Fallon took in the tiny kitchen, the dining nook, the bed and the miniature bathroom in a single sweeping glance.
“Where’s her computer?” he said.
Startled, Isabella turned toward the dining nook. It took her a second or two to register what was wrong.
“It’s gone,” she said. “Grandma had a new laptop. I gave it to her. She kept it on the dining table. If she was going underground, that is the one thing she would have taken with her. But if someone did murder her, that is the one thing the killer would have grabbed.”
“It is also the one thing that a thief looking for electronics to sell in order to support a drug habit would have stolen,” Fallon said patiently.
“True.” Isabella pulled herself together. “But you heard Mrs. Ragsdale. No one has been inside the trailer since the night Grandma was taken away.”
“Except Mrs. Ragsdale,” Fallon said. “And the manager. And some guy from the maintenance crew. I’m sure Mrs. Ragsdale does her best to keep on top of things, but she’s a seriously senior citizen. Probably hard of hearing. And this trailer sits at the far end of the Court. Late at night a thief could have gotten inside without being seen.”
“Not in this trailer park,” Isabella said. “Everyone here is elderly.”
“Your point?”
“Older people don’t sleep well. Grandma said that this place was like a Vegas hotel. Someone is always watching because someone is always awake.”
“I’m not trying to argue with you,” Fallon said. “But the fact is that the computer is gone and there are a number of possible explanations. The one that has the highest probability is the theft scenario. It may have been ripped off by one of the maintenance crew or the manager or a burglar.”
“Okay,” Isabella said. “But there are other possibilities, right?”
“Yes, Isabella, there are other possibilities. They just aren’t very likely.”
“Unless my grandmother is alive.”
Fallon started to methodically open and close the myriad built-in drawers and storage cabinets that lined the interior of the trailer. “If your grandmother is alive, that changes everything.”
She watched him glance into another drawer. “What are you looking for?”
“Something else that looks wrong or out of place. Get busy. You’re the one who knew her best. Take a good look around. Do it first without your talent. You don’t want to miss what your normal senses can tell you. Too many agents rely on their psychic abilities and wind up missing obvious clues.”
“Got it.” Isabella opened the cabinet beneath the sink and peered inside at the half-empty bottle of dishwashing liquid. “You know, what Mrs. Ragsdale said about the pictures was sort of strange.”
Fallon closed a drawer and looked at a calendar that hung on the wall. “Why was it strange?”
“Because in my family we never took photographs.” Isabella felt sudden hot tears in her eyes. “I don’t have a single picture of my parents or of my grandmother.”
Fallon offered no sympathy. He was still studying the calendar. “I can understand that a dyed-in-the-wool conspiracy theorist like the Sentinel would not go in for family photo albums, especially in this day and age when the pictures might wind up online.”
Isabella dashed away the tears with the back of her hand. “That’s what Grandma said.”
“So what pictures was she talking about?”
“I don’t know. If she had any here in the trailer, she never told me about them.” She closed another drawer. “Nothing looks strange or out of place, Fallon. Except for the missing computer, of course.”
“All right, use your finder-vision. Your grandmother was aware of your talent. If she hid something that she wanted you to locate, it should be obvious to your para-senses.”
Isabella opened her other sight carefully. She knew what to expect. Her grandmother’s secretive nature had generated layer upon layer of fog in the trailer. But most of it was in the cool, gray zone.
The exception was the searing mist that swirled around the wall calendar. She took a closer look at it.
“That calendar is locked in hot fog,” she said.
“Wrong month,” Fallon said. “It should be showing the month that your grandmother was taken away in an ambulance.”
Isabella felt her pulse kick up. “Maybe she wrote something important on one of the dates.”
Fallon moved to stand directly in front of the calendar. Isabella joined him. Together they studied the colorful, glossy picture of a stretch of beach complete with crashing waves. The focal point of the shot was a large, oddly shaped rock. Eons of wind and tides had formed the stone into the shape of a roughly hewn arch.
“I don’t understand,” Isabella said. “It’s just a generic calendar landscape. The rock is a little unusual, though.”
“Yes,” Fallon said. “The rock is very unusual.”
“I’ve seen rocks similar to that on the beach in Santa Cruz.”
“That’s not Santa Cruz,” Fallon said.
He reached up to remove the thumbtack that secured the calendar to the wall.
Voices sounded outside. Mrs. Ragsdale was talking to someone.
“She just got here,” Mrs. Ragsdale said. “About time, if you ask me. It’s been a month since Bernice passed.”
“Everyone handles this kind of loss in a different way, ma’am,” was the response.
Isabella went cold.
“Fallon,” she whispered.
He folded the small calendar, stuffed it inside his jacket and took out his gun.
There was a sharp rap on the door followed by a low, chillingly familiar male voice.
“I know you’re in there, Angela, and I know that Jones is with you. I’m unarmed and I’m alone. Open the door. We need to talk.”
“You know that guy?” Fallon asked, keeping his own voice equally low.
“It’s my old boss at Lucan Protection Services, Julian Garrett. When I worked there I used the name Angela Desmond. Julian’s the one who set me up and then sent those two men to kidnap me in Phoenix.”
“About time the guy from the maintenance crew showed up,” Fallon said.
27
Fallon opened the trailer door, making sure to keep the gun out of Mrs. Ragsdale’s line of sight. He made certain the man on the front steps got a clear look at it.
“Ah, shit,” Julian Garrett said, weary and resigned. “Take it easy. I just want to talk to Angela. I swear, she’s got it all wrong. No one is trying to hurt her.”
“That’s good,” Fallon said. “Because anyone who lays a finger on her will wake up dead.”
Julian was dressed in a green work shirt, pants and low boots. The logo for a company named Desert Sun Maintenance was stitched on the pocket of the shirt. Garrett looked to be in his midthirties. His gray eyes, high cheekbones and sharply etched features gave him the air of a lone wolf. There was energy in the atmosphere around him, a lot of it.
“Trust me, the last thing my boss wants me to do is bring Arcane down on his neck,” Julian said.
Isabella moved up behind Fallon and looked at Garrett. “My name is Isabella Valdez now, and if you don’t want to hurt me, why did you send those two thugs to grab me in Phoenix?”
Julian glanced meaningfully over his shoulder and then lowered his voice another notch. “I admit that was badly handled. My men had instructions to pick you up, that’s all. Look, I can explain everything. Mind if I come inside? I don’t want to get too dramatic here, but there’s a small matter of national security at stake.”
“Oh, bullshit,” Isabella said.
Julian’s mouth tightened. He switched his attention back to Fallon. “Department A has done some jobs for some very black-arts agencies. Just like J&J.”
Isabella rounded on Fallon. “You never told me that we do work for the Feds.”
“We try to avoid those jobs,” he said patiently. “But we have been known to do some consulting for certain agencies.”