He reached across the seat and put his hand on Diana’s shoulder. “If that turns out to be what this is, it’s pretty damned grim,” he said. “But I also remember the vow I made-for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. If Alzheimer’s is what worse means, then I’m in for the whole ride and so is the Invicta. Even if I have to hide the keys.”

Diana swallowed hard and nodded. By then nodding silently was all she could do. Her voice was stuck in her throat.

“Even toward the last, when my father barely knew up from down, he loved to go for rides, and that’s what we’re going to do-with the top down whenever possible. You, me, and Damsel-the three of us together. You took care of me when I had bypass surgery, and I’m prepared to do the same for you. Got it?”

“Yes,” she managed.

“We’ll need to talk to the kids,” Brandon went on, taking charge and laying out a plan of action. “We’ll need to let them know what’s been going on and what we’re worried about. Davy can help us deal with the legal ramifications. And now that we’ve got a doctor in the family, maybe Lani can give us some advice on what’s happening these days as far as medications and care are concerned. All right?”

“All right,” Diana agreed.

“In the meantime,” Brandon said, “what are you doing this afternoon?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Why?”

“Then I’d like to invite you and Damned Dog here to take a day trip to Casa Grande. I believe I finally have some answers for Geet Farrell, and I want to give them to him in person.”

Diana turned and looked in the backseat. She was relieved to see that Damsel was there-the dog and no one else.

“They’re gone,” she said. “The people who were here earlier are gone.”

“Good,” Brandon said. “They may come back, but if they do, let me know. You’re not in this alone any longer. They’ll have to deal with me, too.”

The idea of Max Cooper having to deal with Brandon Walker was something Diana had never considered before. For the first time in a long time she smiled and really meant it.

“Thank you,” she said. “Next time I see any of them, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Tucson, Arizona

Sunday, June 7, 2009, 12:15 p.m.

90º Fahrenheit

Frustrated by being shut out of the investigation but with the photocopied license photo in hand, Brian was just leaving his desk to head home when his phone rang. Megan O’Rourke, Pima County’s chief CSI investigator, was on the line.

“I thought you’d want to know that we did find some brass cartridges,” she said.

“Great,” he said, “but I’ve been moved off the case. You should probably pass that information along to Jake Abernathy.”

“Believe me, God’s gift to women has already let us know that he’s taken charge of the case and also the universe,” Megan said with a laugh. “When I asked him about a related investigation in California, he laughed it off and allowed as how he’d let me know about it if and when the connection was verified. That’s why I’m calling you. Tell me about that other case.”

“Last night three homicides and a dead dog turned up shot to death in Thousand Oaks, California,” he said. “The victims had been dead for several days. We suspect it’s the same shooter. Let me give you the lead detective’s contact information.”

Once Brian was off the phone, he took the copies of Jonathan Southard’s head shot and set off for Tucson International Airport. When he arrived, two Pima County patrol cars were parked on the departing passenger driveway. That meant that the uniformed officers Brian had asked to be sent to the airport were still there and continuing to interface with the TSA officers at the passenger screening stations. Keeping a few copies of the photo for himself, he parked in the driveway and took the rest of the stack inside.

When he came out, working on a hunch, Brian drove back around the circle and pulled up behind the queue of cabs that were parked near the far end of the terminal building, waiting for fares.

It was ungodly hot. The drivers, several of them smoking, stood in a knot outside their vehicles, looking bored and discouraged. Most of the time they would have been less than interested in talking to a cop, but in this instance they were happy for anything that would take their minds off their shared misery.

“We’re looking for this guy,” Brian said, holding up a copy of the photo. “He may be trying to fly out of town this morning. Have any of you seen him?”

Brian was astonished when one of the drivers raised his hand. “Let me take a closer look,” he said. After examining the photo, he nodded. “Yes, that’s him. I gave this guy a ride about an hour ago.”

Brian’s heart skipped a beat. “Did you bring him here? Did he say what airline?”

“That’s just it. When I picked him up, he told me he was flying American, but when we came up the drive, he said he’d forgotten something back at the hotel and needed to go back.”

“Were the patrol cars here then?” Brian asked.

The driver frowned. “I think so.”

“What happened next?”

“I drove him back to his hotel. When he paid me, I offered to wait for him and bring him back, but he said it wasn’t necessary.”

“What happened then?” Brian asked.

The driver shrugged. “I watched him. He didn’t go back to his room or even into the office. He got in a car and drove away.”

“What kind of car?”

“A silver minivan.”

“What hotel?”

“Los Amigos downtown.”

Los Amigos Motel was a name Brian recognized. It wasn’t the kind of accommodations airport passengers generally preferred on their way in or out of town. It was a dodgy place with a reputation for renting rooms on an hourly basis.

After taking down the cabbie’s name and contact information, Brian thanked him for his help and headed back to his own vehicle. If the driver was correct, Jonathan Southard had already checked out of the hotel, but accessing his registration records would let Brian know if he was still using his own ID or if he had managed to get his hands on a phony one.

The desk clerk at Los Amigos was not happy to see Brian Fellows’s badge. Neither was the manager on duty, but they managed to give Brian what he needed. Jonathan Southard had checked in using his own name and his California driver’s license. He had paid cash for his room, arriving late Saturday night and departing today. And yes, Mr. Southard’s arm had been in a sling. He claimed that he’d been bitten by a neighbor’s Doberman.

Probably thought that sounded better than being bitten by his wife’s beagle, Brian thought.

He immediately relayed what he had learned back to the department to Jake Abernathy’s voice mail. He also passed the same information along to Detective Mumford in Thousand Oaks.

“So he saw the cop cars at the airport and figured out that trying to fly wasn’t going to work,” Alex said. “His next move will be to ditch that car and pick up a new one. Can you cover used-car lots?”

The truth was, Brian Fellows was off the case. He couldn’t “cover” anything, but he didn’t want to admit that to Alex Mumford.

“I doubt he’d use one of those,” Brian said. “If I were in his shoes and on the run, I’d be more likely to pick up a ‘for sale by owner’ vehicle from a street corner somewhere rather than going to a dealer. A private citizen would be only too happy to take a handful of cash. A dealer would be obliged to report it.”

Alex Mumford sighed. “You’re probably right,” she said. “But even that will take time. He’ll have to make contact with the seller. The cabdriver told you you’re only an hour or so behind him. If that’s the case, you may still be able to nail him before he can get out of town.”

“Let’s hope,” Brian agreed. “But there is one piece of good news in all this. I was worried that the shooter might come back looking for our surviving witness, the little girl. But since he was trying to fly out of town, I don’t think he’s focused on her. I’ve had a Border Patrol officer keeping an eye on her. I just left him a message that he can probably stand down.”