She looked around and saw him crouched behind a tall row of mission cactus that lined the dirt parking lot. He sat on his heels, phone to his ear and gun resting on his knee.
Laura yelled, “Police! Stop! Do it now—”
The reverse lights came back on and the car sped backwards, fishtailing as it came. Laura darted to the opposite side as the car rammed into the side of the Dumpster. Dust rose up, choking her. Through the scrim she saw the brake lights go off as the car ground gears and then shot back the way it had come. Meanwhile the woman was still running after the passenger door, which swung back and forth, almost knocking her away. The car shuddered to a stop, the engine revving. The woman scrambled for the passenger side and launched herself in, trying but failing to pull the door closed behind her. Laura, standing foursquare and straight-armed, squeezed off a shot between the thuds of her heartbeat—blowing out the back window. The car took off again, this time swerving for the lot exit and taking out half a large cactus. Laura aimed, fired, and yelled. “Stop! Police!”
She could hear sirens.
The car managed to straighten out and peeled away, wheels churning up more dust. Laura fired off another shot but it went wide.
“Laura! You okay?” Matt.
“Check on Ruby!” Laura shouted.
She ran down the alley, following the Plymouth as it bumped over potholes and swerved to avoid another Dumpster. She was almost out of range, but did manage to set for a second and get off a shot at the tires.
Expecting a miss.
But the left rear tire blew, and the Plymouth jounced onto the cross street just as another car shot by.
A blare of horns and shriek of tires, manic high-pitched screaming, and then Laura saw the car run into another car parked at the curb and suddenly it was airborne, tipping end over end, smacking down on its roof in the street with a shrieking clash of metal.
Laura’s arms were still out in front of her, a death grip on her SIG. Her heart going a thousand miles a minute. The sight of the car going end over end like a domino blotted out everything else.
She heard the loud whoop of sirens ending, and more sirens in the distance. Trotted to the cross street. Her legs were shaking just a little, but her hand was curled hard around her SIG.
The police were already out of their cars, guns drawn and moving around the Plymouth. One of them looked in her direction and she pointed to her badge.
It took a moment for her throat to gain purchase, otherwise she’d just squeak instead of talk. “Laura Cardinal—detective—DPS—there’s a woman down—All Souls Shoppe! We need an ambulance. Now!”
A cop car peeled away and turned into the alley as two more black and whites pulled up. She could hear them working the radio. She looked at the officer nearest the Plymouth, his gun now holstered.
“Dead?” she asked. Although she knew. Joel Strickland’s head and part of his torso had gone through the windshield.
She walked over and peered in.
Alex Williams was jammed up under the dash like an accordion. She looked dead, too.
Laura said, “Should have worn your seatbelt.”
By the time she made it back to All Souls Shoppe, the ambulance was just pulling out. Siren going—a good sign. Matt was there, covered in blood. He’d staunched Ruby’s wound with a towel. Laura watched the ambulance bump away down the alley. “You think she’s going to make it?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
He took a step toward her. The blood coating his chest and arm was black in the moonlight—shiny and slick.
But Laura didn’t care. She went to him and pressed herself to his chest and held him tight. They stayed that way for a good long while.
21: When Good Things Happen to Bad People
Both Williams and Strickland were dead. Ruby, however, survived. The short trip to University Medical Center and UMC’s trauma surgeons made the difference. It would be some time before Laura and Anthony could interview her—she had a long road ahead.
It had been a long night that rolled into the early morning. Laura was questioned at the scene by TPD SIU and turned her duty weapon over to them as required. Soon after, DPS SIU arrived, debriefed her, and issued her a replacement weapon. Laura was placed on paid leave. There would be an administrative investigation. She would see a psychologist in two days. This was all standard procedure, but that didn’t make her feel any better.
Laura was positive Ruby had no part in Sean’s murder. It was far more likely that Ruby had been used by both Strickland and Williams. The two of them had conspired to kill her before she could remove Strickland from her will.
Turned out that Alex Williams had a safe deposit box, which she’d kept under the name Madison Neville. The number and location had been among her personal effects. There was one lone possession inside the safe deposit box; a Ruger LCR-22 revolver, one shot fired. Apparently, Alex couldn’t part with the one keepsake that could have implicated her.
That was a moot point now.
Laura had no sympathy for Williams. She wished she could dredge up some, but she couldn’t. She thought about the cold-blooded way Alex shot Sean Perrin. How she’d tried to kill Ruby Ballantine.
Laura didn’t feel vengeful, though. She just felt . . . tired.
So many homicides, most of them sordid, ugly, and small. The reasons people took a life were so often mundane. Violence came first to solve their problems.
Williams was a schemer. She had planned everything and executed well. But there was nothing inside her but a void. At the moment when Laura got to her, when she saw Williams crammed up against the dash, Laura had thought of it as a cheap nightlight going out.
Money and violence.
Sometimes it sickened Laura so much she wanted to march in to the office and hand over her badge and her weapon and find something else to do.
But she didn’t.
She’d made a promise to Sean Perrin that she would find his killer, and she did. That was the reward. That was what kept her going.
Sometimes it was a gift to the people left behind. A gift to the one who died. And other times, it was just plain vengeance.
Epilogue
Fall stayed around for a long time, and turned into Indian Summer.
One night, Laura couldn’t sleep. She’d been having nightmares, mostly of the shootout and the chase down Hoff Avenue. She opened the sliding glass door and walked out onto the terrace. From where she was, she could look out at the lights of the city sprawled out far below in the Tucson valley. She was surprised how many lights were on at two in the morning.
A cool wind rattled the palm tree above.
She saw a shape on the path down by the horse corrals.
Frank Entwistle.
Or maybe it was nothing at all.
He was just a shape, insubstantial, maybe just the side of the water tank up against a mesquite tree.
But she heard his voice, as if he were right beside her.
“Looks like we’ve come to the end of the line, Kiddo.”
She could see him now, looking as unhealthy in death as he did in life, his face red, his jowls sagging above his open-necked shirt.
“End of the line?” Laura didn’t believe him. He had been with her all this time. Years. He had always been her sounding board, always been with her.