Paradise Lost jb-9

by J. A. Jance

  “What time was that?” Jaime asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jenny replied with a shrug. “Sometime Satur­day morning, I guess.”

  “Could it have been about ten-fifteen?” Joanna blurted out the question despite having given herself strict orders to keep silent. Jenny looked quizzically in her mother’s direction. So did the two detectives.

  “It may have been right around then,” Jenny said. “But I don’t know for sure.”

  “I do,” Joanna said. “And I would guess that Chris’s last name will turn out to be Bernard,” she added, addressing the two detec­tives. “That name and a Tucson phone number showed up on our caller ID last night when I got home. Since neither Butch nor I know anyone by that name, I thought it had to be someone Jim Bob or Eva Lou Brady knew. Now I’m guessing it must have been Chris calling Dora.”

  Jaime swung his attention from Joanna back to Jenny. “Did you happen to overhear any of that conversation?”

  “A little,” Jenny admitted. “But not that much. Part of the time I was out of the room.”

  “What was said?”

  “Chris was supposed to come get her.”

  “When?”

  “That night,” Jenny murmured. “Saturday night. She said she’d be back at her own house by then, and that he should come by there—by her house up in Old Bisbee to pick her up. She gave him the address and everything. She told me later that they were going to run away and live together. She said Chris told her that in Mexico thirteen was old enough to get married.”

  “Did you mention any of this to your grandparents?”

  Jenny shook her head. “No,” she said softly.

  “Why not?”

  Jenny looked at Joanna with an expression on her face that begged for understanding. “Because I didn’t want to be a tattletale,” she said at last. “The other kids all think that just because my mother is sheriff that I’m some kind of a goody-goody freak or perfect or something. But I’m not. I’m just a regular kid like everyone else.”

  For Joanna Brady it was like seeing her own life in instant replay, a return to her own teenage years, when, with a father who was first sheriff and then dead, she too had struggled desperately to fit in. To be a regular kid. To be normal. It distressed her to think Jenny was having to wrestle the same demons. As a mother she may have been wrong about a lot of things, but she had called that shot—from the cigarettes on to this: Jenny’s stubborn determination to keep her mouth shut and not be a squealer.

  “I see,” Jaime Carbajal said. “You already said you didn’t know Dora was pregnant. Do you think Chris knew?”

  Jenny shrugged. “Maybe,” she said.

  “What kind of arrangement was made for hint to route get her?”

  “I don’t know that exactly, either. Like I said, I heard Dora give him her address and directions so he could get here. She said she’d sneak out to meet him just like she used to do up in Tucson. She said her mother wouldn’t even notice she was gone. But then Grandma Lathrop called CPS. The next thing I knew, that awful woman was there at the house to take Dora away, and all the while Dora was yelling, ‘No, no, no. I don’t want to go. Don’t make me go!’ “

  Jenny paused then. A pair of fat tears dribbled down her cheeks and dripped onto the surface of the table. “I should have told, shouldn’t I? If I had, would it have made any difference or would Dora still he dead anyway?”

  Joanna wanted to jump up, rush around the table, take Jenny in her arms and comfort her. She wanted to tell Ernie and Jaime, “Enough! No more questions.” But she didn’t. Even though it killed her to do so, she sat still and kept her mouth shut. It was Detective Carbajal who reached over and laid a comforting hand on Jenny’s trembling shoulder.

  “I don’t know the answer to that,” he said gruffly. “Child Pro­tective Services took Dora Matthews into their custody. They’re the ones who were ultimately responsible for safeguarding her once she left your grandparents’ care.”

  There was a knock on the door. Ernie lumbered up from his chair. “I’ll tell whoever it is to get lost,” he said.

  Just then the door opened. Kristin poked her head inside and beckoned to Joanna. “I have a phone call for you, Sheriff Brady,” she said. “It’s urgent.”

  Joanna looked at Jenny. “Will you be all right? I can ask Detec­tives Carpenter and Carbajal to not ask any more questions until I get back.”

  Jenny shook her head. “It’s all right,” she said. “I don’t mind.”

  Joanna followed Kristin into the lobby. “Who is it?” she asked. “Burton Kimball,” Kristin replied.

  Burton Kimball was Bisbee’s premier attorney. He did a fair amount of local defense work. He had also handled Clayton Rhodes’s will, the one in which Joanna’s former handyman had left his neighboring ranch to Joanna and Butch. Surely there was no lingering problem from that transaction that necessitated Joanna’s being yanked from Jenny’s interview.

  “What does he want?” Joanna demanded. “I thought I told you we weren’t to be interrupted.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kristin apologized. “Mr. Kimball insisted that it was vitally important that he speak to you. I offered to put him through to Chief Deputy Montoya, but he said you were the only one who would do.”

  “All right then,” Joanna sighed. Shaking her head in frustration, she stomped into her office and unearthed her telephone from the mounds of papers that covered her desk. Then she sat down and took several deep breaths to compose herself. Finally she picked up the receiver and punched the “hold” button.

  “Good morning, Burton,” she said as cordially as she could manage. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, sir,” Burton said in his mannerly drawl. “I’m sitting here in my office with my newest client, a lady by the name of Sally Matthews. I handled her parents’ estate, so she came to see me. Ms. Matthews is interested in turning herself in, Sheriff Brady. The City of Bisbee has passed this case along to the Multi-Jurisdiction Force, so in actual fact, she’ll be turning herself in to them. But, given what all has happened, she wants to talk to you first. Before Sally turns herself in to them, she wants to hear the straight scoop about what happened to Dora and what’s being done to find whoever’s responsible. That seems to me like a reasonable enough request.”

  “She knows her daughter is dead?” Joanna asked.

  “Yes, she does,” Burton replied. “She came back to town and heard it from an acquaintance—someone she ran into when she stopped to get gas. She took it hard, Sheriff Brady, real hard, but she’s had a chance to pull herself together now. If it wouldn’t he too inconvenient, I’d like to bring her out to see you as soon as possible. What do you think?”

  There wasn’t much Joanna could say. “Sure,” she agreed. “Bring her right down.”

  “I’m concerned that there might be reporters out front at your office due to that murder out in Apache Pass,” Burton Kimball continued. “Considering Dora’s previously publicized connection to that case, I’m afraid Sally’s appearance will cause quite a stir. Is there possibly a more discreet way of bringing her down to your place rather than just driving up to the front door and marching in through the main lobby?”

  Joanna sighed. “Sure,” she said. “Come around to the back. There’s a door close to the west end of the building. That opens directly into my office. Knock on that, and I’ll let you in.”

  “Thank you so much, Sheriff Brady,” Burton said. “You’re most kind. We’ll be there in a matter of minutes.”

  As soon as Burton Kimball hung up, Joanna dialed Frank Mon­toya’s office. “What’s up?” her chief deputy asked. “Is the interview over already?”

  “It’s about to be,” she said. “Burton Kimball just called. He has Sally Matthews in his office. She’s ready to turn herself in, and he’s bringing her here.”

  “Why here?” Frank asked. “That meth lab was inside the city limits. It should be the City of Bisbee’s problem, not ours.”

  “The city has p
assed the case off to MJF,” Joanna told him. “She’ll turn herself in to them, but Burton Kimball is bringing Sally Matthews here first so we can brief her about what happened to Dora. I’m calling to let you know that Sally Matthews now knows about her daughter’s death. That being the case, you can go ahead and officially release Dora’s name to the press. We shouldn’t put it off any longer.”

  “Will do,” Frank said.

  Before returning to the conference room, Joanna stopped long enough to call Butch at home. “Scroll through the caller ID screen,” she asked him. “I need the number of the guy named Richard Bernard who called on Saturday morning. I think we may have found the father of Dora Matthews’s baby.”

  “The name is listed here as Richard Bernard, MD,” Butch said, once he’d read Joanna the number. “What is this, a doctor who’s some kind of pervert child molester?”

  “I doubt it,” Joanna told him. “According to Jenny, Chris was the name of Dora’s boyfriend. They’re kids, so naturally there was no last name. I’m guessing Chris Bernard is a teenaged son or maybe even a grandson. Jenny also said that Dora talked to Chris a couple of times while she was staying out there at the house with The Gs. That means Ernie or Jaime will need to interview him in case she told Chris anything on the phone that could shed light on what happened later.”

  “I wonder if Chris knew he was going to be a father,” Butch said.

  “Maybe,” Joanna said. “On Sunday Dora bought one of those home pregnancy test kits. I’m guessing that once she knew the results, she probably told him as well. I need to have Frank check their phone records as well.”

  “Whose?” Butch asked.

  “The Bernards’,” she said. “Never mind. I’m just thinking aloud.”

  “So Jenny’s interview is over then?” Butch asked, switching gears. “Do you want me to come pick her up?”

  “It’s not over, although they’re probably close to finishing up. I got called out of the conference room to take the phone call from Burton Kimball about Sally Matthews turning herself in. They’re on their way here from Bisbee right now.”

  “In that case, I’ll definitely come pick up Jenny,” Butch declared. “That’ll be one less thing for you to worry about.”

  “Thanks,” Joanna said. “Once they’re done, I’m sure Jenny will be more than ready to go.”

  “It was pretty tough then?”

  “Yes, it was,” she replied. “For both of us.”

  “Sorry about that, Joey. I’ll he there in a few minutes.”

  “If you come too soon, Jenny might not be ready.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll wait.”

  Without touching any of the papers waiting on her desk, Joanna headed back to the conference room. She met Jenny and Ernie Carpenter in the lobby.

  “Finished?” Joanna asked.

  Ernie nodded. “For the time being.”

  Joanna handed him the piece of paper on which she’d jotted down Dr. Richard Bernard’s name and number. “Good enough,” Ernie said. “I guess Jaime and I had better head up to Tucson. We’ll deliver the clothing to the crime lab so they can get started pro­cessing it. After that, we’ll track down Chris and talk to him.”

  “Before you go, you need to know that Sally Matthews is about to turn herself in to MJF. Burton Kimball is bringing her in. They’ll be here in a few minutes. I told them to use the back door. She wants to know what’s going on with Dora’s case, and I’m going to tell her.”

  “So she knows?”

  Joanna nodded. “How much she knows remains to be seen.”

  Ernie Carpenter left to find his partner. With a subdued Jenny following behind, Joanna returned to her office and made a futile attempt to straighten the mess on her desk. Meanwhile, Jenny slouched in one of the captain’s chairs. For several minutes, neither mother nor daughter said a word.

  Joanna finally broke the lingering silence. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Are you mad at me?” Jenny returned.

  “Why would I be mad at you?”

  Jenny bit her lip. She had chewed on it so much during the course of the interview that morning that it looked chapped and swollen. “For not telling Grandma and Grandpa about Dora talking to Chris on the phone. I didn’t think she was serious about running away. I thought she was just talking big again, you know, like bragging. But maybe, if I had told ...”

  Joanna went over to Jenny’s chair and knelt in front of her. “Jenny, honey, you’re going to have to decide that what happened wasn’t your fault. And now that we know a little more about what went on, it probably isn’t Grandma Lathrop’s fault, either. From what you said, it’s clear Dora Matthews was determined to run away. She would have done it anyway, whether she was at our house or at her own home up in Bisbee or in foster care.”

  “You really think so?” Jenny asked.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What about Chris? Do you think he’s the one who killed her?”

  “It could be,” Joanna said. “At this point in the investigation, anything is possible.”

  There was a knock on Joanna’s private entrance. “Is that them?” Jenny asked. “Mr. Kimball and Dora’s mother?”

  “Probably.”

  “I don’t want to see them,” Jenny said urgently.

  “Of course you don’t,” Joanna said. “Come on. You can wait outside in the lobby with Kristin. Butch will be here in a few minutes to pick you up.”

  Still clutching her book, Jenny retreated, closing the lobby door behind her, while Joanna went to open the outside door. Through the security peephole Joanna saw Burton Kimball, overdressed as usual in his customary suit and tie. With him was a desperately thin woman who must have been about Joanna’s age but who looked much older. Sally Matthews was gaunt and looked worn in her bottom-of-the-barrel thrift-store clothing. A loose-fitting baggy dress two sizes too large covered her bony, emaciated frame. On her feet was a pair of old flip-flops. Bedraggled, ill cut brown hair dangled around a thin face that was mostly obscured by a huge pair of sunglasses. In one knotted fist she clutched a soggy hanky.

  “Good morning, Sheriff Brady,” Burton Kimball said when Joanna opened the door. “May we come in?”

  Joanna held the door open and beckoned them inside. By the time she returned to her desk, she found that Sally Matthews had shed her sunglasses to reveal a haggard, homely, and entirely makeup-free face.

  “You can go ahead and put me under arrest if you want,” Sally said, in a harsh voice that trembled with suppressed emotion. “I don’t give a damn what happens to me. All I know is, your depart­ment took charge of my daughter, and now Dora is dead. Who’s responsible for that, Joanna Brady? Are you the one?”

  As she spoke, the agitated Sally Matthews had leaned so far forward in her chair that, for a moment, Joanna was afraid she was going to clamber across the expanse of desk that separated them. It must have seemed that way to Burton Kimball as well. He laid a restraining hand on his client’s arm. “Easy,” he said. “Take it easy.”

  “I won’t take it easy,” Sally Matthews hissed, shrugging away his hand. “I want to know who killed my daughter.”

  “So do I,” Joanna breathed. “Believe me, so do I.”

  She punched the intercom button. “Kristin,” she said when her secretary answered. “Would you please have Chief Deputy Mon­toya come to my office?”

  When she looked back at Sally Matthews, the woman had dis­solved into tears, sobbing into a large men’s handkerchief that had most likely come from Burton Kimball’s pocket. From the way Jaime Carbajal had described the Matthews’s home, Joanna knew Sally wouldn’t have won any Mother of the Year awards. Still, there was no denying that the woman was overwhelmed by grief at the loss of her only daughter.

  Before Joanna could say anything to comfort Silly, there was a sharp knock at her door. Turning, Joanna expected to sere Frank Montoya. Instead, Kristin stood in the doorway, beckoning frantically to Joanna.

  “It you’ll excuse me for
a moment,” Joanna said. She got up and walked over to the door. Kristin drew her into the lobby and then closed the door after them.

  “What’s the matter?” Joanna said.

  “You’d better go out front,” Kristin said, speaking in an urgent whisper. “All hell’s broken loose out there.”

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “From what I can tell, right after Frank’s news conference, one of those photographers from the Arizona Reporter tried to jump in and get a picture of Jenny as Butch was leading her out of the building. I think Butch grabbed the camera out of the guy’s hands and lobbed it into the parking lot. He and Jenny are both in Frank’s office.”

  Joanna could barely believe her ears. “They’re not hurt, are they?” she demanded.

  “No, they’re fine,” Kristin answered quickly. “But the photographer is out in the public lobby raising hell. He wants somebody to arrest Butch for assault and battery. And then there’s Ron Haskell. He’s here waiting ...”

  Joanna looked across the room and saw Ron Haskell sitting forlornly on the lobby loveseat. Stifling her own roiling emotions, she walked across the room to him and shook hands. “Thank you for conning, Mr. Haskell. As you can see, there’s a bit of an emergency going on right now. If you don’t mind, I’ll have my secretary here take you back to speak to one of our evidence technicians.”

  Joanna turned back to Kristin. “Take him to see Casey Ledford,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “She’ll need to take fingerprints from him. We’ll need to collect DNA samples as well.”

  With that, Joanna Brady headed for her chief deputy’s office, where, with the public brawl now over, her husband and daughter were waiting.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  By early afternoon, Joanna was in her office and elbow-deep in paperwork. Kristin Gregovich had gone out for an early lunch and had returned with a tuna sandwich for Joanna, the half-eaten remains of which lingered on her correspondence littered desk. With two separate murder investigations under way, it was difficult for Joanna to stay focused on the routine administrative matters that had to be handled—duty rosters to approve and vacation schedules to be juggled, as well as making shift-coverage arrangements around Yolanda Cañedo’s extended sick leave.