Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-six

The black SUV in the detached garage was coated with a fresh layer of dust. A small tumbleweed was caught in the undercarriage. There was no question that the vehicle had recently spent some time in the desert. The keys were on the console.

Gideon climbed into the driver’s seat and checked the GPS log. Last trip: Lucent Springs and back.

Sometimes it was the simple, old-fashioned approach to investigation that worked best.

Satisfied that he had the right address, he left the garage and walked around to the back of the house. The shabby rental sat on a large, weedy lot in a gritty, semirural neighborhood on the outskirts of the metropolitan area. No ocean view. No pool. No sign of regular maintenance. No nearby neighbors who might get curious. All in all, a suitable safe house for a drug-dealing thug or an undercover cop.

The kitchen door was unlocked. He was not surprised. There was no need for stealth. He had a pretty good idea of what he would find inside.

He followed the scent of death into the living room. The body was on the floor. The dead man had been shot twice, once in the chest and once in the head. There was no identification in the pockets of the black leather jacket and black trousers. The pistol was still in the shoulder holster.

Falcon—assuming it was Falcon—had been caught by surprise.

“Looks like you trusted the wrong person,” Gideon said softly. “Easy mistake to make.”

He pulled out his phone and took a picture of what was left of the face. Irene could confirm the identity of the body.

When he was finished he dropped the device into a pocket and did a quick walk-through of the house. He did not expect to find anything useful, and for the most part he was correct. The two small bedrooms and closets were empty except for a handful of men’s clothes, all in black and all in a size that looked about right for the dead man.

At first glance the vintage California tract house bathroom appeared as unilluminating as the rest of the residence. He was about to leave when he noticed the closet door. He opened it, expecting to find shelves containing spare rolls of toilet paper or a few towels.

He found himself looking into a walk-in closet. There was an assortment of emergency gear on the shelves—military MRE rations, bottled water, battery-driven communications equipment, a first aid kit, and a couple of flashlights. There was an unlabeled box on one shelf.

This was California, he reminded himself. He could be looking at a prepper’s safe room—a reinforced space built for use in the event of an earthquake, a home invasion, or the apocalypse.

Then again, he might be looking at a secure space constructed for the convenience of drug dealers and/or killers on the run. His Sweetwater intuition leaned heavily toward the latter. Either way, if his hunch was right there was a strong possibility of an emergency exit.

He moved through the narrow doorway to take a closer look. The box on the shelf held four fake IDs—good-quality fakes.

He was in the process of replacing the lid on the box when he heard a muffled, metallic click. His Sweetwater reflexes kicked in but the cane got in the way. His injured leg twisted, threatening to send him to the floor.

He recovered but not fast enough to make it back through the doorway before the heavy steel plate slammed shut.

Not a safe room, he realized. A trap.