The Associate Page 14

  Outside, into the heat again. But this time there was shade from a roof that overhung a wide patio of brownish-red Spanish tile. At the end of the patio was a pool wide enough for six lap lanes and deep enough at one end for a diving board. An armed guard stood in the shadows created by the high wall that surrounded the compound. His eyes followed Kate as she crossed the veranda, but Kate lost interest in him quickly. Her attention was drawn to a heavyset man in white cotton pants and a loose-fitting short-sleeve shirt who was seated under an umbrella at a circular glass table, staring toward the pool.

  Martin Alvarez stood when he heard the women approach. Kate guessed that he was six two. A black eye patch covered his right eye and a scar ran across his temple, reddish white against his dark, pockmarked skin. There were streaks of gray in his jet-black hair. A bushy mustache covered his upper lip. Alvarez's shoulders were thick and his forearms were heavily muscled. The investigator's immediate impression was that he was a hard, unforgiving man.

  "Martin, Miss Ross is here," Anna Cordova said.

  Alvarez crossed the pool deck with a determined stride.

  "Gene is dead?" he asked without preliminaries.

  Kate nodded.

  "There is no mistake?" Alvarez asked. His face betrayed no emotions.

  "No."

  "The details, please. And do not spare my feelings. I am hardened to violence. Nothing you tell me will be worse than what I've already experienced."

  "Mr. Arnold was killed with a sharp instrument, probably a knife. He didn't suffer. His death would have been quick."

  "Why did it take you so long to identify him? Kellogg reported him missing weeks ago."

  "His body was found in the ruins of a laboratory in the woods, several miles from downtown Portland. Mr. Arnold's body had to be identified through dental records because the body burned with the building."

  There was a quick intake of breath.

  "He was dead before the fire was set," Kate added quickly to put Alvarez's mind at ease.

  "Why don't you continue your conversation by the pool." Cordova pointed to the glass-topped table. "I'll have Miguel bring you some refreshments. Would you like an iced tea?" she asked Kate.

  "That would be fine, thank you."

  Alvarez walked back to the table. Kate sat across from him under the shade of a large umbrella.

  "Do you have any suspects?" Alvarez asked.

  "No. The police don't even know what Mr. Arnold was doing in Oregon."

  "I don't either. Gene was in New York to obtain financing for one of my business ventures. I expected him back as soon as he was finished."

  "So he wasn't supposed to go to Portland after he was through in New York?"

  "No."

  "Have you ever had any dealings with the Geller Pharmaceutical Company?"

  "No."

  "Can you think of any reason why Mr. Arnold would be interested in primate research?"

  "No. Why do you ask?"

  Kate gave Alvarez a brief explanation of the Insufort case. Alvarez blanched when she mentioned Aaron Flynn's name.

  "Is something wrong?" Kate asked.

  "Seven years ago a man named Paul McCann murdered my wife. Aaron Flynn was his attorney."

  "Was Flynn a big man with red hair?"

  "Yes."

  Kate told Alvarez about the Bernier photograph.

  "My best guess is that Mr. Arnold came to Oregon to talk to one of the people in the picture. Maybe Flynn is in it. Do you know why that would have been such a shock?"

  Alvarez's brow furrowed and Kate thought that he looked genuinely perplexed.

  "I can only guess that seeing Flynn brought back memories of his wife's murder," Alvarez answered after some thought.

  "Were the murders of your wife and Mr. Arnold's related?"

  "Yes."

  Kate let that rest for a moment.

  "How did Mr. Arnold get along with Flynn when they were living in Desert Grove?"

  "I don't think they saw much of each other outside of professional meetings," Alvarez answered stiffly. Then he paused, lost in thought, before shaking his head. "None of this makes sense."

  "It might help me to make sense of it if I knew more about what happened here, seven years ago."

  Alvarez hesitated. Kate could only guess at how painful his memories must be. After a moment he fingered his scar.

  "If you think it would help . . . ?"

  "I don't know if it will, but we have nothing to go on now."

  "I've spent seven years thinking about the murder of my wife, trying to piece together what happened. I'll tell you what I know and what I learned from others if it will help you catch the person who murdered Gene." He pointed at his sightless eye. "He may be the same person who did this to me."

  Chapter Twenty-Nine.

  1

  It was morning in the desert. As Patty Alvarez rode Conquistador toward the red-rock canyons to the east, a crimson tinge appeared along the horizon. Then the sun began to grow huge, displaying thick waves of red-hot gas and yellow flares so bright that she couldn't gaze directly at them.

  Patty liked to ride first thing in the morning because it was still cool. In an hour rivulets of sweat would be running between her breasts and her blouse would stick to her hot skin. That's when she would turn for home.

  Conquistador was a King-bred quarter horse, a reddish-brown bay with a black mane and tail who had once been a champion. Martin Alvarez had presented Conquistador to his wife on her thirty-second birthday and he was Patty's favorite. As they raced across the narrow valley, she felt the muscular bay moving between her legs, reminding her of the things Martin had done to her that morning before she left the hacienda. There were two stallions in her life. Patty smiled at the thought.

  One way to cut the heat was to race through the gaps between the stone monuments that spread out before her. In the canyons, the narrow rock walls shot up to the sky and cast cooling shadows over the trail. Conquistador knew the route of their morning run by heart, so Patty could concentrate on the view. Patty believed that the mesas had been painted by nature and sculpted by God. She never tired of looking at them. They were red or brown or yellow, depending on the light, and she imagined that she saw the faces of Indians or the bodies of muscular warriors in the rock.

  The land in front of the canyon was flat and the huge boulders that marked both sides of the entrance were big enough for a man to hide behind. Conquistador was drawing alongside the massive stone pile on the right when two men appeared abruptly from behind the boulders to the left. They wore navy-blue ski masks, jeans, and jackets that were zipped to the neck, a bizarre outfit to wear in a land where the heat of the day was over one hundred degrees. As the man in front raised his hand toward Patty, palm outstretched, the other man leveled a rifle at her horse.

  Patty knew instantly what was happening. Martin was rich, very rich, and he loved Patty past caring. Everyone knew this, and Patty was certain that these men knew it, too. They would use Martin's love to make him pay a fortune in ransom for her. And once he paid she was certain that she would die.

  Patty dropped her body forward, hugging Conquistador as she kicked her heels into his flanks. The bay sprang forward. Wind like a freight train barreled past the quarter horse. Hooves beat against the parched ground, dust flew. The men jumped aside. Patty saw a swirl of light and shadow in the canyon, and freedom. Then a shot rang out in the still desert air.

  2

  There were seventy thousand people living in Laurel County, Arizona, but there was no debate over who among them was the richest and most powerful. Martin Alvarez was a bear of a man with a broad flat face the color of tanned leather. He wore his hair in a ponytail, had diamond studs in his ears, and wore buckskin jackets, hand-tooled cowboy boots, and bolo ties. Martin had started with one used-car lot on the outskirts of town and now owned car dealerships all over the state, as well as a statewide chain of retail stores and profitable land holdings. But Martin's proudest possession was his wife,
the redheaded, green-eyed former Miss Laurel County.

  Patty Alvarez was fifteen years Martin's junior. When the most powerful man in Laurel County started courting her she had been scared to death, but she knew that marrying Martin meant security. And there was the prestige of being Mrs. Martin Alvarez. She would go from being a name scratched into the stalls in the high-school boys' room to the top of Laurel County society. So she had said yes when Martin proposed and had been happily surprised to find that she had grown to love the husband who doted on her.

  The Martin Alvarez seated behind the large oak desk in the hacienda's home office was a man on the verge of violence. The only thing keeping him civilized was the absence of a target. Seated on the other side of the desk were FBI Agent Thomas Chandler, Detective Norman Chisholm of the Laurel County Sheriff's Office, and Ramon Quiroz, the Laurel County district attorney. Several other law enforcement officers were also crowded into the room. Two FBI technicians were working on Martin's phone.

  "I know you've told Mr. Quiroz and several others what happened today, but I'd like to hear it firsthand, if you don't mind," Chandler said.

  Martin looked ready to explode. He was tired of talking, he wanted action, but he restrained himself and recounted the day's events to the FBI agent.

  "Patty rides every morning. Sometimes we ride together, but I had a conference call at seven, so she rode alone. She usually takes the same route and she's usually back between eight and nine. When she didn't return by ten I grew worried. I brought one of the men and we went looking for her."

  Martin paused. Chandler watched him control his anguish and anger.

  "We found Conquistador near the entrance to a canyon roughly four miles east of here."

  "Conquistador is her horse?"

  "Was. He's dead," Martin replied bitterly.

  "And your wife was missing?"

  Martin nodded. "But there was blood on the rocks where Conquistador fell."

  "I've got my forensic people out there now," Chandler said. "They'll analyze the blood to see if it's from the horse."

  He did not mention the other, obvious possibility.

  "What did you do after you found Conquistador?"

  "I called Ramon from my cell phone. Then we waited by the horse."

  "Tell me about the call from the kidnappers."

  "As soon as Norm arrived he told me to go home. He was worried it was a kidnapping and they'd call while I was out. They did, about two hours ago. They said no cops, but Ramon and Norm insisted that I bring you in."

  "That was a very smart move."

  "Unless they kill Patty," Martin said, turning his steady eyes on Chandler.

  "These people want money, Mr. Alvarez. That's what this is all about. There won't be any money if they kill your wife."

  Chandler waited a beat, hoping that Martin would relax a little. He didn't.

  "Please tell me, word for word, as best you remember, what was said during the call."

  "It was a man but he disguised his voice. He said, `We've got your wife. If you want her to live it will cost you one million dollars. We want it in unmarked bills. Nothing larger than hundreds.' I told him it would take a day to get the money. He said he would call back with instructions. I asked to speak to Patty. He hung up. That's everything. The call didn't take long."

  "Okay," the FBI agent said.

  "I want honesty, Chandler," Martin demanded. "Total honesty. What are my wife's chances?"

  Chandler looked grim. He shook his head.

  "I have no idea what your wife's chances are. There are too many variables. So I'm not going to guess or give you a best-case scenario. The honest truth is that I don't know. All I can promise is that we will do everything in our power to get your wife back."

  3

  The kidnappers told Martin to leave the ransom money under a log that crossed over Rattlesnake Creek in the mountains several hours' drive from Desert Grove. Martin's banker had the money ready, but on Chandler's instructions, Martin told the kidnappers that it would take two more hours for the bank to put the ransom together. Martin drove to the bank to pick up a large duffel bag stuffed with money while Chandler used the darkness to infiltrate a heavily armed team into the woods near the stream.

  Thomas Chandler had been raised in Philadelphia, educated in Boston, and trained for his job in Quantico, Virginia. Nothing in his childhood, his schooling, or his FBI training had prepared him for lying for hours in a cold, damp forest on sharp, stony ground. Chandler had only been able to remain motionless for a little while. Soon he was shifting his body every few minutes, doing the best a city boy could to move quietly.

  Scanning the area around the creek only took his mind off his discomfort for a little while. The wide stream twisted through the woods, the water deep and clear as it boiled over several boulders that changed the course of the creek. Through night-vision glasses the area looked like a neon video game.

  Chandler was turning his collar up as protection against the cold mountain air when a noise made him freeze. He checked his watch. It was after ten, just about the time Alvarez would be arriving. A twig cracked and the agent saw a flashlight beam light up a stretch of the trail that wound through the woods to Rattlesnake Creek. Chandler focused his night vision-glasses on the spot where a tree felled by lightning lay across the waterway. Moments later Martin Alvarez came into view carrying a large duffel bag across his broad shoulders. Chandler watched Alvarez wedge the bag under the log. When he stood up, Alvarez cast a quick look around before returning the way he had come.

  As soon as Martin disappeared up the trail Chandler trained his glasses on the duffel bag, but nothing happened. The bag lay under the log, the stream ran swiftly between its banks, and the stillness of the forest lay over the agent like a blanket. Chandler found it impossible to watch the duffel bag continuously. Besides, he knew that the snipers hiding in blinds throughout the forest and the other agents in the capture team were on alert. He shifted for comfort and closed his eyes. He was starting to nod off when fear of falling asleep jerked him back to his duty. Chandler chided himself, slapped his face to stir his adrenaline, and refocused his glasses on the log just as a man dressed entirely in black rose out of the creek and grabbed the duffel.

  Chandler unholstered his weapon. "FBI! Freeze!"

  Automatic fire sprayed through the woods from somewhere on the other side of the creek. Chandler hit the ground. The man with the duffel fled down the stream using the burst as cover. Chandler heard the other agents return fire. He got to his feet and raced into the frigid water. The fleeing man suddenly darted out of the stream and into the forest with Chandler in pursuit. It was hard to move in the dense underbrush. The agent tripped over a root and stumbled forward just as another burst of automatic fire shredded the foliage above his head, showering him with leaves.

  As soon as the gunfire stopped Chandler regained his footing. He heard ragged breathing and the sound of someone smashing through the bushes. Then a shot rang out, followed by a sharp grunt, and one of the snipers yelled, "He's hit."

  Chandler raced ahead until he burst into a clearing, nearly running into a large man wearing a ski mask and bleeding badly from a leg wound. The man tried to pivot on his injured leg and stumbled. Chandler drove into him, taking him to the ground. Moments later a chokehold ended the brief fight. By that time several other agents assisted in subduing the captive.

  "Where's the other one?" Chandler demanded as soon as he caught his breath.

  "They're after him," one of the agents answered.

  Chandler remembered the duffel bag. He turned in a circle, then asked for a flashlight. He shined the light over the area where he'd just fought. Then he asked the handcuffed prisoner, "Where's the ransom money?"

  An agent pulled off the ski mask. The man he confronted was six feet tall. His face had the ruddy complexion of someone who worked outdoors and his red hair was plastered across his forehead.

  "Where is Patty Alvarez?" Chandler demanded.


  The man looked beat, but he did not look beaten.

  "I want a lawyer," he answered. "I ain't sayin' nothin' before I talk to a lawyer."

  Chandler knelt next to the man, gripped his chin, and forced his head up so they were eye to eye.

  "If Patty Alvarez is dead, you're facing the death penalty," Chandler whispered so only the man could hear what he said. "If you cooperate right now we can deal. Keep asking for a lawyer and I'll be smiling at you when they pull the switch."

  Chandler released the man's chin. The man broke eye contact. Two winded agents burst into the clearing. They started to speak, but Chandler held up his hand and led them out of earshot of the prisoner.

  "There's a deer trail a half mile up the creek," one of the agents said. "We followed it for a mile. It crosses a deserted logging road that wasn't on any of our maps. There were fresh tire tracks in the dirt."

  Chandler swore. The prisoner's accomplice must have grabbed the duffel bag while the two of them were out of his sight. Chandler pushed past the other agents and walked up to the prisoner.

  "Your partner has the money and he's gone. That means you are going down for every charge I can think of unless you help us, right now. You have one minute to make up your mind."

  4

  Martin Alvarez focused intently on the testimony of Lester Dobbs, who had cut a deal shortly after his arrest near Rattlesnake Creek, then led the FBI agents to the shallow grave where Patty Alvarez was buried. However, someone other than Dobbs had captured the attention of Paul McCann, the man who was on trial for Patty's murder.

  Melissa Arnold was the court reporter for the Laurel County Circuit Court during the trial of State v. McCann. Every day while court was in session, she sat in front of the dais from which Judge Melvin Schrieber presided typing every word that was spoken in court onto her stenograph machine with amazing accuracy. The ability to type with accuracy was not the only amazing thing about Melissa Arnold. She had long, honey-blond hair that hung to her shoulders, pale blue eyes, and full lips. The consensus around the courthouse was that she had the most beautiful legs anyone had ever seen. The rest of Melissa's body was also outstanding. So outstanding, in fact, that Paul McCann could not keep his eyes off her, even though Lester Dobbs was giving testimony that could send him to death row.