“I have no idea how anyone was able to walk away from this, let alone run.” The afternoon sun glinted off Beto’s mirrored aviators, but Jordan could picture his brown eyes roving over the scene. “Prison van was northbound, the pickup was southbound with the semi close behind. Judging from the tire marks, debris, and position of the vehicles, I’d say the pickup drifted across the center line on the curve, and the van driver was just trying to get the hell out of the way. Skids are short so nobody hit the brakes until the last second. They were going full speed.”
Listening to the sounds of voices, radios, engines, and approaching sirens, Jordan looked up and saw a red-tailed hawk circling slowly above. There were going to be a lot of broken hearts by nightfall. He would have to call Bree’s family, and his own, before news started spreading on social media.
“Bet she was texting,” said Beto. “Whoever invented the smartphone sure has a lot to answer for. Know what your prisoner’s in for?”
“No idea. All I care about is getting her where she belongs.”
Down the road, the elderly couple was still waiting obediently for someone to speak with them. Their legs had gotten tired, though. The man was sitting in the open doorway of the trailer, and his wife was sitting across from him in a camp chair. Both of them were drinking coffee they had poured from a thermos.
“You interview the witnesses?” Jordan asked.
“Was just about to.”
“I’ll do it.”
As Jordan walked away, he wondered, not for the first time, why Beto had never run for sheriff. The man had been his father’s chief deputy, too, and likely could have done the job as well as all three Burkes combined. In the old days, a Latino name might have disqualified him from elected office in rural California, but not now. Beto could probably beat both Jordan and Troy Silverman handily.
Maybe he was smarter than Jordan by not taking the job. Maybe he just liked the job he already had. Or maybe he figured he was too close to retirement to put up with the headaches that came with leading the department.
Whatever the reason, Jordan was damn glad to have his help.
When he reached the teardrop trailer, he extended his hand first to the woman and then to the man. “I’m sorry I didn’t get your names earlier. Sheriff Jordan Burke.”
“August Fetz. This is my wife, Lolly.”
“Can you please follow me? I’d like you to confirm that the woman I captured is the person you saw running away.”
“Is she dangerous?” asked August.
“Of course we’ll do it,” said Lolly, already out of her chair.
When they reached Jordan’s vehicle, they peered at LaDonna in the back seat, her brown face framed by shoulder-length, straightened, raven-black hair.
“Well, she’s wearing orange,” said August, as if that sealed it.
Lolly scoffed. “That’s not her. The one we saw was definitely blond.”
Jordan’s gut lurched. He hadn’t even considered a second prisoner. Who could easily be two miles away by now if she was traveling on foot. Or disappearing down the road in a car.
He wrenched open the back door.
“You never said someone else survived,” he accused LaDonna.
“You never asked.”
“I thought you wanted to be peaceable and cooperative.”
She seemed to think about it. Maybe she had been buying time for a friend. Or maybe she just didn’t want to be a snitch.
“Fine,” she said, with a toss of her head. “But I have no idea what happened to that fancy Beverly Hills Instagram bitch who killed her husband.”
Jordan stared at her with a sinking feeling. “Do you know her name?”
“Cara Cotton Candy or something. I don’t know. We started calling her Goldie on the ride, but that was kind of an in-joke.”
Jordan wasn’t interested in her nickname. But he thought he knew who LaDonna had escaped with. “Tell me exactly what you saw before you called 911.”
“I didn’t call 911! I was worried about those gas tanks exploding, like I told you. I just wanted the hell out of there.”
