all to hell and back,” Broyles said. “Died in E.R. about two hours ago.”
“And you’re looking for Agent Jordan because?”
“Mr. Allen had a message for her. It was the last thing he said before he died. He said to tell her that ‘he didn’t tell.’ Do you know what that means?”
Mynton felt sick. “Maybe. Do you have any leads?”
Broyles shuffled his notes.
“Uh…here’s what we know so far. Around two in the morning, a neighbor was coming home when she saw a stranger get out of the elevator and leave the building. She said he had blood on the front of his clothes. She got into her apartment and went to bed. But she said she couldn’t sleep because she kept hearing an intermittent thump from the apartment above her. She knew it belonged to Buddy Allen, and said it wasn’t like him to make noise of any kind, so she called the super. He went up and checked…found Mr. Allen in a pool of blood and called an ambulance. When he died, we were called in. After questioning the other occupants of the building, we’re leaning toward the theory that the man the neighbor saw might be our man.”
“Got a name?” Mynton asked.
“No, just a description.”
“Was he Latino?”
There was a long moment of silence, then Broyles spoke. “Yes, and I want to know how you know that.”
“We got word a few days ago that there was a hit out on Agent Jordan.” Mynton sighed. “God…we never thought about warning any of her friends. She’s going to be sick about this.”
“That’s all fine, but I want to know about the Latino.”
“Of course,” Mynton said. “I can’t guarantee that the man who killed Allen is the one who’s after Sonora Jordan, but just in case…you might be looking for a man named Miguel Garcia, or one of his hired goons.”
“We would like to talk to Ms. Jordan.”
“Yeah, so would I, but she’s gone,” Mynton said.
“What do you mean, gone?”
“We knew Garcia was after her. I told her to get lost for a while, but I haven’t heard anything from her since she left.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Uh…three, maybe four days, I’m not sure.”
“Do you have a cell phone number?”
“Yes, but would you allow me to get in contact with her first? She’s going to take the news about Allen hard. She’ll blame herself for his death and she’s already under a load.”
“Yes, all right,” Broyles said. “But as soon as you contact her, please have her call us.”
“Will do,” Mynton said.
He hung up the phone, then flipped through his Rolodex for Sonora’s cell phone number.
* * *
By noon, Mynton had left three messages on Sonora’s cell without receiving a call back. He was worried and frustrated by his inability to reach her, but he knew that, if she was okay, she would eventually return his call. It was fifteen minutes to one when he left the office for a lunch meeting.
* * *
After riding all night and stopping for a few hours at a motel, it was close to sunset when Sonora mounted the Harley and got back on the road. The setting sun was at her back as she rolled out onto the interstate.
The night promised to be clear. The first star of evening was already out and although the air was swiftly cooling, the heat of the pavement was still a force with which to be reckoned.
The power of the Harley carried Sonora swiftly down the highway. She rode with the confidence of a seasoned biker. Just before the last of the light faded away, Sonora signaled to change lanes, then glanced in the rearview mirror. The last thing she expected to see was the outline of a horse and rider up in the sky, following at her back.
Startled by the sight, the bike swerved slightly. She quickly regained control and then ventured another glance. This time, she saw nothing but a scattering of clouds.
Rattled, she curled her fingers tighter around the handlebars and focused on the road ahead.
It was nothing but clouds in an odd formation—no way had she seen a ghost rider.
No way, indeed.
* * *
Miguel Garcia was ticked off. He’d beaten Buddy Allen senseless and still wasn’t any better off than he’d been when he’d walked into the apartment. Either the man didn’t know, or he’d rather die than tell where Sonora Jordan had gone. All he’d gotten from his visit to Allen’s apartment was a photo of Sonora. He’d seen her driver’s license photo, but it did not hold a candle to the one Buddy had in a frame. Miguel stared at the image, eyeing the copper-colored skin and straight black hair. Her eyes were dark and almond shaped, her lips full with a twist that could be read as sensual or sarcastic.
Miguel had to admit that Sonora Jordan was beautiful. But beautiful or not, she’d killed Juanito and helped put Enrique in prison and for that she would pay.
Before he’d left the neighborhood, he’d done a little investigating, spread a little money around and learned that Buddy Allen used to have a Harley parked near his pickup truck, but that he’d ridden away on it about five days ago and come back in a cab. After that, he’d drawn a blank.
Once he got back to his hotel room, Miguel made a call to Jorge Diaz to see if he had any contacts in Phoenix who could hack into computer systems. Jorge had given him a name. Toke Hopper. It turned out to be a good one.
At Miguel’s instructions, Toke hacked into the Arizona DMV and discovered that the missing Harley actually belonged to Sonora Jordan, not Robert Allen.
Since Miguel had already been to her apartment and seen the amount of accumulating mail dropped through the slot in her door, he was guessing that she’d already been gone for a few days. He’d been puzzled by the fact that her car was still in its parking place, and assumed she’d taken a plane or a bus out of Phoenix.
Just to make sure his guess had been right, he had Toke check the passenger lists of airlines and buses for the past week. To his surprise, Sonora Jordan had not used either to leave the city. The only thing missing besides Sonora herself was the Harley. If she left town on it, he had no way of knowing a destination.
He decided to go back to her apartment and look again. Maybe he’d missed something before that would make sense to him now.
He paid off the hacker and drove back to Sonora’s apartment building, then walked in like he owned the place. It was quarter to eleven in the morning and most of the residents were at work. No one challenged him as he rode the elevator up to her floor and picked the lock on her door as he’d done before.
Once inside, he began going through papers, looking for something—anything—that would give him a clue as to where
