by J. A. Jance
Unlike her detective, Joanna found the technical end of things far less compelling than the people connections. “What I want to know is who put Davis and Ortega on the trail of all this?” Joanna asked. “Somebody must have clued them in about Cecilia’s upcoming wedding and put them in touch with Carol Mossman.”
“I believe I may have found an answer for that,” Jaime Carbajal replied. “Remember Eddie Mossman’s other daughter?”
“Andrea?” Joanna asked.
“That’s the one. I found her name and address in Pam Davis’s e-mail address book. Pam Davis evidently handled most of the business e-mail. I’ve glanced through Carmen’s e-mail correspondence and it’s mostly personal—family-and-friends kind of stuff. Pam Davis, on the other hand, routinely deleted her e-mails as soon as she read them, as though she was concerned someone might go looking through her correspondence and find out something she didn’t want them to find. I’m checking into whether or not any of those deleted messages can still be retrieved through Fandango’s ISP. In the meantime, if I were a betting man, I’d say Andrea Mossman is our missing link here.”
“So would I,” Joanna agreed, “especially in view of what Edith Mossman told me about her yesterday.” She went on to relate what she knew about Andrea Mossman’s work with the support organization known as God’s Angels. There was a long pause after Joanna finished her recitation.
“Three people are dead already,” Jaime said finally. “What are the chances that Andrea Mossman is on the list of people to be taken out?”
“That thought occurred to me, too,” Joanna said. “I’ll talk it over with Frank and decide what we should do.”
“There’s one more thing,” Jaime added. “I got a look at Pam Davis’s appointment calendar for the first of July. She and Carmen were scheduled to meet Carol Mossman at her mobile home at eleven that morning. When he did the autopsy, Doc Winfield estimated Carol’s time of death as between eight and nine. I’m thinking that whoever killed Carol knew the reporters were coming and waited around to nail them as well.”
“Sounds plausible,” Joanna said. “But how did the killer know what was up? If The Brethren had a team of highly technical hackers, it’s possible someone there might have accessed Pam’s e-mail account or checked her calendar.”
“If you’d seen the insides of that one house on the Lassiter compound,” Jaime said, “you’d know that a compound-based hacker is highly unlikely.”
“Then the simplest option is that someone who knew what was going on told someone else. And the person who has the most connections going in every direction would be Andrea Mossman. If she’s been helping women and children once they escape the cult, she’s the one most likely to still have connections inside it.”
“I’m not going to be able to leave here much before late this afternoon,” Jaime said. “Maybe Ernie could run up to Tucson and have a talk with Andrea Mossman.”
Ernie’s already booked, Joanna thought. But I’m not. “I’ll see what I can do,” Joanna said.
The moment she put down the phone, she punched the intercom button. “Kristin,” she said, “I’m going to have to go up to Tucson for a little while. Please call Dr. Lee’s office and see if he can reschedule my appointment for some time later this week—Thursday or Friday, maybe.”
“What about Rotary?”
“Rotary?” Joanna asked.
“Yes. The San Pedro Valley Rotary Club luncheon. It’s today at noon out at the Rob Roy Country Club. You and Ken Junior are both scheduled to speak.”
“Ken’s on his own then,” Joanna said. “Work comes before politicking, and this is work. Please call them and explain.”
“When will you be back?” Kristin asked.
“I’m not sure,” Joanna said. “I’ll let you know.”
It was a two-hour, one-hundred-mile drive from the Justice Center to Tucson, and the long period of relative quiet gave Joanna time to think about what she would say once she located Andrea Mossman. Is it best to show up with no advance warning? Joanna wondered. Or, since I’m accosting her at work, should I call to let her know that I’m on my way?”
Eventually, she opted for the latter choice and used her cell phone’s direct-connect feature to reach the Chemistry Department at the University of Arizona.
“Andrea Mossman,” Joanna said.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Mossman isn’t in today.” The female voice on the telephone sounded young, probably a student putting herself through school on a work/study program. “I believe there’s been a death in her family.”
“I know,” Joanna responded, thinking quickly. “I’m with Grant Road Flowers. I have a bouquet for her. I was directed to bring it to her at work, but if you happened to have her home address available…”
“Of course,” the young woman on the telephone said, falling for what Joanna considered to be a lame ploy. “If you’ll wait a minute, I’ll be glad to get that for you.”
Half an hour later, Joanna pulled up in front of a small red-brick house on South Fourth Avenue in an old barrio neighborhood a few blocks from downtown. The tiny house, with its steeply pitched roof and old-fashioned front porch, looked as though it might once have served as a mom-and-pop grocery store. A sign in faded Chinese characters still lingered over the front door, which was inset into the right front corner of the building. Inside, the shades on all windows were pulled all the way down to the wooden sills. Parked in a space just to the left of the door was a bright green late-model VW Beetle.
With no sign of movement coming from inside the house, Joanna took the time to pull in behind the Bug and run the plates. The results were back within moments, confirming that Andrea Mossman was the VW’s registered owner.
Her sense of apprehension growing, Joanna turned off the Civvie’s engine and stepped out of her air-conditioned vehicle into Tucson’s midday midsummer heat. The one-hundred-plus-degree temperature pounded into her head. Sunlight glared off the sidewalk with blinding intensity while, from somewhere nearby, the too-sweet smell of freshly baked bread filled Joanna’s nostrils. Usually the scent of bread baking would be a welcome one, but not today. That odor, combined with the almost unbearable heat, teamed up to leave Joanna feeling more than slightly woozy.
There was no bell, so Joanna knocked on the door. When no one answered, she knocked again, hard enough to hurt her knuckles. Finally, just when she was considering whether or not she should call Tucson PD and ask for help, there was the smallest motion on the corner of a pull-down shade in one of the front windows.
“Who is it?” a female voice asked. “Go away. I don’t want any.”
“It’s Sheriff Brady,” Joanna replied. “From Cochise County. I need to talk to you about your sister’s death.”
“Show me your badge,” Andrea Mossman replied. “Drop it through the mail slot.”
Grateful to hear that Andrea Mossman was exercising some caution, Joanna did as she was told. Moments later, after a series of locks had been unlatched, the door opened and she was allowed inside.
Compared to the humble exterior the building showed to the world, Andrea Mossman’s home wasn’t at all what Joanna had expected. The tiny living room was a full thirty degrees cooler than the outside temperature, a feat performed by new and highly efficient air-conditioning equipment. The rooms Joanna could see had been fully remodeled and painted in bright colors paired with an assortment of mismatched but highly whimsical furniture. A hardwood floor, broken by thick rugs, gleamed underfoot. And, although shades remained drawn, the recessed lighting and well-placed lamps made the small room seem both bright and cozy, which was more than could be said for Andrea Mossman.
Joanna had never seen Carol Mossman in the flesh, but the resemblance between Andrea and her younger sister, Stella Adams, was downright spooky. Both had the same mousy light brown hair that must have come from their mother, Cynthia. Both had the same haunted-looking eyes, although Andrea wore glasses and Stella didn’t. Andrea wore a faded cotton robe and carried a box of
tissues. She looked as though she’d been crying.
“I had no idea Pam and Carmen were dead,” she said, half sobbing. “Not until a few minutes ago, when Grandma called to tell me. I can’t believe it. It can’t be true.”
“I’m sorry to have to say this,” Joanna said gently, “but it is true, Ms. Mossman.”
Andrea Mossman sank into an overstuffed easy chair covered in a fabric with a pattern of bright-pink peony blossoms and yellow butterflies. “I was about to get dressed and come to Bisbee to talk to you,” she said. “But I’m glad you’re here.”
“May I sit down?” Joanna asked.
Andrea nodded woodenly and motioned Joanna onto a small bright yellow leather couch. On her way out of the office, Sheriff Brady had paused long enough to collect a pocket-size tape recorder. She pulled it out of her purse and set it on a nearby end table. Then she took out her cell phone and switched it off.
“Do you mind if I record this conversation?” she asked.
“No,” Andrea said. “Go ahead.”
Joanna switched on the recorder. After identifying herself and giving the time and date, she introduced Andrea Mossman. “And you know why I’m here?” she asked.
“Of course I do,” Andrea replied. She stopped long enough to force down a sob. “It’s because all of this is my fault.”
“Your fault?” Joanna asked. “Why is that?”
“Because I’m the one who heard what Pam and Carmen were looking for,” Andrea said in a rush. “One of my clients—one of the former Brethren women whose children I helped counsel and who ended up living in L.A.—somehow learned that Pam Davis and Carmen Ortega were looking for a way to do a story—an insider’s story—on The Brethren and what goes on with them.” Andrea paused and looked closely at Joanna’s face. “You do know what goes on, don’t you?”
Joanna nodded. “I have a pretty good idea,” she said grimly. “Your grandmother told me some of it, but I’d like to hear what you have to say.”
Andrea Mossman’s face darkened. “Among The Brethren, women are nothing, and girls are less than that. They’re pieces of property, to be traded back and forth. And abused. For some of the girls, it’s the first thing they remember. For others, it’s the first thing they forget.
“Pam had heard about me through that former client. She contacted me and asked if I would help her put together a story on The Brethren. That same client has a son named Josiah who still lives in the family compound up in northern Arizona—out on what they call the Arizona Strip. He helped his mother get out, and he’s functioned as a spy for us ever since. Among The Brethren, boys are given far more freedom to come and go than women and girls are—it’s a lot like the Taliban that way. Josiah has been able to smuggle messages in and out for us. It was through him that I found out about…”
“Cecilia’s wedding?” Joanna suggested quietly.
Andrea glanced quickly at Joanna’s face, then she nodded. “You know about that, too—about my father’s other family?”
“Yes.”
“I shouldn’t have told you Josiah’s name,” Andrea said. “If anyone finds out he helped us…”
“He’d be in danger, too?” Joanna asked.
“What do you think?” Andrea broke off. After a minute or so, she went on. “If it hadn’t been for Josiah, I wouldn’t have known what was going on. I didn’t think I could stop it, but Pam and Carmen convinced me that if they could film the wedding itself and make it public, maybe there would be enough publicity so we could bring Cecilia out of there and try to give her some kind of normal life. They said they needed enough damning evidence to blow The Brethren sky-high—something so compelling that even the mainstream media would be forced to pick it up.”
“So you made arrangements for Josiah to help Pam and Carmen film the wedding.”
Andrea nodded.
“And how did you contact them?” Joanna asked.
“Once or twice I e-mailed them, but usually I used a phone card and pay phones. I didn’t want to have anything traceable back to me.”
“One of my detectives found your e-mail address in Pam Davis’s e-mail address book,” Joanna said.
Andrea’s face darkened. “I warned Pam about how dangerous these people can be,” she said softly. “But I don’t think she believed me.”
“Tell me about Carol,” Joanna urged. “I’m assuming you’re the one who put Pam and Carmen in touch with her.”
Andrea nodded again. “Everything I have—everything I own—this house, my education, my car, my independence—I owe to Carol. She’s the one who saved us—Stella and me. She really did bring us out of the wilderness. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d probably have been sold off into indentured servitude in some family compound the same way Cecilia has been. But Carol called Grandma and made arrangements for train tickets. Then she hustled us onto the train. She tried her best to get Kelly to come with us, but she wouldn’t. That was awful for Carol. Kelly simply refused to go. If Carol had tried to take her by force, none of the rest of us would have gotten away. So the three of us left and Kelly stayed, God help her. She’s twenty-five now. It breaks my heart to think of the kind of hell her life must be. It broke Carol’s heart, too.”
“So Carol saved you,” Joanna breathed.
Andrea Mossman nodded as tears began to course down her cheeks. She dabbed at them fitfully with a tissue. “She saved us, but she couldn’t save herself. Maybe it’s because Stella and I were younger than Carol was. Somehow we were able to find our sea legs and go on. Once I got into school, I was so hungry to be educated, nothing could stop me. And Stella found Denny, but Carol never found anybody or anything.”
“Except her dogs,” Joanna offered.
“Yes,” Andrea agreed. “Her dogs. They were always hungry and needy and mostly discarded purebreds, but she loved them to distraction. She always thought she could take one more, and then one more and one more after that, until it would get to be too much and the whole house of cards would come tumbling down. That’s when Grandma would step into the breach again and fix whatever needed fixing.”
“What about Pam and Carmen?” Joanna urged.
“When I found out they were willing to pay for some interviews with some of the women who had escaped The Brethren, I thought, why not put them in touch with Carol? Here was a woman—a potentially wonderful, capable woman—whose whole life had been torn apart by what my father and The Brethren did to her. It’s one thing to show a little girl being married off to an ugly old man. That’s bad enough. But when I told Pam and Carmen about Carol, they were interested in doing a story about the long-term ill effects of what The Brethren do. They wanted to interview both Stella and Carol. I told them talking to Stella was a bad idea. I knew she wouldn’t be interested, but Carol was in a bind for money.”
“How did you know she needed money?”
“Carol always needed money,” Andrea replied. “This time she had gone so far as to ask me to help, and I didn’t,” Andrea said hopelessly, tears welling up again. “I had some money set aside for a vacation next year, after I finally get my Ph.D. I wasn’t willing to spend it on vaccinating that latest batch of stray dogs. And so I turned her down, but I put Pam and Carmen in touch with Carol instead. Call it guilt on my part, because it’s true, but it was also a way for Carol to have the money she needed without my having to come up with it and without Grandma’s having to do it, either. I thought I was helping, I really did.”
Andrea paused and stared off into the middle distance. “What happened then?” Joanna urged.
Andrea swallowed hard. “Carol died. I didn’t know exactly when Pam and Carmen were supposed to see her, so I fooled myself into thinking that Carol’s death was just a random act of violence, that it had nothing at all to do with The Brethren, or with Pam and Carmen, either. And I believed that, right up until this morning, when I talked to Grandma. Then I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That my father killed them, and Carol, too,” Andrea s
aid quietly. “And now he wants to take Carol’s body back to Mexico with him. It’s like he’s not willing to let any of us escape, not even in death. I’m afraid he’ll come looking for me next, Sheriff Brady, and if he does—if he even so much as comes near me—I swear to God, I’ll kill him myself.”
Somehow Joanna understood this was no idle threat. “I wouldn’t advise that, Ms. Mossman,” she said. “We currently have your father under surveillance based on the fact that he’s been the object of a previous death threat—one from your grandmother,” she added with a slight smile. “And now one from you. I’m confident that we’re going to find a way to charge him with something. That way he’ll end up in jail rather than going back to Mexico, with or without Carol’s remains. In the meantime, however, I believe it’s possible that you yourself are in danger. Do you have anywhere you can go? Is there anyplace you can stay?”
“The people I work with have safe houses,” Andrea said quietly.
“Go to one of them,” Joanna urged. “Just for the time being. Give us a chance to find out exactly what happened to Carol and to Pam and Carmen. It’s early in the investigations. We’re in the process of sorting out the forensics and gathering evidence. Once we make our case, that will be plenty of time for you to come out of hiding.”
Andrea nodded. “You’re right,” she said. “And I will. But you should probably talk to Stella, too. If I’m in danger, so is she.” She paused. “But there is one thing,” she added.
“What’s that?” Joanna asked.
“If you can, don’t mention to her that I’m the one who put Pam and Carmen in touch with Carol. Stella’s done a better job than any of us at putting the past behind her and getting on with her life.”
Joanna nodded. She switched off the tape recorder and then stood to go. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a business card. “Call me tomorrow and let me know you’re okay and where you are so I can be in touch with you if I need to.”
“I will,” Andrea said. “I’ll call as soon as I can.”
Outside, early-afternoon Tucson temperatures scorched sidewalks, softened pavements, and made the door handle and steering wheel of the Civvie too hot to touch, but Joanna barely noticed. Her whole being simmered with contempt for a wormy little weasel named Eddie Mossman—a man whose betrayal of his daughters went against everything Joanna herself believed in and held dear.