Random Acts (7 page)

“If you'd like to have a lie-­down in the guest room  . . .” Leland Brooks offered.

Sinking deeper into a very comfortable chair and holding her glass in hand, Joanna shook her head. After the plastic furniture and noisy din of McDonald's, this cool, quiet room with its plushly upholstered furniture was nothing short of heaven.

“No, thanks, Mr. Brooks,” she said. “This is perfect. I need to return some calls.”

“What I need,” Butch said, “is a nap. If you don't mind, I'll accept that lie-­down offer. It's been a long day so far, and it's liable to get longer.”

Joanna watched in surprise as Leland Brooks ushered Butch out of the room, closing the French doors behind them and leaving Joanna alone with her perpetually buzzing cell phone. Part of the problem was that it was almost out of juice. Fortunately she had stowed an extra charger in her purse.

Her first obligation as well as her first call was to the department, where she spent the better part of an hour on the phone with Tom Hadlock, her chief deputy. He had served admirably as her jail commander and was as loyal as an old blue tick hound, but promoting him to chief deputy had been a step too far. Two years into the job, he still required a good deal of hand-­holding. One at a time, she walked him through the routine administrative steps that had to be handled on a daily basis in Joanna's absence. Fortunately there had been no incidents overnight or during the course of the day that were anything out of the ordinary.

“I'm going to have to be off on bereavement leave for at least several days,” she warned him as they finished the conversation. “That means you're going to have to continue to hold down the fort, but if you need anything—­anything at all—­day or night, call me.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Tom said, sounding relieved. “I'll be sure to do that. In the meantime, I'm getting lots of calls from the media asking for a statement about what happened up there. Now that the ME in Yavapai has released both names, what should I tell them?”

“That as far as you know the incident is still being treated as an MVA and the investigation is ongoing. Let it go at that.”

“Got it,” Tom said.

Joanna asked to be transferred over to her secretary. Kristin Gregovich came on the line in full business mode and then relaxed when she realized who was calling. “I have a ton of messages for you,” she said.

“I'm not surprised,” Joanna said. “My phone has been ringing off the hook, too, and those calls are from only the ­people who have access to my cell number. My e-­mailbox is also overflowing. I'm trying to respond to both calls and e-­mails, but by the time I reply to one, two more show up.”

“Do you want me to reply to some of those for you?”

“No,” Joanna answered. “I need to handle those myself.”

“I suppose you know that Marliss Shackleford is parked outside the chief deputy's door?”

“Hardly surprising, but he should be able to give her a crumb or two now. That may get her off his back.”

There was a small pause before Kristin asked, “How long will you be out?”

“Until the end of the week at least,” Joanna replied. “In the meantime, I'm counting on you to bolster the chief deputy if he gets in over his head.”

“Will do,” Kristin said.

Somewhere in the background a doorbell rang. Moments later the French doors opened, and Leland Brooks entered the room, carrying a small manila envelope.

“Excuse me, madam,” he said with a formal half bow. “A deputy just dropped this off for you.”

“Thank you,” Joanna said, unplugging her phone, accepting the envelope, and rising from the chair. “Could you please show me where to find my husband?”

Brooks led her down a short hallway and indicated a closed door. Quietly she cracked the door open. Inside the room, Butch, fully clothed except for his shoes, lay on his side and snored softly. If they were going to head home later that night, sleeping was what he needed more than anything. That way he could drive, and Joanna could sleep.

“I'll leave him be for right now,” Joanna told the butler. “If he wakes up, tell him I'll come back for him as soon as I drop these off.”

Once behind the wheel, she used the Enclave's Bluetooth capability to dial up Ali Reynolds. “I have the brass, and I'm on my way to Camp Verde,” she said. “What's the situation on the cameras?”

“Our ­people—­Stu Ramey and his assistant, Cami Lee—­should be at the overpass and putting things in place by the time you arrive. Cami cut small holes in the cones and then taped the cameras inside so their lenses can focus through the peepholes. It'll take some time to set them up, get them properly focused, and bring them on line, but everything should be in place within the next hour or so. I'll be there long enough to check out the installation, after that Dave wants us all to get lost while we wait to see if our guy takes the bait.”

“So Detective Holman is coming, too?”

“He just called.” Ali said. “He's on his way from Prescott even as we speak.”

Approaching the exit to General Crook Trail, Joanna was gratified to see that Ali's ­people had outdone themselves in setting the “construction zone” stage. A full panoply of orange and black warning signs had been deployed along the shoulder of the freeway—­
REDUCE S
PEED AHEAD
;
CONSTRUCT
ION AHEAD
;
SLOW
;
FINES
DOUBLE IN CONSTRUCTION AREA
. Once Joanna reached the exit itself, it was lined on both sides with a collection of cones, as were both sides of the overpass. She doubted all of them contained cameras, but there were enough on display it seemed likely at least one of them would be able to capture the license plate on any passing vehicle. Two construction-­style generators were parked on the side at either end of the overpass.

Just off the westbound portion of General Crook, a bright red Prius was parked on the shoulder with a man hunched over a laptop in the front passenger seat. Joanna pulled in behind the Prius as a young woman she recognized as Ali's associate, Cami Lee, returned to the car.

“How's it going?” Joanna asked.

“The angle for each camera had to be manually adjusted, but we're almost there now. Did you bring the brass?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Once you put those where you want them, we'll be sure that some of our cone cameras are aimed at those, too. We're hoping for a license, yes, but also for an image that will be good enough for our facial recognition software.”

There was plenty of traffic on the freeway below but virtually none on the overpass itself. After borrowing a pair of latex gloves from Cami, Joanna went about distributing the four .223 casings. If they had been given some kind of identifying mark, those weren't visible. As Joanna found places to conceal them—­an expansion joint, a niche beside one of the guardrail uprights, the crack between the pavement and the base of the guardrail—­she was struck by a reminder of her mother—­out in the yard at High Lonesome Ranch, hiding colored eggs early on a sunny Easter morning. It was a blink of memory only, but enough to make her eyes mist over with tears as she realized yet again that her mother was dead. Eleanor may have been annoying as hell, but it hurt to realize that she was gone. Forever.

Straightening her shoulders, Joanna placed the last of the four casings on the far side of the overpass while Cami followed behind her, readjusting the positions of some of the cones to aim the cameras more effectively.

“About done here?” Ali asked, walking up behind her.

“Just about. That's the last of them,” Joanna said. “As soon as Cami finishes with focus adjustments we can go.”

They were starting back toward where the cars were parked when a single vehicle exited the freeway and approached the overpass. Joanna and Ali spotted it at the same instant—­a jacked-­up black Toyota Tundra with a pair of spotlights mounted on top.

“Looks like he's here,” Ali shouted. “Show time.”

The solo driver at the wheel of the Tundra paused momentarily at the stop sign with his left turn signal blinking. As if suddenly spotting the three ­people still on the overpass, he gunned the motor. The truck shot straight across General Crook and onto southbound I–17.

“Let's go,” Ali shouted, sprinting toward her Cayenne. “Cami, call it in, and then you keep watching from here to make sure he doesn't pull a U-­turn and come back northbound.”

Ali and Joanna clambered into the Cayenne at the same moment.

“Are you armed?” Ali asked as she fastened her belt and put the Porsche in gear.

“A Glock is all,” Joanna said.

“Me too,” Ali said grimly. “Up against an AR–15 those won't be worth much, but I don't want to lose him.”

After a gravel-­spraying U-­turn, Ali sent the Cayenne racing down the freeway entrance. It seemed to Joanna that the vehicle shot from zero to eighty-­plus in the blink of an eye.

“We called it right,” Joanna breathed, scanning the northbound roadway to see if the suspect had maybe doubled back and dialing 911 at the same time. “We called it right. He did come back.”

“And it almost worked, too,” Ali added. “The problem is, he got there a moment too soon, and now he knows we're on to him.”

“Nine-­one-­one, what are you reporting?”

“A suspect in last night's double homicide is southbound on I–17. He entered the freeway at General Crook Trail.”

“May I ask your name and number? And where are you right now?”

“My name is Joanna Brady. I'm the sheriff of Cochise County. I'm currently in a Cayenne pursing the suspect who is most likely armed and dangerous.”

“Can you give me your mileage marker?”

As soon as one appeared, Joanna did so.

“I've just notified the Highway Patrol, but I must advise you to leave off your pursuit. You're putting yourself in harm's way.”

“This guy is someone who blasts ­people in their cars from freeway overpasses,” Joanna said tersely. “That means there are innocent ­people out on the road today who are in far more danger than we are.”

“Call Dave,” Ali said.

Ending the 911 call, Joanna did as she'd been asked and was gratified that Dave didn't bother telling them to mind their own business.

“You're sure he hasn't doubled back?” Dave asked on speakerphone.

“Not so far, but we're watching.”

“If he makes it as far as the Sunset Point rest area which is usually full of tourists . . .” Ali said in the background.

“All hell breaks loose and no telling how many innocent civilians could be in danger,” Dave replied. “I'm on it. I've got ­people working on putting up a southbound roadblock before the Sunset Point exit.”

“We'll need one northbound, too,” Joanna added. “Somewhere on the far side of Camp Verde, just in case.”

Joanna glanced at the speedometer. It was hovering around ninety-­five as the car darted past lumbering trucks and slowpoke RVs and minivans. All Joanna could do was hope the high-­powered Porsche and Ali's driving skills were both up to the task.

Ali's phone rang. She nudged it across the seat for Joanna to answer and then returned both hands to the wheel.

“Ali's phone,” Joanna said.

“It worked,” a voice Joanna recognized as Cami's reported. “We caught the plate and Stu ran the number. The vehicle is registered to Norma Braeburn of Cave Creek, Arizona.”

“They caught the plate,” Joanna reported to Ali. “And the vehicle belongs to a woman?”

“Yes,” Cami replied, “but there was a male at the wheel. It's likely the vehicle is being driven by Norma's seventeen-­year-­old son, Scott.”

“Has that information been forwarded to the Department of Public Safety and Dave Holman?” Joanna asked.

“Done and done,” said Cami.

By then the Cayenne was on a relatively flat plateau approaching Sunset Point. Just then, Joanna caught sight of the Tundra, flying northbound in the opposite lanes.

“The suspect is now headed northbound,” Joanna shouted into the phone at Cami. “Call Camp Verde PD and see if they can establish a roadblock on I–17 somewhere north of General Crook Trail. In the meantime, Cami, you and Stuart need to get out of there.”

In other places along that stretch of I–17, hundreds of feet of elevation separated the northbound from the southbound lanes. This was one of the few spots where crossing the median was even feasible.

“Hold on,” Ali ordered. “We're turning.” She moved over onto the left-­hand shoulder and hit the brake so hard that the engaging seat belt slammed into Joanna's shoulder and belly. Moments later they bounced across the median on a dirt track and then shot back into the northbound lanes.

“Call Dave back,” Ali ordered, unnecessarily, since Joanna was already doing exactly that.

“We spotted him,” Joanna reported. “He's northbound again.”

“I know,” Dave replied. “Highway Patrol had a car parked just north of the Sunset Point exit to keep him from going in there. The guy took off as soon as he saw the patrol car. He's headed northbound now.”

“So are we,” Joanna said. “We should be able to see him any minute.”

Joanna glanced at the speedometer. With the needle now hovering at well over one hundred, that seemed more than likely.

“There he is!” Ali shouted. “We've got him.”

It was true. The Tundra had been boxed in behind a slow-­moving semi passing another even slower semi on a steep grade. When the one vehicle finally moved out of the way, the Tundra shot around it, but the pickup had lost its momentum and it couldn't quite regain its former speed.

“We're closing on him,” Joanna reported to Dave.

“You two need to stand down now,” he replied. “We already know the guy is armed to the teeth. Camp Verde is in the process of assembling a SWAT team to block I–17 in both directions at the first Camp Verde exit. I should be there any minute. I'm on 169 only a mile or so from the freeway.”