small pocket flashlight with a red filter. A jewel box with a transparent plastic lid, holding what looked like locksmith tools. An unlabeled vial of clear liquid, probably chloroform. A package of what must be smelling salts. Duct tape. A suction cup. A glass cutter.
The satchel was Cray’s tool kit.
And it would incriminate him.
Burglar’s tools for breaking and entering. Chloroform for carrying out a silent abduction. Duct tape to bind the victim.
She dug deeper and found a spare clip for that pistol of his, the Gock , Crock, whatever it was called.
Had he shot Sharon Andrews with the pistol? If so, the cartridges in this clip were probably of the same caliber and design as the two slugs found in her body.
There was one more item, at the very bottom of the sack. A leather sheath. And in it, a knife.
She cupped the sheath in the palm of her hand and lifted it. Spots of discoloration freckled the careworn leather, spots that were brown and black and rust-colored. Some were dirt, and some were blood.
Sharon Andrews’ blood? Almost surely.
Cray had used this knife to—well, she knew what he’d used it for.
Seaweed in the tide. Green and limp.
A woman’s face.
She almost dropped the knife in a spasm of repugnance.
“You okay?” Wallace Zepeda asked over the music.
“Fine. I’m fine.”
She was. Really.
Because she had Cray now. She had him.
All she needed to do was get the whole package to the police—Cray’s tools and, with them, his damn car key. The key would link the satchel to him almost as effectively as a fingerprint.
The cops must receive dozen of anonymous tips, but this was one tip they couldn’t ignore.
And let Cray tell any smooth lie he liked. It wouldn’t matter. He was finished, the murdering bastard.
Her hands were shaking as she knotted the satchel’s drawstring clasp.
When she looked up, she was surprised to see that the Rambler was heading west on Silverlake Road , and her motel was dead ahead.
“It’s there,” she said, pointing.
Zepeda pulled into the parking lot and turned off the cassette. He cast a sour gaze on the ramshackle building and the nearby freeway.
“Great place. You find out about it in the Triple-A guide?”
Elizabeth smiled. “Not exactly. Look, I really want to thank you—”
“Forget it. I don’t want your gratitude. I just want your attention for a moment.”
“I’m kind of in a hurry.”
“You’ve got time for some old Indian wisdom, don’t you?”
“Sure. I’m sorry. Of course I do.”
“Then here goes. You’re in some deep shit, lady. You can’t handle it alone. You need to get some help, or the next person who finds you in the desert will be looking at a corpse.”
She was shocked for a moment, and then she had to smile. “That’s old Indian wisdom?”
“It’s wise enough. And I am one old fucking Indian.”
“I’m going to get help, Mr. Zepeda.”
“You wouldn’t be selling me a string of beads, would you, Paula?”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“Okay, then. Get some rest. And find yourself some damn shoes.”
He let her out and watched her as she hurried to her room and went quickly inside. He noticed that she hadn’t needed a key; the door had been left unlocked.
Unlocked—in this neighborhood.
It was just another thing Wallace Zepeda didn’t want to think about as he drove away, Creedence loud over the speakers, the sun a haze of glare in the red east.
15
Cray was heading south on Interstate 10, two miles past downtown Tucson , when his glance strayed to the floor of the passenger seat and he realized that it was empty.
Kaylie’s purse had been there. She had taken it, of course. That didn’t matter.
But the satchel did.
He had forgotten it entirely. Exhaustion and anger had fogged his mind.
She had carried off his little black bag, perhaps without even knowing what it was. But she would know before long. She would look inside, paw through the satchel’s
The satchel was Cray’s tool kit.
And it would incriminate him.
Burglar’s tools for breaking and entering. Chloroform for carrying out a silent abduction. Duct tape to bind the victim.
She dug deeper and found a spare clip for that pistol of his, the Gock , Crock, whatever it was called.
Had he shot Sharon Andrews with the pistol? If so, the cartridges in this clip were probably of the same caliber and design as the two slugs found in her body.
There was one more item, at the very bottom of the sack. A leather sheath. And in it, a knife.
She cupped the sheath in the palm of her hand and lifted it. Spots of discoloration freckled the careworn leather, spots that were brown and black and rust-colored. Some were dirt, and some were blood.
Sharon Andrews’ blood? Almost surely.
Cray had used this knife to—well, she knew what he’d used it for.
Seaweed in the tide. Green and limp.
A woman’s face.
She almost dropped the knife in a spasm of repugnance.
“You okay?” Wallace Zepeda asked over the music.
“Fine. I’m fine.”
She was. Really.
Because she had Cray now. She had him.
All she needed to do was get the whole package to the police—Cray’s tools and, with them, his damn car key. The key would link the satchel to him almost as effectively as a fingerprint.
The cops must receive dozen of anonymous tips, but this was one tip they couldn’t ignore.
And let Cray tell any smooth lie he liked. It wouldn’t matter. He was finished, the murdering bastard.
Her hands were shaking as she knotted the satchel’s drawstring clasp.
When she looked up, she was surprised to see that the Rambler was heading west on Silverlake Road , and her motel was dead ahead.
“It’s there,” she said, pointing.
Zepeda pulled into the parking lot and turned off the cassette. He cast a sour gaze on the ramshackle building and the nearby freeway.
“Great place. You find out about it in the Triple-A guide?”
Elizabeth smiled. “Not exactly. Look, I really want to thank you—”
“Forget it. I don’t want your gratitude. I just want your attention for a moment.”
“I’m kind of in a hurry.”
“You’ve got time for some old Indian wisdom, don’t you?”
“Sure. I’m sorry. Of course I do.”
“Then here goes. You’re in some deep shit, lady. You can’t handle it alone. You need to get some help, or the next person who finds you in the desert will be looking at a corpse.”
She was shocked for a moment, and then she had to smile. “That’s old Indian wisdom?”
“It’s wise enough. And I am one old fucking Indian.”
“I’m going to get help, Mr. Zepeda.”
“You wouldn’t be selling me a string of beads, would you, Paula?”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“Okay, then. Get some rest. And find yourself some damn shoes.”
He let her out and watched her as she hurried to her room and went quickly inside. He noticed that she hadn’t needed a key; the door had been left unlocked.
Unlocked—in this neighborhood.
It was just another thing Wallace Zepeda didn’t want to think about as he drove away, Creedence loud over the speakers, the sun a haze of glare in the red east.
15
Cray was heading south on Interstate 10, two miles past downtown Tucson , when his glance strayed to the floor of the passenger seat and he realized that it was empty.
Kaylie’s purse had been there. She had taken it, of course. That didn’t matter.
But the satchel did.
He had forgotten it entirely. Exhaustion and anger had fogged his mind.
She had carried off his little black bag, perhaps without even knowing what it was. But she would know before long. She would look inside, paw through the satchel’s
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