Against the Law (9 page)

Lark dug out the Arizona map she'd found in a pocket in the passenger-side door and stretched it open. She looked from the mountains in the distance to the tiny words printed on the map.

“It says those are the Santa Rita Mountains. Pretty amazing, aren't they?”

His gaze moved to the east side of the road. “They look damned rugged. I'd hate to get lost out there.”

Lark's gaze remained on the rocky gray peaks. “Me, too.” But she was imagining what it would be like to climb to the top and look out over the valley floor below. As a kid, she had hiked with her dad. The family had even gone camping on occasion. The memory was bittersweet with both her parents gone.

They drove in silence for a while, admiring the landscape and thinking their own private thoughts.

“We're getting fairly close,” Dev said as the miles slipped away. “Probably be better if we head straight for the house. Maybe we'll get lucky and Catherine or Byron will be home with Chrissy. If not we can go back to the candle shop.”

“That sounds like a good idea.”

“It might be better if we take them by surprise. We don't know how these people are going to react when they find out we know about the illegal adoption. We don't want them running, or shipping the baby off somewhere we can't find her.”

Lark fell silent. In her mind, she had already decided the Wellers were going to be really great people who loved little Chrissy as if she were their biological daughter. They would be wary of her and Dev at first, but in the end, they would open their home and their hearts to Chrissy's aunt and the man who'd helped find her niece.

That was what she believed, but deep down she knew there was a chance the outcome could be far different.

The historic town of Tubac loomed in the distance. Following the print of the computer map Chaz had emailed to Dev, they stayed on the road and continued toward the High Plains Resort and Golf Course.

“How far out of town is it?” Lark asked.

“Less than twenty miles. According to Chaz, the development is only twenty-five miles from the border.” Dev handed her the map. “The development's too new for the roads to show up on the nav system. You'll have to play copilot.”

She looked down at the map, the tension beginning to build. “We're getting close to the turnoff.” She found herself perching on the edge of her seat as she checked the map, looked up and excitedly spotted the exit they were looking for.

“There it is!”

Dev pulled the Suburban off the highway onto a frontage road marked with arrows pointing toward the High Plains Resort. The entry was impressive. A huge arched gate marked the palm-lined road leading to the clubhouse, a Spanish-style building on the eighteenth hole of an immaculately maintained golf course.

“Take the first street to the right,” Lark instructed, keeping a close eye on the map. “It's just past the tennis courts. Then take the first left.” A series of winding roads led them through the impressively landscaped community.

“It's gorgeous,” Lark said, caught up in the size and
luxury of the homes being built around the course, which sparkled with lakes surrounded by smoke trees.

Only about a quarter of the housing development was complete. Another quarter was under construction, and the other half of the oversize lots were still for sale. With the backdrop of the rugged desert mountains, it was beautiful, the huge homes all built in a Spanish, tile-roofed motif, yet the variety of the architecture was spectacular.

“I'm surprised it isn't gated,” Lark said as they made their way toward the address Chaz had given them.

“I imagine it will be, once all the construction is finished. Right now, it wouldn't do much good, not with so many workmen and vehicles going in and out.”

Which, of course, was to their advantage. As Dev had said, there was no way to know what sort of reception they might receive. If there was a guard at the gate, the Wellers might not grant them permission to enter.

Not that it would keep them away for long.

“Make the next left, drive down about two blocks, and the house is on the right.”

They passed several sprawling mansions, then spotted a house up ahead with vacant lots marked with for-sale signs on each side.

“There it is! 2828 Desert Drive.” A big Spanish-style home, at least twelve thousand square feet, with red tile roofs, four chimneys, a round turret on the left side and a five-car garage that wrapped around the house on the right.

“Impressive,” Dev said, slowing the vehicle as they approached.

But all Lark could think of was seeing her sister's baby. Her heart was thumping, trying to pound its way through her ribs. The afternoon was slipping away. She prayed the Wellers would be home by now and she and Dev would be welcomed into the house.

She was so excited it took her a minute to realize Dev was slowing the car, pulling over to the curb before he had reached the front of the house.

“What's the matter?”

“I don't know. Something's not right. See that car?”

A big black Cadillac Escalade with the windows tinted so dark it was amazing the driver could see out.

“What about it?”

“I don't know. Look at the house. The front door is ajar. Something just doesn't feel right.”

“Maybe they're visiting.”

“Maybe.”

And then she heard it. A loud pop, pop, popping sound.

“Gunfire. Christ. Get down!” Dev jammed the Suburban in Reverse and shot back down the street the way they'd just come. “Wh-what's happening?”

“Stay down!” He shoved her head below the level of the windows, braked the car, and ducked down himself. “Call 911. Tell them shots are being fired at 2828 Desert Drive.”

“Oh, my God, Chrissy's in there!”

He turned off the engine, reached beneath the seat and pulled out a gun she hadn't known was there and an
extra clip. “Stay here and don't get out of the car until I come back for you.”

“But Chrissy—”

He grabbed her arm, jerked her down again. “We don't know for sure she's in there. If she is, I can't help her if I'm worried about you getting killed. Now call the police and stay here until I come back and get you.”

“But—”

“Do it, goddammit! We're wasting time!”

“I'm calling! I'm calling!”

“Stay down. Don't let them see you.” She settled into the well in front of her seat, dialed 911, and pressed her cell against her ear with a shaking hand. Her head jerked toward the sound of the quietly closing driver-side door.

But Dev was already gone.

D
ev left Lark in the car, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. If the shooters spotted her, she was as good as dead.

But he had parked down the block and he didn't think their arrival had been noticed. He had made sure the van was empty, and he didn't have much of a choice. Odds were, the child was in the house and that child meant everything to Lark.

Dev steeled himself and ran toward the dwelling, staying low and taking a zigzag path that kept him out of sight of the windows. When he reached the house, he plastered himself against the wall on the east side of the building.

More shots went off inside. A single, another single, then a short burst of gunfire. AK-47, he guessed, and figured from the pattern of the shots, there were at least three armed men in the house.

The front door stood open about eight inches. If he
went around back, the door might be locked. He took a deep breath, held his Browning 9 mm in front of him with both hands, and prepared to round the corner, take the front porch steps, and disappear inside the house. Instead, he heard men's voices in the entry. The hinges on the heavy wooden front door creaked as it swung wide open, then he heard the clatter of running feet as the men raced down the wide porch steps.

Dev crouched low, ducking out of sight behind the newly planted shrubs next to the house. Three men dressed entirely in black, ski masks over their faces, two armed with pistols, one carrying an automatic weapon, ran across the lawn to the big black Escalade. They jerked open the doors and climbed in, disappearing behind the dark tinted glass.

As the engine roared to life, Dev pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, aimed it at the car and took a series of pictures.

The car peeled off down the street, the camera clicked several more times, catching the plate numbers, but the passengers' faces were too well hidden. The Escalade roared past his Suburban and flew off down the road, and Dev breathed a sigh of relief.

Lark was safe. Now it was time to find out what had happened to the Wellers and little Chrissy or whoever had been shot in the house. Dev was certain the shooters had left death in their wake.

Carefully, he made his way to the ornate front door, gun braced in both hands, nudged the door open with his foot, and stepped into the entry.

Body number one.
The housekeeper, an older woman
dressed in a little pink uniform with a white ruffled apron, lying in a pool of blood on the Spanish-tile floor, shot point-blank in the heart.

The coppery smell hit him, bringing old memories of death and carnage during his days with the Rangers, and he clenched his jaw. He checked his surroundings but saw and heard nothing. Keeping his back to the wall, he edged carefully down the hallway. The living room was empty. He had almost reached the first door on the right when he heard a shriek in the entry and swung his Browning in that direction.

Lark stood in the entry, staring at the housekeeper and shaking from head to foot.

Dev lowered his weapon. “For chrissake, lady, are you trying to get yourself killed?”

She made a sort of mewling sound and his anger instantly faded. He strode toward her, caught her against him and just hung on tight.

“It's all right. I've got you.”

Her fingers wound into his shirt. She pressed her face against his shoulder, and for a moment, just clung to him.

“Go back to the car,” he said gently. “I'll take care of this.”

She took a shaky breath, swallowed and stepped away. “We need…need to find out what happened to the Wellers.”

He could see she wasn't leaving. Not without knowing what had happened to the child. “I was about to do that. If you're coming, stay close behind me. We'll clear the downstairs first, then go on up.”

She nodded, squared her shoulders. He motioned for her to get back against the wall and the two of them made their way along the corridor. The first door led into a beam-ceilinged, book-lined study. Dev stepped inside.

Body number two.

Behind an ornate oak desk, a man sprawled back in his chair, his eyes and mouth wide open, a bullet hole neatly placed in the center of his forehead.

Lark made a sound in her throat. “Do you think…think it's Byron Weller?”

“Yes.” Late thirties, dark brown hair beginning to recede a little, he was dressed in a pinstriped suit that hadn't been purchased off the rack at JCPenney.

Lark swallowed. “We have to find…find Chrissy.”

He moved backward out of the room and they continued their search, taking one room at a time, trying not to waste precious moments. He listened for the sound of sirens, but Tubac was twenty miles away and it would take a while for the sheriff's deputies to get there.

They made their way into the kitchen. Nothing there. Then continued down the hall toward the back of the house. As they reached the double wooden doors leading out to the swimming pool, he paused.

Body number three.

“Houseboy,” he said as Lark grabbed hold of his arm. He pointed to the young Hispanic boy. An upended silver tray littered the floor with broken glass and ice cubes. “He was carrying drinks out to the pool.”

Lark's eyes welled.

“Why don't you stay here?” he said. “I'll take a look out back.”

She swiped at her tears and shook her head. “Let's go.”

He'd heard gunshots that could have come from the patio. Dev led the way in that direction.

Body number four.
A beautiful strawberry blonde in a skimpy blue bikini sprawled facedown near one of the lounge chairs, a spreading pool of blood on the tile beneath her.

Dev walked over and pressed his fingers against the side of her neck searching for a pulse, but there was no sign of life.

He looked up at Lark and shook his head, came to his feet. “She must have heard the shots and tried to escape.”

Lark's face was as white as paper as she glanced around in search of the little girl, but there was no sign of a child anywhere in the area.

“Maybe…maybe they didn't go upstairs. Maybe that's…that's where Chrissy is.” Her voice sounded high-pitched and strained as she turned and started back inside the house.

Dev caught her arm and pulled her behind him, walked down the hall and headed cautiously up the stairs. He didn't expect to encounter resistance. It appeared as though the shooters had left the house. But his years of training had taught him that in a situation like this, if you wanted to stay alive, you never assumed anything.

They climbed the stairs and moved along the hall,
checking out the bedrooms, one by one. The last room they came to was the nursery. Decorated in pink and white with tiny pink-and-white carousels on the wallpaper, the room was frilly and sweet, perfect for a little girl.

Lark looked down at the foot of the canopied bed and made a choking sound.

Body number five.

“The nanny,” he said. A heavyset Hispanic woman with thick black, silver-streaked hair pulled into a bun at the back of her neck. A spray of bullets had left a string of holes across her chest, each marked by a darkening spot of blood. Dev knelt and checked for a pulse, found none.

“Maybe Chrissy wasn't…wasn't in the house. Maybe she was staying with friends or…or having a play date or…or something.” Her voice broke on this last. “Maybe wherever she is, she's safe.”

But Dev's instincts were telling him something else. From the nanny's position on the carpet, it looked as if she had been standing in front of the closet when the gunman walked in.

Finding the little girl dead inside was the last thing he wanted Lark to see.

“I want you to go downstairs and wait for the cops. We need to be sure they know we aren't the bad guys. I'll be right behind you.”

Dazed now, still hoping Chrissy was safe somewhere else, she didn't argue, just moved woodenly past him out into the hall and off toward the stairs. In the distance, he could hear the wail of sirens. Better late than never, he'd always thought.

In this case, late was just too late.

Steeling himself, whispering a silent prayer, he opened the closet door. There, huddled on the floor, curled into a ball beneath the hanging clothes was a little girl with messy dark brown curls and a rumpled pink sundress. She looked up at him with big green eyes that reminded him of Lark, and his heart twisted hard.

Dev shoved his pistol into the back of his jeans and knelt in front of her. “It's all right, Chrissy. The bad people are gone. I'm going to take you out of here.”

She stared up at him, her cheeks streaked with tears. “Where's Nana? I want my nana.”

“There's someone downstairs you're really going to like. Your aunt, Lark. She came all the way from Los Angeles just to meet you.”

“I'm scared. I want my nana.” But she didn't cry when he reached down and scooped her into his arms, settled her against his shoulder. “Everything's going to be okay,” he promised. “We just need to get you out of here.”

Turning her head into his chest so she couldn't see the horror around her, he walked past the nanny out into the hall. He carried her down the stairs, shielding her from the housekeeper lying dead in the entry, and made his way out the door.

Lark was talking to two sheriff's deputies in dark green pants and beige shirts who had just arrived at the house.

“I found what you've been looking for,” he said as he approached.

She turned at the sound of his voice and her eyes filled with tears.

“Chrissy!” Lark ran toward them, slowed when she saw the child flinch.

“It's all right, sweetheart,” Dev said. “That's your aunt, Lark.” He handed the little girl into Lark's care, saw her arms close protectively around the child, and turned to the deputies.

“I'm a private investigator,” he said. Slowly, he raised both hands. “My name is Devlin Raines. My wallet is in my front pants pocket. I'm licensed to carry.” He turned so the officer could remove the pistol from his waistband, which one of them did, the older of the pair, gray-haired with craggy features. The other, Hispanic and good-looking, stepped in and carefully pulled the wallet out of his jeans.

“What the hell is going on here, Raines?” the older deputy asked, apparently satisfied with the credentials.

“You've got a house full of dead people. None of them shot by me.”

The deputy sniffed the barrel of the weapon to make sure it hadn't been fired. Another sheriff's car pulled up and more uniformed deputies climbed out. From there the chaos expanded as the men went into the house, eventually came back out and began to cordon off the crime scene.

An ambulance arrived and Lark took Chrissy over to be checked out.

More cars pulled up. Men poured out and went into the house. A few minutes later, one of them came back out, a tall, solidly built man in his forties. He walked up to where Dev stood on the lawn.

“I'm Detective Wilkins with the Pima County Sheriff's Department.” He'd been in the house for a while, which accounted for the grim look on his face. He flipped
open the little spiral notebook he carried and found a clean page.

“I know you've talked to the deputies, but I need to ask you a few more questions.”

“Yeah, I figured. I took a picture of the car on my cell. The vehicle was pretty far away but maybe you can enhance the plate numbers. I'll transfer the pictures to your cell. What's your number?” Dev sent Wilkins the info and saved a set for Chaz, though he figured the plates were probably stolen.

Wilkins pulled a pen out of the frayed pocket of a dark brown sports coat that had seen better days.

“Why don't we start from the top? How was it you and Ms. Delaney just happened to stop by for a visit while five people were being murdered?”

Dev geared himself up to repeat the story and went through the entire scenario for the third time in the past hour, explaining how they had been searching for little Chrissy, Lark's niece, for some time.

“So you just happened to be here. You have no idea what the motive for this might have been?”

“Not at the moment. But you're going to find Bryon Weller has a record. And the adoption of his daughter, which cost him ninety grand, was illegal. I suppose that's a clue to his character.” And he would know more as soon as he heard from Chaz.

“You think drugs were involved?”

Dev looked past him to where the coroner stood over the housekeeper's body. “It was that kind of hit. The entire household taken out. Somebody was pissed at Byron Weller and they wanted to set an example.”

The man lived in a twelve-thousand-square-foot home. The containers he imported came from Mexico. Of course drugs were involved.

The detective nodded as if he didn't already know and made a few more notes.

“We need to get the little girl out of here,” Dev said.

“I've got no legal authority to hand her into your care. She'll be placed with Child Protective Services in Tucson until this can all be worked out. They should be on their way by now.”

“Lark's her aunt, her only family. The child's lost the only parents she's ever known. She's bound to be traumatized by what's happened. She needs to be with someone who cares about her.”

“Sorry. I can't make it happen.”

“Listen, detective. Lark Delaney is a highly successful, highly respected businesswoman. And we both know as a family member, she'll take the best care of that little girl.”

“Look, unofficially I think you're right, but it doesn't matter. The law is the law.”

Dev pulled out his phone. “If you'll excuse me a minute, maybe I can do something about that.” Sliding through his phone book, he found the private number of the Phoenix Chief of Police.

“Hello, Chief, it's Devlin Raines. I really hate to bother you, but I've got a problem and you're the only man who can solve it.” He went on to explain about the murders and the urgent need for the surviving little girl to be allowed to stay with her family.