No Honor Among Thieves: An Ali Reynolds Novella (Kindle Single) (3 page)

“We’ll have to wait for sunrise to finish the crime scene photos,” Jaime observed. “That’s a little over an hour away.”

Joanna nodded. “And I’ve asked for the SCRs to show up and search the roadway for brass. I want to know exactly where those shots came from and what kind of weapon was used.”

“Take a look at the cab,” Jaime suggested.

Together, Joanna and her detective approached the passenger side of the truck. The door lock had given way, leaving the door dangling on its hinges. A cursory survey of both sides of the door reminded Joanna of a cheese grater: smooth indentation on the outside and jagged ones on the inside.

“That’s a bunch of holes,” Joanna said. “Have you found any spent bullets?”

“Not yet,” Jaime replied. “The CSIs have been working the scene but they haven’t started on the truck. They’ll probably have to wait until the truck is towed to the impound lot before they can finish up.”

Joanna stepped away from the truck, shaking her head. “I don’t need a team of CSIs to tell me what’s really going on here,” she said. “I already know.”

“What’s that?”

“Whoever the shooter is, he has way more firepower than we do and he’s not afraid to use it. Not only do we need to find him fast, we’ll have to be careful as all hell when it comes to taking him down.”

•   •   •

Ali Reynolds was peacefully asleep when her husband’s cell phone buzzed them both awake at seven
A.M.

“Hey, Stu,” B. Simpson said. “What’s up?”

B. Simpson’s company, High Noon Enterprises, had started off years earlier as a locally owned and operated cyber security company located in Sedona, Arizona. Since then it had grown exponentially, morphing into a well-respected international firm that numbered some of the world’s leading companies among its clientele. Stuart Ramey, a high-functioning Asperger’s syndrome guy with a brilliant head for computers and abysmal people skills, was B.’s second-in-command.

“We just got a hit on our LEGO media scanning program.”

As part of their security process, they maintained a constant search for any media hits involving one of their clients. Media hits often meant that some kind of security issue was brewing, and keeping a multilingual worldwide watch for trouble was one of the services High Noon offered.

“What kind of hit?” B asked, switching the phone to speaker as Ali got out of bed and ushered Bella, their recently rescued miniature dachshund, over to the patio door to let the dog out. Because of the presence of too many nighttime critters in Sedona’s semi-wild environs, Ali stayed at the door and kept watch until Bella finished her business. Then the dog came inside, leaped gracefully back up onto the bed, and curled into a small ball in her designated spot in the middle of the foot of their bed.

“I thought you’d be interested,” Stu said, “because, for one thing, it’s from right here in Arizona.”

“Where in Arizona?”

“Bisbee.”

“What exactly are we talking about?”

“It’s a column called Bisbee Buzzings from the local newspaper, the
Bisbee Bee
, written by someone named Marliss Shackleford. It reads more like a blog than an actual article, but it posted just a few minutes ago at 6:45. The electronic version evidently comes out before the paper version.”

“What does it say?” B. asked with a hint of impatience leaking into his voice.

Stu cleared his throat and began reading aloud.

Early this morning the Cochise County Sheriff’s Office was investigating a fatality motor vehicle incident at the point where Highway 92 crosses the San Pedro River. Although Sheriff Joanna Brady refused to make any comments, this reporter was able to ascertain that the case involves a delivery truck that slammed through the guardrail into the riverbed. The damaged truck was clearly visible, but my understanding is that the investigation is being conducted as a possible homicide.

An anonymous source close to the investigation, speaking without permission, claimed that the truck was transporting a load of LEGO sets when it crashed in the early morning hours. There were indications that automatic weapons fire was involved.

So what’s really going on here? Is this a situation where bad guys with guns targeted some poor truck driver who was minding his own business and was gunned down for simply doing his job? If that’s the case, every resident of Cochise County is in danger and needs to be on high alert.

What I’m asking is this: When will someone from Sheriff Brady’s department come forward and speak candidly about what’s really going on? In the meantime, I can assure you that, as more information becomes available, your intrepid reporter will be on the job.

B. couldn’t help but be pleased that the automated media surveillance network he and Stu had created had managed to pick up on that one-word mention from a tiny electronic newspaper article in an out-of-the-way corner of Arizona. But he also knew why Stu was calling him. LEGO sets were essentially limited editions. Once a popular model was no longer available through regular retail channels, the prices of those sets skyrocketed, creating a lucrative black market trade. The LEGO company, based in Denmark, had hired High Noon as an outside source to address that black market and to search out the source of inventory that was obviously going astray.

The sets were manufactured at several overseas locations. B. had recommended placing GPS locator chips inside the boxes of some of the higher-priced models, concealed inside the gel-packs used for moisture protection. That idea had been dismissed out of hand as being “unworkable and too expensive.”

Having a chip inside even one of the sets from the wreck would have been a huge help about now. The regular radio-frequency identification chips, RFIDs, on the outsides of the packages would provide some information, however, including where they had been manufactured and where they were going. B. assumed that legitimate freight haulers would be using eighteen-wheelers and traveling on interstate highways. They wouldn’t be utilizing midsize box trucks on back roads in the middle of the night. If there were LEGO sets involved in the incident, B. was confident that, one way or the other, they were stolen goods.

“That’s all?” B. asked. “Just that one-word mention?”

“So far.”

“Nothing more on local television feeds?”

“The place where the wreck happened is a good seventy-five miles outside Tucson,” Stu replied. “A motor vehicle accident, even a fatality MVA, in Cochise County generally wouldn’t garner any attention from the Tucson news outlets. If the incident ends up being classified as a homicide, however, the Tucson stations will be all over it.”

“We need to be all over it before they are,” B. declared. “I want someone with a chip reader on the scene as soon as possible. Can you find out where and when the latest LEGO shipments have come ashore? Since we have an ending point, if we can pin down a beginning point, we may be able to track down who’s responsible.”

“I’ll get Cami started on the shipping situation the moment she comes in,” Stu said. “We have a chip reader here, but getting it to Cochise County in a hurry is a problem. I checked. We’re talking a five-hour trip. As for obtaining permission to scan the boxes, good luck with that.”

Cami Lee was a recent computer sciences graduate whom B. had snagged to be Stu’s assistant. She was a dynamite five-foot-nothing package, bright and talented. She was also totally capable when it came to doing her job, which included dealing with Stuart Ramey’s gruff style and less-than-easygoing personality.

“Ali and I will be on our way to Cottonwood in a matter of minutes,” B. said. “Try to find out any additional details you can about that wreck.”

“If you’re going to Bisbee, wouldn’t it make more sense for you to leave directly from home?” Stu suggested.

“No,” B. said firmly. “We’re coming there first.”

•   •   •

Seated at the foot of the bed, petting Bella, Ali was caught off guard by B.’s use of the plural pronoun “we.”

Taking the hint, Ali dashed into the bathroom. When she emerged minutes later, showered but still in her robe, B. was back on the phone with someone else. “Right,” he was saying. “The R66 will be just fine. What’s the pilot’s name again?” There was a pause while he made a note in his iPad.

Ali knew that the R66 was a Robinson helicopter, which meant B. was on the phone with Heli-Pros, a helicopter charter outfit out of Scottsdale that B. used on occasion.

“Okay, Chuck,” B. continued. “Landing at the Sierra Vista airport sounds about right: That should be closer than anywhere else. Can you have a rental car there? . . . Good . . . Yes, there will be two passengers. The lead passenger will be my wife, Ali Reynolds. She should be listed on my customer profile. The second one will be Stuart Ramey.”

B. paused again and then turned to Ali. “How much do you weigh?”

“Are we even having this conversation?” she demanded, hands on her hips, but she knew why he was asking. In order to calculate the range, the charter outfit needed to know the weight of the passengers. “One thirty-three,” she added.

B. repeated the information into the phone then turned to Ali again. “Any idea how much Stu weighs?”

“You think you’re going to talk Stu Ramey into going for a ride in a helicopter?” Ali asked. “Are you nuts? And why aren’t you going?”

“How much?” B. insisted, ignoring her query.

“Two forty or maybe two fifty,” Ali said with a shrug, “but that’s just a guess.”

B. passed along that information as well. “Right,” he said. “The usual place. I know Chuck isn’t our customary pilot. Let him know that we’ve got an approved helipad painted on the far northeastern corner of the High Noon parking lot.”

Ali waited until he was off the phone. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Because I’m going to be spending my whole day dealing with corporate guys from every corner of the planet. I can’t afford to be out of reach for as long as it takes to get back and forth to Bisbee. Stu would be lost on his own, and Cami’s not experienced enough.”

Shaking her head, Ali collected Bella and took her to the kitchen. Leland Brooks, their majordomo, was already on hand with a freshly brewed pot of coffee. “Will you and Mr. Simpson be wanting breakfast?”

“Sounds like breakfast of any kind is off the list for this morning,” she told him as he busied himself dishing out Bella’s food. “B. and I have to head out for Cottonwood as soon as we’re both decent. There’s some kind of crisis afoot, so whatever you were planning for dinner should probably be put on hold. I’m being deputized to a crime scene in Cochise County. I don’t know where B. will end up, and I have no idea when we’ll be back.”

“In other words, business as usual,” Leland said with a smile. “I take it you won’t be going into the office in Flagstaff today.”

Weeks earlier, Ali and B. both had been involved in the take-down of a polygamous group called The Family located in northern Arizona. The group’s leader, Richard Lowell, knowing he was about to be brought to justice for human trafficking, had gunned down most of the men in the cult, leaving the affected women and children to fend for themselves.

Some of the women had left The Family’s compound willingly. Others who tried to stay on ended up being evicted when the state discovered that most of the dwellings in the community weren’t built up to code and needed to be leveled. Most of the displaced homemakers had few job skills, and the kids were years behind students of the same age as far as scholastic achievement was concerned. Working as a volunteer three days a week out of an office shoehorned into the Flagstaff YWCA, Ali’s job was to smooth out some of the bumps and difficulties The Family’s women and children struggled with as they tried to find their way in a world entirely foreign to them.

“This is a priority right now,” Ali told Leland. “I’ll call the Y and let them know I’m traveling and won’t be in. Since I’m a volunteer, obviously they can’t fire me.”

When Ali returned to the bedroom with two cups of coffee in hand, she found that B., fully dressed, was back on the phone, speaking urgently and fluently in a language Ali suspected to be Danish. It was a lengthy conversation. By the time it ended, Ali was dressed and both of their coffee cups were empty. On their way to the garage, they found that Leland had freshly loaded travel mugs waiting for them on the kitchen counter.

“I’m telling you, you’re never going to be able to talk Stu Ramey into a helicopter,” Ali insisted again, once they were in B.’s car and belted into their seats. “He’s scared to death of flying.”

“He flew to Vegas for the wedding,” B. countered. “He flew to Paris last winter.”

“Yes, he did,” Ali conceded, “but it was under protest, and those trips were on board airplanes. Big difference. Planes are one thing; helicopters are another. He won’t go.”

“He will if you ask him,” B. said. “After all, aren’t you the smooth talker who persuaded him to take both those trips?”

“But why does Stu need to go in the first place?” Ali objected. “I’m not exactly tech savvy, but I’m pretty sure I’m smart enough to operate an RFID chip reader and relay the information back to you.”

“I’m sure you are, too,” B. replied. “But think about this: Supposing a crook of some kind has been tasked with driving a truckload of stolen merchandise from one place to another. How’s he going to figure out how to get there?”

“If he hasn’t been there before, he’d probably need a GPS device of some kind,” Ali answered.

“Right. And who do you suppose is one of the most qualified people on earth when it comes to extracting information out of whatever device Mr. Bad Guy may have been using? Not you and not me, either. Stu can do it with his eyes closed, but he has to be there—boots on the ground—to do the work. It’s just like a haircut: You can’t get a haircut over the phone.”

Ali’s phone rang. When she saw Cami’s name on the display, Ali put the call on speaker so B. could hear as well.

“Hi, Cami,” Ali said. “I’m here and so is B.”

“Good morning, guys,” Cami said cheerfully. “Here’s what I’ve got for you so far. The most recent shipment from LEGO arrived in Long Beach by way of the manufacturing plant in Monterrey, Mexico, yesterday morning. It consisted of twenty-five shipping containers devoted solely to LEGO. The last of that shipment was off-loaded yesterday by approximately three
P.M.
According to the GPS chips on the pallets, most of those containers are now en route to their final destinations with the exception of ones that have already been delivered at various West Coast distribution centers between San Diego and San Francisco.”