Shoot / Don't Shoot jb-3

by J. A. Jance

  Carol paused for breath. “I finally figured it out. He only targeted women for murder when he thought he could get away with it because—”

  “Because there was someone else to blame,” Joanna finished.

  “I’m sorry to say,” Carol Strong added, “he sucked me right in.”

  When Joanna put down the phone, Butch Dixon was anxiously watching her face. “Anything?” he, asked.

  “Not yet,” she returned.

  Joanna resumed her seat on the stool. By then Butch had ordered her a diet Coke, which she ac­cepted with good grace. With Jenny in danger, Joanna was surprised she could drink a soda or sit still or even talk. It was as though she existed—living and breathing—in a little vacuum of nor­malcy, one that Butch Dixon somehow helped make possible.

  When she came back from the telephone, he didn’t say anything for a long time. He seemed to be lost in thought. “While you were gone,” he said, “I was sitting here thinking. I just remembered something. Larry Dysart didn’t stop drinking booze until just a few months ago. And sometimes, when he used to be on the sauce, he’d get off on a big nonstop talking kick. One time he was telling me about what a crazy bastard old Tommy Tompkins was. I always figured that was the pot calling the kettle black.

  “But anyway, he was talking about this bomb shelter Tommy used to have. It was supposed to be a big secret, because when Armageddon came, Tommy didn’t want too many people knowing about it. I’ll bet it’s still there. You don’t suppose ...”

  Joanna was already on her way to track down Sergeant Rodriquez. “Get hold of Detective Strong,” Joanna told him. “Tell her they’re looking in the wrong place.”

  Moments later, the phone rang at the end of the bar. Joanna answered it herself.

  “Where?” was Carol Strong’s one-word question.

  “Somewhere on the APOA campus,” Joanna an­swered. “My best guess is you’re looking for a bomb shelter.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  It was almost 8 P.M. when the Search and Rescue dogs picked up a trail that led to a man-hole just off the railroad right-of-way. The manhole was labeled UTILITIES, with no specifica­tion as to what kind of utilities might be involved. Inside were conduit runs and circuit-breaker boxes—all of which proved to be dummies.

  The girls’ trail led down the ladder and through a concrete tunnel to what was, ostensibly, a dead end. Carol Strong had Butch Dixon and Joanna brought to the scene while a lock technician tried to solve the problem of how the trail the dogs had followed down the tunnel could pass through what appeared to be a solid concrete wall.

  “They’re in there,” Carol told an anxious Joanna once she was standing near the head of the line of people at the far end of the tunnel. “I don’t know if they’re both there, and I don’t know if they’re all right,” Carol continued. “All I do know for sure is that when we tap on the wall, somebody taps back.”

  Joanna felt her knees go weak with relief, but it was another half hour before the locksmith discov­ered the release mechanism. With a creaking groan, the seemingly massive wall slid aside, moving smoothly on well-oiled rollers. At once, seven sep­arate flashlights probed the darkness beyond the opening.

  Jennifer Brady, wearing the same clothes she had worn that morning, stood illumined in the glow of lights, both hands on her hips. Blinking in the sud­den glare, she tumbled out of the darkness with Ceci Grijalva right on her heels. Tears of joy coursed down Joanna’s face as she gathered both girls into her arms.

  After enduring her mother’s fierce hug for as long as she was willing, Jenny pushed away. “Mommy,” she said accusingly. “It was dark in there. What took you so long?”

  A jubilant Butch Dixon let out a yip that was a cross between a rodeo rider’s triumphant Yippee and a fairly respectable imitation of a coyote’s yip.

  “Who’s that?” Jenny asked, peering up at him. “And what happened to his hair?”

  “That’s Butch Dixon,” Joanna said. “He’s a friend of mine. It’s because of him that we found you as soon as we did. And as far as his hair is concerned, it all fell out because his grandmother gave him a permanent when he was a little boy.”

  Jenny’s eyes widened. “No! Is that true?”

  Butch Dixon grinned. “If your mother says so,” he told her, “then it must be.”

  Epilogue

  Butch Dixon hosted the celebration dinner that night. All the cops and FBI agents who could be corralled into doing so came to the Roundhouse Bar and Grill for freebie dinners, which included Caboose dishes of ice cream, peanuts, and chocolate syrup all the way around.

  The party lasted until well after midnight. The Duffys had long since taken Pablo and Ceci and headed for home. Joanna and the Bradys were about to do the same with Jenny when a drained Carol Strong limped into the restaurant carrying her signature high heels, one of which was sheared off under the sole. The lighting in the bar wasn’t the best, but even in its dim glow, Joanna was sur­prised by the haggard expression on the detective’s face.

  “What’s wrong?” Joanna asked when Carol sat down beside her. “You look awful.”

  “You would, too, if you’d just been through what I’ve been through.”

  “What?”

  “We discovered Larry Dysart had closed off all the air ducts to the bomb shelter,” Carol answered. “I don’t know exactly how long the girls would have lasted before they ran out of air, but it wouldn’t have been forever. It’s a good thing we found them when we did.”

  “Oh,” Joanna said. It was all she could manage.

  “And we found a jewelry box,” Carol continued. “A jewelry box that he evidently used as a trophy case. It had nine pairs of panties in it. Eight offi­cially, because I didn’t catalog this one.”

  Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a pair of nylon panties and placed them in Joanna’s hands. “Mine?” Joanna asked without looking.

  Carol nodded. “You said it was part of a set your husband gave you. If I had listed them in the offi­cial evidence inventory, you never would have seen them again. Put them away fast before anybody else sees them,” Carol ordered. “That FBI agent, LaDonna Bright, and I are the only ones who know about them so far. I want to keep it that way.”

  Guiltily, Joanna shoved the panties into her blazer pocket. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “You’re welcome,” Carol Strong replied.

  They sat in silence for a moment watching and listening while Butch Dixon charmed a weary Jenny with an old shaggy-dog story that was nonetheless brand-new to her. She laughed delightedly at the punch line.

  “You said eight other pairs?” Joanna asked even­tually.

  Carol nodded. “There’s an index of sorts taped to the bottom of the box,” she said quietly. “It con­tains names and dates. Matching codes have been inked into the labels of each pair of panties. I guess he must have been afraid the toll might one day go so high that he’d forget which panties belonged to which victim.”

  Joanna swallowed hard. “Eight. How could there be so many?”

  “Scary, isn’t it,” Carol said. “Number six was Se­rena Grijalva. Seven was Rhonda Weaver Norton. Leann Jessup is listed as number eight, except she didn’t die. Once we finish examining all the trace evidence, I’m pretty sure we’ll find that Dave Thompson didn’t commit suicide.”

  “Larry killed him, too? Why?”

  “I think so. This morning, before I went looking for Madeline Bellerman, I went by the hospital to see Leann Jessup. I ended up talking to her friend, Kimberly George.”

  “Her ex-lover, you mean.”

  “Current, not ex,” Carol returned. “Kimberly told me that after she saw you on the news with Leann, she realized she was wrong, that she wanted to get back together.”

  “When she saw the two of us?” Joanna echoed. “But I’m not—”

  “I know,” Carol said. “Don’t worry about it. I told Kimberly that this morning. But on Wednes­day evening, Kim evidently stopped by Leann’s room on the
APOA campus to see if they could patch things up. I don’t know how explicit their reconciliation was, but I think Larry Dysart saw what was happening. He saw one more chance to add to his collection, this time with a deceased Dave Thompson holding the bag.

  “I’d like to think that it wouldn’t have worked, that we would have been smarter than that. And I think Larry was beginning to fall apart. That’s what happens to guys like that. They convince themselves that they’re all-powerful and that the cops are too stupid to figure it out. They kill at shorter and shorter intervals until finally their fuses blow.”

  Another long silence fell between the two women. “Who were the others?” Joanna asked fi­nally. “Were they all from around here?”

  Carol shook her head. “I believe we’ll find they’re from other parts of the country and that the mur­ders took place over a number of years. Larry Dy­sart knocked around some, working pickup jobs here and there. We’re currently checking with other jurisdictions where he either lived or traveled. Only one other case—number five—for sure happened anywhere around here. When that victim died, her death was listed as natural causes. You’ll never guess who that one was.”

  “Who?” Joanna asked, wanting to know and yet feeling a sense of dread as she waited for Carol’s answer.

  “Emily Dysart Morgan,” she said. “Larry’s mother. She was an Alzheimer’s patient right here in Peoria. She disappeared from a nursing home during a rainstorm in the dead of summer four years ago. Everyone assumed she had died of natural causes and had been washed down the Agua Fria. Her body was never found. Until today.”

  “Today?”

  Carol Strong nodded, her mouth grim. “Today wasn’t the first time Larry used Tommy Tomp­kins’s vapor-barrier-wrapped bomb shelter. With Jenny and Ceci, it didn’t work, thank God, but with Larry’s mother, I’d say it did.”

  Butch Dixon came around the bar. “Are you off duty now?” he asked Carol Strong.

  “Yes.”

  “What can I get you to drink, then? It’s on the house.”

  “Whiskey,” Carol Strong said. “Jack Daniel’s straight up.”

  By Sunday afternoon, as the Bradys were packing up to go back to Bisbee, Joanna already knew that the remainder of her APOA session would be post­poned until after the first of the year. “So why can’t you come home today?” Jenny insisted.

  “Because I need to pick up my stuff from the dorm,” Joanna answered. “And that won’t be available until tomorrow morning. Not only that, Dave Thompson’s funeral is scheduled for tomorrow af­ternoon. I should go to that.”

  “All right,” Jenny said. “But I wish you were coming with us today.”

  “So do I,” Joanna said.

  The next morning, Joanna had to pack twice—first to check out of the hotel and next to leave the dorm. Even so, the process didn’t take long. After closing up her own APOA room, Joanna helped Lo­relie Jessup pack up Leann’s things.

  “Will Leann be coming to the funeral this afternoon?” Joanna asked.

  Lorelie shook her head. “She wanted to, but the doctor says no. It’s still too early for her to leave the hospital.”

  “That’s probably just as well.”

  At noon, Joanna stood on the steps of the Mari­copa County Courthouse, watching from among the crowd while a newly released Jorge Grijalva emerged with his children. As the television cameras rolled, Joanna tried to slip away, but Ceci had spotted her. She dragged the man she knew as her father over to where Joanna was standing.

  “Thank you,” Jorge said.

  “You’re welcome,” Joanna answered. “Will the kids be going back to Bisbee with you?”

  Jorge shook his head. “Not right now. They’re in school. They’ll stay with their other grandparents, at least until the end of the year. It’ll all work out.”

  “Yes,” Joanna said. “I’m sure it will.”

  Four hours later, Joanna was part of a large con­tingent of police officers, both in and out of uni­form, who gathered respectfully in Glendale Memorial Park for Dave Thompson’s graveside fu­neral service. Listening to the minister’s laudatory eulogy, Joanna found herself wondering what the truth was about Dave Thompson. On the one hand, some of the cigarette stubs from the tunnel behind the mirrored walls were the same brand Dave Thompson smoked. But no one—Butch Dixon in­cluded—had ever seen Dave smoking inside.

  Had he been the one in the tunnel or not? If Larry Dysart had been smart enough to plant evidence in Jorge’s pickup, he might also have planted the incriminating cigarette stubs. But there was no way to know for sure. Not ever.

  Toward the end of the service, Joanna watched the mourners. There was an elderly couple—probably Dave’s parents—and then two children—a boy and a girl—who were evidently Dave’s kids.

  The program provided by the mortuary listed among Dave’s survivors his children, Irene Danielle and David James Thompson. The girl looked to be a year or so older than Jenny, while the boy was maybe a year or so older than that.

  The funeral was over and Joanna was almost ready to leave when she saw the boy standing off by himself. Despite the warm afternoon sunshine he stood with his shoulders hunched as if to ward off the cold. He looked so lost and miserable that Joanna couldn’t walk past without speaking to him.

  “David?” she asked tentatively.

  He turned toward her, his face screwed up with anguish. “Yes?” he said, and then quickly looked away.

  Studying him, Joanna found that David James Thompson resembled his father. He couldn’t have been more than twelve, but he was almost as tall as Joanna. His sport coat, although relatively new, seemed to be several months too small. His tie was uneven and poorly knotted. Searching for something comforting to say, Joanna felt the lump grow in her throat. Tying ties properly is something boys usually learn from their fathers.

  “I’m Joanna Brady,” she said, holding out her hand. “I was one of your father’s students at the APOA.”

  David Thompson looked at Joanna. “Was he a good teacher?” he asked. “At home we never heard any good stuff about him, only bad.”

  “Your father wasn’t an easy teacher,” Joanna answered. “But sometimes hard ones are the best kind. He was teaching us things that will help us save lives.”

  “I wish I’d had a chance to get to know him,” David Thompson said. “Know what I mean?”

  “Yes,” Joanna said. “I certainly do.”

  On the third of January, Joanna returned to Peoria to complete her interrupted session at the APOA.

  When she checked into her dormitory room—the same one she’d been assigned to before—she was relieved to discover that, under the auspices of an interim director, the mirrored walls had all been replaced with plaster-coated wallboard. The door leading into the tunnel along the back of the dorm no longer existed. The opening had been stuccoed shut.

  After unpacking, Joanna climbed back in her Blazer and drove to the Roundhouse Bar and Grill. Carrying a bag full of Christmas goodies, she walked into the bar.

  Butch Dixon grinned when he saw her. “The usual?”

  “Why not?” she asked, slipping onto a stool. “How are the hamburgers today?”

  Butch waggled his hands. “So-so,” he answered. “I’m breaking in a new cook, so things are a little iffy.”

  “I’ll try the Roundhouse Special, only no Ca­boose this time. I’ve had enough sweets for the time being.”

  Butch wrote down her order. “How’s your new jail cook working out?” he asked.

  “Ruby’s fine so far,” Joanna answered. “She got out of jail on the assault charge one day, and we hired her as full-time cook the next. The inmates were ecstatic.”

  “I only hope mine works out that well,” Butch returned.

  Joanna pushed the bag across the bar. “Merry Christmas.”

  “For me?”

  Joanna nodded. “Better late than never,” she said.

  One at a time, Butch Dixon hauled things out the bag. “Homemade flour torti
llas. Who made these?” he asked.

  “Juanita Grijalva,” Joanna answered. “She says she’ll send you some green corn tamales the next time she makes them.”

  “Good deal,” Butch said, digging deeper into the bag. There were four kinds of cookies, a loaf of homemade bread, and an apple pie.

  “Those are all from Eva Lou,” Joanna explained “I tried to tell her that since you own a restaurant you didn’t need all this food. She said that a restaurant’s the worst place to get anything home made.”

  Butch grinned. “She’s right about that.”

  From the very bottom of the bag, Butch pulled out the only wrapped and ribboned package. Tear­ing off the paper, Butch Dixon found himself hold­ing a framed five-by-seven picture of a little blond-haired girl in a Brownie uniform standing behind a Radio Flyer wagon that was stacked high with cartons of Girl Scout cookies.

  “Hey,” he said. “A picture of Jenny. Thanks.”

  “That’s not jenny,” Joanna corrected. “That’s a picture of me.”

  “You’re kidding! I love it.”

  “Marliss Shackleford doesn’t care for it much,” Joanna murmured.

  “Who’s Marliss Shackleford?”

  “The lady who received the other copy of this picture, only hers is much bigger. Eleven by fourteen. I gave it to her to use in a display at the Sher­iff’s Department. It’s going up in a glass case along with pictures of all the other sheriffs of Cochise County. If you ever get a chance to see it, you’ll recognize me right away. I’m the only one wearing a Brownie uniform.”

  “I’ll bet it’s the cutest picture in the bunch,” Butch said.

  “Maybe you’re prejudiced,” Joanna observed with a smile. “My mother doesn’t think it’s the least bit cute. She says the other pictures are serious, and mine should be, too.”

  “Speaking of your mother,” Butch said. “How did your brother’s visit go? You sounded worried about it when I talked to you on the phone.”

  “It was fine. He and his wife came in from Washington, D.C. It’s the first time I’ve ever met my sister-in-law.”

  “What are they, newlyweds?” Butch asked.