Dance of the Bones (19 page)

AFTER JOHN LASSITER'S UNANTICIPATED EXPRESSION
of sympathy about Quentin's death, it took a while for Brandon Walker to regain his interview sea legs.

“I hear you have MS,” he said finally.

Lassiter nodded. “There might be better treatments on the outside than they have in here, but as far as I'm concerned, the chair's no worse of a prison than a cell.”

“Junior Glassman told me that you wanted to talk to me about Amos Warren—­that you want TLC to investigate his death.”

“I do,” Lassiter said with a nod.

“If so, you'll need to tell me about Amos Warren,” Brandon said, leaning back in his chair, “from the beginning. How'd you two meet?”

For the second time in as many minutes, Big Bad John surprised Brandon as the huge man's eyes misted over with tears. When he tried to speak, his voice broke before he managed to force the words to the surface. “Amos Warren was like a father to me. He was the only real father I've ever known. I was mad as hell at him at the time he disappeared, but I didn't kill him. I wouldn't.”

It was the same story Brandon had heard years before about Warren taking Lassiter under his wing and looking after him and about the blowup over Ava Martin that had ended the two men's partnership as well as their friendship.

“I met Ava Martin,” Brandon said. “I even interviewed her.”

“I thought she was terrific,” Lassiter continued. “But that's who we were fighting over when Amos knocked me for a row of peanuts. The cheating bastard took me down with a set of brass knuckles that nobody else in the bar ever saw. That's the last time I saw him. I thought he was just out in the desert doing what he always did, scavenging, but when his car got towed from a hotel out by the airport, that's when I went looking. I checked the storage unit and realized he had cleaned it out. Took everything that was there, half of which should have been mine.”

“What happened then?”

“I'd been let down by my family time and again, but when Amos pulled the same stunt, it was far worse. I thought he was my friend. I trusted him, and when he turned on me, too, I didn't take it very well.”

“What do you mean?”

“For one thing, Ava dropped me, too. After that, I proceeded to get myself drunk and stayed that way. I'd earn some money, cash a paycheck, and go on a bender. When I ran out of money, I'd sober up and work long enough to pay for the next round of drinking. That's pretty much how things stood—­right up until just before you and that other detective showed up to arrest me.”

“What changed?”

“A ­couple of months before you came after me, I met another woman—­a good one, this time—­Bernadette Benson.”

“Amanda's mother?”

He nodded. “She was a peach.”

“And she stuck by you?”

“Yes, she did—­all through the trial and even after I got sent up. She came to see me every week until she died in a car wreck.”

“Getting back to Ava. I understand she testified against you at the trial.”

“That's true. Amos always said she was bad news. Much as I hate to admit it, I'm pretty sure he was right.”

“What about that other friend, someone named Ken?”

“That would be Ken Mangum,” Lassiter said at once. “He testified at the first trial. When it came time for the second one, my attorney couldn't find him. He had disappeared into thin air. I heard later that he had died—­that he'd been murdered somewhere up north—­Portland or Seattle, one of those—­but I didn't find out any of that until years after the fact.”

“I understand from Warden Huffman that you've had zero bad-­conduct problems while you've been here, so it sounds as though you've made some changes.”

Lassiter nodded. “That's the thing; once you're inside, you've only got two choices. You either get better or you get worse. I decided to do what Amos did and get better.”

“Right,” Brandon agreed.

“He did five years of hard time right here in Florence. Read his way through the entire
Encyclopaedia Britannica
while he was at it, initialing the bottom of each page with a pencil when he finished reading it. By the way,” Lassiter added, “they still have the same set. Encyclopedias don't wear out because not enough ­people use them.

“So I did the same thing Amos did—­reading it and marking the pages as I went. Doing that made me feel closer to him as I read, like I could understand him better. I read the Bible, too. One is for my mind and the other for my soul. I like the encyclopedia better,” Lassiter added with a grin. “The librarian ended up getting so tired of having me underfoot all the time that she lets me take the volume I'm reading back to my cell.”

“So you've walked the line as long as you've been here?”

Lassiter nodded. “Pretty much,” he agreed. “I did it for Amos—­in his memory. That's what he would have wanted me to do, because staying out of trouble in prison is the best way to stay alive. At first, because I was big and tough, competing gangs tried to drag me into one faction or another. I refused to go, and eventually they gave up. Later on, after I got sick, they left me alone completely. That's the one good thing about MS. Most of these guys are too dumb to realize that it's not contagious.”

Aubrey Bayless stirred in his corner and pointed at his watch. Glancing at his own, Brandon was surprised to see how much time had passed.

“What's in the box?” Lassiter asked as curiosity got the better of him. “You went to the trouble of bringing it, but we haven't touched it.”

“We seem to have run out of time today,” Brandon said. “We'll look into the box the next time around. In the meantime, I have one last question. You've been here a long time, more than thirty years. If you didn't kill Amos Warren, who do you think did?”

“Ava,” Lassiter answered without a moment's hesitation. “Had to be her. I took her to Soza Canyon a ­couple of times, just to screw around.”

“So she knew that was one of the places you and Amos went?”

Lassiter nodded. “I may have even told her that's where I thought Amos was after the fight in El Barrio.”

“Did you mention your suspicions about Ava to either JFA or Junior Glassman?”

“I did, but they weren't interested,” Lassiter said. “Those ­people are all about getting me off, not proving me innocent and finding the guilty party. There's a big difference between the two.”

“Yes,” Brandon agreed, “a big difference.”

If Lassiter was lying, Brandon had to admit this was a convincing performance. “Look,” he said finally, “two separate juries have found you guilty of first-­degree homicide. Justice for All has come up with grounds for either a plea deal or another trial. Apparently you're not interested in either one. Why not?”

“Because the plea deal means exactly that,” Lassiter said. “It means I plead guilty to second degree and get out with time served. But I won't do that, Sheriff Walker. I won't plead guilty to something I didn't do. Besides, I don't want to get out.”

Brandon was taken aback. “You don't? Why not?”

“Look at me,” Lassiter said. “I'm the next thing to helpless. Some days I can't even get out of bed by myself. At least in prison they assign ­people to look after me. Aubrey here, for example,” he said, gesturing toward the black man waiting patiently in the corner. “Who would I have to take care of me on the outside?”

“What about your daughter?” Brandon suggested. “I've met her. I know she cares about you and has been working tirelessly on your behalf. She's the one who brought in JFA in the first place. She has MS-­related health issues of her own, but I'm sure she'd figure out a way to help you get whatever assistance you need.”

“No!” Lassiter roared, bringing his fist down with a surprisingly powerful blow that made the tabletop shudder. A moment later he winced as pain from damaged nerves shot through his body.

“No,” he said again, more quietly. “Amanda Wasser is not my daughter; she belongs to somebody else. The ­people who raised her are her real parents. I relinquished my right to be her father the moment she was born. If they release me, I might end up being a burden on her, and I refuse to do that. I'd rather stay where I am.”

“Then what's the point?” Brandon asked. “If you don't care about getting out, why do you want TLC to investigate Amos Warren's homicide?”

“Because I didn't do it,” Big Bad John Lassiter said. “And if I ever do meet Amanda Wasser in person, I don't want to look the woman in the eye until the rest of the world knows I didn't do it.”

Brandon thought about that for a moment. For reasons he couldn't entirely explain, he realized that he believed the whole thing. He believed that John Lassiter, a twice-­convicted killer, wanted to be cleared in his daughter's eyes, no matter what else happened. And since that twice-­convicted killer was someone who had once befriended Brandon's troubled son, now proving John Lassiter innocent meant something to Brandon Walker, too.

 

CHAPTER 18

IN THIS VILLAGE—­
THIS
KIHHIM
—­LIVED A
young girl who was always smiling and happy. For this reason she was called Tondam Ge:s
—­
which means Shining Falls. She was a helpful girl who sometimes looked after the fires and sometimes played with the children. Shining Falls said that she was not afraid of the Evil Giantess, and so she was put in charge of the children of the village and told to keep them safe.

One day, when Shining Falls took the children up to play among the rocks, she slipped and fell. Shining Falls was badly hurt and could not walk. The children were frightened. When they saw the black cloud that was the hair of the Evil Giantess approaching, they began to scream.

Just then, Shining Falls saw a turtle, Large Old Turtle
—­
Ge
'
echu Komikch
'
ed. Shining Falls called Turtle and asked him to take the children back to the village, but first Turtle needed to find someone else to send a message because he would have to go ever so slowly with the little children. Turtle called to the children and started with them down an easy way to the village.

AFTER BEING AWAKE MUCH OF
the night, Ava Richland was still sleeping when her phone rang late that morning. “Did you catch the kid?”

“Yes.”

“And the shipment?”

“Got it,” Henry said, “but it wasn't easy.”

“As much as I pay you, it doesn't have to be easy. Where was it?”

“The kid had passed it along to a friend of his. I've got both of them stashed in a safe place. I won't be able to take care of them until later tonight.”

“That is not okay, Henry. Tim José for sure knows who you are, and the other kid can probably identify you as well. They need to be gone.”

“I didn't have time. I was working. I had to grab the second kid right in the middle of my shift, and I didn't want to finish off the first one until I was sure he wasn't lying to me about where he had ditched the diamonds. I'll unload the two boys tonight.”

“Where are they? What if they get loose? How do you know someone won't find them before you can take care of them?”

“They're bottled up in the bottom of my truck, which is locked up tight in my garage out at the airport. Even if they managed to get loose from their restraints, they won't be able to open the box. It's padlocked shut.”

“But what if someone stops by the building? Won't they be able to hear them?”

“Nope, no way.”

Ava wasn't pleased with Henry's answer, but there wasn't much she could do about it. “All right,” she agreed reluctantly. “What about the shipment?”

“Drop it off at the usual place?”

“That's probably best,” she said. “As long as the kids are safe where they are, come by as soon as you finish your shift. You probably want to be paid, and I'm feeling generous today. You've cleaned up what could have been a huge mess for me last night and today. You can expect a substantial bonus.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Henry said. “I'll be there as soon as I can. But what about Max? I'm worried about him. Once he hears about Carlos and Paul . . .”

“I already told you. Don't worry about Max José. He's handled. He'll be gone tonight, too.”

“Okay,” Henry said. “The usual place, then. I'll be there.”

That
'
s the wonderful power of greed,
Ava thought as the call ended. It was the one constant in life. It worked like a charm, and it made ­people do stupid things.

Ava got out of bed and put on her robe. Then she went in search of Harold. She found him where she expected to, sitting in the sun on the back patio with his walker parked nearby. An untouched copy of the
Wall Street Journal
lay on the table next to him. They still subscribed to it. The paper came every day and Harold made sure that it went with him wherever he was, but he had long since stopped maintaining the fiction of pretending to read it.

It saddened Ava to realize that Harold was a doddering old man now, little more than a husk of the man he had been even as short a time as two years ago. His decline in the past few months had been surprisingly swift. Once she had supposed that she'd have to deal with him before she exited stage left, but that was no longer necessary. Even had he known something, he'd be of little use to any investigators. Besides, having him alive and unwell would give her flexibility in making good her departure with as little hue and cry as possible.

She walked over to the table, kissed Harold on the top of his bald head, and then poured herself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the cup-­laden tray the housekeeper had left on the patio table. Then she sat down across from him.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Harold said.

That was a good start. At least he seemed to know who she was this morning; that wasn't always the case. Not having to begin by explaining who she was made the coming conversation easier.

“I think I'd like to drive down to San Carlos later today,” she said. “It's been months since I've been there. I want to look in on the condo and see to it that everything is in order. I need to make sure the housekeepers are doing their jobs.”

Harold frowned and seemed momentarily mystified. “You know,” she prompted. “Our place in Mexico—­the one on the beach.”

Harold's nurse came out then to escort him into the house lest he get sunburned. “I'll be gone for a few days,” Ava told her. “I'm going down to San Carlos. If you need anything or if Harold does, Mrs. Sanchez, the housekeeper, can see to it.”

“Of course,” the nurse said. She didn't wear a name tag, and Ava had no idea what her name was. A succession of home health nurses had come and gone with very little fanfare. There was no reason to try remembering who they were.

With Ava's intentions clear to all concerned, she went about a leisurely job of packing. It wasn't a matter of emptying her walk-­in closet. She didn't want to take too much. It was important that everyone believe she didn't plan on being gone more than a ­couple of days. She did, however, clean out the safe, taking all her traveling money as well as her various forms of forged government ID. Those went into the false bottom of her midsize Louis Vuitton case.

Once she had the last shipment of diamonds in hand, the gems would need to be cleaned and dried. These days she could barely stand the smell of peanut butter, much less the greasy feel of the stuff, but after it was scrubbed away, the last of diamonds would go into that hidden compartment as well, beneath her casual beachwear clothing, underwear, and day-­to-­day makeup. The false bottom wasn't good enough to pass muster with a TSA inspection at an airport, but she'd be able to breeze through the highway checkpoints with no problem.

The larger Louis Vuitton bag was loaded and ready to go. It contained her various costume changes—­a collection of outfits, along with various wigs, scarves, and makeup. All those, taken together, created any number of disguises that coincided with each of her IDs. The woman who went through one Border Patrol checkpoint would appear to be someone else entirely when she arrived at the next one.

Ava had always known this day would come—­a time when she would need to disappear. Now that it was here, she was both excited and wistful. She'd enjoyed living in this place at the top of the heap, but she was tired of having to look after Harold—­not that she did the caretaking herself. She was tired of being responsible for him and for his caretakers.

If she'd had clear title to the house, Ava might have hung around long enough for Harold to die so she could inherit the place and live there from then on as Harold's well-­set widow. But Harold's son, Jack, had queered that deal. Marital trust my ass! Nope, Ava Richland was leaving, and not on a jet plane, either.

Her intention was to drop her luggage off at the safe house, then drive across the border into Mexico at Nogales in broad daylight. Appearing as Ava Richland herself, she'd be thoroughly inspected and photographed at the border. After that, she'd abandon the car in Nogales, Sonora, with the keys inside. With any kind of luck, it would end up in somebody's chop shop. After walking back across the border with a whole other set of ID, she'd meet a runner who would smuggle her back to Tucson.

As for Ava Richland herself? With the car gone or found stolen, she'd simply go missing. If the media could be believed, hapless American tourists went missing in Mexico all the time, and that's where they would search for her—­in Mexico. By the time the search started, she'd be back across the border into the United States, and dropped off at her safe house in Tucson. From there she'd be long gone.

Her unsafe safe house was situated in a dodgy neighborhood on the south side of town—­a run-­down place she'd picked up as a foreclosure during the real estate collapse. She had bought the place for a song and furnished it on the cheap with secondhand furniture from several of Tucson's many resale stores. The person who had bought the house and the furniture—­one of Ava's many stand-­in characters—­was a frail little old lady named Jane Dobson.

Jane wore colorful muumuus, used a walker, and drove a ten-­year-­old Acura. She seemed to have serious health issues and never went anywhere without being hooked to a portable oxygen pack in the basket of her walker—­one of Harold's rejects. Jane had told both the real estate agent and the neighbors that she had an abusive husband. (Harold would have been so surprised!) That's why she needed a bolt-­hole if things ever got too bad at home. As far as the neighborhood knew, the lady in the late-­model Mercedes and the Native American man who stopped by periodically and let themselves into her garage? According to Jane, they were her well-­to-­do younger sister and her nephew, both of whom came by now and then to check on the place for her.

Ava's bags were packed and ready to be carted out to the car when she made one last trip through the family room. Pausing in front of the floor-­to-­ceiling windows, Ava stared down at the cityscape beneath her. She couldn't help feeling a little sad, actually. She knew she'd never be coming back here. Tucson had been good to her—­far better than she could ever have imagined—­and she knew she would miss it.

Walking back across the room she passed the bar, and there was Fito. Poor Fito. How she wished she could take that lump of limestone with its toothy captive along with her. Jack and Susan would never be smart enough to sell the piece for what it was worth. Unfortunately, Fito was far too big for Ava to carry.

Then her eye fell on the pot—­the tiny pot. Jack and Susan wouldn't know what that was worth either, but what it meant to Ava was far more than any mere monetary value. It was a ­trophy—­a reminder of her first kill, a kill she'd gotten away with then and would still get away with now.

When JFA's attorneys had poked their noses into John Lassiter's case, they must have hoped to have his life sentence reduced to something considerably less than that, but as of today, his life sentence would become a death sentence. Somewhere around five that afternoon, John Lassiter would be a thing of the past, and so would Max José. And once Henry Rojas was out of the way, too, there would be no one left to connect all those dots back to her.

As for Ava? With Jane Dobson's aging Acura decked out in a new set of plates, she would drive to L.A. and to another equally unassuming safe house—­a condo in a massive development not far from LAX. On the way she'd stop by a Postal Minders shop off Sepulveda and pick up the collection of packages she'd sent ahead to Jane Carruthers—­another of her guises—­from one of the shipping centers at the Gem and Mineral Show a few weeks earlier. Lots of ­people shipped their gem-show purchases home from there, and her packages of blood diamonds had no doubt blended in with the crowd.

Ava plucked the tiny pot from its place of honor on the shelf and slipped it into the pocket of her denim jacket. With all her ducks in a row, she had no reason to leave her good luck charm behind.

She turned down the hall to the guest wing where Harold spent most of his waking hours these days. He was in his easy chair, sitting in front of a TV set watching what appeared to be one of the many Judge Whatever shows. The shows were uniformly mindless and plotless and were enough to keep Harold occupied. The nurse was standing in the doorway as Ava leaned down to give him a quick peck on the cheek. From Ava's point of view, nothing could have been better.

“I'm going now,” she said. “I'll see you in a ­couple of days.”

Harold waved at her absently, without really looking away from the screen. “Drive carefully,” he said.

She smiled at him and nodded in the nurse's direction. “I will,” she said. “I always do.”

LANI SHOWERED. THEN, WITH HER
hair still wet, she lay on the bed and tried to sleep. Dan had taken the kids and gone off to help Leo look for Gabe. The house was quiet. She was weary beyond words, but sleep wouldn't come. Like Gabe's mother, Lani was appalled that Gabe could be involved in something like this and with ­people who were beyond dangerous.

Gabe Ortiz and Tim José. She remembered Timmy as a little kid, coming into the hospital because he'd been playing around his grandmother's woodpile and had been bitten by a snake. He'd been cute back then, just as Gabe had been. She heard again the sound of that single early-morning gunshot and understood its heartbreaking significance. The first rounds of gunfire had brought down Carlos and Paul. The final one must have been for Tim—­Timmy.

Lani had not yet dozed off when her phone rang. Leo's name appeared on the screen. “Any luck?” she asked.

“Maybe a little,” Leo answered. “I've looked everywhere I can think of. I started out by stopping by the José place, thinking Gabe and Tim might have holed up there. Nothing, but I asked around. It turns out nobody's seen Tim since early yesterday evening.”