Shoot / Don't Shoot jb-3

by J. A. Jance

  “Joanna, I—”

  “Mom, there you are,” Jenny exclaimed, skidding to a stop on the polished stone floor behind them.

  “Jenny, what are you doing down here?”

  “I came looking for you. Detective Strong just called. She said for you to call her back right away. She said it’s urgent!”

  Jenny came around the arm of Joanna’s chair. Seeing Bob Brundage, she ducked back out of sight.

  The interruption had allowed Joanna to get a partial grip on her roiling emotions. She took a deep breath. “Jenny,” she said, forcing her voice to be Want you to meet Mr. Brundage here. Colonel Brundage. He’s your uncle. He’ll be joining us for dinner tonight.”

  With a purposeful shove from her mother, Jenny stepped out from behind the chair and held out her hand. “I’m glad to meet you,” she said politely. Then she turned back to Joanna, frowning. “But you always told me I didn’t have arty aunts or uncles.”

  “That’s because I didn’t think you did.”

  Joanna stood up. “You’ll have to excuse us, Colonel Brundage. Thanks for the drink. I hope you’ll forgive my outburst. As you can see, this has been something of a shock.”

  Bob Brundage nodded sympathetically. “Better here with just the two of us than at dinner in a whole crowd, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I suppose so,” Joanna allowed grudgingly. It was the best she could do. She turned to her daughter. “Come on, Jenny. Let’s go.” As they headed back toward the elevator, Joanna asked, “Did Detective Strong say what was wrong?”

  “No. But she made me write down her number. Here it is.” Jenny handed over a piece of paper with a phone number scribbled on it. Instead of bothering with going all the way back upstairs, Joanna stopped by a pay phone in the elevator lobby and dialed.

  “Thanks for getting back to me so fast,” Carol Strong said. “I’m almost dressed and ready to leave. Meet me at the APOA campus as soon you can, would you?”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I think we’ve found Dave Thompson.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes. You know him. I need someone to identify him.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In a red Ford Fiesta registered to someone named Kimberly George. One of the patrol officers looked through the window of one of the APOA outbuildings. It turned out to be a garage with a red car inside it. He broke in as soon as he realized there was someone sitting slumped over in the front seat. The ignition was on, but the engine wasn’t running. It was out of gas.”

  “He’s dead, then?”

  “Yes.”

  Joanna closed her eyes, feeling an odd combination of both sadness and relief. “I’ll meet you there,” she said. “I’ll be on my way as soon as I drop Jenny off with one grandmother or the other.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Carol Strong had obviously cleared the way. When Joanna arrived at the APOA campus, there was no question about whether or not she was to be allowed through the barriers and given access to the crime scene. A young patrol officer named Reiner walked up to the Blazer as she was shutting off the ignition.

  “This way, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “Detective Strong is expecting you.”

  Officer Reiner led Joanna into a two-car garage, where, even though the roll-up doors were wide open, the smell of auto exhaust still lingered in the air. As she approached the car, Joanna recognized another smell as well—the ugly odor of death. In a matter of weeks, Joanna had learned the unpleasant truth—that investigating death scenes was anything but antiseptic.

  She bent over and peered inside the car. A slack-jawed Dave Thompson slumped over the steering wheel. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, Joanna straightened back up. “It’s him,” she said.

  “I thought so,” Carol said. “We’re trying to find the car’s registered owner. No luck so far.”

  “Have you checked with the hospital?” Joanna asked.

  “What hospital?”

  “St. Joseph’s. My guess is she’s in the waiting room keeping Lorelie Jessup company.”

  “You know her?”

  “Not exactly. I’ve never met her, but I was told Kimberly George is Leann Jessup’s former lover.”

  “Lover?” Carol Strong repeated sharply. “Are you telling me Leann Jessup is a lesbian?” Janna nodded.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Neither did I,” Joanna admitted. “Not until this afternoon.”

  “How did you find out?”

  Joanna shrugged. “After we left your office, Jenny and I went down to the hospital to check on Leann. We talked to her mother and to her brother. What a jerk!”

  “Well, that certainly explains a lot,” Carol Strong mused, almost to herself.

  “Explains what?” Joanna asked.

  “What happened here. Was there some hanky panky going on between them?”

  “Between Dave and Leann? No. I’m certain nothing like that was going on.”

  “Look,” Carol said, shaking her head. “You can’t be sure, not unless you were with her twenty-four hours of every day. Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that they were fooling around a little. One way or another Thompson learns about Leann’s sexual preference, and he freaks. He flips out completely and decides to kill her. After all, it’s the second time this has happened to him. And then, when it falls apart and she gets away, he comes to his senses, realizes that he’s about to be caught, and doesn’t want to face the consequences. So he bolsters his courage with a little more booze and does himself him. You did see the empty vodka bottle on the bedside him, didn’t you?”

  Joanna shook her head. “No, I didn’t. And I don’t understand what you’re saying. What do you mean the second time this happened?”

  “It’s the second time Dave Thompson fell for a lesbian,” Carol answered. “His wife left him for a woman, not for another man. I thought you knew that.”

  “No,” Joanna said. “I didn’t know. But what about the other women, Serena and Rhonda? What about them?”

  “We’re working on it,” Carol answered. “Anyway, thanks for coming and helping us I.D. him.” The detective looked at her watch. “I guess you’d better be getting back to the hotel. It’s almost four-thirty. A­ren’t you supposed to be having dinner with your family?”

  “That’s at five,” Joanna said. “I have plenty of time.”

  Just then two men came pushing a body-bag­-laden gurney into the garage. One of them waved at Carol Strong. “What’ve you got?”

  “Suicide,” she answered. “We’ve already identified him for you.”

  “Good,” the other replied. “That’ll save time. If I’m not home for dinner by six, my wife will kill me.”

  Despite Carol’s urging, Joanna wasn’t ready to leave. “Doesn’t it all seem just a little too pat?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Dave tries to kill Leann in a fit of rage and then takes his own life.”

  “It happens. As soon as Leann Jessup is well enough to talk to us about it, we’ll get the whole thing cleared up. So let’s leave it at that for the time being.”

  With that, Carol turned as though to follow the medical examiner techs back toward the car.

  “Did you find Leann’s panties, then?” Joanna asked.

  “Not yet,” Carol answered. “They weren’t in Thompson’s apartment or we would have found them by now. Maybe they’re still on him—in a pocket or something. Or maybe he hid them in the car.”

  “What if you don’t find them?” Joanna prodded.

  Carol shook her head emphatically. “Then maybe they never existed in the first place,” she said.

  For a moment, the two women stood looking at each other. Homicide detectives are judged by a very public scoreboard—by cases opened and by cases promptly closed. Here was a classic twofer. The attempted homicide/successful suicide theory cleared two of Carol Strong’s cases at once and in less than twenty-four hours. With that kind of payoff waiting in the wings, the mysterio
us disappearance of a pair of panties diminished in importance. And two pairs of missing panties linked the deaths of Leann Jessup and Serena Grijalva.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll hang around for a while,” Joanna said. “I want to see if they turn up in the car.”

  “Suit yourself,” Carol said, and returned to the group of investigators gathered around the car. “All right, you guys. Let’s get him out of here, then.”

  Removing the body took time. Joanna stayed in the background waiting, watching, and thinking. What if the panties didn’t show up at all? If that happened, it was likely that the possible connection between Dave Thompson and Serena Grijalva would be ignored. Jorge would go to prison on the negotiated plea agreement, and no one would ever come close to knowing the truth. Other than Juanita Grijalva, Joanna Brady, and a literary-leaning bartender, nob­ody else seemed to care.

  Up to then, relations between Detective Carol Strong and

  Sheriff Joanna Brady had been entirely congenial if a little unorthodox. During the hours of questioning earlier in the day, Carol had treated Joanna with a good deal of respect, handling her like a colleague and treating her with the deference one police officer usually accords another. But Joanna was smart enough to realize that if she once questioned Detective Strong’s professional judgment or challenged her authority, that cordiality

  would evaporate. After that, any further investigation Joanna did on Jorge Grijalva’s behalf would be strictly on her own. She would be starting from square one with only the few scraps of information she herself had managed to accumulate.

  Those didn’t amount to much. She still had Juanita’s collection of clippings. Then there was the essay from Butch Dixon, but that didn’t seem likely to be of much help. After all, in his “opus,” as Butch had called it, he had failed to mention the very important fact that Dave Thompson had been in the bar the night Serena was killed.

  “So far no luck,” Carol said, pulling off her latex gloves and walking over to where Joanna was standing. “I personally checked his pockets. Nothing. The crime scene guys will be going over the car, but it doesn’t look promising. You could just as well go. You’re late now as it is.”

  Joanna nodded. “I guess you’re right. But do you mind if I stop by my room to pick something up before I go back to the hotel?”

  “No problem,” Carol said.

  Joanna walked back across the parking lot feeling uneasy. This would be the first time she ventured back inside the room since learning about the two-way mirrors. Still, she could just as well get it over with. She’d have to do it sooner or later, if for no other reason than to pack up her stuff to go back home.

  After unlocking and opening the door, she paused for a moment on the threshold of the darkened room, feeling like a child afraid of some adult-inspired bogeyman. Don’t be silly, she chided herself, and switched on the light. She walked purposefully to the desk and opened the drawer. The envelope wasn’t there.

  Frowning, she stared down into the empty drawer. That was odd. Wasn’t the drawer where she had last seen it? Puzzled, she went through the stack of papers she had left on top of the desk. The envelope wasn’t there, either.

  For several seconds, she stood in the middle of the room looking around. She had been in the room for only a matter of a few days. The place was still far too neat for something as large as a manila envelope to simply disappear. With a growing sense of apprehension, Joanna walked over to the closet. Nothing seemed to be out of place. The two suit­cases she hadn’t taken along to the Hohokam were still right where she had left them.

  Dropping to her hands and knees, Joanna examined the wall underneath the single shelf. With effort, she succeeded in finding the secret access door Carol Strong had told her about. Even knowing it was there, finding it in the gloom of the closet took careful examination. The cracks surrounding it were artfully concealed. A professional job. The door was there because it was supposed to be there. It was something that had been there from the beginning, not something that had been remodeled in as an afterthought.

  Joanna stood up and took a deep breath. Had Leann Jessup’s attacker let himself into Joanna’s room as well? Someone had been here. After all, the envelope was gone. Was anything else missing? Using a pencil, she pried open the other drawers in the room—the ones in the nightstand and in the pressboard dresser. Nothing seemed to out of order.

  She went into the bathroom. Again, at first glance, nothing seemed to be amiss. The shampoo and conditioner, the large container of hand lotion—things she hadn’t needed to take along to the hotel—all stood exactly where she had had left them. Turning to leave the room, she caught sight of the dirty-clothes bag hanging on the hook on the back of the bathroom door.

  Dragging the bag down from the hook, Joanna shook the contents out on the floor. There should have been three days’ worth of laundry in that scattered heap. Joanna sorted through it, almost the way she would have if she had been doing the laundry—separating things by colors. When she first noticed the missing pair of panties, she thought that maybe they were still caught in the legs of a pair of jeans. But that wasn’t the case. Three sweatshirts, three bras, two sets of jeans, one pair of pantyhose, and two pairs of panties. Only two pairs. The third one had disappeared.

  With her pulse pounding in her throat, Joanna turned and fled from the room. Out in the breezeway, she could see Carol Strong and several of her investigators gathered outside the still-open door of the garage.

  “Hey,” she shouted, waving. “Over her.”

  Carol obviously heard her, because she waved back, but she didn’t understand what Joanna wanted. When Carol made no move in her direction, Joanna loped off across the parking lot. Her PT shinsplints yelped in protest. At one point, she slipped on loose gravel and almost fell. No matter what they show on those television commercials, she said to herself, running in high heels isn’t easy.

  “What’s the matter?” Carol asked, as Joanna made it to within hearing distance.

  “Do these guys have an alternate light source them?” she asked.

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Because someone’s been in my room,” Joanna answered

  “Is anything missing?”

  “Yes. An envelope full of press clippings on the Serena Grijalva case. And a pair of panties from my laundry hag.”

  “Panties?” Carol repeated. “You’re sure?”

  “Believe me. I’m sure.”

  “Bring the ALS and come on,” Carol said over her shoulder to the technicians as she and Joanna started back across the parking lot. “Can you describe the missing pair?” she asked.

  Fighting back an overwhelming sense of violation, at first all Joanna could do was nod.

  “What’s wrong?” Carol asked, frowning worriedly in the face of Joanna’s obvious distress. “Is there something more that you haven’t told me?”

  Joanna swallowed hard. “I can describe the panties exactly,” she said. “They’re apricot-colored nylon with a cotton crotch and with a column of cutout lace flowers appliquéd down the right-hand side.”

  After saying that, Joanna gave up trying to fight back her tears.

  “I’m not sure I could describe any of my own underwear with that much detail,” Carol said, more to fill up the silence and to offer some comfort than because the words made sense.

  Joanna nodded, sniffling. “I’m sure I shouldn’t be so upset. They are only panties, after all, but they were a present from Andy last Christmas, the last Christmas present he ever gave me. They’re part of a matching set—bra, full slip, and panties. You can’t buy fancy underwear like that anywhere in Bisbee these days. Andy ordered them from a Victoria’s Secret catalog and had them shipped to the office so I’d be surprised. He’s been dead for months now, but they’re still sending him catalogs. They show up on my desk in the mail.”

  “I’m sorry,” Carol said.

  Joanna nodded. “Thanks,” she said, sniffing and wiping the tears from her face.

&nb
sp; By then they had reached the breezeway. Carol waited while Joanna unlocked the door to the room. “Where were they again?”

  “The panties? In the laundry bag hanging on the back of the bathroom door.”

  “And the envelope?”

  “I’m not absolutely sure, but I think I left it in the desk drawer.”

  By then the technician was bringing the ALS into the room. “Where do you want it?” he asked. Carol looked questioningly at Joanna, and she was the one who answered.

  “Over there by the closet.”

  Once plugged in, it took a few moments for the equipment to reach operating temperature. Then, with the lights off, the technician, crawling on his hands and knees, aimed the wand toward the floor.

  “There you go,” he breathed as a ghostlike footprint appeared on the carpeting. “There’s one, and here’s another. Looks to me like it’s the same as in the other room,” he added. “The guy came into the room through the door in the closet. Some of these prints have been disturbed, though. Could be he left the same way.”

  “No that was me,” Joanna said. “I was crawling around trying to get a look at the access door in the closet. I wanted to see it for myself.”

  Carol nodded. “All right, guys. I want photos of the footprints, and I want the entire room searched for fingerprints as well.”

  “Will do,” the technician replied.

  Carol took Joanna by the arm. “Come on outside,” she said. “We’ll go out there to talk and leave the techs to do their jobs.”

  Once they were standing in the breezeway, Joanna realized the sun was going down. That meant it was long past five o’clock. The shock of knowing someone had broken into her room left her in no condition to face the emotional minefield of that Thanksgiving dinner right then. Her guests would simply have to go on without her.

  “What does it all mean?” Joanna asked.

  “I don’t honestly know,” Carol replied.

  “Do you think he planned on killing me, too?”

  “That ‘s possible. Actually, now that you mention it, it’s probably even likely.”

  “But why?” Joanna asked.