Slowly, the ’Cuda reclimbed the mountains, bucking at the reduced speed. No one spoke. Within minutes, the graded area appeared, followed by the two skeletal remains of ranch houses. Sure enough, the Lincoln had pulled off, was heading toward the motorcycle lot.

Which was now an empty field of scrub grass. Only the shed remained.

Webster sped up and passed the dirt clearing. “They’ve gone fishing.”

“Forever.” Martinez’s breath was shallow. “Turn around. Let’s get out of here.”

Webster reversed the ’Cuda, and they headed down the mountain at rapid speed. When they had reached the freeway, Martinez tried the cellular again. This time it connected through. He called in the license plate to the Radio Transmitting Officer and waited.

Webster said, “You know, if you come over Saturday, why don’t you bring the wife and kids. I’ll make a barbecue.”

“Sounds great. Thanks.”

“You eat red meat?”

“Yes.”

“Steak?”

“Perfect. I got a portable TV. I’ll bring it and a six-pack. We’ll watch the game while we work.”

“Great.”

The cellular phone rang. Martinez picked it up, wrote down the information, then pressed the end button.

Webster looked at Martinez. His face was tense. “Who?”

“Three guesses.”

“Huey, Dewey, and Louie.”

“William Waterson—Sparks’s estate lawyer.”

Nobody spoke for a moment. Webster said, “Think we should go back up?”

“Yeah, turn around.”

Webster moved the ’Cuda into the right lane, preparing to exit at the next off-ramp and reverse directions. Martinez picked up the cordless.

Webster asked, “Who y’all calling now?”

“Decker.”

19

“No way you two are doing a solo tail back into boony canyon—”

“Loo, it’s paved—”

“Martinez, listen to me,” Decker interrupted. “After what you told me about Sanchez, he’s going to be looking. He spots the ’Cuda, you’re roadkill. All he has to do is get a couple of friends to box you in—one car in front, one behind—and bump you on a hairpin turn, down a five-hundred-foot drop. I don’t turn women into widows, Detective.”

“If we wait for backup, we could miss him,” Martinez countered.

“Bert, Waterson’s a respected member of the community. He isn’t going anywhere.”

“What about Sanchez?” Webster piped in.

Decker barely heard the question through the ambient freeway noises. “What about Sanchez?”

Martinez said, “Don’t you want to find out what he’s up to, Loo?”

“Bert, we know what he’s up to. He’s running a chop shop. First, even if we wanted him, he’s out of our jurisdiction. Second, even if it was our jurisdiction, we’re not going to find him. He’s picked a perfect area for cover. Miles of isolated canyon roadway with outlets leading to God knows where. He’s gone. Forget about him.”

“Semi’d be easy to spot, Loo.”