Brian Fellows seethed with indignation. As long as Forsythe figured the victims were Indians or illegal aliens, he had no problem tapping Brian for the job. Once it was expedient to do so, the sheriff didn’t hesitate for a moment about calling in the big dogs. Everyone in the department understood that the Aces, Detectives Abernathy and Adams, were Forsythe’s go-to guys when it came to cases with the potential for any kind of political fallout.

“Right,” Brian said through gritted teeth. “Will do.”

When Sheriff Forsythe ended the call, Brian returned to the other phone. The interview with Corrine Lapin had ended, but Alex Mumford was still on the line, waiting for him. He might have mentioned to her that he’d just been sent to the locker room, but he didn’t.

“How long do you think Southard had been planning this?” Brian asked.

“There’s no way to tell. From what Corrine told us, I believe Esther intended to leave as soon as she had her share of the money.”

“Did Jonathan know she was about to exit stage left?”

“Hard to tell,” Alex said. “Some guys are so full of themselves that they can’t imagine anyone would ever up and leave them. In other words, maybe he knew and maybe he didn’t. Corrine indicated that regardless of whether charges were filed, there was some history of physical abuse.”

Brian knew where she was going. In relationships where domestic violence is part of the equation, the moment one spouse tries to leave, things can get ugly.

“Wait a minute,” Alex said. “The banking records I requested are just now coming in. Hang on.”

Brian waited impatiently, drumming his fingers on the desk.

“Okay,” Alex said after a long pause. “Okay. It looks like the 401(k) money landed in their joint account on Wednesday of last week, but it isn’t there now. It was withdrawn on Friday, as soon as the check cleared.”

“The whole amount?” Brian asked.

“Every bit of it,” Alex answered. “I’ve also spoken to a neighbor who reported hearing two people, a man and a woman, involved in a screaming battle on Sunday night. She also said that by Monday morning things seemed to have settled down. Quiet, anyway.”

“So Esther discovered that Jonathan had hidden the money from her, and the two of them went to war over it.”

“Right,” Alex agreed. “The only reason it was quiet on Monday is that Esther and the kids were already dead.”

“The question is, was this his plan all along?” Brian asked. “Had he already gone to the trouble of setting himself up with another identity and made arrangements for fake IDs?”

Detective Mumford thought about that. “Those can always be had for a price, but you have to have some connection in that world. I have warrants for his phone and Internet records, and I’ll know more once we have access. Banking records just showed up, but so far nothing else.”

Brian was impressed. The investigation into the Thousand Oaks homicides was only a few hours old. Already Alex Mumford had managed to come up with court orders to cover banking and phone records. Considering it was 10:00 A.M. on a Sunday morning, that was pretty impressive.

“He obviously drove from California to Tucson in his minivan. If we put out an APB with information on his vehicle, we might find him. Then again, we may not. So far he must be paying cash for his gasoline purchases. There’s no sign of any credit card activity. Since he evidently has plenty of cash, he may try to ditch his Dodge Caravan for something else in hopes of slipping by us. If he’s trying to travel by air, my guess is that he’ll still be using his own ID, or at least trying to.”

“Have you released any information about finding the bodies on your end?” Brian asked.

“Not yet. We’re still waiting on additional next-of-kin notifications.”

“That won’t last forever, but it’s good for us. For right now Southard may not realize we’ve made the connection. If it hadn’t been for that neighborhood block watch lady, we wouldn’t have.”

“Hang on,” Alex said. “Here comes the phone record info.”

Again, Brian was left twiddling his thumbs while Alex scanned the information that had been dumped into her computer.

“Okay,” she said finally. “It looks like he stopped using his cell phone Monday night, so there’s no chance of using that to pinpoint his location. He’s probably got himself a new one by now.”

“There were no phones at all found at the crime scene on the reservation,” Brian told her.

“So he may be using a victim’s cell phone? Can you get a court order for any of those?” Mumford asked.

Not likely, Brian thought, especially since I’ve been thrown off the case. “Sounds like you might have better luck with that than I would.”

“All right,” she said. “If you can get those numbers, send them over to me. Since we’re handling this as a joint operation, I might be able to get court orders for those, too.”

The Aces would not be pleased to hear that bit of news, and Brian guessed that Detectives Abernathy and Adams would have a hard time keeping up with Alex Mumford.

“Great,” Brian said, smiling to himself. “I’ll send you those numbers as soon as I have them.”

“Can you dispatch deputies to the airport?” Alex asked.

The Aces weren’t there yet, so why the hell not?

“Will do,” Brian replied. “The one here has only two concourses, so covering those shouldn’t be too tough. I’ll pull up his driver’s license photo and hand out copies of that.”

“Good,” Alex said. “What about car rental agencies?”

“I’ll check with those and also with the local FBOs. If that 401(k) cash is burning a hole in his pocket, he just might pop for a charter to get where he wants to go in a hurry. If he goes to Phoenix to fly out, however, Sky Harbor is a lot tougher to cover as far as concourses are concerned, and there are lots more FBOs there as well. It’s also a hundred miles from here and out of my jurisdiction.”

“Do you want me to contact someone there?”

“You can try. One other question,” Brian added. “Did you find any brass at your scene?”

“Lots,” she said. “All nine-millimeter. What about on your end?”

“Nobody found any last night, but some could have turned up now that it’s daylight. The last I heard, CSI was still working the scene. Where’d Southard get a nine-millimeter?”

“He bought it,” she said. “From a local gun shop here in Thousand Oaks. Even got himself a CWP. For defensive purposes only.”

“Right,” Brian said. “For protection only. I’m sure that’s what the asshole told his dead wife and kids.”

Twelve

Sells, Tohono O’odham Nation, Arizona

Sunday, June 7, 2009, 10:30 a.m.

86º Fahrenheit

Dan had been standing outside the hospital’s front entrance to make his phone call to Detective Fellows. On the way back inside, he stopped off long enough to speak to the charge nurse. “Any word on when Angie Enos’s relatives are going to show up?” he asked.

“Not so far,” she said.

Dan started to go back to the room, then changed his mind and went back outside, dialing his cell phone as he went.

He’d managed a couple of hours of sleep in that dreadful chair, but he wasn’t rested enough to stay awake through another ten-hour shift. It was already after ten in the morning. That didn’t leave him sufficient time to drive home, grab some z’s, and be back up and at ’em in time for his shift. Besides, what if Angie’s relatives never appeared? What would happen to her then?

Dan Pardee already knew the answer to that question. Some unfailingly earnest CPS caseworker would ride up on her broom and whisk Angie off to foster care. Dan Pardee understood all too well about what was wrong with that scenario.

Marco Benevedez, the sergeant on duty, answered his call.

“Hey,” Dan said, casting around for a plausible excuse, “I stopped by the feast house at Vamori last night. I think I picked up a trace of food poisoning.”