroni would see to it.

  Brad ushered Frank into an interview room, removed the cuffs, and left him there. Frank had been in rooms like this before and knew the drill, so he leaned back in the chair, took several deep breaths, and prepared to play the game whichever way it went.

  When the door opened again, as expected, Miriam Baxter entered. She was followed by two people Frank didn’t know, a man and a woman. The woman lugged an extra chair into the already crowded room. While she sat on that in one corner, Miriam and the man seated themselves side by side, facing Frank across an intervening table.

  If this is all about a parole violation, who the hell are these other people? Frank wondered.

  “Good evening, Mr. Muñoz,” Miriam said affably. “I’ll make the introductions as soon as the recording equipment is operational.”

  Having said that, and much to Frank’s dismay, she placed two items on the table in front of them—the file folder he had carefully concealed in the bottom of his larger checked bag and the cell phone he had tossed into a dumpster before leaving Hi-Roller.

  It took the better part of a minute for Miriam to adjust the video equipment to her satisfaction.

  “All right, then,” she said finally, “we’ll get started. This interview is commencing at 11:52 p.m. on Monday, January sixth, in a TSA interview room located at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas, Nevada. I’m Parole Officer Miriam Baxter. I’m here to interview Frank Muñoz about a possible parole violation. The other officers in the room are…” She pointed first at the man.

  “My name is Amos Anderson,” he said. “I’m captain of the homicide unit at St. Paul PD, in St. Paul, Minnesota. I’m here investigating the October thirty-first, 2017, shooting death of Danielle Lomax-Reardon.”

  Danielle! Frank suddenly felt as though he was free-falling through space.

  Miriam pointed at the second woman, who spoke next. “I’m Detective Juanita Ochoa of the Riverside County Sheriff’s Office, in Riverside, California. I’m here investigating the shooting deaths of Dante Cox and Tyrone Jackson. These two individuals are suspected to have been involved in a pair of attempted vehicular homicides that occurred in Arizona on January one. They were later found shot to death in the desert outside Blythe, California.”

  “Very well,” Miriam said. “We should probably begin by reading Mr. Muñoz his rights.”

  Miriam Baxter’s lips were moving, but Frank didn’t hear a word. He knew it was over for him. If they’d already put this much together, he’d be a lifer now—for however long he lasted.

  Once Miriam stopped speaking, the room went dead silent for a moment, and Frank was the one who broke the silence. “I want an attorney,” he croaked.

  “Very well, then,” Miriam said with an unconcerned shrug. “This interview ended at 11:54 p.m. Mr. Muñoz, you will be transported to the Clark County Detention Center and held there until you can be returned to Lompoc. In the meantime, someone will put you in touch with a public defender.”

  Miriam stood up then, walked over to the door, and knocked. When the door opened, Brad stood waiting outside. In that moment, there was no one in the world Frank hated more than the son of a bitch who had saved his life. This was all his fault. Dying of a drug overdose would have been infinitely better than bleeding out on a prison shower room floor with one of Sal’s henchman’s shivs stuck in his gut.

  Holding a pair of handcuffs in one hand, Brad beckoned to him with the other. “Come on, Mr. Muñoz,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  That’s when Frank realized what he had to do. Brad was armed. He could see the bulge of the holster under his arm. Frank understood he’d have to be quick, but suicide by cop was preferable to what awaited him in Lompoc.

  Frank stood up and sauntered toward the door, doing his best to look unhurried and casual. Two feet from the door, he lowered his head and charged forward, catching Brad full in the gut. Frank heard the air whoosh out of the man’s lungs as he fell backward. Brad should have smashed the back of his head on the tile-covered concrete floor, but that didn’t happen. While attempting to grab Brad’s weapon, Frank inadvertently broke his opponent’s fall, and they both went down together.

  The two men were about the same age and build, but Brad recovered faster than Frank expected. They grappled for several long seconds, but finally, without ever laying hands on the gun, Frank found himself pinned to the floor. As handcuffs once again snapped shut around his wrists, Frank Muñoz grabbed for the only option he had left.

  “Take me back inside,” he managed. “I want to talk. I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Wait,” Miriam objected. “I thought you wanted an attorney.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want an attorney. I want a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “Don’t send me back to Lompoc.”

  “Very well,” Miriam said with a smile. “It may take time and it depends on what you have to tell us, but I do believe that can be arranged.”

  CHAPTER 62

  THE VILLAGE OF OAK CREEK, ARIZONA

  Tuesday, January 7, 2020, 6:51 a.m. (MST)

  Frigg’s next howler arrived at 6:51 a.m.

  “What the hell?” Stu muttered sleepily. Days of working short-staffed had gotten to him, and he had been dead to the world. “What now?”

  “Frank Muñoz was taken into custody in Las Vegas, Nevada, last night at 10:59 p.m. Pacific time,” Frigg announced.

  “Taken into custody,” Stu repeated, sitting up. “How do you know that? Are you sure?”

  “My facial recognition software located a YouTube video showing him being escorted off an aircraft at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas. He’s just now been booked into the Clark County Detention Center Initially he’s being charged with nothing but a parole violation. Several other unspecified charges are said to be pending.”

  “You did it, Frigg,” Stu breathed. “You got him fair and square. I’ll let Ali know.”

  Stu had given Frigg strict orders that during B.’s recuperation time at home, she was not to contact Ali directly, but that didn’t keep Stu from sending her a text.

  Munoz is in custody. Just booked into Clark County Detention Center in Las Vegas.

  Ali called a moment later. “Is this for real?”

  From the hollow echo of her voice, it sounded to Stu as though she was once again speaking to him from inside her bathroom.

  “It’s real as far as I can tell, but that’s all I know,” Stu answered.

  “How did you find out?”

  “Frigg’s facial recognition program found a YouTube video showing him being escorted off an airplane by an air marshal. That happened around eleven p.m. His actual booking didn’t take place until just minutes ago.”

  “I’m going to call Amos and find out what’s going on,” Ali said. “I’ll get back to you.”

  She called Stu back a few minutes later. “My call went straight to voice mail,” she reported. “I guess I’ll see you at work.”

  “You won’t see me there today,” he said. “Cami’s back, so I’m off, but keep me posted.”

  Once the call ended, Stu went back to sleep.

  CHAPTER 63

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  Tuesday, January 7, 2020, 12:00 a.m. (PST)

  The interview resumed at 12:01 a.m., this time with Frank Muñoz handcuffed to the table. Much to Amos’s amazement, the man admitted to all of it—to hiring a fellow prisoner named Salvatore Moroni to arrange contract hits on the people who had wronged him—Danielle Lomax-Reardon, Jack Littleton, Hal Holden, and Sylvia Rogers.

  “So you’re admitting to hiring someone to murder each of those individuals?” Miriam asked.

  “Yes,” Frank replied.

  “How much did each contract killing cost?” Miriam wanted to know.

  Muñoz tried to hedge on that, but Miriam called him on it.

  “You’re fresh out of prison, Frank. You don’t have a job, and you’ve invested $40,000 in a not-entirely-successful hit man, and probably another ten in two first-rate sets of fake IDs. So either tell us the whole truth, or the deal’s off. You go straight back to Lompoc to await trial on the charges to which you’ve just admitted. Which is it?”

  After a moment of reflection, Frank finally came clean about the rest of it—about that original payout for keeping quiet. Unlike the first time around, this time he did name names, including his dealings with William Banks and the paymaster arrangement with Nicholas Fratelli at Hi-Roller. Amos knew that information alone would attract the attention of the FBI and launch yet another complex investigation.

  The interview ended shortly after five in the morning Pacific time—two hours later on Central. Having done two all-nighters in a row, Amos was brain-dead. His hotel was a Hilton Garden Inn well off the Strip. With the help of the GPS in his rental car, he made it to the hotel, but once in his room, he kicked off his shoes and flopped down on the bed, where he slept fully clothed.

  His eyes popped open again hours later when a maid knocked on his door. The clock on the nightstand said it was ten to eleven. From the undisturbed appearance of the bedding, he hadn’t moved from his original position for five hours. When he reached for his phone, it was dead as a doornail. Once connected to a charger, Amos found he had missed several calls and messages, but he ignored them in favor of his first priority—getting home as soon as possible.

  A call to Delta told him there was only a single seat left on the 1 p.m. flight to Minneapolis–St. Paul. That one happened to be in first class, but he booked it without hesitation. He’d duke out the first-class issue with Travel later on. To his way of thinking, there were two equally important reasons for him to be on that first flight out.

  One of those had to do with securing an arrest warrant for Frank Muñoz and initiating extradition proceedings. During his last exchange with Miriam Baxter, she had advised him that it would probably be easier and faster to have Muñoz extradited from a jail cell in Vegas than it would be once he was returned to federal custody. The fed’s first fallback position would be to return him to Lompoc, which might cause Muñoz to retract his confession. The other concern was that once back in prison, especially Lompoc, he’d be a dead man walking. Signed confessions from people who failed to survive long enough to testify in court didn’t count for much.