For the first time in the whole process, Lani Walker’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you,” she said.
Diana met Brandon at the door when he came home from the hospital late that evening. “Is Quentin going to make it?”
Brandon paused long enough to hang his keys up on the Peg-Board. “Probably,” he said.
“And the bones?”
Brandon sank down beside the table and Diana brought him a glass of iced tea. “I called Dr. Sam,” he said. “He ran the dental profile through his computer. The bones they found at Rattlesnake Skull belong to Tommy, all right.”
Dr. Sam was short for Swaminathan Narayanamurty, a professor of biometrics at the University of Arizona. Together Dr. Sam and Brandon Walker had come up with the idea of amassing a database of dental records on reported Missing Persons from all over the country. Brandon Walker’s effective lobbying before a national meeting of the Law Enforcement and Security Administrators had enabled Dr. Sam to gain some key seed money funding years earlier. That initial grant had grown into a demonstration project.
During the election campaign, Bill Forsythe had brought that project up, implying that Brandon’s interest in the project had been based on personal necessity because of his own son’s unexplained disappearance rather than on sound law enforcement practices. Personal or not, the connection had been strong enough that on this warm summer Sunday, Dr. Sam had been only too happy to interrupt a week-long stay in a cabin on Mount Lemmon to run the profile of the skull Dan Leggett had retrieved from Rattlesnake Skull Charco.
“Detective Leggett says he thinks Quentin was in the process of moving the bones out of the cave for fear Johnson would see them, when Manny Chavez stumbled into the area. Quentin must have panicked and attacked the man.”
“I’m sorry,” Diana said. “About Quentin and Tommy.”
“Don’t be sorry about Tommy,” Brandon told her. “At least we know now that it was over quickly for him, that he didn’t suffer. It’s closure, Di. It’s something I’ve lain awake nights worrying about for years.”
The doorbell rang. “Oh, for God’s sake,” Brandon grumbled irritably. “Who can that be now?”
A moment later, a sunburned Candace Waverly appeared in the kitchen doorway. “It’s Detective Leggett,” she said. “He was wondering if he could see you two for a few minutes.”
Wearily, Brandon rubbed his whisker-stubbled chin. “Sure,” he said. “Send him on in.”
“Sorry to bother you,” the detective said, placing a worn Hartmann briefcase on the kitchen table. “I know you’ve both had a terrible two days of it, but I wanted to stop by and show you some of this before I turn it over to the property folks.”
Opening the case, he pulled out a pair of latex gloves. While he was putting them on, Diana glanced at the loose piece of paper—a faxed copy of a mug shot—that lay fully exposed in the open briefcase. A sharp intake of breath caused both men to look at her with some concern as all color drained from her face.
“Diana, what’s the matter?” Brandon demanded. “What’s wrong?”
Diana’s hand trembled as she reached out and picked up the paper. “It’s him,” she moaned. “Dear God in heaven, it is him!”
The paper fluttered out of Diana’s hand. Brandon caught it in midair and studied it himself. “That’s Mitch Johnson, all right,” he said.
“It may be Mitch Johnson, but it’s Monty Lazarus, too,” Diana whispered. “He looked older and he wore a red wig, but I’d recognize him anywhere.”
“Monty Lazarus!” Brandon repeated. “The reporter who interviewed you?”
“Yes.”
Confused, Detective Leggett looked from husband to wife. “Who the hell is Monty Lazarus?” he asked.
Brandon put both hands protectively on Diana’s shoulders before he answered. “The publicity department at Diana’s New York publisher set her up to do an in-depth interview yesterday with someone named Monty Lazarus who was supposedly a stringer with several important magazines. Except it turns out he isn’t a stringer at all. He isn’t even a writer. He’s Mitch Johnson, ex-con, somebody who vowed that he’d get me one day for sending him up.”
Leggett shook his head. “It’s actually worse than that,” he said. “These are documents I’ve just now removed from Mitch Johnson’s motor home out on Coleman Road.”
Saying that, he handed Diana Walker a pair of gloves and a pair of manuscript boxes. One was packed to overflowing while the other was less than half-full.
“You might want to take a look at these, Mrs. Walker, but put on gloves before you do it. Fingerprints and all. Meantime, Brandon, there’s something I need to show you out in the car.”
Brandon Walker followed Leggett out to the driveway where the detective popped the trunk on his Ford Taurus. There, illuminated in the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun, lay Mitch Johnson’s awful charcoal nude of Dolores Lanita Walker.
“Where did this god-awful thing come from?” Brandon choked.
“From Mitch Johnson’s motor home,” Kendall answered. “I smuggled it out. Along with this one, too.” He took out a second sketch, one of Quentin Walker. “Neither one of these is on any of the evidence lists. I brought them here so you’d have a chance to get rid of them.”
“Thank you, Dan,” Brandon Walker said gratefully. “I’ll take care of them right away.”
With Brandon carrying Lani’s picture by the corners, holding it as though it were the rancid carcass of some long-dead thing, and with Dan Leggett lugging the sketch of Quentin, the two men walked into the backyard. There Brandon grabbed an armload of chopped firewood from his never-ending stack and threw several branches into the barbecue grill. Minutes later, the two offending pictures had been reduced to a pile of paper-thin ashes.
“That’s that,” Brandon said, dusting soot from his hands and onto his pant legs.
“There are two other pictures,” Dan Leggett said quietly.
“Of Lani and Quentin?”
“No,” Leggett said somberly. “If there are others of them, we haven’t found them yet. The two pictures I’m talking about are of someone else. They’re titled ‘Before’ and ‘After.’ ”
“They’re both of the same man,” Leggett replied. “Before and after a murder. Unless I’m sadly mistaken, the victim will turn out to be Mitch Johnson’s ex-wife’s second husband. That big-time developer who got carved up down in Nogales a few months back.”
“Larry Wraike?” Brandon Walker croaked in surprise. “But I thought a prostitute did that.”
“So did everybody else,” Leggett replied. “Me included.”
The two men went back inside. In the kitchen they found Diana sifting through a stack of papers. Her haunted eyes met Brandon’s the moment he stepped into the room.
“Fat Crack was right,” she said. “The danger did come from my book.”
“What do you mean?” Brandon asked.
“Some of this is Andrew Carlisle’s personal diary, Brandon,” she told him, holding back the single detail that some of the passages had been addressed directly to her, that even back in 1988, Carlisle had intended that someday Diana Ladd Walker would read what he had written.
“Carlisle and Mitch Johnson were cellmates for years up in Florence,” Diana continued. “It’s all here in black and white. It started the first day when I went to Florence to interview Carlisle for the book. That’s when Carlisle found out Quentin was up there, too. They targeted him that very day, Brandon. They set him up, and that’s what this whole thing is about—revenge. Andrew Carlisle was still after me and Mitch Johnson was after you. Lani was the perfect way to get to us both. And that’s not all.”
“Not all?” Brandon echoed. “How could there be more?”