by J. A. Jance
Al had found the injured girl on Friday afternoon. This was only Monday morning. “Paperwork gets lost all the time,” he said. “What’s the big deal? And why a homicide detective?”
“The big deal is that your ‘assault victim’ is evidently a missing person in two jurisdictions and a homicide suspect in another. It’s like she’s all over the place, and I’m the one left holding the bag. So while I’m straightening out the paperwork, you can expect a phone call from the homicide cop. I gave her your number. Her name’s Rush—Detective Ariel Rush.”
“What do you want me to tell her?”
“That we handed our report in on Friday and have no idea what happened to it afterward. That we’re sending a duplicate over to Pima County. As for why you were following up on something when you were out of uniform and it wasn’t your concern? Knock yourself out. Tell ’em whatever the hell you want, but if it comes back and bites me in the butt, you’re looking at a minimum three-day suspension.”
Call waiting buzzed, but Dobbs had already hung up before Al switched from one line to another.
“Al Gutierrez?” a woman asked.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s me.”
“I’m Detective Rush,” she said. “Detective Ariel Rush with Phoenix PD, Homicide.”
“Sergeant Dobbs told me to expect a call from a homicide detective. What he didn’t say is who died.”
“I’m investigating the murder of a man who was found dead from blunt-force trauma and dumped in North Phoenix sometime early Friday morning. He has since been identified as Enrique ‘Chico’ Hernández, who ran a high-end call girl operation in Phoenix. On Saturday, some young women—Mr. Hernández’s employees—called to report that he and one of their roommates, a girl named Breeze Domingo—a young woman with a rose tattoo on her right breast—had gone missing sometime early Thursday morning. The reason the roommates came forward in the first place is that Chico’s name was the one on the rental agreement for their apartment. He had fallen behind in the rent. Without him there, the other girls were worried about being tossed out on their butts with nowhere to go and no protection.
“It wasn’t until Mr. Hernández’s bloodstained vehicle was found abandoned in downtown Phoenix early yesterday afternoon that we were able to put the missing persons report together with the homicide. When we ran prints found in the vehicle through AFIS, we ended up getting a hit from another missing persons case, that of a fourteen-year-old girl named Rose Ventana who ran away from her home in Buckeye over three years ago. Since Rose was also reported to have a rose tattoo in a pretty distinctive location, I think it’s safe to assume that Breeze Domingo and Rose Ventana are one and the same. Since her prints were found at the scene of a homicide, that suggests she’s either a suspect or, at the very least, a person of interest.”
“How did you make the connection to the Three Points case?” Al asked.
“Her father,” Ariel said. “Initially, I called the house first thing this morning, thinking that if Breeze were in some kind of trouble, she might have turned to her family for help. The mother was completely in the dark. When I told her about finding the fingerprints, she was overjoyed, not because her daughter might be a person of interest in a homicide but because she was alive. That was the first hint she’d had in years that her daughter wasn’t dead. About that time Rose’s father came on the phone, and it turned out he already knew.”
“Stepfather,” Al corrected. “And yes, he knew because I told him yesterday.”
“Right,” Ariel agreed. “Stepfather. He was pissed. He thought you were the one who had called us into it. It wasn’t easy to get the whole story from him, because by then his wife was in the background, screaming at him and telling him that if someone thought her daughter was alive, he had no right to keep the information to himself. At any rate, Mr. Fox gave me your name and phone number because you had given him your card. When I tried reaching you and you weren’t in, they put me through to your supervisor.”
“Sergeant Dobbs.”
“Exactly,” Detective Rush said. “Who wasn’t at all overjoyed to hear from me. By now I expect James and Connie Fox are on their way to Tucson to try to see their daughter. Maybe not both of them, but for sure the mother. It turns out I’m headed for Tucson, too. From what I’m hearing, it seems likely that Breeze/Rose could be both a victim of a crime and a perpetrator. I’ll need to talk to her to sort all that out. I’d like to see you, too. I’d like to go out and take a look at the crime scene. Can you direct me to it?”
“Sure. No problem.” Al said. “I’ll be glad to take you there.”
“Was any kind of crime scene investigation done at the time?”
Al thought about the possible implications of any answer he might give. None of them were good. “I took a few photos, but that’s about it,” he said finally.
Detective Rush laughed. “Let me guess,” she said. “That would be because Sergeant Dobbs deliberately dropped the ball.”
“I didn’t say that,” Al told her.
“No, you didn’t,” she agreed, “because you didn’t have to. This isn’t my first day, Agent Gutierrez. I can figure out one or two things on my own. I’ve spent the past twenty years dealing with people like Kevin Dobbs. Generally, I give them two simple choices: Get out of my way or get run over.”
Detective Ariel Rush sounded like the polar opposite of Kevin Dobbs.
“I’m just passing Picacho Peak,” she said. “That’s the nearest landmark. Let’s visit the crime scene first and then go to the hospital. I’ll come by your place and pick you up.”
Al gave her the address and directions and then added, “I should probably call Sister Anselm and let her know Rose’s parents are on their way.”
“Who’s Sister Anselm?” Detective Rush asked.
“She’s Rose’s patient advocate.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s at the hospital in the ICU. As far as I can tell, her job is to look out for Rose’s interests, but in the hospital, she’s listed as Jane Doe, not Rose Ventana.”
“Got it,” Detective Rush said. “See you in a few.”
For a moment or two, after Detective Rush hung up, Al stood there, staring at his phone. Before he left the hospital, the previous night, Sister Anselm had given him her cell number. Should he call and warn her that Rose’s parents were on the way? After finding the number, he punched send.
When the nun answered, she sounded groggy, as though he had awakened her from a sound sleep.
“Sorry to disturb you,” he said. “But this is Al—Al Gutierrez. I just heard from a Phoenix homicide detective who figured out that Rose is still alive and called her parents. They’re on their way to the hospital.”
Sister Anselm switched to full alert. “Her parents are coming here? How soon should I expect them?”
“I don’t know, because I don’t know how long ago they left Buckeye,” Al said. “Probably fairly soon. Within the next hour or so.”
“Thank you so much for the warning, Mr. Gutierrez,” Sister Anselm said. “I’ll be sure to be there to run interference, should that prove necessary.”
33
10:30 A.M., Monday, April 12
Patagonia, Arizona
Patty Patton liked to say that she had worked for the post office in Patagonia since “Noah was a pup.” In view of the fact that her career with the U.S. Postal Service had started on a part-time basis when she was in high school and her mother, Lorna DeHaven, was the postmistress, that wasn’t far from wrong.
Patty had married her high school sweetheart, Roland Patton, two weeks after she graduated from Patagonia High. She and Roland, an “older man” of twenty, had planned on staying with her mother only long enough for them to get a place of their own. That plan had come to grief when, a month after the wedding, Roland had died in the crash of his crop-dusting aircraft.
Patty never remarried. She never left her mother’s house, and she never left the post office, either.
&n
bsp; From the beginning, Patty had worn her blond hair in a bob, held in place by liberal applications of Aqua Net. Almost forty years later, the bob had turned gray, but it was still held in place by the same armor-like hair spray. Although Patty kept thinking about retiring, so far, that was all she was willing to do—think about it. When it came to husbands, jobs, or hairstyles, Patty Patton wasn’t interested in change for change’s sake.
For years the Patagonia post office had been downsized to a two-person operation. Patty hoisted the flag up the flagpole each morning and took it down at night. She sorted the mail into the individual boxes and into the plastic cartons Phil Tewksbury loaded into his truck. Phil took care of the janitorial end of the operation and kept their one mail truck in good repair. He also delivered mail to customers in outlying areas who didn’t have access to a post office box.
Over years of working together, the two of them had developed a fairly congenial relationship. They were both dependable and conscientious. They both came to work on time and went home on time. There were only two real bones of contention between them. One was Phil’s long hair, which he insisted on wearing in a limp comb-over, and the other had to do with the NFL. Phil was an avid Broncos fan; she was dyed-in-the-wool Dallas Cowboys.
That morning the truck dropped off the mail bags at seven. By eight, Patty had it sorted and was ready to open the window. Most of the time, her customers were in a hurry and totally focused on the mail. They wanted to buy stamps or pick up their general delivery or mail their packages. That morning one customer after another wanted to linger and talk. It was as though, in her capacity as postmistress, Patty Patton was also the source of all local knowledge. Everyone wanted to know if Patty had heard about poor Jose Reyes getting shot over the weekend. Did she have any idea how he was doing? Did she know which hospital he was in? How was his pregnant wife coping? Was there anything anyone could do to help?
Patty was so caught up in her conversations at the window that at first she failed to notice that Phil Tewksbury hadn’t arrived in his usually prompt fashion. At ten, she closed the window long enough for a restroom break. It was only then, when she went back to the loading area, that she was surprised to see his collection of mail-filled cartons stacked where she had left them.
Before opening the window again, she tried calling Phil’s house. There was no answer. She knew that if Phil were at home and able to reach a phone, he would have called to let her know he wasn’t coming in. As for Christine? Patty knew from things Phil had said that his wife had stopped answering their phone years ago.
Patty’s first concern and first responsibility was getting the mail delivered. Her next phone call was to Jess Baxter, the guy who occasionally drove the route when Phil was out sick or on vacation. After making arrangements for Jess to pinch-hit the mail delivery and before she reopened the window, she called the café.
“Has Deputy Carson come in yet this morning?” Patty asked Sally Drummond, the owner of the San Rafael Café.
“Not so far,” Sally answered. “He usually shows up around eleven. Is something wrong?”
Patty didn’t want to push any panic buttons. That was one of the reasons she hadn’t dialed 911. Patty was concerned, but she also knew that Phil was a very private man. Having a cop show up at his place with lights flashing and sirens blaring wouldn’t be appreciated.
“No big deal,” Patty said. “Just have him stop by when he finishes his lunch.”
It was almost noon when Jimmy Carson presented himself at Patty’s window. She remembered Deputy Carson from back when he was a little kid, missing his two front teeth. The first time he came to the window to buy stamps, he parked his two-wheeler, minus the training wheels, just outside the post office’s front door. Once inside, he had to stand on his tiptoes to reach the window. Because of the missing teeth, the word “stamps” came out with a double lisp—“sthampths.”
Today he was a hulking brute of a man in a starched, perfectly ironed uniform. His hairline was definitely receding. He wore a sheriff’s department badge pinned to his barrel chest and a firearm on his hip. He still lived with his mother.
“Morning, Ms. Patton,” he said. “Sally told me you wanted to see me?”
Patty smiled, noting the difference. Sally Drummond at the café was never referred to as Ms. Drummond. The postmistress was always referred to as Ms. Patton.
“Phil Tewksbury didn’t come in today, and he never called, either. Would you mind running by his place, just to check on him?”
Deputy Carson glanced at his watch as if he might not have enough time to drive the several blocks between the post office and Phil’s house. “Sure,” he said. “I suppose I could manage that.”
“You know about his wife, right?” Patty asked.
“You mean the Christmas Tree Lady?”
“Yes,” Patty said. “That’s the one. Be sure you talk to Phil himself. I doubt Christine will even come to the door.”
34
10:30 A.M., Monday, April 12
Tucson, Arizona
When Ali arrived at the hospital that morning, she was relieved to learn that on the medical front, news for the Reyes family was much improved. For one thing, feeling was beginning to return to Jose’s lower extremities. He could move his toes. According to his doctor, it was possible that lowering his body temperature to prevent permanent spinal cord damage may have worked. As for his damaged intestines? The fact that he had made it through another day with no additional signs of infection was considered remarkable. On the other hand, the stoma situation was dicey. There was no way to tell if it would be temporary or permanent.
Teresa’s health situation was downright rosy, with doctors predicting that, barring further complications, she and the baby would be sent home the following day, “home” being the operant word. With Jose’s condition improving, that was where Teresa wanted to be—at home, where she had a nursery set up for the baby and where she could provide a little bit of normalcy for her two daughters.
“Wouldn’t you be better off staying at a hotel?” Ali asked.
Teresa shook her head. “Being in a hotel room with one child is bad enough. Being there with three kids, including a newborn? Not a a good idea, and not fair to the other guests.”
“But driving back and forth to the hospital …”
Teresa was adamant. “As long as we have the minivan, we’ll be fine.”
“Where’s the minivan?” Ali asked.
“In Patagonia, along with the infant seat. When Deputy Carson brought us to town, I had no idea how long we’d be here or that the baby would be so early.”
Before Ali could sort out the logistics of getting the car, a nurse stuck her head in the room. “Your husband’s awake now, if you and the baby want to go see him. I brought along a wheelchair in case you do.”
A few minutes later, with Teresa and Carmine settled comfortably in the chair, Ali pushed them down one long tiled corridor and up another. She parked the chair next to Jose’s bed and then retreated from the room, closing the door behind her to give them a few moments of privacy. She returned to the waiting room in time to see Maria Delgado sink wearily into a nearby chair. She had managed to make the trip from one wing to another under her own steam, but just barely. She was trembling with effort and out of breath.
“I don’t know what we would have done if you and Donnatelle hadn’t been here,” Maria said gratefully when she was able to speak again. “There’s no way I could keep up with the girls on my own. But what’s going to happen when Teresa goes back home and Jose gets out of the hospital? How will she take care of him and the baby?”
Ali already knew those were questions with no easy answers.
A few minutes later, a raven-haired woman in tight jeans and worn cowboy boots strode purposefully down the hallway and stopped directly in front of Maria Delgado. “I came by to see if I could help out with the granddaughters,” she announced. She paused and looked around. “Where are they?”
“They’r
e not here at the moment, Olga,” Maria said coldly. “Teresa had to have an emergency C-section yesterday. We asked a friend to look after them, just to have them out from under hand and foot.”
“A friend?” Olga repeated. “Why didn’t you call me? I told you yesterday that I’d be happy to help.”
As far as Ali could tell, Olga’s offer of help sounded more like a declaration of war. Donnatelle had told Ali about the previous day’s firefight between Teresa and her former mother-in-law. This was evidently the beginning of round two, this time with Teresa’s mother, who wasn’t backing down, either. Ali stepped between the two belligerent women, hoping to defuse the situation.
“My name is Ali Reynolds,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m a friend of Jose and Teresa’s. And you are?”
“I’m Olga Sanchez. I’m Lucy and Carinda’s grandmother. Their other grandmother,” she added, glaring at Maria.
“The girls are fine where they are,” Maria said carefully. “As I told you, they are being well looked after.”
Maria might have been soft-spoken, but her understated antipathy wasn’t lost on anyone, especially Olga Sanchez.
“I still don’t understand why you didn’t call me.”
“The girls are actually with a friend of mine, a third-year nursing student at the U of A,” Ali said. “She lives here in town, close by, and has a son about Lucy’s age. They’re better off there than here.”
“They’d be even better off at my place,” Olga said. “They’d be with a family member rather than a complete stranger.”
“You’re a stranger, too,” Maria pointed out.
“Yes, and I’m sorry for that,” Olga said. “I shouldn’t have quarreled with Teresa at the funeral—I was grief-stricken. I’m sorry about what happened yesterday, too—that’s why I’m here now, to apologize and to offer to do whatever I can to help.”