Left for Dead

by J. A. Jance

  So far, that was all to the good. Humberto knew that the girl the cops were looking for—presumably, the one whose prints they had found in his vehicle—was lying dead in the desert somewhere. As long as they were looking for the dead girl, they weren’t looking at Humberto.

  But Humberto believed in being thorough. So he checked with two more sources, both of whom were inside Phoenix PD. There he learned that the person of interest, the missing girl, was named Rose Ventana. She had run away at age fourteen and was thought to have a rose tattoo on her right boob.

  Humberto knew for a fact that the part about the rose tattoo was true. The girl Chico had called Breeze definitely did have a rose tattoo, one with a few recent additions to the original design. Again, he wasn’t especially concerned, but then things started to go south. One of his media sources came up with a very disturbing piece of information—a rumor, a tweet from Rose Ventana’s sister—that maybe Rose wasn’t dead at all; that she had been found badly injured on Friday and was being treated at an as yet unnamed hospital somewhere in Tucson.

  Humberto was appalled. He could afford a lot of things, but he couldn’t afford to have Breeze Domingo or Rose Ventana or whoever she was alive and able to talk. That was unacceptable. It was time for serious damage control, and it had to happen right away.

  Humberto didn’t call Sal and Tony in and read them the riot act. Instead, he opened the safe in the wall behind his desk and took out seventy-five thousand in cash. Then he went online and found photos of some of the known players—especially the parents and the homicide cop—anything that would help identify the targets.

  With photos and the money loaded into a briefcase, Humberto left his chauffeur and the Bentley behind and drove himself to Phoenix in his silver Carrera. He parked outside a building that contained a high-end detail shop. Tossing his keys to an attendant, he went inside to look for Angel Moreno. Angel’s company, Starshine, specialized in auto detailing. Angel himself was into another kind of work altogether.

  “I’ve got a job for you,” Humberto said, setting the briefcase on Angel’s Formica-topped desk. “Three of them, actually. The sooner the better.”

  42

  2:30 P.M., Monday, April 12

  Tucson, Arizona

  In her years as a patient advocate, Sister Anselm had dealt with plenty of challenging family situations, and this one was no different. She let Rose know that her family was waiting outside, but that was all. Her patient’s wishes were paramount. It wasn’t her responsibility to convince Rose to change her mind. It was a matter of watching and waiting. That was something Sister Anselm knew how to do. She was surprised, however, that the Fox family as a group seemed prepared to do the same thing—wait indefinitely.

  They settled into the ICU waiting room and did just that. By midafternoon Rose’s condition had improved enough that there was a good possibility she’d be moved out of the ICU later in the day. That was another bit of good news Sister Anselm couldn’t share with Rose’s anxious family, not until it actually happened.

  Then Rose surprised her. “Still here?” she asked. With her jaw wired shut, the words came out in a distorted whisper, almost baby talk, but she was making the effort to speak, and Sister Anselm got the message.

  “You mean is your family still here?” Sister Anselm asked.

  Rose nodded.

  “Yes, they are,” Sister Anselm told her, sensing that something had changed. “They’re waiting right outside.”

  “Sisters, too?”

  “Yes, I’ve met Lily and Jasmine. They’re lovely. You can only have one visitor at a time. Which one would you like me to send in first?”

  There was a pause before Rose whispered, “…father.”

  That was not the answer Sister Anselm had expected. “That’s who you want to see—your stepfather? Mr. Fox?”

  Rose nodded. “Please.”

  “Right now?”

  Rose nodded again.

  Sister Anselm went to the door. “Mr. Fox? You can come in now.”

  He looked stunned. “Who, m-me?” he stammered.

  “Yes, you,” Sister Anselm said.

  “But what about her mother?” Fox asked, giving his wife a questioning look as he rose to his feet. “This must be a mistake. Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” Sister Anselm said. “You’re the one she asked for.”

  Once inside the room, Sister Anselm was prepared to leave them alone. “Stay,” Rose ordered.

  James Fox moved toward the bed. When he saw Rose’s shattered face, he couldn’t conceal his shock and dismay. Or his tears.

  “Look awful,” Rose managed.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “You’re beautiful.”

  She shook her head. “Sorry,” she said. “For running away.”

  “My fault,” he said. “All my fault. We just want you home, Rose. We want you to get better.”

  “Good father,” she said.

  The unexpected praise caught James Fox by surprise. He sank into the room’s only chair, covered his face with his hands, and sobbed while Sister Anselm looked on in wonder. She knew she might have played some small part in making this miracle happen, but she wasn’t sure how.

  By the time James Fox’s five minutes were up, he had managed to quit crying. “We’ll be outside,” he said. “I’ll send your mother in next.”

  Rose nodded. “Not yet,” she said. “Later.”

  “See there?” Sister Anselm said to Rose once Fox left. “I told you your family wants you home.”

  “Yes,” Rose whispered. Then, exhausted by the conversation, she drifted off to sleep. For the first time, there was a slight smile in the curve of her swollen lips.

  Leaving Rose to sleep, Sister Anselm stepped into the waiting room where the Fox family was huddled together. Just then Al Gutierrez arrived with a middle-aged woman in tow. As soon as Al saw James Fox, the younger man stopped short, as if unsure what to do—stay or turn around and go. Fox solved the dilemma for them both by rushing over to him, grasping one of Al’s hands in his, and pumping it. “Thank you,” he said. “We can’t thank you enough for finding her and saving her. And I’m sorry about last night.”

  By the time Fox’s effusive greeting ended, the woman stepped forward to introduce herself. “I’m Detective Ariel Rush,” she said. “You’re Rose’s family?”

  The two parents and the two sisters nodded in unison.

  “And you must be the patient advocate, the one Al told me about.”

  “Yes. I’m Sister Anselm.”

  Detective Rush looked around the room. “Has there been any public announcement about this—about your finding her?”

  “Not yet,” Connie answered. “We wanted to check with Rose before we said anything.”

  “Excellent,” Detective Rush said. “Now, is there a conference room of some kind where we can have a private conversation? There have been some serious new developments in the case.”

  “Like what?” Connie asked.

  “Your daughter may not be the only victim here,” Detective Rush said. “In fact, she may be one of several. So far as we know, she’s the only one who’s still alive. As long as her killer doesn’t know that, we have a better chance of catching him, because if he doesn’t feel threatened, he may not go to ground. On the other hand, if he discovers she’s alive, that may put Ms. Ventana’s personal safety at risk. The sooner we can get her out of the hospital and into a more secure environment, the better I’m going to like it. For the time being, we have to keep Rose’s situation out of the public eye. No interviews. No announcements. Even without media attention, someone could use the air ambulance records to track her here to the hospital.”

  “You really think she’s in danger?” Connie asked.

  Detective Rush nodded emphatically. Sister Anselm noticed that the two girls exchanged wary glances at that point, but she was too focused on solving the problem of Rose’s safety to give the gesture any more than passing notice.

  “I might have an
idea about that,” she said. “It can’t be done immediately, but when Rose is well enough to be dismissed from the hospital, I believe I know of a place where she could stay in relative safety.”

  “Here in town?” Detective Rush asked.

  “In a convent just up the road,” Sister Anselm replied. “All Saints. There would be a lot less public access than there is here.”

  “Would the people at the convent go along with the idea?” Detective Rush asked.

  “The reverend mother there is a friend of mine,” Sister Anselm said. “I’ll speak to her about it, and I’ll also mention it to Rose’s physician.”

  “Is there a chance I could interview her today?” Detective Rush asked. “I need to know if there’s anything she can tell us that will help identify her attackers.”

  “There’s nothing I can do as long as she’s in the ICU. Visitors there are family members only. But it might be a good idea to hang around a little while longer, in case she’s moved to another unit.”

  As far as patient confidentiality was concerned, Sister Anselm knew she was pushing the envelope, but still …

  “Was she sexually assaulted?” Detective Rush asked, handing Sister Anselm a business card.

  Sister Anselm thought for a moment before she answered. “If there’s an official protocol for the handling of rape kits, you might want to look into that.”

  Detective Rush got the hint. “Thank you,” she said. “I will.”

  43

  3:30 P.M., Monday, April 12

  Tucson, Arizona

  With Patty gone, only the young deputy was left at the scene. Gawkers had come and gone from time to time, peering curiously out of windows and pointing in the direction of the Tewksburys’ house, but the deputy had waved them all on. Now he stepped aside so Ali could drive past, giving a respectful salute as she did. She suspected that the gesture was intended more for her exotic vehicle, her Cayenne, than it was for her.

  Between Sonoita and I-10 on Highway 83, Ali was stopped at a Border Patrol checkpoint. There were several other vehicles in line, including three eighteen-wheelers, all of which were thoroughly checked by a drug-sniffing dog. As the dog carefully worked his way around and under each of the vehicles, Ali realized Patty Patton had been right. There were checkpoints along every route leading north from Nogales. Regardless of who was involved in the drug dealing, there was no way those flat-rate boxes could have been shipped in a regular mail truck without being detected. If they weren’t leaving Santa Cruz County on mail trucks, where were they going, and how were they getting there? And what was the point of those marijuana-filled flat-rate boxes they had seen being carted out of Phil Tewksbury’s garage?

  What about Christine? Would she really step outside her house for the first time in years for no other reason than to murder her husband in cold blood? The detective was evidently convinced she was responsible; Patty was not. Just as Lattimore was convinced Jose Reyes was guilty of drug dealing but his wife, Teresa, claimed to know him better than that.

  Driving back to Tucson, Ali found herself comparing those two incidents side by side. Patagonia was a small town—a very small town—with two drug-related violent crimes in as many days. No one had come right out and said that the incidents might be related. No one had even mentioned it, but Ali wondered about that. Perhaps if she could get to the bottom of what had happened to Phil and Christine Tewksbury, she’d be able to learn something about what had happened to Jose and Teresa Reyes, too.

  Despite the supposed evidence against him, Jose continued to maintain that he was innocent, that he had nothing to do with drug dealing. If he had died as a result of his injuries, the evidence found in his vehicle most likely would have been accepted at face value. No one would have been around to claim otherwise, and no one other than his immediate family would have cared. Crooked cop dies in drug deal. So what?

  Ali’s belief in Jose’s innocence remained unshaken. It appeared, however, that someone had gone to a great deal of effort to frame him. And what if the Tewksbury situation were more of the same? If Phil could be dismissed as a drug dealer—yet another dead drug dealer—who would remain in his corner? And if you were going to frame someone for murder, who would be a better target than Christine—a troubled woman, someone the whole town seemed to have dismissed as being a hopeless nutcase?

  To answer that question, Ali decided to attempt going straight to the source—the nutcase herself. There was always a chance that Christine wouldn’t be allowed visitors. She might be under sedation, or she might simply refuse to speak to a complete stranger. On the other hand, she might be happy to tell her side of the story to someone who wasn’t a cop and was somewhat sympathetic. Before getting on I-10, Ali stopped the car long enough to find the address of Catalina Vista, a psychiatric hospital in Tucson, and program it into her GPS.

  On the way there, Ali worked out what she hoped sounded like a reasonable cover story to help her gain access to the facility and to Christine. She wasn’t surprised to find that the lobby of Catalina Vista looked more like an upscale residential hotel than a psych ward. A young woman who looked terminally bored sat behind a granite-topped reception counter, reading a paperback Joanna Brady novel.

  “I’m here to meet with Christine Tewksbury to make preliminary arrangements for her husband’s funeral,” Ali announced brusquely, slipping one of her business cards across the desk.

  Other than her name, address, and phone numbers, the only word on the card was “consultant.” It didn’t say what kind of consultant and gave no additional information, but that didn’t seem to matter. It passed muster with the young woman, who barely looked up from her book as she shoved a clipboard in Ali’s direction.

  “Sign in here,” she said. “I believe Mrs. Tewksbury is in the dayroom at the moment. That’s at the end of the hall. Press the button next to the door. I’ll buzz you in and out.”

  When Ali entered the dayroom, she found at least a dozen people gathered there, most of them clumped around a flat-screen television. The television viewers all seemed deeply engrossed in watching an episode of Judge Judy. Three people sat at a table playing dominoes. In the far corner of the room, a solitary woman in a hospital gown and robe paced anxiously back and forth in front of a floor-to-ceiling window.

  She was thin to the point of being gaunt. Long, stringy gray hair hung past her narrow waist. Of all the people in the room, she looked like the one Ali wanted.

  “Christine?” Ali asked uncertainly. “Christine Tewksbury?”

  With her face distorted by what looked like fury, Christine spun around and strode toward Ali, forcing her to take a cautionary step backward.

  “Who are you?” Christine demanded. “Are you a doctor? Are you a nurse? They’re keeping me here against my will. I want to go home. I want to go back to Phil. I know he doesn’t love me anymore, and I don’t blame him for that, but he’s a good man, really, and he takes very good care of me. Please. Make them let me go home.”

  Ali realized then that what had appeared to be anger was more likely despair. The desperation in Christine’s voice was heartbreaking. She wanted to go home. She seemed to have no understanding about what had happened, why she was there, or even that her husband was dead. Or maybe Christine Tewksbury was an excellent actress who understood everything about her situation and was dealing with it in the best way possible.

  “My name is Ali Reynolds,” Ali explained. “Patty Patton is a friend of mine. She told me about what had happened to you. I thought I’d come by and see if there’s anything you needed.”

  “Patty works with my husband,” Christine said, nodding. “And I do need something. I need Phil. Where is he? Is he still at work? Tell Patty that as soon as he gets done with his route, he needs to come pick me up. I don’t know why those men broke into my house like that. I tried to make them leave me alone—I was screaming at them—but they put handcuffs on me and brought me here. They tried to tell me that Phil is dead, but I don’t believe it. It’s not pos
sible. He was fine yesterday. Why would he be dead today? Someone needs to let him know where I am so he can come get me.”

  Christine’s state of denial was so complete that Ali decided the best approach was to go along with it and pretend that Phil was alive.

  “I’m sure your husband loves you very much,” she said.

  “Yes, he does,” Christine agreed. “Although I’m sure he loves Ollie, too.”

  “Ollie?” Ali asked, taking a seat in a nearby chair. “Who’s Ollie?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Christine stopped pacing and sat down beside Ali. “Ollie is Phil’s girlfriend,” she explained. “I don’t mind that he has a girlfriend, you see, but I wish he wouldn’t bring her to the house. That’s not right. Not with me living there. It’s disrespectful. I don’t like it. Cassie won’t like it, either.”

  Ali had picked up enough of Christine’s life story to know that Cassie, Phil and Christine’s daughter, had been dead for years. If Christine somehow thought her daughter was alive, how much of the rest of the story was true? At this point, did Christine Tewksbury have any idea what was real and what wasn’t? For that matter, what was her grasp on the difference between right and wrong? But the idea of a girlfriend thrown into the mix put the whole situation in a different light. And since Christine was willing to answer questions right then, Ali went right on asking them.

  “Phil has a girlfriend?”

  “Oh, yes,” Christine said, “for months now. It’s supposed to be a big secret, and I haven’t let on that I know, but I found a letter he wrote to her. He left it sitting on the counter. It was silly. ‘Dear Olive Oyl,’ he said. And in the middle of the note, he called her Ollie, and he signed it, ‘Love, Popeye.’ That was the only part of the letter that was silly. The rest of it was real. He was telling her all about me—about what’s wrong with me. That wasn’t right. What’s wrong with me is nobody else’s business, especially not hers.”