Day of the Dead - J. A. Jance [136]
He glanced at the clock on the dash. Another ten minutes had passed, but he was nowhere near the Tucson city limit. It was just as well they were leaving. The traffic back and forth to the ranch was getting worse every year. Larry Stryker was tired of having to fight his way through it morning and night, coming and going. Didn’t these people understand he was in a hurry? He had to get out to the ranch and back into town before Gayle did.
Somewhere north of River Road, Larry looked off to the east, toward the spot where he knew Erik LaGrange had lived, and he was struck by a fit of doubt. Gayle had sacrificed that little shit without so much as a backward glance. What if…?
Plucking his cell phone out of his pocket, he scrolled down until he found the number for CitationShares. “This is Larry Stryker,” he said when an Owner Services rep came on the line. “I just wanted to reconfirm our flight for tonight.”
“Your wife’s flight from Tucson to Cabo San Lucas?” the rep asked.
“That’s right,” Larry said. “That’s the one.”
“It’s scheduled to depart at six P.M.,” the clerk told him.
Larry caught his breath. “Did you say six?” he asked. “I understood it wasn’t leaving until eight.”
“No, it’s definitely departing at six. The itinerary calls for one passenger, Mrs. Stryker, leaving for Cabo San Lucas at six P.M. Do you need me to change that, or are you ready to arrange your own departure?”
Larry could barely speak. “No,” he said. “That’s fine.”
He ended the call, then pounded the steering wheel with both fists. “That bitch!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “That incredible bitch! She’s planning to take off and leave me holding the bag!”
By the time he was stopped at the next light, though, Larry had reconsidered. He picked up his phone and hit redial. “This is Dr. Stryker again,” he said. “You’re right. I do need to make my own flight arrangements. I’d like to leave tonight—as soon as you can get a plane here.”
“Departing from Tucson International?” the reservations clerk asked.
“No. I’ll be at home, north of the city. I’d rather leave from the FBO at Pinal Air Park.”
“Will you also be going to Cabo San Lucas?”
“No,” he said after a moment’s pause. “I’ll be going to Mexico City.”
“And only one passenger?”
“That’s right,” he told her. “Only one. But I’d like a Bravo or an Excel—something big enough so I can make it in one shot.”
“You realize this will be considered simultaneous use. I can’t guarantee you a plane until I check availability. Do you want to stay on the line?”
“Yes,” Larry said. He almost added “please,” but he managed to stifle himself. The wait was interminable.
“All right,” the rep said brightly, coming back on the line. “There weren’t any Excels, but I can have a Bravo there at nine-thirty. So that’s one passenger departing from Pinal Air Park.”
“Wonderful,” he said.
“Any special catering requirements?” she asked.
“Scotch,” he told her, letting out his breath. “And plenty of ice.”
“Cars? A hotel?”
“Have a car meet me at the executive terminal in Mexico City,” he said. “I’ll decide on the hotel on the way.”
Brandon’s arm was bothering him again. He had forgotten about it for a while, but now it was aching like crazy. And the Suburban’s air conditioner didn’t seem to be pumping out enough cool air. Nerves, he told himself. And it was true. When his cell phone rang a few minutes later, Brandon jumped as though he’d been shot.
“Where are you?” Brian asked.
“Stuck in traffic northbound on Oracle at Orange Grove,” Brandon replied. “At least he’s not on I-19 headed for Nogales.”
“If he’s going north on Oracle, Stryker’s most likely going to his ranch,” Brian put in. “It’s The Flying C on the far side of the Tortolitas. That’s the address listed on his driver’s license—101 Flying C Ranch Road. Are you having any difficulty maintaining visual contact?”
“Are you kidding? We’re crawling along at such a snail’s pace I could