Devil's ClawJ

by J. A. Jance

  “Tell me about Catherine Yates,” she said, trying to change the subject. “If she didn’t bother to mention that her daughter was being released from prison, she wasn’t exactly being forthright with you. What’s her story?”

  “I don’t know. She’s an Indian—part, anyway. Apache, I believe. She told me that her granddaughter has lived with her for several years. She implied there was some kind of family problem—a sticky divorce or something. But when I asked if Lucy might have gone off to live with her father, she said that wasn’t possible. That he wasn’t in the picture.

  “Here’s the turnoff to her place,” Frank added, switching on the turn signal.

  “Wait,” Joanna said. “Stop here a minute and let me check something.”

  Obligingly, Frank pulled over next to a mailbox on top of a leaning wooden post and put the Ford in neutral. Meanwhile, Joanna plucked Frank’s radio microphone out of its clip and thumbed the “talk” button.

  “Larry,” she said when the dispatcher’s voice came through. “When Pima County sent down the information on that stolen Lexus, did they include a rap sheet on Sandra Ridder?”

  “Sure did.”

  “Does it say what she went to prison for?”

  “Man-one. Sentenced to ten years and served almost eight.”

  “Does it say who she killed?”

  “Yup, her husband, one Thomas Dawson Ridder.”

  “Thanks, Larry,” Joanna told him. “That’s a big help. What about a mug shot?”

  “We’ve got one of those, too.”

  She glanced at Frank. “Is your wireless fax working?”

  Frank Montoya had spent months and several thousand drug-enforcement dollars turning his Crown Victoria into a fully equipped mobile office.

  He nodded.

  “Fax everything you have to Frank’s computer.”

  “Will do, Sheriff Brady,” Larry Kendrick replied. “But it’s going to take a couple of minutes. I’m here by myself and another call is just coming in.”

  “Take your time, Larry,” she told him. “No rush.”

  Putting the microphone down, Joanna turned back to Frank. “Being dead is a damned good reason for the father not being in the picture,” she said. “So what do you think is going on?”

  “This is how it looks to me.” Frank held up one hand and began ticking off his fingers. “On the surface of it, it’s easy to say that a marauding band of UDAs is responsible for whatever went on back there and let it go at that. But I’ve got a different idea. How does this sound? First Mommy whacks Daddy, and somebody sees to it that Mommy goes to prison. Later Mommy gets out of prison. As soon as she does, somebody whacks her. Immediately prior to that or else immediately thereafter, Baby Daughter disappears. Sounds to me like one way or the other, we’ve got a whole new set of reasons to go looking for Lucinda Ridder. Either she’s a victim, too, or else she’s something a whole lot worse.”

  Sighing, Joanna leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. “Let’s go. By the time we finish talking to Catherine Yates, we’ll have what we need from Dispatch. In the meantime, I have to say, I hope to God you’re wrong. I don’t want to be stuck tracking down some nice, gun-wielding fifteen-year-old.”

  “That’s funny,” Frank said.

  “What’s funny?”

  “That’s exactly what Catherine Yates told me earlier this afternoon about Lucinda. She said Lucy’s a nice girl.”

  “Right,” Joanna returned sarcastically. “I’ll just bet she did. That’s what grandmothers always say—that their particular little darlings are nothing but sweetness and light. I’ll bet if someone had asked Lizzie Borden’s grandmother, she probably would have given the exact same answer: She would have said, ‘Little Elizabeth’s an adorable child. She’s just as nice as you please and wouldn’t hurt a fly if her life depended on it.’ “

  CHAPTER 7

  As soon as Frank’s Crown Victoria pulled into Catherine Yates’ yard, the porch light snapped on and the front door slammed open. A stocky woman in blue jeans and a flapping denim shirt came hurrying off the front porch of a tiny square house.

  “Did you find her?” she demanded of Frank Montoya as he rolled down the driver’s window.

  “No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m sorry to report that we still haven’t found your granddaughter. I’ve brought Sheriff Joanna Brady along with me, Ms. Yates. She and I need to talk to you for a few minutes. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Joanna stepped out of the car and went around to the other side, offering her hand. “How do you do, Ms. Yates.”

  Catherine Yates’ work-hardened fingers closed around Joanna’s with a surprisingly gentle touch. “Nice to meet you,” she said grudgingly. “I guess I didn’t really expect that the sheriff herself would show up.”

  “I came because we need to speak to you about your daughter,” Joanna said.

  “About Sandra?” Catherine asked. “How come? My granddaughter’s the one who’s missing.”

  “You told Frank that you were expecting Sandra home soon. Is it possible that she and Lucinda took off together?”

  Asking the question, Joanna knew she was stalling for time, postponing the inevitable moment when she would most likely have to deliver the painful news. Joanna fully expected Larry Kendrick’s mug shot would confirm that Catherine’s daughter was dead. In the meantime, asking questions was an acceptable delaying tactic. Even so, if Sandra was the victim, the awful task of telling Catherine Yates that her daughter was dead couldn’t be put off indefinitely. Notifying bereaved next of kin was Sheriff Joanna Brady’s job—part of it, anyway.

  Behind her, Frank switched off his Crown Victoria—his Civvie, as he preferred to call it—and emerged into the chill early evening air.

  “No,” Catherine Yates was saying. “That wouldn’t have happened. Lucy wouldn’t have gone anywhere with her mother.”

  “How can you be sure of that?” Joanna asked. “Her mother’s been away for some time. Doesn’t it stand to reason that she’d be glad to see her?”

  Catherine Yates simply shook her head and said nothing.

  “All right, then,” Joanna said with a sigh. “Why don’t you tell us what you know about your daughter’s recent whereabouts.”

  Catherine glanced warily at Frank Montoya before she answered. “I heard from Sandra just yesterday afternoon,” she said. “Sandy called from Tucson and told me she had been released. She said she was spending last night in Tucson with a friend. I told your deputies that earlier. I expect her home sometime today or tomorrow.”

  “What friend?” Joanna asked.

  “A friend, that’s all.”

  “Look, Ms. Yates, I’m sure this is all terribly painful for you to discuss. Otherwise you would have told Chief Deputy Montoya the whole story earlier. We already know that your daughter was released from prison yesterday afternoon, so it’s no secret. Just tell us. Have you heard from her since then?”

  Catherine Yates bowed her head. For a moment her face was obscured by a curtain of shoulder-length gray hair. Seeing her face in the dim glow of a yard light, it was easy to understand why Frank might have been in doubt about the woman’s ethnic heritage. She could easily have passed for either Hispanic or Indian, although there was clearly some Anglo blood mixed in as well.

  “No,” Catherine said finally. “Sandra hasn’t called me, and I haven’t tried reaching her, either. In fact, I’ve been dreading talking to her all day long—ever since I realized Lucy was gone. I didn’t want to be the one to have to tell Sandy that Lucy had run away.”

  “Who’s the friend?” Frank interjected. “The one Sandra’s supposed to be staying with?”

  Catherine bit her lip. “Her name’s Melanie Goodson, and she’s not much of a friend, if you ask me. She lives somewhere out on Old Spanish Trail. She was Sandy’s attorney years ago. She’s also the one who let that stupid plea bargain go through. I don’t know if she was lazy or what. I don’t think she even tried to take Sandy�
��s case to court. If she had, I’m sure my daughter would have gotten off. What happened between Sandy and her husband should have been ruled self-defense. He was abusive, and my daughter never should have gone to prison for manslaughter. After all, Tom Ridder beat her up. If I’d’a been her, I would have shot the son of a bitch, too.”

  Listening, Joanna remembered what Catherine had said earlier—about Lucinda Ridder not being willing to go anywhere with her mother. “How did your granddaughter feel about her father’s death?” Joanna asked.

  Catherine Yates was a stout woman. When asked that question, her broad shoulders seemed to shrink inside her shirt. She shook her head sadly. “Lucy loved her father,” Catherine said. “All she remembers is this tall handsome devil in his smart army uniform. I’ve tried talking to her about it, tried explaining that as far as Tom Ridder is concerned, looks weren’t everything. Tom looked a whole lot better than he really was.

  “But it’s like talking to a wall, Sheriff Brady, and it hasn’t done a bit of good. No matter what I say, Lucy still blames Sandy for her father’s death. You know how kids are. Once they get some wild idea in their heads, nothing short of an act of God is going to shake it loose.”

  “I take it Lucy wasn’t necessarily happy that her mother was getting out of prison?” Joanna asked.

  Catherine sighed and nodded. “Happy? I’ll say she wasn’t happy, not at all. Furious is more like it. In fact, we had a big fight about it just yesterday afternoon when Lucy came home from school. She told me that she had prayed every day that her mother would die in prison so she’d never have to see her again. I tried to explain how wrong and unforgiving that was. I told her there are two sides to every story, and that she needed to give her mother a chance to tell her side of it. Instead, Lucy blew up at me. She told me that she would never live in the same house with her mother, no matter what. She said that I’d have to choose between them—between Lucy or Sandy—because I couldn’t have both.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  In the glow of the porch light, Joanna saw Catherine’s eyes fill with glistening tears. “I told Lucy that mothers don’t work that way. That just because your child does something wrong, that doesn’t mean you wipe them off the face of the earth. It’s like Big Red and the kitten.”

  “Who’s Big Red?”

  “A hawk,” Frank Montoya supplied. “Remember? I told you about him. Big Red is Lucy’s pet hawk.”

  “A red-tailed hawk,” Catherine added. “Lucy found him when he was nothing but a half-dead hatchling—a tiny little thing who had fallen out of his nest. Lucy climbed up and put him back. She waited and watched, but the parents never returned. Finally, rather than leave him there to starve to death, she brought him home and took care of him.

  “For months we’d get up early several mornings a week and go find what we used to call fresh road-kill pizza. We’d drive along the highway between here and Elfrida or between here and the freeway and pick up whatever had been run over on the road overnight—rabbits, kangaroo rats, coyotes—and we’d give Big Red that for breakfast. Finally, though, he got big and strong enough to hunt for himself. And wouldn’t you know, the first thing he nailed was a newborn kitten—a kitten Lucy had her heart set on keeping. She was mad about it for days, but I told her that wasn’t fair. I told her that hunting is what hawks do to survive and that she was wrong to hold a grudge when Big Red was just doing what comes naturally.

  “Yesterday I tried to explain that what happened between her mother and father was the same thing that had happened between Big Red and the kitten. I told Lucy that Sandy did what she did to protect herself—to save her own life and Lucy’s.”

  “What did Lucy say to that?”

  “She said it was all a lie, that her father never hit anybody. After that, Lucy stormed off to her room and didn’t come out for dinner. This morning, when I got up, she was gone, along with her backpack, a bedroll, and some of her clothes.”

  “Was anything else missing?”

  “Some food from the kitchen, her bike . . .”

  “And?”

  Catherine bit her lip and didn’t answer.

  “What else?”

  “A gun,” Catherine answered reluctantly. “A twenty-two. It belonged to my husband. I keep it for protection—for snakes, that kind of thing.”

  “Does Lucy know how to use it?”

  “Yes. I taught her myself.”

  “Did you tell Frank earlier this afternoon that the gun was missing?”

  “No. I was afraid if I told him she was armed that it would keep people from looking for her.”

  It wouldn’t keep them from looking, Joanna thought. But they’d be a hell of a lot more careful while they were doing it.

  “What about Big Red?” Joanna continued. “Have you seen any sign of him today?”

  “No.”

  “So it’s possible he’s with her?”

  “Probable more than possible, I’d say,” Catherine answered. “The two of them spend most weekends together. They ride over to the Stronghold.”

  “Ride?” Joanna asked.

  “Oh, yes. Big Red rides on her shoulder or her handlebars. He’s done that since he was just a baby. When they get to the park, Lucy climbs up and down the cliffs and Big Red usually sticks around somewhere nearby. Out of sight, maybe, but not far away.

  “I tried to warn Lucy about that, by the way. There are so many other people hiking and camping up there that I told her it could be dangerous for him. I tried to explain that turning wild animals into pets is a bad idea because once they grow accustomed to humans, they may not be afraid when they ought to be. But of course, by the time I told Lucy that, it was already too late. And maybe it’s not as bad as all that. As far as I can tell, she’s the only person Big Red’ll have anything to do with. I can tell you, as soon as that bird catches sight of me, he flies off in a hurry.”

  “Does Lucy drive?”

  “No. She’s still too young to get a learner’s permit.”

  “So you don’t think Big Red would get into a vehicle with her?”

  “In a car? No. But on the bike, no problem.”

  “Which means, if the bird is with Lucy, then wherever they are, they most likely traveled there on foot or by bicycle.”

  Catherine Yates nodded, and Joanna turned to Frank. “What about Search and Rescue?” she asked.

  “They’re aware of the situation,” Frank replied. “By morning the twenty-four-hour waiting period will be up. I’ve made arrangements with Mike Wilson to have a Search and Rescue crew here by first light in the morning if Lucy hasn’t been found by then.”

  Joanna nodded. Departmental policy called for the passage of twenty-four hours before taking a missing-persons report or calling in Search and Rescue. There were exceptions to that rule, especially in the case of lost small children or wandering elderly Alzheimer patients. Lucy Ridder’s case fell in a gray area, unless she turned out to be a homicide suspect. In that case, all bets were off.

  “Do you happen to have recent photos of your daughter and granddaughter?” Joanna asked.

  “The one I have of Sandy is several years old, but I have last-year’s school picture of Lucy. Would that help?”

  “Very much,” Joanna said.

  “Well then,” Catherine Yates told her, “come on in. You might as well wait inside. It’s cold out here.”

  Joanna and Frank trailed after Catherine as she led the way onto the porch.

  “When are you going to get around to telling her?” Frank asked, under his breath.

  “After we have the fax with the mug shot in hand,” Joanna whispered back. “I’d like to have a little more confirmation on that stolen Lexus before I blow this poor woman out of the water.”

  Frank nodded. “Want me to go back to the car and wait for it? That way I can bring it inside as soon as it comes through.”

  “Right,” Joanna said, then she followed Catherine Yates into the living room of her tiny square-shaped house.
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  Joanna recognized the design. Larry Yarnell Homes, an early edition of modular housing, had been marketed in the late sixties and early seventies as a relatively inexpensive form of pre-fab housing—one step up from mobile homes and one step down from permanent frame construction. Because they were less costly to build, Larry Yarnell Homes had sprouted like weeds in rural southern Arizona. Now, almost forty years later, most of those houses had outlived their useful lives. Made of generally shoddy materials, some were little more than moldering, burned-out hulks. This one, however, had clearly been well cared for and kept in good repair.