Left for Dead

by J. A. Jance

  “I doubt Teresa is interested—” Maria Delgado began.

  The door to Jose’s room opened. Teresa rolled herself and the baby through the doorway. “Interested in what?” she asked.

  “Olga came by to apologize,” Maria said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “She says she wants to help.”

  Ali expected that Teresa would follow her mother’s lead and come out swinging. She didn’t.

  “That’s very kind of you, Olga,” Teresa said. “I appreciate the offer, but I think we’re all right for the time being. They won’t be back until late this afternoon.”

  “All right,” Olga said. “I’ll be in and out of town all day today. If you decide you need any help …”

  “I’ll call,” Teresa said. “I promise.”

  Olga looked as though she were going to say something else. Evidently, thinking better of it, she turned and walked away. Watching her go, Maria shook her head. “Are you kidding?” she demanded of her daughter. “The last time you saw her, she was raising all kinds of hell. Now you’re going to let her off the hook with a half-baked apology? I wouldn’t trust that woman any farther than I can throw her.”

  “It’s all right, Mom,” Teresa said. “Olga is the girls’ grandmother, after all. With everything that’s happened in the past few days, I don’t want to fight anymore, not with her and not with anyone else. If she’s willing to be civil, so am I, and if she wants to help, I’ll let her.”

  Maria Delgado shook her head. “I don’t see how you can be so forgiving,” she said. “I know I wouldn’t be. I would have told her to take her help and put it where the sun don’t shine.”

  Teresa looked at her mother and grinned. “Oh yeah?” she asked. “Isn’t that how you and Dad raised me to be—loving and forgiving?”

  “You can take being forgiving too far,” Maria said. “Especially where that woman is concerned.”

  “Don’t worry about Olga Sanchez,” Teresa said. “She’s already lost her only son. If she wants to be a part of the girls’ lives, what can it hurt?”

  “What if she offers you money?” Maria asked. “If you accept it, before you know it, she’ll be running the show the same way she did when you were married to Danny.”

  “But now I’m married to Jose,” Teresa pointed out. “Big difference.”

  “I hope so,” Maria Delgado said. “I certainly hope so.”

  “And not being at war with the girls’ grandmother should be better for everyone,” Teresa said, “especially for the girls.”

  Ali was impressed that Teresa had taken the high road and that she was willing to entertain the possibility of having a less fractious relationship with her former mother-in-law.

  “We’d better get back to my room,” Teresa added. “I can tell Carmine needs a new diaper.”

  It took two full trips with the wheelchair to get everyone back to the maternity wing, one for Teresa and the baby and another for Maria Delgado.

  “We still haven’t solved the problem with the car,” Teresa pointed out.

  “How about this for an idea,” Ali said. “I was already planning to drive down to Nogales today to speak to Sheriff Renteria. I could go there by way of Patagonia. Do you have someone who could ride as far as Patagonia with me and then drive your car back?”

  “My brother—Teresa’s uncle Tomás—has been driving me back and forth,” Maria suggested. “We could ask him. He might not mind.”

  Nodding, Teresa pulled out her cell phone. “I’ll call him and see what he has to say.”

  35

  10:30 A.M., Monday, April 12

  Tucson, Arizona

  Showered and dressed but still groggy from lack of sleep, Sister Anselm hurried out to her Mini and sped back to the hospital. She appreciated Al Gutierrez’s early warning that Rose Ventana’s family was headed to Tucson. Sister Anselm wasn’t at all certain what she should do about it. After all, in their one-sided conversation, the girl had made it painfully clear that, for reasons unknown, she had no desire to be reunited with her family. Now, ready or not, that unwanted reunion was imminent.

  Puzzling over Al Gutierrez’s phone call, Sister Anselm remembered something else he had said—that he had been given the news about Rose’s family by a homicide detective of some kind. What did that mean? Who was dead? Sister Anselm was tempted to call him back and ask, but she didn’t. Instead, she rushed into the ICU and was grateful to see that the waiting room was relatively deserted.

  The monitors indicated that Rose Ventana was sleeping peacefully. After the difficult night they’d had, Sister Anselm hated to awaken her, but she did.

  “Rose,” she said. “Rose. You need to wake up. I need to talk to you.”

  The girl’s eyes blinked open briefly and then closed again.

  “I understand that your parents are coming to see you. I’m not sure how they heard you were even alive, to say nothing of here, but they did. They’re driving down from Phoenix. When they get here, do you want to see them?”

  With her jaw wired shut, speaking was difficult. Rather than make the effort, Rose shook her head vigorously, even though it clearly pained her.

  “I’m sure they love you,” Sister Anselm said. “You’ve been gone for three years. They’ve probably missed you terribly. I’ll abide by your wishes, of course. If you’re adamant about not seeing them, I’ll tell them that your condition precludes visitors. But you must understand. After all these years of believing the worst and thinking you were dead, they’re probably overjoyed to find you’re alive. Are you sure you don’t want to see them?”

  Rose shook her head again.

  “Why?” Sister Anselm said. “Is it because of what you’ve done between then and now? Is it because you’re ashamed?”

  The question was followed by a long wait. Sister Anselm let it hang there in the room. Finally, Rose nodded—the tiniest of nods.

  Sister Anselm took Rose’s hand again, holding it carefully so as not to disturb the scabs that had started forming on the cuts and burn marks.

  “It couldn’t have been easy to make it on your own once you left home. You were what, fourteen?”

  Rose nodded.

  “At that age, job opportunities are limited. I’m guessing you turned to prostitution. Is that how you survived?”

  Another nod.

  “There’s a lot of that in the world,” Sister Anselm said. “That’s what happened to my sister after our parents died. It was after the end of World War Two. Rebecca and I were taken in by the nuns in a convent in France. Becka ran away and lived on the streets. She was only seventeen when she died, but do you know what would have happened if she had come home?”

  A headshake—a small one.

  “I would have forgiven her for leaving and welcomed her home. The nuns would have done the same thing. Your family will welcome you, too. They’re going to be so thrilled just to see you alive that nothing else will matter. I’m hoping you’ll give them a chance.”

  Rose Ventana shook her head. Her answer was still no.

  “All right,” Sister Anselm said. “You might change your mind. You go back to sleep now. When they get here, I’ll come let you know.”

  Sister Anselm went out and closed the door behind her. She moved a chair next to the entrance so she was partially blocking the way into the room. Al Gutierrez’s pot of Easter lilies, returned from its banishment to the reception desk, sat on a table beside her. Despite her assurances to Rose, Sister Anselm wasn’t at all sure the family would welcome back their wayward daughter. The parable of the prodigal son was just that, and when the stray was welcomed home with joy and feasting, the son who hadn’t run away wasn’t exactly a happy camper. Even if it turned out that Rose’s parents were thrilled to have their daughter back, there was no way to tell how their other daughters, Rose’s two younger sisters, would react.

  The other thing Sister Anselm worried about was the media. The family had made every effort to keep their daughter’s disappearance in the public eye. What if
they did the same thing with her return? Considering Rose’s opinion about being reunited with her loved ones, having it happen in front of cameras would make a bad situation that much worse.

  The entire Fox family—James and Connie and Rose’s younger sisters—burst into the ICU waiting room half an hour later. Recognizing them from photos on the websites she had accessed and grateful that there was no accompanying media, the nun hurried to meet them. “I’m Sister Anselm, your daughter’s patient advocate. You’re Mr. and Mrs. Fox?”

  “James and Connie,” James Fox answered. “We were told our daughter was being treated here in the ICU, but they didn’t have her name at the front desk.”

  “She’s listed on our records as Jane Doe. When she was admitted, we had no way of knowing who she was,” Sister Anselm told them. “But yes, at this point, I believe Jane Doe is your daughter.” She turned to the younger girls. “And these are her sisters?” She asked the question, though she didn’t really need to. The family resemblance between these girls and Rose’s shattered visage was striking.

  “Yes,” Connie said. “Lily and Jasmine. But what can you tell us about Rose? Is she going to be all right? When can we see her?”

  “Not right now,” Sister Anselm explained, directing them into chairs. “Without her express permission, I can’t provide any details about the extent of her injuries or her course of treatment, but you need to understand that she was seriously injured before she was brought here, and those injuries are likely to impact her health for some time. If you do see her, you need to prepare yourselves for the idea that she won’t look like the person you remember.”

  “If we see her?” Connie asked. “What do you mean if? She’s our daughter. She’s here. We’re here, and I don’t care what she looks like. I just want to see her and to know that she’s alive, that she’s okay.”

  “Alive, yes,” Sister Anselm replied. “Okay, no. The problem is, she doesn’t want to see you.”

  “She doesn’t want to see us?” Connie echoed. “I don’t believe it. Why not? How can that be? We’re her parents. We’ve been trying to find her for years.”

  “You’re her mother,” James Fox said. “She’ll see you even if she won’t see me.”

  Hearing the regret in his voice, Sister Anselm studied the man. She had heard the all too common horror stories in which running away was the only option for children stuck in abusive homes. More times than she could count, that abuse had been perpetrated by stepfathers. That wasn’t the reading she was getting from this particular stepfather, however.

  “You’re saying you and she were at odds?” Sister Anselm suggested.

  “I was a lifelong bachelor who had never been married when Connie and her girls came into my life,” James Fox said. “Rose and Lily were already in their teens. I had never been a father, but I was an engineer. When I see something that’s wrong, I want to fix it.”

  “What was wrong with Rose?” Sister Anselm asked.

  “Nothing, really. Rose was smart. She had huge amounts of potential, but she couldn’t see it; she seemed determined to squander it. I tried to push her too hard in one direction—toward doing better in school, getting her education. She wasn’t interested. I thought all I was doing was trying to create a little order in their lives by giving them a better place to live, more opportunities. But I can see now that she must have thought I was bossing everybody around. I got smarter after she left. I’ve done a lot better with her sisters, don’t you think?” he asked Connie.

  Connie reached out, took his hand, and nodded. The younger girl, Jasmine, sidled up to him and gave him a hug.

  “When that young man Al Gutierrez showed up at the house last night, he said he was with the Border Patrol, but he wasn’t in uniform, and I thought he was trying to scam us,” Fox continued. “That’s happened before. I’ve seen Connie put through the wringer enough times by people claiming to know what happened to Rose when all they really wanted was Connie’s money. When the detective from Phoenix called this morning, I figured out that Gutierrez must have been telling the truth—that Rose really was alive. And now that we know she may be involved in a homicide—” His voice broke. He stopped speaking abruptly.

  “Did they say whose homicide?” Sister Anselm asked.

  James Fox nodded. “The guy’s name was Hernández—Chico Hernández. Rose evidently worked for him as a …” He paused, looked at Jasmine, and added, “A call girl. He was murdered late last week, and Rose’s fingerprints were found in his vehicle. That’s why Detective Rush called us this morning.”

  “Does that make any difference?” Sister Anselm asked. She didn’t say “call girl” aloud, but that was what she meant.

  “Damn right it makes a difference!” James Fox declared.

  Sister Anselm’s heart fell. Rose is right, she thought. If they figure out she’s been working as a prostitute, the family will disown her.

  “Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?” he demanded. “Rose is a person of interest in a homicide. I don’t care if she wants to see us. That doesn’t matter, but if she’s mixed up in a murder, she probably needs our help. That’s why we’re here. Tell her that, please.”

  Which was not at all what Sister Anselm had expected. She stood up. “Wait here,” she said. “Let me go talk to her. I’ll see what I can do.”

  36

  11:00 A.M., Monday, April 12

  Vail, Arizona

  By the time Detective Ariel Rush showed up on Al Gutierrez’s doorstep in Vail, he had printed out the crime scene photos, the ones Dobbs had told him not to bother keeping. His printer wasn’t the best, so neither was the resolution.

  “I took these on Friday,” he said, handing them over. “They’re not very good.”

  “You’d be surprised,” she said. “I’ll go get my computer and copy what’s on the memory stick so the lab can take a look at it.”

  By the time she returned with her laptop, he had taken the memory stick out of his camera.

  “Any thing else on here besides your crime scene photos?” she asked.

  “My graduation picture,” he said. “From the academy.”

  “We don’t want anything to happen to that,” Rush said with a smile. “Have you been on the job long?”

  “Awhile,” Al admitted. “I just don’t take that many pictures.”

  In a way, Detective Rush reminded him of his old junior high principal from back in Wenatchee. Mrs. Baxter had looked scary but wasn’t. Al suspected Detective Rush was pretty much the same.

  “Ready to saddle up?” she asked, closing her computer and returning the memory stick.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Want me to bring my camera along?”

  “Don’t bother,” she said. “I’ve got my own.”

  On the forty-five-minute drive from Vail to King’s Anvil Ranch, south of Three Points, Al told Detective Rush everything he could remember about the incident on Friday afternoon and everything he had learned about the victim.

  On Friday, he had carefully recorded the location of the crime scene from his GPS so he’d be able to find it again later. Now, as they headed toward the crime scene in Detective Rush’s vehicle, that notation proved to be invaluable; without it, they would have been flying blind through the mesquite-dotted landscape. His note helped him make sense of the countless tracks that meandered here and there across the desert. Eventually, he spotted something familiar.

  “Stop here,” he ordered. “It’s on the far side of that clump of mesquite.”

  Before they got out of the car, Detective Rush slipped off her black low-heeled pumps in favor of tennis shoes. Stepping from the vehicle, she brought along Al’s crime scene photos as well as her own camera. Out on the desert floor, Al helped her down the bank and then led her to the spot where the roiled sand indicated a lot of activity. It was April. All weekend long the wind had blown in from the west, shifting sand into what might have been usable tracks. Comparing the photos to the landscape, Detective Rush combed
the wash for twenty yards in either direction. Then she examined the part of the bank where Al suspected something had been rolled down the steep incline, taking photos of bits of broken grass, horse nettles, Tucson burr ragweed.

  “Look here,” she said, pointing toward a plant with a bit of fabric tangled in one of the spiky burrs. She held up both the burr and the thread before dropping them into an evidence bag.

  “It’s not from the victim’s clothing,” Al said. “She wasn’t wearing any.”

  When it came time to exit the arroyo, Al climbed up the steep wash. Then he reached down and helped Detective Rush up and out.

  “I thought this was where the attack took place, since this is where I found the blood spatters,” he told her. “They were tiny, though, and it looks like they’re pretty much gone.”

  He was right. Whatever spatters might have been there on Friday afternoon had been blown away over the weekend by a scouring windstorm.

  “This seems like the back of beyond,” Detective Rush said. “So why bring her here? If the incident began somewhere in the Phoenix area, they had to go to some trouble to get her this far.”

  “Because it is the back of beyond,” Al said. “It was lucky for her that I turned up when I did. There are thousands of acres of empty desert out here. She might’ve lay dead in the wash for weeks or even months before someone found her. Illegals come through here all the time, and some of them die. As Sergeant Dobbs demonstrated, no one worries about it all that much. One dead illegal is pretty much like another. Whoever did this put her here because they thought nobody would pay attention. Turns out they were almost right.”

  “You never saw the vehicle?”

  “No, I heard it start up. It sounded like a truck of some kind or maybe an SUV. I’m pretty sure they heard me coming and took off.”

  “On foot?”

  “Yes. This track dead-ends at a barbed-wire fence about half a mile north of here. It’s a private road, but it’s better than the one we’re on. Made for a faster getaway. I tried calling it in at the time, but if anyone saw the vehicle, it didn’t seem worth stopping. Or else they missed it altogether. There’s a security checkpoint just west of Three Points.”