by J. A. Jance
She wouldn’t mention to Rebecca that the prints might not be exculpatory at all. It was more likely they’d be evidence of guilt. The problem was, Joanna knew from both Jason and Lucas that Ruth had been one of the nighttime visitors outside Junior’s room. So even if her prints were found there, a good defense attorney would be able to convince a jury to discount them. There would have to be evidence over and above the prints. The best thing they had going for them might turn out to be the human DNA from the injured kitten. It would be ironic if evidence from the cat was what ended up bringing Junior’s killer to justice.
Joanna and Deb caravanned back to the Justice Center together and parked side by side at the back of the building, Joanna in her reserved spot and Deb claiming squatters’ rights to Chief Deputy Hadlock’s currently unoccupied space.
“What’s Dave up to?” Deb asked as Joanna punched the door code on the private entrance into her office.
“No idea,” Joanna said, “but it better be good.”
She switched on the overhead light. The moment it came on, the door into Kristin’s office opened. Dave limped through it on his crutches. Held between his teeth was a single piece of copy paper. He had evidently overheard at least part of their conversation.
He stopped, removed the paper from his mouth, and laid it on Joanna’s desk. “It is good,” he said. “Take a look.”
Together, Joanna and Deb peered down at the paper. It was a photograph of an old man and a towheaded boy, both of them grinning proudly. They were standing side by side on what looked like a wharf of some kind. The boy was holding a fish that was a foot or so long. The caption under the photo said, “This year’s Fourth of July Fishing Derby winner is ten-year-old Guy Machett, pictured here with his grandfather, Jerome Machett.” The photo’s credit line read “Photo courtesy of the Great Barrington Herald.”
The photo was old and blurry—made with some old-fashioned technology that resulted in visible dots of ink on paper. Wanting a closer look, Joanna picked up the photo to study it. When she realized what she was seeing and recognized the craggy face and thinning white hair, her jaw dropped.
“That’s Lyle Morton!” she exclaimed. “He was here just this afternoon.”
Joanna passed the picture to Deb Howell. After studying it for a moment, Deb nodded in agreement. “It’s got to be him,” she said.
“But it isn’t,” Dave said triumphantly. “That’s Jerome Machett—Guy’s grandfather. I was out in the hallway when Deb was taking Lyle Morton into the interview room. The resemblance is so striking that I’m sure Lyle must be Guy’s father and Jerome’s son.”
Contemplating that turn of events, Joanna went around the desk and sank down in her chair. “Sit,” she ordered. Deb and Dave sat. Joanna turned on Dave. “How did you ever manage to sort this out?”
“The Great Barrington Herald was established in 1860 and has been continuously in print ever since,” Dave replied.“The town has a very active historical society. A number of years ago, they began digitizing back issues of the local paper. Their website is amazing. You asked me to see what I could find out about Guy Machett. I went to their website and typed in his name and hit a gold mine.
“There were articles about Guy being valedictorian of his class, leading the debate team that took a statewide title, winning a scholarship to Harvard, and graduating from med school. This photo was the next-to-last item I found. When I looked at it, I thought the old man looked familiar, but it took me a while to make the connection. As soon as I did, first I checked out Deb’s interview with Lyle Morton, and then I returned to checking my databases. I found Jerome’s date of death with no difficulty, but there’s no sign at all of Anson’s. I did notice, however, that shortly after he disappeared into the ether, a guy named Lyle Morton turned up owning a ranch in southern Arizona.”
Dave paused long enough to give them a grin along with a dramatic wave of his hand. “Ladies,” he announced, feigning a bow, “I believe that we have stumbled upon an early and rather successful member of the witness protection program.”
For a time the room was quiet. “When I was interviewing Lyle, he never gave anything away,” Deb said at last. “He acted like Guy was a friend and a client, nothing more.”
“Acting is the operant word,” Dave said. “The man’s been doing nothing but acting for a very long time.”
“Wait,” Joanna said. “Think about this. All this time we’ve been thinking Guy’s killers were after the coffee money, and maybe they are, but what if they were also looking for his father? What if Lyle is the real target? Do we know anything about what Anson did for a living?”
“No idea,” Dave said, “but I’ll try to find out.”
“People don’t go into witness protection for no reason. Once they do, they’re supposed to cut all ties to the past. We know from the Morton interview that Guy had been visiting the Whetstone Retreat for years—starting while he was still in med school. That means Lyle broke with the WITSEC protocol early on, at least as far as his son was concerned. Guy was tortured before he died. The attempts to revive him suggest that he didn’t give the killers what they wanted.”
“You mean they were really looking for Lyle?” Dave asked.
Joanna nodded. “But that doesn’t mean someone else wouldn’t give up Lyle Morton’s ID and location.”
Joanna turned to Deb. “Did you tell him about Liza’s going missing?”
Deb shook her head. “You asked me not to, so I didn’t.”
Joanna stood up hard enough to send her desk chair thumping into the wall behind her. She reached for her purse. “Let’s go,” she said. “Deb, you’re with me. Dave, you’re to get in touch with the U.S. Marshals Service and let them know that Lyle Morton’s cover has been blown and that we suspect there may be people after him who are willing to commit wholesale murder in order to find him.”
“Where are we going?” Deb asked.
“We’re going to drive out to the Whetstone Retreat and give Lyle Morton the news that if bad guys are after him, they’ve not only murdered his son, but they may also have kidnapped his daughter. If we have to, we’ll take the man into protective custody.”
“We can’t go there,” Deb objected. “The Whetstone is a nudist colony.”
“When the retreat had a forest fire emergency last year, I have it on good authority that the firefighters got to wear their firefighting gear. We’re claiming the same first responder privilege.”
Grabbing his crutches, Dave headed back to his lab. Once Joanna and Deb stepped outside, Joanna stopped on the sidewalk and stared at the two vehicles parked side by side. As the department’s newest detective, Deb Howell’s ride was a much-used Explorer. Joanna’s, on the other hand, was an almost new Yukon.
“Get your weapons out of your car,” Joanna directed. “We’ll take my vehicle. It’s in better shape—more power and way better springs. And here,” she added, tossing her car keys in Deb’s direction. “You’re driving. You’ll be Captain Kirk to my Lieutenant Uhura. I’ve got at least a dozen phone calls to make, starting with one to my long-suffering husband.”
“Do you want me to light ’em up?” Deb asked after she clambered into the driver’s seat and was buckling her belt.
“No,” Joanna said after a moment’s consideration. “No lights and stick to the speed limit. The less attention we call to this operation, the better. Do we even know for sure that Lyle was heading back home when he left the department after the interview?”
“That’s what he said,” Deb replied.
“It turns out Lyle Morton said a lot of things,” Joanna said grimly, “and most of them weren’t true. We’ll go to the retreat first. If he’s somewhere else, we’ll have to figure out how to find him.”
One at a time, Joanna punched her way through the necessary calls. She let Butch know what was up; ditto for Deb’s sister, who was babysitting Deb’s son. Next up was Alvin Bernard. These were joint cases and joint operations, Joanna decided, and keeping what she no
w suspected about Ruth Nolan or the Lyle Morton revelations to herself would not qualify as playing well with others.
The call to Alvin lasted almost half an hour. Joanna told him about what Frank had discovered and passed along the information that had been forwarded to Detective Franklin back in Great Barrington. She told him about the Lyle Morton/Anson Machett situation. Finally she got around to her suspicions and concerns about Ruth Nolan. After a long time spent talking back and forth about that thorny problem, Alvin and Joanna together decided that with everything going on with the Guy Machett case, they should focus on that and leave the Ruth Nolan situation alone for the time being. Joanna was relieved to have that decision be a joint one. If Ruth was out on the hunt tonight—if one night’s delay in taking the girl into custody meant that someone else died—at least the responsibility wouldn’t be Joanna’s alone. At the end of the conversation, they agreed to a nine o’clock briefing at the Justice Center the next morning for all personnel involved in either or both investigations.
By the time that call was over, Joanna’s iPhone was hot enough to burn her ear. Reluctant to use the police radio in case someone was following their movements on a scanner, Joanna called Tica Romero and asked her to station deputies on either side of the Whetstone Retreat on Highway 90, one patrol car north of Huachuca City and the other at the junction of Highway 90 and I-10. That way, if all hell did break loose at the retreat, they’d still have some chance of netting the bad guys.
The call after that was to Amos Franklin in Great Barrington. “Hey,” he said, sounding downright cordial despite the lateness of the hour. “You and your people have done some great work out there, Sheriff Brady. Guess what? Cell tower 672 is less than one hundred yards from Candy Small’s house. Arson investigators will be combing through the wreckage tomorrow. I’ve told them to be on the lookout for a cell phone, and I’ve got a ten o’clock appointment at the drugstore to come by and pick up their surveillance tape.”
“No court order necessary?”
“Surprised me, too. Who woulda thought we’d find a drugstore owner who’s willing to cooperate with the cops without having a gun held to his head?”
“Who would?” Joanna agreed.
“And I got back to Nancy, my friend from the bank. She went through her e-mails and located her correspondence about the coffee money. She found the response from Agent Flores at Treasury and forwarded it to me. Do you want me to send you a copy?”
“My phone’s almost out of power. Can you text it to Detective Howell’s phone?”
“Sure.”
By the time Joanna finished relaying the phone number, they had just passed through the border check station on Highway 90. Lyle had told Deb in the interview that the turnoff to the retreat was the first left north of that. Deb had slowed and was looking for the intersection when call waiting buzzed in Joanna’s ear. Holding the phone away from her ear, she saw “Blocked Call” on the screen.
“Sorry, Detective Franklin,” she said. “I have to take this.”
“Sheriff Brady?” a clipped male voice asked. This one wasn’t nearly as cordial.
“Yes.”
“I’m Roger Stephens with the U.S. Marshals Service. You are not to approach Mr. Morton in any way. He is to be left alone! That’s an order.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Stephens,” Joanna returned mildly. “This is my jurisdiction, and you’re not authorized to give me orders. We’re investigating a homicide that occurred on my turf, and Mr. Morton is a critical witness.”
“I’m aware of your homicide,” Stephens replied. His exasperated tone reminded Joanna of Butch on those rare occasions when Denny’s litany of why questions went one “Why?” too far.
“However,” Stephens continued, “Mr. Morton’s safety is our problem, and we will handle it our way.”
Deb swung the steering wheel to the left onto a dirt road, and the SUV bounced noisily over the rails of a metal cattle guard.
Stephens was still talking when Joanna covered the phone’s microphone with her hand. “How far?” she asked.
“Google says it’s five miles to the next turnoff,” Deb answered. “Two more miles after that.”
Wishing she knew the man’s rank, Joanna uncovered the phone. “Sorry,” she said, “you were breaking up. I’m afraid I didn’t get all that.”
“I said,” Stephens said, raising his voice considerably, “any effort on your part to approach Lyle will put him in grave danger.”
“In case you haven’t figured this out,” Joanna said, “Mr. Morton is already in grave danger. So is Anson Machett, by the way. His son, Guy, has been murdered. His daughter, Liza, is missing. The daughter’s boss was murdered and so was her landlady. If your job is to protect Anson Machett and his family, Mr. Stephens, allow me to say that you’re doing a piss-poor job of it.”
Joanna heard the man’s sharp intake of breath. The long period of silence that followed indicated Stephens wasn’t accustomed to being addressed in that fashion. Joanna suspected he was usually the one dishing out criticism and issuing orders rather than being on the receiving end of either.
“Where are you right now?” Joanna asked.
“At my office in Washington, D.C.” he answered. “I came here to deal with this situation. I’ve put in a call to my agent in charge in Phoenix. He should be able to have someone at Mr. Morton’s location shortly.”
“How shortly?” Joanna asked.
“I’m not sure exactly, but probably within an hour or two.”
“Not a good answer,” Joanna said. “Too little too late. I have an armed response team on its way to his residence right now. The GPS gives us an ETA of a little over twenty minutes.”
“An armed response team? You need to tell them to stand down.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“What exactly are your intentions, Sheriff Brady?”
“I intend to keep the man safe!” Joanna replied. “I believe some people—seriously dangerous people—are trying to kill him. I suspect you already know who those people are, or at least who’s behind them. If you were any kind of a team player, you’d tell us what you know so we’d have some idea of what we’re up against.”
“I can’t possibly divulge the nature of Mr. Morton’s situation.”
“Of course you can’t,” she said, “so I’m hanging up now.”
“But—”
“No buts. You can stick your cover-your-ass excuses where the sun don’t shine, Mr. Stephens. Feel free to have your agent in charge contact me at his convenience tomorrow. In the meantime, don’t bother calling me back. I’m busy, and my phone’s battery is at seven percent.”
Joanna ended the call. Then, holding the power button down, she switched it off completely.
“Whoa,” Deb said. “Why didn’t you tell him how you really felt?”
They both broke into a fit of giggles. It was a natural enough reaction, just as Joanna’s angry outburst had been. They were preparing to go into battle. They had no idea what would await them at the next turn in the road.
“I’ll need to use your phone,” Joanna said to Deb, holding out her hand. “That bastard won’t have your number.”
Without a word, Deb Howell pulled the phone out of her pocket and handed it over.
CHAPTER 26
WHAT THEY ENCOUNTERED AT THE END OF THE ROAD WAS THE ENTRANCE to Whetstone Mountain Retreat and a formidable iron gate complete with a guard shack. An armed guard stepped up to the driver window when Deb stopped the SUV. The retreat may have been a nudist colony, but the guard was fully clothed. His khaki uniform, the businesslike semiautomatic pistol on his hip, and his Kevlar vest indicated that Lyle Morton was serious about security.
“We’re closed,” he said when Deb buzzed down the window. “Check-in is from ten AM to six PM daily. No exceptions. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“We’re not here to check in,” Deb told him, flashing her ID. “We’re here to see Mr. Morton.”
“
Names?” he asked, peering in the window.
“Detective Deb Howell and Sheriff Joanna Brady.”
“One moment.”
He returned to the guard shack and picked up the receiver on an old-fashioned telephone handset. After speaking into it briefly, he returned to the Yukon. There, using a cell phone, he snapped a photo of each of them and e-mailed them to someone else. Returning to the guard shack again, he picked up the telephone receiver. After a minute or so of waiting, the gate swung open. Before they could pass, he motioned for Deb to roll down the window again. “Do you know where you’re going?”
“No idea,” Deb told him.
“The first building, the one on your right, is the changing facility. You can put your clothes in an empty locker and take the key with you. Then follow the road all the way to the big house at the end. You’ll go past several casitas, the dining hall, and the recreation building.”
“This is official business,” Deb said. “We won’t be changing.”
The guard shrugged. “Suit yourself, and watch out for golf carts,” he added. “They have the right of way.”
The dirt road ended just inside the gate. From there on, it was paved. They saw a building marked Changing Facility and drove straight past it. The guard’s warning about golf carts having the right of way proved to be correct. They met three of them on the way and had to pull over on the shoulder to let them pass. Each cart carried two passengers. As they drove past, illuminated in the Yukon’s headlights, it was clear that all the passengers were stark naked—except for the boots.
“Yikes,” Deb said. “When they say nude, I guess they mean it.”
The road wound past any number of casitas, small stucco-covered cabins that looked like they might have wandered over the state line from New Mexico. Some of the casitas had lights on inside. Others were dark and unoccupied. There was no mistaking the big house at the end of the road. Long and low and constructed of river rocks, it had probably started out as an ordinary ranch house built from whatever materials came most easily to hand. Lights glowed from every window. As they approached, a massive front door swung open. Lyle Morton, naked except for his pair of boots, rolled out onto the porch in his cart and then sat there waiting for them, backlit in the doorway.