Missing and Endangered

by J. A. Jance

  “Like a judge or something?”

  “Exactly,” Joanna said.

  “But why can’t we just say what we want?” Kendall asked.

  Why indeed? And as far as Hogan-based heartbreaks went, that counted as number three.

  Chapter 49

  When Joanna left the hotel, she went straight to see Frank at Sierra Vista PD so she could be updated on the progress of the investigation. An arson investigator from the ATF had discovered evidence of a flammable liquid—most likely gasoline—inside the charred ruins of the Nite Owl, along with a discarded plastic gas container that had been found in the desert behind the building’s back parking lot.

  It was still too early for results on the examination of the other physical evidence taken from either scene, and so far no additional footage of the mysterious SUV had surfaced. Where real progress had been made was in the area of electronic analysis.

  While still working at Joanna’s department, Frank Montoya had been her top guy when it came to obtaining cell-phone data, including call history and tracking information. He’d brought those valuable skills along with him to Sierra Vista PD and had passed along everything he knew. Now that transferred knowledge was paying off big time.

  Two phones, one belonging to Randy Williams and the other to Madison Hogan, had been found in the wreckage of Madison’s bedroom. Frank’s tech guy—a kid who looked to be straight out of high school—was deep into tracking the devices’ call histories and movements.

  Frank led Joanna into the department’s crime-lab facility where all that time-stamped information had been carefully mapped out and charted on a whiteboard, with Madison’s phone represented in red and Randy’s in blue.

  The previous evening, starting shortly after Madison’s return from the Justice Center, there’d been a series of phone calls back and forth between the two—with Madison’s calls most likely emanating from her home in Sierra Vista and Randy’s from his place on Hereford Road. Much later in the evening, over the course of half an hour or so, it was possible to follow Randy’s phone’s movements as it traveled from Hereford to Sierra Vista. Starting at 8:30 p.m., both phones began pinging off the same cell tower, one located three hundred yards from Madison’s residence. That’s where both phones remained until CSIs found them in the bloodied wreckage of Madison’s bedroom.

  “It looks like they buried the hatchet after their big blowup the night before,” Joanna suggested.

  “Evidently,” Frank agreed.

  Joanna stared at the board for some time before she spoke. “It looks like Randy came over, they had a drink or two, and then they went to bed, only to be awakened home-invasion style by person or persons unknown, who carted them off to the Nite Owl, where they were subsequently killed.”

  “Yep, that’s our current set of assumptions, too,” Frank said.

  As they walked from the lab back toward Frank’s office, an urgent text from Tom Hadlock appeared on the screen of Joanna’s phone: Call me!

  Most likely more bad news, Joanna thought. The board of supervisors meeting had probably blown up in his face.

  “I need to go,” she told Frank.

  “Fine,” Frank said, “but I’m not waiting around for the party to hear about what happened in Tucson this morning, and you’re not leaving here until you tell me.”

  So she told him, giving him an abbreviated version of the story.

  “All things considered,” he said, “it sounds like a happy ending.”

  “Yes,” Joanna agreed. “It was a close call with Jenny, and we’re very lucky.”

  She wasn’t feeling exceptionally lucky, however, once she got back into her vehicle and dialed Tom’s number.

  “I’m guessing our board of supervisors request went south,” she said when he answered.

  “Not at all,” he said. “They were surprisingly receptive, and they’re taking it all under advisement—even the bodycam request.”

  That was a far better result than Joanna had expected.

  “Great job, Tom,” she told him. “I’m so glad to hear it, but your text sounded urgent. What’s up?”

  “It’s about Floyd Barco,” he said. “The man was raising hell around here, bouncing off the walls—I mean literally banging his head on a brick wall—and yelling that he’s got to talk to you. He says you’re the boss, and he won’t talk to anyone else. We tried sending him back to his cell, but he was so completely off the charts that I finally had to put him in solitary.”

  “What solitary?” Joanna asked. “Our jail doesn’t do solitary.”

  “I put him on a suicide watch in one of the interview rooms,” Tom said. “He’s handcuffed to a table with someone checking on him every half hour.”

  “When did all this happen?”

  “He and some of the other inmates were in the rec room watching the noon news. Then, all of a sudden, all hell broke loose.”

  “He attacked someone else?” Joanna asked.

  “Like I said. He attacked himself. If we hadn’t been able to put him in the interview room, our next step would have had to be a straitjacket.”

  “And he only wants to talk to me?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Do you have any idea what story on the news triggered him?”

  “The guards asked some of the other guys in the rec room. They said they were watching a story about two people being found dead after the fire at the Nite Owl in Sierra Vista early this morning. That’s when he went berserk.”

  “All right, then,” Joanna said. “I’m on my way. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  On the drive into Bisbee, there was still snow on Juniper Flats at the top of the Mule Mountains, but the white stuff that had been on the road and along the shoulders earlier in the morning had melted away into nothingness.

  Once Joanna arrived at the Justice Center, she entered through her own office and then headed for the interview rooms. A glance in through a two-way mirror showed Floyd Barco sitting alone in one of them. A paper cup with water and a straw in it was on the table and well within his reach, but the way he kept glancing uneasily around the room told Joanna that the smug attitude he’d exhibited the day before was long gone. The individual she saw sitting there now was scared to death.

  He jumped when Joanna opened the door and let herself into the room. “You wanted to see me?” she asked.

  Barco turned an anguished face in her direction. “There are cameras in here, right?”

  She nodded.

  “You gotta turn them off before I talk to you. If anyone finds out what I said, I’m a dead man, Sheriff. They’ll kill me. Randy and me were friends and sort of partners, so I’m probably a dead man anyway.”

  “In the first place, the cameras aren’t on,” Joanna assured him as she sat down on the far side of the table, “so there’s no need to turn them off. But who’s going to kill you, Floyd, and what’s this about Randy? Do you mean Randy Williams?”

  It was Barco’s turn to nod. “He’s dead, ain’t he? They said that two people were dead at the Nite Owl, and he’s got to be one of ’em.”

  Joanna said nothing, neither confirming nor denying.

  “And the other one’s probably Madison,” Barco went on. “That means they’ll come looking for me next.”

  “Who’ll come looking for you?”

  “I can’t say,” he said, “and I won’t, not until you get me into witness protection.”

  “Wait a minute, Mr. Barco,” Joanna said. “I’m a county sheriff. Witness protection is a big deal, and it’s way above my pay grade. I don’t have any direct access to that.”

  “Then you need to get me to someone who does,” he said, “because I can tell you all of it. The parts about Maddie and Randy wanting to knock off Leon, the parts about the goons who most likely took out the two of them, and the guy down in Agua Prieta who’s running the whole show. He’s an American citizen who lives in Mexico now, but he’s the guy behind it all.”

  “You’re cla
iming you can name names?”

  “Big time,” Barco replied, with just a hint of his old swagger.

  “All right,” Joanna agreed, “I’ll call the U.S. attorney up in Tucson and see what he has to say. Maybe he’ll want to talk to you, maybe he won’t.”

  “What happens to me in the meantime?”

  “You stay right where you are, here in the Cochise County Jail.”

  Barco’s momentary swagger vanished. “But you don’t understand,” he whined. “He has people who can get to me even here.”

  “Who can get to you?”

  “The guy I told you about, the one in Agua Prieta, but like I said, I’m not naming names. Not until I’ve got myself a deal.”

  Joanna rose from her chair. “All right, Mr. Barco,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Are you sending me back to my cell?”

  She nodded.

  “You can’t. You got to put me somewhere by myself,” he said. “Otherwise I’m done for.”

  “We’ll see,” Joanna said.

  She left him there and headed back to her office, stopping by Tom’s along the way.

  “Well?” her chief deputy asked. “What’s Barco want?”

  “A private cell and witness protection,” Joanna said. “He claims he can bring down a big-time drug-cartel boss from Agua Prieta. Barco’s also worried that the guy will hire someone inside the jail to take him down just like they did Randy Williams and Madison Hogan.”

  “He knows they’re dead?” Tom asked with a frown.

  Joanna nodded. “He does.”

  “Who gave him their names?” Tom asked. “You?”

  “I didn’t tell him, and I’m sure you didn’t either,” Joanna said. “As soon as he saw that piece on the news about the fire at the Nite Owl, he must have figured it out on his own and decided he was probably next up.”

  “What should we do now?”

  “For the time being, let’s lock him in one of the exam rooms in the infirmary. There’s an emergency button he can press if he needs to use the john. Meanwhile I’ll get on the phone to the U.S. attorney up in Tucson and see what he has to say.”

  Tom glanced at his watch. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “At four o’clock on a Friday afternoon?”

  Joanna nodded.

  “Good luck with that,” he said.

  And good luck was exactly what was needed. Joanna’s initial attempt came to nothing. U.S. Attorney Matthew Mitchell was gone for the day, she was told. Would Sheriff Brady care to leave a message? She would not, but fortunately for Joanna she had a work-around. As of today, with the Gerard Paine takedown, FBI Special Agent Robin Watkins just happened to have a whole lot going for her as far as her agent in charge was concerned. Consequently, Joanna Brady had some points of her own with the man. She called Robin and gave her as much of an overview of the situation as she was able to provide and asked Robin to call her boss. Twelve minutes later a call on Joanna’s direct line came in from a blocked number. Obviously the Tucson FBI agent in charge had access to Matthew Mitchell’s cell-phone number.

  “You wanted to speak to me, Sheriff Brady?” the U.S. attorney asked after introducing himself.

  “I did.”

  “What about?”

  Even though Joanna was reasonably sure Mitchell already knew what was going on, she told the story anyway, from beginning to end. Her recitation was followed by a long, thoughtful silence.

  “And your informant, this Mr. Barco, said specifically that this concerns a U.S. citizen running a drug operation from Agua Prieta?” Mitchell asked finally.

  “He did.”

  “And you have him sequestered in a safe place inside your jail at the moment?”

  “We do. He’s locked up in one of the exam rooms in our infirmary.”

  “Fair enough,” Mitchell said. “I’ll be dispatching a team of U.S. Marshals to pick him up later tonight. They’ll be coming from Tucson, so I don’t have a definite ETA. Thank you so much, Sheriff Brady. Your assistance in this matter is greatly appreciated, but we’ll take it from here.”

  “What about those two homicides in Sierra Vista?” Joanna asked. “They’re still under investigation.”

  “Frank Montoya’s the police chief there, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “Not to worry, then, Sheriff Brady. We’ll coordinate with Chief Montoya from here on out.”

  It was a curt dismissal, but Joanna didn’t even care. She was done. She arrived home after eight, having left the house shortly after 6:00 a.m. and after putting in another twelve-hour day. She had stayed around the office long enough to turn a very relieved Floyd Barco over to the U.S. Marshals Service and send him on his way.

  As Joanna drove back to the ranch, she should have been elated. After all, she and her people had helped break two major cases that day, but right at that moment they felt like a pair of hollow victories. For now the resolution of both cases was out of her hands. Gerard Paine was under arrest in Tucson, but whatever happened to him was up to the FBI and the department of justice. And the thug who might have played a pivotal role in the death of Leon Hogan was currently in the custody of the U.S. Marshals. Joanna had a sinking feeling that as far as Leon’s death was concerned, true justice would never be served.

  By the time she got home, heated up a bowl of leftover green chili casserole, and made it into the family room, Denny and Sage were both in bed and asleep, while everyone else—Beth, Jenny, Butch, and both dogs—were watching a screening of It’s a Wonderful Life. They put the movie on pause long enough to hear what she had to say. She focused mostly on what had happened to Gerard Paine. What little she knew was way more than they’d seen on TV or in the media. Joanna was grateful to learn that at this point Jenny’s name had not yet been mentioned as the intended victim in the Coconino County shooting. That would come soon enough, and when it did, all hell would break loose.

  But for now Joanna was home. A two-homicide day that had started with a fried-egg sandwich eaten in a moving SUV ended with her snuggled on the couch next to Butch and nibbling on a freshly baked sugar cookie, one that had been colorfully if inexpertly decorated by Denny.

  All in all, it qualified as a pretty good day.

  Chapter 50

  It was Joanna’s weekend to be on call, and nothing whatsoever happened, at least not on the crime front. Maybe all the crooks in Cochise County were too busy getting ready for Christmas to go looking for trouble. There were a couple of DUIs from overserved guests at holiday parties but little else, and nothing serious enough to require Joanna’s presence out on the road. At home? That was another story.

  The ten-o’clock newscasts on Friday night suddenly all got around to naming Sheriff Joanna Brady’s daughter, Jennifer, as the target of Wednesday’s attempted homicide south of Flagstaff. When Joanna opened the rolling shutters to let the dogs out early on Saturday morning, Marliss Shackleford’s RAV4 was parked just beyond the fence. She exited the vehicle and started up the walkway.

  “No comment,” Joanna said before Marliss could open her mouth.

  “My sources tell me that a Tucson resident named Gerard Paine is being investigated for multiple instances of identity theft and for being a major purveyor of pornography, and that he has an alleged history of sextortion, in which he has victimized any number of female victims. Was Jenny one of those?”

  “No comment,” Joanna repeated.

  “Would it be possible for me to speak to Jenny herself?”

  “Not on your life, Marliss. Now, get the hell out of here.”

  “You know that someone’s going to have to interview her eventually. Wouldn’t you rather it were a friend?”

  “You’re not Jenny’s friend, and you’re not mine either.”

  “What about what happened in Sierra Vista yesterday?”

  “What about it?”

  “Leon Hogan’s widow and her boyfriend were both murdered.”

  “The incident at the Nite Owl occurred inside the Si
erra Vista city limits. You’ll need to talk to them about that.”

  By then Lady and Lucky had finished their business and were ready to go back inside. Joanna was, too, closing the rolling shutters behind her and leaving a frustrated Marliss stranded on the far side. It was a satisfying way to end that first attempted interview, but Joanna knew it was only the beginning of the media onslaught. Most of the calls that day went to the office, and people there fielded them as well as they could. A few of the more enterprising types somehow managed to access the landline phone at High Lonesome Ranch, and for hours it rang off the hook.

  “Aren’t you ever going to answer it?” Denny asked the third time Joanna let a call ring through to voice mail.

  “Not this time,” she said. “Whoever it is, I don’t want to talk to them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Sometimes Mommy just doesn’t feel like talking.”

  “But what if it’s not for you? What if it’s for someone else?”

  “Then they don’t feel like talking either.”

  Nevertheless, there was a whole lot of talking going on that day, much of it between Beth and Joanna. Robin had called and warned Joanna that the FBI would need to speak to Beth at some length come Monday morning, and Joanna did her best to pave the way. The young woman found the prospect of another round of interviews daunting.

  “Am I going to be stuck talking about this for the rest of my life?” she asked.

  “Not the whole rest of your life, but until Gerard Paine is put away for good, you and Jenny both are going to be front and center. Believe me, I know it will be uncomfortable. But remember, the way the two of you conduct yourselves has the potential of making a big impact on many lives other than your own. By going public with this and taking Paine down, you’ll be keeping similar outrages from happening to other unsuspecting young women. Unfortunately, there are countless jerks just like Paine out prowling the Internet and hunting for unsuspecting victims. By explaining how Paine targeted you, you’ll be raising awareness and warning others to be on the lookout for those same kinds of behavior.”