by J. A. Jance
29
6:00 A.M., Monday, April 12
Patagonia, Arizona
Phil Tewksbury didn’t exactly leap out of bed at six o’clock on Monday morning. The weekend of unaccustomed painting meant he had exercised muscles that were now mad at him. His aching right shoulder had kept him awake off and on overnight, and he felt stiff all over. Still, there was a smile on his face as he pulled on his clothes, brushed his teeth, and took some extra effort with his comb-over. Monday was the one day in the week when Ollie usually showed up, often bringing along something for a picnic. After being home with Christine all weekend long, Phil was ready.
Christine was in her bedroom, probably asleep, as he headed for the kitchen, but Phil did notice that at least one and maybe two of the remaining lights on the tree had burned out overnight. He made a mental note of their location in case the bulbs got replaced behind his back.
Now you really are being paranoid, he told himself.
He was in the kitchen by six-fifteen, making coffee and doing his usual oatmeal ritual—making the hot cereal, dividing it into separate bowls, and leaving them on the counter for Christine to find later. He had the timing down to a science. At six-thirty exactly, he picked up his wallet and keys, left the house, and headed for the garage and his aging F-150 pickup truck. That gave him an hour to have a leisurely breakfast with the guys at the café and be at the post office at seven-thirty to do the final sort of his mail. That was when Patty Patton, Patagonia’s postmistress, would give him the Priority and Express Mail packages.
After all, despite rain, snow, sleet, hail, or even living in hell on earth, the mail must go through.
Phil stopped at the garage door and shoved the key into the lock, thinking as he did so how, back when his grandparents were alive, the garage door was never locked. A week or so ago, when he had misplaced his key ring, it had been a pain. Fortunately, he’d had a spare.
That was then, he told himself. This is now.
Phil pushed the door open. As he stepped into the garage, he was astonished to find himself tripping over something he couldn’t see. Pitching forward, he fell headlong onto the concrete floor, landing hard on his elbow and whacking his shoulder on the pickup’s passenger-side front fender as he fell. His thermos bounced once and rolled out of reach under the truck while his house key ring skittered away from him, coming to rest a good five feet away.
He lay there for a moment, trying to assess the damage. What the hell just happened to me? he wondered. Did I break anything?
Phil was on his hands and knees, attempting to scramble to his feet, when something slammed into the back of his head. The shattering blow sent him sprawling once again. It also knocked him senseless. He felt the first blow, but that was it. He was unaware of a dropcloth—his own much used dropcloth, it turned out—being tossed across him to keep bits and pieces of flesh from flying up onto his assailant. When the furious barrage of blows ended, he lay there, dead or unconscious, while his unseen and totally silent attacker walked away.
Unheard by Phil, the garage door opened and closed behind him. Soon the soft whine of a battery-powered screwdriver cut through the early-morning quiet as the screws that had held an invisible length of fishing filament in place a foot off the ground were removed and the holes left behind were plugged with tiny dots of white toothpaste.
There was no way to tell if Phil Tewksbury, buried under the dropcloth, was dead or alive when the door closed the second time, but that didn’t really matter. One way or the other, it was over for him. From that moment on, whatever happened to Christine Tewksbury was someone else’s problem.
30
6:00 A.M., Monday, April 12
Tucson, Arizona
Ali’s cell phone awakened her in a simple but unfamiliar room. She had slept on a narrow cot that would have to be stretched several inches in every direction to duplicate a modern twin-size bed. The iron-barred headboard hadn’t been constructed with reading in bed in mind. At last she located the buzzing phone on a rough-hewn bedside table.
“Good morning,” B. said. “Sorry to wake you. On my way into a meeting in five minutes. Where are you?”
“A convent,” Ali said. “All Saints Convent outside Tucson.”
“A convent? How did you end up there?”
“I was going to go find a hotel, but Sister Anselm is in Tucson. She suggested I come here.”
“What’s Sister Anselm doing in Tucson?”
“Long story,” Ali said. “Longer than I can explain in five minutes. The reverend mother at All Saints, Sister Genevieve, is a friend of Sister Anselm’s, and she was kind enough to take me in. It’s a bit Spartan, a dormitory room with a bed and a bathroom down the hall, but once I got here, Sister Genevieve made me hot tea and helped me raid the fridge.”
“I didn’t know convents had refrigerators to raid.”
Somewhere on the grounds, something that sounded like a church bell tolled six chimes. From somewhere else came the scents of cooking—frying eggs, baking coffee cake, and brewing coffee. Doors opened and closed up and down the hallway, and quiet footsteps whispered past Ali’s closed door.
“That was the call to prayer,” she told B. “Since I’m not a Catholic, Sister Genevieve gave me a pass on prayers, but she said if I wanted breakfast, I’d better be in the refectory at six-thirty.”
“So it’s a good thing I rousted you out of bed.”
“Yes,” Ali agreed. “It’s a good thing.”
“How’s your friend doing?”
“That’s another long story. Jose’s condition has been upgraded, and he’s out of the ICU. His wife had her baby—an emergency C-section. And their two girls are currently staying with Haley Marsh.”
“One of the Askins girls?’
“That’s right. I needed someone to take care of two ankle biters, and Haley was a likely prospect. She doesn’t have classes during the day today, so she’s looking after them until this evening.”
“So it’s all good?”
“Not all. Jose and Teresa are being investigated for possible drug dealing by the cop who’s supposed to be investigating Jose’s shooting.”
“And who’s the flower guy?” B. asked. “Stuart told me something about helping you track down a delivery guy.”
“Turns out he’s Border Patrol.”
“How’s he connected to Jose Reyes?”
“He’s not,” Ali said. “He’s connected to Sister Anselm’s patient, Jane Doe. You’re going to have to call me when we have more time. This is way too complicated.”
“All right. Here’s my hat; what’s my hurry?” B. said. “But I do need to go. And so do you, if you’re going to make it to breakfast.”
“Have a good meeting,” Ali said. She was on her way to the bathroom with her phone in hand when it rang again. “I’m sorry I threw you under the bus at dinner the other night,” Edie Larson said. “Since I didn’t hear from you yesterday, I’m guessing you’re still mad at me. But we’ll be signing the paperwork later this morning.”
“I’m not mad,” Ali said. “I’m in Tucson, and I’ve been really busy. But if anyone needs to apologize, it’s me. I acted like a spoiled brat. There’s no one more deserving of retirement than you and Dad. I was way out of line not to be more enthusiastic that you’ve found some qualified buyers. I guess I was surprised more than anything, but since I don’t ask you about every decision I make—including my trip to Tucson—the reverse should be true. So I’m sorry.”
“Not telling people in advance was selfish on our part,” Edie said. “And I had no business embroiling you in that mayoral discussion before I spoke to your father about it. Besides, if I’m expecting to have a future in politics, I need to put on my big-girl panties and fight my own battles.”
Ali laughed at that. “Dad was probably caught as flat-footed on that as I was on your selling the Sugarloaf. You can’t blame him. It’s a lot of change to take on all at once.”
“Your father has plenty of outside int
erests,” Edie said. “He’ll probably spend more time with that damnable Blazer of his than he will with me. And when he doesn’t have to go to the restaurant every day, I’m sure he’ll spend a lot more time on his homeless outreach.”
Ali suspected that was true. For as long as she could remember, Bob Larson had spent every spare hour away from the business providing all kinds of essentials—from food to used furniture to firewood—for the homeless and working poor in the area.
“Once the Sugarloaf is gone, I’ll be the one with no outside interests,” Edie Larson continued. “I’m not about to take up golf or bowling at my age, but I don’t want to sit around reading trashy novels and eating bonbons, either. I’ll go completely stir-crazy. It’s like that friend of yours Sister Anselm. She does twice as much as people half her age. It’s what keeps her going. Running for office here in town is something I can do to make a difference.”
“I’ll do whatever I can to help,” Ali told her. “Including serving as your campaign manager.”
“Really?” Edie asked.
“Really. We’ll have our first strategy meeting as soon as I get back from Tucson.”
“Good,” Edie said. “That’ll give your father a little longer to get used to the idea.”
Me, too, Ali thought.
“So what are you doing down there anyway?” Edie asked.
“Helping a friend,” Ali said. She would have said more, but Edie cut her off. “Oops,” she said. “Customers. Gotta go.” And hung up.
When Ali had packed to come to Tucson, she’d expected to stay at a hotel where the bathroom would be included inside the room. At All Saints, there were two bathrooms, one at either end of a long hallway. Sister Genevieve had loaned her a bathrobe for that reason. Showered and dressed, Ali showed up at the refectory breakfast and found herself in the presence of a dozen nuns in habits. Accustomed to Sister Anselm’s mostly business casual attire, Ali was surprised by the traditional dress. She was also surprised by the congenial atmosphere, the easy laughter, and the good food.
Over tea and leftovers the night before, Sister Genevieve had recounted a little of All Saints’ history. The main building—the one with the kitchen, refectory, chapel, and Sister Genevieve’s quarters—had once been the ranch house for the old Coughnour Ranch, which stretched from the Tanque Verde River bottom to the foothills of the Catalinas on Tucson’s far east side. The ranch had been established by a man named James Coughnour in the early part of the twentieth century. As the second son in a wealthy East Coast shipbuilding family, James had headed west with his newly inherited share of the family fortune as well as a pair of badly damaged lungs. He had bought up huge tracts of land along the Tanque Verde River and turned it into a thriving cattle ranch that had morphed into one of Arizona’s primary meatpacking companies.
When James’s only heir, his beloved daughter, Caroline, expressed an interest in becoming a nun, James had come up with a plan that allowed her to have her way without his necessarily losing her. He agreed to let her go and to use his considerable fortune to create a sanatarium for lung-damaged patients so long as she joined an order that would take charge of running the facility. Caroline had gone on to join the Sisters of Providence. What had once been the main ranch house was transformed into the All Saints Convent. Caroline, renamed Sister Antoinette, had lived there for the remainder of her life.
Eventually the sanatarium was purchased by a group of physicians and turned into Physicians Medical Center, a hospital where most of the sisters of All Saints worked as nurses. Sister Anselm had first ventured into the community in her role as a counselor to troubled nuns when Sister Genevieve’s predecessor as reverend mother slipped into age-related dementia. Ever since, All Saints had served as Sister Anselm’s Tucson home away from home.
Breakfast was delicious, with slabs of warm homemade coffee cake and mounds of freshly scrambled eggs. Coffee was hot and plentiful, as was grapefruit juice from fruit that had been picked that morning from trees growing on the grounds. Sitting there with the congenial group of breakfasting nuns, Ali felt totally at home, benefiting from the fact that any friend of Sister Anselm’s was a friend of theirs.
The meal was winding down when Sister Anselm put in an appearance. She looked more tired than Ali had ever seen her. Sister Lucille, the cook, immediately bustled around, bringing her breakfast.
“We had another tough night,” Sister Anselm said in answer to Ali’s question. “But she’s sleeping, so I’m going to grab some sleep, too. In an actual bed. They’ll let me know if anything changes.”
“No word from her family?” Ali knew that healing broken families was as much a part of Sister Anselm’s mission as healing broken bodies.
The nun shook her head. “I was hoping we’d hear from them, but there’s nothing so far, and that’s probably just as well. She’s too fragile to deal with the added stress. What about you? What’s on your agenda?”
“I’m going to go check on all my charges—Haley and Lucy and Carinda. I’m hoping to locate some help for Teresa when she’s released from the hospital and goes back home. And Juanita Cisco wants me to look into Jose’s situation at the sheriff’s department and find out why his fellow officers are treating him as a leper as opposed to a wounded hero.”
Sister Anselm nodded. “I wondered about that, too.”
31
8:00 A.M., Monday, April 12
Nogales, Arizona
Sheriff Renteria called into his office as he drove into town. “Going to get a haircut,” he told his secretary. “I’ll be in as soon as I can.”
Sheriff Renteria didn’t need a haircut so much as he needed information. In the old days, crooks and cops had found common ground in churches. They may have been good guys and bad guys, but they were Catholic good guys and bad guys, with priests functioning as the diplomats who moved back and forth between them.
That was no longer true. A lot of the younger people on both sides had moved away from the Church. Now the man who stood with a foot in both camps was Sheriff Renteria’s cousin, his father’s brother’s son, the barber Ignacio.
When Sheriff Renteria arrived, the barbershop was empty. Ignacio was sitting in his barber chair, reading a newspaper. He smiled, picked up his cape, and shook it out. “Need a little trim?” he asked.
“A little.”
Manuel didn’t have much to trim these days. Ignacio fired up his clipper and went to work. As long as the clipper was running, neither man spoke.
“What do you hear from Pasquale?” Manuel asked once the shop went silent. They both knew what he meant—that they were talking about the shooting.
“He didn’t do it,” Ignacio answered at once. “The people he works for didn’t do it, either. That was the agreement he made with you, that your guys wouldn’t be targeted.”
That was the informal peace treaty Sheriff Renteria had negotiated with Pasquale years ago, back when he was first elected. Some would have called it a deal with the devil. There had been nothing in writing. The sheriff had met with Pasquale in his father’s barbershop. The two had spoken briefly, then they shook hands. That had been it. The drug business was like a many-headed hydra. An agreement with one division didn’t necessarily cover another, but as far as the Nogales area was concerned, Pasquale had enough influence to make it work.
“Was Deputy Reyes dealing?” Manuel asked.
On the surface, it was a stupid question. Sheriff Renteria had seen the evidence himself—the plastic-wrapped packages in the trunk of Jose’s patrol car; the hundred-dollar bills lying scattered on the ground like so many dead leaves.
“Pasquale says no,” Ignacio said quietly. “At least not for the Nogos.”
“What would happen if he was dealing for someone else?”
“That would mean he was poaching on Nogo territory,” Ignacio said. “Pasquale wouldn’t like it, and it would also take your deal off the table. What if somebody set him up to look like he was dealing?”
In the mirror, Manuel Re
nteria met and held his cousin’s gaze. “Any idea who?”
Ignacio shook his head.
“We found drugs at the scene,” Manuel said. “If they didn’t come from Pasquale, where did they come from?”
“I’m sure Pasquale is asking the same question.”
Ignacio brushed loose hair from the back of Renteria’s neck, removed the cape, snapped it clean, and folded it up.
“Thanks,” Sheriff Renteria said. “Tell Pasquale I said hello.”
Standing up, he pulled out his wallet and pulled out five ten-dollar bills. One at a time, he counted them into Ignacio’s outstretched hand—ten bucks for the haircut and forty bucks for the tip, in every sense of the word. As far as Sheriff Renteria was concerned, it was well worth it. Ignacio had hinted at a possibility the sheriff hadn’t considered—that maybe Jose Reyes really had been set up.
He thought about it for a time, but not for long. As much as he wanted to believe it, he couldn’t. There was too much compelling evidence that said otherwise.
32
9:00 A.M., Monday, April 12
Vail, Arizona
Al Gutierrez was returning from a morning run when his phone rang. “What the hell were you thinking?” Sergeant Kevin Dobbs demanded.
“Excuse me?”
“You had no business going off Lone Rangering it. Now I’m in deep caca with the higher-ups, and you’re in deeper caca with me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the ‘informal’ visit you paid to Buckeye yesterday. You weren’t in uniform. You weren’t on duty. I just got off the phone with a homicide detective from Phoenix. She’s all over my butt, asking all kinds of difficult questions. Before she called me, she tried calling Pima County to ask about the progress of the investigation on the assault near Three Points. When they didn’t know what the hell she was talking about, guess what? She started nosing around with Border Patrol, and somebody pointed her in my direction. Thank you very much for that, by the way. Really appreciate it. I told her the paperwork on the assault must have gotten lost between here and Pima County. I expect you to back me up on that, by the way.”