But that was only part of Amos’s justification for his first-class ticket. Full details of Muñoz’s arrest had not yet been made public, and Amos wanted to deliver that news to Luke Reardon in person. There was still no hint as to the identity of Danielle’s shooter, but for now at least, and after a long, frustrating wait, justice was about to be served to the man who was ultimately responsible for her death.

  Amos didn’t bother showering or changing clothes. Five minutes after getting off the phone with the ticketing agent, he was out of the hotel and on his way to the airport. Once through security and at his gate, he saw that his phone’s charge was still in the red zone. The only available seat with an electrical outlet happened to be next to a bank of slot machines. They were very noisy, but that was fine with Amos. He needed to make several calls, and the racket from the slots gave him privacy.

  The first call was to Russ. Next up was Lew Wallace in Beaverton, followed by a call to Raymond Hollingsworth in Pasadena. Both of those calls were complex, requiring a good deal of explanation. Once first-class passengers were cleared to board the aircraft, he realized he had yet to call Bonnie to say he was on his way home.

  “How did it go?” she asked when he called.

  “Let’s just say you can start booking a hotel for that Las Vegas junket I owe you.”

  “You mean you solved it?”

  “I didn’t solve it,” Amos replied. “We all did. You know how you’re always saying it takes a village to raise a kid? This was a case that wouldn’t ever have been solved without the cooperation of a whole bunch of people in several different jurisdictions.”

  As passengers continued to file onto the plane, there were still two people on Amos’s call list—Ali Reynolds and Warren Biba. He chose Ali.

  “Sorry to take so long to get back to you,” he apologized. “What I can tell you is this. As of now our mutual friend is currently in custody in La Vegas, and I’m on my way home to St. Paul to arrange for extradition proceedings.”

  “Does Warren Biba know?” Ali asked finally.

  “Not yet,” Amos answered. “I was going to call him next, but I’m on an airplane, and they’re just now closing the cabin door. I’ll be in touch with him later on tonight after I get home.”

  “That’s all right,” Ali said with a laugh. “The longer he has to wait, the better.”

  CHAPTER 64

  BEAVERTON, OREGON

  Tuesday, January 7, 2020, 11:00 a.m. (PST)

  Sylvia Rogers was still hospitalized, but Molly Braeburn and Ramon Muñoz celebrated the second day of their engagement by facilitating Larry Rogers’s move from the hospital to the rehab facility, something that required an emergency shopping trip for suitable clothing.

  Getting Larry out of the wheelchair and into the front seat of the 4Runner wasn’t easy, but they made it work. Ramon had intended to leave the hospital and go straight to the rehab facility, but Larry begged to be driven past the burned-out wreckage of his home. Ramon complied, even though it was against his better judgment, and he wasn’t wrong about that, either. His stepfather had always been a stoic kind of guy, so Ramon was taken aback when Larry burst into tears when he first caught sight of the charred remains.

  “Sorry, Dad,” Ramon murmured, patting Larry on the shoulder. “We’ll get through this.”

  Larry shook his head. “This is awful. It’s going to take months to rebuild, maybe even a year. Sylvia and I have somewhere to stay until the end of March, but what’s going to happen after that?”

  “How about if you stay at my place?” Ramon asked. “It’s still smoky and grimy, but Norm has a cleaning crew scheduled to come air it out.”

  “If we’re there,” Larry objected, “where will you stay?”

  “That’s the thing,” Ramon said. “I’m moving into Molly’s place. We wanted to let you and Mom in on the good news at the same time, but you’re hearing it first. I popped the question to Molly on Saturday night on our way home from the airport. Or rather, she asked me, and we both said yes.”

  “You’re getting married?” Larry asked.

  “Yes, we are,” Ramon answered. “We haven’t had time to find a ring, but we’ve set a date. We’re getting married on Valentine’s Day.”

  “That soon?”

  “Yes, that soon,” Molly interjected. “The last few months have made it clear to both of us that we don’t know how much time we’ll have, and we don’t want to waste any of it.”

  Larry thought about that before nodding. “Then congratulations to both of you,” he said. “Does that mean I might end up being a grandpa someday soon?”

  “Not immediately, I hope,” Ramon countered, “but that’s the general idea.”

  “I’m delighted,” Larry said, “and your mother will be thrilled. Once you drop me off at rehab, you’d better go back to the hospital and give her the news. If Sylvia finds out I’ve been sitting on this without telling her, she’ll have my ears.”

  CHAPTER 65

  ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA

  Tuesday, January 7, 2020, 8:00 p.m. (CST)

  Bonnie had been waiting in the cell phone lot when Amos’s plane landed, and it was ten past seven when they pulled up outside Luke Reardon’s home. The first time Amos had come there, the whole front of the house had been alive with Halloween decorations. Now several strings of colorful Christmas lights still lingered on the front porch.

  At the airport, Amos had offered to drop Bonnie off at home before continuing to the Reardons’ place on his own, but she had insisted on driving him. “Don’t worry,” she had assured him. “I’ll wait in the car.”

  As Amos trudged up the sidewalk toward the front door, he felt successful but not triumphant. He was there to deliver important news concerning the continuing tragedy that had been central to this young family’s life for years. Frank Muñoz might finally be held accountable for what he had done, but two boys would still be growing up without their mother, and Luke was living without his wife.

  Given all that, when Amos rang the bell, he was surprised when the door was opened by an attractive brunette, who appeared to be somewhere in her mid-thirties. “May I help you?” she inquired.

  Amos whipped out his badge. “I’m Amos Anderson, with the St. Paul Police Department,” he said. “I’m the captain of the homicide unit. Is Luke home? I’d like to speak to him, if I may.”

  “He’s upstairs overseeing the boys’ bedtime,” the woman said. “I’m Francine Mosier, his fiancée. Is this about Danielle?”

  Amos nodded.

  “Come in and have a seat,” she invited. “Luke will be down in a few minutes.”

  She ushered Amos into the living room where an assortment of partially filled boxes testified to the fact that someone was engaged in the unwelcome but necessary task of denuding a still partially decorated Christmas tree. Amos sat, and so did Francine.

  An awkward silence ensued. Francine eventually filled the conversational void by answering the question Amos hadn’t asked.

  “Luke and I met two years ago at a grief support group,” she explained. “We were the youngest people there. Everyone else was in their sixties and seventies. We were in our thirties and we’d both just lost the loves of our lives with no advance warning. My fiancé died in a car crash three weeks before our scheduled wedding, and Danielle…” She fell silent. “I’m sure you know all about Danielle,” she added.

  “Yes,” Amos agreed somberly, “I’m afraid I do.”

  Just then he caught sight of Luke Reardon descending the stairs. “Did I hear the doorbell?”

  “Yes,” Francine replied. “Captain Anderson is here to see you.”

  Luke stopped short at the bottom of the stairway with one hand maintaining a white-knuckled grip on the banister. “Is there news?” he managed.

  “Yes, there is,” Amos answered. “Frank Muñoz was taken into custody in Las Vegas late last night. This morning he supplied us with a full confession, admitting to contracting with a murder-for-hire outfit not only for Danielle’s death but in three additional instances as well. He’s currently in jail on a parole violation with other charges pending. I came home to obtain an arrest warrant and to initiate extradition proceedings.”

  Wordlessly, Luke dropped onto one of the stairs, and Francine hurried over to join him, taking one hand in hers.

  “You mean it’s finally over?” an anguished Luke whispered in disbelief.

  “Not over over, I’m afraid,” Amos replied. “I’m sure you and the boys will be back in the public eye while the case makes its way through the courts.”

  “But maybe people will finally stop blaming me,” Luke said. “I’ll be able to look strangers in the eye on the street without wondering if they think I’m a cold-blooded killer.”

  “They never should have to begin with,” Amos said.

  “But they did,” Francine said.

  “I know,” Amos said, “and I’m sorry.” He got to his feet then. “I’m also sorry about dropping by without calling, but I was on my way home from the airport and wanted to give you the news before any of this hits the airwaves. And although it may have been a long time coming, I’ve never forgotten about you or Danielle.”

  As Amos started toward the door, Luke managed to get to his feet and offered his hand. “I know, and thank you for that,” he said tearfully. “Thank you so much.”

  Amos almost said, “It’s my job,” but something stopped him. That would have been a lie. Helping people like Luke Reardon was far more than a job for him. It was a sacred trust.

  He left the house and hurried back to the car, which, because of the biting cold, Bonnie had kept idling.

  “Are you all right?” she asked as he slipped into the passenger seat and closed the door.

  “Not really,” he admitted.

  “Let’s get you home, then,” she replied. “What you need right now is a stiff drink, a bite of supper, and a good night’s sleep.”

  Amos noticed that she hadn’t asked for any details. They both knew he’d tell her about the case eventually, but not right now—not tonight. It was still too raw.

  “Luke’s engaged,” Amos added as Bonnie put the car in gear. “His fiancée was there at the house.”

  “The woman who answered the door?”

  Amos nodded.

  “Was she nice?” Bonnie asked.

  “Very.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Bonnie declared. “After everything this family has been through, it’s about time something good happened to them.”

  CHAPTER 66

  BLYTHE, CALIFORNIA

  Wednesday, January 8, 2020, 9:00 a.m. (PST)

  Juanita Ochoa had stayed in Vegas long enough to be present for the Muñoz takedown on Tuesday morning, but once he was carted off to jail, she and Matt Dorsey headed home, this time with Matt at the wheel and Juanita asleep in the passenger seat. As far as their own cases were concerned, staying on in Sin City made no sense. Big Eddie Gascone was in custody, all right, but not in theirs, and once he lawyered up the possibility of their coming away with a confession had gone away, too.

  Matt drove her as far as the substation in Blythe where an on-duty deputy was drafted to drive him on to Riverside while Juanita went home to spend the remainder of the afternoon and evening in the welcome warmth of her family.

  The next morning she was up and dressing for work when Armando brought her a cup of coffee. “I thought you’d take the day off,” he said, with a frown.

  “No such luck,” she replied. “I have to drive over to Riverside so Matt and I can meet with the district attorney. With Eddie Gascone in custody in Vegas, we’re going to need both an arrest warrant and an extradition warrant to get him back here. I’m hoping Bill Fordham will be willing to sign off on both.”

  Fordham was the Riverside County district attorney.

  “Do you have enough to make a homicide charge stick?” Armando asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Juanita told him. “The most damaging thing we have so far is the cell tower information from Big Eddie’s phone. That clearly places him at the crime scene at the time Dante and Tyrone were murdered. There’s a possibility we might even have the murder weapon, but that’s not a sure thing.”

  “Might have?” Armando wanted to know.

  “While the Las Vegas cops were executing a search warrant on Rochelle Moroni’s home, they located a loaded 9mm Glock in a guest bedroom. We’re hoping it will turn out to be the murder weapon, but there’s no telling how long it will take for their ballistics folks to get back to us.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” Armando said with a laugh. “As a prosecutor, Bill Fordham has a reputation for getting things done. He’ll light a fire under somebody’s butt.”

  “After we meet with him, I’ll go on to East LA.”

  “To notify Tyrone’s family?”

  Juanita nodded. “After that, I plan to come home and put my feet up.”

  “You’ve earned it,” Armando told her.

  In Riverside, DA Bill Fordham lived up to his advance billing. He was determined to get the ball rolling, and as Matt and Juanita left his office, he was on the phone rattling someone’s chain about the progress on the ballistics situation. While Matt went back to headquarters, Juanita headed for East LA on her own.

  When she arrived at Ella Mae Jackson’s home, Juanita was dismayed to find a funeral home’s black SUV parked outside the residence. Obviously she had arrived within minutes of the family’s leaving for Tyrone’s funeral. Not wanting to intrude, Juanita was on her way back to her car when Ella Mae, dressed all in black and wearing a hat, stepped out onto the porch and called out to her. “Detective Ochoa?” she said. “Are you here for the funeral?”

  Turning around, Juanita caught sight of Tyrone’s two orphaned children. Skye was decked out in a deep blue long-sleeved dress. Next to her stood a boy of five wearing a very grown-up-looking black suit, complete with a clip-on bow tie.

  “Sorry, no,” Juanita stammered, staying where she was. “I’ve been out of town. I didn’t realize the funeral was today, but I do have news. I wanted you to know that a man named Big Eddie Gascone is currently in custody.”

  “Tyrone’s killer?” Ella Mae asked, placing her hand over her heart.

  “We believe so, yes; we’re in the process of extraditing him back to California.”

  “Praise God,” Ella Mae uttered, dashing forward and folding Juanita into a heartfelt hug. “Thank you so much.”

  As Ella Mae had hurried forward, the two children had followed. “Who’s she?” the little boy asked.

  “This is Detective Ochoa, Ty-Ty,” Ella Mae answered. “She’s with the police. She thinks she’s caught the man who took your daddy away.”

  Ty-Ty held out his hand. “Glad to meet you,” he said seriously.

  “I’m glad to meet you, too,” Juanita managed, “but I won’t keep you.”

  With that she fled the scene, barely managing to reach the privacy of her vehicle before her roiled emotions overcame her. A block or so away, she pulled over to allow a blinding storm of tears to play themselves out. Only then did she head home.

  Halfway there, Juanita’s phone rang with an unknown caller.

  “Detective Ochoa?” a woman’s voice asked.

  “Yes?” Juanita answered uncertainly.

  “I’m Marcia Holmes, the acting US Attorney here in Nevada. I’m calling to express my sincere thanks for securing that search warrant on Rochelle Moroni’s phone number. Between information gleaned from that phone and from devices collected from a second search warrant on Rochelle’s residence, the FBI now has at its disposal a cache of material concerning her current mob-related activities and connections.”

  “You’re welcome,” Juanita said, “but I never would have been able to do so if Tyrone Jackson’s grandmother hadn’t shared that one critical phone number with me.”

  “It turned out to be a veritable gold mine,” Marcia said. “So far we’ve been able to ascertain that Ms. Moroni and Mr. Gascone have worked together for some time, functioning as the outside facilitators for her father’s prison-based operation. When their operatives, Mr. Jackson and Mr. Cox, messed up, Mr. Gascone tried to get rid of them in a cover-up attempt gone horribly wrong. By the way,” she added with a laugh, “it’s always the cover-up that gets you.

  “So here’s what’s happening on our end. I’ve been in touch with your DA. He and I are facilitating the extradition request on Mr. Gascone. The necessary ballistics tests on Mr. Gascone’s Glock have been expedited and the results on that have been forwarded to the Riverside County Crime Lab.”

  “That all sounds like good news,” Juanita suggested after the short pause that followed.

  “Well, yes,” Marcia said, “but I’m calling to give you a heads-up—an apology in advance, as it were.”

  For the first time in the course of the conversation, Juanita was alarmed. “An apology?”

  “We have struck a deal with Ms. Moroni. She’s agreed to tell us everything she knows. Before any details of this investigation are made public, she will have disappeared into witness protection.”

  Juanita was offended, but this was an all-too-common occurrence. Cops did the hard work of catching crooks. Prosecutors cut deals, getting the goods on some criminals while letting others get away with murder.

  “That’s not fair,” she said.

  “No, it’s not,” Marcia Holmes agreed. “The elites exist in a separate universe. Rochelle Moroni was born a Mafia princess, which makes her a valuable commodity. Big Eddie Gascone is a grunt and therefore expendable. But I want you to know that you and that other young woman—the one in your tech unit…”

  “Roxie?” Juanita supplied.

  “Yes, Roxie,” Marcia said. “You’ve both done outstanding work here, and if you ever tire of the Riverside County Sheriff’s Office, I’m pretty sure I could help you locate suitable positions in the land of the feds.”

  “Thank you,” Detective Ochoa said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”