All the Wrong Moves (16 page)

“Margo, my wife, fell apart when she heard about Ramon’s son. She railed at me for putting Jenny’s life in danger, for always thinking of my work before my family. She couldn’t get out of El Paso fast enough or move far enough away. For Jenny’s sake, I had to let them go.”

He paused, took a swallow of his now cold coffee and continued.

“I’ve only seen them twice since. Margo’s afraid I’ll lead Mendoza’s henchmen to Jenny. I’m afraid she’s right.”

“What? Is he still pulling strings?”

“Yeah, he is. Ramon and I both testified at his trial in Mexico City. Damned thing was a farce from start to finish. He’d obviously bought off the judge and scared the jurors shitless. He should have been sentenced to ten to twenty minimum, but got off with a stiff fine and walked.”

“Like Patrick Hooker,” I murmured, understanding now.

“Like Patrick Hooker,” Mitch echoed grimly. “And, like John Armstrong Sr., I wanted to pump a bullet into the bastard’s face so bad I hurt with it.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I may yet, if I sense him or his people getting anywhere close to my daughter.”

Or close to him. Mitch hadn’t been kidding about making as many enemies as friends in his line of business. No wonder he always walked around with a holster strapped to his ankle.

I understood now why he couldn’t let this thing with Armstrong Sr. go. It went too deep, had become too personal.

AS much as I sympathized with Mitch, I left his house with no intention of messing around in the Hooker/ Armstrong investigation any further. Honestly!

I’d contributed to Armstrong Sr.’s defense by locating the cell phone person or persons unknown had called him from. That gave weight to the argument that he’d been set up and might hold some sway with a jury deciding his fate. According to my boss, I needed to let the folks with bright, shiny badges take it from here.

It was mild curiosity that plunked me down in front of my laptop that evening. Idle interest that had me Googling up B&R Systems. Took me all of ten or fifteen minutes to get caught up again in a scary world.

I’m not naive. More to the point, I wear a military uniform. But I had no idea conventional arms was such a humongous, trillion-dollar industry. Or that the U.S. led the pack in sales to other countries, with Russia and the U.K. coming in a distant second and third. We’re talking everything from bullets to F-16s here.

Most foreign sales were legitimate and designated for military purposes. But billions of dollars’ worth of those armaments ended up on the black market and were sold to the highest bidder. Not F-16s, of course. Those would be kind of hard to auction off on the side. Enough assault rifles, grenade launchers and explosives changed hands, though, to validate Mitch’s grim assertion that smuggling arms was becoming as big a business as smuggling dope.

My Googling also confirmed that B&R Systems wasn’t the only major weapons producer who’d had their products hijacked. One company lost a whole shipment of armor-piercing bullets. In another grisly report, modern-day pirates had boarded a cargo ship on the open sea and murdered the entire crew to get access to a container of shoulder-launched anti-aircraft missiles.

Chewing on my lower lip, I delved a little deeper into B&R’s history and arsenal of products. The company had started small. A family-owned enterprise, Bauer and Rusk originally manufactured rifles, shotguns, handguns and ammunition for the sporting crowd. Within ten years, B&R had gone public, acquired a rival company, diversified into military armaments and got heavily involved in electronics. Ten years more, and the now international conglomerate was partnering with major defense contractors like Raytheon Missile Systems to produce big-bucks, laser-guided systems capable of taking out all enemies, large and small. Or so the company’s literature proclaimed. Last year B&R reported $700 million in profits. Not a bad chunk of change for a company headquartered in some small Arizona town I’d never heard of.

Curiosity got the best of me again. I had to MapQuest Sahuarita, just to see where the heck it was. Right outside Tucson, I discovered.

Just a few hours from Phoenix.

Home of Harrison Robotics.

I stared at the map for long moments. To this day I’m not sure what prompted me to flip up my phone and leave a message on Mitch’s cell.

“I don’t know what your schedule is next week but I’m thinking of driving over to Phoenix to deliver EEEK to his rightful owners. If you want to go with me, we could make a stop in Tucson, home to B&R Systems, and talk to this Bennett chick.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

I pulled into Mitch’s driveway at oh-dawn-thirty the following Tuesday morning, only twenty minutes late. These early mornings were turning into a nasty routine.

I had EEEK nested in his shipping container in the rear of my Bronco and a few niggling doubts about my proposed jaunt hovering at the back of my mind.

Dr. J hadn’t actually
ordered
me to butt out of the Hooker/ Armstrong investigation. He’d merely suggested it. Strongly. I’m sure there’s something in the Uniform Code of Military Justice that would slice right through that thin defense but . . . Well . . .

I kept seeing Armstrong Sr.’s grief-ravaged face when he spoke of his son. And remembering the grim details Mitch had shared about the threat to
his
daughter from some sleazoid trafficker in human misery. Like Mitch, I’d more or less linked the two incidents in my mind.

Then there was the small matter of the destruction of my lab. I took that personally, especially after sweating through that friggin’ loss/damage report. Some folks might think it was my obligation, my
duty
, to follow up on any possible connection between the fire and the Hooker/ Armstrong case.

And if the trip took longer than expected, if Mitch and I had to spend the night somewhere along the road . . . What can I say? These things happen.

I was envisioning all sorts of potentially delicious scenarios when the lights inside Mitch’s place blinked off and he exited the front door.

We’d agreed on civilian clothes for the expedition. I was in hot pink crops and a gauzy tunic swirling with orange and pink poppies. I’d picked up the outfit after splurging half of one paycheck on a Coach tote trimmed in the same sizzling pink. Probably not the best choice for someone with my reddish hair, but out of uniform I crave color. Lots of color. Even my strappy, flat-soled sandals tinkled with bright beads.

Mitch had opted for a more conservative look. Jeans. A white cotton shirt with the cuffs rolled up. A San Antonio Spurs ball cap. When he slid into the passenger seat, the travel mugs he had gripped in one hand smelled as good as he looked.

“Bless you.” I reached for one of the mugs with heart-felt gratitude. “I didn’t have time to caffeine-up before I left my apartment.”

“I figured as much from your flustered call to let me know you were on your way.”

He strapped in and I backed out of the driveway with only a mild tire-squeal. We cleared El Paso’s city limits before the rush hour and hit the Texas/New Mexico border just as the sun painted the sky a rosy gold. From there it was a straight shot along I-10 to Tucson. Nothing but three hundred plus miles of desert and small towns like Lordsburg, New Mexico, and Bowie, Arizona, to cruise past.

With all those wide open spaces ahead, my foot got a tad heavy and we ate up the tarmac. My Bronco might look like a demolition derby reject on the outside but it had heart and a new ring job.

To be honest, Mitch contributed far more to making those miles fly by than the Bronco. I sensed we’d crossed a line the other night when he’d explained his identification with John Armstrong Sr. He didn’t bring it up again. Neither did I. But it was there with us while we talked through again what we knew of the investigation and, gradually, segued into other, unrelated topics. Like our preferences in literature. And red versus green chili sauce. And country crooners.

The latter led to all kinds of interesting side discussions when a Toby Keith tune popped up on the FM station we’d tuned into.

“How can you not like Toby Keith?” I demanded when Mitch leaned forward to change the station. “You’re a Texcan.”

“Actually, I didn’t move to Texas until I took this job with the Border Patrol. And Toby Keith is from Oklahoma,” he pointed out mildly.

I brushed that minor point aside with a flap of one hand. “His music taps into everything important in life. Home. Family. Friday night football.”

“A high school football fan, are you?”

“I’ll have you know you’re looking at a three-year member of the Holderville High dance squad. I was out there every weekend my freshman, sophomore and junior years, twirling those poms.”

“What happened senior year?”

“I got a job at the local bistro and decided I really liked having a few shekels in my pocket. Although I have to say all that pom-twirling and tail-shaking came in handy after I moved to Vegas.”

“I imagine it would.”

I smiled at his solemn reply.

“There’s an art to delivering drinks in a place like the Paris Casino,” I informed him loftily. “You need to be friendly, but you also have to be careful not to come across as too available.”

“I think I speak for most men when I say available is good.”

“Only if you don’t mind ending up with a loser like my ex. Trust me on this. I know whereof I speak.”

He found a station broadcasting a song with a bass-heavy salsa rhythm and settled back against his seat. “How did you make the transition from the loser ex to the air force?”

I heaved a melodramatic sigh. “I wish I could say I was motivated to serve my country. The truth is, holding up my right hand was a direct result of walking in on my ex doing the dirty with our top-heavy neighbor.”

“He has to be some kind of stupid.”

THE look that accompanied his comment/compliment stayed with me during a brief breakfast stop and the rest of the drive into Tucson. We hit the city outskirts right around nine-thirty.

If you’ve never been to Tucson, you should go sometime. It’s a graceful blend of old and new, with lots of Spanish arches and soaring skyscrapers. Not that I’d seen much of either during my one prior visit. That was spent at Old Tucson, the fake town built as a western movie set way back when and now a major tourist attraction.

Which reminds me . . . I still have one of those old timey photographs of Charlie and me somewhere. He’s dressed up like Burt Lancaster in
Gunfight at the O.K. Corral
. I’m a saloon girl. Naturally.

I made a mental note to dig out the photograph for a ceremonial burning as I followed the directions I’d Map-Quested to B&R Systems Corporate Headquarters. The route took us past sprawling Davis-Monthan AFB, home to the 355th Tac Fighter Wing and, oh, by the way, the boneyard of the air force. I have no idea how many air-and spacecraft are mothballed there in the hot, dry desert sun but it has to be thousands. I caught just a glimpse of them parked wingtip to wingtip before we turned south on I-19.

B&R’s headquarters was housed in a steel and glass structure in a modern industrial park not far from Raytheon Missile Systems, one of its major customers. We parked in a visitor’s slot and made our way up a walkway graced by dancing fountains and tall palms. Our first stop was the guard manning the security desk in the vestibule.

“May I help you?”

“Hope so,” Mitch answered.

Sliding a black leather case out of his back pocket, he flipped it open to display his Border Patrol badge and a photo ID while I rooted around in my pink and green Coach tote for my air force ID.

“Agent Jeff Mitchell. This is USAF Lieutenant Samantha Spade. We’re here to see Ms. Joy Bennett.”

The guard consulted a computerized visitor’s log. “I don’t see either of you listed. Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“I’ll call up to her office and see if Ms. Bennett is available.”

He hit the keyboard to search for her number, frowned, and tapped a few more keys.

“Sorry. Looks like Ms. Bennett no longer works here.”

“Who is—was—her boss?”

“B&R’s vice president for operations, Roger Carlisle.”

“Is he available to speak with us?”

“Hang on, I’ll check.”

Ten minutes later, we were issued visitor’s badges and escorted by a bright, bubbly junior assistant into the sixth floor suite of offices belonging to B&R’s VP for ops. Once there, we sipped coffee and cooled our heels for a good twenty minutes until the intercom buzzed and we were allowed access to the inner sanctum.

“Sorry. I was on a conference call with our folks in Kuwait.”

Carlisle came around his desk to greet us. He was a big man. Six-two or -three, with a thick neck, broad shoulders and piercing gray eyes. I guessed his age in the mid-fifties, but I could have been off by a half decade either way. His glance skimmed over my wild poppy tunic before locking on the badge and credentials Mitch displayed.

“What’s this about?” he asked, waving us to chairs in front of his desk.

“We wanted to talk to Joy Bennett but understand she’s no longer with B&R.”

“That’s right.”

“Why did she leave?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Not a man to mince words, Mr. Carlisle.

“I was part of the initial task force investigating the death of Patrick Hooker and Juan Sandoval,” Mitch replied. “I still have some questions that need answering.”

His glance arrowed in my direction. “And you, Lieutenant Spade?”

“I found the bodies. And I helped locate the cell phone used for an anonymous call to the man who ambushed Hooker and Sandoval.”

“The phone containing a partial fingerprint?”

“Yep.”

“The FBI grilled Ms. Bennett about that cell phone. Also about the fact that Hooker had supposedly brokered a deal for a stolen shipment of B&R weapons. Ms. Bennett swore she knew nothing about Hooker or his connection to the missing shipment. She even took a polygraph. The results substantiated her claim.”

“What about her lover?” Mitch asked. “The one who gave her a false name and address?”