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  “He’s moments from death. I think he’s just hanging on until he sees you.”

  Dread filled her stomach like wet cement. The last thing she wanted was an emotional outpouring from him. It was too fucking late. A childhood memory pushed to the surface, demanding to be examined. She’d been ten, and her dad had taken her to the park. At first he’d hung out with her, pushing her on the swing and watching her use the slide. Then a friend had shown up, and they’d sat off to the side drinking and talking. She’d overheard her father say, “Jamie’s a smart little cookie. Maybe too smart.” A rush of joy at the unexpected compliment. Her father rarely praised anyone. Later, he’d gotten into a fight with his friend and someone had called the police. Her dad had gone to jail and the day had been ruined, but he couldn’t take back his words.

  She and her aunt stepped outside, and Dallas inhaled another deep breath of pine-scented air. She would drink her way through the obligatory hospital visit, hook up with an old boyfriend if she could find him, then get the hell out.

  They ran into her mother in the hospital elevator. Roxie gave her an obligatory hug, smelling of cigarettes and unwashed hair. Some things never changed. Her mother’s cheeks were hollow, and she looked as if she’d aged twenty years. “You get prettier as you get older,” she complained. “It’s just not fair.” Her mother gave a tight smile, a lifetime habit of concealing bad teeth. That was what was different. Her upper teeth were all gone. Why didn’t she wear dentures? It made Dallas sad and angry at the same time.

  She forced herself to smile back. “How have you been?” A stupid, pointless question, but what else should she say?

  “Not good. Your dad is dying and hasn’t worked in months. If not for my dear sister, I would have been evicted already.” Roxie patted Lynn’s arm but didn’t look at her.

  The elevator door opened, and they all stepped off. Time to look at death.

  “Jamie, darlin’, you made it.” Her father had always been lean and muscular, but now he was so gaunt he looked surreal. The white hospital blanket seemed to dwarf him as he struggled to raise the bed, and the yellowish tone of his skin told her what she had failed to ask—‌because she instinctively knew. His liver was failing.

  She patted his hand, not wanting to touch him. “I didn’t know you were sick until just a few days ago. I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “My liver just suddenly gave out.” He let out a little laugh-snort. “We all knew it could happen.” He grabbed her hand and held it. “Thank you for coming. It would have been my own damn fault if you had decided not to.” His voice was whispery and weak.

  Dallas didn’t have any words for him. His frailty softened her anger, but he was almost a stranger. All she felt was discomfort and the need to escape.

  “How have you been? Tell me about your life in Phoenix.”

  Dallas pulled a chair over to his bed. Her aunt and mother had stayed in the waiting room, and she was on her own. “My life is good and I love my job. It’s important work and I get to travel.”

  “You always did like to be on the move.”

  She held her tongue. No point in blaming him now. “I may relocate to another bureau. Every time I go on assignment, I realize how much nicer other cities are compared to Phoenix.”

  “Phoenix is hell.”

  Now what? She’d already run out of things she was willing to talk about.

  After a long silence, he said, “I’m sorry I was a crappy father. And I’m so relieved you turned out okay.”

  “Me too.” Dallas knew she could have easily become a single mother or an addict. Or gone to jail. “You know I’m seeing a shrink?” Why had she said that? She didn’t tell anyone.

  “I’m not surprised. I hope you find some happiness.” His eyes watered, and he squeezed her hand again.

  “I’m very happy. The shrink is just someone to talk things over with.”

  Another moment of quiet.

  “Do you forgive me?” he asked.

  It wasn’t a yes or no thing. Forgiveness took time. “I’m trying.”

  “I’ve made my peace with God. And now with you. I can let go.”

  An unexpected sadness overwhelmed her. She couldn’t bear the thought of watching him close his eyes and then simply be gone. She pushed out of her chair and impulsively kissed his cheek. “Bye, Dad.” Dallas bolted from the room.

  Later, she had dinner with her aunt and mother in a restaurant near the hospital. She enjoyed Lynn, who was educated, soft spoken, and humorous. But her mother was her typical self—‌uninformed, self-involved, and often embarrassing. Dallas sat with them for an hour after the meal, then announced she had an errand to run.

  “I can take you,” Aunt Lynn offered, getting up.

  “Thanks, but that’s not necessary. I’ll get a cab.” She gave Lynn enough cash to cover everyone’s meals.

  “Will I see you before you leave tomorrow?” Her mother seemed genuinely concerned.

  “Probably not.” She gave Roxie a quick hug and hurried from the restaurant. Lynn had her overnight bag, so she would see her again at some point.

  Dallas skipped the cab and walked a mile to Lucky’s, a tavern owned by the Mayfield family. She’d dated Cameron Mayfield her senior year in high school, then broke off with him to attend Arizona State. They’d both been crushed, but she had been desperate to get out of Flagstaff and pursue an education. Being back here made it hard to breathe. A drink or two was her first order of business. Then maybe a little dancing. And if Cameron was available, she would indulge in an overdue sexual romp. If she was still attracted to him.

  The crowd at the bar surprised her. But it was Saturday night, and Flagstaff had grown in the last decade. Old Man Mayfield was behind the counter and that surprised her too. He used to work at the mill, while his wife ran the tavern. Dallas edged her way up to the counter, squeezing in between two middle-aged men, both watching TVs in opposite directions.

  “Shot of Cuervo Gold and a microbrew if you have something decent.”

  “Jamie Dallas?” Mr. Mayfield beamed. “What are you doing in town?” A second later his expression sagged. “Oh, right. I heard your dad was in the hospital.”

  “He’s dying.” She pulled out her wallet, wanting to change the subject. “Is Cameron still around?”

  “Actually, he’s back in town. He moved to Sedona, but split with his girlfriend and came home a few months ago.” Bob Mayfield poured her a shot. “Cameron would probably like to see you. Why don’t you call him?”

  “I might.” She downed the tequila without salt or lime. “Now I need the beer.”

  He set a bottle of Jack-Booted Thug on the counter, and she handed him a twenty. “How’s business?”

  “Good. It was rough for a while in the recession, but we survived.”

  “By home, do you mean Cameron is living with you? Or just that he’s back in Flagstaff?” An important detail. She couldn’t hook up with anyone who lived with his parents.

  “He’s got his own place.” Mr. Mayfield smiled. “And his own business. He’s doing great.” The proud father handed her a card. “Excuse me for a moment.” He turned to a cocktail waitress who was trying to get his attention.

  Dallas glanced at the card and smiled. Lumberman Brewing Co. So Cameron had become a brewer. Or an entrepreneur who’d bought a business. In high school, he’d wanted to be a musician—‌like half the boys she’d known. She glanced at the brand on her bottle. It was from his company. Dallas tasted the beer. Dark and pungent, just the way she liked it. She punched Cameron’s number into her phone and sent a text: It’s Jamie. Join me for a drink at Lucky’s? I’m only here until morning.

  She had another shot, nursed her beer, then hit the dance floor when the band started. Country-rock wasn’t her favorite, but if it had a beat, she could enjoy it. Cameron showed up twenty minutes later and silently pulled her in for a long, gripping hug. He didn’t speak until he let her go. “I can’t believe you’re here. And that you contacted me.” He was still bu
ilt like a basketball player, but more muscular now. His brow and jawline had become more pronounced, but his sweet silvery-blue eyes hadn’t changed.

  “It surprises me a little too.”

  “You’re more beautiful than ever.” He led her off the dance floor, not giving her a chance to respond. He knew she preferred not to focus on her looks.

  Cameron passed the tables, heading for the front. “We’re getting out of here,” he said, holding open the door.

  “Good. This place is too noisy. Where are we headed?”

  “My place?”

  She didn’t want to rush this. What they had was too important. “Yes, but let’s take a walk and get caught up first.”

  Chapter 17

  Sunday, July 13, 10:35 a.m.

  River took her omelet and laptop out to the patio to read the local news online and enjoy the seaside air before the day heated up. The main story about a politician sentenced to prison made her think of her father, who was serving life in San Quentin, about a five-hour drive away. She hadn’t seen Gabriel Barstow since she was a teenager and had no desire to. But this was the first time she’d been anywhere near the prison, and something deep in her brain was telling her to go visit, that this might be her last chance. What did it matter? She owed him nothing and didn’t have anything to say. She had questions, but didn’t want to hear the answers. His death would mean little to her or anyone else—‌except the families of his victims, who might sleep better.

  She would make the right decision when the time came. Because every decision was correct in the moment. The mantra gave her a sense of peace. She took a bite of egg and clicked to a new page. A breaking headline caught her eye: Researcher Found Dead in Home. River scanned the two-paragraph story. A thirty-two-year-old man had died of a gunshot wound to the head. The weapon belonged to him, and the police thought it was probably a suicide. Near the end, the article mentioned that he’d been employed by ProtoCell.

  Adrenaline shot up her spine. The company targeted by TecLife now had another dead employee. It couldn’t be coincidence. Had the saboteur stepped up the attack? But why a scientist? Maybe the victim was a key researcher, whose death would be a setback to ProtoCell. The data theft Dallas had reported Friday came to mind. Were they connected? Was his death a payback?

  River grabbed her phone to call Dallas, then remembered she’d flown to Flagstaff for the weekend to see her dying father. Now River wondered if hearing that had triggered a subconscious impulse to see her own father. She let it go and called the task force leader, relieved when he picked up.

  “Agent King. It’s River. Did you see the Tribune’s website this morning?”

  “I read the front page and the sports section. Why?”

  “A ProtoCell scientist died last night, killed by a shot to the head with his own gun.”

  A quick intake of breath. “That’s the company TecLife seems to be targeting? The one with the warehouse fire?”

  “Yes. We need to meet with the police department and take charge of this supposed suicide case. The victim’s name is Michael Pence.”

  “I’ll make the calls and set it up for this afternoon. The sooner we investigate, the better. The same unsub or group may have killed Palmer and could be escalating their crusade.”

  “That’s my concern as well.”

  “Notify Dallas. Her probe is more dangerous than any of us realized.”

  River thought so too. “Maybe we should pull her out. The external intel is mounting, so we might not need her in there.”

  A pause. “We don’t have anything solid yet to pin a search warrant on. Let’s give her a couple more days.”

  River knew Dallas would want to stay in, so she let it go. “I’ll keep a tighter watch and stay close by.” That would mean sitting in her car or a nearby cafe while Dallas was inside TecLife, but that was the job.

  By three that afternoon, King had called in the task force, including a detective from the San Diego PD. They met in the conference room at the bureau, and Agent Kohl showed up in slacks and a pullover, as if he’d just left the golf course.

  King introduced Detective Ricci and thanked him for being there. “We appreciate the department’s cooperation in handing over the case files. Will you summarize what you have so far?”

  The detective nodded and stood. “Excuse me if I seem a little rough. We got called out at two a.m., and I haven’t slept since.” Ricci was in his late forties, with saggy cheeks and a faint stubble on his chin. “Michael Pence’s wife came home from a night of dancing with her friends and found her husband dead on the couch. He’d been shot in the head with a Glock that is registered to him. The gun was still partially in his hand, and he had powder residue, indicating suicide. And there was an empty bottle of rum nearby. His wife—”

  Ricci sat down to check his notes. “Tabatha Pence says her husband was prone to depression, but that he’d never talked about suicide.” Ricci looked around at the group, his expression weary. “If it was murder, it was well staged.”

  “What about his phone and timeline?” River asked. “Did he get any calls? What had he been doing that evening?”

  Ricci pointed at a box on the table. “His cell phone is in there, but you’ll see that he didn’t get any calls or texts that evening. He’d been playing poker at home with friends earlier. His wife says it was a monthly Saturday night thing for both of them.”

  River cut in. “Had he been drinking?” Alcohol and guns were a deadly mix.

  “Yes, he drank with his poker friends.”

  “Was he right- or left-handed, and was the gun in the correct hand?” A mistake an amateur might make.

  “He’s right handed, and the gun and residue were in his right hand.”

  Was she wrong about her suspicions? “What was Pence working on for ProtoCell?”

  “I don’t know that.”

  It could be important to a competitor. “Have you talked to his co-workers?”

  “Not yet, just his wife and parents, who live in the area. They’re all stunned to hear he committed suicide, but so far, we don’t have any evidence to indicate anything else.” Ricci gave a small shrug. “You’re right about the alcohol. Sometimes people are self-destructive when they’re drunk. And if he was depressed…”

  River had another thought. “Did any neighbors hear the gunshot? Do we have a time?”

  “One neighbor heard something around eleven-thirty, but can’t swear it was a gun.”

  Agent Kohl spoke up. “Was he taking medication?”

  “No, but he’d taken anti-depressants in the past, then gone off them four months earlier.”

  “Any flesh wounds?” River asked. She was curious to know if the mystery bacteria would show up.

  Ricci seemed surprised. “Not that I’m aware of, but the autopsy may reveal more, particularly about the bullet wound.”

  “Is it scheduled?”

  “I haven’t heard.” Impatience crept into his tone. “I’d like to turn over my notes and photos and go home. You can call me if you have follow-up questions.”

  Agent King took possession of the file and shook Ricci’s hand. After he left, River asked, “Can we have someone attend the autopsy? We need to know if SA-13 is present and to make sure the medical examiner sends blood and tissue samples to the CDC.”

  Kohl gave her a look. “Why can’t you do it?”

  “I have to stay close to Dallas. Two people connected to ProtoCell are now dead, and King and I are both worried about her.”

  “Three if you count the warehouse security guy,” King added.

  “If the connection is ProtoCell, maybe we’re investigating the wrong company,” Kohl suggested.

  He had a point. And it reminded her of their update. “It’s worth considering. On Friday, an alarm went off at TecLife, and Dallas saw someone download files from Max Grissom’s computer.”

  King turned to stare. “You think the thief was someone from ProtoCell?”

  “Very likely.” River mental
ly reviewed the report Dallas had sent late Friday night and summarized it for the group. “The two companies are developing competing weight-loss products that could be worth billions on the market. ProtoCell plans to launch soon, but TecLife’s product is waiting on approval. TecLife may have started the corporate war when it set ProtoCell’s factory on fire, but it looks like their competitor fought back by sending in a thief to steal data.”

  Agent King’s eyes widened. “You think the products are worth billions?”

  “Dallas got the information straight from Cheryl Decker, one of the executives.”

  Kohl shook his head. “So which company killed Palmer?”

  “TecLife has the most to lose,” River said. “And they’re the company Palmer was investigating.” She remembered her conversation with Jonas Brickman. “This whole scenario is odd. I questioned ProtoCell’s CEO, and he played down the fire and denied it was sabotage. But I think he lied.”

  “Why?” King asked. “To discourage us from looking too closely at either company?”

  “Possibly. If he was planning to send a thief into TecLife, I probably made him uncomfortable with my questions.”

  Kohl finally warmed to the discussion. “Did Dallas get a look at the thief? Maybe the suicide victim is the one who stole the files, and the TecLife saboteur went there to get them back.”

  “Let’s compare.” River opened her laptop, plugged it into the big monitor, and clicked open the image Dallas had sent. “She took this photo, and I had it enlarged and brightened. Dallas says he’s about five-eight and one-fifty. We both think the beard is fake.”

  King thumbed through the file Detective Ricci had turned over and pulled out a couple of photos. After a moment, he said, “Michael Pence is closer to six feet and one-eighty.”

  Not surprised, River looked over his shoulder at the corpse’s image. “It wouldn’t make sense for them to send a scientist. Most employees wouldn’t have the nerve or the skill to carry out such a blatant theft. Maybe ProtoCell hired someone, or sent a security person.”

  River had a disturbing thought. “Maybe the TecLife saboteur killed Pence just to cause a setback for ProtoCell’s research.” She shuddered. “We need to question the neighbors in case someone witnessed a late-night visitor.”