Day of the Dead - J. A. Jance [128]
“What?” Brandon asked.
“There were latent prints in that old Orozco file…” the detective said.
“…that probably haven’t been entered into AFIS,” Brandon finished.
“They will be soon,” Brian Fellows declared. “If we get a hit, we pick up Stryker and voilà. There you have it—cold case solved.”
The waitress showed up with Brian’s tea. “Can I take your order?” she asked.
Brandon waved her away. “There may be a problem with that,” he said, leaning across the table and dropping his voice.
“What kind of problem?”
“I’ve already blown my cover as far as Stryker is concerned. When I talked to him earlier, I let him know I was onto him about Roseanne. When I brought her up, he almost choked to death on his coffee. I know I shouldn’t have done it, Brian, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted to make him squirm and he did, but now I’m afraid he may come after me or Diana or Lani.”
“Where are they?” Brian asked.
“Lani and Diana? At home. At least that’s where they were when I left them.”
“I’ve got a few connections in the Patrol division,” Brian said. “I’ll put in a word for the deputies to keep an eye on your place.”
Brandon let out his breath in gratitude. “Thanks, Brian. I appreciate it.”
“But do you really think he’ll come after you?” Brian asked. “If I were Larry Stryker and thought people were closing in, I’d head for the border.”
“You’re right,” Brandon said. “They have all kinds of connections in Mexico. Once he makes it across the border, we’ve lost him.”
Brian nodded. “Especially if this turns into a death-penalty case,” he said. “Mexico won’t extradite anybody who’s likely to go on trial for a capital crime.”
And Lani and Diana won’t ever be safe, Brandon thought. Making up his mind, he stood up and slapped a five-dollar bill down on the table. “Come on.”
With that, Brandon headed for the patio exit. Brian Fellows padded after him, carrying the Burger King bag. “Where are you going?”
“Medicos for Mexico.”
“Why? What we’ve been talking about sounds good to us, but so far it’s pure speculation. We don’t have anything that gives us probable cause.”
Brandon Walker stopped short. “See there, Brian? That’s the difference between you and me. You’re a cop. Cops have to worry about little details like probable cause, so go get it. Take that damned coffee cup to Alvin Miller and see if he can give you enough probable cause for a warrant. As for me? I’m retired. These days Brandon Walker is nothing but an ordinary private citizen. I have absolutely no intention of arresting the guy—couldn’t do it if I wanted to. So I don’t need probable cause, but I’ll tell you this: I’m going to stick to Larry Stryker like flies on shit. If he makes a move in the direction of Mexico, I’ll be there to slow him down.”
Brandon was already unlocking the Suburban. “Do you have a gun?” Brian asked.
Brandon nodded and patted his underarm holster. “Took it out of my gun safe and cleaned it just this morning.”
“What about a vest?” Brian asked.
“I don’t have one,” Brandon Walker said. “Turned mine in when I retired.”
Brian was already unbuttoning his shirt. “Take mine,” he said. “I’ll pick up my other one when I go back to the department.”
“But…” Brandon began.
“No buts,” Brian told him. “If I let you go without a vest and something happens to you, Diana will kill me, and I wouldn’t blame her.”
Gayle Stryker was at her desk, talking to her private banker and moving funds around when Larry stumbled into her office. His face was red, his tie askew. His white shirt was spotted with what looked like a spray of coffee. He was hyperventilating. “I’ve gotta talk to you,” he gasped.
“I’ll call you back,” she said into the phone, and then put down the receiver. “Larry, what’s the matter? You look like hell. Don’t you know there are reporters out there?”
“Brandon Walker’s the matter,” Larry stammered. “I just talked to him. I swear, he knows all about Roseanne Orozco. Yes, I saw the media people camped out