Paradise Lost jb-9

by J. A. Jance

  “Good,” Joanna agreed with a nod.

  “I picked up a whole bunch of fingerprints,” Casey continued, “some of which belong to the deceased and some that don’t. I’m in the process of enhancing the ones I’ve found. So far I have no way of knowing whether or not AFIS will come up with a match, but I did find something odd.”

  “What’s that?” Joanna asked.

  Casey opened the folder and handed around pieces of paper. Each contained a typed transcript of the 911 call reporting the location of Connie Haskell’s vehicle. It seemed straightforward enough. A woman, giving her name as Alice Miller and her address as 2472 East Grant Road, had reported that on her way to Min­nesota to visit her daughter in Duluth she had parked next to a vehicle at the Tucson airport, a Lincoln Town Car with what looked like bloodstains on the car door.

  Joanna read through the transcript. “So?” she inquired.

  “Don’t you see anything that doesn’t fit?” Casey Ledford asked.

  Joanna reread the transcript. “I still don’t see anything,” she said. “What’s the deal?”

  “If, as Mrs. Miller claimed, she was on her way to Duluth, Min­nesota, at ten o’clock on Saturday morning, why did her 911 call originate from a pay phone on North First Avenue?” Casey asked. “Look at the address for the phone. When I saw it, I smelled a rat. If the woman who called really was on her way out of town by plane, wouldn’t she have called in the report either from the airport or from her daughter’s home in Minnesota once she got there? That struck me as odd, so just to be on the safe side, I drove past the address of the phone booth. It turns out to be inside a Target store on North First. Then I checked out the address she gave as her home address, the one on East Grant Road. It’s a vacant lot. Alice Miller doesn’t live there, and neither does anybody else.”

  “Way to go,” Joanna breathed. “You wouldn’t be interested in putting in for detective, would you?”

  “No, thanks,” Casey Ledford replied with a grin. “I’m perfectly happy being an AFIS tech. I have zero interest in watching autopsies. But there is one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Doc Winfield sent over Dora Matthews’s clothes. I found something interesting in the pocket of her shorts, something the Doc evidently missed.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A cash receipt from Walgreens in Sierra Vista. It was dated Sunday and contains two items—a Snickers bar and one Know Now Kit.”

  “So?” Ernie Carpenter asked with a frown.

  “Ever heard of Know Now?” she asked.

  “Never,” he replied.

  “It’s a home pregnancy test,” she said. “Gives you results in three minutes.”

  “In our day, Rose had to go to the doctor to find out whether or not she was pregnant,” Ernie said.

  Casey Ledford shook her head. “That may have been true in the good old days,” she told him with a laugh, “but not anymore.”

  “Doc Winfield already told us she was pregnant,” Ernie said. “All that receipt means is Dora must have known, too.”

  “It was dated Sunday?” Joanna asked.

  Casey nodded.

  “It gives us something else,” Joanna says. “It gives us one more bit of information about what happened after she left High Lonesome Ranch.”

  Ernie nodded. “We’ll check into it,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “So this Alice Miller must know something,” Joanna said to the others after Casey Ledford had returned to her lab and the group’s attention had veered away from pregnancy testing kits in favor of the mysterious 911 call.

  “If that’s even the woman’s real name,” Ernie Carpenter grumbled. “After all, if she gave a phony address in making the report, what makes you think she’d give the 911 operator her real name?”

  “Point taken. So how do we flush her out?”

  “How about checking with the phone company and seeing if any other phone calls were made from that same pay phone about the same time?” Jaime Carbajal suggested. “Maybe she made more than just that single call. If we find any other numbers dialed right around then, they might give us a lead as to who she is.”

  “Good thinking,” Joanna said.

  She glanced in her chief deputy’s direction. Frank Montoya was the department’s designated hitter when it came to dealing with telephone company inquiries. Joanna was grateful to see that he was already making a note to follow up on it.

  “What about this cabin at Pathway to Paradise where you say Ron Haskell was in isolation from Thursday afternoon on?” Ernie added. “Just how remote is it?”

  “Pretty,” Joanna replied.

  “But you said no one saw him from Thursday on. Isn’t there a chance he could have slipped away from the cabin, done one mur­der or maybe even two, and then come back again to his cozy little isolation booth without anyone at Pathway being the wiser?” the detective asked. “There may be an armed guard posted at the gate, but who’s to say someone coming and going on foot would have had to go anywhere near the gate?”

  Joanna could tell Ernie was reluctant to drop Ron Haskell from his position as prime suspect in his wife’s murder investigation. Joanna didn’t blame Detective Carpenter for his reluctance. She didn’t want to drop Ron Haskell from prime suspect status, either. Without him, the investigation into who had killed Connie Haskell was still stuck at the starting gate.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Joanna conceded. “It is possible that Haskell could have come and gone without being noticed, but don’t forget—he’s due in here this morning to allow us to collect DNA samples.”

  “If he actually shows up, that is,” Ernie returned. “I wouldn’t bet money on it.”

  “All right. Let’s go back to the Dora Matthews situation for a moment,” Joanna suggested. “What’s happening there?”

  “I talked to the foster mother in Sierra Vista a few minutes ago,” Jaime Carbajal said. “She called to say one of the kids in the neighborhood reported seeing a girl in shorts getting into a car around midnight Sunday night. I have the kid’s name. We’ll interview him ASAP and see if he can give us a description of the car. I’ll also make it a point to check out that Walgreens store to see il anybody remembers seeing Dora Matthews there, either alone or with someone. If I were a drugstore clerk, I’d remember if a thirteen year-old kid stopped by to pick up a pregnancy test kit.”

  “While I’m dealing with the phone factory,” Frank Montoya said, “I’ll check incoming and outgoing calls from the foster home as well.”

  “Good call,” Joanna said. “Now, what about Dora’s mother?”

  “Still no trace of her,” Jaime answered. “None at all.”

  Joanna aimed her next question at her chief deputy. “What’s happening on the media front?”

  “Because we can’t locate and notify Sally Matthews, we’re still not releasing Dora’s name to the press,” Frank replied. “The prob­lem is, I don’t know how long that line will hold. Word of Dora’s death has already spread all over town. Sooner or later some reporter is going to pick up on it and publish it. As you know, Jenny’s and Dora’s names have already been in the papers in connection with finding Connie Haskell’s body. Once the reporters find out Dora is dead as well, they’re going to go to press without giving a damn as to whether or not Sally gets news of her daughter’s death from us or from the media.”

  Joanna nodded. “Let’s continue delaying the official release of Dora’s name for as long as possible,” she said. “But, bearing in mind that most people are murdered by people they know, what are the chances that Sally Matthews is somehow involved in her daughter’s death?”

  “‘There’s nothing much on Sally Matthews’s sheet,” Frank said with a shrug. “My guess is she’s been slipping by the criminal justice system for a long time, doing drugs and probably manufacturing and selling, too, but without getting caught. The first time she really got busted was last summer. She got six months for possession and sale. It s
hould have been more, but her public defender came through like a champ. Her current boyfriend, Mr. Leon ‘B. B.’ Ardmore, has a couple of drug-violation convictions as well. From what I’ve learned so far, I’d say he’s the mastermind behind the meth lab.

  “But going back to Dora, it was while her mother was in the slammer that she ended up in foster care the first time—up in Tuc­son. From her reaction to the CPS caseworker out at High Lonesome Ranch the other night, I’d say she didn’t like it much. Maybe foster care made her feel like she was in jail, too.”

  “What about Dora’s clothing?” Joanna asked. “Has Casey Ledford started processing them for possible fingerprints?”

  “Not yet,” Frank Montoya said. “She agrees with Doc Winfield about the paint flecks, and there may be a whole lot more trace evidence on that clothing than just fingerprints and paint. Her sug­gestion is that we deliver all the clothing to the Department of Public Safety Satellite Crime Lab in Tucson and have their guys go over everything. The state has better equipment than we do, and a whole lot more of it, too. Needless to say, the sooner we get the clothing into the DPS pipeline, the better.”

  “I’ll take care of that,” Jaime Carbajal offered. “Once we finish with Jenny’s interview, Ernie and I will take the clothing to Tucson.”

  “Speaking of which,” Ernie said, peering at his watch, “Shouldn’t we get started?”

  Joanna glanced questioningly at Frank. “Anything else of earth-shattering importance for the morning briefing?” she asked.

  “All pretty standard,” Frank said, closing his folder. “Nothing that can’t wait until after the interview or even later.” He stood up. “Want me to send Jenny in on my way out?”

  “Please,” Joanna murmured. She had dreaded bringing Jenny into the conference room for the interview, and she was more than happy to let Frank do the summoning. Jennifer entered the conference room clutching Harry Potter to her chest, as though having the book with her might somehow ward off the evil wizards. She paused in the doorway and surveyed the room. Joanna sensed that the conference room—a place Jenny knew well and where she often did her homework—had suddenly been transformed into alien territory. When Jenny’s eyes finally encountered her mother’s, Joanna responded with her most reassuring smile.

  “You know both Detective Carbajal and Detective Carpenter, don’t you?” she asked.

  Jenny nodded gravely.

  “They’ll be the ones asking you questions and taping your answers. It’ll be important for you to tell them everything you know, down to the smallest detail. Sometimes it’s those tiny bits of information that provide investigators with their most helpful leads. Understand?”

  Jenny nodded again.

  “And you have to remember not to nod or shake your head,” Joanna added. “We may know what you mean, but your answer won’t show up on the tape.”

  At that point, Ernie Carpenter stood up and took control of the proceedings. “Thanks for coming, Jenny,” he said, leading her to a chair. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  For Joanna, the next hour and a half lasted an eternity. The process was excruciating for her. Motherly instinct made her want to prompt her daughter and encourage her, but the rules of interview procedure required her to keep still. There was too much likelihood that she might end up putting words in Jenny’s mouth. On the other hand, knowing how the game was played, it was difficult for Joanna to sit silently on the sidelines while Ernie Carpenter and Jaime Carbajal volleyed questions at Jenny. The process was designed to tell them which of the two had established a better rapport with the witness—which had succeeded in gaining her trust. As a police officer Joanna recognized and applauded the way the detectives manipulated her daughter; as a mother she hated it.

  Ernie Carpenter’s children were grown and gone. Jaime Carba­jal still had young children of his own at home. Whether or not that made the difference, soon after the interview began, it was clear the younger detective would be doing most of the questioning.

  “So tell me about your friend Dora, Jenny,” Detective Carbajal said, settling back into his chair and crossing his arms.

  Jenny stuck out her lower lip. Joanna’s heart constricted at that familiar and visible sign of her daughter’s steadfast stubbornness. “I knew Dora,” Jenny answered. “But she wasn’t my friend.” “But you were tentmates on the camp-out.”

  “That’s because Mrs. Lambert made us,” Jenny said. “She had us draw buttons—sort of like drawing straws. If two people got the same color button, they were partners for the whole camp-out. That’s how I got stuck with Dora.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Jaime Carbajal shrugged. “Everything,” he said.

  “She wasn’t very smart,” Jenny began.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because she had been held back—at least one grade and maybe even two. She was thirteen. Everybody else in our class is only twelve. Dora always looked dirty, and she smelled bad. She smoked, and she acted like she knew everything, but she didn’t. And she wasn’t very nice.”

  “I can understand why Dora smelled funny and looked dirty,” Jamie Carbajal said quietly. “The place where she lived with her mother was filthy. The bathroom had been turned into a meth lab and the kitchen sink was bill of dirty dishes and rotten food. There was no place for Dora to shower or bathe.”

  Jenny looked questioningly at Joanna. The idea of living with a mother who preferred manufacturing drugs to allowing her child to be clean must have seemed incomprehensible to her, just as it did to Joanna.

  “There was some food in the house, but not much, and most of that wasn’t fit to eat,” Jaime Carbajal continued. “All in all, I don’t think Dora Matthews’s mother knew much about being a good mother. There’s a reason I’m telling you all this, Jenny. I understand why you may not have wanted to be Dora’s friend while she was alive, but I’m asking you to be her friend now. You can do that by helping us find out who killed her.”

  “I don’t know how,” Jenny said in a subdued voice.

  “Tell us whatever you remember,” Jaime urged. “Everything. Let’s start with Friday afternoon, when you went on the camping trip. What happened there?”

  “Well,” Jenny began, “first we drove to Apache Pass. After we put up our tents, we ate dinner and had a campfire that wasn’t really a campfire—because of the fire danger. Mrs. Lambert had its use a battery-powered lantern instead of a regular fire. It was after that—after we all went to our tents—that Dora said we should go for a walk and ...”

  Jenny paused and looked at Joanna. Sitting across the confer­ence table from her daughter, Joanna forced her expression to remain unchanged and neutral.

  “And what?” Jaime prodded.

  “... and have a cigarette.” Jenny finished the sentence in a rush. “I tried smoking one, only the taste of it made me sick—so sick that I threw up. It was after I barfed that we found that woman’s body—Mrs. Haskell’s body”

  “Did you see or hear anyone nearby when you found the body?” Jaime asked.

  Jenny shook her head. “No. There wasn’t anyone. She was lying there by the road, naked and all by herself.”

  “Did you see a vehicle, perhaps?” Jaime asked. “Maybe there was one parked somewhere along the road.”

  “No,” Jenny said. “There wasn’t, at least not that I saw.”

  Next to Joanna, Ernie Carpenter stirred, like a great bear wak­ing from a long winter’s sleep. His thick black brows knit together into a frown. “You said a minute ago that Dora Matthews wasn’t nice. What did you mean by that, Jenny? Did she cuss, for instance, or beat people up?”

  This time, instead of pouting, Jenny bit her lip before answer­ing. Lowering her eyes, she shook her head.

  “By shaking your head, you mean she didn’t do those things, or do you mean you don’t want to answer?” Ernie prodded.

  Jenny looked beseechingly at her mother. “Morn, do I have to answer?
”

  Joanna nodded and said nothing. Jenny turned back to Ernie and squared her shoulders. “Dora told lies,” she declared. “About what?”

  Jenny squirmed in her seat. “About stuff,” she said.

  “What stuff?” he asked.

  “She said she had a boyfriend and that they like . . . you know.” Jenny ducked her head. A curtain of blond hair fell across her face, shielding her blue eyes from her mother’s gaze. “She said that they did it,” Jenny finished lamely.

  “You’re saying that Dora and her boyfriend had sex?” Ernie asked.

  “‘That’s what Dora said,” Jenny replied. “She said they did and that he wanted to marry her, but how could he? She was only thirteen. Isn’t that against the law or something?”

  “Dora wasn’t lying, Jenny,” Jaime Carbajal said softly. “Maybe the part about getting married was a lie, but Dora Matthews did have a boyfriend and they were having sex. And that is against the law. Even if Dora was a willing participant, having sex with a juvenile is called statutory rape.” He paused. “What would you think if I told you Dora Matthews was pregnant when she died?” he asked a moment later.

  Jenny’s eyes widened in disbelief. She turned to her mother for confirmation. Again Joanna nodded. “It’s true,” she said.

  “So what I’m asking you now is this,” Jaime continued quietly. “Do you have any idea who the father of Dora’s baby might he?”

  To Joanna’s amazement, Jenny nodded. “Yes,” she said at once. “His name is Chris.”

  “Chris what?” Jaime asked.

  “I don’t know his last name. Dora never told me. Just Chris. I tried to tell her not to do it, but Dora went ahead and called him—called Chris—from our house.”

  “When was that?”

  “Friday night, after Mrs. Lambert sent us home from the camp out. It was while we were at home and when Grandpa and Grandma Brady were taking care of us. Dora called Chris that night, after the Gs fell asleep. Then, the next morning, Chris called her back. I was afraid Grandma would pick up the phone iii the other room and hear them talking. I knew she’d be mad about it if she did, but she must have been outside with Grandpa. I don’t think she even heard the phone ring.”