by J. A. Jance
Joanna knew Ernie Carpenter had just pulled Deputy Valentine’s leg. Valentine, on the other hand, had no idea. “I doubt that’s possible,” he objected with a frown.
Shaking his head, Ernie continued to ask questions. “Any tire tracks?”
Valentine shrugged. “Some. And we made casts of what there were, but we don’t know for sure the vehicle belonged to the killer. And, like I said, it’s a stock tank. There were probably lots more tire tracks at some point, but by the time we got there, the cattle had obliterated all but that one set.”
“So we don’t know if the victims were inside or outside a vehicle when they were shot, but they are both naked. Any sign of sexual assault?”
“None that we could see. We won’t know for sure until after the autopsies.”
“Did your CSI say whether or not he thought the women were naked when they were shot?”
Valentine looked surprised. “He didn’t say. Why?”
Ernie shrugged. “This kind of deliberate posing and sexual assault usually go together. Now when are those autopsies due again?”
“Sheriff Trotter already gave me the bad news on that,” Joanna interjected, answering before Deputy Valentine had a chance. “Because it’s a holiday weekend, Monday is the soonest their ME will be available.”
“Too bad,” Ernie said, shaking his head. “We’ll be losing a lot of precious time.” He passed the first photo along and reached for another. “What’s this?” he asked.
“Those are the casings,” Deputy Valentine said. “Four of them. Two shots each. There seem to be prints on the casings but we haven’t had time to process them yet. Sheriff Trotter said we’ll get those to you as soon as possible.”
“Good,” Joanna said.
Together they sorted through one photo after another, twenty or so in all—photos taken before and after the bodies were removed from the scene, along with enlarged photos of shell casings with their telltale antique markings. Joanna was disappointed in the material. She had hoped for something definitive. Other than some footprints and the possibility of fingerprints, the New Mexico authorities didn’t have any more to go on in this case than Joanna’s people had in the Carol Mossman case. Even so, when they had finished with Deputy Valentine’s packet of photos, Dave Hollicker passed along the flimsy collection of Mossman material.
“I don’t think we’re dealing with a terribly sophisticated or organized perp,” Frank Montoya theorized as Valentine thumbed his way through the new set of crime scene photos. “If he was, he never would have left his brass lying around like that, to say nothing of brass with prints on it.”
“I agree,” Ernie said. “He may not be organized this minute, but at the rate he’s going, he won’t stay disorganized for long.”
“Right,” Jaime Carbajal added. “It could be he’s somebody who’s been thinking about killing people for a long time and he’s only just now started.”
“But he’s off to a big start,” Ernie said. “Right this minute the death toll stands at three. If he keeps up the pace, I’d hate to think how much damage he might do between now and Monday morning.”
“And he may not have started here,” Joanna put in. “Sheriff Trotter is having his people check points east looking for cases with similar MOs. I told him we’ll look west of here. If we can come up with any other recent cases that might be connected, we’d at least have some idea of what direction he’s going in.”
Valentine finished sorting through the Mossman material and then stuffed it into the now empty folder he’d brought with him. “I’d better take this and head home,” he said.
“Sorry there’s not more,” Joanna told him.
“That’s okay. It’s better than nothing.”
“Well, guys,” Joanna said, turning to her officers once Deputy Valentine had left the room. “What do you think?”
“Sounds like we’ve got a big problem,” Jaime Carbajal said.
Ernie nodded. “The sooner we find this guy, the better. The trouble is, we spent a big chunk of today dealing with Richard Osmond when we should have been chasing Carol Mossman’s killer.”
Joanna nodded in agreement. “That’s what I think, too. This is too serious to let sit fallow over a three-day weekend. Overtime or not, we have to have people tracking on this tomorrow and Saturday both.”
“Count me in,” Jaime said.
“Wait a minute,” Ernie objected. “Don’t the Coyotes have a big game tomorrow?”
Jaime Carbajal coached a Little League team called the Copper Queen Coyotes. Pepe Carbajal, Jaime’s twelve-year-old son, was the Coyotes’ star pitcher.
“Yes,” Jaime said, “but not until mid-afternoon. Why?”
“I’ll tell you what,” Ernie said. “The Fourth of July is for kids. I’ll take your on-call. You spend the day with Delcia and Pepe. I’ll come in and work.”
“Thanks, Ernie,” Jaime said, “but phone me and keep me in the loop.”
“Don’t thank me,” Ernie added gruffly. “I’ll see to it that we even up eventually.”
Joanna appreciated the effortless way in which the two detectives sorted out the scheduling arrangements.
“Now tell me,” she said. “Did you finish the Calhoun and Braxton interviews?”
“Sure did,” Ernie said. “And it looks like we’re in the clear on those. Osmond never said a word to either one of his cell mates about not feeling well. We’ve got no notations of him asking to see a doctor or of his going to the infirmary, either. I’m guessing the situation just snuck up on him. Took him by surprise same as it did everybody else. And, if you ask me, it’s a pretty good way to go. Not in jail, mind you, but to just lie down to take a nap like that and…poof…you’re out of there.”
“I have a feeling that Marla and Gabriel Gomez won’t necessarily share your benign view of the situation,” Joanna said. “You’ll have transcripts for me?”
Ernie nodded. “ASAP,” he said.
“And what about Edith Mossman? Did you find out anything more in talking to her this afternoon?”
“Not really,” Jaime Carbajal answered. “We’re making arrangements to interview the two sisters who live in the States—Stella, here in Bisbee, and Andrea, the one who lives in Tucson. Andrea is supposedly coming down to see Edith over the weekend. I’ll try to interview her while she’s here. Since Stella lives in Bisbee, I can talk to her sometime next week if I don’t catch up with her sooner than that.”
“What about the sister who lives in Mexico?” Joanna asked.
“Kelly,” Jaime answered. “I asked Edith about whether or not she had let Kelly know what had happened. She said no, because as far as she knows, there’s no phone service out to where they live. I spoke to an officer named Enrique Santos in the Ciudad Obregón Police Department. He knows about The Brethren—that’s what they call themselves. Santos agreed to send someone out there in person to notify Kelly and her father of Carol’s death and to ask them to call me either here in the office or on my cell phone.”
“Good enough,” Joanna said. “Does that do it then?”
There were nods all around. “All right then. See you tomorrow.”
The Double Cs headed for the door. Jaime turned back from the doorway. “About the baby, boss. If it’s a boy, you’re going to name it after me, right?”
Joanna glanced at Frank. “I guess that means the bulletin went out?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Right, Jaime,” Joanna replied with a grin. “We’ll call him Carby, short for Carbajal.” She could hear Ernie and Jaime laughing as they made their way down the hall. Joanna turned back to Frank. “Remember, you’re on call tomorrow, too. I’m going to be all over God’s creation.”
“Don’t wear yourself out,” Frank cautioned.
Joanna shook her head. “I’m pregnant, Frank. That doesn’t turn me into some kind of invalid.”
“But you’re not Wonder Woman, either,” he told her.
Back at her desk, Joanna’s calendar lay o
pen to July 4. Oh, yeah? she thought, glancing down through the jumbled notations of appointments to be kept. Prove it.
It was not yet dusk and still very hot when she drove up to the house on the expanded High Lonesome Ranch. Tigger came to greet the Crown Victoria. Lucky shot out of the garage the moment she opened that automatic door. Lady hung back until she was sure Joanna was alone, then she came crawling toward the car, groveling on the ground.
“Somebody really did mistreat you, didn’t they, girl,” Joanna said soothingly.
The dog’s tail wagged tentatively. Joanna had to coax her to come back into the cool interior of the rammed-earth house. She took off her weapons and put them away, then she stopped in the laundry room long enough to fill dog dishes. Butch had decreed that feeding the dogs in the garage would help cut down on the mess, so that’s what she did.
Once the three dogs had finished mowing through their food, Joanna let them outside. Then she pushed the button that closed the automatic garage door. Back in the laundry room, she closed and locked the door to the garage as well. As she did so, she couldn’t help thinking about Carol Mossman. She, too, had closed and locked the doors to her home, thinking those barriers would somehow keep her safe and protect her dogs as well. But nothing could have been further from the truth. She had locked death inside her tumble-down mobile home rather than keeping it out.
Thoughtfully Joanna extracted the small notebook and stubby pencil she kept in her pocket. “Why were dogs inside?” she wrote.
Still pondering the question, she walked through the house. In the bedroom she changed into a T-shirt and shorts. Back in the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of lemonade from the fridge.
With Butch and Jenny both gone and with the dogs outside, the house was unnaturally quiet. Taking her glass with her, Joanna went into the family room and settled on the couch to watch the evening news. Peter Jennings had no more than opened his mouth when Joanna fell sound asleep. She was awakened much later by a chorus of barking dogs and the sound of the door opener operating on Butch’s garage. Except for the flickering light from the television set, the whole house was dark. When Joanna switched on a lamp, she was astonished to discover it was almost nine o’clock. She had slept for nearly three hours.
The door from Butch’s garage opened, and all three dogs careened into the family room. Lady sidled up on the couch, where she cuddled next to Joanna.
“There you are,” Butch said as he and Jenny walked into the room. “When we didn’t see any lights, Jenny and I decided you still weren’t home.”
“I was tired and fell asleep,” Joanna said. “Did you get some boots?”
“We’re booted,” Butch replied. “What about dinner? We ate, did you?”
“Haven’t, but I will,” Joanna told him, heading for the kitchen. “I’m famished.”
“You’re feeling all right, then?” Butch asked.
She paused long enough to give him a kiss. “It’s called ‘morning sickness’ for good reason,” she told him.
He studied her face. “You look upset.”
“I suppose I am,” she agreed. “At least four people are dead so far. On three of them, we’re making very little progress.”
Eight
Early the next morning, the smell of Butch’s coffee brewing in the kitchen sent Joanna scrambling out of bed and into the bathroom. A miserable half hour later, when she finally dragged her body into the kitchen, Butch took one look at her pale face and shook his head. “You look like hell,” he told her.
“Gee, thanks,” she muttered. “I can’t tell you how much better that makes me feel.”
“Do you think it’s worth it?” he asked.
“Being pregnant?” she returned. “Ask me that again in a month or so when I’m no longer barfing my guts out.”
Butch came across the room to give her a gentle squeeze. “I have water on for tea. Want some?”
“This morning, tea doesn’t sound any better than coffee.”
“If you’re not careful,” he warned, “you’ll go into caffeine withdrawal, and then you’ll really be in trouble—headaches, mood swings…”
Joanna hitched her way up onto one of the barstools at the kitchen counter and then glowered at him. “I’m not having mood swings,” she retorted.
“Oh, really?” Butch said with a grin. “In the meantime, as requested, here are your English muffins, madame.”
After delivering her breakfast, Butch turned back to the cooktop. Using only one hand, he expertly cracked two eggs at a time into a heated frying pan. While Joanna watched, he deftly flipped the eggs in midair and then, after a few more seconds over the heat, slid the over-easy result, with yolks perfectly intact, onto a waiting plate. A former short-order cook, Butch Dixon was disturbingly adept in the kitchen, enough so that watching him at work made Joanna feel inadequate. She herself had attempted that midair egg-flipping trick on only one occasion—with disastrous results for both egg and cooktop.
“I wish I could come with you today,” Butch said thoughtfully, placing his own plate on the counter and settling on the stool next to Joanna’s. Worried about the state of her innards, Joanna kept a close eye on her remaining muffin.
“The problem is,” Butch continued, “I promised Faye that I’d help out at the booth. She’s concerned that the girls will need some male-type extra muscle while they’re setting up.”
Faye Lambert was the leader of Jenny’s Girl Scout troop. The girls, working on raising money for their second annual end-of-summer trip to southern California, had made arrangements to sell sodas and candy bars during Bisbee’s Fourth of July parade and at the field-day events to be held later in the afternoon at Warren Ballpark.
“Jenny’s shift in the booth ends at noon,” Butch added. “That’ll give us plenty of time to come home, have lunch, change clothes, load Kiddo into his trailer, and head for the fairgrounds in Douglas.”
“You don’t mind doing all this?” Joanna asked. “The booth, horse wrangling, and all that?”
Butch shook his head. “Not at all,” he said. “When I was growing up, I always wanted to be a cowboy and a dad. Now I’m getting some practice in both with Jenny. Sort of like a preview of coming attractions,” he added with a smile. “But tell me, Joey, are you sure you’ll be okay, driving all over hell and gone by yourself?”
Part of Joanna relished Butch’s husbandly concern, and part of her resented it. “I’ll be fine,” she reassured him. “I’m scheduled to be one of the lead vehicles in both parades. That means I’ll be done with each of those events with enough time to get to the next one. I may be a little squeezed hustling between the two picnics, but I should make it with no problem.”
“Did you say ‘squeezed’?” Butch asked. “I don’t think that quite covers it.”
When she went out to get in the Civvie, she discovered Butch had left an unopened package of saltine crackers on the roof of the car.
Smiling at his thoughtfulness, Joanna settled into the driver’s seat. As she drove toward the department in her dress uniform, she wondered how long she’d be able to fit into it. She stopped by the Motor Pool garage long enough to have her Crown Victoria gassed up and washed to get rid of the layer of fine red dust that was the natural shade of any vehicle making daily trips up and down the pavement-free road to High Lonesome Ranch.
She stopped by her office and checked with Dispatch to make sure nothing out of the ordinary needed her attention. Well before eleven she took her place as the second vehicle in Bisbee’s Fourth of July parade, positioned directly behind the Bisbee High School marching band. The parade started fifteen minutes late and then took another forty-five minutes to make a leisurely circuit of Warren’s onlooker-lined streets. Immediately after reaching the Cole Avenue starting point, Joanna headed out of Bisbee. The fifteen-minute delay in the first parade’s starting time caused her to arrive in Sierra Vista too late to be at the front of the parade there. That meant she was even further behind schedule as she drove the twent
y-plus miles from Sierra Vista to the first community picnic in Benson.
Driving with complete concentration, she was startled when her cell phone rang just shy of the junction at I-10. The out-of-area number on the phone’s readout wasn’t one Joanna recognized.
“Sheriff Brady here,” she answered.
“Happy Fourth of July,” her brother’s cheerful voice boomed at her. “What are you up to?”
“On my way from a parade to the first of two picnics,” she told Bob Brundage. “From the second of two parades, actually. How about you?”
For most of her life, Joanna Brady had thought of herself as an only child. Slightly less than four years earlier, Joanna had discovered that her parents had had an earlier and previously unmentioned, out-of-wedlock child. The infant boy had been given up for adoption long before D. H. Lathrop and Eleanor Matthews’s eventual marriage, and years before Joanna’s subsequent birth. Bob Brundage had come searching for his birth mother only after the deaths of both his adoptive parents. A career military man, Bob had arrived in Joanna’s life as a full bird colonel in the United States Army.
For some people, learning about a parent’s youthful indiscretions can serve as a unifying experience between parent and child. It hadn’t worked that way for Joanna Brady and Eleanor Lathrop Winfield. Finding out about Bob Brundage’s existence had left Joanna feeling betrayed, and her lingering resentment stemmed from far more than Eleanor’s long silence about her own history.
For years Eleanor Lathrop had berated her daughter for being pregnant with Jenny at the time Joanna and Andy had married. The circumstances surrounding their shotgun wedding had given rise to years of never-ending criticism from Eleanor. Never once in all that time had Eleanor mentioned that there were similar skeletons in her own closet. That was what bothered Joanna the most—her mother’s blatant hypocrisy. Despite Joanna’s best efforts, she had yet to come to terms with the situation, and because she had not yet taken that first important step, forgiveness remained impossible.