by J. A. Jance
Dropping the card back into his pocket, he went to the kitchen in search of a second cup of coffee.
“By the way,” Diana said, “my publicist flew in last night. She’ll be meeting us at the first venue, and she’s willing to hang with me all day. So if you feel like doing something else instead of showing up at all the panels and signings, that would be fine, as long as you’re close enough to come get me when I’m done.”
“You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” Diana said with a laugh. “You go to enough of these events that you could probably do a credible job of answering all the questions I’m likely to be asked. So go do whatever you need to do. Consider it your reward for showing up for the cattle call last night.”
“Fair enough,” Brandon agreed. “Sounds good.”
Even though he was only dropping Diana off, getting to the campus was still a challenge. Traffic on Speedway was gridlocked with people trying to turn into the campus while herds of pedestrians, oblivious to the lights, blocked the way. Brandon drove into the bookstore turnaround with bare minutes to spare before Diana’s first scheduled appearance.
“I’ll pick you up right here whenever you call,” he said. With an unexpected free day ahead of him, Brandon headed for the Arizona Inn to treat himself to a leisurely breakfast. Knowing he might need to use the phone, he asked for his food to be served in the bar.
While waiting, he pulled out Ollie Junior’s card. Glassman the younger was a defense attorney. Clients who found themselves in the clink would need to be able to reach him. Brandon read through the list of phone numbers on the card and dialed the one listed as a cell. Not surprisingly, he was routed to an answering service, but at least it was a living, breathing person rather than a machine.
Brandon told the woman who he was and why he was calling. Oliver Glassman Junior called him back before Brandon finished the last bite of his whole wheat toast.
“I’m surprised you called,” Oliver Glassman Junior said. “When John Lassiter said he wanted to talk to you, I didn’t figure he had a chance in hell.”
“He may not still,” Brandon answered. “Before I go wading into any of this, Mr. Glassman, I want some information.”
“Call me Junior. What kind of information do you have in mind?”
“If you can talk to me about this without violating client confidentiality, please tell me what exactly Justice for All came up with,” Brandon requested. “They must have found something serious, or they wouldn’t have been able to negotiate a deal.”
“Don’t worry about the confidentiality issue,” Junior answered. “I have John Lassiter’s signed permission to bring you on board. As to what they found? Prosecutorial misconduct.”
“What kind?”
“It turns out the prosecutor had a prior relationship with one of the prosecution witnesses. He should have recused himself, but he didn’t.”
“Which witness?” Brandon asked. “And what kind of relationship?”
“A woman named Ava Hanover, at least that was her name at the time of John Lassiter’s first trial, but she’s Ava Richland now. Back in the day, while she was still Ava Martin and working for an escort service, she and a newbie prosecutor named Eric Tuttle had a little extramarital fling. He was married at the time. She wasn’t. Years later, when Ava’s name came up on the witness list in the case, Tuttle should have recused himself—both times—but he didn’t.”
At the time of John Lassiter’s trials, Brandon had found it puzzling that the prosecutor had gone for broke both times. Brandon was, after all, the primary investigator on the case—the lead detective for much of it by virtue of being the only detective. The evidence, such as it was, was entirely circumstantial. To his way of thinking, Lassiter should have been charged with second-degree homicide rather than murder in the first degree. Now it all made sense, because by the time John Lassiter went to trial, Eric Tuttle had been the duly elected county attorney.
“All this happened a long time ago. How exactly did Justice for All find out about it?” Brandon asked.
“They do data mining, at least that’s how Rosalie Whittier explained it to me.”
“Who’s Rosalie Whittier?”
“JFA’s lead attorney on the John Lassiter case. Somehow JFA tracked down a long out-of-print book called Lawmen Gone Bad. Hardly anybody’s read it—had a print run of five hundred copies or so—but it’s a tell-all book about a previous sheriff, a guy named DuShane. Ever hear of him?”
Brandon Walker remembered Jack DuShane, all right. Sheriff DuShane had been as corrupt as they come. He still remembered the bumper stickers that had blossomed around town at the time. SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL SHERIFF, they said. GET A MASSAGE. That may have been a joke, but unfortunately, it was also all too true. DuShane’s involvement with the massage parlor/escort service industry was one of the things that had finally propelled Brandon into running for office against the man and eventually defeating him.
“I know the name well,” Brandon said aloud. “DuShane was my boss at one time, but I never heard about the book. You say it’s a tell-all?”
“I haven’t seen it, but that’s what I’m told.”
“Why haven’t I heard about it, then? A book exposing Jack DuShane’s carryings-on should have been big news around here.”
“That’s what makes all this so interesting,” Junior said. “As far as I can tell, the book never saw the light of day. The entire first printing was sold to what was most likely a single buyer who destroyed all the copies.”
“What single buyer?”
“No ID on the buyer, but I have a pretty good idea of who it might have been.”
So did Brandon Walker. Most likely Sheriff DuShane himself, now retired and living the good life in Palm Springs.
“At any rate, there was never a second printing,” Junior continued. “Word is, the author made a good piece of change by just going away and keeping his mouth shut.”
“Not blackmail, then,” Brandon suggested. “More like hush money.”
“Correct.”
“How did JFA find a copy?”
“Somebody gave them access to an uncorrected proof. Don’t ask me how, but they did, and that’s where they came up with the connection between Ava Martin and Eric Tuttle. He wasn’t the county attorney at the time, but he and DuShane were evidently good buds.”
Who played poker together for years, Brandon thought. If there had ever been a doubt in Brandon’s mind about looking into John Lassiter’s case, that was the moment it went away.
“Okay,” Brandon said aloud, “based on all that, JFA comes in and negotiates a deal that, as I understand it, Lassiter no longer wants.”
“He never wanted it to begin with,” Junior said. “And he isn’t the one who brought JFA into the deal. The person responsible for that would be his daughter, Amanda Wasser.”
“Back then I had no idea he had a daughter.”
“His girlfriend was expecting at the time he was arrested. The baby was born right after he went to prison for life without. He signed away his parental rights, and the mother gave the baby up for adoption at birth. Amanda had a health issue in her late twenties and came looking for her biological parents. By the time she did that, her birth mother was dead and you already know about John.”
“This daughter, Amanda Wasser, where is she?”
“Right here in Tucson. Turns out she’s lived here all her life. She works for the university—at the library, I believe. She’s probably off this week since it’s spring break, but I doubt she’s out of town. I don’t believe she travels very much. As I said, she has health issues.”
“What kind of health issues?”
“The same thing her father has—MS. I understand it’s hereditary.”
“Do you have a phone number for her?”
“Sure t
hing. Let me find it.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
“In a condo development off Speedway on the far side of Wilmot, the one with the dying golf course.”
It took a few moments before Junior dug up Amanda’s address and phone number. “Thanks,” Brandon said. “Now, could you do one more thing?”
“What’s that?”
“Let John Lassiter know that I’ll try to come see him, if not tomorrow then maybe the next day.”
“Good-o,” Junior Glassman replied. “I’ll get a message through to him right away. I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear you’re on board.”
SITTING IN LEO’S TRUCK, LANI dialed 911. After that, it was simply a matter of seeing who would arrive first, Law and Order—the tribal police—or someone from the Pima County Sheriff’s Department. While they waited, Lani held her phone for a time, dreading and delaying the call she needed to make. Finally she pressed the button.
“Good morning,” Dan Pardee said cheerfully. “We’re having breakfast and wondering when we’d hear from you. Since the cat’s away, I made blueberry pancakes. Tell Mom how you like them.”
“Yummy,” she heard Micah crow in the background.
Lani sighed. This was not a conversation she could have on speaker with Angie and Micah hanging on her every word.
“I need to talk to you in private.”
“Sure,” Dan said. “Just a sec.” Lani heard the legs of his chair scrape on the floor. Then a moment later, a door slammed.
“I’m outside now,” he said, turning off the speaker. “I can tell from your voice that something’s wrong. What is it?”
“Gabe is fine, and so am I,” she said hurriedly, “but there was a shooting down by Rattlesnake Skull charco early this morning. It woke me up. When Leo came to get me, I had him stop and check. We found two dead men lying by the charco. Right now we’re waiting for the cops to arrive.”
“Wait,” Dan said. “You said Leo came to pick you up. Where’s Gabe?”
“We had an argument,” Lani admitted. “He stormed off the mountain, but don’t worry. He’s okay.”
“Don’t worry? Are you kidding? This whole campout idea was all about helping him, and you’re telling me the little shit went off and left you out there on your own?”
Hearing the anger in Dan’s voice, Lani glanced toward Leo, who was sitting stolidly in the driver’s seat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
“It was fine,” Lani said, grateful her phone wasn’t on speaker, either. “I’m fine.”
An uncomfortable silence passed between Lani and Dan. The next admission would be the worst one, because of Dan’s words of warning the day before.
“The bad guys were firing automatic weapons,” she said finally. “I had my Glock, but up against whatever they were firing, it wouldn’t have been any more effective than a slingshot. You have every right to say I told you so, and plenty of reason to rub my nose in it all you want.”
There was another period of silence before Dan asked, “Any idea who the victims are?”
“We found a vehicle that might belong to one of the José boys, but Leo and I backed off without getting close enough to examine the bodies. Both victims had grocery bags over their heads.”
“Figures,” Dan muttered. “I heard Max was involved in some kind of smuggling operation.”
A cloud of dust bloomed farther down the road as a vehicle turned off the highway and sped toward them, red lights flashing.
“Gotta go,” Lani said hurriedly. “The cops just showed up. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
“I’m sure it’ll be a while,” Dan said. “Don’t worry. I’ll hold down the fort here. I’m just glad you’re safe.”
CHAPTER 15
YOU WILL REMEMBER, NAWOJ, MY friend, that after I’itoi divided the water and saved the Tohono O’odham, some of the Bad People—PaDaj O’odham—escaped and went to live in the South. Now these bad people were very lazy—too lazy to plant their own fields. They would come to the lands of the Desert People and steal their crops—their wheat and corn, their pumpkins and melons. Each time they came, the Tohono O’odham fought the Bad People and drove them away, but after a while when the food was gone and the Bad People were hungry, they would come again.
By now the Tohono O’odham knew that they should put guards in their fields to protect their crops. One day near the village of Gurli Put Vo—Dead Man’s Pond—which the Milgahn call San Miguel, the corn was ready to harvest. That morning Hawani—Crow—was sitting in a tree and saw the Bad People coming up out of the ground. Soon they were cutting down all the corn. Crow was so astonished that he called “Caw, Caw, Caw!” The people in the village heard Crow’s warning. They came running and drove the Bad People away.
That is why the Tohono O’odham are always kind to Thah O’odham—the Flying People—and never let them go hungry or thirsty, because Crow sounded the alarm.
LANI WAS BOTH RELIEVED AND a little disappointed when the first officer to arrive on the scene was one of the Shadow Wolves shift supervisors, Henry Rojas. She was disappointed because she wanted to get through whatever interviewing she needed to do with the investigating officers. But she was also relieved because Henry was someone she knew. He was a Navajo who hailed from New Mexico, while his wife, Lucy, was a Tohono O’odham nurse who worked at the Sells Indian Hospital. Lani knew them both because they lived in the hospital housing complex.
“I understand there’s been a homicide,” Henry said.
“Two, actually,” Lani corrected.
It was hardly surprising that a Border Patrol vehicle was the first to arrive. Law enforcement agencies working on the reservation had the ability to monitor one another’s radio traffic. Due to the long distances involved, if an officer got into some kind of trouble, people from other agencies who happened to be in the area could respond and render assistance.
“Any idea who the victims are?”
“There’s a vehicle that may belong to one of the José brothers from Sells,” Lani answered, “but that’s just a guess on my part. We didn’t get close to the victims to attempt an identification because we didn’t want to disturb the crime scene. Instead, we called it in and came here to wait.”
“What made you even think to look there?” Henry asked.
“I heard gunshots during the night,” Lani said. “Leo’s son, Gabe, and I were camping out up on Kitt Peak. The shots seemed to be coming from somewhere down here, so we stopped to check.”
Henry looked questioningly at the backseat.
“Gabe’s not here,” Lani explained. “He got his nose out of joint and went home during the night.”
“Walked?”
Lani nodded.
“Stubborn kid,” Henry observed.
“You can say that again,” Leo added.
“Whereabouts are the victims?”
Leo gestured with his head. “Over there,” he said, “by the charco.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“It’s a crime scene,” Lani said, “but it’s not my call.”
The next several vehicles arrived in a caravan. Out in front was a black Suburban that screamed FBI and was FBI. Two agents, one male and one female, emerged from that car and came forward, credentials in hand, to introduce themselves—Agents Angelica Howell and Joseph Armstrong. Behind them was a van belonging to the Pima County Medical Examiner’s office. Next came a van with a Pima County Sheriff’s Department logo on the door and a four-man CSI team inside. At the very end of the line was a sedan belonging to Law and Order, the Tohono O’odham tribal police.
Henry reappeared, motioned for the others to follow, and then led the group of investigators off toward the charco. Leo and Lani stayed where they were.
“Are they going to want to question Gabe?” Leo asked.
“Probably,” Lani answered. “He left long enough before it happened that I doubt he saw or heard anything, but they’ll probably want to check to be sure.”
“How long is this going to take?”
Lani sighed. “Probably a long time,” she said resignedly. “I don’t think either one of us is going to make it home in time for lunch.”
Leo nodded. “I’d better call the garage and let them know that I won’t be in until later.”
WHEN BRANDON CALLED THE NUMBER Junior had given him, Amanda Wasser was home and answered the phone.
Her response when he introduced himself surprised him. “Brandon Walker,” she said. “I believe I recognize the name. Aren’t you the original arresting officer, the one who took my father into custody?”
“Yes,” Brandon admitted. “That was me.”
“So what can I do for you, Mr. Walker?”
“John Lassiter reached out to me through his attorney, Oliver Glassman Junior. I volunteer with an organization called TLC, The Last Chance. We follow up on cold cases. Your father claims he wants TLC to look into Amos Warren’s death, and he asked for me in particular.”
Brandon more than half expected Amanda would hang up on him. “Thank God,” she whispered into the phone. “Finally.”
“What do you mean finally?”
“JFA was happy to go after the prosecutorial misconduct angle, but I don’t think any of them ever really believed my father was innocent. Of course, with him in prison, no one in law enforcement is interested in revisiting the case, either. Where are you? I mean, are you here in town?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you stop by?”
Without waiting for a second invitation, Brandon drove straight there. The entrance to the development, not exactly a gated community, was half a mile beyond Wilmot on Speedway. Brandon understood enough about golf to know that courses are supposed to be green. That wasn’t true here. The greens themselves were green, but that was all. Brandon knew that the cost of water had done in more than one Tucson area golf course, but the crazed golf-cart-driving players on this one didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by the conditions on the course.