by J. A. Jance
“Wait,” Ariel Rush said. “Go back. Let’s take a closer look at that white van.”
Al was pretty sure Detective Rush was quite capable of running the video monitor on her own, but Homeland Security rules meant that only a properly qualified technician was allowed to handle the DVDs and the controls.
“Can you freeze those frames and expand them?” she asked the tech once the white van reappeared on the screen. “If possible, I want to get a look at the driver and the passenger as well as the license plates. And what’s the logo on the side?”
Because the resolution was high enough to capture license plate information, the images offered a good deal of other information. The faces of both the driver and passenger were clearly visible. They were ordinary-looking guys who were waved through, traveling westbound, without any question. The logo on the driver’s door was easy to decipher: RUG RUNNERS OF SCOTTSDALE.
A quick Google search on Ariel’s laptop showed lots of sites about runner rugs for hallways and entryways but no firm of that name anywhere in the country. A quick check of the license plate revealed that it had been stolen from a Lincoln Town Car parked in a long-term lot at Sky Harbor Airport sometime during the preceding week.
On Friday afternoon the van with the switched-out plate had driven through the checkpoint westbound at 3:58 and returned eastbound at 5:02. On the second trip, the van was examined by a drug-sniffing dog before it was waved through.
“If you’re driving westbound on Highway 86, how far could you go in half an hour?” Detective Rush asked.
Al shrugged. “Not far,” he said. “You’d have to push it to get from there as far as Sells and back in that amount of time. There are a few ranch houses out that way in between, and some smaller Indian villages, but I can’t think of many places where someone would be buying an upscale rug. Most of the people I’ve met on the reservation are more likely to do their shopping at Home Depot or Target or Wal-Mart than they are in some arty kind of shop in Scottsdale.”
“That sounds like racial profiling to me,” Ariel said.
“It’s more like reality profiling,” Al said. “Those people don’t have buckets of cash hanging around.”
They left the library with the requested images safely stored on Detective Rush’s computer.
“Where to now?” Al asked.
“Physicians Medical Center,” Rush said. “I want to see if we can keep Rose’s family from going public. We’ve got a potential survivor of a serial killer. I want to keep Rose Ventana alive.”
Once outside the building, Detective Rush was back on her phone. “Okay,” she said to one of her cohorts in Phoenix, “I think I may have a line on the vehicle in the Chico Hernández homicide. We need to check security tapes of all businesses in the area where the body was found. We’re looking for a white panel van. There’s a Rug Runner logo on it—at least there was on Friday, but I’m thinking it may be one of those magnetic signs that can be changed out in a minute. So look for a white van with any kind of logo; or no logo, for that matter. The plates that were on it were stolen, so the license number isn’t going to help us much, but I want you to put both the plate number and the sign information out on a BOLO. Right this minute those are the only tentative pieces we have on this puzzle, and we just might get lucky.”
By the time she finished the call, they were back in Detective Rush’s patrol car and headed for the hospital.
“Thanks,” Al said.
“For what?”
“For treating me like I have a brain.”
“You have a brain, all right,” Detective Rush said. “And it’s because of your taking the initiative that we have a chance of solving this case.”
“Sergeant Dobbs isn’t wild about any of his people taking the initiative.”
“That’s his problem,” Detective Rush said. “One of his problems,” she added. “And before we’re finished, he may have several more.”
“Sweet,” Al Gutierrez said as he buckled his seat belt. “It doesn’t get any better than that.”
40
2:30 P.M., Monday, April 12
Patagonia, Arizona
Settling in to wait, Ali studied the silent woman who stood next to an old red Camaro. From the pile of cigarette butts at her feet, she had obviously been here for some time, watching the police activity.
“Friend of yours?” Ali asked, nodding toward the house across the street, where most of the activity seemed to center around a detached one-car garage.
“Yes,” the woman said. “Name’s Phil Tewksbury. He was a coworker. Hell of a nice guy.”
“I’m sorry,” Ali murmured.
“Me, too. And who are you?” the woman asked. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around these parts before.”
“My name is Ali Reynolds. I’m from Sedona. Jose Reyes is a friend of mine. I came down to help after I heard what happened to him. He’s in Physicians Medical Center, and now so is his wife. She had her baby.”
“I’m Patty Patton,” the woman said. “I run the post office. So what’d Teresa have, a boy or a girl?”
“A boy. Carmine’s a few weeks early, but he’s fine, and so is his mother.”
“How about Jose?”
“Better,” Ali said. “At least he’s out of the ICU. That’s a big improvement.”
“Tough for Teresa, though,” Patty said. “New baby. Sick husband. I overheard you say something about a break-in. Not their house, I hope.”
“It was their house. And it’s not just a break-in. Someone went to a lot of trouble to mess up everything within reach.”
“Jerks,” Patty said. “When it’s time to put together a cleanup crew, you let me know. I’ll put up an announcement on the bulletin board at the post office.”
Ali smiled inwardly to realize that she had stumbled into a place where the post office was still more important than Facebook.
A man in a law enforcement uniform emerged from the garage. As soon as he put a white Stetson on his head and headed for one of the parked cars, Ali figured he was most likely Sheriff Renteria. Leaving Patty Patton behind, Ali hurried to catch up with him. “Excuse me,” she said. “Sheriff Renteria?”
He stopped, turned, and removed the hat. “Yes?” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“My name is Ali Reynolds,” she said. “I’m a friend of Jose Reyes. Are you aware that someone broke into their house?”
“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said. “We’ve been a little busy around here today. I am aware of the break-in. Since there were no injuries, I determined that it wasn’t urgent. I’ve only now been able to spare a deputy long enough to send one out there. He’s probably there by now.”
“It is urgent,” Ali objected. “What’s going to happen to the family? Jose is seriously injured. Teresa just underwent a C-section. They’ll be coming home with three kids, including a new baby, to a house that is virtually uninhabitable.”
“Unfortunate, of course,” Renteria said. “And I and my department will do everything in our power to find the people responsible and bring them to justice.”
“Sure you will,” Ali said. “And will the people doing the investigating be the same people you’ve forbidden to visit Jose’s hospital room?”
Sheriff Renteria looked pained. “I’m not sure where you’re getting your information, but you’re right. I did issue an order telling my people, sworn officers and civilians both, to stay away from PMC. This is a part of the country where dealing with Mexican drug cartels is a way of life. I have a very small department. I warned my people to stay away because I didn’t want to put them at risk. For people like that, groups of cops can be an inviting target. We’re already struggling to fill shifts and answer calls when we’re just one officer down. If we ended up losing a couple more, it would be devastating.”
“But not supporting an injured officer—”
“I’m sorry you disagree with my take on the situation,” Sheriff Renteria said, “but you’re evidently not from ar
ound here. I doubt you understand.”
“It looks to me like you’ve simply abandoned the Reyes family, especially since the man who is supposed to be investigating the shooting seems to be far more concerned with accusing Jose and his wife of engaging in unlawful behavior than he is with finding out who shot him.”
“I know Lieutenant Lattimore,” Sheriff Renteria said. “I’m sure he’s conducting his investigation to the very best of his ability. It’s not my investigation, and I’m not commenting on it one way or the other.”
“What if Jose is being framed?” Ali asked.
“If you have reason to believe that’s true, you should take your concerns to Detective Lattimore. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go.”
The sheriff got in the car and drove away, leaving Ali to fume. Just then three people—all of them wearing uniforms—emerged from the garage. One carried a banker’s box. The other two, wearing latex gloves, each carried two red, white, and blue flat-rate postal boxes.
At the sight of those, Patty Patton sprang to life. “Hey,” she said, dropping her most recent cigarette butt and hurrying after them. “What are you doing with those flat-rate boxes? They belong at the post office.”
The third man in line stopped. He turned back to Patty and held his burden in her direction. “I don’t think so, Patty,” he said. “Take a whiff.”
She stepped forward, sniffed, and then made a face. “Yuck. What is that?”
“That would be marijuana,” he said. “I don’t think you want this stuff going through the U.S. mail.”
Patty Patton looked stricken. “Are you kidding me? You found that in Phil’s garage?”
Another man emerged from the garage. This one wore gray slacks and a navy blue sport jacket. Ali immediately pegged him as a detective. He stopped long enough to lock the door before slapping a string of police tape across the doorway.
“Get that stuff out of here, guys,” he ordered over his shoulder to the deputies serving as evidence techs. “You’re not supposed to discuss this with anyone—no one at all.”
As the deputies scurried away to deposit their respective loads in the back of an unmarked patrol car, Patty turned her attention from the postal boxes to the newcomer. “What’s going on, Detective Zambrano?” she demanded.
“I’m investigating a homicide,” he replied. “As it happens, you’re one of the people I’m going to need to interview. When’s the last time you saw Phil?”
“Saturday,” Patty said. “At work. But where did the marijuana come from? How did it get into a flat-rate box?”
“I’m sure Phil could have answered that question,” Zambrano answered. “Unfortunately, he’s dead. It’s possible Christine could have told us, too. Unfortunately, she’s a raving maniac, and she’s not talking to anybody. She’s a lot more into screaming than she is into talking. Bottom line, I’m assuming Phil’s the one who put it there. You always think of drug dealers having exotic smuggling arrangements. I have to say, packing it up and sending it through the mail has a certain understated elegance.”
“Phil Tewksbury was not a drug dealer,” Patty Patton said.
“Look, Patty,” Zambrano said with a sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you thought you were close to the guy, but we don’t always know nearly as much about other people as we think we do. If you were to ask me about Jose Reyes, the same thing happened to me with him. I would have sworn Jose wouldn’t be caught dealing drugs. Turns out I was just as wrong about him as you are about Phil.”
“But this makes no sense,” Patty objected. “Besides, Phil knew the ropes. Border mail gets spot-checked by sniffer dogs right along with everything else. The boxes wouldn’t have made it past the dogs.”
Zambrano sighed again. “Look, Patty, we found the drugs right here in Phil’s garage, packaged and ready to tape shut and ship. We’ve lifted prints off the boxes. I’m willing to bet you any amount of money that those prints will turn out to belong to Phil Tewksbury. Maybe his wife figured out what he was up to and decided to put a stop to it. Or else maybe after all those years of living as a recluse, she finally blew a gasket and beat the crap out of him.”
“Christine did not do this,” Patty declared. “No way. Couldn’t be.”
“If you’d been the one she came chasing after with a bloody baseball bat in her hand, you might be singing another tune.”
“Softball bat,” Patty said.
Zambrano nodded. “Softball,” he agreed.
Watching this exchange from the sidelines, Ali wondered how it was that Patty knew what kind of a bat it was.
“I don’t care if she came after you with a broomstick,” Patty said. “Christine definitely didn’t kill Phil, not if he died in the garage. Is that where it happened?”
Zambrano nodded.
“Well, then,” Patty said, “trust me. Christine hasn’t left the house for years, hasn’t so much as stepped outside. It’s what, forty feet from the back door of the house to the door to the garage? She wouldn’t go that far on her own. Ever.”
“Look,” Zambrano said, “I’ve heard all about that—the whole deal with the dead daughter and the Christmas tree and not leaving the house. I’m not buying it.”
“Where is she?” Patty asked.
“Christine? She refused to respond to police orders. When we tried to remove her from the residence, she became combative and had to be restrained. She’s been transported to the hospital in Nogales. From there she’ll most likely go to Catalina Vista in Tucson, where she’ll undergo a psych evaluation.”
“What’s wrong with you people?” Patty demanded. “You’re dealing with a woman who hasn’t set foot outside the four walls of her house in at least the past ten years, that I know of, so you can be pretty sure she’s troubled to begin with. Then you turn up—burst into her house—and tell her that her husband is dead. What would you do in that situation, Detective Zambrano? Maybe you’d go berserk, too, especially if someone was bodily carrying you out of your own house. I’m pretty sure I would.”
“We felt she was a danger to herself and others,” Zambrano countered. “We did what we had to do.” His cell phone rang. “Right,” he said after a pause. “I’ll go get ’em. On my way.” He turned back to Patty. “Sorry,” he said. “I need to go. If it’s okay, I’d like to stop by the post office in the morning to do an official interview.”
“Knock yourself out,” Patty muttered as he walked away. “I don’t care what you say. Christine didn’t do it.” She turned to go to her car and ran directly into Ali. “Oh,” she said. “I forgot you were here.”
“I’ve been listening to every word,” Ali said. “It sounds as though, despite the evidence, you don’t believe your friend was dealing drugs.”
“I don’t,” Patty said. “Absolutely not! Phil was a worker, not a dealer; a saver, not a spender. It nearly killed him a couple of months ago when he had to cough up money to replace the windows on his house. Drives an old Ford pickup. Drove,” she corrected. “Doesn’t anymore.”
“So not a flamboyant lifestyle.”
“Hardly. As for Detective Zambrano’s idea that Phil was trying to ship drugs in flat-rate boxes? Ridiculous. They’d never pass muster at the Border Patrol checkpoints. Phil wouldn’t be that stupid.”
“What about his wife?” Ali asked. “Would she be involved in any of this—the drug dealing, any of it?”
Patty shook her head. “No.”
“And what about her husband’s death?”
“Christine may be a lot of things, but she’s not a killer. I believe somebody did this and they’re trying to make it look like she’s responsible because they know she’s incapable of defending herself.”
“Why?” Ali asked. “What’s the matter with her?”
“With Christine?”
For the next little while, Patty recounted what she knew about Phil and Christine’s history together, about the death of their only child and the painful aftermath. Patty didn’t count it as gossiping, exactly. Othe
r people might be busy pointing the finger at Christine, and the only way she could make that stop was to tell what she knew.
“And she never left the house after that?” Ali asked.
“Not as far as I know. Wouldn’t set foot outside, including walking as far as the garage. That’s how come I know for sure she didn’t kill Phil.” Patty ground out her last cigarette. “I’d better go,” she said. “I need to track Jess down and let him know what’s happened.”
“Who’s Jess?” Ali asked.
“My substitute driver,” Patty said sadly. “My permanent substitute driver. And I’ll be back at work in the morning so I can talk to that damned detective, if nothing else. If you want to get hold of me to help organize that cleanup, that’s where I’ll be—at the post office. If you need to call me, my number’s in the book.”
41
2:00 P.M., Monday, April 12
Fountain Hills, Arizona
Humberto Laos had become an old crook by being a smart crook. He paid his people good money, and he expected them to earn it. When Tony and Sal had come back from dumping the girl’s body, he had taken them at their word and hadn’t given the matter another thought. They’d told him she was dead; he believed the girl was dead. He had told them to dump her in the desert. With any kind of luck, it would be months before someone stumbled across her body.
Because Humberto had plenty of money, he had plenty of sources of information. There were people in various cop shops and media outlets who, for a hefty cash payment made by a discreet third party, would provide the inside scoop on things that interested him, in this case the murder investigation into the death of Chico Hernández. When Humberto heard from one of his informants that a person of interest in the case was a seventeen-year-old girl who had been missing for three years, that made sense. The girls Chico pimped hadn’t fallen out of trees. They had to come from somewhere.