Remains of Innocence

by J. A. Jance

  The last time Joanna looked at the clock it was twenty minutes to one. Her cell phone crowed her awake four and a half hours later at ten past five. Bleary-eyed and still half asleep, she was surprised when Alvin Bernard’s name appeared on the screen.

  “What’s up?” she asked, heading for the bathroom with the phone and quietly closing the door behind her.

  “We’ve got another situation up here in Old Bisbee,” Alvin told her. “Ruth Nolan has gone missing.”

  Ruth? Joanna was instantly on full alert.

  “On the surface it looks like an instant replay of the Junior Dowdle case,” Alvin continued. “Her bed hasn’t been slept in. The window is wide open; the window screen is unlatched and open. No sign of a struggle. Looks like she let herself out the window and walked away. She’s a teenager; she’s got purple hair. Maybe it’s just what it looks like—a runaway and nothing more.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “We’re not sure. Ruth’s mother was evidently out for most of the evening. She came home about an hour or so ago and went to the kids’ rooms to check on them. Lucas was in bed fast asleep. Ruth was nowhere to be found.

  “The mother’s a mess,” Alvin went on, “drunk and hysterical rather than drunk and disorderly. I was afraid for a while we were going to have to cuff her and lock her in a patrol car to cool off. She’s raising hell and expecting the same kind of all-out response we did for Junior. I tried to explain that Junior’s situation was different, but Mrs. Nolan told me that if we don’t work just as hard to find her Ruth, she intends to file suit. She’s right, of course. We do need to find the girl. My biggest concern is that she’s dead, too.”

  “How can I help?” Joanna asked. “Do you need my K-9 unit?”

  “Yes,” Alvin answered without hesitation. “Absolutely, and any officers you can spare. If you could come uptown in the next little while, I’d appreciate your having a word with Mrs. Nolan while I’m organizing the search. You might have better luck reasoning with her than I did.”

  “I doubt that,” Joanna said, “but I’ll try. See you soon.”

  Once the call with Alvin was over, Joanna dialed Dispatch and told Larry Kendrick what was needed. Then, putting the phone down on the bathroom counter, she turned on the shower. By the time she stepped out from under the water, she could smell coffee brewing. Once she was dressed, she could tell that Butch was frying bacon and eggs.

  “A peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the middle of the night does not constitute good nutrition,” Butch scolded as he handed over a freshly poured mug of coffee.

  Joanna gave him a quick good-morning peck on the cheek. “You sound like my mother,” she said. “That’s what she always said when Dad came in late and had a PB&J for dinner.”

  “It’s one of those times when your mother was right,” Butch said. “By the way, I tried calling you after I put Denny to bed. Your phone went straight to voice mail.”

  “The battery ran down,” Joanna said. “I had to turn it off.”

  There were times she couldn’t tell Butch everything, and this was one of them. She didn’t mention that she had turned off her phone in order to dodge calls from Mr. Stephens of the U.S. Marshals Service. Had she told Butch about that, she would have had to tell him about Lyle Morton being Guy Machett’s father and about Anson Machett being in the witness protection program. Since she couldn’t talk about any of that, she couldn’t mention Mr. Stephens, either.

  “I gave you a new car charger for Christmas,” Butch commented. “What happened to that?”

  “When I came back from Silver City, I must have left it in your car.”

  “Figures,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “I guess we need spare chargers in every car.” Without another word, he brought a plate of bacon and eggs from the stove to the table and set the food down in front of her. “Eat,” he ordered. “And while you’re at it, tell me who called and woke us up bright and early this morning, and what’s the current emergency?”

  Between bites, Joanna filled Butch in on the situation with the Nolan family—the partying mother; the disaffected kids; the girl with the purple hair; Roxie, the dog that had gone missing.

  “Sounds like things are tough for them all the way around,” Butch commented. “If Ruth already interviewed you for her blog, have you looked at what she wrote?”

  “Not yet. I’ve been a little busy.”

  “What’s her website called again?”

  “Roxie’s Place. Before the interview, I meant to scan some of the entries, but I ran out of time.”

  “If you’d like, I can try taking a look at the blog a little later,” Butch offered. “In the meantime, what do you think happened to her?”

  Joanna thought about that for a moment before she answered. “My first choice would be that Ruth ran away. In that case, we find her and bring her home. My second choice would be, she ran into the same unknown bad guy who killed Junior Dowdle and who has now killed her, too. If that’s what happened, we need to find her body.”

  When Joanna didn’t continue, Butch looked at her questioningly over his raised coffee cup. “Is there a third choice?”

  “Unfortunately,” Joanna replied, “that’s the worst one of the bunch. It would mean that Ruth Nolan turns out to be the person who killed Junior. If she left the house because she had personal issues that were escalating out of control, then it’s likely we’ll end up finding another body.”

  “I believe I’ll stick with number one,” Butch said gravely.

  Joanna nodded. “My sentiments exactly.”

  It was ten past six when Joanna pulled into the parking lot at St. Dominick’s. Father Rowan was there prepared to direct traffic. So far that didn’t appear to be necessary.

  “Not quite as big a turnout as for Junior,” the priest observed. “The thing is, everybody in town knows the Maxwells. The Nolans are relative newcomers.”

  Father Rowan wasn’t the only one to note the diminished response. As Joanna parked her car, an angry Rebecca Nolan turned up with Lucas in tow.

  “So where is everybody?” she demanded when Joanna rolled down her window. “Last week the whole town went nuts when that dim-witted Junior went missing. Now that it’s my little girl who’s gone, where are all those goody-goody church ladies with their coffee urns and trays of cookies?”

  Rebecca still wore the same grungy tank top she had been wearing in the bar the day before. She reeked of beer and cigarette smoke. Joanna noticed that Lucas, too, was still in the same blue track suit she’d seen him in on several previous occasions. Whatever the family income was, apparently not much of their budget was spent on wardrobe purchases.

  Joanna was tempted to point out that it wasn’t exactly in anyone’s best interest, most especially Ruth’s, for Rebecca to spout off about Junior Dowdle’s diminished mental capacity. Considering the woman’s current state, Joanna didn’t bother. “Tell me what happened,” she said.

  “What do you think happened?” Rebecca shot back. “Ruth wasn’t home when I got there! Aren’t you a cop? I should think someone might have mentioned that to you by now.”

  Joanna ignored the barb. “What time did you get home?” she asked.

  “I don’t remember exactly,” Rebecca said. “Sometime after the bars closed, I guess. Maybe two o’clock or so. When Ruth wasn’t there, I woke Lucas up and asked him where she’d gone. He said she’d been out most of the afternoon. After that, I walked around the neighborhood looking for her. Finally I called 911.”

  By then it was also four o’clock in the morning, Joanna thought.

  She turned to Lucas. “Did she ever come home after I talked to you?”

  Lucas shook his head.

  Rebecca rounded on Joanna. “Wait just a minute. You talked to Lucas? When? I never gave you permission to talk to him!”

  “Please, Mrs. Nolan, could we just focus here? What’s important is finding Ruth. What time did Ruth leave the house?”

  Lucas looked first at his mother an
d then back to Joanna before he answered. “Right after Mom did,” he said with a shrug. “One o’clock maybe?”

  “They both left about the same time then?” Joanna asked Lucas.

  “I think so,” he said.

  “Did she seem upset about anything?”

  “No, everything was fine.”

  “Did she make any mention of where she was going?”

  “Nope, she just left.”

  “When she still wasn’t back when it was time to go to bed, weren’t you worried about her? Shouldn’t you have called your mother?”

  “It’s not my job to look after my sister,” Lucas said indignantly. “We’re the same age. I’m not her babysitter.”

  “Does Ruth have any good friends?”

  “Only Jason Radner.”

  “I already talked to the Radners,” Rebecca put in. “I did that first thing. I don’t care for Jason much. He used to pal around with Junior.”

  Joanna’s phone rang. She excused herself and walked away to take the call. “Hey, boss,” Terry Gregovich said. “Spike and I are coming up empty here. The window screen is pushed open, all right, but if Ruth Nolan went out through that, she flew away without ever hitting the ground. Spike alerted a couple of times, but those trails led out to the street. I’m thinking maybe she got into a vehicle of some kind and rode away. Casey says to tell you that there are no visible prints of any kind on the window or frame. What do you want us to do now?”

  “Keep going around the neighborhood in ever-widening circles,” Joanna said.

  “Will do,” Terry replied.

  Joanna ended the call as Marianne Maculyea drove into the lot. Her aging seafoam VW Bug was followed by a caravan of several vehicles bearing what Rebecca had jeeringly referred to as the “goody-goody church ladies.” Joanna hoped the arrival of the refreshments and most especially Marianne would do something to improve Rebecca’s agitated state of mind.

  A few minutes later, Ernie Carpenter and Jaime Carbajal showed up as well. Knowing how late she and Deb had been out the night before, Joanna had directed Larry Kendrick to leave Detective Howell off the list for the early morning callout. Joanna pointed Ernie and Jaime in Chief Bernard’s direction, telling them that, for now, the chief’s orders and her orders were one and the same.

  Joanna followed Ernie and Jaime over to the command post. Once the dectectives were given their separate assignments and had left, Joanna took a moment to notify Chief Bernard that the K-9 search had yielded zero results.

  “Not zero exactly,” Alvin replied. “If Ruth left in a vehicle, either under her own power or under duress, we have a whole other problem. In that scenario, a street-by-street search on foot is probably useless. I’m issuing an Amber Alert. I’ve already gathered what’s needed to post it, but I’ve been holding back, thinking she’d turn up.”

  “Send it,” Joanna advised. Minutes later the Amber Alert sounded on her phone.

  Joanna spent the next half hour greeting deputies arriving from far-flung corners of the county and helping map out search areas. She also let people know that, under the circumstances, the 9:00 AM joint briefing had been postponed until further notice.

  When Joanna’s phone rang at ten to eight, the words “Guy Machett, office,” appeared on her screen. She hoped that meant the call was from George Winfield, but when she answered, Madge Livingston was on the line.

  “A woman just showed up here at the office,” Madge said in her distinctively low-throated voice. “Says her name is Liza Machett, and she’s looking for her brother. Doc Winfield isn’t here yet, and I don’t want to be the one who has to tell her what’s happened.”

  “Don’t,” Joanna said. “I’ll handle it. I’ll be right there.”

  CHAPTER 28

  IT TOOK LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES FOR JOANNA TO ARRIVE AT THE former mortuary that had been repurposed and turned into the medical examiner’s office and morgue. When Joanna entered the reception area, Madge Livingston’s desk was deserted. The room’s only occupant, seated in a visitor’s chair, was a young woman wearing jeans, a tank top, and a bright blue scarf wrapped around a recently shaven head.

  “Ms. Machett?” Joanna asked.

  The woman looked up uncertainly. “Yes,” she said. “I’m Liza Machett. Who are you?”

  There was no way to sugarcoat what was coming. “I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady, and I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you. Your brother is dead.”

  “Dead?” Liza repeated.

  “Murdered,” Joanna answered. “He was killed in his home on Friday night—tortured and murdered by at least two assailants. We’ve been doing our best to locate you and let you know.”

  Liza’s face paled, but she didn’t cry. Maybe she was too shocked for tears. “This is my fault, isn’t it? Whoever did it is looking for the money I found in my mother’s house. I thought it was hers, I swear, and I was using it to fix up her place so we could sell it. If I had known the money belonged to someone else, I would have returned it. Now the people who are after the money are chasing me, and they’ve killed everyone who has tried to help me—Candy, my landlady, Jonathan Thurgard, Guy, and maybe even some of the people from the Underground Railroad.”

  “The what?” Joanna asked.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  It did matter, but Joanna let the remark slide because she had focused in on something else in Liza’s previous statement.

  “We know about Candy Small and Olivia Dexter,” Joanna said, “but who’s Jonathan Thurgard—a friend of yours?”

  “Not a friend, not even an acquaintance,” Liza answered. “He worked with my father, years ago. I had never seen him or even met him until last week when he showed up at my mother’s funeral. He told me I needed to be careful because the guys my dad used to work for when he drove a bread truck were the kind of people who never forgot and never forgave. It must have been true. Somebody’s been after me ever since, killing everyone who gets near me.”

  “Tell me about Jonathan Thurgard,” Joanna insisted. “Is he from Great Barrington?”

  “No, he’s from Stockbridge, a town a few miles north of there.”

  “When did he die, and how do you know about it?”

  “I don’t know exactly when. I only know about it because someone told me—the woman who answered the phone at his house. I was looking online for information about the Olivia Dexter investigation and stumbled across what had happened to Candy.

  “Jonathan Thurgard was the first person who told me about the bread trucks, but Candy knew about them, too. Candy was the one who said I was in danger and insisted that I leave town. With Candy dead, I thought maybe Mr. Thurgard could clue me in on what was going on, but when I called, I learned he was dead, too—supposedly the victim of a hit-and-run. I don’t believe it. The same people who murdered Candy must have murdered Jonathan. Now Guy is dead, too, and it’s all my fault.”

  At last the tears came. For obvious reasons the reception area at the M.E.’s office was fully stocked with boxes of tissues. Joanna passed one of those to the sobbing woman and then excused herself. Ducking outside, she pulled out her phone and dialed Deb Howell’s number.

  “Where are you?” Joanna asked when the detective answered.

  “Still at home, getting ready to go in for the briefing. Why?”

  “The briefing’s been canceled because Ruth Nolan has gone missing. Where I really need you is here at the M.E.’s office. Liza Machett just showed up, looking for her brother. She’s a wreck right now, and I want you to take charge of her.”

  “Will do,” Deb said. “I’m on my way.”

  “Wait, before you come here, I need something else. When you interviewed Lyle Morton yesterday, did he happen to give you his phone numbers?”

  “I’m pretty sure he did. They’re probably in the report. Why?”

  “I need them,” Joanna said. “If they’re in the report, Tom Hadlock can locate them for me. He’s been holding down the fort at the Justice Center while I’ve been
all over hell and gone.”

  While Joanna waited for her chief deputy to locate the necessary information, she struggled with her conscience. Lyle Morton was still a protected witness, but he was also a lying protected witness who wasn’t even willing to share information when it might help track down the people who had murdered his own son.

  And then there was Liza Machett, a woman who had been told that her presumed father was dead and who had crossed most of the continent to see the man she believed to be her brother. Joanna’s heart went out to Liza. Her family had betrayed her; her friends had been murdered; she herself had been targeted. In this web of evil, didn’t Lyle Morton owe his daughter the truth?

  When Lyle answered the phone a few minutes later, he sounded testy. “I’ve already had an early morning visit by a U.S. marshal. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “This isn’t a social call,” Joanna said brusquely. “Consider it an official notification. Liza Machett just turned up at Guy’s office looking for her brother. I have every intention of telling her exactly what’s happened and why. If you want to give her your side of the story, I suggest you put some clothes on and come straight to the Justice Center. She won’t be there, but we’ll know where she is.”

  “No,” Lyle said. “You can’t tell her. You can’t!”

  “I can, and I will,” Joanna said determinedly. “Just watch me. You have been duly notified, but tell me one thing. Does the name Jonathan Thurgard mean anything to you?”

  “He worked for the Millers,” Lyle said after a pause. “Drove a bread truck just like I did. Why?”

  “Mr. Thurgard reached out to Liza at her mother’s funeral. Now he’s dead, too, supposedly as a result of a hit-and-run. I haven’t had a chance to check this out—Liza just told me about it—but considering the timing, she’s probably right. The people who killed Thurgard are most likely the same ones who are after you. Isn’t it about time you came clean?”