I glanced toward Lillian’s grave. “He was at the funeral. I caught a glimpse of him in the news clip.”

“You’re still in a lot of danger,” Tucker said, at some length. “I can arrange for you to disappear.” He must have seen the objection brewing in my face. “Just until we nail your brother,” he finished.

“You may never get him, Tuck. He’s a psychopath, and psychopaths are—”

“I’ll get him,” Tucker said grimly. He paused. “You’re not going to cooperate, are you? By hiding out, I mean.”

I shook my head. “I’ve spent my whole life running from things. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to let you help,” Tucker said.

“Guess so,” I replied.

Chapter Nineteen

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE WHEELS OF JUSTICE, as they say, grind slowly. I was questioned endlessly, in the tiny Cactus Bend police station, before finally being released into Tucker’s custody, like some errant teenager after a joyride. My Volvo waited in the lot behind the cop shop, blissfully reporter-free. By midday, Senator Clive Larimer had been arrested on federal drug charges, along with some related killings, and every journalist in Arizona was probably camped either outside his office in Phoenix or at the gates of Casa Larimer.

I was starved, but I was also still wearing my nightshirt and bathrobe, so my dining choices were limited. We settled for drive-through.

My cell was kaput, since I hadn’t charged it recently, and given the fact that news travels fast, especially when it’s bad, I figured Jolie and Greer were probably pretty worried by now.

I borrowed Tucker’s phone.

Jolie answered on the first ring, with a breathless, “Hello?”

“It’s Mojo,” I said.

“It’s Mojo,” Jolie repeated, in a muffled voice, probably talking to Greer.

I glanced at Tucker, who was driving with one hand and holding a hamburger-with-everything in the other. “I guess the story about Barbara Larimer’s shooting has probably broken by now,” I began.

“Nothing’s been said about that,” Jolie answered, “but your uncle is all over the news. No wonder he looks like a walking dead man—he’s under arrest for drugs and murder and his wife is—”

“Dead,” I finished, when Jolie’s voice fell away.

“Tell me you weren’t involved,” she said, after a moment or two of recovery. “Greer and I have been trying to get in touch with you since last night. Your cell phone is shut off or broken or something, and we went to your apartment, but—” She stopped, drew an audible breath. “Do you have any idea how petrified we’ve been?”

I swallowed a mouthful of double-deluxe all-beef with cheese. “What do you want first? Whether I was involved, or whether or not I caught the clue train and figured out that you might be stressing a little over my general well-being?”

“Involved,” Jolie said tersely.