In Plain Sight
Tara Taylor Quinn

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Sherry Stephens, who is as pure on deeper levels as she is on the surface. Thank you for your joy, your example and for a unique and treasured friendship.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to Maricopa County Superior Court Judge Sherry Stephens, her staff and Sheriff’s Deputy David Parra for generously sharing their inside look at a world I’d never seen. You have remarkable strength and endurance, and the citizens of Maricopa County are blessed to have you there helping to keep them safe.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

1

“Any questions?” chief prosecutor Janet McNeil asked the insolent young man slouched across from her. His cuffed hands shifted behind him at the scarred table in the private conference room.

“You said you were going to offer us a plea.”

Jan shook her head at Gordon Michaels, a well-known Flagstaff defense attorney, and returned her attention to the defendant, Jacob Hall. He’d been arraigned the week before, with a trial date set for the middle of December—the maximum amount of time allowed by the law that ensured Hall the right to a speedy trial.

“No plea. I changed my mind.” Staring down the defendant, she answered his attorney. I’ve got you, buddy, for at least ninety days. That gives me time to find sufficient proof in the new evidence to lock you away forever.

The green snake etched into Hall’s arm flicked its black tongue in the direction of his neck. The ink elsewhere on his body was so thick that she couldn’t make out specific designs.

“Come on, Jan. What’s the maximum he can get on one count of identity theft?”

“By itself, four years.”

“So give us a plea for three. Save the state the cost of a trial.”

She didn’t take her eyes off the twenty-three-year-old white supremacist. She’d been trying to convict him since he turned eighteen. How many lives had been lost in those five years? And all because, even though the cops did their job and made the arrests, she couldn’t get enough on Hall to make anything stick.

“I’m adding charges for credit card and financial institution fraud, as well,” she told them.

Jacob Hall didn’t blink, didn’t flinch—and didn’t look away. The man was completely without conscience. And in possession of more physical agility, strength and intelligence than this world could withstand.

“Both federal offenses,” she continued, “and with priors, they could carry up to thirty years.”

Hall gave her a condescending smile. He showed no fear. Jan didn’t think it was an act. The man was completely confident she’d never get a conviction.

For a second, he had her. Tendrils of fear crawled from her belly into her chest.

“You didn’t make this jail call just as a courtesy to inform us of further charges, Ms. McNeil. That’s not like you—you’re a busy woman,” Michaels said, his voice coming from her right. “And since there’s no plea, I’m assuming you’ve got a deal to offer us.”

Pulling her gaze away from the defendant, Jan focused on Michaels. She’d known him since law school and had argued against him several times. The colorless man was basically a good guy—a top-rate defense attorney, sure, but he won his cases without playing dirty.

“Yes, I do,” she said, determined not to let weakness win. She turned back to Hall. “I want a list of names, places, dates. I want descriptions—in vivid detail. Give me Bobby Donahue and the people who help him run the Ivory Nation, and I’ll give you consideration on a sentencing recommendation.”

“You been reading too many fairy tales, Jan.”

“I don’t read fairy tales, Mr. Hall.” She glanced back at Michaels. “Take it or leave it.”

The two men exchanged a silent look.

“My client doesn’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Michaels said.

“That’s your final decision?”

“It is.”

Jan stood, lifted the padded strap of her maroon briefcase to her shoulder. And then the guard was there, motioning for Hall to stand. “See you in court on Monday,” she said. The young man turned and sauntered out, but not before Jan noticed two things.

The black letters stamped on the back of his black-and-white clothing—Sheriff’s Inmate. Unsentenced.

And the middle finger extended at her from the cuffed hands resting against his backside.

Using a clean mason jar topped with a coffee filter, the perpetrator will pour the chilled hydrogen peroxide, muriatic acid and iodine tincture into the jar…

Slumped in front of the keyboard, Simon typed, stopped, stared out the front window of his dining room office, and yawned. A nice September Friday. Blue skies. Balmy weather. The neighborhood was quiet. He liked quiet.

Iodine sales are regulated by the federal government.

The school bus had dropped off the elementary school kids twenty-six minutes before. Because once upon a time he’d been trained to observe and to protect, he’d watched them all disperse to their respective homes and waiting parents. In another two or three minutes the high-schoolers would be descending on the block.

He got in another line or two before their bus arrived. And watched them climb down, one by one, sometimes collecting in groups, as they sauntered down the street, some going into houses, others disappearing down side roads. Alan Bonaby was the only one Simon knew by name because the boy used to deliver his papers before quitting the route. Alan walked alone, pushing his glasses up his nose every couple of steps. His house was the last one before the road dead-ended into acres of pine trees.

Simon pushed his wire rims up his nose and got back to work. Law-enforcement manuals did not write themselves—which overall, was probably a good thing, since if they did, his publisher, Sam’s publisher, would not pay him to write them.

Red phosphorus is regulated. To get around this, perpetrators obtain road flares in bulk and scrape off the phosphorus…

Reaching up to push against the knot of muscles at the back of his neck, Simon was briefly distracted by the hair tickling the top of his hand. It was starting to turn up at the edges. He opened the top right-hand drawer of his desk and grabbed a pair of scissors. Careful to catch the falling strands, he lopped off a quarter inch all the way around. Curls were out.

Indicators of a meth lab.

Simon hit the bullets-and-numbering key. Chose a hand-pointing bullet. Chemical odors. Bullet Two… A car had just turned up the street—a blue Infiniti, driven by his next-door neighbor…. Chemical containers in the trash. Bullet Three… She was pulling into her drive…. Multiple visitors who don’t stay long. And on into her garage. In about forty seconds she’d be heading out to the box at the curb for her mail…. Bullet Four. Homes with blackened windows.

And there she was, beautiful as always, her shapely butt looking quite fine in the narrow, calf-length black-and-red skirt she was wearing; that long dark hair swinging just above her hips as she bent to peer into her box.

Simon jumped up.

“You know,” he called out, seconds later, strolling across his front yard, “it’d be safer for you to drive up to this box just like the mailman does and get your mail from inside the car.”

Janet McNeil smiled at him. “You see robbers waiting in the wings to take me down and confiscate my bills, Simon?”

He saw all kinds of stuff she knew nothing about. “Just passing on an observation,” he said, sliding his hands beneath the loose tails of his button-down shirt and into the pockets of his jeans. They were baggy, too, exactly as he liked them. “If you’re not into safety, think of it as time management,” he said. “You could save a good two, three minutes if you picked up as you drove past.”

“And another five without my conversation with you,” she said, still grinning at him, “but then, what would I have to shake my head about over dinner?”

“I saw your name in the paper again this morning.” He’d dropped the toast he’d been eating, ready to stand up and protect her, before he remembered she was none of his business. That he was no longer sworn to uphold and protect.

“Yeah, another day, another criminal,” she said, sifting through the envelopes in her hand.

“Is Hall really a white supremacist like they claim?”

“Who knows?”

He rocked back and forth on his heels, watching her look at the coupons in a general delivery flyer. “You going to try to prove it?”

She looked up then, her fine features completely composed. “What do you think?”

What he thought was that she should be married and at home having babies. Sexist or not, the concept suited him far better than the idea of a nice woman like Janet McNeil spending her days with the dregs of society spitting at her.

“I hear they’re not a friendly bunch,” he said, keeping most of what he had to say on the subject to himself. Simon might understand how vital it was to obliterate violence and hate, but he didn’t have to think about it. Or like it.

“You know, Simon,” she said, tilting her head, “you should consider writing suspense instead of economics textbooks. It might suit you better.”

Yeah, well, no one said she didn’t have a discerning eye. He’d finished typing in the handwritten revisions on an economics textbook once. He’d done it for someone else and still maintained the fiction that this was what he wrote. It was easier that way. “Hey, you trying to say I don’t look the economics type?”

“No.” She held her mail to her chest. “I’m saying your curiosity and imagination are wasted on numbers and percentages.”

But being considered an author of economics textbooks made a great cover. “Someday, I’ll have to show you my etchings.” He managed to keep a completely straight face while he delivered the tacky line.

“Are you ever serious?”

“Not often. You?”

“All day, every day.”

He was glad to hear that. One moment of levity in her line of work could lead to the missed clue that returned to stab her in the back—literally.

“Then, you should pay particular attention to your five minutes with me every afternoon,” he said. “People need a bit of humor to keep them healthy and strong.”

“I figured eating a good breakfast did that.”

He smiled. And would have liked to hang around. “Have a good evening, Counselor,” he said, backing up before he got too close.

Or did something stupid, like ask her if she wanted to go get a burger with him.

Simon didn’t like to share his burger experiences. Or his life.

He didn’t have enough to spare. And he intended to keep it that way.

They knew the landing gear on the jet was damaged. No one was all that concerned. Jan pulled a file from a vault in the courthouse office inexplicably housed within the airport, watching people come and go from the street. The sun was shining out there. Inside, a cast of gray infused the lighting with gloom.

Suddenly, the structure lurched. Her shoulder slammed against a wall. They were going to crash. She heard someone scream the news—a coworker. Oh, God. She was finally going to crash. She’d known her whole life this time would come.

She tried to scream, but she couldn’t make a sound. Tried to tell someone they were already on the ground. And then all she heard was the screeching of metal against metal, as the plane met asphalt and she fell to the side. Things tumbled around her, breaking. She waited to die. Wondered how it would feel.

And then, just as quickly as it started, the motion stopped. Jan half lay on the floor, listening, waiting. She was breathing.

She tried to stand, slowly, straightening her limbs—waiting for them to fail, waiting for the ensuing pain. She explored her face with her fingers, assessing the damage, feeling for cuts. There were none.

She was alive—and she had to get out before there was an explosion. She searched frantically but the distressed and agitated people blocked her view. And then she saw Johnny. Her only sibling had glanced her way, but he must not have seen her. He turned toward a beam of light and dashed into it.

Scrambling over files, slipping on debris, Jan stumbled after him, desperate to get to the light before the plane burst into flames. She gulped. And her lungs filled with the coolness of fresh air. She’d made it out.

Distraught, she looked for someone she knew. She was crying. Needed to be held, comforted, and everyone was busy, unaware of her presence. Pushing through the crowd, she caught a glimpse of a familiar body up ahead.

“Mom?” she called out.

Her mother turned, saw her, and then immediately turned back to the women she’d been walking with. They were heading toward the crash. Jan wanted her mother to know that she’d been in the crash—that she’d survived.

She said the words. And then again louder. Her mother looked at her, nodded, patted her on the head and continued on her way, leaving Jan standing alone in the street, sobbing. Sobbing. So hard…

Desperate crying woke her. Sitting up in bed Jan brushed damp tendrils of hair back from her face and forehead with both hands, holding her head between them.

Oh, God. Would these dreams never end? Almost thirty years she’d been having the nightmares. The situations varied, but the feelings never changed. Devastation. Unanswered cries for help. Loneliness. What did it mean? Why was she tortured like this?

With her head resting against her knees, Jan hugged her legs. She hated the nightmares, the subconscious she couldn’t control, but she didn’t hate herself. She tried hard every day. She did her best.

Slowly, thoughts of the preceding day penetrated her consciousness. The newspaper article describing Hall’s arrest. Her visit to the jail. Lunch with a law-school classmate. A spat between the office manager at the county attorney’s office and a prosecutor who didn’t understand job jurisdiction. Simon. The quick Friday-night phone call to Hailey, confirming their outing the following morning. Nothing uncommon. A good day.

Jan glanced at the clock. 3:00 a.m. She considered lying down again, trying to get some sleep. And shivered as all the horror of her nightmare resurfaced. She couldn’t chance going back there. Not tonight.

Getting up, Jan pulled her hair over one shoulder, giving the sweaty back of her cotton pajamas a chance to dry out as she walked over to the window to peer into the night. At the side of her house, more long than square, the bedroom window allowed only a partial view of the street. Not that she was missing much. Dark houses. Stillness. A couple of dim streetlights that cast more shadow than illumination. But the view straight ahead was a different matter. Light was streaming from Simon Green’s bedroom window, which was opposite hers. She couldn’t see through the pulled curtains—not that she wanted to.

But there was a strange kind of comfort in knowing she wasn’t the only human being awake on the block.

Did he suffer from nightmares, too? Somehow, she doubted it. Smiling tentatively, Jan left her bedroom and went into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. Simon’s mind probably entertained him with stand-up routines all night. Or maybe he was working late. She’d heard that writers did that. And why not? That freed up his days to do whatever he pleased.

Jan was coming out of the shower several hours later when she heard the front bell ring. Wringing out her hair, she wrapped it in the only towel that would hold it all, an extra-large bath sheet she’d bought for just that purpose, pulled on her violet robe and went to peek out the front window.

A motorcycle was parked in the gravel beneath the low-hanging branches of the aspen tree. She didn’t recognize it. Hesitated, as she stared at it. But really, anyone who meant her harm wouldn’t park out front—especially in the broad light of day.

Reminding herself of the fine line between caution and paranoia, she went to the door and opened it a crack, intending to ask her visitor to wait while she got dressed, then she threw it wide instead.

“Johnny!” She reached up to give her younger brother a hug. “I didn’t know you were back.”

A sales rep for a major publisher of nonfiction and self-help books, Johnny was on the road a lot. And too busy to see her, most of the time, when he was in town.

He shrugged, his off-white shirt opening at the collar, revealing what looked like the edge of a tattoo just beneath his collarbone. “I just got in last night,” he said.

He had a tattoo. Everyone was getting them these days—she knew that. But Johnny? Jan wanted to ask him about it, wanted him to tell her that the mark was only henna.

She invited him in instead. Offered to make some coffee.

“I can’t stay.” Johnny held his shiny black-and-white helmet between his hands as he stepped through the door. “I’m back on the road on Monday and I have a load of things to do before then. I just wanted to talk to you for a second.” He glanced down, almost sheepishly, his longish dark hair falling over his forehead. Jan’s heart melted, as it always did when her brother needed something.

“What’s up?” Johnny’s visits and his requests were few. She’d do anything she could for him.

“I was kind of wired when I got in last night,” he said, and she wondered if he was still in the apartment by the university, where he’d lived the previous summer. Last she’d heard from their mother, he’d been planning to move to a new place out by the Woodlands. “I looked through the week’s papers, catching up, and noticed the article about you and that Hall dude.”

Jan warmed beneath his concerned stare and nodded.

“He sounds dangerous, sis.” Sis. He hardly called her that anymore.

“Which is why he’s safely in custody.”

“I don’t know.” He bowed his head again and then glanced back at her, his dark eyes serious. “I don’t like the idea of you out there digging up stuff on him. He might be locked up, but what if he does have people—and money—on the outside?”

Fear shot through her chest. Jan took a deep breath, quelled the emotion—left over from her bad night, she told herself—and smiled. “I’ve been at this job a long time, little brother,” she reminded him. “And I’m still here.”

“So why chance it? Drop the case, sis. Give it to someone else.”

“I can’t,” she told him, torn between exasperation that the one time he came to see her it was to ask her to do something she couldn’t possibly do and happiness that he still cared. “I’ve been following this guy for years. The history’s convoluted, complicated, and I’m the only one who knows it all. If I don’t argue this, he’s going to get off again, and we’re not safe with him out there.”

Johnny frowned, dropping his arm, his helmet resting against the side of his black jeans. “It says he’s in for identity theft. That’s not a matter of life and death for the citizens of Flagstaff.”

No, but the longtime white supremacist was guilty of more than fraud. She was sure of it. She decided now was not the time, however, to let her worried little brother in on that fact.

“It’s my job, Johnny,” she said instead. “The police arrest them, and we prosecute them. Someone has to, or the entire judicial system goes down the tubes and chaos reigns.”

“Just this once, sis. Can’t you let go of the responsibility just this once? Lighten up. Take a vacation. I’ll spring for it. Hell,” he said, grinning, rubbing his knuckles against the side of her cheek, “I’ll even go with you, if that’ll get you out of town.”

Tears welled at the back of her eyes. They’d been so close when they were younger. He’d been her best friend, in spite of the four-year difference in their ages. How many nights had he come to her room when he’d heard her cry out from a nightmare? How many nights had he sat there with her, telling her stupid jokes, making her smile, until he’d fallen asleep at the end of her bed and she’d covered him with her comforter and fallen back to sleep herself?

“Now, that’s tempting, Johnny,” she said softly, even knowing that she couldn’t run out on her job—not on this case. There was too much at stake. “Where would we go?”

It didn’t hurt to fantasize for a moment.

“Anywhere you want,” he surprised her by saying. “You name the time, the place, and I’ll be there.”

“What about your job?”

“I have vacation coming.”

“Johnny…” She hated to disappoint him.

“Name the time and place, sis,” he repeated, his voice intent as he bent to give her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be waiting to hear.”

“Johnny!” she called after him, as he spun out the door and headed down the walk without letting her tell him she couldn’t go. He climbed on his motorcycle, slid the helmet down over his ears, and without looking her way, sped off.

2

Flagstaff, Arizona, was a unique place. A little too big, too spread out, to maintain the small-town feel—and too small and secluded to attract big-city folks. Simon drove along old Route 66 toward the town’s one indoor shopping mall, agreeing with FBI Special Agent Scott Olsen’s assertion that this city, with Northern Arizona University’s rambling campus in the middle and a train station not far from the center of town, was a perfect terrorist training depot.

Entering the mall, he located the directory and the store he sought. A potential terrorist could find anything he needed here—and once outside the city limits, on any side, he’d disappear in the miles and miles of undeveloped land, woods, mountains, desert, Indian reservation. Places to get lost—forever if need be.

“Hi, Bettina, show me the best mediocre snow gear you’ve got on sale.” Simon read her name tag and then met the salesgirl’s eyes.

“What do you need it for?” She asked. “Skiing? Snowboarding? Snowmobiling? Or just building a snowman?”

Building a snowman. The last Christmas Sam had been alive, Simon had dragged him away from the half-finished economics textbook his twin had written by hand and was in the process of entering on his computer, and while consuming a six-pack of beer, the two of them had built a snow monstrosity worthy of the Guinness Book of World Records.

“Skiing,” he said belatedly, realizing too much time had passed. He focused on the smiling young face in front of him, his vision clearing, until he was once again seeing a stranger named Bettina in the Flagstaff Mall.

She was nodding. “Too early for the good sales,” she said, walking him over to a group of shelves along the side wall. “Snowbowl’s season doesn’t start until the holidays.” She pointed up. “These are your best bet for now.”

Simon grabbed a set of thermal underwear, then plopped waterproof insulated pants and a matching jacket on top.

“Where you going? Utah? Montana?” Bettina hung around watching.

Hopefully nowhere. “Where would you suggest?” he asked, adding thick socks and toe-warmers, a fleece hat with earflaps and down-lined leather gloves to the stack in his arms. He had to be prepared. Snow-bowl might not have snow yet, but the resort just miles from Flagstaff was open year round and was currently drawing FBI suspicion.

Hands in her back pockets, she ran her gaze along his body. “How good are you?”

Champion quality when he’d left Philadelphia almost eight years before. “Good enough,” he told the slender young woman standing before him. Good enough for anything she might have in mind.

But “in mind” was as far as it went with him.

“Hey, Ma, how you doing?” Turning on lights as she let herself into the living room of her mother’s prefabricated home, Jan quickly took stock of the pulled blinds, the pillow and blanket on the couch.

“Good, sweetie, really good.” Grace McNeil stood, finger-combed her scattered hair and gave Jan a hug.

“You didn’t go to church this morning?”

“I forgot I was out of gas until it was too late.”

Grace’s clothes were wrinkled, the beige slacks and colorful blouse Jan had bought for her birthday resembling something from a secondhand shop rather than the designer outfit it was.

“How was bingo last night?”

Grace shrugged.

“You didn’t go?”

“How was your week, dear?” Dropping back onto the couch on which, Jan suspected, her mother had recently been sound asleep, Grace picked at her fingernails.

“Ma, Saturday night bingo was one of our deals. Remember? I’d help out, and you’d stay busy. You promised.” Her mother had been so adamant about moving to the Sedona resort.

Grace’s face was lined with pain. “I ate something that didn’t agree with me,” she offered Jan as an explanation.

Jan wasn’t sure whether to believe her or not. “What about Thursday’s mah-jongg game?”

“Didn’t do so good at first, but then I had Thirteen Orphans.” Grace’s face lit up. “That was the first time any of us saw it happen.”

Jan had never played mah-jongg—she found the tiles and flowers and dragons confusing—but her mother had a passion for the game. And after her most recent suicide scare a couple of years before, Grace’s passion for anything was a blessing.

“Did you play here?” she asked, glancing around the room, which was neat and spotlessly clean—except for the blanket and pillow.

“Yeah, it was my turn. Sara couldn’t make it, but Belle had a friend staying with her who wanted to come. And Jean was here.”

Jean lived in the modular next door—about twelve feet away from the aluminum side of her mother’s two-year-old home.

“Have you seen her since then?”

“We had lunch on Friday. And she stopped by last night, on her way to bingo. We were going to ride up to the clubhouse together.”

So…maybe her mother really had just had a stomachache. At sixty-two and with Crohn’s disease, she was certainly entitled. Settling back into the reclining chair adjacent to the couch, Jan kicked off her clogs and pulled her feet up, cross-legged, on jean-clad thighs.

“How are you feeling now?”

“My stomach’s fine,” Grace said with a chuckle. “My pride would’ve preferred that I slept in my bed last night rather than in my clothes on the couch. Or at least to have woken with enough time to shower and change before you got here.”

Jan released a long breath. Grinned. Everything was normal.

“What do you want to do for dinner?” she asked. Her mother hadn’t sunk back into the darkness of depression that had almost killed her ten years ago and again more recently.

But that had been before Sedona. Before her mother had daily activities and friends to keep her mind occupied.

Since the move, the anti-depressants had been more successful.

Jan really needed to learn to quit worrying so much. To relax.

“I thought I’d make a meat loaf, since it’s your favorite, and I bought fresh peaches to make cobbler…”

Jan was lucky her mother put up with her. She probably would’ve lost patience with such nagging years ago.

“I had one of my nightmares the other night,” Jan told her mother later that day, as she finished off the last bite of peach cobbler. They’d already talked about Johnny, who’d called, but hadn’t come by yet. And Hailey— Grace was anxious to meet the troubled eight-year-old Jan was trying to adopt, completely supporting Jan’s need to start her own family in this untraditional way.

Grace, who’d showered, put on makeup and was now wearing a soft green pantsuit, scraped her spoon across her plate, cleaning up every remaining morsel of dessert. “Tell me about the dream,” she said.

Jan did. In all the vivid detail she could remember. “I’m afraid I’m going crazy,” she said softly, as she glanced at her mother.

“Of course you aren’t,” Grace replied, rising to stack their plates. She carried them over to the small dishwasher on the other side of the half wall that separated the living and dining area from the kitchen. “How many professionals have to reassure you before you start believing, girl?”

A million and one, Jan supposed. Since she’d already seen what seemed like a million.

“The nightmares are so real. And the feelings stay long after I’m awake. It scares me, Ma.”

Drying her hands on her apron, Grace returned with a pot of coffee and filled both their cups. “I know they do, sweetie,” she said, covering Jan’s hand.

Jan soaked up the closeness. The security found in the touch of her mother’s hands.

“The fear is what makes them nightmares,” Grace continued. “But that’s all they are, honey. Bad dreams. They simply mean that you have an active imagination.”

She’d heard the words so many times before. And still she listened intently.

“They’re nothing to worry about. You know that. If I thought differently, I would’ve scoured the country years ago, paid whatever it cost, to rid you of them.”

“I know.”

“And being upset by them is natural, too,” Grace added. “Just like watching a horror movie that sticks with you for days afterward.”

Yeah, only her horror movies were private—and homemade.

She glanced up at Grace, finding strength and comfort in her mother’s gaze. “Thank you,” she said, letting go of the fear. Once again.

“I love you, my dear,” Grace said, giving her hand a squeeze.

“I love you, too, Ma.”

“I’ll have the barbecue chicken sandwich with coleslaw.” Bobby Donahue, founder of the Ivory Nation, said, smiling at the young Mama’s Café waitress on Sunday evening. “And a Diet Coke, please.”

And then, the Ivory Nation brochures he’d commissioned tucked neatly in the zipped folder beside him, he made a mental note as his dinner guest ordered a burger and fries. The kid was seventeen, the nerdy type, but he had the power of his convictions. It would’ve been a strike against him to tell the waitress that he’d have the same thing Bobby had ordered. He needed spiritual followers, not copycats.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said, holding the young man’s gaze. Tony Littleton maintained eye contact. Another mental check in the “go” column.

“Not much to tell,” the high school senior said. “Dad took off when I was a kid. I don’t remember much about him. No brothers or sisters. Mom works a lot—has a boyfriend, nice guy, but he’s into sports.”

No close family ties. It all fit.

“What about friends?” Bobby expected that he knew the answer to this one. He’d figured out the basics of Tony’s existence, if not the details, from his chats with him online.

“I’ve never been the most popular guy in school,” Tony said with a shrug. “I’m no good at sports, not that great looking, I get good grades even when I don’t particularly try. I’m a science whiz, and I write for the school paper. Mostly all stuff the cool kids avoid.”

No close friends. Just as Bobby had suspected.

“What kind of stuff do you write?” Tony hadn’t mentioned that particular talent in their previous conversations.

“Mostly editorials.” Tony took a deep sip of the lemonade that had arrived while he was talking. “I see something that bugs me, and I write about it.”

Bobby leaned back, his hand resting against his mouth. “What bugs you, Tony?”

“Injustice.” The boy’s response was strong, his expression firm.

Bobby smiled and unzipped his portfolio.

“All rise.”

Pushing the heavy wooden chair back from a scarred table, Jan stood at the bailiff’s direction, along with the fifteen or so other people in Judge Matthew Warren’s court, just after lunchtime on Monday.

The fiftysomething judge entered through a door behind his bench. “Be seated,” he said. His black robe covered the arms of his chair.

When she’d heard that the Hall case had been assigned to Warren, Jan had opened a bottle of champagne. She’d argued before him many times and had found the man to be fair almost to the detriment of his career. Matthew Warren didn’t seem to care whose money was involved or how much might be at stake; he didn’t respond to threats or power, and he had never played a political game in his life, as far as she could tell.

He asked if the state was ready.

“Yes, Your Honor, the state is ready.”

He looked to opposing counsel for the same confirmation, and when Gordon Michaels, seated at the table across the aisle from Jan, answered in the affirmative, he called the case number. Jacob Hall stood and was released from the chain that bound him to the state’s other four guests in the jury box, which also served as the courtroom’s inmate seating section. He grinned as Warren’s deputy led him down to the podium three or four feet below and directly in front of the judge. Michaels joined him at the microphone. Jacob didn’t seem to notice.

“Gordon Michaels for the defense, Your Honor. This is my client, Jacob Hall.”

The defense attorney shifted his weight a couple of times. He looked a little tense.

Jan stood again. “Jan McNeil for the state, Your Honor.”

Judge Warren nodded, leaned toward the microphone set in front of him and ran through his spiel for the record, citing the case number and stating that he’d read the motions.

Jan checked her notes, rehearsing her justifications for denying Michaels’s motion to suppress evidence found on Hall’s personal computer.

Glancing up, she caught the defendant staring at her. And she knew he was looking forward to eating her piece by piece—in private—without clothes on. His eyes had fire in them. And a lascivious glow. It was almost as if she could hear him speaking to her—as if the room held just the two of them.

She stared back.

Warren read aloud the motion before him, asking Michaels if he had anything to say on behalf of his client. A cough came from behind her, a spectator. Someone there to watch Jacob Hall’s proceedings, or a supporter of one of the other inmates waiting for his case to be called? She didn’t break eye contact with the defendant to find out.

“Your Honor.” Michaels’s voice was clearly audible. “The warrant to seize my client’s computer was based solely on a tip given to a police officer, Detective Ruple, by a supposed confidential informant. We have absolutely no proof that any such individual actually exists and, in fact, we have reason to believe otherwise. Mr. Hall lives alone. The computer in question is a desktop unit that he keeps in the spare bedroom of his apartment, and only he has access to it. Even if someone was in that room without his knowledge, that person would not have been able to access the information on Mr. Hall’s hard drive, as he had it password-protected and he has given his password to no one. Further, Mr. Hall has spoken to no one about the contents of his computer. Thus, it is clear, Your Honor, that there could have been no informant who knew about that content. The constitution of this great nation protects not only my client but all of us from illegal search and seizure. What kind of society do we live in if, at any moment, anyone flashing a badge can enter a private home and take whatever he pleases? Our job is to protect the public by upholding the constitution, and Detective Ruple’s search of my client’s home was in direct conflict with that great document and the laws made since to support and clarify our forefathers’ intent. Yes, Detective Ruple had a warrant, but one gained solely on the word of a ghost. I ask that you suppress the evidence taken from Mr. Hall’s apartment, Your Honor, including any and all information found on his computer.”

Jan tried to breathe calmly during the brief silence that followed, refusing to be intimidated by Hall’s visual assault and hating the apparent logic of Michaels’s argument. She couldn’t win this case without the evidence taken from Jacob Hall’s personal computer.

“Ms. McNeil?”

The judge called on her, and with a last grin, Jacob Hall turned his attention back to the proceedings at hand. Jan stared at the defendant’s back for another second or two, just to make it clear, if only to herself, that she hadn’t been the first to look away. She was going to win this case.

Hands shaking, she stood.

“Your Honor, the state believes Mr. Hall is a member of the Ivory Nation.” Judge Warren’s nod indicated that he was familiar with the name. The Ivory Nation was one of Arizona’s largest white supremacist organizations and its involvement was suspected in several unsolved murders and numerous other felonies.

“Anyone who’s going to come forward with information against any member of such a group would be putting himself at almost certain risk of retaliation if his identity was disclosed—”

“Mr. Hall’s private memberships have not been proven, nor are they on trial here, Your Honor,” Michaels broke in.

“There was an article in the press two weeks ago and again on Friday,” Jan continued, as if the opposing counsel hadn’t spoken, “claiming Mr. Hall’s alleged association with the Ivory Nation.” The calmness of her voice belied the pounding of her heart. “The state was not responsible for that information, Your Honor, but whether the allegation is true or not, there are now many who believe it. Police officers’ use of informants is common practice,” she said. “Based on evidence gained from informants, we’ve been able to protect the citizens of this state by apprehending, prosecuting and removing from the streets many dangerous threats to society. And how can we ask these citizens, who are willing to come forward for the good of all, to do so without also granting them the protection we seek to provide every citizen? Detective Ruple has been with the Flagstaff police department for twenty years, Your Honor. His record is impeccable. He’s made more arrests than anyone else on the force. But those arrests mean nothing to the people of this state if we don’t support them by prosecuting offenders to the full extent of the law. The use of confidential informants is allowed under the law, Your Honor. I ask that you deny Mr. Michaels’s request.”

Judge Warren was reading something in the file in front of him.

Jacob Hall stood without moving, facing forward, his hands cuffed together in front. The observers behind her maintained a stillness that seemed almost automatic, in deference to the powerful man seated in front of them all.

If he doesn’t grant it, you’ve still got ninety days, Jan reminded herself silently. He did the crimes. You’ll find another way to prove it.

She couldn’t let emotion diminish her ability to think with agility and focus.

“You both make valid points.” Warren’s voice cracked the uneasy silence that had fallen. “I find that I can neither grant the motion nor refuse it, with the limited information provided. Therefore, I’m setting an evidentiary hearing on this motion to be held no later than two weeks from today.” He glanced at Jan, and at his frown, her heart sank.

“Ms. McNeil, bring in your cop and have him fully prepared to give specifics regarding this confidential informant.”

Damn. Damn. And damn. “Yes, sir.”

“Counsel, please approach.”

Without so much as a peripheral glance, Jan passed Jacob Hall, and with Michaels at her side, she stood before the judge’s bench. It took only a few seconds to confer over dates and the hearing was set for Monday, two weeks hence, at eight-thirty in the morning.

She had two weeks to convince a cop with twenty years on the job to do something he’d never done before. Something that could endanger his own life, and the life of someone he’d given his word to, as well.

3

The phone rang moments before the first bus was due to drop off Simon’s youngest group of neighbors on Tuesday afternoon. He glanced at caller ID and then back at the screen in front of him. With a click, he maximized the manuscript he’d minimized in order to play freecell, covering the game he hadn’t won yet rather than closing it. He had a ninety-one-percent win ratio and he wasn’t about to see that drop because he’d quit a game.

Going rate for methamphetamine in Arizona (prices vary by state).

Simon read what he’d written half an hour before and waited for the ringing to stop. He checked the time in the lower right corner of his screen. Two minutes until the bus. Fingers on the keyboard, he deliberated over bullet choices. Made a decision. A pointing finger.

1/4 gram—$25.

One minute until the bus. The phone sounded again. Same number. The FBI agent was persistent. He picked up.

“Hello, Olsen. What can I do for you?” Simon said, eyes focused on the corner outside, waiting for the bus. After all, what else did he have to do with his day but munch on carrot sticks and watch other peoples’ kids get safely home from school?

“A map found at the Snowbowl corroborates the girlfriend’s story.”

Simon didn’t say the choice words he was thinking. “Who found it?” How legitimate was it?

“Full-time custodian. An older guy who’s been there close to ten years. Keeps to himself. He was cleaning a locker and found the folded sheet caught between two pieces of metal at the bottom.”

“Like it was planted there?”

“Like it dropped out of something.”

The better of the two scenarios.

“Someone lost it and doesn’t know where.”

“That’d be my guess.”

“Who used the locker last?” Not that it mattered to him. He hadn’t agreed to anything.

“A student of Leonard Diamond.”

The white man with the background that was apparently untraceable, or was traceable to contradicting places, who privately trained cross-country skiers and paid the Snowbowl for use of the facilities. Or so he’d said. The FBI had a tip that suggested something different.

“Was the student male or female?”

“Male.”

“An old piece of paper obviously left behind. Why did the custodian keep it? Turn it in? Why not just throw it away?” Those questions belonged to the agents and local police detective on the case, not to Simon. He didn’t want them.

“It incorporated every inch of the Snowbowl property, but it wasn’t like any other map of the Snowbowl he’d ever seen. The trails on the map aren’t standard Snowbowl trails. The way they’re engineered, only the most proficient skier could hope to master them or even make it over them alive. Turns out they aren’t sanctioned, which means they shouldn’t exist. The map was detailed, computer-generated, possibly one of many. Snowbowl officials contacted us.”

“Someone spoke to Diamond?”

“Never saw the map before in his life.” Scott Olsen’s mimicking voice made clear his lack of trust in the other man’s word.

“And the student?”

“Quit the class.”

“Let me guess,” Simon said. “The guy left no forwarding address and Diamond had no personal information on him.”

“Correct.”

“So how does a map of nonexistent trails tie in with a disgruntled girlfriend’s tale of hearing about terrorist training?”

Simon didn’t want to know. Deep in his soul, if he still had a soul, he didn’t want to know.

“Marking the beginning and ending of each trail was an emblem. A circle with three crosses in the top half and a blackened dagger at the bottom.”

Just as Amanda Blake—the disgrunteld ex-girlfriend of an acquaintance of Diamond’s—had told it.

“I’m not the right man for this job.”

“You had a master’s degree in law enforcement at twenty-three and you were one of the youngest under-cover agents the FBI ever had. You have antiterrorist training.”

“That was a long time ago.” And ultimately all that preparation had been useless.

“I have no idea how far this thing reaches, how many people could be hurt. This gets out now, and the local police have a city in panic. I need a very discreet professional look-see. You’re the only one I trust.”

Simon closed his eyes, consumed with remorse. And then opened them again, seeing nothing but the clean notepad he’d pulled out of the bottom drawer. “You said Amanda Blake is a waitress at the Museum Club?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll go tonight.”

“Glad to hear it,” Scott Olsen said. “Anything you need, Simon, anything at all, you just let me know….”

Simon nodded, his throat tight. “As always, awareness of my role here is on a life-or-death, need-to-know basis only.”

“Of course,” Olsen said. “Not even the local police will know.” And then he added, “Thank you.”

“I’m a thankless guy, Scott. I thought you were smart enough to figure that out.”

He hung up. Glanced out the window. He’d missed the bus.

“Andrew, where’s the Zeidel file?” Sitting at her desk, Jan called to the attorney she’d hired straight out of law school several years before. He’d been her most trusted assistant and colleague ever since.

“I left it on the corner of your desk,” the red-haired young man said, appearing at her door. As usual, they were the only two people left in the office at almost six o’clock on this Tuesday evening. “Right where I always leave everything.” He came over, his brown slacks loose on his slim body, his tie perfectly knotted and dropping forward as he leaned down to sift through the pile he’d left in the box on her desk.

“I’ve already been through it twice,” Jan told him. She’d figured out a way to get Danny Ruple to cooperate with her. And as soon as she had that piece of business taken care of, she could go home. Check her mail. And if she wasn’t too late, enjoy some of her neighbor’s nonsense before dinner.

“I pulled it before lunch,” Andrew told her, frowning. “Right after we talked about making the deal with Ruple.”

Jan was going to do something she’d never done before; charge and prosecute a defendant solely on a detective’s hunch—and the circumstantial evidence she’d collected when she’d tried to bring the case to justice two years before. She’d probably lose and waste the state’s money on a long and grueling jury trial. But if bringing in the man Ruple was sure had raped and brutally murdered U of A student Lorna Zeidel, a couple of years before would get her Hall’s conviction, she figured the state would be getting its money’s worth.

Andrew continued to rifle through the files.

“Maybe someone put it back,” Jan suggested. Files did not disappear in the county attorney’s office. And Andrew was too obsessive to admit that he might only have thought he’d put the file on her desk. He was usually too efficient to have forgotten. But he was also an exhausted first-time father—to a newborn who wasn’t sleeping through the night.

“Who would’ve done that?” He had the entire box in one arm as he sorted through it, piece by piece.

“I don’t know.” She didn’t. Nancy, her secretary, would never take a file from her desk. Nor would anyone else. “But could you check?”

“Maybe it fell in the trash.”

From the far right corner of her desk to the near left one? Andrew’s statement validated her exhaustion theory. She would’ve teased him, if she’d thought he had enough energy left to get the joke. Or if she wasn’t bothered by his apparent carelessness.

“You check the file room and I’ll go through the trash,” she said instead, pulling the metal bin out from beneath her desk.

Half an hour later, Jan accompanied Andrew from their third-story office, past the potted plants on the ground-floor atrium, to their cars in the parking lot by Cherry Avenue. It was a nightly ritual, one Andrew insisted upon.

The file, containing all the notes Jan had collected on Lorna Zeidel, was still missing.

And Ruple had not been called. Jan was looking forward to the frozen dinner waiting at home for her.

Jan almost stopped at the mailbox as she drove in, rather than parking her car in the garage first. Not because she thought it would be safer or because she was turning over a new time-management leaf, but because she was thinking of Simon and he’d suggested she do so. Not that she expected anything from her friendly neighbor, ever, but tonight she was kind of depleted and could use some of his easy humor. Easy, because he expected nothing in return. No borrowed cups of flour. Or chats on the lawn. Or dates.

Of course, the cup of flour she’d be happy to give him. Jan grinned, as she waited for the automatic garage door to rise a few slow inches at a time, picturing him in the kitchen, making cookies with as much sloppiness as he showed in the way he dressed. She’d hate to have to clean up that mess.

The overhead light popped on as the door opened and Jan started to pull forward, but then stopped. What was that shiny substance on her garage floor? It hadn’t been there that morning.

Putting the car in Park, she got out, not frightened but tense as she moved closer. It looked like glass. There were shards everywhere. A glance at the window showed her where it had come from—there was a hole the size of a softball through the middle of the pane. Had some neighbor kid thrown a wild pitch? It happened. And it could be fixed.

Then she saw the brick on the opposite side of the garage and her heart began to pound. No way could this be part of a ball game. Whoever had thrown the heavy object through her window had done so with enough force to embed it in the drywall on the far side.

“Don’t touch it.”

Yelping as she swung around, Jan almost dropped with relief when she realized the voice was Simon’s. “I wasn’t planning to,” she told him. “This doesn’t look like an accident, and I know better than to tamper with evidence.”

“You want me to call the police?”

She shook her head. “I’ve got this cop friend downtown,” she quoted an old play, making light of the fact that she’d just come home and found her property vandalized. It was a brick through a garage window, she told herself. Certainly not life-threatening. Or even particularly damaging.

Her nervous system was overreacting. Dialing the downtown precinct, Jan told them what had happened and was grateful when they said they’d send someone right over.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Simon said, as soon as Jan got off the phone. “When you didn’t show up at the mailbox and I saw your car in the garage, I got curious.”

“I’m glad you did,” she admitted, a little shaky. “It’s creepy standing here alone, knowing someone was here while I was gone, vandalizing my stuff.”

A window wasn’t all that much. But the guy couldn’t have known what else might be in the garage.

Of course, if he’d meant to do real damage, he’d have thrown the thing into the house, making all her possessions fair game.

“You been working on anything in particular that would piss someone off?” Simon asked, sitting beside her on the stoop in front of her house as they waited for the police. She’d called from her cell phone and was still holding it in her hand. Just in case.

A vision of the way Hall had looked at her the day before flashed through her mind. She shook her head. Twice. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” she told her neighbor. No sense in giving life to fear. It only became truly dangerous when it was given the power of acknowledgment.

Besides, the Jacob Halls of the world used things that were far more dangerous than bricks. Even as warnings.

Didn’t they?

“This ever happen before?”

Simon’s slacks were wrinkled. She liked them that way. Unlike most of the men she dealt with on a day-to-day basis, being with him felt comfortable. Relaxed.

Safe.

Now, where had that word come from?

“Uh, no,” she stammered, when she realized he was still waiting for her answer. “I’ve had letters at the office. Threats. But nothing that ever amounted to anything.”

She glanced down the street, met Simon’s gaze, and focused on the phone between her hands. “I doubt this had anything to do with my job.”

“Probably not.”

She looked back at him. Was he serious? With Simon it was hard to tell. “You really don’t think so?”

The shake of his head was decisive. “I’d guess it’s a neighborhood thing.”

She took a slightly easier breath. He was probably right. It made sense. Except that she couldn’t think of anyone nearby who might be mad at her, let alone angry enough to vandalize her house.

“Did you see anything?” She should’ve asked before. Simon was always around. Aware. How else could he know when she was at her mailbox most nights?

“Nope.”

“You sound as if you think you should have,” Jan said. There was something different about him tonight. Something deeper; more serious. Or maybe she was just coloring everything with the uneasiness she’d begun to feel. “You certainly aren’t responsible for what goes on at my house,” she told him.

“Five days out of five, my life consists of sitting at my computer staring out at an empty street. There’s a school bus that comes and goes with boring regularity, and that’s about it. Today, I’m not watching, and I might actually have seen something that could’ve been useful.” He sounded disgusted with himself.

Interesting. The man was a self-supporting published author—something a lot of people aspired to but few ever managed. He was his own boss, set his own hours, dressed however he wanted, worked from home—a dream job. His work educated thousands of people. And he thought he was useless? Who’d have figured?

Route 66 was a lot like Flagstaff itself—an innocuous two-lane road without a high-class establishment in sight, and famous anyway. And the Museum Club, with its low-grade gravel parking lot and attention-getting giant guitar sign out front, followed suit. A comfortable laid-back hangout for locals, the bar was also on many tourist lists as a famous historical site, and according to the signs Simon read as he pulled open the door, the roadhouse hosted live country-and-western bands and dancing on Friday and Saturday nights.

He neither liked country music nor dancing.

Tuesday night was karaoke night.

Simon loathed karaoke.

Slouching on a hard wooden chair at a table as far away from the microphone as he could get, Simon glanced around the half-filled room. Not a bad Tuesday-night turnout—mostly middle-aged folks in jeans, a family in one corner, a couple dressed in matching country-and-western attire doing fancy steps on the dance floor to off-key music. And a lone woman at the bar, holding her glass as if it were her only friend. She’d had a face-lift—the line behind her jaw told him that. And she dyed her own hair; she’d missed a spot on the back of her head with the platinum solution. He’d bet his computer there was no wedding ring on her finger, but that if he looked, he’d find an oversize turquoise there.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

Amanda, according to the name tag of the young woman standing at the edge of his table. Sometimes a man just got lucky.

“What’s on tap?” He gave her the slow, covertly appreciative grin that had closed more than one investigation.

With her tray balanced on a hip, Amanda listed both foreign and domestic beers. Her perfectly painted red lips moved easily, as she told him about the night’s specials. “So what’ll you have?” she ended, with a smile that would’ve locked many men’s knees—including his, nine or ten years ago.

Domestic. Simon named his brand, or rather the brand he used to prefer on tap, back when he used to go out. And watched Amanda’s butt in the tight, faded blue denim, as she made her way toward the friendly-looking blond woman behind the bar.

Nice ass.

Nice girl. He hoped. Ex-boyfriend with possible terrorist connections notwithstanding.

Pushing his glasses up, Simon pretended to look around with interest, while keeping Amanda in sight at all times. Not a hard job, as things went. Though at twenty-five she was a bit young for his taste, the woman’s slim figure and rounded breasts were visually pleasing. She was a good waitress, too—quick. She walked up to tables with a full tray and delivered everything without pausing to question who got what; friendly, but not really flirty.

“So, what’s the most famous thing about this place?” he asked, when she brought his beer.

“Hmm.” She paused as if she had all night, frowned and peered around. “I’d say the fireplace.” The silver butterfly clip that secured her long amber-streaked hair, glinted as she turned back to him. “Some of those stones were dug up hundreds of years ago. And there’s lava formations and petrified wood there, too.”

More than he’d ever wanted to know. “No kidding.” Simon gave the structure a good, long look. “You been here long?”

“Four years,” she told him. “Since I was an undergrad at NAU.”

“You dropped out?”

She shook her head. “I graduated. With a degree in English. I’m working on a master’s now.”

Bright girl. And determined enough to work while she studied.

“Got a boyfriend?”

He’d asked Jan the same question earlier that evening, when he’d insisted they look through her home while the cop was there—although he’d asked her for entirely different reasons. With Jan, even though he’d agreed with the beat cop’s assessment of a neighborhood gang-related dare, he’d been hoping to find out that she had some extra protection. She didn’t.

“Yeah, I got one,” Amanda said. And Simon took a sip of beer, batting zero for zero.

“Been together long?”

“Three years.” She grinned as she said it, letting him know that she was flattered by his interest—but not interested. Scott needed a better information source. This wasn’t a disgruntled ex.

“Too bad,” he told her with a warm glance. So much for getting her to spill her guts after work.

“Enjoy your beer,” she said, swinging around toward the bar.

“You know anywhere a guy can get some good physical training around here?” he called after her.

Simon always had plans B, C and D, as backup.

She stopped. “What kind of training?”

“I’m getting ready for level-three alpine certification from the Professional Ski Instructors of America.” He could have been. If he’d had any desire to spend his days in the cold and snow doing something he used to enjoy. Which he didn’t.

He patted his belly beneath the loosely hanging wrinkled shirt, making it clear that his garment was not hiding surplus flesh. “I’ve got great abs,” he said sheepishly, “and I can bench press twice my weight. I work out at the gym every morning.” If you could call the equipment in his spare bedroom a gym. “But I need more. Something that’ll put me above the rest.”

An asshole at a table by the dance floor whistled, and Amanda looked over her shoulder. “I might know of someone who could help,” she said, as she walked away. “Give me a couple of days.”

With that, she was gone. And so was Simon. He’d gotten what he’d come for.

4

The Zeidel file did not turn up. That could be an omen. Perhaps Jan should have done what Andrew advised and cut her losses. Not only her reputation, but the state’s and the county attorney’s hung in the balance. It was an election year. The county attorney couldn’t afford bad press or big losses. Better to let Jacob Hall go quietly on his way. After all, to her boss he was a small fish—perhaps a member of the Ivory Nation, but certainly not the leader. She’d yet to tie him directly to Bobby Donahue.

“Danny, thanks for meeting with me.” She stood, shaking the off-duty detective’s hand as he joined her at the table for two along one wall of Macy’s Coffee-house early the following Saturday morning.

“My favorite Ethiopian coffee and a beautiful woman. How could I pass that up?” he asked, settling his slightly overweight middle-aged body on the chair across from her. She was used to seeing him in uniform, and the jeans and flannel shirt were hard to get used to.

It didn’t surprise her that when it came to coffee Danny Ruple went for the strong, rough, dry kind. She bought the coffee for him at the counter, along with one of Macy’s famous muffins. And ordered a light-roast Brazilian for herself. She was picking Hailey up for breakfast as soon as she finished with the detective and she hoped that one small dose of caffeine was all she’d need until then.

“I heard about your brick encounter a few days ago,” he said, taking a sip from his steaming cup.

She wasn’t shocked by that. With only about sixty officers on the Flagstaff police force, the men and women resembled a big family; if one of them was called to the home of a county prosecutor, they’d all know about it.

“Officer Ramsey thinks it was gang related.” Much to her relief.

Danny nodded. “There’ve been three or four similar incidents south of the railroad tracks since May.”

“Any suspects?”

“We’re pretty sure we know the kids doing it,” Danny said. “But so far there’s been nothing more than minimal damage, no injuries—no real proof. We’ve brought a couple of them in for questioning, at least to let them know we’re onto them, to scare them a little. Lord knows, if we make an arrest without a full confession, fingerprints and VHS recordings, some defense attorney will start spouting rights of the accused and get him off.”

“Attorneys are not all misguided, Detective,” she said with a grin. “We’re just bound by laws that strangle us occasionally.”

“And you call on us to cut the rope and then tie yourselves up again.”

It was an ongoing debate between the two of them—in jest, but there was truth, as well. “You’re a fine cop, Danny Ruple.”

“Uh-oh, this isn’t going to be good.” He stared into his coffee, so she couldn’t read the look in his eyes. Which was probably for the best. “What happened— Hall walk again?”

“Nope.”

He studied her. “You’re actually going to make it stick this time? ’Cause I gotta tell you, Jan, I’m pretty damn sick of risking my butt so he gets a few days bed and board on the state and then returns to the street with a vendetta against the cop who booked him. I got a wife and two teenage boys who prefer it when I come home alive.”

“I know.” She nodded. Took comfort from the warmth of the ceramic mug resting in her cupped hands. “And I’m going to get him. But I need your help.”

“Of course, you do. Why else would you be buying me expensive coffee? What’ve you got?”

He thought she had a lead that needed checking. It wouldn’t be the first time Danny had spent unpaid hours off duty, assisting on a case.

“An offer.”

Narrowing his eyes, he sipped from his coffee, and said nothing.

“I’ll charge the Lorna Zeidel case and prosecute to the fullest extent of my ability.” Even though that meant starting from scratch on a cold case, a wild goose chase that—unless she pulled off a miracle—would cost the state and ultimately hurt her reputation.

“Shit.” He put down his cup with careful deliberation. The muffin she’d bought him remained untouched. “In exchange for what?”

“I need you in court a week from Monday, 8:30 sharp.”

“Why?”

She didn’t look down, as much as she was tempted to. “An evidentiary hearing to establish the validity of your confidential informant in the Hall case.”

“They want me to testify that it’s valid?”

If it was that easy, she wouldn’t have needed Lorna Zeidel. Jan waited.

Ruple threw himself against the hardwood chair, almost tipping it backward. “You want me to expose my source.”

She nodded.

“Knowing it’s the kiss of death for a cop.”

She nodded again, saying nothing as he stood.

“Do I look like a fool to you, Ms. McNeil?”

“No, Danny,” she said, still seated. “You look like a cop who’s really in it to get the bad guys—no matter what the cost.”

She had him. At least for a second. And then, leaving his coffee unfinished, he stalked out.

Would he be in touch? Or would she have to attend Hall’s hearing still wondering if her key witness—her only witness—was going to show?

“Can we not talk about our court stuff right now?”

With an effort, Jan’s smile remained intact as she fell silent. Fork in midair over her blueberry pancakes, she watched the eight-year-old across from her consume a plate of French toast without a care in the world.

“Have you changed your mind about us, Hailey?” she asked softly, holding her breath. “Because it’s okay if you have. All you have to do is say so. I won’t be angry with you, I promise.”

Heartbroken, but not angry.

The child’s short, dark curls bounced as she shook her head. “’Course not,” she said, her mouth full. “Next to Mrs. Butterworth, you’re the nicest person I ever met. Being your kid would be almost as good as there really being a Santa Claus.”

Jan wanted to hug Hailey so tight, keep her so close that no harm could ever come to her again. “You just don’t want to know about the legal proceedings?” she asked, just to be sure, respecting the little girl’s reserve.

Hailey shrugged, her shoulders bony looking beneath the blue T-shirt she was wearing with a pair of faded jeans. Her sweater was wadded beside her on the bench in the booth of their favorite diner on Route 66.

“You planning to tell me what’s bothering you?”

“Nothing.” Hailey peeked up at her. Swallowed. And did not immediately shovel another bite of food into her mouth. “I just don’t see why I should hear about the actual adoption, when they aren’t going to let it happen anyway.”

“Who isn’t?”

Had the Ivory Nation connected her to Hailey? Threatened the child? Jan’s body temperature dropped, until she realized that, once again, she was falling prey to paranoia.

“You know, the court people,” Hailey said, frowning. “Judges and CPS and all that. Derek says they probably won’t give me to anyone, but they especially won’t give me to you.”

Derek Lincoln, the twelve-year-old biological son of Hailey’s foster parents.

“Why not?”

“Derek says no one wants kids like me to have regular homes, ’cause we won’t fit in. They just keep moving us around from foster to foster, till we’re old enough to live alone.”

As quickly as Jan’s blood had frozen, it burned. “Derek’s wrong.”

“He says he’s seen it. He says it always happens that way. They talk about adoption, but every foster kid in his house just gets moved to other foster houses. He says most people don’t want us kids, ’cause we’re troublemakers and ’cause we’re too old. He says even some foster homes aren’t good, ’cause people do it for the money. He says they aren’t all like his mom, who just loves any old kid.”

“First off, you’re not any old kid, and you’re the farthest thing from a troublemaker there is, young lady,” Jan said in a voice left over from her days in juvenile court, where she’d first met and fallen in love with Hailey Miller.

Then, sensing the debilitating fear beneath the young girl’s bravado, she immediately softened. “No matter how old you get, I’m going to want you and love you,” she said, leaning over so the child could hear her clearly in the busy restaurant. “I’m not adopting just anyone, you know. I’m adopting you. Specifically you.”

Hailey’s chin puckered.

“I’ve always wanted kids some day.” Jan told the child something she’d never said out loud before. “But ever since college, I’ve worked so much I’ve lost touch with all my friends. And I never met a man I felt safe enough with to marry—you know one I believed would love me forever and ever.”

She grinned at Hailey, and felt a little better when the child smiled back.

“I was beginning to think I’d never have my family,” she continued, her voice lower as she opened her heart to this precocious and oh-so-strong child. “I don’t know why, but I never even thought about adoption—maybe because I always thought marriage would come before the kids.”

Hailey nodded, her gaze serious and on target, as if she could fully understand the complexity of the adult emotions Jan was laying before her.

Jan reached out a hand, covering Hailey’s. “Until I met you,” she continued. “Then, I could think of nothing else.”

Hailey stared at her.

And then, pulling her hand away, she stiffened. “They aren’t going to let you.”

Because she was single? She’d already crossed that hurdle, received the legal go-ahead. “Why do you say that?”

“You put away the bad people.”

Jan blinked. “Yeah. So?”

“I am the bad people.”

“Hailey Ann Miller! You are not bad!” Jan lowered her voice. “Don’t say such things.”

“Why not?” the child asked, her eyes wide and clear. “It’s true.”

“It is not true.”

“You put me away.”

Oh, God.

After all this time, all the times I prepared for this, why did it have to happen now?

“The court took you from a place that wasn’t good for you,” Jan finally said. A place worse than hell for a vulnerable little girl. Jan lost her appetite, just thinking about what she’d found at the duplex rented by Hailey’s mother. Dirty walls, rotten floors—a hole the size of a basketball in front of the only toilet, open to the foundation and dirt beneath. Mold everywhere. And a constant stream of horny men who paid Hailey’s mother, a prostitute, a pittance for the use of a body that had once been beautiful but was now weathered and ragged.

“You took me because I stole too many times and got arrested and brought to court to be punished.”

“You stole cold medicine because you were too young to buy it, and you had to help someone who’d taken care of you,” Jan said decisively. “Mrs. Butter-worth loved you. No matter how old or tired or sick she was, she took you into her side of the duplex whenever your mom was out too late or had…visitors.”

In spite of state-ordered counseling and Jan’s personal attempts to gain the girl’s total confidence, no one knew if Hailey fully comprehended what her mother was—what she’d done with the various men who’d come and gone from their home. A medical exam had shown that the child had not been molested, but no one knew what she’d witnessed during the first seven years of her life.

“Till I got taken away.” Hailey took a small bite and chewed slowly, no pleasure evident. When she’d finished, she put down her fork and looked up at Jan, her eyes glistening. “I am bad,” she said with quiet conviction. “It wasn’t just that once. I stole before, too, when Mrs. Butterworth’s checks didn’t come, but I wasn’t that good at it and I kept getting caught. And I took candy, once, just for me. It’s just that the last time they already told me no more or else, and I did anyway, and it was medicine, and now I’m taken away because I’m a troublemaker.”

“You were caught, and yes, there was some punishment because stealing is against the law…” Although, in Hailey’s case, Jan had recommended the punishment, probation, only as a scare tactic—and a safeguard, a way to keep close tabs on the little girl. It was highly unusual for an eight-year-old to be on probation.

Hailey was nodding, pushing a piece of French toast that was swimming in her syrup.

“But, Hailey, you weren’t taken away because of that. You were put in a different home because after the court found out the kind of conditions you were living in, they had to provide a better place for you, a safer place, where there were people who would shop and cook for you and not leave you alone at night. The other times, they’d called your mother and she’d cleaned up enough to satisfy the authorities when they brought you home. But the last time, they didn’t call and just went to your house. It was obvious, then, that your mother couldn’t care for you as the law requires. And the judge couldn’t leave you there, honey, especially after Mrs. Butterworth died.”

Hailey had been pretty resigned about leaving her mother. And hadn’t asked about the woman since. On the other side, Karen Miller hadn’t responded to a single one of the state’s attempts at reconciliation or visitation, and had, in fact, allowed severance proceedings to go forward without any objection whatsoever.

Jan got up from the table and switched sides, sliding in beside the little girl.

“You did some things you shouldn’t have done, Hailey, but more important than what you do is why you do it. You don’t do things to be mean or selfish. You don’t lash out in anger or turn away when you think someone needs your help. That’s what a troublemaker does. You’re kind of like Mrs. Butterworth. You want to take care of things, even when you really can’t. She should have moved to a nursing home where the government could have taken care of her, but she didn’t want to leave you. And you took things that weren’t yours because you weren’t old enough to go to work to earn the money she needed. That means you have a good heart. Not a bad one.”

“You really think so?” The little girl’s eyes were so big and blue they seemed almost jewel-like.

“I know so.”

Hailey ate a couple of hearty bites. And then, shoulders drooping, she laid her fork in the middle of her plate, the handle sinking into the syrup.

“I’m on probation,” she said. “Derek says only bad kids are on probation and they don’t ever get out of foster care.”

Maybe the sentence had been a little harsh, but even in the beginning Jan had seen the potential in Hailey and also the determination, and she couldn’t think of another way to get the point across that continued stealing was unacceptable. Telling her it was wrong hadn’t worked, because in her mind her reasons had always been right and stronger. Telling her no hadn’t stopped her. Threats hadn’t stopped her. Eventually the habit would have ruined her life.

“Derek’s pretty smart, but he’s just a kid, too, and he doesn’t know everything yet,” Jan said, careful not to malign the boy. For now, Hailey was part of the Lincoln family, and her need for stability, a sense of belonging, were the most important factors in the child’s life. The October 23rd court adoption date felt far too distant.

Jan sat back, thoughts of her own inadequacies stealing some of her confidence. She suffered so severely from nightmares—and from a consequent lack of self-trust—that she’d slowly shut herself off from all relationships that weren’t work related. And now she was bringing a child into her life—a full-time resident, who would want friends to spend the night.

She could do it. She knew she could. But it wasn’t going to be easy.

Would Hailey suffer while Jan worked things out?

And even after the court made Hailey her legal daughter, how could she provide this precious and needy child with stability, while she was planning to expose herself to the possible retaliation of the Ivory Nation?

Yet how could she not follow through on a five-year commitment to save the people Jacob Hall would continue to hurt, possibly kill, if he were let go? How could she turn her back on this chance to send a clear and direct message to Bobby Donahue and the rest of the Ivory Nation?

Grunting as much for show as from any real need, Simon hopped from tire to tire, up the ragged edge of the mountain. A foot into each and every one, before shimmying up the tree at the end of the rubber trail. He’d been hard at it all morning—a bit of an alternative to his usual Saturday-morning regime of lying around bored out of his skull and not caring enough to do anything about it.

“Not bad for a first run.” Leonard Diamond, the most perfect specimen of manhood Simon had ever seen, nodded from the base of the tree. “Amanda was right to send you to me. You continue to work like that and I’ll have you ready to tackle any strength or skill exam they can give you—on skis or off—by the end of November, but it’ll cost you. I only work with the best and I don’t come cheap.”

Agent Scott Olsen, and his convoluted FBI expense accounting, was paying for this—so what the hell. The sweat felt damn good.

Simon nodded. And tried not to think about the young woman who—after he’d paid three more visits to the Museum Club—had put him in touch with this acquaintance of her boyfriend’s—who’d been an ex but no longer was, he’d discovered. If Leonard Diamond, the independent trainer, turned out to be providing his services to terrorists, as the FBI suspected, Amanda Blake was running with a very dangerous crowd.

With instincts that weren’t quite as dead as he’d told himself they were, Simon had garnered more about twenty-five-year-old Amanda than he’d wanted to. The girl was back with her too-mysterious boyfriend, but she wasn’t all that happy about the relationship. In fact, the beautiful young lady seemed more resigned than in love. And more than a little afraid, as well. Olsen, who’d received his tips from her through intricate channels, had had the same impression. Simon had practically had to give her his birth certificate before she’d agreed to get him this trial with Diamond. She said that his time was premium and he was hit on by every quack parent in the world who wanted his kid to be a star. Thankfully, compliments of Scott Olsen’s connections, Simon now had a fake identity. A guy with the same name, who had been born and raised in Alaska and was a first-time visitor to Flagstaff. His alter ego even had a new apartment. If he needed a place to receive visitors.

The fact that this new game might be dangerous didn’t faze him a bit.

Simon wasn’t afraid to die.

An hour and a half later, after showering, securing a locker and filling out a minimal amount of paperwork, Simon turned onto his street just in time to see Jan pull into her driveway next door. When she didn’t enter the garage, he wondered if she was still a bit gunshy from the brick incident earlier in the week. Then he slowed to a stop, gawking when he saw the elflike child who climbed out of the passenger seat.

Who the hell was she? In the four years he’d been living next door to Ms. Janet McNeil and in the three or so years he’d been meeting her at her mailbox, he’d never once seen or heard mention of a child in her life.

A widowed mother in Sedona, check. An unmarried salesman brother, right. No ex-husbands. No cousins or aunts or uncles or grandparents. No friends he knew of, with or without children.

The woman worked. Took care of her mother. Her home. Was friendly to her neighbors. And talked to him a few minutes every day.

She waved and Simon could feel the heat under his skin, a rare occurrence for someone who didn’t care enough about anything to get embarrassed. He waved back and continued on to his driveway, but stopped just over the curb and got out.

Jan was down at the mailbox, letters in hand, just standing. Almost as if she was waiting for him.

Not good. Not good at all.

He walked over, even though he knew it was a big mistake to do so. The woman, her welfare, her guests, didn’t matter to him, other than for the distant role she played in the passing of his days.

“Hey, neighbor,” he greeted her, including the girl in his grin. About seven, he’d guess, based on her size. And it’d been a hard seven years. The awareness in those eyes, the chin that held back expression rather than softening in response to a friendly smile—they told a familiar story.

“Simon, I wanted Hailey to meet you.” Jan’s voice was higher than it usually was. She was too perceptive to be humoring this child with false cheer. Which told him she was tense about something.

“Hi, Hailey.” He held out his hand. Her grip was tiny, but firm.

“Hi.”

“How old are you?” Wasn’t that what you said to kids you weren’t rescuing from hell—or arresting?

“Eight.”

A year off. Not bad for a guy who’d been off the streets for almost a decade.

“Hailey and I are in the process of becoming a family.” Jan moved a bit closer to the girl.

“She’s trying to adopt me, but I keep telling her they won’t let it happen,” the child said.

“Hailey’s a little short on faith at the moment, and I thought I’d bring her to see her new home so she can start visualizing our future together.”

Simon slid his hands into the pockets of the sweats he’d changed into after his locker-room shower. Jan with a child? The idea threw him. And that didn’t happen often.

Why should it matter to him if she wanted to take on the responsibility, the guaranteed heartache of parenthood?

Why would picturing her as a mother affect him at all?

It didn’t. He was just suffering a bit of an adrenaline letdown after the morning’s workout. Mixed with a little altitude adjustment.

“Are you a cop?”

While he swallowed the need to choke, Jan chuckled. “Simon writes schoolbooks, sweetie.”

Those shrewd, knowing eight-year-old eyes studied him—whether in assessment or disbelief, he didn’t know. Simon smiled, slouching, completely alert.

“Nope, just a writer,” he told her, his voice more relaxed than the rest of him.

“You sure you aren’t a cop?” Hailey frowned. “’Cause my mom taught me to spot ’em.” Her curly hair was almost in her eyes as she peered up at him. “She says you can always tell a cop by the way his eyes see everything going on, when most people just see what they’re staring at. Your eyes look all over. They don’t stare.”

Observation duly noted. How had he survived years undercover, if he was that obvious? he wondered wryly.

“Sounds like your mom was a smart lady,” he said, cognizant of the fact that the little girl had obviously lost the woman prematurely. “And I’m sorry to disappoint you, but rather than running around the streets catching bad guys I just sit home all day and type stuff that college kids read for class.”

“I’m not disappointed,” Hailey said, nodding. “I don’t know if I’d like living next door to a cop. I’d have to worry about him finding out that I’m not good.”

Simon did choke, then. And glanced up in time to catch the pained look on Jan’s face. There was a lot going on here that he didn’t understand. And that was fine by him.

Except for that small, curious part of him that wanted all the answers.

“Hailey Miller, you are good,” Jan said firmly, sounding much more like the woman he’d been meeting at the mailbox. “And I’m glad to hear that you’re planning to live next door to Simon, because I’m pretty determined on this matter and once I set my mind to something I make it happen.”

The white supremacist she was attempting to prosecute crossed his mind. And left him feeling tense.

“Do you have a court date?” he asked, still smiling as he glanced from one to the other.

“October 23rd,” they said together. Hailey studied Jan for a long moment, one that Simon witnessed with an inexplicable pull, and then the little girl slid her hand into Jan’s. “It was nice meeting you, Simon,” she said.

“Nice meeting you, too, Hailey. I look forward to living next door to you.”

“Thank you.”

“See ya,” Jan said, grinning at him as she turned with her charge’s hand still firmly locked in hers.

Simon stood there watching them go.

Hailey looked over her shoulder. “Simon?”

“Yeah?”

“My mom’s stupid.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so it was fine that they didn’t wait for him to figure it out.

So much for his ability to assess and conquer. Simon watched until they were inside Jan’s house and then walked slowly into his own, to spend the rest of the day doing what he did best. Huddled in front of the computer, bored enough to write ten pages of a book that was supposed to be his nine-to-five job during the week.

5

“Hey, boss, you got a minute?”

Jan looked up from her computer. It was Monday, mid-morning. She’d had another nightmare at three in the morning and hadn’t slept since. “Of course,” she told her assistant. “Come in.”

Andrew, dressed impeccably as always, took one of the two seats in front of her desk.

“I heard you met with Ruple over the weekend.”

She’d figured word would get around. Flagstaff was a small town and Macy’s was a busy place. Or maybe Danny Ruple had said something.

“I did, yes.”

“Is he going to testify?”

The fact that she even had to remind herself that this was Andrew, her handpicked professional soul mate, bothered her. She had to be careful, true, but a complete lack of trust wasn’t healthy.

“I don’t know,” she said, slipping into the navy jacket she’d thrown off earlier. She had some footwork to do over lunch—recreating as much of the Zeidel file as she could, just in case. The only key witness, a roommate, was still in town and had agreed to talk to her. “He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no.”

Frowning, Andrew shook his head and said, “I’m just sick about the missing file. You know I’ll do anything I can to help you rebuild the case, if he accepts your offer.”

“Thanks.” Jan’s smile was almost genuine and her shoulders lightened. “I know your own caseload is heavy right now, and I promised you’d have time to be a father when the baby came…”

“I’m always here for you, Jan. You know that.”

A life that had gone a bit out of control started to make sense again. She had to remember what she knew—not lose herself in emotions that weren’t always accurate. Or trustworthy.

“I think you’re about the only one who doesn’t think I’m crazy for going after Hall.”

“I admire the hell out of you for it.” The truth of his words was reflected in his open gaze. “I hope to be just like you when I grow up.”

“Hold it, buddy,” she chuckled. “I’m only five years older than you. You’re making me sound ancient.”

“Sorry.” Andrew was grinning, too. “But I mean it. You’re the only one I know who consistently applies the ethics they taught us in law school to everyday life. You work for justice, not politics.”

“There are a lot of us,” she told him, though she wasn’t as sure of that as she’d been even a couple years before. “But when people like the county attorney and the governor have the last say, and they’re elected officials, politics can’t help but play a part.”

“And we end up with compromised justice.”

Jan glanced at the news clipping she’d just pulled up on her computer—which only hinted at the gory details of Lorna Zeidel’s rape and murder two years before. “It’s when politics define justice that I have a problem.”

Andrew leaned forward, resting an arm on the edge of her desk. “And it honestly doesn’t bother you that if you push this and lose, your professional reputation will suffer?”

She shook her head. There were a lot of things bothering her. Her professional reputation wasn’t one of them. “My mother’s health bothers me. Hailey’s adoption bothers me. The young gang members who have nothing better to do than throw bricks through windows bother me.” My awareness of my neighbor’s presence bothers me. “I’m not sure why, but my career doesn’t. I think I’m on the right track.”

“I don’t know how you do it.” Andrew expelled a long breath. “But I’m here to learn.”

“You’re here to teach, too, my friend,” Jan told him. “You’re an excellent attorney. I’ve bowed to your opinion on more than one occasion.”

“Maybe two.” He smiled and then sat back, his expression sober. “What’s this about your mother’s health? I thought she was doing well, keeping busy.”

“She is.” Jan didn’t want to think about her mother right now. “I’m probably overreacting. Growing up with only one parent tends to make you a bit insecure where their existence is concerned.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Less than twenty-four hours ago. I went down yesterday and took her to the Blue Adobe for dinner. We had cheese enchiladas and prickly pear margaritas and talked about a mah-jongg tournament she’s in.”

“Sounds like she’s doing great.”

Yeah. And Jan had just decided to go with what she knew and not with what she feared. To quit letting random feelings control her so much. Everyone had them—those insecurities that overwhelmed common sense. She just seemed to have to work harder than other people to keep hers at bay.

By Thursday, Jan still had not heard from Danny Ruple. But she was using every spare minute she could find, in between directing the continued research into Jacob Hall’s potential fraud victims and maintaining her other cases, to study police reports on Lorna Zeidel—searching for the elusive clue that might at least get her a grand jury indictment.

She’d had no word from her brother after his impromptu visit, but she’d had a quick visit with Hailey the night before. And not including Saturday, she had talked to Simon three times, twice at the mailbox and once when he was getting his paper in the morning.

By the time she got home that night, she was just plain exhausted with life. She’d seen the It’s a Boy sign in the Thorntons’ front yard on her way to work that morning, and felt such regret at losing touch with her friendly neighbors that she’d gone out on her lunch hour and bought them a gift. But she sure didn’t feel like walking two houses down to drop it off.

She didn’t want to, but as soon as she’d finished the toast and peanut butter she was having for dinner she did it anyway. And was rewarded with a greeting from Simon when she returned.

“I brought the trash out and noticed yours wasn’t at the curb, so I thought I’d get it for you,” he said, meeting her at the end of her drive as dusk was starting to fall. Friday and Monday trash pickup had been part of her routine for years. Today, she would have forgotten.

“My gate’s locked.”

“As I discovered.” He walked along with her up to the house, looking so comfortable in khaki slacks and a flannel shirt with tails hanging out and sleeves rolled up past his wrists, that she wished she’d taken time to change out of the maroon skirt and jacket she’d worn to work.

The clicking of her heels against pavement sounded loud in the early-evening silence.

“You been down the street?”

“Mm-hmm.” She walked up the couple of steps to her front door. Pulled it open. “Molly Thornton had her baby.”

“It’s not locked?”

“I was only gone for a few minutes.”

“Could you see your front door every second of that time?”

“Of course not. The Thorntons are on the same side of the street.”

“How do you know someone didn’t see you leave and then enter your house?”

Ignoring the blade of fear that slid through her, Jan forced a chuckle. “Like I said before, you need to be writing suspense, Green. Because stuff like that only happens between the pages of a book or on the screen. I was two houses down, for goodness’ sake.” They were still on her stoop.

“But it only takes…”

“And during that time you were bringing out your trash.”

She went inside. He stayed out.

“You mad at me now?” she asked lightly.

“No.” But he was frowning.

“You just changed your mind about taking my trash out?” She’d been rolling the big can out by herself for years, didn’t need his help, but she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to mess with him.

It took her mind off her weariness.

“Of course not,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the gate.”

“Simon!” She laughed out loud then. “You can come through the house.”

She didn’t really understand his hesitation. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been inside before. He’d seen every inch of her 2,000-square-foot home when he’d trailed behind the police officer who’d searched it after the brick incident the week before.

He walked through, went out to wheel the trash to the curb, then relocked the gate from the inside and came back into her kitchen, all without a word. He stood there, staring at her.

“What?” She’d poured herself a very weak vodka and orange juice—mostly orange juice—and leaned against the counter, taking a sip.

“It’s none of my business.”

“Probably not. But I’m sure you’ll tell me, anyway.”

He shook his head. “You know what you’re doing. And you have an inside track on crime in this town.”

“Yeah.”

“But I’d still appreciate it if you’d be a little more careful. A woman living alone…”

“I won’t live my life in fear.”

“I’m not suggesting you should. Keep in mind, though, that I live right next door. And I’d like to be able to relax now and then without constantly having to listen for strangers with evil intent bothering someone who’s nice.”

He thought she was nice. That was all right. Because she thought he was sweet.

“Okay,” she said, her mouth twitching as she held back a smile. “In an effort to contribute to your peace of mind, I will be more diligent about locking my door. Since this is the first time in years I can remember leaving it unlocked, I don’t think it’ll be too much of a challenge.”

And she was no idiot. She was prosecuting a killer who had loyal associates. She wanted to live long enough to get him into prison.

“Thank you.”

“Now how about a truce?” She held up her glass. “I have vodka to offer.”

“I accept.”

She was shocked. He was supposed to have made a joke and been out of there. Didn’t he remember his own MO?

Turning, she took down a glass from the cupboard. A juice glass. She didn’t entertain enough to justify highball crystal.

“You pour,” she said, handing him the bottle and pushing the orange juice his way.

He took a splash of juice to go with his vodka, leaned back against the opposite cupboard…and suddenly she was nervous. The man seemed a lot more vital, standing in her kitchen.

“I didn’t realize you knew the Thorntons all that well.” He adjusted his glasses.

His eyes were brown. She’d never noticed before.

“I don’t really. They drop off fruitcakes at Christmas, but I think everyone gets them.”

He nodded. “Never did figure out the appeal there.”

“Me, neither. But my mother likes them. I give them to her.”

“Good, she can have mine next year, too. I feel like a jerk when I throw them away.”

Jan chuckled with him. Took a sip of mostly orange juice and wished it was mostly vodka.

“A few years ago, my washer valve broke when I was out of town,” she said. “The whole house flooded. The Thorntons had just moved in, and they noticed the water coming out from under my doors and called the city to turn off the water. They also helped me move out all my furniture while the damage was being repaired.”

“Where was I?”

“I have no idea.” She smiled at him again. “That was before I’d actually met you. But I think you were gone. For about a month I didn’t see any papers at the end of your drive when I left for work in the morning.”

Oh. Well. It only took a second for her to realize that she’d just admitted that she paid attention. And remembered something that had happened almost four years ago. That was embarrassing.

“I took a…river rafting trip,” he said, stumbling a bit over the words—as if he was finding this experience awkward, as well. “I was gone for almost a month,” he continued, resting one foot in front of the other. “Must have been then.”

She wanted to look away. And didn’t.

“So how were the Thorntons?”

“Fine. They named him Mark.”

“I hear hesitation in your voice,” he said, his expression curious. “Why? Don’t you like the name?”

Were all writers as observant as he was?

“Of course I like the name.” She shrugged, putting her edgy reaction down to fatigue. “I’m sure it’s nothing. They just seemed to go on and on about how happy they were that the baby’s a boy. I got a pretty strong sense that if they’d had a girl they would actually have been disappointed.”

“Maybe they wanted to please the grandparents or something.”

“Maybe. I can’t imagine the sex of a child mattering to me as long as he or she was healthy, but I realize it makes a difference to some people.”

He switched legs, crossing one over the other. She couldn’t really explain why she wasn’t offering him a seat. Standing just seemed like a better idea.

“I also couldn’t help wondering if my father was disappointed, when I turned out to be female.” Jan’s gaze shot up, stricken when she realized she’d spoken aloud. Simon didn’t care about her anxieties.

And he was only supposed to see what she presented to the world. A daring, driven attorney who did things her own way, but always played by the rules.

“Did he act disappointed?” His direct gaze, the soft tone in his voice, made her knees shake.

She shook her head and took a seat at the table in the middle of her kitchen. Simon followed her, bringing the bottle and the carton of juice.

“I don’t really remember much about him,” she continued, telling her better judgment to shut up. She had to start working through things or she’d go nuts. And really, who was safer to think aloud with than a distant neighbor who didn’t have any reason to care, beyond a generic sense of compassion.

“He died when I was four.”

“He was sick?”

“He accidentally shot himself.”

“What?” Simon’s glass hit the table solidly, his eyes narrowing. “How?”

“He was drunk and got his gun out to load it, to go hunting. It was already loaded and it went off….” She closed her eyes against the assault of memories, as if doing so could erase all the blood. “There was an investigation, and the evidence corroborated events exactly as my mother had said they happened.”

“Where were you at the time?”

“At home, taking a nap.” She tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry. Picking up her glass, she tried again. “I don’t remember the shooting at all, but I’ll never forget standing in the archway leading to the living room and watching while they cut out a piece of living room carpet that was saturated with his blood.”

And she’d never spoken of it, either. Jan peered over at Simon, afraid of what she’d done by telling him. Afraid of what she’d see in his eyes.

He looked confused, lost—like a man who was picturing the horrifying scene through the eyes of a four-year-old child.

“Were the two of you close?”

“I’m not sure. My mom’s been emotionally fragile ever since it happened—at least I’ve assumed it started then. In any case, it’s too hard on her to talk about my dad, so we won’t.”

“Seems like, at four, you’d have some memories, if you and he had much of a relationship.”

Something that had occurred to her, too. “I just have flashes,” she said, finishing her drink and pouring another. “I remember moments of anger, but I can’t ever bring back enough to know what he was angry about or who he was angry with. I can just picture his face, red, his mouth, thin, and his eyes small and kind of black.”

“That’s a pretty clear picture,” Simon said. “Sounds like he was angry a lot.”

“Maybe. I also remember a birthday—maybe my third or fourth. I can’t recall anything about the day, except that he and I laughed a lot and he threw me up in the air and caught me and said he always would.”

She smiled when what she felt like doing was crying. “I like to think he’s still up there, catching me. When my brother was little, he used to tell everyone he was special because his daddy was an angel who watched over him.”

“How old was he when your dad was killed?”

“A few months.”

“So he doesn’t remember him at all.”

“Nope.”

“It’s natural that he’d build him into some kind of hero or loving guardian, but those feelings don’t necessarily have any connection to the kind of man your father really was.”

“I know.”

“And your mother never shared anything that gave you any indication? No story about how they met? What he did for a living?”

“Not much.” Jan sighed, wanting to lay her head on a caring shoulder. For a second. “They were high school sweethearts who married fairly young. And they waited several years before having me. He worked for a trucking company, at some point. I discovered that tidbit when I moved my mother to Sedona. I was helping her get her finances together and I found documents concerning a small pension she’d been getting all these years, though it wasn’t clear from the dates if he’d been working at the time of the accident. I’m fairly certain he was an alcoholic, based on something Clara Williams—she was a neighbor and my mother’s closest friend—said once, when I was telling them about a friend who’d bought a fake ID and gotten drunk.”

“That could explain the anger. Some guys get mean when they drink.”

“Yeah.” And some were nice. Please God, for her mother’s sake if nothing else, let him have been a nice drunk.

“You said your mom had problems. Is she okay now?”

He was really sweet to ask. Surely he’d rather be home at his computer. Or doing whatever else he did until all hours of the night.

“She’s fine.” Jan gave the short version, in deference to his kindness. “She had a pretty bad bout of depression nine or ten years ago. I’d just started law school and moved into my own apartment. Johnny was seventeen and going through the rebellious teenaged crap. It was too much for her to handle alone. But she got help. And then there was a bout a couple of years ago. She wouldn’t get out of bed, wouldn’t eat. She finally agreed to check herself into the hospital and came out with this idea that she had to move to an adult-living community in Sedona. She did, and she’s been doing well ever since.”

Simon finished his drink, but didn’t pour another. “You could do an investigation. To track down information about your father.”

She’d thought about it a few times. “I’ve just never been sure enough that I wanted to know,” she said. “If it turns out he was a louse, I’m descended from a louse and that’s all there is to it. And if I find out he was a great guy, I lost one of the best things that ever happened to me.”

Simon stood. “You’re right,” he said. “You may be better off not knowing. That way anything’s possible.”

It made a strange kind of sense. She was tired enough to accept it.

“Thanks for taking out my trash.” She followed him to the front door.

“Thanks for the drink.”

She started to say “anytime,” but decided against it and held the door for him instead.

He began to leave, then stopped abruptly and turned, his face two inches from hers.

She could hardly breathe, struck with the completely unfamiliar desire to have wild, passionate, unrestrained and irresponsible sex. The kind you had without accountability or any thought of tomorrow.

“Lock the door behind me.”

She was deciphering the words when, halfway across her yard, he turned. Jan quickly shut her door and clicked the lock as loudly as she could.

And only then realized that while she’d just told Simon her entire life story, she still knew very little about him.

6

A gentle breeze blew through the trees surrounding the old wooden cabin, mixing with the sounds of chirping birds to create a background of nature music. Bobby Donahue swelled with pride as he surveyed his acreage in the mountains several miles outside Flagstaff. He’d done well.

Reaching over, he untied the blindfold covering Tony Littleton’s eyes.

“Sorry about that,” he said, “but the cause is too important to risk discovery. This place is a combination storeroom, training ground and safe house. There are selfish people out there who don’t want our voices to be heard because the truth of our message threatens their personal bottom lines. I have to be very careful. I can’t let you know exactly where we are or how we got here. Not yet, anyway.”

“No problem,” Tony said, his voice eager as he glanced around, reminding Bobby of a cocker spaniel pup he’d had as a kid. That dog had been his constant companion—until his father had snapped its neck one night, when it barked during basketball playoffs.

Perhaps it was time to get another one. The experience would be good for Luke, exposing the two-year-old to deep and abiding affection, and Amanda could take care of it.

“No one comes up here—ever—without me.”

“I understand. Believe me, you have nothing to worry about from me. It’s like you’re my personal savior. I’m so jazzed about this opportunity I lie awake at night thinking about it.” The skinny young man walked a few feet in one direction and then another, as though trying to take in the whole world at once. Bobby smiled, basking in the certainty that his life’s mission was the true course, the only course, and that all would be well.

This was why Bobby took in all new recruits himself—the resurgence of passion, faith and hope he gained from exposure to theirs was priceless. He’d practically had an orgasm the first time he’d felt the fire of purpose in his veins.

The air was cooler up on the mountain, feeding his lungs, stimulating him. “There’s not much inside besides supplies,” he said, taking a key ring from his pocket to open the bottom lock on the only visible door. And then, instructing the boy to close his eyes and not move an inch, he rounded the building, pulled a large knot out of a tree, took the lock box out of hiding, quickly worked the combination and retrieved the key to the second lock. All the while keeping an eye on Tony with the help of hidden surveillance mirrors he’d installed all over the compound.

Moving with the animal grace he’d worked so hard to acquire, he used the key on the front door and returned it to safety.

The boy passed the test. He didn’t peek.

“Okay, let’s go in,” he said. He might have hit the mother lode with this recruit. Tony Littleton had “future leader” written all over him. Hell, years down the road he might even be presidential material.

“Wow!” Tony turned full circle in the middle of the cabin’s main room. “There must be thousands of cans in here. What’re they for?”

“Food storage,” Bobby said proudly, grabbing one of the silver gallon-sized metal storage containers. “All essentials that will keep for up to seven years. Macaroni, dried beans, mashed potatoes, pudding, soups, spaghetti, cereal, dried milk, canned meat. We’ve got fifty gallon jugs of water in the shed.”

“No kidding.” Tony’s voice reflected his awe as he read some of the labels. “Cool, you even have refried beans!”

It was as if the kid was already tasting them—seeing himself as a member of the family at the table. Bobby paused to take a couple of deep breaths, holding back tears of joy.

“It’s like I’ve been searching for this all my life,” Tony said, turning to face him. “I’ve always known I had a greater purpose, that I had a special job to do that would benefit the world. Something inside me recognized it the very first time I spoke with you in that chat room. Everything you said about justice and the world, about the need for men who had the courage to do God’s work, about wiping out the conspirators, fighting the forces of evil and filling the world with God’s true chosen people rang completely true to me. It’s like you were reading inside my deepest self.”

Yes. Yes! The zeal was there. The passion. The beliefs. And soon, the training would be, too. He’d start with targets today. Explosives work could come later. And by this time next year, little brother Tony Littleton would be wearing red laces in his boots.

“It’s the strangest thing, Jan.” Andrew came into Jan’s office, closing the door as he always did when he wanted her uninterrupted attention. The other attorneys on the floor had the habit of dropping in on her to discuss cases, ask her opinion; they always seemed to assume that she was available.

“What’s strange?” Friday, the twenty-ninth of September. Three days before Hall’s hearing and still no word from Ruple. She could think of little else.

“I just got a report on those bank account numbers we found in Hall’s computer.”

“You found some commonalities? They all had business with the same bank, or bought from the same online company?”

He approached her desk. Dropped a file in front of her. “They’re all dead.”

That one hadn’t occurred to her.

“Dead?” She stared at him, her stomach heavy. “Are you sure?”

The question was rhetorical. He wouldn’t have brought the information to her unless it had been validated. She sifted through the papers, anyway. Names, socials, copies of death certificates. The victims were from all over the state.

“So this sicko targets obituaries?” It was brilliant, really. Stealing from an estate when everything was in confusion and the heirs wouldn’t know what to miss—at least at first.

“It’s the conclusion I’m drawing.”

“That would explain why the victims haven’t reported anything.”

“Let’s contact the families and find out how many of them he stole from. We’ve got him on one count of fraud. If we can add another ten to it, so much the better.”

“This gives a whole new meaning to the term ambulance chaser.”

“No kidding,” Jan said, studying the list again. “So we know how he got the names, but that still doesn’t tell us how he accessed their personal information. There’s got to be some connection between these people, other than having appeared in obituaries across the state of Arizona. Once we know who he hit, let’s get warrants to look at some of the victims’ computers—assuming these are other victims. We know Hall spent a lot of time on his computer. Maybe we’re dealing with a virus—something Hall or one of his brotherhood wrote that would allow them to attack other people’s computers with only an e-mail address and then access their hard drives.”

“That would be the most plausible way. Or maybe we’re back to a common business transaction, and Hall had an informant inside a statewide company with access to billing and other personal information.”

Jan nodded. “With his Ivory Nation involvement, the idea of an inside source somewhere isn’t that farfetched.” She stared out the small window to the left of her desk, at the weeping willow across the street. Many times she’d found answers in those long and slender branches.

They were onto something big; she was sure of it. But it would all be for naught, if she couldn’t use those computer records. Unless…

“Let’s make this a priority,” she told her assistant. “See if we can get at least one affirmative and work backward from that victim’s computer to Hall’s before Monday morning.”

If Ruple didn’t show, if Judge Warren granted Michaels’s motion to suppress, the defense attorney would then present a motion to dismiss the case based on lack of evidence. But with this new information, Jan would be able to oppose that motion and win. She’d get her time in court.

And that was when the real fight started.

“There’s one more thing,” Andrew said.

“What?”

“Every single one of the account owners is female.”

Official FBI definition of terrorism: The unlawful use of force or violence against persons or property to intimidate or coerce a government, the civilian population, or any segment thereof, in furtherance of political or social objectives.

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