Left for Dead

by J. A. Jance

  “Okay, Captain Barrow,” she was saying into the phone. “No, I don’t have an address, just a description. This is what we’ve got. A two-story-plus-basement house in Fountain Hills. It’s supposed to be set on a large lot that backs up to the desert. There’s a long steep driveway with wrought-iron gates at the bottom of the drive and a guard shack by the gate. Any of that sound familiar?”

  Ariel Rush paused to listen and then laughed. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me, but put it out to your patrol division. I think it’s possible that you’ve got a serial killer sitting right there in town, and he’s finally made his first mistake—a homicide victim who didn’t quite die. We need to get to this guy and take him down before he figures out we’ve got a witness.”

  She cradled the phone on her shoulder long enough to apply ketchup and mustard to her burger. “Okay,” she said. “You’ve got my number? And if you find it, I need someone to send me a photo of the gate and the driveway.”

  Detective Rush put down her phone and took the first bite from her burger. Al’s was already half gone.

  “You really think he’s just going to sit there and wait for us to come find him?”

  “Actually, I think he will. From what Rose told us, he’s got money. He likes to torture girls, but he likes his creature comforts. He’s also arrogant as hell. He’s got people on the payroll who do his dirty work for him. The two guys who dumped Rose Ventana without properly finishing the job won’t be eager to let him know they screwed up.”

  “Which gives us time,” Al said.

  “Some time,” Ariel Rush allowed. “Some but not a lot. While we wait for Fountain Hills to get back to us, let’s collect that rape kit and deliver it, along with our Three Points cigarette butt, to the crime lab to check for DNA.”

  “Isn’t that expensive?” Al asked. “Who’s going to pay for the testing?”

  Detective Rush looked at him and grinned. “If this case turns out to be as big as I think it is, we’re going to have all sorts of people lining up to have the evidence processed, up to and including the FBI. But we’re not bringing in anyone else until I’m damned good and ready. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Al agreed. “Let’s do it.”

  Just then her phone chirped. “Text message,” she said. She pressed a button, glanced at the screen, then passed the phone to Al. “I believe we have a bingo,” she said. “Let’s go show it to Rose.”

  Al studied the photo on the screen. It showed a pair of ornate gates in front of a driveway that led up a very steep hill with what appeared to be a guard shack off to the left. The caption beneath the photo said 15568 CENTIPEDE CIRCLE, FOUNTAIN HILLS, ARIZONA.

  Al looked from the photo to Detective Rush. “It can’t be this easy,” he said.

  “Sometimes it is,” Detective Rush said. “First we’ll show this to Rose Ventana, then we’ll see.”

  When they got back to the hospital, Rose’s mother and Sister Anselm were still in Rose’s room. As soon as the young woman looked at the photo of the gate, Ariel Rush knew they were on to something. “That’s it?” she asked. “That’s the place?”

  Rose nodded.

  “All right, then,” Detective Rush said. “You get better while we go to work.”

  “How did they know which house it was?” Al asked.

  “The guard shack,” she said. “That’s what gave it away.”

  She was back on the phone by the time they were halfway down the corridor. “Okay, Tim,” she said. “That’s the right house. Send me anything and everything you have on this guy.” She listened for some time. When she ended the call, she turned to Al.

  “Back to Vail for you,” she said, “and then I’m headed back to Phoenix. Our suspected bad guy’s name is Humberto Laos, and he’s very busy. He runs several companies, including a janitorial supply house and an exterminating company, with any number of white panel trucks registered to the company. The feds think he’s using those companies as fronts to do money laundering for the Mexican cartels, with a bit of loan sharking on the side. The panel trucks do dual duty. When he’s not using them for business, I’ll bet they help out with the other more sordid parts of his life. I’m pretty sure we’ll discover that one of those vans was used in the hit on Chico, and either the same one or a different one was used to transport Rose.”

  “And now Rose, the one who got away, may be the one who will bring him down,” Al said.

  “Yes,” Detective Rush said. “Thanks to you. But the really good news is this: The feds have had his property under video surveillance for some time. Tim says there are vans coming and going all the time, with a clear shot of Chico’s Lincoln dropping Rose off on Thursday. They gave her a ride up the hill in a golf cart. There’s no film showing her coming back down.”

  “What are you going to do next?” Al asked.

  “I’m going to get myself a warrant and see if we can find some of Rose’s DNA in Laos’s basement before he figures out a way to get it cleaned up.”

  “What am I going to do?” Al Gutierrez asked.

  He already knew the answer. He would go back to work and take more of Sergeant Dobbs’s crap.

  “If you can, stay in touch with Sister Anselm,” Detective Rush said. “The sooner we can get Rose out of that hospital and into the convent, the better. Since you almost got into her room the other night, someone else could, too.”

  “You think Laos is that dangerous?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay,” he said. “When I’m not working, I’ll be there.”

  They drove the rest of the way to his place in Vail in silence. When he got out of the car, Al Gutierrez felt let down. Something special had happened to him that day. Now it was over.

  “Thanks,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. “It’s been a trip.”

  “It has been,” she agreed. “For me, too. You’re a smart guy, Al, and a cop at heart. If you ever get tired of chasing illegal immigrants through the mesquite and decide that the Border Patrol isn’t for you, call me. I happen to have more than a little pull with the hiring guys at Phoenix PD. I’ll see to it that they give you a chance.”

  “And I can tell Kevin Dobbs to go to hell?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Detective Rush drove away and left him standing there alone but feeling altogether better.

  50

  7:00 P.M., Monday, April 12

  Nogales, Arizona

  Sheriff Renteria was dozing at his desk when the phone rang. “Okay,” Detective Zambrano said. “The two cases are definitely a package deal. The prints on all postal boxes track back to Phil Tewksbury, and his prints match the ones on the lug wrench from the Reyes shooting scene.”

  “Have you talked to Lattimore about any of this?”

  “Touched bases. He’s planning on meeting with us at the department tomorrow morning at ten.”

  “What about the bundles of drugs?” Renteria asked.

  “I went into the evidence room and took a look at them. They’re all pretty similar in terms of size and shape. Unless dope smugglers are into some kind of uniform packaging, I’d say they’re all from the same source.”

  “Any prints on those?”

  “Not a single one.”

  “In other words, whoever was doing the packaging wore gloves,” Renteria suggested.

  “Seems likely,” Zambrano agreed.

  “What about the sunglasses we found in Phil’s truck?”

  “Wiped clean, although they may be able to obtain DNA evidence from the nose pads, hinges, and earpieces. I’ve also asked the crime lab to check both the wig and the head scarf for prints. Finding prints on fabric is more difficult than finding prints on hard surfaces, but it’s also harder for crooks to wipe fabric clean, because you don’t wipe prints you can’t see.”

  It was just what Renteria had hoped. The fingerprint evidence was telling them what they had expected to find—that the two cases were connected, and Phil Tewksbury was most likely responsible for the Reyes shooti
ng.

  “What about prints on the bat?” the sheriff asked.

  “Those definitely point to Christine. There were actually two sets of prints on the bat—a very old set that belongs to Phil Tewksbury and several brand-new prints that match Christine’s.”

  “What about the rest of it?” Renteria asked.

  “The crime lab guy said what he saw on the working end of the bat looks good for possible brain matter, but official verification will take time.”

  “How much time?”

  “I got the feeling that it depends on who’s asking,” Zambrano said. “You might have better luck than I did. I just heard that the phone company warrants came back tonight, earlier than I expected. I plan to work on phone records first thing in the morning, before our meeting with Lattimore. If we can connect some communication dots between Reyes and Tewksbury, it’ll make our lives a lot easier. I’ll do the Patty Patton interview after we finish up with Lattimore.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Stopping off at the Triple T to grab some dinner. There’s nothing like good old-fashioned deep-dish apple pie to take my mind off spatters of brain matter.”

  The second line on Sheriff Renteria’s line lit up. “Okay,” he said. “Let me take this other call.” He clicked over. “Sheriff Renteria.”

  “We just had a nine-one-one call from Patty Patton,” the watch commander said. “She’s out at the Lazy S Ranch south of Patagonia. She says Oscar Sanchez has been shot. He’s dead.”

  Renteria was already on his feet, reaching for his Stetson. “Okay,” he said. “I’m on my way. Any idea where Mrs. Sanchez is?”

  “None.”

  “What kind of car does she drive?”

  “I’ll find out and get back to you. According to Patty, there’s a minivan parked in the front yard. No signs of struggle inside the house.”

  “Patty went inside the house?”

  “She had to go inside to use the phone.”

  “All right,” he said. “I’m on my way to my car. Call Zambrano on his cell and tell him he’ll need to order that deep-dish pie to go. He needs to meet me at the Sanchez place ASAP. Can we get Patty Patton to call me back on my cell? I need to talk to her.”

  “I can’t,” the operator said. “She called on the Sanchez home phone, but I told her that since the house is now a crime scene, she should go outside and wait for us to get someone there.”

  Sheriff Renteria knew that was the right move, but he was beyond frustrated. “Why the hell doesn’t the woman have a cell phone?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know,” the operator said. “You’ll need to ask her when you get there.”

  Forty minutes later, Renteria pulled into the front yard at the Lazy S and parked his patrol car next to Patty’s Camaro. She was sitting inside the open passenger door, cuddling a shivering Jack Russell terrier.

  “His name is Bert,” she said without looking up. “It says so on the tag. I think he must have been Oscar’s dog.”

  “Did you touch the body?”

  “No, but I know he’s dead.”

  Not content to take her word for it, Renteria went to see for himself. It was true. Oscar Sanchez was propped in a chair. The bullet had been shot into the back of his head at an angle and exited through the bottom of the chair. As far as Manuel Renteria was concerned, it gave a whole new meaning to the term “execution-style slaying.” Patty had left the front door open, and the sheriff was able to peek into the living room without having to step inside. Patty was right—there was no sign of a struggle. Nothing seemed to be out of place.

  Renteria went back to the Camaro. Since Patty was still in the passenger seat, he slid in behind the steering wheel. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I came to see Olga, but she’s not here.”

  “Lucky for you,” Renteria said. “But why did you come to see Olga?”

  “About these,” Patty said. She opened her purse, pulled out a packet of envelopes, and handed it to him. “I wanted to let her know about it before I turned these over to you.”

  Renteria searched around the visor until he found the switch for the reading light, then he had to pat around in his pockets to find his reading glasses. “Popeye,” he said once he could see the top envelope. “Who the hell is Popeye?”

  “That would be Phil Tewksbury,” Patty said. “After Christine told Ali that Phil had a girlfriend—”

  “Wait, wait, wait. Who’s Ali?”

  “Ali Reynolds. Jose’s friend. You met her today when she came to report the vandalism at Jose’s house. When she went back to Tucson, she stopped by Catalina Vista and talked to Christine—”

  “Christine actually talked to someone?”

  “Ali said Christine was waiting for Phil to come get her, that she didn’t seem to understand he was dead. Christine also said something about being upset because Phil’s girlfriend was at their house earlier this morning.”

  Sheriff Renteria stared at Patty. He had wondered about Phil’s love life—if he had one—and whether Patty herself might have been the object of Phil’s affection. That was evidently wrong, but how the hell had Ali whatever-her-name-was gotten Christine Tewksbury to stop screaming and start talking?

  “Christine told her that Olga Sanchez was Phil’s girlfriend?”

  “No. She just said that he had a girlfriend, a woman named Ollie—that she had seen a letter Phil wrote to someone named Ollie. And Christine claimed that Ollie had been at the house this morning—at Phil’s house—that she had smelled her perfume.”

  Renteria felt a clench in his gut. Somewhere in the midst of the pitched battle in Phil Tewksbury’s living room, while they were grappling with Christine and trying to wrench the bat out of the madwoman’s hands, he seemed to remember her screaming something incomprehensible about perfume, but she had been a raving maniac at the time. He hadn’t really paid attention. He had been too busy trying to keep from having his own head bashed in. Even in the patrol car, Christine hadn’t made any sense. She had kept right on screaming and pounding her head against the window.

  “Since Christine said she had seen one letter,” Patty was saying, “I wondered if there might be others. If so, obviously, Phil wouldn’t have left them lying around the house, where Christine could find them. I went back to the post office and looked in his set of drawers in the sorting table. That’s where I found them. They’re from Olga, but she signs them Ollie, short for Olive Oyl. I guess it’s like a joke or something, but because she mentioned Oscar, I knew who she was. Since Christine claimed Olga had been at her house, I knew I’d need to turn these over to you, and I wanted to let her know.”

  “That was probably a really stupid idea,” Renteria said.

  “Yes,” Patty agreed. “I know that now.”

  While they waited for the overworked county coroner and the crime scene techs to show up at Santa Cruz County’s second homicide scene of the day, Sheriff Renteria decided to read the notes. First he went to his patrol car and retrieved a pair of latex gloves from the trunk. Then he came back to the Camaro.

  What he found in the envelopes were notes rather than letters—notes that made arrangements for future meetings. There were brief comments on things Ollie and Phil had done, where they had been, and how things were at home with Oscar’s increasingly precarious health situation. It wasn’t until Renteria got to the last one, the thank-you note, that it all came together for him. As soon as he saw the part about changing the tire, he knew what had happened.

  Phil Tewksbury hadn’t shot Jose Reyes. He’d been set up—framed by someone who made sure his prints were on the lug wrench left at the crime scene. Olga had tried to murder her former daughter-in-law’s new husband, first by passing the blame on to Phil and then by blaming Phil’s murder on Christine. Now, with Oscar Sanchez dead, Olga had no one else to blame.

  The sheriff pulled out his cell phone and dialed the office. “Have you located all the Sanchez vehicles?”

  “Yes. They own a 200
8 Dodge Caravan, a 2006 Range Rover, and a 1998 Buick Regal.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I want you to put out a statewide BOLO on the Range Rover and the Buick. Olga Sanchez is now a person of interest in three separate homicides. Tell people to be on their guard. She could be armed and dangerous.”

  “Three?” Patty Patton asked. “You mean you no longer think Christine murdered her husband?”

  Sheriff Renteria sighed and shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m afraid when you’re right, you’re right.”

  51

  7:00 P.M., Monday, April 12

  Tucson, Arizona

  Detective Rush had been gone only a few minutes when the first reporter showed up at PMC. Hearing raised voices in the hall outside Rose’s room, Sister Anselm went out to find a reporter, backed up by a cameraman, attempting to interview Connie Fox.

  “What’s going on?” the nun demanded.

  Connie nodded in the reporter’s direction. “What should I do?”

  The reporter stepped forward and held up her ID for Sister Anselm’s perusal. “My name is Abby Summers,” she said. “I’m with the FOX affiliate in Phoenix. Someone who knows I’ve been following Rose’s story for years sent me a tweet about it—a tweet from someone named Jasmine—claiming that Rose had been found and was being treated here.”

  In her head, Sister Anselm replayed the telling glance that had passed between Jasmine and Lily Ventana when Detective Rush had been explaining the need not to go public with Rose’s situation. It seemed clear that even then the cat was already out of the bag. Sister Anselm also knew that if one reporter was here, others were bound to follow. And no telling who else. So if the strategy of keeping quiet wasn’t going to work, maybe it was time to do the opposite. She thought it might be time for a media circus of her own making.

  “I think you should go ahead and tell Ms. Summers the whole story,” Sister Anselm said decisively.

  Connie Fox’s eyes widened. “All of it?”

  “All of it.”

  “Are you sure?”