by J. A. Jance
When he reached the address, he found a single-level unit whose front yard had been turned into a bricked patio surrounded by gaily colored pots on metal stands. Each pot overflowed with a bouquet of colorfully blooming flowers. Amanda Wasser, seated on a bright red scooter, was parked beside one of them. Wearing a sun hat and gardening gloves, she was busily deadheading flowers.
“You must be Brandon Walker,” she said with a smile as she stripped off her gloves and held out a hand. “Welcome to my raised garden. Ordinary raised beds don’t work for me anymore. I need something higher that gives me access both front and back. When I’m feeling well enough, I like to work the pots myself. When I’m not well enough, I have a yardman. Won’t you have a seat? Would you care for coffee?”
“No thanks on the coffee,” Brandon said, taking a seat at a patio table with a fully unfurled umbrella. Next to the umbrella was a closed banker’s box. “Just had some. What I’d really like is to know about your father.”
“John Lassiter is my birth father,” Amanda corrected. With that, she tossed her gloves into the scooter’s basket, then rode over to join him at the table. “I consider the man who raised me to be my father. By the way, my adoptive parents are both deceased,” she added. “They died several years ago and only months apart. My birth mother perished in a car wreck, so as far as relatives are concerned, John Lassiter is the last of the Mohicans.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Only what’s in public records and court records,” she said. “I know that he’s in prison for murder and that he has MS. That’s one thing we have in common—MS. It’s hereditary; it’s also what started me off on the search for my birth parents in the first place. I’d been having symptoms, and my doctors suggested that I track down my birth family’s medical history. I had always known I was adopted, but it came as a big surprise to me to learn that my birth father was in prison just up the road.”
“You grew up in Tucson, then?”
Amanda nodded. “I’m guessing that’s why my parents kept that information from me—because Florence isn’t very far from here. But yes, I’ve lived in Tucson all my life. I attended Palo Verde High School and the University of Arizona. I’m still there by the way—at the U of A. I’m a reference librarian in the main library.”
“I understand from Mr. Glassman that you’re the one who brought JFA into the game. Did your father ask you to do that?”
She laughed at that, but it was laughter without humor. “Hardly,” she said. “I did that all on my own. Besides, when would he have asked? I’ve never met the man. He’s in prison for life without parole, and he refuses to allow me to visit.”
Brandon was taken aback. “You’ve never met him?”
“Not once.”
“Then why did you go to the trouble of enlisting JFA’s help?”
“I already answered that. John Lassiter is my last living relative—the only one. If I can get him released from prison, maybe I’ll have a chance to get to know him.”
“How did all this come about then?”
Amanda shrugged. “I’m a librarian. What can I tell you? When I learned who my birth father was and he then refused to see me, I started doing what librarians do best—research. I went back through newspaper accounts of everything I could find related to Amos Warren’s homicide and the resulting criminal trials. I also learned everything I could about John Lassiter and his circle of acquaintances.” She reached over, removed the top from the box, extracted a single item—a book—and moved the box in Brandon’s direction. “This contains hard copies of everything I found. I’ve made digital copies as well.”
Peering inside, Brandon saw that the box was jammed with files.
“This is the only thing for which I don’t have a digitized copy.”
She handed him the book. It was a paperback with a plain gold cover. The only words on the cover were Lawmen Gone Bad, by Randall Hardy. Uncorrected proof.
“I thought that book was never published?” Brandon asked.
“It was, but only just. It was printed, but all the copies were bought up before they were shipped to the stores. It was pulled prior to publication,” Amanda explained. “Evidently pressure was brought to bear, and the copies that had been printed were shredded. This copy—a galley copy—survived. When I was doing my research, I read the complete papers from beginning to end. Somewhere along the way I stumbled on an item that mentioned Mr. Hardy was working on the book. I made a note of it in case it might be related. When I went looking for it later and could locate nothing about it, I tracked down Mr. Hardy himself.
“He was still living here in town at the time. He’d had several other books published after the first one disappeared. I made an appointment with him on the basis of asking for his papers to be donated to Special Collections at the U of A library. He seemed cordial enough and said I was welcome to what he had. When I made the mistake of asking about Lawmen in particular, he went ballistic. He said he’d burned everything that had anything to do with that ‘goddamned book,’ quote unquote, and that he wished he’d never written it.”
“Slight overreaction?” Brandon asked.
Amanda nodded. “That sent me looking. The publisher was a local outfit that went out of business shortly after all this happened. That piqued my curiosity, too. I wondered if the two were related, and that sent me off on a search for the book itself. The book’s initial print run was small, so there weren’t many review copies printed either—twenty to fifty at most. Fortunately for me, there are people out in the world of dead tree books who specialize in collecting review copies. I paid a lot of money for this one, but that’s where I found the connections between the man who prosecuted John Lassiter and sent him to prison and John’s onetime girlfriend—Ava Martin.”
“I understand Jack DuShane is in here, too?”
Amanda nodded. “He’s there as one of the bad guys. By the way,” she added, “you’re notably absent.”
“Sheriff DuShane and I were never on the best of terms.”
“When I read the book, I realized that all those folks—the sheriff, the prosecutor, the people running the call girls and the massage parties—were thick as thieves, and I think they all joined forces to pin Amos Warren’s homicide on John Lassiter. He was a guy with no connections, which made him an easy target. I went to the sheriff’s department and tried to get someone to take a look at all this with a view to reopening the case.”
“And you got nowhere?”
“Correct, but maybe you’ll have better luck.”
“Because I was sheriff once upon a time? I wouldn’t count on it. Is your father aware of any of this?”
“I’m not sure. He might have heard about it through Mr. Glassman, but I certainly haven’t shown it to him.”
“And did you reach any conclusions?”
“Yes, I did. I think Ava Martin bears some looking into. There’s a file in there about her, too. I suggest you go through the material on your own and decide for yourself. Just for the record, though, you should be aware that there’s at least one other unsolved homicide involved in this case. Kenneth Mangum was one of John’s pals—his best friend, actually. Kenneth testified on John’s behalf at the first trial and was expected to appear at the second one, but he never showed. He apparently left Arizona and was living in Seattle under the name Kenneth Myers when he, too, was murdered.
“His death is spookily similar to Amos Warren’s in that his remains went undiscovered for a number of years. Then, when his body was found, the case was never solved. It’s only a few years ago now since those remains were linked up to a missing persons case filed by Kenneth Mangum’s mother in Phoenix.”
Brandon had been busily taking notes. “I believe it’s time for me to go see your father,” he said.
Amanda smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
/> “What about this?” he asked, reaching for the box and tapping the lid. “You said I should draw my own conclusions. Does that mean you’ll let me go through what you’ve gathered?”
She nodded. “You’re welcome to all of it,” she said, “even this.” She placed the book in the box before closing the lid. “I’m a librarian, though. That means I want it all back. When all this is over, I may use it to write my own damn book.”
Brandon stood up and hefted the box. “Assuming I do see your father—your birth father—is there anything you’d like me to tell him?”
“Yes,” Amanda Wasser said. “Tell him that someday I’d like to meet him.”
Brandon’s phone rang while he was loading the box into the Escalade. Diana’s name appeared on the screen. “Hey,” he said. “How’s the festival going?”
“Busy, and there’s a new wrinkle. Someone is holding an impromptu dinner this evening at El Charro downtown. I’ve been invited. You were invited, too, but I said that after last night you were probably dinnered out.”
“You’ve got that right.”
“The thing is, I won’t be finished until nine or so. Do you mind coming back into town to pick me up or should I make arrangements for someone to give me a ride?”
“Tell me where and when. I’ll be there with bells on.”
Brandon glanced at his watch as he got into the SUV. It wasn’t noon yet. Rather than having to go back to the festival midafternoon, he now had several hours to do entirely as he pleased. He could go home and spend the afternoon poring through the banker’s box, or he could speak to John Lassiter, the person most directly involved in the case. In the end, he literally tossed a coin. Heads, drive to Florence; tails, go home. The coin toss came up heads.
GABE LAY ON HIS BED, playing with his Xbox. His mom was mad at him. Lani was mad at him. Probably everyone in the whole world was mad at him, including Tim. They often hung out together on Saturdays, usually at Gabe’s house rather than at the Josés’ place. Without Mrs. José or Mrs. Francisco there to look after things, going to Tim’s house wasn’t much fun anymore. One of the big attractions in the José household had always been the food. Now, with Carlos in charge, the food at Tim’s house wasn’t very good.
None of the brothers knew how to make popovers. These days Tim and his brothers lived on sandwiches and take-out stuff from Bashas’—food that didn’t need cooking. The kinds of food that would drive Lani nuts, Gabe thought, especially peanut butter sandwiches made with white bread. Thinking about peanut butter made him glance at the dresser drawer where he’d hidden both Tim’s mysterious note and the jar of peanut butter. What was that all about? Probably just some brother kind of thing. Tim’s older brothers often teased him unmercifully, and maybe the peanut butter was Tim’s way of getting back at them for a change.
Gabe sometimes wished he had brothers. Maybe Tim didn’t always get along with the ones he had, but at least they were there. Tim wasn’t alone, not really—not the way Gabe was alone.
Gabe picked up his phone, the one Lani had taken away from him the day before. His dad had left it on the kitchen counter, and Gabe had found it when he went out to make some toast. He tried calling Tim again. Still no answer. That was odd. If Tim’s plans for the day had changed, wouldn’t he at least have let Gabe know? Disappointed, Gabe slid the phone back into the pocket of his jeans.
His bedroom door opened, and his mother poked her head inside. He could tell from the frown on her face that she was still angry that he hadn’t stayed out on the mountain overnight.
“I have to go to the office for a couple of hours, then I’m going grocery shopping. Your dad’s going to be late. There was some trouble out that way when he went to pick up Lani. You’re to stay here until he gets home, understand?”
Gabe nodded.
“Oh, and if you talk to Timmy, let him know you’re grounded. He can see you at school on Monday, but not for the rest of the weekend. Got it?”
“Okay,” he muttered. She left, and he allowed himself a few moments of gratitude. At least she hadn’t taken his Xbox away, and she hadn’t made him go shopping with her, either. It was bad enough that he’d had to go camping with Lani. If the kids from school saw his mother dragging him around the grocery store on Saturday morning, he’d never hear the end of it.
After his mom left, Gabe kept right on playing. Some time had passed—he wasn’t sure how much—when someone knocked on the bedroom door. He was going for a really high score. Thinking the visitor was most likely Tim, Gabe called for him to come in.
A moment later Henry Rojas appeared in the doorway. Gabe knew Henry. He was one of the Shadow Wolves who worked with Dan Pardee. Henry’s wife was a nurse at the hospital, and they lived in one of the units at the hospital compound, but as far as Gabe knew, Henry wasn’t a good friend of either one of his parents. Among the Tohono O’odham, only relatives and very close friends ever ventured inside someone else’s home and, even then, not without an express invitation.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I was talking to your friend Tim José,” Henry said. “He’s in some trouble and asked me to come pick you up and take you to him. Oh, and he wants you to bring along the package he left for you last night.”
Gabe tried playing dumb. “What package?”
“You know which package,” Henry said. “Now get it and come on. There’s not much time.”
“I’m grounded,” Gabe said. “My mom says I’m not allowed to go anywhere.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what your mom wants. Get the damned peanut butter and come on!” Henry’s hand went to the grip of the pistol he wore on his hip. “I have a gun and I’m prepared to use it. Get moving.”
And so Gabe moved, stumbling toward the dresser and pulling open the drawer like a bumbling sleepwalker. He reached for the peanut butter jar, leaving the bag and the note behind. As his fingers closed around the plastic jar, he knew two things with sickening clarity. One, his best friend was in trouble, maybe even dead. And two, Henry Rojas, the man who stood blocking the doorway? He was clearly one of the Bad People—PaDaj O’odham—the very ones Lani had been trying to warn Gabe about. She had thought the José brothers were bad somehow, but Gabe understood that this man—dressed in his uniform, wearing a badge, and carrying a weapon on his hip—was someone truly evil.
With the jar in one hand and leaving the drawer partly open, Gabe straightened up and turned to face the intruder. Henry Rojas had yet to move. He stood there, still as can be, blocking the doorway.
“What happened to Tim?” Gabe asked.
“Believe me,” Rojas said, “you’ll know soon enough. Now move.”
As Gabe walked past, Henry leaned toward him. “Walk straight,” he ordered. “Don’t do anything out of line. I’ve got my Taser right here.”
It was only when Gabe looked at the Taser that he realized the man was wearing gloves—surgical gloves. Henry had no intention of leaving any fingerprints behind.
As they stepped outside, there was no one around. It was a quiet Saturday morning. The other houses in the Ortiz compound seemed deserted. No children played kickball in the dirt outside. If women were inside neighboring houses doing chores or washing dishes, there was no sign of them, either. A block or so away, he saw people over by his dad’s garage, but none of them was close enough for Gabe to call for help.
Henry marched him over to the passenger side of a truck that was parked just outside—a black Chevrolet with a camper shell on it. It wasn’t the Border Patrol vehicle Henry drove when he was on duty. This was private.
Henry opened the door to the cab. “Get in,” he ordered.
Gabe tried to twist away, but Henry grabbed his neck in a viselike grip and shoved him headfirst into the cab. Then, before Gabe could right himself, a jolt of electricity from a stun gun shot through his body. When he came to,
a second or so later, Henry was removing a hypodermic needle from Gabe’s bare arm.
“Hey,” he objected, “what are you doing?”
Henry didn’t answer. He slammed the door shut, locking it with his key fob, before he walked around the front of the pickup to the driver’s door. Gabe tried to unlock the door manually, but his muscles were still disrupted by the stun gun charge. Before he could make them respond properly, they went numb. Suddenly helpless, he fell back against the seat.
As Gabe drifted into unconsciousness, he had a strange thought. Lani had told him that the Bad People always came from the South. Henry Rojas was Navajo. Weren’t Navajos from the North?
He’d have to ask Lani to explain that to him the next time he saw her.
CHAPTER 16
THEY SAY IT HAPPENED LONG ago that in the summers, when it was very hot and the low-lying water holes all dried up, the Desert People would leave their villages behind and go to the foothills at the base of one of I’itoi’s sacred mountains—Ioligam, which means Manzanita, or Baboquivari, which means The Mountain That Is Small in the Middle.
The Elders—Kekelimai—say that once the sacred peak of Baboquivari was shaped like the thing the Milgahn—the Anglos—call an hourglass. One day Beautiful Girl’s brother returned from the heavens. In the quake that followed his arrival, the top of the hourglass broke off, leaving Baboquivari looking the way it does today, like a spool sitting in the middle of the desert.
BEFORE BRANDON HEADED FOR FLORENCE, he made a call to clear the way. His younger son, Quentin, an intravenous drug user, had developed hepatitis C, which had morphed into cirrhosis before he had managed to store up enough meds to end it all with an overdose.
During the last year of his life, when Quentin had spent far more time in the infirmary than in his cell, Brandon and Diana had both been constant visitors. One or the other of them had been in the infirmary with him almost daily, providing care and comfort that would otherwise have been delegated to overworked and understaffed nurses and orderlies. Over time, surprisingly enough, they had developed a first grudging but eventually enduring friendship with the warden.