Page 62 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

Carmen’s cell phone buzzed. She pulled it out and checked the screen. Not the person she was expecting.

“Go ahead, Ryan,” she said to Detective Hall.

“Agent Sanchez—uh, I mean, Carmen—Selina’s not answering her cell. I’m worried. Have you heard from her?”

An icy wave stabbed her. “What are you talking about?”

“I think she followed up on Sweeney by herself.”

“Why don’t you back the hell up and tell me who this Sweeney is?”

“Oh, shit, I thought you knew. She didn’t tell you? Wait, obviously not. I was helping Selina look into your father’s murder. She told me you were busy on a serial killer case and—”

“Do you seriously think I would let my sister go after a murderer?” She saw the stricken expressions on her colleagues’ faces and tapped the screen. “You’re on speaker with Jake Heron, Frank Tandy and my assistant. Tell me exactly what happened.”

“Sweeney’s the hit man that somebody hired to kill your father.”

The news struck her like a fist.

For two reasons: the fact that their theory was confirmed and that they had scored a name.

And two, that her little sister had gone after the asshole herself.

And was now, apparently, missing.

They all listened, rapt, as Ryan explained how Selina had called him after getting a client list from Carl Overton.

He took them through his video call with a jailed hit man that led him to Paquito’s Bar, where the bartender had given them the name of an indie gas station where Sweeney sometimes went.

“So you dropped her off at your place and expected her to stay there and wait for you?”

An awkward silence, then: “I did.”

“Guess you won’t make that mistake again,” Carmen said.

Tandy said, “That area’s in the Lost Hills Station, LA County Sheriff. I have a buddy there. I’ll call him now.”

“Find her, Ryan! Coordinate with Frank.”

As state officers, they would have known the resources better than she would. Carmen gave Hall Tandy’s number from memory. She ordered the young detective, “Move on it! And I want details on this Sweeney. Everything you’ve got.” She disconnected. And stood with her head bowed, staring at the floor.

“Sanchez,” Heron began. It was his sympathy voice, not his good-idea voice. She gave no response.

No more than five minutes passed before she received a call from Detective Paul DeSoto from the Lost Hills Station of the LA County Sheriff’s Office, which covered Malibu and the surrounding area.

DeSoto said, “Agent Sanchez, I heard from Detective Hall, Riverside Homicide. He was telling me your sister was interested in a gas station called Fillups. I called the owner, who told me she’d been there, and was going to drive to the top of a mountain nearby.

She asked about a red Chevy Silverado pickup that had gone that way. ”

“It’s about a cold case homicide. Did Ryan tell you?”

“Not the details, no.”

“She was playing private eye.” Carmen swore. “Detective, can you get a car there?”

“Already on the way. Hostiles? Armed?”

“Probably. Proceed with caution.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll let you know what they find. This number?”

“That’s right. Thank you.”

Heron asked, “Detective, I’m working with Agent Sanchez. I want to see the security vids. Can you give me the gas station owner’s contact info?”

The man relayed it, and Heron called and worked his magic. No warrants required when the owner of the video cooperates. And a raspy-voiced woman named Wanda was more than happy to help.

Soon he was prowling through the file on his tablet.

“Look, Sanchez.”

He was scrubbing. “Red pickup goes up the hillside ...”

Sweeney’s wheels.

“Selina’s car follows a half hour later.”

“Shit,” Carmen muttered. “Scroll, Heron.”

He did.

Neither her car nor the pickup was coming down ...

“Wait, look,” Heron said.

They watched a silver Mercedes pause at the intersection, as if the driver were checking directions, then turn left and speed up the same hill. Ten minutes later, it drove back down.

“I don’t care about the Mercedes. Selina’s up there with the hit man. What’s the ETA of the LAPD cruiser DeSoto sent out?”

“She’s not up there anymore,” Jake said, his voice flat, as he stared at his tablet.

“What do you mean?”

“The tag number on the Benz?”

“Yes?”

“It’s registered to Damon Garr.”