by J. A. Jance
Gradually, though, pieces began to shift into focus, and you didn’t have to be a conspiracy nut to see it. There were the bad guys who had been hired to do the actual work, but Joanna remained more interested in the guy behind the scenes—the one issuing the orders while staying safely out of sight. It had to be someone with money, power, and, without a doubt, connections to banking and/or the U.S. Treasury Department. As for Cesar Flores himself ? Possibly. He had denied any knowledge of the coffee money alert, but he could have been lying.
Joanna’s phone rang, startling her. Frank Montoya’s name and number showed up on the screen.
“I found your phone,” he said when she answered. “It’s a burner, bought at a drugstore in Boston, Massachusetts, on Friday afternoon and activated that same day within ten minutes of the time stamp on the Treasury Department alert. One incoming call was placed to it. That number leads back to a bank in Gary, Indiana. At the time of the incoming call, the phone pinged off a cell tower in a town called Stockbridge, Massachusetts. Does that have anything to do with your case?”
“Not that I know of,” Joanna answered.
“What about Great Barrington?” Frank asked.
Joanna felt her heart speed up. “What about Great Barrington?” she asked.
“That’s the last place it pinged before it went dark. Cell tower 672. Downtown Great Barrington.”
“What time was that last ping?”
“Two thirty-five this morning,” Frank said. “It went off then and hasn’t come back on since. Someone probably pulled the battery.”
Joanna looked at the Clifford Small sheet. That was just after Clifford’s time of death and just before the 911 call came in, reporting the fire. As far as she could tell there were two possibilities: (1) the killers got what they wanted from Clifford and wouldn’t need to use the coffee money trail in their pursuit of Liza or (2) they had dropped the phone accidentally and the remains would be found in the ashes of Clifford Small’s burned-out house.
“Thanks, Frank,” she said. “Thank you more than you know. Send Dave Hollicker everything you can on that burner—where it was purchased, when, all of it. I’ll have Dave forward the information along to Amos Franklin, the homicide cop in Great Barrington. What about the e-mail?”
“That’s a little harder, but it’s also more interesting. I can tell you that it didn’t come from where it says it did, because the last IP address it bounced from is located somewhere in Poland.”
CHAPTER 22
AS JOANNA MADE HER WAY DOWN THE CORRIDOR, INTENT ON SEEING Dave Hollicker, Deb and Lyle Morton exited the interview room in front of her and turned in the opposite direction to return to the lobby. Lyle was busy regaling Detective Howell with a story about how people never believed him when he told them his tan line started at the tops of his boots.
“There were rattlesnakes all over the place when I bought the Whetstone twenty-five years ago, and they haven’t exactly moved on. So we always tell first-time arriving guests, they don’t have to go completely nude if they’re not comfortable that way, but everybody wears boots, no exceptions.”
That odd snippet of conversation gave Joanna pause. It sounded like a well-practiced comedy routine, and not something a grieving friend would say to a homicide cop investigating a good pal’s murder. Curious, Joanna went into the viewing room and reviewed the digital recording. She listened through the first several minutes of the tape that featured the usual kinds of questions: How long had Lyle known Guy? Lyle estimated that Guy had been visiting the Whetstone Mountain Retreat for eleven or twelve years. Joanna found that bit of information surprising. It meant that Guy had been coming to Cochise County since long before he came here to work as the M.E.
The whole time Joanna had known the man, Guy had complained about being stuck in the wilds of Arizona. She had assumed that meant he had arrived in Bisbee as a newcomer to the desert. Now she knew he wasn’t, and she wondered if Bisbee’s proximity to the Whetstone Retreat was one of the reasons he had accepted the M.E. job in the first place.
Doing some math in her head, she realized that he would have started visiting the nudist colony while he was still in medical school. She remembered that Dave had told her Guy had gone to school on a scholarship, so how could a poor scholarship student afford to take vacations at a pricey nudist colony on the far side of the country? Up to now, this whole thing seemed to be about money that had mysteriously turned up in the hands of Liza Machett. Now it occurred to Joanna that perhaps a similar sum of money had found its way into Guy’s hands as well.
Clearing the computer screen, Joanna went to the lab space at the far end of the corridor where her CSI unit held sway. With his crutches leaning against his desk, Dave Hollicker, alone in the office, was hunched over a desktop computer. He looked up at Joanna as she entered.
“Thanks for coming in when you could be out on the injured list,” she said. “How’s it going?”
“Plugging away,” Dave said. “Much to my surprise Guy’s e-mail records just came in. So far nothing jumps out at me. Can I help you with something?”
“Several somethings. Didn’t you tell me Guy went to both Harvard and medical school on full-ride scholarships?”
“He did his first year,” Dave said. “Strangely enough, I never saw a record of any additional scholarships being awarded to him, but I checked his credit report. Unlike most people, he graduated from Harvard and later from Johns Hopkins without a dime’s worth of tuition debt. The money must have come from somewhere.”
“Do me a favor and google Whetstone Mountain Retreat. I want to know how much it costs to stay there.”
She waited while Dave tapped away at the computer keys and then read through whatever material appeared on his screen. He had to scan several pages before he found what he wanted.
“Here it is. Depending on the season, packages range from one to two grand a week. Off-season daily rate is a hundred thirty-five bucks. So it’s not too pricey. Others are a lot more expensive. Here all meals are included. Horseback riding is extra.”
“Naked horseback riding?” Joanna asked. “Not a pretty picture, and also staying there isn’t cheap.”
“Hardly,” Dave agreed, “but then I could have told you that from just looking at Guy’s credit card receipts.”
“When did Guy finish up at Johns Hopkins?”
“He graduated from there five years ago and finished his residency a little over two years ago.”
“So shortly before he came here?”
Dave nodded. “According to the background check.”
“Lyle Morton, the owner of the Whetstone Retreat, claims Guy Machett has been a regular guest there for the past eleven or twelve years.”
Dave nodded. “I can see where you’re going with this. How could he afford to go there while he was still in school?”
“Maybe he had a benefactor,” Joanna suggested, “an unknown benefactor.”
“Maybe even the same one who gave Liza Machett her so-called coffee money?” Dave asked. Joanna liked the fact that Dave had immediately drawn the same conclusion she had.
Joanna nodded. “You mentioned that their father is supposedly deceased. What do we know about him?”
Dave clicked through several files. “Not much, but here it is. First name is Anson—Anson Jerome Machett. Born in Great Barrington, Massachusetts.”
“Find out everything you can about him.”
“Will do.”
“Any minute now you should be getting an e-mail from Frank Montoya with some information on the phone number that was listed on the coffee money alert.”
“Since when is Frank Montoya working this case?”
“Since I asked him,” Joanna replied. “The phone’s a burner. I want you to pass everything Frank sends along to Detective Franklin so it goes to him from us, rather than from Frank. Frank can tell us where the phone was bought and when. Detective Franklin will need to go for surveillance tapes. Frank is also sending along the ID number of a ce
ll-phone tower where the phone last pinged. We need to know its proximity to Clifford Small’s house.”
Dave was still scribbling notes when Joanna’s cell-phone rooster crowed at her. Matt Keller’s name appeared in the caller window. “Let me know what you find,” Joanna said to Dave as she walked away.
“I’m feeling a little underhanded about all this,” Matt said, “but we’ve got a window of opportunity that gives us a clear shot at Jason. His folks have an event of some kind out on post this afternoon, so Curt and I invited him to come down to the park and shoot some hoops. We should be there in about fifteen. Does that work for you?”
“Perfectly,” Joanna said. “I’ll come by ostensibly to talk to you and then just happen to have a word with Jason. It’ll be my Columbo moment.”
For some strange reason, Butch and Jenny had both taken a shine to Peter Falk’s television depiction of the bumbling detective. Compliments of Netflix, the two of them were gradually working their way through the Columbo canon. Joanna wasn’t nearly as charmed as they were, but she had come to appreciate Columbo’s seemingly throwaway comments upon which the solutions often hinged.
“Right,” Matt said. “Copy that.”
On her return trip down the corridor, Joanna again stopped off in the viewing room. This time she cued up Ernie’s interview with Jason. She watched it again, paying particular attention to the questions that had elicited the boy’s most visible responses. He had reacted strongly to the mention of Junior’s hearing people talking through his open window and again to questions about Junior’s involvement in any kind of animal abuse.
Armed with that much knowledge, Joanna headed out. Butch called as she pulled out of the Justice Center parking lot. “We just got home,” he said. “We stopped for a late lunch in Willcox, so I’m serving notice that the cook is taking the evening off. Either grab something before you come home or plan on raiding the fridge after you get here. What’s up with you?”
“I’m working,” she said. “On my way uptown to talk to a potential witness.”
Butch was using the speakerphone, and Joanna didn’t want to advertise her intentions to her daughter. After all, Curt Keller and Jason Radner were younger than Jenny, but they all attended the same school.
“Okay,” Butch said. “Do what you have to. Be safe.”
It was midafternoon by the time Joanna reached the park that had once served as the playground for a now repurposed school building. The play area was at the far end of Tombstone Canyon, and Joanna parked on the street near the entrance. When she stepped out of the Yukon, she noticed at once that although it might be late spring down at the Justice Center, up here, where the sun had already disappeared behind the canyon walls, it was far cooler. She strode across the park and made her way to the basketball court where Jason Radner and Curt Keller were playing a fast-paced game of one-on-one with Matt watching from the sidelines.
Approaching Matt, Joanna made a show of carrying on an urgent discussion. “Hey, Curt,” Matt called to his son when she finished, “come on. I need to run by the office for a minute. Sheriff Brady says she’ll be glad to give Jason a ride back home.”
Curt caught the ball and then looked questioningly at Jason. “Is that okay?”
Jason shrugged. “I guess,” he said.
“How are you doing?” Joanna asked the boy as Matt collected his son and their gear and walked with Curt toward his car.
“Okay,” Jason mumbled with a shrug.
It was important to establish some common ground. “Losing a friend like that is tough,” Joanna said, walking Jason over to a bench in the far corner of the park. Taking a seat, she patted the spot next to her, inviting him to sit. With a reluctant sigh, Jason joined her.
“Will you be going to Junior’s funeral?” she asked.
“I dunno,” Jason answered. “It depends on if my mom can get off work. She doesn’t want me to go alone.”
“I don’t blame her. That’s what parents do when they see that their kids are in over their heads or having to deal with something difficult,” Joanna explained. “They want to protect them.”
“I don’t need protecting,” Jason insisted. “Why should I? I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Maybe not,” Joanna said, edging into the heart of the matter. “But you know something, don’t you?”
She tossed the words into the air and then waited in silence to see what he would do. For a time the only sounds in the empty park came from birds chattering up and down the canyon and from the occasional vehicle driving past on the street. Eventually Jason spoke.
“I saw a dead cat,” he said finally, speaking so quietly that Joanna had to strain to hear him.
A dead cat? The hair rose on the back of Joanna’s neck. She had called that shot. Jason did indeed know something.
“Where did you see it?” she asked. “When?”
“At the end of the walkway between our house and Junior’s. It was really messed up.” Jason shuddered at the memory. “I remembered it as soon as Mr. Carpenter asked me about Junior messing with animals.”
“Why didn’t you mention it then?”
“Because I couldn’t believe Junior would do such a thing.”
“I don’t think he did, either,” Joanna said quietly.
Jason looked at her questioningly. “You don’t? Really?”
Wanting him to feel free to talk to her, Joanna primed the pump with a little more information.
“No, I don’t,” she said. “There were dead and injured animals in the hole where we found Junior’s body. One of those, a kitten, was still alive, but it had been horribly mutilated.”
“Were the ears cut up?” Jason asked.
Joanna nodded.
“The cat I saw was like that, too,” Jason said.
“I was one of the people who went down into the hole where Junior was found,” Joanna continued. “I saw his arms and hands. He was wearing short-sleeved pajamas. If he had done something like that to a cat, he would have had scratches and bite marks showing, but he didn’t have any—not a single one.”
Another long silence followed. When Jason said nothing, Joanna spoke instead. “How long ago did this happen, Jason, and what did you do with the cat you found?”
“It was a month or so ago,” Jason answered. “And I buried it.”
“Where?”
“In the vacant lot between our house and the road. I can show you if you want me to. Are you going to dig it up?”
“We may need to,” Joanna told him. “If we do, I’ll have someone from my office be in touch with you. You’re sure you’ll be able to find it again?”
Jason nodded. “I put up a marker. I made a little cross out of sticks and twine.”
“Did you tell your parents about this?”
Jason shook his head.
“What made you think Junior did it?”
“The walkway is between our house and the Maxwells’. Junior is the only other person I ever saw hanging out there.”
“Did you tell Junior’s parents about it at the time?”
“No,” Jason said. “Not mine either, and I still haven’t. I figured the Maxwells knew. They must have. It was right after that when they started locking Junior in at night. He hated that. I could hear him in his room sometimes, crying and begging them to let him out. Other times he spent the whole night pacing back and forth. I could see him through the window.”
“Did you tell anyone else about the cat or about your suspicions about Junior?”
“Only Ruth.”
“Ruth Nolan?” Joanna asked.
Jason nodded. “We’re friends. Not boyfriend and girlfriend or anything, just friends. The Nolans live up the street. I told Ruth about the cat, and I told her about Junior, too—about what I suspected he had done to the cat and about his parents keeping him locked in his room. She felt sorry for him, too. She said that even if he did it, someone like that couldn’t be held responsible for his actions. She came over to keep him company
sometimes. She’d talk to him through the window; sing to him even.”
Joanna already knew about the singing. Ruth had told her about that, but she had made no mention of the mutilated cat.
“This singing would happen when, in the middle of the night?”
“Yes.”
“What did Ruth’s mother think about her doing that?”
Jason shrugged. “She probably didn’t even know,” Jason said. “Ruth and Lucas aren’t like other kids. They don’t have a curfew. Their mother stays out until all hours, and they do, too. I heard my parents talking about Mrs. Nolan once. Mom said she should spend more time looking after her kids and less time hanging out at Grady’s.”
Grady’s Irish Pub, a full-service bar, had once been one of several watering holes located in Bisbee’s notorious Brewery Gulch. The bar’s owner, Timothy Grady, had proven to be such a troublesome neighbor that other nearby clubs and eateries had finally prevailed on his landlord not to renew the bar’s lease. Timothy had taken his bad attitude and equally bad clientele and moved a mile or so up the canyon to the site of a long-abandoned fast-food restaurant.
“You’re saying their mother drinks?” Joanna asked. “And leaves her kids alone while she’s out partying?”
Jason nodded. “Ruth says her mom goes to Grady’s because it’s close enough to walk. Mrs. Nolan got a DUI once. They took away her license, so she can’t drive anymore; at least she’s not supposed to, although I think she still does sometimes.”
Having caught a couple of whiffs of Rebecca Nolan’s early morning beer breath, Joanna had already decided that the woman wasn’t a likely candidate for mother of the year, and it seemed as though Jason’s parents shared that opinion. Ruth and Lucas as recent arrivals and homeschooled kids were already considered to be outsiders in town. Having a mother with a reputation as a barfly would make their social standing even less tenable. The tidbits Jason had provided made Joanna wonder if the situation was worse than she had originally thought. If Rebecca was a neglectful mother, how was she at homeschooling? The woman was probably a neglectful teacher as well. If so, her kids were being shortchanged in every way imaginable.