“And about your son,” Joanna replied. “And about the dirty cops from North Las Vegas who killed your son and who want you dead as well.”
Becker dropped into one of the rows of seats and covered his face with his hands. “If you could find me this easily, they will, too. I knew better than to go to the funeral, but I thought I could take a chance on coming here. There were so few people. Nobody recognized me-except you. I know it’s all my fault. That’s why Alice is dead. The people who are looking for me must have thought she would lead them to me, although I don’t know how they found out.”
“They didn’t,” Joanna said.
“They didn’t?” Joanna saw the smallest flicker of hope register on the man’s haunted features. “You mean somebody else killed her?”
“Yes,” Joanna said. “Her son-in-law.”
“Ross Jenkins? But why?”
“For money,” Joanna replied. “We found evidence at the scene that made us think Clete Rogers was responsible. But since Ross Jenkins’ accomplice has already confessed to her part in Alice’s murder, I suspect that was a frame job.”
“Clete would never do such a thing;” Becker declared. “I le thought the world of his mother. In fact, I’m surprised he wasn’t here tonight. I was hoping to get a chance to tell him sorry I am.”
For the first time Joanna realized Jonathan Becker hadn’t yet heard the rest of the news. “Clete Rogers didn’t come to the visitation because he couldn’t,” Joanna said softly. “He’s dead, too.”
“Clete? No. What happened to him? The stress was probably too much.”
“It wasn’t stress,” Joanna said. “Somebody threw him in deep end of an empty swimming pool and broke his neck. It happened last night.”
“Did Ross do that, too? I knew Ross and Susan didn’t get along with Clete, but I never thought they’d do something so-”
“How did you first meet Alice Rogers?” Joanna interrupted.
“I suppose you’ve figured out about the Witness Protection thing,” Becker ventured.
“Yes. Nobody told us for sure, but we’ve pretty well pieced it together.”
‘Well, I couldn’t stand it. It was too confining-a jail with no bars on the walls, but a prison nonetheless. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I split. I was on my way through Tombstone headed God knows where-Mexico, probably-when I heard Clete complaining that he couldn’t get anybody to come help him patch his roof. I offered to help out. I ended up hanging around town doing odd jobs. It was summer, so the rents were cheap. Clete introduced me to Alice because she needed some work done, too. So I started doing handyman jobs for her, but it turned out we liked each other-really hit it off. One thing to led another, and before long-well, you know how it goes. Some people thought Alice was cantankerous, and maybe she was. But she also had an independent streak. I liked that about her.”
“Going back to you and Clete Rogers. Would you say the two of you were close friends?”
“No. Clete was a good guy, and he was nice to Alice-a lot nicer than Susan and Ross. But no, we weren’t really close.”
“Still, though, since Clete was really your first point of contact in Tombstone, mightn’t someone think you were good friends? If someone came to town looking for you, might they assume that of all the people in town, Clete Rogers would know where you’d gone off to?”
Joanna’s question was followed by a long silence. “You think that’s who killed him?” Jonathan Becker asked. “The people who are looking for me?”
“The only other possibility would be Ross Jenkins,” Joanna said. “He’s undergoing surgery in Tucson at the moment, so he’s in no condition to tell us one way or the other. But his accomplice says not.”
After a long moment Jonathan Becker nodded thoughtfully. “They’d do it in a minute,” he said. “They swore they’d get to me, and they probably will. As soon as I knew Alice was missing, I was afraid it was them. That’s why I took off. But how did you find me?”
“Your prints,” Joanna said.
“The Witness Protection people said they had pulled my prints, but still I worried about that. That’s the reason I tried to wipe down everything in the house. Where did you find them, at Alice’s?”
“No, at Outlaw Mountain,” Joanna said. “They were on the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. You forgot to run it. I think it’s possible that the Witness Protection folks did pull your prints, but somebody came behind them and put them back into the system. Have you ever heard of a Detective Garfield?”
“Who’s he?”
“A phony detective who called my AFIS tech claiming to be a North Las Vegas detective. He called within minutes of her getting the hit on your prints when the regular clerk had already told her you were dead. It was enough to arouse suspicion, especially since Detective Garfield doesn’t exist and the phone call placed to my tech came from a North Las Vegas pay phone and not a police department.”
Behind them in the chapel, the man from the lobby cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said. “The visitation is over. I really do need to lock up now.”
“Fine,” Joanna said. “We were just leaving.”
“I’m sorry I’ve caused so much trouble,” Jonathan Becker said. “I guess I’ll just head on down the road. Although there doesn’t seem to be much point. It won’t matter where I go. They’ll just track me down again.”
He sounded so beaten-so defeated and alone-that Joanna ached for him. And in that instant, she had an idea. “What if we let them find you?” she asked.
Becker frowned. “What do you mean?”
“What about if we lay a trap for them, tomorrow, at Alice’s funeral?”
“How?”
“I’m not sure. I’d have to check with some friends of mine, including Adam York, the local agent in charge at the DEA. I’m sure he could point us in the right direction.”
“I don’t know…”
“Excuse me,” the man from the funeral home insisted. “I really must close up now.”
“Come on,” Joanna said, taking Becker by the arm and pulling him from his chair. “We’ll talk more about this outside.”
“Do you think it would work?” Becker asked once they were outside the mortuary.
Joanna looked up and down the street, but there was al-most no traffic. G Avenue seemed completely deserted.
“It might,” she said, “but it could also be very dangerous. We’d need to have you in body armor, of course. And we’d have the whole funeral laced with plainclothes officers.”
Becker shook his head. “Even if we succeed-even if we catch whoever they’ve sent this time-who’s to say they won’t try again? They’ll just turn around and send someone else.”
“Maybe not,” Joanna said. “Maybe if we nail the messenger, he’ll lead us back to whoever sent him, and we’ll get those guys, too.”
A long silence followed as Jonathan Becker seemed to consider Joanna’s idea. At last he sighed. “Tell me what to do,” he said. “I’m tired of running. I don’t want to do that anymore. When Alice let me move into her little place at Outlaw Mountain, I finally started feeling like I was alive again. For the first time since my son died, I felt like life was worth living. Maybe someday I’ll feel that way again, but not if I’m forever on the run.”
“Come on, then.”
“Where are we going?”
“Back to my office at the Justice Complex. I need to make some calls. Where’s your car?”
“I ditched it. It was too distinctive. I drove it into a wash out east of town, right along the border. I thought maybe I could trick people into believing that I’d crossed the line into Old Mexico. All I have left is this.” Becker held up a small single suitcase Joanna hadn’t noticed before. “When you’re on foot,” he added, “you have to travel light.”
Joanna smiled. “You’re not on foot now. We’ll go in my Bronco.” She pointed. “It’s over there on the corner.”
Leading the way, Joanna climbed in the driver’s door and then used the electronic lock to let Becker in on the other side. Once they were both strapped in, she started the engine and eased into the sparse late-evening traffic on G Avenue. She had barely started up the street when a car pulled out of an alleyway and fell in behind them.