Free No Place to Die by James L. Thane Page B

boy, maybe two or three years old, was wrapped around the woman’s right leg, still crying. “Yes?” she said in a voice that indicated clearly that she had no time for small talk.
    We let her take a look at our shields and IDs. Then Maggie said, “Mrs. Desmond?”
    The woman nodded apprehensively, and Maggie said, “We’re very sorry to bother you, ma’am, but is your husband at home?”
    At that, the baby started to cry as well. Desmond shifted it to her other shoulder and patted it on the back. “No, he’s not. My husband is traveling out of town on business. Why? What’s happened?”
    Skipping over her question, I said, “When did Mr. Desmond leave on his trip?”
    “Sunday night.”
    Maggie jotted in her notebook, then said, “Your husband owns a 2003 Volvo sedan.”
    “Yes, why do you ask?”
    Again ignoring her question, I said, “And is your husband driving the car on his trip?”
    “No,” Desmond replied, clearly confused. “He left the car at the airport and flew. That’s what he always does.”
    Maggie sighed. “Do you know where at the airport he might have left the car?”
    The woman shifted the baby again. “I assume that it’s in the West Economy lot. That’s usually where he leaves it when he flies United.”
    We thanked the woman and left. Forty-five minutes later, we were in an airport patrol car with a Sky Harbor security officer driving up and down the aisles of the West Economy parking lot. Twenty minutes after starting the search, we were looking at a blue Volvo. It had been backed into a parking space, and the rear of the car was shielded by the minivan parked immediately behind it. I got out of the patrol car and walked behind the Volvo. Its license plate was gone.
    I took it for granted that the person who’d taken the plate had been careful enough to wear gloves. Still, we stood guard over the car until a Crime Scene Response van arrived. The techs carefully dusted the area around the license-plate holder and raised a few fingerprints. We could only hope that at least a couple of them might belong to our killer.

Chapter Fifteen
    Just before eight o’clock, Carl McClain locked the bedroom door again and went out through the kitchen and into the garage. He carefully backed the van out of the garage. Then he got out, closed the garage door, and locked it securely.
    Back in the van, he headed north. The night peoplewere coming out now, and two young drug dealers stood brazenly on the corner, openly soliciting business. Half a block up the street a rail-thin hooker who was either drunk or high—or maybe both—waved halfheartedly at his passing van. Only a few blocks ahead, the lights of Chase Field, home to the Arizona Diamondbacks, shone brightly against the clear night sky.
    McClain cursed softly, even though there was no one else in the van to hear him. He’d forgotten that the damned rodeo was opening tonight, and he hoped that he could be done with the evening’s chore and back before the fuckin’ cowboys were finished for the night. He really didn’t want to have to fight the traffic that would be flooding out in every direction away from the park once the rodeo had ended.
    Seventeen years ago, when Carl McClain had accidentally made the mistake of his life, there had been no Arizona Diamondbacks and, of course, no Chase Field. Back then, the area immediately north of McClain’s new rental home was still in transition. Historically, the neighborhood had been Phoenix’s infamous skid row—home to the transients, alkies, druggies, dealers, hookers, and others, some of whom had been pressed farther south by the urban renewal that had produced the new Civic Plaza, the US Airways Arena, and ultimately, the ballpark.
    McClain had driven downtown that night more out of boredom than out of any truly pressing need. Amanda was pregnant for the second time and in absolutely no mood for sex. In consequence, McClain had been mildly horny, but nowhere near desperate. He was