by J. A. Jance
Putting her roiling thoughts aside, Liza realized Chief Blakely was still talking. “Right now, the fire’s still too hot and the structure too unstable for us to send anyone inside to look for the cause. I’m sure the sheriff’s department will want to talk to you about this, and one of our fire inspectors will be reaching out to you as well. How should they get in touch?”
Liza reeled off her phone numbers—her cell and home numbers as well as the number at work.
“All right then,” Blakely said when she finished. “Again, sorry about this, and sorry about your mother, too.”
Liza nodded. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Having been dismissed, Candy took hold of her arm and led her back to the car. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you home, unless you’d rather come back to the restaurant. I’m sure there are still people there.”
Between the funeral and the fire, Liza was beyond crushed. Going back to the diner and having to break the bad news about the house to all the people who had invested so much time and effort in it was more than she could handle.
“Home would be better,” she said. “What am I supposed to say to all the guys who helped me? How can I face them?”
“I’ll tell them for you,” Candy said grimly. “After all, you’re not the one who burned the place down.”
“Let’s hope the insurance company believes that,” Liza added.
Twilight was ending as Candy turned the corner onto Liza’s tree-lined street. The neighborhood contained any number of older, larger homes, some of which had been converted into buildings with multiple-unit rentals. Liza was lucky in that her landlady, Olivia Dexter, a spinster who had inherited the family home, still occupied the two lower floors along with her two kitties and her extensive collection of hardback books. Olivia still had access to Liza’s apartment from inside the house, but she had converted what had once been a fire escape into a separate entrance that allowed Liza to come and go from her attic apartment with as little disruption of Olivia’s life as possible.
“You’ll be all right, then?” Candy asked as he parked his Impala across the street from the house. “You don’t want me to come up and stay with you for a while?”
“No,” Liza said. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for taking me out there. It would have been tough to do alone.”
“You’re welcome,” he said.
She got out of the car and watched as he drove away. It was only after the car had turned the corner and disappeared from sight that she looked up at her apartment and noticed that the lights were on. That was odd. It had been almost noon when she left to go to the funeral home. Because she didn’t have a separate meter on her apartment and because she knew Olivia was always struggling to make ends meet, Liza was conscientious about turning off the lights when she left for the day. As Selma Machett’s daughter, she was incapable of doing anything else.
If the lights were on in her apartment and if someone had been inside, there was probably a simple explanation. Maybe there had been a problem at the house that day—a leak in the new flashing on the roof during the afternoon rainstorm or maybe a blocked pipe—that had resulted in Olivia’s calling in a repairman of some kind. However, Liza was able to entertain that idea for only as long as it took her to walk up the driveway.
When she was even with the passenger door of her Nissan, she saw that the window had been broken. Even though the aging Nissan was unlocked, a brick had been thrown through the passenger-seat window. A layer of shattered glass covered the front seats. The paperwork from the glove box—her registration and insurance papers—was strewn on the floor. The mat on the floorboard, under which she kept a spare key to her apartment, had been lifted and pushed out of place. The spot where the key should have been was empty.
Shocked, Liza backed away from the car door without touching it while a wave of fear spread through her body. Someone had burned down her mother’s house during the funeral. Now it looked as though someone had let themselves into Liza’s apartment. For all she knew, they might have forced their way inside.
Liza studied the windows on the ground floor. Lights blazed throughout Olivia’s portion of the house, too, but that didn’t mean anything. Olivia spent most of her waking hours in a sitting room at the back of the house, reading or watching television. With her television set blaring, it was unlikely that she would have noticed the sound of breaking glass when the car window was smashed in the driveway out front.
Liza felt violated, so her first inclination was to charge up the stairs and order whoever had invaded her space to leave at once. After a moment, however, good sense prevailed. How many times had the unsuspecting heroine in a movie gone to the basement to check on something that wasn’t quite right even though everyone in the audience was yelling, “Don’t go in the basement”?
The women in the movies might not be smart enough to take the hint, but Liza was. She didn’t climb the stairs, and she didn’t step up on the front porch and ring Olivia’s doorbell, either. Instead, on shaking knees, she backed all the way across the street and then sank down onto the curb with her silhouette hidden behind the shielding bulk of an out-of-control laurel hedge.
Her hands shook violently as she dug in her purse for her cell phone. Once she had the phone in hand, her trembling fingers were so clumsy that it was almost impossible to dial. Eventually, on the third try, she connected with the emergency operator.
“Nine one one. What are you reporting?”
“I just got home from a funeral,” she said, whispering urgently into the phone. “Somebody broke into my car, and there are lights on in my apartment—lights I didn’t leave on. There’s a chance whoever did it may still be inside.”
“What’s your name, and what’s the address?”
Struggling to speak normally, Liza gave the operator the required information.
“Where are you right now?” the operator asked.
“I’m across the street and out of sight. A friend just dropped me off.”
“Stay right there,” the operator cautioned. “I’m summoning units right now. If you see someone coming out of the house, do not engage them in any way. If they drive off in a vehicle, try to get the make, model, and license plate number, but that’s it. Do not attempt to detain them, and do not try to follow them. Understand?”
“I understand,” Liza repeated.
She didn’t require much convincing. First her mother’s house had been torched, and now this. Liza was petrified—beyond petrified, especially with James Thurgard’s stern warning still ringing in her ears, the warning about the people who never forgot and never forgave. Apparently, they were now after her.
The operator came back on the line. “Are you still there, Liza?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Any sign of movement inside the house?”
Liza had been keeping an eye on the windows in her apartment. “None,” she said. “I haven’t seen anybody.”
“Stay put,” the operator advised. “Officers are on their way.”
Even as she spoke, Liza heard the sound of an approaching siren. Only after the patrol car stopped in front of the driveway and an officer stepped out did Liza emerge from her hiding place and hurry to meet him.
“Hi, Liza,” Bruce Schindler said at once. “How’s it going? You think someone’s broken into your place? Which one is it?”
Liza recognized Officer Schindler, too—corned beef hash, two poached eggs, whole wheat toast, coffee, tomato juice.
“Up there,” she said pointing. “When I left there this morning, none of those lights were on.”
“That’s Mrs. Dexter’s house, right?” he said. “I grew up in this neighborhood. Have you talked to her?”
“I was afraid to ring the bell. If whoever did it is still upstairs, I didn’t want to let them know that I was home.”
A second patrol car pulled up and stopped, and an officer named Michael Lundgren stepped out. He was someone who came into the restaurant occasionally. Liza re
cognized his face, but he wasn’t enough of a regular that she could recite his standard order.
“Okay,” Officer Schindler said. “You stay right here, Liza. Mikey and I will go check things out. Where’s the entrance?”
Liza pointed. “There’s an outside entrance on the far side of the house.”
As she said the words, Liza realized that if someone had come sneaking down the stairs and gone out the back way, she might not have seen them, even though she had been sitting right there. The house itself would have shielded them from view.
“Any other doors in or out?”
“There’s another stairway inside the house, just to the right of the front door. The door at the top of that, the one that leads into my apartment, is usually left unlocked so Olivia or workmen can get inside as needed.”
“All right then,” Officer Lundgren said. “Let’s go catch ourselves some bad guys. I’ll go up the outside stairs; Bruce, you keep an eye on that front door.”
The two of them set out at a trot while Liza melted back into the darkness to watch. Officer Lundgren made for the outside stairway. Bruce Schindler stationed himself just outside the front door in a spot where he’d be able to see into the vestibule through the sidelights. Behind her Liza heard doors opening and closing as curious neighbors up and down the street came out on their porches to see what was going on.
Eventually a shadow darted across one of the lit windows in her apartment. Sometime after that, Olivia’s front door opened and Lundgren stepped out onto the porch. For several long moments the two cops conferred, then they both disappeared into the house. Again they were gone for some time before reappearing on the front porch. As they came down the walkway toward her, Liza stepped back into view.
“Did you find anyone?” she asked.
Bruce Schindler nodded grimly. “Someone had been there, all right, but by the time we arrived he was long gone. When’s the last time you saw Olivia Dexter?” he asked.
“This morning,” Liza said. “She was working out in her garden when I was waiting for the mortuary limo to show up. She came over and apologized to me for not coming to the funeral. She has a phobia about funerals.”
“She won’t have to worry about that anymore,” Officer Lundgren observed.
“Why?” Liza asked. “What do you mean?”
“Because she’s dead,” he said. “Strangled, most likely. I found her at the top of the inside stairway leading to your apartment. She was right outside the door. She may have heard someone moving around up there and gone to investigate.”
“She’s dead?” Liza repeated numbly. “You’re sure? I can’t believe it. Someone murdered Olivia?”
As the world spun around her, Liza stumbled forward and leaned against the front fender of the nearest patrol car. Her legs gave way. If Bruce hadn’t moved quickly enough to catch her, she would have fallen. He opened the door and eased her into the backseat of the patrol car, where Liza sat with her teeth chattering and with her breath coming in short hard gasps.
“Mike’s calling for the homicide unit,” Bruce said. “Are you going to be all right? Should I call an ambulance?”
“No,” Liza managed at last. “Just let me sit here for a few minutes. I’ll be okay.”
CHAPTER 8
IT WAS THREE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON BEFORE JOANNA finally made it back to the Cochise County Justice Center. As she pulled into the parking lot, the presence of several media vans gave notice that her chief deputy, Tom Hadlock, was holding a press briefing.
Tom had once served as Joanna’s jail commander. When her former chief deputy, Frank Montoya, had been hired away to become chief of police in Sierra Vista, Joanna had tapped Tom to be her new chief deputy. What she hadn’t understood at the time was that although Tom was fine in one-on-one interactions, he was painfully shy when it came to any kind of public speaking. Since Joanna’s chief deputy also functioned as her media relations officer, that had been a problem. However, a year’s worth of Toastmasters training meant Tom was now in far better shape to field any and all media questions concerning Junior Dowdle’s death.
Joanna herself was happy to avoid the press by driving around back, parking in her reserved shaded spot, and ducking into the building through the private door that led directly into her office.
Kristin Gregovich, Joanna’s secretary, had placed the day’s worth of correspondence in several neat stacks on Joanna’s desk, organized in order of relative importance and urgency, with the topmost layer being the most critical. Joanna had spent most of the day riding herd on the Dowdle investigation. Now she had only a couple of hours in which to handle that day’s mundane paperwork so she could leave things in good shape for Tom over the weekend. She felt guilty about leaving him with such a full plate. When she and Butch had made plans to be out of town for three days, it hadn’t occurred to her that Tom would be in charge of an active investigation that might or might not turn out to be a homicide.
Joanna had barely started when Kristin poked her head in the door. “I thought I heard you come in,” she said. “Detective Howell is on the phone.”
Joanna picked up the handset. “Hey, Deb,” she said. “Any luck?”
“We had some luck, all right,” Deb Howell said, “all of it bad. Terry and Spike led Dave Hollicker and me all the way back to the Maxwells’ place, following the same trail Junior took. We found nothing at all along the way—no blood, no cigarette butts, and no footprints, either. At the last minute when we were almost back at the house, Dave slipped on some loose gravel and took a tumble. He’s either broken his ankle or sprained it. He’s on his way to the hospital to have it x-rayed. Terry’s driving. I’ve arranged for someone to come collect Dave’s car and take it back down to the motor pool.”
“Good thinking,” Joanna said, trying not to sound as exasperated as she felt. It was bad enough that she was going out of town and leaving Tom Hadlock in charge of the Dowdle investigation. Now, with one member of her two-person CSI unit on the disabled list, he would be working with one hand tied behind his back. As for Dave’s injured ankle? That meant her department was looking at a workman’s comp claim that would most likely generate mountains of paperwork.
“What about Casey?” Joanna asked. “Did she have a chance to dust for prints?”
“She did, and she found some, both inside and outside Junior’s room. When Dr. Machett finishes with the autopsy, we’ll have Junior’s prints. Casey will need to get elimination prints from both Daisy and Moe.”
“Be sure she collects a set of prints from Jason Radner, too,” Joanna suggested. “According to Moe, he sometimes palled around with Junior.”
“Will do. That should be easy enough since all three Radners are due at the department any minute.”
“They’re coming here?” Joanna asked.
“For all I know, they’re already there,” Deb replied. “I believe Ernie is. Matt Keller told Ernie that when he was interviewing the Maxwells’ neighbors first thing this morning, he got the feeling there was something slightly off about Jason, as though he knew more than he was saying. At the time Matt talked to him, it was early in the day, and he didn’t know Junior was dead. Ernie went ahead and scheduled an additional interview. I’m coming, too, and I’m only minutes away.”
“Are the Radners coming armed with an attorney?” Joanna asked.
“I can’t speak to that,” Deb replied, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if they do. If a cop working a homicide invited my son to drop by for a little heart-to-heart, I’d see to it that an attorney was present, just to be on the safe side.”
Joanna thought about Jenny. “I would, too.”
“One more thing,” Deb said. “What’s going on with the autopsy?”
“Dr. Machett has a conflict,” Joanna answered. “He’s out of town today and tomorrow, too. He says the autopsy can’t be done until sometime Saturday, but he didn’t specify an exact time.”
“We’re pulling out all the stops to work this case,” Deb mutte
red. “Wouldn’t it be nice if Guy Machett had the same sense of urgency?”
“Yes,” Joanna said. “It would indeed.”
Once she was off the phone, Joanna headed for the interview room. The OCCUPIED sign had already been turned over. Rather than going inside and interrupting the process, Joanna went into an adjacent room and turned on the audio/video feed. Jack and Lois Radner sat perched nervously on two of the molded plastic chairs that surrounded a small Formica table while their son slumped dispiritedly in the far corner. Next to him and on full alert was Burton Kimball, Bisbee’s leading criminal defense attorney. Ernie Carpenter, notebook open in front of him, sat diagonally across the table from Jason.
“You’d say that you and Junior were friends?” he asked.
“Sure,” Jason answered. “We played checkers and sometimes dominoes.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?” Ernie asked.
“Yesterday,” Jason replied with a shrug. “Yeah, last night when I took our garbage can out to the street. He was sitting on his porch.”
“Did you say anything to him? Exchange words?”
“Just, ‘Hey,’ I guess. We didn’t really talk. It was time for dinner. I had to get back inside.”
“Have you noticed any changes in Junior’s behavior recently?” Ernie asked.
“Look,” Jason replied. “I knew he was sick, with that old-timer’s disease.”
“You mean Alzheimer’s?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. So he had been a little different lately, but nothing really bad. Sometimes he would get sort of upset.”
“Like when he threw the checkers at you?” Ernie asked.
Jason shot a quick look in the detective’s direction, as though surprised that Ernie already knew about the thrown checkerboard.
“Yeah,” he said. “Like that.”
“Did Junior have any other friends besides you?” Ernie asked.
“I don’t know,” Jason said. “Maybe. I mean he knew people from his mom’s restaurant. They’re all sort of friends of his, right?”