The Last Second (2 page)

“Vaguely. I usually cover the human interest side of things.”

“Well, this here cache of guns, every serial number traced back to that operation. Every one of them was found in the trunk of my officer, Calvin Walker. I’d say that makes him guilty.”

“Allegedly,” Sydney pointed out. “If I’m not mistaken, there hasn’t been a trial yet.”

The chief scoffed. “See, that’s what’s wrong with the media these days. Always so warm and fuzzy.” He glanced at Sydney, then leaned back in his chair and pinned his gaze on Griffin. “There wasn’t nothing
alleged
about it. What
happened
is that Officer Walker was moving them guns from his house here in town out to the McMahon property so he could hide ’em. Or he would’ve if we hadn’t caught him. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Walker jumped bail, missed court, and that tells me he probably headed straight to Mexico where his cartel friends are hiding him. Which makes him Mexico’s problem, not mine.”

Griffin turned the page in the book, curious to see what other evidence there might be. One was a picture of the Victorian mansion he’d seen in Trish’s photograph. “This the McMahon place?”

Sydney leaned in for a look. “Impressive.”

“It was,” the chief said. “Back in the day. McMahon and Sons Mining. Old McMahon sold it and moved out of state some years ago. The new owners went bankrupt and the house was repossessed. Been empty so long, had to fence it off as a public nuisance. Of course, you turn to the next page, you’ll see why it’s being detonated in the morning.” Griffin did as asked, and the chief said, “Either of you know anything about explosives?”

Sydney looked wide-­eyed, and Griffin replied, “Let’s just say they don’t cover that in journalism school.”

“That,” Chief Parks said, tapping the photo, “is dynamite. Old mining towns, we expect to find this. But not there, in the McMahon basement.”

Sydney moved closer for a better look. “Could it have been left behind by the past owners? For their mining operations?”

“No, ma’am. Because that there basement was empty when the last owners abandoned it. We know, because we rousted a few kids out of there over the years, which is why we had to erect the fence around the property. Too dangerous,” he said, as Irene walked in with his cup of coffee. “Thanks.” He turned his attention back to the binder. “We found that dynamite in a search of the property after Calvin jumped bail. Most officers I know don’t keep cases of explosives around unless they’re up to no good. And now we gotta blow up the place.”

“Blow it up?” Sydney asked, playing the ingénue to perfection. “Why?”

“Wouldn’t take much to set it off. Nitroglycerin’s degraded. ­Couple of them sticks even rub together and boom!” He slammed his hand on the desk.

Sydney’s brows went up, and Griffin asked, “But what about Officer Walker’s dog? Can’t we at least get in there and take it out?”

“Like I said, too dangerous. Right now, my officers are under orders to arrest anyone who shows up. Afraid I can’t make any exceptions.”

“Even for photographs?” Sydney asked. “For our article?”

“Tell you what,” he said, steepling his fingers together. “You can take all the photos you want. As long as it’s
outside
the fence line. That’s the best I can do.” He made a show of looking at his watch, then standing. “You two got any other questions? I got a town council meeting I gotta get to.”

“Actually,” Griffin said, “there is one thing. Now, mind you, I’m not the investigative expert here or anything, but we heard rumors that maybe that dog’s waiting on that property because there’s a body buried there somewhere.”

“A body?” He shook his head. “Said it was beneath that rock pile by the broken wall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I take it you been talking to Walker’s sister? Well, dog or no dog, I assure you there’s no
dead
body beneath
that
rock pile or anywhere else on the property.” He turned to his computer. “Who knows why the damned dog is there. Now this,” he said, typing something on the keyboard, “is a photo taken a ­couple years ago, when we decided to fence the house off, due to it being a public nuisance. Last thing we wanted was to be sued ’cause some drunk-­ass kid fell in one of them old mine shafts that litter the area, never mind falling down the stairs in the abandoned house.” He waited while the article loaded, then turned the screen so Griffin and Sydney could see it. “You can see the fence crews working in the background. That puts it about two years ago. And there? Same broken wall. Same location. Same configuration. So unless someone went to the trouble of piling it up in exactly the same way, ain’t no way they moved ’em to bury a body there.”

“Is it possible to take a look ourselves? At least to retrieve the dog?”

“Can’t let you do that. Ain’t no reason that dog’ll get hurt where it’s at. Dynamite’s in the basement. Dog’s a few dozen yards away. Trust me. We got experts out there overseeing the whole thing, and they assure me that house is going straight down, not out. Ain’t no one gonna get hurt, as long as they stay
outside
the fence line.” He walked over to the door and opened it. “But tell you what. You want to be here in the morning when we blow up the place? I’ll give you front-­row seats. In the meantime, you leave the explosives to the guys who know what they’re doing and we’ll leave the article writing to you.”

“W
ell?” Trish asked Griffin, once they were back at the car where she was waiting.

He removed his glasses and tucked them in his pocket. “Guess we’re going to save a dog.”

Sydney reached out, hugged him, and he forced himself to let go when she did. “Thank you,” she said softly, and he hoped she’d remember that there was a good side to him, when they finally did get that chance to sit down and discuss his past. “What made you decide?”

“He’s lying through his teeth. At least about the dynamite.”

“I’m not the expert you are,” Sydney said. “But I was under the impression that nitroglycerin
is
very unstable once it degrades.”

“It is. And like he said, I’d expect to find long-­forgotten dynamite in an old mining town like this. But what I saw in that photo happened to be military-­grade explosives, which is made
without
nitroglycerin. The military designed it specifically for its stability. So either there’s another dirty cop who fed Chief Parks a line of bull about what sort of explosives are down in that basement, and he’s clueless, or he knows
exactly
what it is, and he believes
we’re
clueless.” He looked over at Sydney as she slid into the passenger seat. “Guess which scenario I’m banking on.”

Sydney smiled. “Score one for the mild-­mannered reporter.”

Griffin started the car, then pulled away from the curb.

“So,” Trish asked. “Where do we go from here?”

“The old McMahon place,” Griffin said. “Seems to me if the chief’s so hell-­bent on keeping us out, that’s the first place we need to check.”

A
ssuming no one was hurt in the operation, the worst thing that could happen
if
he and Sydney got caught was that they’d be punished for using government resources in a nonsanctioned, nonvital operation. They could be suspended without pay for such a move.

Then again, they could both be fired.

Least of his worries right now.

Ten minutes later outside the fence line, as Griffin eyed the dog through his binoculars, he told himself that he didn’t care if what he was doing went against the rules. In his mind, this was one case where it was better to ask for forgiveness than ask for permission. And if they took down a corrupt local government while they were doing it, all the better. “Exactly how did you plan on getting in there past the patrol officers guarding the place?” he asked Trish.

“There’s a gate on the perimeter fencing around the back. It’s locked. But there’s also a hole near the gate where the dog got through. I think it’s big enough for us.”

“What sort of patrols do we have?” Griffin asked.

“A uniformed officer drives the outer circumference, checking on the property about every thirty minutes, making sure the gates are locked. Ever since they discovered the explosives, they haven’t varied their schedule.”

“Beyond the chief, you think the officers are in on this?” he asked her.

“I don’t know. I never got the chance to ask my brother.”

“And the agents who they turned the guns over to? Could they be in bed with the corrupt police?”

“I don’t think so. The biggest problem with them is they’re too by the book. At least according to my brother.”

Of course, Griffin thought, there was one thing neither he nor Sydney considered when they set out on this mission. “What happens
if
we find your brother’s body? Any chance the police chief’s going to let us waltz out of here with it?”

Sydney gave him a sardonic look, but any quip she might have uttered died at the sight of a dust cloud in the distance.

Apparently the road coming from the south wasn’t paved. “That’s probably the patrol.” He checked his watch. “Now we know their schedule. Nice of them to make it easy for us.”

A minute later, the vehicle drove past the gulch where they hid. It stopped, the red dust settling as the officer got out, checked the chain on the gate, then stood there a moment, looking in their direction. Although they were hidden in the brush, Griffin felt Sydney tensing next to him. But then the officer turned away, got back into his vehicle, and drove off.

They waited until the trail of dust was long gone before they got up, moved to the gate. Trish showed them where the dog had gotten through, a hole beneath the chain link. Griffin lifted it, allowing first Sydney, then Trish in, before sliding under it himself. Sydney and Trish climbed the hill toward the house to have a look around, while Griffin, using the shrubs for cover, worked his way to the end of the broken wall, where the dog rested.

When he reached the break in the wall, the dog turned toward him, his sad eyes looking suddenly hopeful as he raised his head, then wagged his tail hesitantly. In that moment, had all the forces of Washington, D.C., ordered him off, Griffin knew without a doubt that he couldn’t walk away.

“Hey, Max,” he said quietly, not wanting to scare the dog. “C’mere.”

Max stood, but didn’t move, watching with a wary expression as Griffin neared. He looked thin, his coat dull from the dust.

“Max.” Griffin took a few more steps, held out his hand, then clicked his tongue. “C’mere, boy. Come.”

The dog remained steadfast.

At least he wasn’t growling. Griffin took that as a good sign, talking softly, moving forward, slow, steady, until he was just two steps away.

“Good dog.” He reached out, allowed the dog to smell the back of his hand. “Where’s Calvin?” The dog’s ears perked up. “Where’s Calvin? C’mon, boy. Show me.”

Max gave a slight whine, then jumped down and started digging in the hard, sandy soil, right beneath the foremost rock.

Griffin might still have doubts about Trish’s theory on the location of Calvin Walker’s body—­he saw no signs of a fresh grave, nor smelled the stench of decaying flesh that in this climate was a sure sign. But this dog was trying to tell him that
something
was beneath there.

He crouched down next to the dog, looking at the rocks, and the dog pushed his nose against Griffin’s arm, as though urging him forward. Max jumped so that his forepaws were on the rock. He barked twice, and Griffin wondered if perhaps there was a murder weapon, or something that belonged to his master that would explain why the dog had steadfastly remained in this one spot of all places. He leaned forward to peer into the shadows cast by the bush growing right against the break in the wall.

What he didn’t expect was to feel air moving against his face. Or a sound coming from beneath the rocks. Like the noise a seashell makes when you hold it to your ear.

The rocks weren’t there to cover up a grave. They were there to cover up an old mining shaft.

“Anyone down there?”

No answer.

Griffin pulled one of the rocks off and it rolled down the pile. Then another, until he partially exposed a metal grate covering the shaft. He cleared the remainder of the rocks from it and saw it was a little over a half meter in diameter. The bush growing next to it blocked the sunlight and he couldn’t see how deep it went. Someone certainly could have dropped a body down there, but after three days, there would have been some smell of decay—­unless it was too deep. “Calvin Walker? Are you there?”

He couldn’t tell if what he heard was a raspy faint response or an echo of his last word. The dog, however, whined. That was proof enough for Griffin, and he started to lift the grille when Sydney called out to him. He looked up to see her and Trish on the porch.

Sydney pointed toward the ser­vice road. “The patrol car’s coming back around.” Sure enough, there was a growing cloud of dust, which suddenly settled, indicating the car had stopped a ­couple of hundred yards out.

Sydney turned her binoculars back to the road. “Getting out of the car . . . Gun!” She pulled Trish down onto the porch a second before the first shot rang out. Bits of rock and dust went flying past Griffin’s face.

Griffin dove to the ground, on the far side of the rocks. A second shot rang out. Max gave a sharp cry.

Unsure if he was hit or simply scared, Griffin called him. “Max! Come!”

The dog obeyed. Griffin grabbed him by the collar, so he couldn’t run off. Although Griffin couldn’t see the officer, he wasn’t about to poke his head up over the low wall to look, so he held the dog to the ground next to him. From that distance, it had to be a long-­range rifle. “Sydney! Visual?”

“Clear! . . . Run!”

Gripping Max’s collar, he sprinted up the hill to the house, onto the porch where Sydney and Trish hid. Sydney was standing behind the trellis, the thick, leafless vines giving her cover as she watched.

“What’s he doing?”

“Backing up, I’m assuming so he can call in reinforcements.”

“We could use some big guns of our own,” he said, pulling out his cell phone. Tucson’s FBI field office was the closest. Only one problem. “No signal.”