Joanna Brady 01 - Desert Heat (v5.0)

by J. A. Jance

  All her life she had lived in a small town, insulated from some of the harsher realities of life in other places. But this past week violence had touched her life and home. Her husband was dead, murdered, and she was going to meet with a woman, a stranger, who claimed to know Andy’s killer. Clayton Rhodes had given her a gift, a weapon, an equalizer, that could help deal with any number of unexpected contingencies. Could she, in good conscience, afford to thumb her nose at his gift?

  Shaking her head, Joanna went back to the desk, extracting the key from her pocket as she did so. Once the loaded .44 was out of the drawer, she stuck it into her purse which, in its own way, was every bit as spacious as Molly Rhodes’s apron pockets. She was well aware that she had no permit to carry a concealed weapon, but, considering the circumstances, that was a risk she’d have to take.

  The gun had no more than disappeared into the purse when Jenny returned. “Grandma says she’ll stay, but she wants to know where you’re going.”

  The house was one of the old Sears Craftsman homes, a Somerset, that had come West by rail in the early teens—precut and premilled, ready to be assembled. By current standards, the two-bedroom house may have been small, but it did have both a front and back door. The front door was seldom used on a day-to-day basis, but it was available. Maybe the rules between Joanna and her mother still hadn’t changed all that much.

  Slinging the purse over her shoulder, Joanna headed for the front door with Jenny trailing along behind. “But you still haven’t said where you’re going,” the child objected.

  Joanna stopped, leaned down, and pulled Jenny to her in a brief but fierce hug. “Tell Grandma that I’m going out to see a man about a white horse.”

  Jenny frowned. “You’re going to buy a horse in the middle of the night?”

  Joanna laughed. “Not really. It’s what Grandma always used to tell me when I was your age.”

  “But what does it mean?”

  “It means that where I’m going is none of Grandma’s business.”

  With that, Joanna hurried out of the house. Sadie tried to follow, but Joanna shooed the dog back inside and locked the door. Not wanting to waste a moment, she ran to the Eagle, jumped in, and gunned the motor when she started it.

  The absolute irony of the situation wasn’t lost on Joanna Brady. Here she was, racing off to a clandestine meeting with a woman who had most likely been her husband’s mistress. Yet she was rushing to get there and feeling good about it besides, because Joanna knew instinctively that Tammy Sue Ferris or whatever her name was had the information Joanna wanted. At last she was going to get some straight answers, and answers, no matter how hurtful, were better than the terrible pain of not knowing, of being left totally in the dark.

  Rushing to her appointment, Joanna was in such a single-minded hurry that she didn’t even notice the car with its lights off that was parked a dozen yards or so north of the ranch turnoff on High Lonesome Road. And when she paused briefly at the stop sign at Grace’s Corner, if she saw the vehicle pull out of High Lonesome Road onto Double Adobe Road behind her to come racing after her, she didn’t pay any attention.

  She didn’t notice, but she should have.

  Eighteen

  MELVIN WILLIAMS, although a relative newcomer to Bisbee, had made it his business to meet as many of the townsfolk as possible. He and his wife, recent purchasers of the Copper Queen Hotel, were able to eke out a respectable enough living from that aging dowager of a place only so long as they did most of the work themselves. Melvin handled the front desk, Kitty managed the restaurant, and Gary, their son, ran the bar.

  As a result, Melvin himself was manning the front desk when Joanna Brady, after lucking into a parking spot directly out front, came dashing into the hotel. Instead of waiting for the creaking elevator, Joanna headed directly for the red-carpeted stairway.

  “Can I help you?” Melvin asked.

  Joanna shook her head. “I’m on my way to see Tammy Sue Ferris,” she said, hurrying by. “I already know the room number.”

  Halfway up the first flight of stairs, however, she looked up in time to see Adam York coming down. She stopped short, trying to conceal her confusion and dismay.

  It shouldn’t have been that much of a shock to find him there. After all, if the DEA agent was in town conducting an investigation, there weren’t many places to stay in Bisbee besides the Copper Queen. But how could she maintain any kind of composure in the presence of someone she was almost sure was a crooked cop and possibly a murderer besides? Not only that, if Tammy Sue became aware of York’s presence and identity, she might erroneously assume Joanna had brought him with her.

  “Hello, Joanna,” York said, cordially enough. “Were you looking for me?”

  Hardly, she thought. “An old friend came to town for the funeral,” she replied, thinking on her feet as she continued on up the stairs. “With all the other people around, this may be the only chance we’ll have to visit by ourselves.”

  “You still haven’t told me how you happened to know about those autopsy results,” York said from behind her. “Do you maintain some kind of private information line in and out of the sheriff’s department?”

  Joanna stopped at the landing, turned, and looked back down at him. “Why are you so interested in my sources, Mr. York? It seems to me you should be more interested in finding the person or persons who murdered my husband.”

  Melvin Williams looked around uneasily, hoping none of his other guests would overhear. This kind of conversation wasn’t exactly good for business.

  Adam York, however, didn’t seem the least concerned if the whole world listened in. “I understand your mother may have something to tell us in that regard, but I haven’t been able to locate her. You wouldn’t happen to know where we could find her, now would you?”

  Joanna studied the man, trying to assess who and what he was. What kind of secret, three-way connection had linked this man to Andy and Lefty O’Toole? Two of the three were now dead. Was Adam York also marked for death, or was he the one behind the other killings?

  Either way, Joanna didn’t much want him anywhere near either Eleanor or Jenny. To keep from betraying her real feelings, Joanna dredged up her best flip answer.

  “I’m not my mother’s keeper,” she said frostily and stalked on up the stairs. She listened for footsteps on the stairway behind her, but Adam York made no move to follow.

  With no further difficulty, Joanna located room 412 and knocked on the door. From inside she could hear the blare of a television set. She knocked again, more firmly this time. Finally the door opened to reveal a pajama-clad middle-aged man holding a can of beer in his hand.

  “Whadyya want?” he demanded.

  Joanna had not expected to find a man in room 412. “I’m looking for Tammy Sue Ferris,” she stammered uncertainly. “I was told this was her room.”

  “You were told wrong,” the man returned. “Nobody named Tammy’s in here,” and he slammed the door shut in Joanna’s face.

  Stunned, she stepped back and stood in the corridor, staring at the closed door in front of her, unsure how to proceed. Had she remembered the number wrong? And if she went back down to the desk to check with Melvin Williams, would Adam York still be in the lobby?

  Discouraged, she started back down the hall. As she walked past the next room, the door swung open and a woman stepped into the corridor. “Joanna?” Tammy Sue Ferris asked.

  Joanna nodded, and Tammy pulled her inside the room. “I was afraid someone might follow you.”

  With the makeup scrubbed off her face and with her mane of blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, Tammy Sue’s looks didn’t at all match up to Joanna’s expectations. Sandra Henning had described a regular harlot. This girl looked like someone barely out of high school.

  “No one followed me,” Joanna said, “but I ran into a DEA agent on the stairs. Adam York. Did you know he was here?”

  The golden tan on the woman’s face faded to white. “You didn’t tell h
im, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t tell him,” Joanna said. “I gave you my word.”

  “What’s he doing here then?”

  “Actually, he’s trying to find a way to pin my husband’s murder on me. You and I both know that’s not true, so let’s get down to business. If you want me to help work this deal, as you put it, then I’ve got to know what’s going on.”

  Joanna paused, gathering her courage before she asked the next question, dreading what the answer might be. “First of all,” she said slowly, deliberately, “tell me how you knew Andy.”

  The woman Joanna knew as Tammy Sue Ferris looked genuinely thunderstruck. “Your husband? I didn’t know him at all.”

  Joanna crossed her arms and stared implacably at the other woman. “Look, Cora. Let’s get one thing straight. If you want me to help you, you’re going to have to tell me the truth.”

  “Cora?” Angie echoed. “Who’s Cora?”

  “And while we’re at it, you’d better tell me about the money as well. I want to know where it came from. Otherwise, I’m walking out the door this very minute and calling Adam York. You can work out your own deal with the DEA.”

  Tammy Sue Ferris/Angie Kellogg sank down on the edge of the bed. This wasn’t the way she’d expected the meeting to go. She had thought Joanna Brady would be eager to work with her, that the woman would be eternally grateful for any kind of help in nailing her husband’s killer. But with the DEA lurking downstairs, and with Tony Vargas out there somewhere looking for her, Angie had to decide. Should she trust this angry red-haired woman standing there in front of the door asking crazy questions, or should she push her out of the way, bolt from the room, run like hell, and hope for the best?

  “Where’d the money come from?” Joanna was asking.

  Feeling trapped, Angie decided to quit lying. There didn’t seem to be any point. “I stole it,” she answered. “I stole it from Tony.”

  “I thought you told me you had evidence, something the cops wanted.”

  Angie shrugged. “I have that, too, but I took the money because I need a way to live until I can get a job. If I go to the cops and they find out about it, they’ll take the money away from me the same as Tony would.”

  “How much did you steal?”

  “Fifty thousand, I guess.”

  “And why’d you give ten of that to Andy?”

  “I didn’t give any of it to your husband,” Angie insisted forcefully. “How many times do I have to tell you? I never even met the man. How could I give him money? Besides, I didn’t steal it until after he was already dead.”

  Joanna felt as though she was spinning in dizzying circles. None of this made sense. She took a step closer to the other woman. “Your name’s not really Tammy Sue anybody, is it! Tell me your real name, lady, or I swear I’m out of here.”

  “Angie,” the woman replied. “My name’s Angie Kellogg.”

  “Not Cora?”

  “Not Cora.”

  “And where does this Angie Kellogg live?” Joanna asked sarcastically.

  “Tucson,” Angie replied dully. “At least that’s where I lived until yesterday.”

  “You’re lying. You live somewhere in Nevada.”

  “I’m not. I swear to God. What good would it do me to lie? I’ve been in Nevada only once in my whole life. Tony took me to Vegas. Wait, I’ll show you.”

  Angie got up, dragged a beach bag out of the closet, and rummaged through it until she found a small, worn book, a bird book. Opening it, she took out what appeared to be a postcard. It was a picture of two people standing in front of a horseshoe-shaped container, the inside back wall of which was covered with money.

  “That’s us,” Angie said, “Tony and me. We had our picture taken in Vegas at the Horseshoe.”

  She handed the picture over, and Joanna studied it. It was sepia rather than color or black and white, so colors were difficult to judge, but the man standing next to Angie matched Eleanor’s description—middle-aged, verging on heavy set, Hispanic features, and dark wavy hair.

  “May I keep this?” Joanna asked.

  Angie shrugged. “I don’t care. Anyway,” she continued, “I lived with Tony in Tucson until yesterday. And now he’s after me. He would have caught me, too, if some nice truck driver hadn’t given me a ride here.”

  “And why exactly did you come here? Was it just to see me?”

  Angie nodded and hung her head. “I thought we could figure out a way to catch him,” she said. “A way to put him in jail without me having to testify against him. And I have this book. Sort of a record book that Tony kept. I thought maybe somebody would want to buy it.”

  “Show it to me,” Joanna ordered.

  “I can’t,” Angie replied.

  “Why not?”

  “I left it in the safe at the desk, just in case,” Angie answered.

  “I’ll go down and pick it up,” Joanna offered.

  Angie shook her head. “No, I told him to only give it to me. If you didn’t tell the DEA guy about me, he won’t know who I am.” She got up and reached for the beach bag.

  “Oh, no,” Joanna said. “Leave that here. It’s my only guarantee that you’ll come back.”

  Tony Vargas had run into a stumbling block. Following the speeding Eagle into town, he was primarily concerned with closing the distance between the two vehicles as he came around a long, flat curve by an immense, dark hole in the ground that was actually an abandoned open-pit copper mine. Tony Vargas had no way of knowing that Bisbee locals had good reason for calling this particular stretch of Highway 80 “Citation Avenue,” but he was about to find out.

  “Fuck!” Vargas exclaimed, pounding the steering wheel when the flashing red lights came on behind him. As a professional, Vargas prided himself with never returning to the scene of the crime, but Angie’s theft of his precious book had forced him to break his own cardinal rule.

  Panicked, it was all he could do to keep from reaching for the gun he wore. He wanted to pull it out and blow the interfering son of a bitch of a cop off the face of the earth. Instead, cursing his own bad luck, he forced himself to calm down.

  He fumbled in the glove compartment to find the registration and extracted his driver’s license from his wallet. Tony Vargas had an unending supply of fake IDs, but he always kept one legitimate set of papers. It took effort to make sure the current set of paperwork—driver’s license, registration, and insurance forms—all checked out. Traffic cops liked it better that way.

  “Evening, sir,” the young police officer said cheerfully. “Mind stepping out of the car?”

  Vargas did as he was told. Concealing his inner turmoil, he did his best to remain affably contrite while the cop checked both his ID and registration. As far as the police officer was concerned, he, too, was equally agreeable.

  “You were doing eight over, so I’m only issuing a warning,” the cop said, as he set about writing it up. “We like tourists around here, and we want you to come back, but we also want our visitors to drive safely.”

  “You’re absolutely right, officer,” Tony Vargas replied with real conviction. “I won’t let it happen again.”

  When the cop finished, Tony thanked him politely then took his copy of the citation back to the car. Only when his hand was out of sight behind the car seat did he wad the paper up into a furious ball and drop it on the floorboard. Then, signaling carefully, and obeying every posted speed limit sign, Tony Vargas went hunting for Joanna Brady.

  He drove into the mouth of Tombstone Canyon, the bottom of what’s known as Old Bisbee. He followed the winding main drag up through the commercial district until businesses gave way to a residential area with houses stacked improbably on either side of the narrow street.

  She has to be here somewhere, Tony thought grimly. The town isn’t that big.

  A mile or so up the narrow canyon Vargas came to a wide spot in the road where he was able to make a careful U-turn around what was evidently some kind of statue. Then he retraced h
is route back down through the business district a second time. Most of the way the commercial area was no more than a single street wide. But this time, as he drove back down, he came to a level spot in the road where he could see another small section of business off to the left.

  Expecting to have to comb the entire area, he turned left and left again. And there it was—Joanna Brady’s Eagle—parked directly in front of a place called the Copper Queen Hotel.

  “Hot damn!” The Copper Queen was just the kind of place Angie would go, thinking she’d blend into the woodwork. What did that stupid bitch know about life in small towns?

  Vargas had to drive on up the one-way street before he, too, was able to find a parking place. Once parked, he didn’t approach the hotel directly. Instead, using a roundabout route, he made his way down to a small city park. From there he tried to reconnoiter. The hotel seemed to be three or four stories high with the entrance and lobby situated between a dining room on one side and a bar on the other. At ten o’clock there were only one or two late diners left in the dining room, but the bar seemed to be serving a modest crowd.

  The bar offered the best opportunity of getting inside the hotel without anyone noticing him, so Vargas gravitated in that direction. He had no way of knowing for sure if Joanna Brady was actually inside the hotel, and there was only a remote chance that Angie was there as well. The trick now was to find out for sure.

  After years of leading a charmed existence, Tony felt his life unraveling. He had meant to use that damn book as his own ace in the hole if he and his employers ever came to an unexpected and disagreeable parting of the ways. Now, though, by its very existence, the book had blown up in his face. If he didn’t get it back before it fell into the wrong hands, then Tony’s very survival would be in question. The cartel had plenty of other high-priced, hired killers, ones who were every bit as thorough as he was.