Joanna Brady 01 - Desert Heat (v5.0)

by J. A. Jance

  “Yes.”

  “I usually take Wednesday afternoons off. If I had thought your husband’s condition was that critical, I never would have left the hospital. That’s why I wasn’t there when your husband’s status deteriorated so rapidly. Now, I’m trying to make sense of what happened.”

  “They scheduled an autopsy,” Joanna said.

  “I know. Actually, I’ve already seen it. The preliminary results are inconclusive. With the kind of extensive injuries your husband sustained, I would have expected to find a stray blood clot that had come loose and made its way to either the heart or lungs, but the medical examiner found nothing of the kind. She’s ordered a full battery of toxicology tests, but those take time.”

  “Toxicology?” Joanna asked. “Why that?”

  “Because,” he answered, without really addressing the question. “The reason I’m calling you right now,” he continued, “is to see if you noticed any change in your husband’s condition the last time you saw him.”

  “No. None. I was away from the hospital, too, when it happened. Have you spoken to the other doctor?”

  “What other doctor?” Sanders demanded sharply.

  “The one who stopped by just before Andy went into cardiac arrest. My mother said he told her everything was fine.”

  There was dead silence on the other end of the line. “Mrs. Brady,” Dr. Sanders said slowly. “I have your husband’s chart right here in front of me. There’s no indication of a doctor’s visit after my last rounds at 11:30 A.M. just before I left for the day. Did your mother mention a name?”

  “No, but she did say she talked to him when he came back out to the waiting room. He told her there wasn’t anything to worry about.”

  “Has she spoken to the police about this?” Dr. Sanders asked.

  “The police? Why would she?”

  “She’d better,” Dr. Sanders said quietly. “Someone posing as a doctor would explain a lot.”

  “What are you talking about?” Joanna asked.

  “As I said, we can’t be positive until after the toxicology report, but once you’ve seen one or two O.D.’s you know what they look like.”

  “O.D.,” Joanna repeated. “As in drug overdose? How could that be? You mean someone accidentally administered the wrong thing?”

  “I’m not saying anything of the kind,” Dr. Sanders returned. “This so-called doctor your mother told you about wasn’t a doctor at all.”

  The room spun around her. Joanna gripped the counter top in order to maintain her balance. “He was an imposter then?”

  “Yes. I don’t know about the bullet wound. I’m saying that I think there’s a good possibility you were right. Those powder burns on your husband’s hand and fingers may or may not have been faked, but at the time of his death, your husband was in no condition to self-administer a lethal dose of anything.”

  “You’re saying he was murdered after all,” Joanna managed.

  “Damn right!” Dr. Sanders returned forcefully. “To be perfectly frank, Mrs. Brady, my initial interest in the autopsy was strictly from a medical malpractice standpoint. A patient was dead and I wanted to know, for my own benefit, if I was in any way liable. But after our conversation I wanted to call you right away and let you know what’s going on. I would imagine the Tucson police will attempt to get in touch with your mother.”

  “I’m sure they will,” Joanna agreed.

  When she hung up the phone, Joanna didn’t waste a moment before dialing her mother’s number herself, but there was no answer. Eleanor Lathrop was already up and gone. Joanna was disappointed, but there was one small consolation. If she couldn’t find her mother, neither could the Tucson police.

  Eleven

  AFTER A virtually sleepless night, Angie Kelllogg staggered out of bed. She didn’t want to be anywhere near Tony when he woke up. She didn’t want him to touch her.

  Angie was a survivor. She had avoided the pitfalls of drug use, not out of some sense of superior morality but because she saw for herself, time and again, that drug-using hookers died with astonishing regularity. And so far, she had managed to elude AIDS as well. Tony had insisted on having her tested before he’d take her to bed. Once he’d reassured himself that she was clean, he’d taken steps to make sure she stayed that way. It was funny that a cold-blooded killer would himself be so frightened of death. This morning Angie Kellogg wished she could give him a good healthy dose of clap just to get his attention.

  On her part, she had allied herself with Tony Vargas when he was the only way out of what would otherwise have been a life-or-death situation. And now, ten months later, here she was in another one.

  The day before, when Tony had left the house after watching the noon news, Angie had guessed what he’d be about. Now, knowing for sure, she was sick with revulsion. And fear. She wasn’t sure of all the legal ramifications, but she was convinced that somehow, by knowing and keeping silent, the law would deem her an accomplice, if not before the fact then certainly after.

  If the cops ever did manage to catch Tony and charge him, if Tony took a fall, so would she. When it came to dead cops, she knew she’d be sucked into the vortex right along with Tony. In fact, out of sheer spite, Tony would probably drag her down right along with him.

  But fear of Tony and fear of the consequences weren’t all that had kept her from sleeping. The other cause of her insomnia was guilt, the sure knowledge that by doing nothing, by not acting on her suspicions, she had played an unwitting part in the death of that sheriff’s deputy.

  After the terrible things her father had done to her, Angie had both blamed and hated herself. She had allowed self-condemnation to become the central issue of her life, distorting and dictating her every action, but compared to what she felt now, Angie’s previous self-hatred had been little more than a child’s puny effort. Nothing in her whole life had shamed her the way Andrew Brady’s death did. He was dead because of her, and Angie Kellogg was suddenly drowning in self-loathing.

  Pulling on her robe, Angie hurried to the vestibule. For an extra tip from Tony each month, the paper boy dropped their newspaper directly through the otherwise unused mail slot beside the front door. Angie retrieved the newspaper, then hurried toward the kitchen, reading as she went.

  The latest crisis in the Mideast had bumped the Andrew Brady story off the front page, but it still had plenty of play. She read every word of the three-column article, trying to understand exactly what had happened. Angie was startled to realize that Andrew Brady’s newly widowed wife, whose tenth anniversary had been the day before his death, was only a few years older than she was. The newspaper reported that they had a nine-year-old daughter. Knowing that only made Angie feel worse.

  After reading the paper, she carefully put it back together and returned it to its place in the vestibule. It was better for her if Tony didn’t realize she actually read newspapers in general and today’s in particular.

  Feeling anxious and ill at ease, Angie meandered into the living room. The two road-runners were out cavorting in the back yard, but today she paid no attention. For weeks she had beguiled the time with half-formed daydreams about the kind of house she’d buy for herself some day, if she ever got the chance. Not one like this one, huge and spacious and uncaring where everything—from linens to silverware—was included in the rental. This place was elegant but impersonal in the same way hotel rooms were, and Angie had had a bellyful of hotel rooms.

  Angie wanted out of the life, permanently, and she wanted something more besides—a place of her own, small but cozy, with dishes and furniture and curtains that all carried her own particular stamp on them. She’d put up bird feeders all over the backyard—a yard with a single tall, shady tree. And she’d plant a garden, one thick with flowers and vegetables both.

  Except, today she couldn’t summon the daydream. Joanna Brady—the wife of the dead deputy—hadn’t bothered Angie when she didn’t know about her existence, but now she could think of nothing else. Andrew Brady was
dead at thirty-two, Joanna Brady was a widow at twenty-seven, and it was all Angie’s fault.

  She sat there now, staring blindly out the window, struggling with her conscience and with what she should do. Her problem now was twofold. Not only would she have to escape Tony, but she would have to elude the law as well. And whatever she did, it had to be soon. She had checked in the closet, had opened the latest briefcase she found there and seen the money. Getting away from Tony would take money, but those money-filled briefcases didn’t stay in the closet for more than a few days at most, once they appeared. So speed was essential as far as the availability of money was concerned.

  It was also the key to survival. Angie understood that if Tony had even the slightest glimmer that she knew the truth about him, that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill her. Every time he looked at her, she was petrified that her face would somehow betray her, giving away to him the thoughts she meant to keep hidden in her head.

  If she was going to get away, it would have to be soon, before Tony learned her secret, while she could still take his money and use it as a grubstake. But regardless of how much money there was, she doubted there would ever be enough for her to get away from him completely. The only way he’d ever leave her alone was if he was dead or in jail. Dead didn’t seem likely, and thugs like Tony got out of jail all the time. And as soon as he got out, she knew he’d be after her. He’d be vicious as a bulldog, and just as relentless. She didn’t dare think about what he’d do if he ever caught her.

  If she did come up with a plan for getting away, she’d have to come up with a foolproof plan for getting rid of Tony as well. She couldn’t see herself holding a gun on him and pulling the trigger, but she needed something every bit as permanent as a well-placed bullet, something that wouldn’t land her in jail as well.

  “Angie,” he bellowed from the other room. She jumped as though she’d been shot. He was awake early and wanting her. Lost in thought, she hadn’t even heard the click of the cigarette lighter.

  “Did you start the coffee?”

  “Not yet. I will in a minute.”

  “Bring me the paper,” he ordered, “and turn on the TV set in here. I wish to hell I’d asked for that television repairman to come today instead of Saturday. This worthless little set sucks. It’s so goddamned small a man could go blind just trying to see what’s on it. And hurry up with the coffee.”

  Finished organizing her list, Joanna had started to gather her keys and purse when Sadie, her canine early-warning system, began to bark. Joanna checked outside just in time to see two Cochise County sheriff’s vehicles stopping in front of her gate. Two men walked toward her back door—Chief Deputy Richard Voland and Ernie Carpenter, Cochise County’s chief homicide detective.

  Joanna knew Dick Voland pretty well. Not so Ernie Carpenter. Around the department he had the unenviable reputation of being an unbending, humorless prig who nonetheless usually got his man. In a world of bola ties and Stetsons, he was the only officer on Walter McFadden’s staff who consistently showed up for work wearing knotted ties and three-piece suits.

  Andy hadn’t particularly liked the man, and neither did Joanna. Aloof and rigid, a stickler for rules, Carpenter seemed to hold himself above it all, from interdepartmental politics to volleyball games at the annual picnic at Turkey Creek. Moments earlier, Joanna might have dreaded seeing Detective Carpenter, but now, full of this latest bit of information from Dr. Sanders, she was eager to tell what she knew. Quieting the noisy dog, she closed Sadie in Jenny’s room and then hurried back to the kitchen to open the door.

  “Good morning, Joanna,” Voland said, politely tipping his hat. “Hope we’re not catching you at a bad time.”

  “No. Come on in.”

  From the distressed looks on their faces, it was apparent that neither one of the officers relished the coming encounter. The death of a fellow officer was always hard on all concerned. Thinking it would ease the situation, Joanna blurted out her news from Dr. Sanders. “Andy’s surgeon from Tucson just called. He told me he thinks Andy was murdered.”

  To her surprise, neither Carpenter nor Voland seemed much interested in her news. “Really,” Carpenter mused. “What makes him say that?”

  “He saw preliminary results from the autopsy. They don’t have a toxicology report yet, but Dr. Sanders seems to think Andy died of a possible drug overdose, that someone slipped Andy something lethal right there in the hospital under everyone’s very noses.”

  Carpenter shook his head and smiled indulgently. “That’s all very interesting, Joanna. Sounds like something straight out of a soap opera to me, but we have to take these things one step at a time. We need to ask you a few questions if you have time.”

  She nodded. Looking at the two burly men looming over her in the kitchen, Joanna knew they wouldn’t be well suited to the tight-fitting benches of the breakfast nook. “Come on into the dining room,” she said.

  As they seated themselves around the table, Dick Voland seemed especially uncomfortable. “I hate to bother you at a time like this. I’m sure you’re real busy today, but since we couldn’t visit with you yesterday…”

  “It’s all right,” Joanna assured them, determined to be cooperative and do what she could to help. “I understand you’ve got your jobs to do. And after talking to Dr. Sanders, I’m ready to talk. Would anybody like coffee?”

  Both men shook their heads in silent unison. Their joint refusal unnerved her a little. It wouldn’t have hurt them to observe some social niceties, and it puzzled Joanna that they both seemed to give so little credence to Dr. Sanders’ mind-boggling news.

  “What’s really going on?” she asked.

  “Suppose we cut directly to the chase, Joanna,” Ernie Carpenter said at once. “Can you tell us where Andy was weekend before last?”

  She answered without hesitation. “Payson. Outside of Payson, actually, visiting with a friend. Floyd Demaris is his name, but everyone calls him Pookie. He and Andy graduated from the police academy in Phoenix together, but Pookie got shot while he was still a rookie. He’s in a wheelchair and back living with his folks. He always loved the outdoors. Once each September, before it got too cold, he and Andy would go camping.”

  “And, as far as you know, that’s what they did?” Detective Carpenter asked.

  “As far as I know?” Joanna echoed. “You’re saying Andy didn’t go there?”

  Sitting with a Cross ever-sharp pencil poised above a blank page in a meticulously kept notebook, Ernie Carpenter abruptly changed the subject. “How many guns did Andy own?”

  “Two,” Joanna answered. “The .38 Chief and his .357.”

  “So you’re aware he had two separate weapons?”

  “Of course, I’m aware of that,” Joanna returned shortly. “Guns were the tools of Andy’s trade. Those are the kinds of things married couples usually know about each other. He carried the .357 with his uniform and wore the Chief with civilian clothes because it’s so much smaller and easier to carry.”

  “So you would have expected him to take the Chief with him for the weekend rather than the .357?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Didn’t you find it odd that he always left one or the other of those two weapons in his locker down at the department?”

  “What’s odd about it?” Joanna asked.

  Carpenter looked her right in the eye. “I take mine home,” he said.

  “Do you have any little children at home?” she returned.

  “Not anymore.”

  “We do. The day Jennifer was born Andy spent most of the day in the waiting room of the County Hospital with the distraught parents of a little girl who’d been playing with her father’s pistol. Remember that?”

  Both officers nodded. “She died, didn’t she?” Detective Carpenter asked.

  “That’s right, she did. And it made quite an impression on Andy and me. He always said keeping track of one handgun was trouble enough. He didn’t want to risk having two in the house at the sam
e time. None of this was exactly a state secret, so why all the questions about Andy’s guns? What do they have to do with the price of peanuts?”

  Carpenter dropped his gaze as he made a quick notation in his notebook. “I’m sure you’ve heard by now about Lefty O’Toole’s death, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “We have the ballistics tests back,” Carpenter continued. “We’ve confirmed that Lefty was shot with bullets fired from Andy’s .357. We’re estimating time of death as some time the weekend before last. That’s only a best-guess estimate, nothing definitive.”

  “That’s when Andy was in Payson,” Joanna supplied.

  Ernie Carpenter raised his eyes and met Joanna’s. “He wasn’t,” the detective said. “Somebody else told us he was supposed to be there, so we did some checking. I’ve already spoken with Mr. Demaris. Andy called and canceled the trip late Thursday afternoon. He said something important had come up here at home and he wouldn’t be able to make it.”

  “But…” Joanna began.

  Detective Carpenter silenced her with a dismissive wave of his hand. “When he left here on Friday afternoon, did Andy say anything to you to the effect that he had changed his mind and was going somewhere else?”

  “No.”

  “And he stayed away the whole weekend, just as he would have if he really had made the trip to Payson?”

  Joanna’s stomach muscles tightened. Before, what she had heard about the investigation had been so much hearsay. Now there could be no doubt that Detective Ernie Carpenter was trying to implicate Andy in Lefty O’Toole’s death. As the questions droned on, the investigator continued to show absolutely no sign of interest in Dr. Sanders’ allegations.

  Hadn’t he listened to her? Maybe she hadn’t said it clearly enough.

  “How much do you know about your husband’s business dealings?” Carpenter went on. His questions were professional and gratingly dispassionate.

  “I know everything,” Joanna maintained. “I keep the books. We sell a few head of cattle now and then. I can show you in black and white that what we make doesn’t amount to that much money.”