The farther south we had driven, the more distance I had put between myself and Ironwood Ranch, the better I felt. The same didn't hold true for Rhonda. Once we turned off the interstate, her travelogue faltered and she fell strangely silent.
"How will we find out where they live?" she asked at last.
"I'm a detective, remember?" I countered with a grin, but Rhonda was beyond the reach of humor, so I answered more seriously.
"With any kind of luck, Guy Owens will be listed in the phone book. That's what they teach us at the police academy, you know. Check the phone book first. Let your fingers do the walking."
I glanced at Rhonda again, but she didn't crack a smile. Her face was pale, lips compressed, brows knit in a frown.
"What's the matter?" I asked. "Where did you go?"
"What if I convince the father to change his mind and then Michelle decides she doesn't want the baby?" Rhonda asked.
"You'll have to cross that bridge when you come to it," I told her. "But remember, you shouldn't be able to force her to have the baby any more than her father can force her not to. It's Michelle's decision, not yours, not his."
She didn't answer for a long time while miles of blacktop spun away under the moving tires.
"Yes," she said finally, sounding at last resigned to the idea that ultimate control for the decision was beyond her. "I suppose you're right," she added reluctantly.
We drove the rest of the way into Sierra Vista in virtual silence.
At first glance Sierra Vista, all fast-food franchises and gas stations, seemed like a blotch of urban blight spilling out across the desert from the main gate of Fort Huachuca. I turned left down Fry Boulevard and stopped at the first gas station I saw, a self-serve Circle K. The phone book had long since disappeared from the booth outside, but inside I found a frayed, dog-eared edition. The book contained listings for all of Cochise County, and Sierra Vista was close to the back. Sure enough, Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens had both a listed number and a listed address-141 Quail Run Drive.
"You want to call him and tell him we're coming?" I asked, when I returned to the car.
Rhonda shook her head. "Let's just show up," she said.
It turned out that Quail Run Drive was actually outside the Sierra Vista city limits. It was part of a development called Desert View Estates and set back from Highway 91, which ran south along a range of mountains Rhonda informed me were called the Huachucas. The roads in Desert View Estates were gravel rather than paved, and the houses, on seemingly huge lots, were set far back from the street.
We found 141 with no difficulty. It was a low red-brick structure with thick arches across the front. The arches and the recessed windows beyond them gave the house a sleepy Spanish look. Inside I caught a glimmer of somebody moving through the shadowy interior.
"At least somebody's home," Rhonda said, noting the Isuzu Trooper parked in front of the house as well as a sporty blue CRX sharing space in the carport with a decade-old maroon Cutlass.
"He may have company," I said. "By my count that's two more cars than drivers."
I pulled to a stop behind the Isuzu. The windows had been tinted so dark they were practically black. That's something that makes sense in the Arizona desert but not in sun-starved Seattle. The plates said Sonora, Mexico, so presumably Guy Owens did have company.
Without waiting for me, Rhonda got out and hurried to the door. She rang the bell, but by the time I joined her, no one had answered.
"Try again," I said. "I'm almost positive I saw someone moving around in there as we drove up."
She rang the bell again. Eventually, after what seemed like a long wait, the dead bolt clicked and the door handle turned. A haggard Guy Owens stood in the doorway.
"Sorry, Sue," he said, looking directly at Rhonda. "I won't be able to go to lunch with you and John. I'm not feeling well."
Sue??? Rhonda had opened her mouth to speak, but she stopped, stunned by what he had said. I could understand her confusion. Was this a genuine case of mistaken identity, or was something else going on?
"Wait a minute," she said, moving toward the door. "You don't understand. I've got to…"
Guy Owens caught my eye. There was no mistaking the warning shake of his head, but I didn't know what to do about it. Following Guy's lead, I quickly took hold of Rhonda's arm.
"Come on, Sue," I said, trying to pull her away. "We'll talk to him tomorrow when he's feeling better."
She looked up at me questioningly, but was allowing me to lead her back toward the car when a man emerged from the shadows behind Guy Owens holding an AK-47 assault rifle. He motioned for us to come inside. Just then a second man came loping around to the front of the house from the carport. The second one was wearing military fatigues.
At first I thought he might be there to help us, but I was wrong. He was carrying a 9-mm semi-automatic which he trained on me all the while shielding it with his body from the view of people on the roadway. The handgun may have been more subtle and more readily concealed than the AK-47, but it was sure as hell as lethal. Now we were trapped between the two.
"Looks like you and the lady better go on inside," the man with the 9-mm said, prodding me forward with the barrel of the gun.
He had Hispanic features and a decided accent. He was slight and scrawny. Hand to hand, he wouldn't have lasted a minute with me, but with the gun…Without argument, I went inside.
"They're friends of mine," Owens was explaining to the man with the rifle. "We were supposed to go out to brunch."
The importation of AK-47 assault rifles had been banned by the Bush Administration. Unfortunately, the old adage is proving true-if arms are outlawed, only outlaws will have arms. The crooks carried AK-47s long before the ban and they carry them now that the ban is in effect. Up against them, my puny little five-shot. 38 was nothing more than a glorified peashooter.
"These friends of his sure as hell ain't going to brunch now, are they, Paco." The second man grinned an evil, gold-toothed grin and strutted his way into the house, shutting the door behind him. "Brunch? No. A little ride? Si. And maybe after that, a long siesta."
Rhonda looked anxiously from face to face, trying to make sense of what had happened. "I don't understand. What's going on here?"
They've got Michelle," Owens answered, his voice thick with defeat. "They brought me back here to get the money."
"What money?" I asked.
"Money Joey Rothman evidently stole from these people. Or maybe it was plain old-fashioned extortion. I can't tell which. However he got it, Joey left the money with Michelle for safekeeping."
"Is Michelle all right?" Rhonsa asked.
Owned nodded. "I guess so. For now."
"Shut up," the man with the semiautomatic snapped.
Paco looked at his partner questioningly. "Did you find it, Tony?"
Tony nodded. "I think so. Right behind the dryer, just like she said. I was about to pick it up when the doorbell rang. Maybe the lady here would like to go get it for me while the rest of us wait."
He waved his weapon in Rhonda's direction, and she shrank away from it and him.
Guy Owens nodded reassuringly toward an open doorway. "The laundry room is just beyond the kitchen," he said. "Michelle said she hid the briefcase behind the clothes dryer."
Rhonda nodded mutely then disappeared through the doorway, while Tony stationed himself and the semiautomatic near enough to the opening that he could keep an eye on her as well as on us. He seemed to be in charge, but I still wasn't quite sure.
Cop or crook, in this business overconfidence can be a deadly mistake. So far, it hadn't occurred to either one of these gun-toting clowns that the people coming to take Guy Owens to a Sunday brunch might possibly be armed and dangerous themselves. Owens had faked them into believing his story, that we were nothing more than casual, harmless friends, and they hadn't bothered to search us. Considering the difference in firepower, it was a small mistake, but a mistake nonetheless, enough to give me an inkling of hope.