by J. A. Jance
The two men nodded in unison as Joanna left the porch and followed Frank Montoya out to the car. He headed for the driver’s seat, but Joanna stopped him. “I’ll drive,” she said. “You run the mobile communications equipment.”
For months, and in spite of unstinting derision from his fellow officers, Frank Montoya had tinkered with his Crown Victoria, taking it beyond the normal patrol-car computing technology and adding additional state-of-the-art equipment whenever the opportunity presented itself. The chief deputy’s Civvie now boasted a complete mobile office with the latest in wireless Internet and fax connections powered by the department’s newest and most expensive laptop. And the investment of both time and money had paid off. In the last several months, Frank Montoya’s high-tech wizardry had saved the day on more than one occasion. Around the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department, joking references to Frank’s “electronic baby” had been replaced by grudging admiration.
“To do what?” Frank asked.
Joanna got behind the wheel and held out her hand for Frank to pass the keys. “Do you have a cell phone signal?” she asked.
“I get it. You want me to run Rob Whipple’s name through the NCIC database? What makes you think he’ll be there?”
“It’s a long shot, but Doc Winfield says our guy wasn’t a first-timer. I’m thinking maybe he’s been caught before.” With that, Joanna shifted the Crown Victoria into gear and backed out of the parking place.
“And where are we going in the meantime?” Frank asked as he picked up the laptop and turned it on.
“Paradise,” she returned. “We’re going to pay a call on our friend Mr. Rob Whipple. You did get his driver’s license info, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And his address.”
“That too, but do you think going to see him is such a good idea?” Frank asked. “After all, we don’t really have probable cause to arrest the man, and we sure as hell don’t have a search warrant.”
“We’re not going to arrest him,” Joanna returned. “If he’s our man, he may already have taken off for parts unknown. Or, if he is the killer and he’s still hanging around, showing up for work, and acting as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened, he may be thinking he’s getting away clean. All I want to do is shake him up a little. Put the fear of God in him. Give him a shove in the right direction and see if we can get him to give himself away.”
Frank shook his head. “I still don’t like it,” he said. “How about calling Jaime and Ernie and letting them know what’s up? They ought to be in on this, you know, Joanna. You and I shouldn’t be off doing this all by ourselves.”
“Jaime and Ernie are in Tucson,” she reminded him. “You can call them, but we’re here—a good hour and a half earlier than they can be. We’re going anyway.”
“But why the big hurry?”
“Because I happen to agree with Mr. Hardy back there. He thinks Irma Sorenson is in danger, and so do I, and I’d a whole lot rather look stupid than hang around doing nothing but wringing my hands until it’s too late.”
Joanna paused uncertainly at the entrance to Quartzite East. “Which way’s faster?” she asked. “Right or left?”
“From here, I’d say down the New Mexico side,” Frank told her.
Joanna nodded. “Time for a little mutual aid,” she said, switching on the flashing light. “Before you start dialing up that database, you’d better call somebody over in New Mexico and let them know we’re coming through.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
With the Civvie’s warning lights flashing, Joanna tore east on I-10 and across the state line into New Mexico. By then Frank had alerted the Hidalgo County Sheriff’s Department and let them know what was happening. Once off the interstate and onto an almost deserted Highway 80, Joanna shoved the gas pedal down and let the speedometer hover around ninety.
“Damn,” Frank muttered finally.
“What’s the matter?”
“I finally managed to dial into the NCIC database, but now I’ve lost the signal. That’s the problem out here in the sticks. Cell-site overage is still too spotty. I’ll have to try again when we get a stronger signal.”
“You could always radio in and have Dispatch run it,” Joanna suggested.
Frank was quiet for a moment but reluctant to give up. “I’ll wait for a better signal,” he said.
Joanna understood completely. He didn’t want someone else to run the computer check any more than she had been eager to call Ernie and Jaime in to contact Rob Whipple.
“What’s the plan in the meantime?” Frank asked.
“We’ll go straight to Pathway,” Joanna said. “Whipple may be there, but I’m guessing he’s taken off. Mostly, I want to talk to Caroline and Amos Parker. I want to know how long Rob Whipple has worked for them and where he came from before that. What’s his address again?”
Frank consulted his notes. “Box 78, San Simon/Paradise Star Route, Paradise, Arizona.”
“Get on the radio to Dispatch about that, then. Have them give us an exact location on that address, complete with detailed directions,” Joanna said. “When it’s time to go there, I don’t want to be fumbling around in the dark getting lost. And while you’re at it,” she added, “find out where Ernie and Jaime are. If they’re not on their way, see if there are any other available units who could back us up on this. Better safe than sorry.”
Nodding, Frank picked up the radio microphone. Meanwhile, Joanna drove on with the heightened sense of awareness left behind by all the extra energy flooding her body. The arch of sky overhead took on a deeper shade of blue while the steep green flanks of the Chiricahua Mountains stood out against the sky with a three-dimensional clarity that mimicked one of her old View Master photos.
In her time as sheriff, Joanna Brady had seen enough action to understand what was happening to both her body and her senses. They were gearing up for whatever was to collie, switching into a state of preparedness a sustained red alert. Although Joanna welcomed the sudden burst of energy, she also recognized how long periods of that kind of tension could sometimes backfire. That was how endorphin-fueled hot pursuits sometimes exploded into incidents of police violence. In hopes of holding herself in check, she deliberately slowed the Civvie and switched off both siren and lights.
On the passenger side of the car, Frank had relented, swallowed his high-tech pride, and asked Dispatch to check on Rob Whipple’s criminal past. Now he was busily jotting down directions to Whipple’s house located off San Simon/Paradise Road. When the Crown Victoria slowed for no apparent reason, he glanced in Joanna’s direction and nodded approvingly.
“Ask Larry what else is happening,” Joanna said.
Frank relayed the question. “There’s been another car jacking,” Larry Kendrick answered over the radio speaker.
“Where?” Joanna demanded. This time no relay was necessary because she had wrenched the radio microphone out of Frank’s hand and was using it herself.
“The rest area in Texas Canyon.”
“When did it happen, and was anybody hurt?”
“About forty minutes ago,” Kendrick replied. “No one was hurt, but it sounds like the perpetrator was the same guy who did the old guy from El Paso last week. This time it was a couple from Alabama. The husband went in to use the rest room, leaving his wife sitting in the car with both the motor and the air-conditioning running. A guy came running up, opened the door, pulled her out, and threw her on the ground. Then he jumped in and drove off. She had a couple of bruises and abrasions, but that’s about it. Her husband’s upset about losing the car. She’s upset about losing her purse.
“Okay,” Joanna said, shaking her head. “‘That’s it. I’m tired of nickel-and-diming around with this thing. We’re going to put a stop it once and for all! Get hold of Debbie Howell and one of her younger deputies. I know: team her up with Terry Gregovich and Spike. Have them dress in plain clothes and drive one of the late-model cars we have locked up
in the impound yard. I want them to cruise the freeway and stop at every damn rest area for the remainder of their shifts today. In fact, I want them to do the same thing every day until I tell them otherwise. And if they feel like working longer than that, tell them overtime is authorized—as much as they can handle. Have Debbie stay in the car with Spike while Terry uses the phone or the rest room or whatever. If somebody tries to pull a carjacking then, he’ll be in for a rude surprise when a trained police dog comes roaring out of the backseat.”
By then the Civvie had reached the turnoff to Portal. Needing both hands to keep the speeding Crown Victoria on the washboarded surface of the road, Joanna relinquished the microphone to Frank.
“Sounds like a plan,” he said mildly, even though Joanna knew that when it came time to cut checks for the next pay period, Frank would be griping about having to pay the extra overtime. “You still haven’t heard anything from Detectives Carpenter and Carbajal?” Frank asked into the radio.
“I have now. They’re just leaving Tucson on their way to Sierra Vista,” Larry Kendrick replied. “Anything you want me to tell them, or would you like me to patch you through?”
Frank glanced questioningly in Joanna’s direction. “Tell them to go on to Sierra Vista as planned,” Joanna said. “See who else can backup for us.”
After doing so, Frank put the mike back into its clip. “It could be days, you know,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
If the carjacker got away with a vehicle today, it could he days before he comes back looking for another one. How much over time are you planning on paying?”
“As much as it takes,” Joanna answered grimly.
It was only four-thirty in the afternoon, but as they drove toward Portal, the sun slid behind the mountains, sending the eastern side of the Chiricahuas into a shadowy, premature version of dusk. Fifteen minutes later Joanna drove up to the guard shack at Pathway to Paradise. With her shoulders aching from suppressed tension, she waited to see if Rob Whipple would emerge front the shack. She was disappointed when a young, buck-toothed man in his early thirties approached the Crown Victoria instead. His nane tag identified him as Andrew Simms and his cheerful, easygoing manner made him far less menacing than Rob Whipple had been.
“May I help you?” he asked, leaning down to peer in the window.
“I’m Sheriff Brady,” Joanna said, presenting her ID. “We’re here to see Caroline Parker.”
“If I could tell her what this is concerning—” Simms began spouting the party line, but Joanna cut him off.
“It concerns urgent police business,” she told him. “I’m not at liberty to disclose anything more.”
She expected an additional argument. Instead, without further objection, Andrew Simms retreated to the guard shack and returned with both the sign-in clipboard and a visitor’s pass for the windshield.
“Just fill this out, if you will,” he said. “Do you know the way, or do you want me to have someone come down to guide you up?”
“We know the way,” Joanna said.
A few minutes later, when the Crown Victoria entered the Pathway to Paradise compound, Caroline Parker was waiting tier them on the front veranda.
“What is it now?” she demanded with a frown. “Ron Haskell’s gone, if that’s who you’re looking for.”
“We want to talk to you about Rob Whipple,” Joanna said.
Caroline’s face grew wary. “What about him?” she asked. “When is he due to work again?” Joanna asked.
Caroline glanced at her watch. “He was supposed to work today, but he traded with Andrew Simms. They’re not permitted to do that without getting prior approval, but since the shift was covered ...”
Joanna felt a hard knot of concern form in her gut. She was right. Rob Whipple had missed work. That meant there was a strong likelihood that he had also fled Joanna’s jurisdiction. “Do you know when he made those arrangements, the ones to cover his shift?” she asked.
Caroline Parker shook her head. “No,” she said. “I have no idea.”
“How long has Rob Whipple worked for you?” Joanna asked.
Caroline shrugged. “A long time. Five or six years. He came as a client to begin with. After he finished his course of treatment, he ended up hiring on to work here. He did grounds maintenance for a year or two. After that he transferred to security. He’s been doing that ever since.”
“What was he treated for?”
Caroline Parker smiled and shook her head. “Come on, Sheriff Brady. Don’t be naive. You know I won’t tell you that.”
“What about his mother?” Joanna asked. “Did you ever meet her? Her name’s Irma Sorenson.”
“Irma, oh yes,” Caroline Parker replied. “I believe I did meet her once, only her name was still Whipple back then. She came to Rob’s family-week program. Unless I’m mistaken, she’s also the one who paid for him to come here in the first place—as a client, that is.”
“You haven’t seen Irma Sorenson since then?”
“No.”
“How many patients do you have here at Pathway to Paradise, Ms. Parker?”
“Clients, not patients,” she corrected. “And not more than thirty at a time. That’s when we’re running at full capacity.”
“Generally speaking, how long do they stay?” Joanna asked.
“Two months. Sometimes longer than that, depending on what’s needed and the kind of progress they’re making.”
“That means that, in the course of a year, you see several hundred different ‘clients’ ?”
“Yes. That’s true.”
“You said Rob Whipple was a patient—excuse me—a ‘client’ here five or six years ago, but you still remember exactly who paid for his course of treatment. Do you remember the details of every client’s bill-paying arrangements so clearly?”
Caroline Parker looked uncomfortable. “Well, no,” she admitted. “I don’t suppose I do.”
“And yet, after all this time, you still remember clearly that Irma Sorenson paid for Rob Whipple’s stay here. Why is that, Ms. Parker?”
“The circumstances were unusual, but I’m not at liberty to disclose what they were since that would be a breach of Mr. Whipple’s presumption of confidentiality.”
“What would you say it I told you that someone’s life was at stake?” Joanna asked.
“My answer would still have to be the same, Sheriff Brady,” Caroline answered primly. “We don’t do situational ethics here at Pathway to Paradise. Ethics are ethics.”
“And murder is murder,” Joanna returned. She swung back to her chief deputy. “Come on, Frank. Let’s go.”
But Caroline stopped them. “Wait a minute. Are you implying that Rob Whipple had something to do with the murder of Ron Haskell’s wife?”
“I didn’t say that; you did,” Joanna told her. “How come?”
Realizing her error, Caroline Parker shook her head. “I can’t say,” she declared.
“But I can guess,” Joanna said. “What was the sickness that infected Rob Whipple’s soul, Ms. Parker, the one he came here to be cured of? It wasn’t day-trading or lotto fever, was it. I’d guess he liked to hurt women—hurt them first and kill them later. You and your father may be under the happy delusion that your ethical counseling program cured the man of his ailment, but I’m here to tell you it didn’t. I think Rob Whipple has just suffered a major relapse.”
The sharp corners of Caroline’s angular face seemed to blur and soften. She stepped over to the Crown Victoria and leaned against the roof, burying her head in her arms. “Dad fired him,” she said at last in a subdued voice, one that had had all the authority wrung out of it.
“When?” Joanna demanded.
“Last night. Right after you left here, Dad called Rob into the office. He asked Rob point-blank if he was involved in what had happened to Ron Haskell’s wife. Rob denied it, of course, and my father called him a liar. Dad may be blind, but he can see through people when they’re not telli
ng him the truth. And so Dad fired him, just like that. He had me take away Rob’s name badge and weapon—”
“Those didn’t belong to him?”
“No. They’re ours—company-owned, that is. Alter that, Dad sent him packing; told Rob to go away and never come back.”
“Why?” Joanna asked.
“Why what?”
“Why did your father want Rob Whipple to leave?”
“We run a very profitable and well-thought-of program hew, Sheriff Brady,” Caroline said proudly. “When people come here, they’re looking for results. They don’t want to know about our failures.”
“You told us earlier that Rob had gotten Andrew Simms to cover his shift. Now you’re saying your father fired him. Why the discrepancy, and which is the truth? I thought you people didn’t deal in situational ethics.”
Caroline shrugged. “Father wanted to buy some time. He said sending Rob packing would give things a chance to simmer down a little.”
“In other words, to keep from damaging Pathway to Paradise’s reputation and cure rate, you and your father would stoop to any thing, including knowingly turning a murderer loose on the world. Why didn’t you call and tell us what was going on?” Joanna demanded.
“We couldn’t,” Caroline wailed tearfully. “You’ve got to under stand. If we had called, it would have been a breach of confidentiality.”
“You can call it whatever you like,” Joanna hissed back at her. “But once we find out Rob Whipple has killed again, I hope your conscience is clear, Ms. Parker. I hope you and your father will both be able to sleep at night.”
“You just said ‘again,’“ Caroline whispered. “Does that mean someone else is dead, someone other than Ron Haskell’s wife?”
“That’s right,” Joanna said. “Remember Irma Whipple Sorenson, the lady who wrote that check to pay for her son’s treatment? She’s missing and has been ever since Saturday morning, moments after she made an anonymous call, nervously reporting the whereabouts of Connie Haskell’s bloodied vehicle. I’m assuming that she’s already dead, but you and your father had better hope like hell that she died prior to last night and not after, because if Irma was killed after you and your father sent Rob Whipple merrily on his way without calling us, I’m going to see about charging the two of you with being accessories.”