by J. A. Jance
Beth had fixed things with Jenny by bringing home pizza, but remedying the situation with Ron wasn’t nearly as simple as bringing home pizza. For one thing, on Friday night he didn’t call—not at all! She’d been in the bathroom at the appointed hour as usual, but nothing happened. No call came in. And it wasn’t as though she could call him. His number was always blocked.
She sat there waiting for so long that she finally lay down on the floor and fell asleep. When she woke up, stiff, sore, and freezing cold at five o’clock in the morning, there were no missed calls on her phone, and that made for a Saturday of absolute agony. What if Ron had broken up with her? What if he never called her again? What if she’d lost him for good? What if it was over?
She did her best to conceal how upset she was, but Jenny had noticed anyway.
“Is something wrong?” she’d asked.
“I’m just worried about the test I took yesterday,” Beth had replied quickly. That wasn’t true, of course. She’d done fine on the test—aced it, most likely—but the excuse had sounded real enough. Besides, it was the only thing she could think of.
The rodeo team was due to have their annual Christmas party that night. Sororities and fraternities on campus were busy holding winter formals. The rodeo team’s version was a combination barn dance/steak fry with an ax-throwing contest tossed in for good measure. Each team member was welcome to invite a guest, and Jenny had asked if Beth wanted to go. Naturally, Beth had begged off.
“Sorry,” she said. “It just doesn’t sound like my thing.”
“Too bad,” Jenny replied. “It might have cheered you up.”
So Beth had spent most of the evening alone and literally pacing the floor in their very small room. It wasn’t fair that she couldn’t call Ron, not even to apologize despite the fact that she’d done nothing wrong. It wasn’t fair that he held all the power in the relationship and she had none. It wasn’t fair that he could drop her just like that—for no reason, really—and leave her twisting in the wind. Didn’t he know how much she loved him? Didn’t he know how much she cared? Didn’t he understand how much she needed him in her life?
Jenny came in around eleven thirty. She changed into her jammies, stuck earplugs in her ears, put on her eye mask, and got into bed while a heartsick Beth went into the bathroom and resumed what she now regarded as a futile vigil.
To Beth’s immense relief, her phone rang at ten past twelve. Her heart rejoiced until she heard Ron’s voice.
“You cut me off!” he snarled accusingly.
She recoiled from the menacing tone. He had never spoken to her that way, and it shocked her into momentary silence. “I didn’t mean to,” she stammered finally. “My roommate was right outside the door. She needed to use the bathroom so she could go to sleep. She had an exam in the morning and—”
“Jennifer Brady is a bitch,” Ron growled. “You shouldn’t let her boss you around that way. You shouldn’t let her boss us around.”
Beth was surprised. She didn’t remember even mentioning Jenny’s last name to Ron. She must have done so somewhere in the course of their many conversations, but since Beth was in full apology mode, she didn’t give the matter much thought.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, “really I am. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“Well, you did,” he said. “That’s one of the reasons I call you in the middle of the night—so we won’t be disturbing anyone else and so we won’t be interrupted. To have someone horning in like that . . .”
“Please,” Beth pleaded, “can’t we just let this go? Can’t we just forget about it?”
But Ron wasn’t about to let anything go. “You need a new roommate,” he said. “Either she should move out or you should. It’s the end of the semester. That shouldn’t be too hard to arrange.”
The problem was, Beth didn’t want to lose Jenny as a roommate. She was the only person on the whole NAU campus who’d been nice to Beth from the start—the only one.
“I’ll try,” she murmured quietly.
“You’d better do more than try,” he responded.
Ron didn’t come right out and add or else to that sentence. He didn’t have to. It was understood.
“And if I were you, I’d think twice about spending Christmas down in Bisbee with your roommate and her family. If you really want me in your life, you’ll get Jennifer Brady out of it.”
Beth tried desperately to think of something to say in response, but Ron didn’t give her a chance.
“I have to go now,” he said abruptly. “Something’s come up.”
And just like that, the phone went dead and he was gone. There was no way to call him back—no way to change things around so their conversation ended in a less contentious fashion. Ron had made it abundantly clear: Beth had to choose. She could have Ron in her life or she could have Jenny—one or the other, but not both.
For a time Beth stared at the screen of her phone, willing it to ring again, but of course it didn’t. She managed to keep her tears at bay for a time, but when the realization that he wouldn’t call back finally hit home, Beth Rankin dissolved into racking sobs, slipping helplessly to the floor and using a bath towel to muffle the sound of her weeping.
Her new life—the one that had opened up for her when she first set foot on the NAU campus last fall—lay in ruins. It had lasted all of three short, glorious months, but now it was over. Finished. With Ron out of her life, most likely for good, Beth Rankin had nothing left to live for, nothing at all.
She cried herself to sleep, and for the second night in a row she slept on the bathroom floor.
“What are you doing in here?” Jenny demanded the next morning when she pushed the bathroom door open and found Beth lying next to the tub. “Did you fall? Are you all right?”
Beth struggled to emerge from the fog. “I wasn’t feeling well,” she said, getting to her feet. “I started feeling nauseated during the night. I came in here and sat down on the floor next to the toilet because I was afraid I was going to throw up. I must have fallen asleep.”
“Sorry to wake you, then,” Jenny said, “but I’ve got to get ready to go. Maggie and I have a coaching session scheduled for this morning.”
Moving like she was half drunk, Beth staggered out of the bathroom and stumbled over to her bed. She fell into it and pulled the covers up over her head, pretending to be asleep. She wasn’t asleep. She was just waiting for Jenny to leave. As soon as Beth was alone, she once again dissolved into a storm of tears. She cried until she couldn’t cry anymore, and then, finally, she fell into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter 14
With Butch at home and fully in charge, Joanna’s Monday morning was a breeze. When she came out to the kitchen to collect her first cup of coffee, Denny was dressed for school and both kids were almost done with breakfast.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am the book tour is over,” she told Butch after giving him a good-morning smooch.
“That makes two of us,” he said, “although I have to say that waking up to the occasional room-service breakfast isn’t really a terrible hardship.”
Joanna went back to the bedroom, where she showered and dressed. When she emerged for a second time, Denny had been dropped off at the bus stop and her own breakfast was on the table. All of that added up to her being at her office ten minutes early. She was there in plenty of time for roll call. After that, she and Tom Hadlock had a powwow in her office.
“I got your text about taking care of Christmas for Armando’s family,” he said. “I’ll handle it. Karen Griffith out in the front office is friends with Amy’s mother, Suzanne. Karen says she’ll get in touch with Suzanne and find out what the Ruiz boys are hoping Santa will bring them so we can make a list. And you can be sure Amy isn’t forgotten, either.”
“Thanks, Tom,” Joanna said. “Now, what’s going on? Any word on the DPS investigation?”
The chief deputy shook his head. “Not a whisper,” he said, “and I take that as good ne
ws. If Dave Newton had something to brag about, you can bet your bippy he’d be doing just that—shouting it to the high heavens. The evidence all seems to line up with what Armando’s told us. The CSIs found a total of nine shell casings at the scene that were fired from the Glock—one inside the mobile home and eight outside it. There was an additional casing located next to Armando’s patrol car. That one was apparently fired by his service weapon, and it says a lot about hitting the practice range. Leon fired nine times and nailed Armando once. Armando was a one-and-done.”
Joanna was grateful there were no civilians within earshot of Tom’s politically incorrect but valid evaluation of the shooting scores.
“Tell me again about the shot fired inside the mobile home.”
“Dave Hollicker dug the bullet out of a ceiling tile. It looks to him like that shot was aimed straight up into the air rather than at any kind of angle.”
“Suggesting that the shot could have occurred in the course of some kind of struggle?”
Tom nodded. “Possibly.”
“What else went on?” she asked.
“Not a whole lot,” Tom responded. “Jaime finished up his preliminary investigation on that wreck over by Willcox. We were going on the assumption that it was a DUI-related fatality. The driver had imbibed in a cocktail or two, but according to Doc Baldwin he had a heart attack. That’s what caused the wreck in the first place. It’s also what killed him.
“Other than that we handed out a few DUIs here and there, including a guy who hit a steer in that patch of open range on Highway 181 just north of Five Mile Creek. Killed the steer and totaled the car, but the driver’s lucky. Between his seat belt and air bags, he walked away with only minor injuries. Nonetheless, he’s currently cooling his heels in our jail for the time being—driving drunk with no insurance and driving on a suspended license.
“The only other thing of note, also alcohol-related, was a little donnybrook out on Robbs Road just north of the LeRoy Airport. Several members of a visiting motorcycle gang were partying at one of the mobile homes parked out there. Two of the guys at the party, who happen to be a pair of brothers, got into a knock-down, drag-out fight. They were busy tearing up the place when the lady of the house—using the term loosely—clocked one of them over the head with a frying pan.”
“A frying pan?” Joanna asked. “A real frying pan?”
“Yup,” Tom replied, “one of those no-kidding, heavy-as-hell, cast-iron skillets. The guy was still out cold when Deputy Raymond showed up. EMTs hauled him off to the hospital in Willcox with a possible concussion. His sparring partner was arrested at the scene, charged with disturbing the peace and resisting, and is currently being held in our lockup. Once the guy in the hospital is released, he’ll end up in jail as well.”
“What about the lady wielding the frying pan?”
“Deputies Creighton and Raymond were at the scene. They were considering arresting her on a domestic-violence charge, since concussion guy happens to be her husband. The other partygoers raised hell about that—said the two drunks probably would have killed each other had she not intervened—so they let it go.”
“Probably a good decision on their part,” Joanna offered.
“Outnumbered by a motorcycle gang?” Tom said. “You’d better believe it was a good decision. I’da done the same thing in a heartbeat.”
Once Tom left her office, Joanna turned to her Monday-morning paperwork. She did so with a happy heart, because she was reasonably sure that Tom’s assessment of the Dave Newton situation was correct. If he and Jackson had come up with any discrepancies in Armando Ruiz’s story, Newton would be broadcasting them far and wide.
She spent the better part of two hours refining and polishing her budget request before loading it into e-mails and sending it off to members of the board of supervisors and copying Tom Hadlock in the process.
It was getting on toward lunch when Casey Ledford came into her office. “Did you hear?” she asked.
“Hear what?” Joanna asked.
“Ernie’s pulling the plug,” Casey replied. “He just drove into the parking lot in an enormous RV. It has signs on both sides that say ‘Gone Fishing.’”
“Sounds like he’s made up his mind, then,” Joanna observed, but the RV ploy told her how the game would be played. Ernie would retire, making no mention that his cancer was back. That was his call and fair enough, but at least he’d done what Joanna had asked. He was notifying people in the department that he was out of there. There was no need for him to say how come.
“Did you know?” Casey asked.
“I might’ve had a clue,” Joanna admitted.
“He’s a good guy,” Casey said, “and I’m sorry to see him go, but that’s not why I’m here.”
“Is this about the GSR?”
Casey nodded. “I found traces on the robe inside the sleeves down by the wrists, most prominently on the right-hand side and to a lesser degree on the left. I also found traces higher up in the sleeves, again with measurably more residue present on the right-hand side than on the left. We know from the crime scene that Leon was left-handed. What about Madison?”
“No idea.”
“At any rate, there isn’t enough residue inside either sleeve to reach the threshold of proving that she actually fired a weapon, although she was most likely in close contact with one when it went off.”
“Can you draw any conclusions?”
“Based on the location of the bullet hole we found inside the house, I’d say this suggests there was an altercation of some kind during which both Leon and Madison Hogan were both trying to gain possession of the weapon.”
“What I think,” Joanna said, “is that she brought the weapon to Leon’s house with every intention of using it on him and then trying to stage the scene so it looked like suicide. Instead Leon ended up turning the tables on her long enough to chase her out of the house.”
“Makes sense,” Casey said, “but what about those two poor kids? What’s going to happen to them?”
Joanna shook her head. “I’d say that with their father dead and their mother most likely a gun-wielding maniac, they’re pretty much up shit creek.”
“At least she locked them in the bedroom before everything went down.”
“For whatever that’s worth,” Joanna grumbled.
Casey stood up. “All right, then,” she said. “If there’s anything more you need, let me know.”
“Thanks,” Joanna replied. “I will.”
As soon as Casey left her office, Joanna picked up her phone and dialed Deb Howell’s number.
“Where are you?” Joanna asked.
“I’m on my way to have a chat with Arlene Ambrose, the CPS social worker who took charge of Kendall and Peter after the shooting. I don’t know what if anything she’ll tell me. At the very least, I’m going to try to get her to think about launching an investigation into the kids’ welfare on her end.”
“Here’s something that might help light a fire under her,” Joanna said. “Casey found traces of GSR on the borrowed robe Madison Hogan wore yesterday. A possible conclusion is that Madison was in possession of the Glock at the time she drove the kids to Leon’s house in Whetstone.”
“A woman with a history of domestic-violence arrests and a Glock in hand doesn’t make for motherhood and apple pie,” Deb said. “I’m not sure that’ll be enough to get Mrs. Ambrose off the dime, but I’ll do my best. On another topic, though, I just found out about Ernie. Did you know he’s leaving?”
Obviously, word about Ernie’s looming departure was spreading fast.
“I’m pretty sure he mentioned it,” Joanna said. What she failed to say was exactly when the issue of Ernie’s retirement had been broached for the first time.
“He told Jaime and Delcia last night and let me know this morning,” Deb continued. “He’s always been here, and I’m going to miss him terribly. If it hadn’t been for Ernie, I wouldn’t be a detective right now.”
“Don’
t be so sure about that,” Joanna counseled. “You’re right about his helping you along. Ernie saw your potential early on and was instrumental in getting you to focus it, but I’m pretty sure that even if it took a little longer, you would have made the grade on your own. Now, though, it’ll be up to you and Jaime to return the favor. Whoever I promote is probably going to need a leg up.”
“Like Garth Raymond, maybe?” Deb asked.
Deb’s question gave Joanna a subtle hint as to which candidate her current crop of detectives favored. “Too soon to say,” she replied.
“Will there be a retirement party?”
“You’d better believe it,” Joanna said. “It’ll be at the Rob Roy the evening of the twenty-sixth, and I expect you and Jaime to roast Ernie within an inch of his life.”
“Roger that,” Deb said. “I’ll be there with bells on.”
As Joanna ended the call with Deb, the landline phone on her desk rang.
“Good morning,” Dr. Kendra Baldwin said when Joanna picked up. “I’m sure Dave Newton would go apoplectic at my calling you, but I just sent my finalized copy of Leon Hogan’s autopsy report to him and thought I owed you a courtesy call as well.”
“Let me guess,” Joanna said. “Our shooting victim died of a single gunshot wound to the chest.”
“Well, yes,” Kendra agreed, “there’s that. But there are a few additional details as well. For one thing, there were very recent scratches all over his face. Like he’d been in a serious hand-to-hand altercation shortly before he was shot and his opponent was trying to fend him off.”
Joanna thought back to what Casey had told her a few minutes earlier about the bullet hole in the living-room ceiling and the suggestion that the shot had been fired in the course of a struggle to gain control of the weapon.