No Honor Among Thieves: An Ali Reynolds Novella (Kindle Single) Read Free

“Shooting from a passing vehicle makes more sense than coming from opposite directions. If each of the two meeting vehicles was doing sixty, that adds up to 120 miles per hour. The split second the two would have been side by side wouldn’t allow enough time for multiple hits, even with an automatic weapon. There’s a posted no-passing zone right there where he went through the guardrail, but if someone was out to kill the guy, a solid yellow line on the pavement wouldn’t count for much. What we know for sure is that, one way or another, this guy was ambushed. Either the shooter was following him, or else he knew the exact time he would be traveling this particular section of roadway. So where’s the brass—still on the pavement or on the shoulder somewhere?”
    Joanna pulled out her phone and dialed Sergeant Crane’s number. “We need some manpower out here,” she said when he answered. “The targeted vehicle went off the bridge on Highway 92 at the San Pedro River. From the damage to the guardrail, it looks as though he was headed east, but we don’t know exactly where the shooting took place. That part of the highway is fairly straight. The shooting might have happened as far away as a mile or so, and it took the truck that long to finally veer off the road. We need people out here combing the highway on both sides of the crime scene looking for brass and, if we’re really lucky, maybe some usable tire prints.”
    “Is this a situation where we should bring the old duffers into play?” Sergeant Crane asked.
    Recently a group of local seniors, several of them still in possession of Eagle Scout badges from long ago, had erased the natural dividing lines between the Kiwanis, Rotary, and Lions Clubs and shown up at Joanna’s office offering to form a group of senior citizen reserve officers. Officially dubbed the SCRs (Senior Citizen Reservists), they had all gone through citizens’ academy training and had done a number of patrol ride-alongs. Some of them helped out with routine filing and clerical procedures at the Justice Center. They had also proved to be invaluable in helping locate several vulnerable adults when the sheriff’s office posted Silver Alerts. This, however, was the first time any of them would be deployed on a search for evidence.
    Not surprisingly, George Winfield—the retired ME and Joanna’s stepfather—was their leader. Joanna glanced at her watch: four twelve A.M. A phone call to George at this hour wouldn’t faze him in the least, but it would put her mother in a complete snit. Joanna knew from personal experience that having Eleanor Lathrop Winfield get up on the wrong side of the bed wouldn’t be good for anyone. That was the truth of the matter, but she also didn’t want to spill those kinds of family beans in front of Sergeant Crane.
    “Now that you mention it,” she said, “calling out the SCRs is an excellent suggestion, but there’s no sense having them out here milling around in the dark. If they’re going to be conducting a search of both sides of the roadway, I’d rather wait until daylight before putting them to work. George is an early riser. Give him a call at five. Tell him what’s up and that I’d like his people here right around sunrise. Before he comes out this way, though, ask him to stop by the Justice Center and pick up our supply of metal detectors. At last count, I think we had ten or so. And remind him that anyone turning up for this operation needs to be wearing orange reflective vests. Understood?”
    “Roger.”
    About then, several flashlight beams came bouncing toward the spot where Joanna, Kendra Baldwin, and Deb Howell stood conferring. At the center of the group were four men—Kendra’s two dieners and two of Joanna’s deputies—lugging a loaded and unwieldy gurney across sandy terrain that rendered the wheels useless.
    “Do you want to see him?” Kendra asked.
    Joanna shook her head. “Not right now,” she said. “I’ll see him