Paradise Lost jb-9

by J. A. Jance

  Joanna and Eleanor had battled over all kinds of things in the years after Joanna’s overly hasty marriage to Andy Brady, but the underlying foundation for most of those hostilities had been Joanna’s feeling of betrayal, Joanna’s belief that Eleanor hadn’t been there for her when she had needed her most. For years she had endured Eleanor’s constant criticism without realizing that her mother’s finger-pointing had been a ruse to conceal her own long-held secret—the baby Eleanor had borne and given up for adoption prior to her marriage to Big Hank Lathrop. It wasn’t until that long-lost child, a grown-up and nearly middle-aged Bob Brundage, had come searching for his birth parents that Joanna had finally learned the truth as well as the depth of her mother’s hypocrisy.

  Instead of forming a bond between mother and daughter, Bob Brundage’s appearance had made things worse. For Joanna, learning of her brother’s existence and her mother’s youthful indiscre­tion constituted yet another betrayal on Eleanor’s part. And now, after years of continual warfare, Eleanor Lathrop Winfield had come suing for peace and pleading for understanding, asking for the kind of absolution she herself had never been able to grant.

  Joanna’s first instinct was to say, “No way!” But then she thought about Marianne Maculyea. For years her friend had been estranged from her own mother. Only now, after years of separation, Evangeline Maculyea had finally come around. It had taken the death of one grandchild and the birth of another, but Mari­anne’s mother had finally opened the door to a reconciliation. It was, as Marianne had told Joanna, “the right thing to do.” And so was this.

  “I do understand,” Joanna said quietly.

  “Would that boy have married Dora, do you think?” Eleanor whispered, making Joanna wonder if she had even heard. “Not right now, of course,” Eleanor added. “Dora was only thirteen, so she would have been too young. But maybe later, when she was older, this Chris could have married her the same way your father married me.” She paused before saying what before would have been unthinkable. “The same way Andy married you.”

  Joanna wanted to answer, but her voice caught in her throat. She thought about what Jaime had said on the phone about Christopher Bernard and his family. Much as she would have liked to believe in the fairy tale, it didn’t seem likely that Chris Bernard was cut from the same cloth as either D. H. Lathrop or Andrew Roy Brady.

  “I don’t know, Mom,” Joanna finally managed. “I honestly don’t know”

  “I hope so,” Eleanor returned, wiping new tears from her eyes. “I hope he cared about her that much. I suppose that’s a stupid thing to say, isn’t it. George said something about my being overly emotional about this, and it’s true. But I hope Christopher really did care. I hope Dora found someone to love her even for a little while because it doesn’t sound as though that mother of hers has sense enough to come in out of the rain.”

  Joanna sighed. This was far more like the Eleanor Lathrop Winfield she knew. “I hope so, too,” she said.

  Eleanor straightened now, as though everything was settled. The emotional laundry had been washed and dried and could now be safely folded and put away.

  “Well,” she added, “I suppose I ought to head home now. You said George had been called out to a crime scene? How late do you think he’ll be?”

  “Most likely not that much later. Because of where the body is, they probably won’t be able to retrieve it before morning.”

  “Had he eaten any dinner before he left?” Eleanor asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Probably not. The man’s smart as a whip, but when it comes to sensible things like eating at reasonable hours, he’s utterly hopeless. So I’d better be going then,” Eleanor continued. “That way I can have a little something ready for him when he gets home.”

  She turned to Joanna, took her daughter’s hand, and squeezed it. “Thank you so much,” she said. “I’m glad we had this little talk. I’m feeling ever so much better.”

  Joanna reached over and gave her mother a hug. “I’m glad we had this talk, too. Now go on home. George was worried sick about you. He’ll be delighted to find you at home. Just don’t tell him I told you so.”

  Eleanor frowned. “Do you think I should try explaining any of this to him? I’m afraid he’ll think I’ve lost my marbles.”

  “Try him,” Joanna Brady urged gently. “As you said, George is a very smart man. He might just surprise you.”

  Without another word, Eleanor got out of the car. She marched back to her Buick, got in, started it and drove off without a second glance. Shaking her head in wonder, Joanna turned and watched her drive away. Then, starting the Civvie, Joanna headed up the dirt road that led into the ranch. Before she made it all the way into the yard, Sadie and Tigger reappeared to reprise their earlier greeting.

  By the time Joanna had parked the car, Butch was standing on the back porch waiting for her.

  “It’s about time you got here,” he said. “The dogs went rushing off a little while ago. I thought it was you coming, but then the dogs came back without you.”

  “It was me,” Joanna said.

  “But that must have been fifteen or twenty minutes ago,” Butch aid. “What did you do, stop to read the mail?”

  “Eleanor was there waiting for me.”

  “What for?”

  “She needed to talk.”

  “What about?”

  “Dora Matthews.”

  “I suppose she still thinks it’s all her fault.”

  Joanna thought about that. Butch was a good man and, in his awn way, every bit as smart as George Winfield. And yet, Joanna wasn’t the least bit sure he would understand what had happened that night between Joanna Brady and Eleanor Lathrop Winfield any more than George had understood what was going on with his own wife.

  “Something like that,” Joanna said, peering around the kitchen. “Now is there anything around here to eat? I’m starved.”

  That’s when she saw the blueprints unrolled all over the kitchen able. It was also when she belatedly remembered that evening’s scheduled appointment with Quentin Branch. “Oh, Butch,” she aid. “I’m so sorry. I forgot all about it.”

  “I noticed,” he said. “But the way things are going, I guess I’d better get used to being stood up.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was a quarter past seven when Butch shook Joanna awake the next morning. “Time to rise and shine,” he said. “Coffee’s on the nightstand, and breakfast is in five.” Grateful that he wasn’t holding a grudge over last night’s missed appointment, she gave him a warm smile. “Thanks,” she said.

  Struggling out of bed, Joanna staggered into the bathroom. She felt as though she had tied one on the night before, although she’d had nothing at all to drink. But between the forced-march hike and climbing up and down the cliff face, there was no part of her body that didn’t hurt. Not only that; tired as she’d been, once she went to bed, she hadn’t slept. Instead, she’d once again tossed and turned for a long time before finally drifting into a fitful sleep.

  She showered hurriedly and then, with her hair still wet, went into the kitchen where a bowl of steaming Malt-o-Meal was already on the table. “I really don’t have time to eat ...” she began, looking at the clock.

  “Yes, you do,” Butch insisted. “‘This way you’ll have at least one decent meal today.”

  Knowing he was right, Joanna sat and ate. She was in her office by ten after eight and pressing the intercom button. “Good morn­ing, Kristin. Would you let Chief Deputy Montoya know that I’m here?”

  “He’s not,” Kristin said. “He called a little while ago and said to tell you he’ll be a few minutes late.”

  “Good,” Joanna said. “Maybe you could come in and help me make some sense of all this new paper.” She said nothing at all about the previous batch, which was still stowed in her unopened briefcase.

  When Kristin entered the office, Joanna was shocked by her secretary’s appearance. Her nose and eyes were red. She looked almo
st as bad as Joanna felt, and she walked as though she had aged twenty years overnight.

  “Kristin,” Joanna demanded, “what’s wrong?” as the younger woman deposited a new stack of papers on one corner of Joanna’s desk.

  “Nothing,” Kristin mumbled, turning away.

  “Come on,” Joanna urged. “Something’s not right. Tell me.”

  “It’s Terry,” her secretary replied with a tearful sniffle. “What about him?”

  “He didn’t come in until four o’clock this morning. He tried to tell me he was working overtime, but I looked on the schedule after I got here. He wasn’t cleared for any overtime. He tried to tell me he was teamed up for some special operation with Deputy Howell. It was a special op, all right. I think he’s sneaking around with her behind my back and—”

  “They were on a special operation,” Joanna interrupted. “I per­sonally authorized the overtime last night. From now until we catch that I-10 carjacker, I want them ruising the freeway rest areas for as many hours a day as they can stand.”

  Kristin’s face brightened. “Really?” she said.

  Joanna sighed. “Really.”

  Kristin shook her head. “I don’t know what’s gotten into Me. Terry tried telling me the same thing, but I didn’t believe hint.”

  “It’s hormones, Kristin,” Joanna said patiently. “They’re all out of whack when you’re pregnant.” As she spoke, Joanna couldn’t help realizing that she had made the exact same kinds of accusations with Butch on Sunday—and without the benefit of hor­monal imbalance to use as an excuse. “You’d better call Terry and apologize,” she added.

  “I can’t. He’s asleep right now.”

  “Well, when he wakes up later, call and apologize.”

  “I will,” Kristin promised. “I’ll call as soon as I can.”

  It was almost nine o’clock before Frank came dragging into Joanna’s office carrying yet another sheaf of papers, this one con­taining the stack of incident reports that would constitute the morning briefing.

  “Sorry I’m late, Boss. With both of us out of the office all afternoon and half the night, there were a lot of pieces to pull together.”

  “Don’t worry about being late,” she assured him. “If you think your desk is a disaster, look at mine. So what’s on today’s agenda—other than Rob Whipple’s murder and the Texas Canyon carjacking?”

  “Burton Kimball cut a deal for Sally Matthews.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “He played the sympathy card big-time—as in, officials of the State of Arizona have already cost Sally Matthews die life of her only daughter. Consequently, she shouldn’t he punished further, et cetera, et cetera. Phoenix PD busted Sally’s boyfriend, B. B. Ardmore, while he was making a drug sale in downtown Phoenix yesterday afternoon. If Sally agrees to turn state’s evidence and if she tells investiga­tors everything she knows about B. B.’s organization and his associates, she’s off the hook. She also has to agree to enter rehab as soon as pos­sible after Dora’s funeral, which is currently scheduled for Friday afternoon at two o’clock.”

  “Are you telling me Sally Matthews has been cut loose?” Joanna demanded. “Sally Matthews was running a meth lab—an illegal and dangerous meth lab inside the city limits. She broke any number of laws, one of which should be child neglect. Nonetheless, she gets to turn Dora’s death into a get-out-of-jail-free card. That’s not right.”

  “Talk to Arlee Jones about that,” Frank Montoya suggested. “Until the voters decide to replace him with a county attorney with brains, that’s what we can expect. In the meantime, the charges are open, so that if she doesn’t carry through on her promises, they can be refiled.”

  Joanna shook her head in disgust. “What else?” she asked.

  “A single car, non-injury rollover, just outside of Hereford. Then there was a bunch of drunk Harley riders who left one of the bars in Tombstone and then went out to the municipal airport for a late-night fistfight session. When a pair of Border Patrol agents broke it up, everybody else jumped on their bikes and took off. The only one left was the one who was too busted up to leave. He’s in the county hospital down in Douglas with a broken jaw and three broken knuckles. Then there’re two DWIs and a domestic violence down in Pirtleville. Oh, and I almost forgot, yesterday’s carjacking’s car—the Pontiac Grand Am that was taken from over in Texas Canyon—was stopped at the crossing in Naco early this morning with a full load of illegals. The car’s in the Border Patrol’s impound lot down on Naco Highway. The lady’s purse isn’t.”

  “What’s the word from the crime scene in Paradise?”

  “I talked to Ernie. He and Jaime stayed there until three this morning. According to him, somebody did a half assed job of try­ing to clean up Rob Whipple’s house, but there are still plenty of traces of blood there. The crime scene team and Casey Ledford will be working that today, as well as Irma Sorenson’s Nissan once we get it dragged out of where it landed and back here to the justice center. Since Rob Whipple was shot in Irma Sorenson’s car, presumably the blood in his cabin will be from someone else.”

  “Like Connie Haskell, for instance,” Joanna said. Frank nodded. “But there’s still no trace of Irma or Rob Whipple’s Dodge Ram?” she asked.

  “Not so far.”

  Joanna shook her head. “Nothing like being under the gun,” she said.

  “It’s more than that, Joanna,” Frank returned. “Think about it. We’ve had three homicides in four days, and here the department sits with only two detectives to its name. We’re understaffed and underfunded, and—”

  Joanna held up her hand and stopped him. “Please, Frank. Let’s not go into this right now. I know you’re right. What do you think kept me awake half the night? I was worrying about the same thing, but before we go off trying to deal with all the political and financial ramifications, let’s handle what’s on our plates right now. What are Ernie and Jaime doing at the moment?”

  “I told them to take the morning off. They have to sleep some time. At noon they’ll head up to Tucson to talk with Chris Bernard and his lawyer. As a result, Rob Whipple’s autopsy will must likely have to be put off until tomorrow.”

  “Which shouldn’t hurt Doc Winfield’s feelings any,” Joanna added.

  “Since the Grand Am’s been found,” Drank resumed, “it may mean our carjacker will be back on the prowl again. Deputies Gre­govich and Howell are also taking the morning off, but I’ve sched­uled them to hit I-10 again today. By the way, did you know Kristin thought there was some hanky-panky going on?”

  “I hope you told her otherwise,” Joanna said.

  Frank nodded. Before he could say anything more, Joanna’s intercom buzzed. “What is it, Kristin?”

  “There’s someone on the phone who insists on talking to you.”

  “Who is it?”

  “His name is Hardy. Brian Hardy.”

  “Brent, maybe?” Joanna asked.

  “Sorry. Yes, that’s it. Brent. He says it’s urgent.”

  “Put him through, then,” Joanna told her. “Good morning, Mr. Hardy. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s about Irma. She just left.”

  “Left from where?” Joanna demanded.

  “From here, from Quartzite East,” Hardy said. “Tommy and I had a big argument about whether or not we should call you. He said we ought to mind our own business, but I told him, ‘No way. I’m calling.’“

  Joanna switched her phone to speaker. “What exactly hap­pened?”

  “Irma must have shown up late last night, after we were asleep. When we woke up this morning, there was a strange car—a big blue Dodge pickup—parked next to her RV. I went over to check, because I was afraid whoever was there was someone who wasn’t supposed to be. I knocked, and Irma herself came to the door. After what you told us about her son, I was really relieved to see her. She told us that the pickup belongs to her son, but that didn’t exactly set my mind at ease, especially since Irma’s been hut s.”


  “Hurt?” Joanna asked. “How so?”

  “She’s got a gash on her hand. It’s bad enough that it probably should have had stitches. I told her it looked infected to me and suggested she see a doctor. She said she’s been putting Neosporin on it, and she’s sure it’ll be just fine. She told me she’d had an accident in her Nissan and that was how she hurt her hand. Any way, she said the car was totaled and that Rob, her son, had lent her his pickup. She also said that she’s decided to sell the RV. She’s found an RV dealer—in Tucson, I think—who’s willing to pay her for it in cash rather than selling it on consignment. With that kind of hurried sale, she’s probably being taken to the cleaners over it, but it’s not my place to say. Anyway, she asked Tommy and me to help hitch up the pickup to the back of the RV and off she went.”

  “How long ago?” Joanna asked.

  “Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Just long enough for Tommy and me to get into a pissing match over it. Like I said, she came sneaking back into the park late last night, after we had gone to bed. We didn’t even know she was here until this morning. Since neither Tommy nor I actually set foot inside Irma’s RV, I’m think­ing it’s possible that her son may be in there—that she drove it out of the park herself so we wouldn’t see her son and know that she was hiding him.”

  “Irma Sorenson’s son isn’t in her RV,” Joanna said. “He’s dead.”

  “Dead!” Brent exclaimed. “How did that happen?”

  “The incident is currently under investigation. Now, Mr. Hardy, thank you so much for calling, but if you’ll excuse me, I have some other matters to attend to. If Irma Sorenson should happen to return, please call us immediately. Dial 911 and have the operator locate me.”

  “You sound as though you think she’s dangerous,” Brent Hardy said hesitantly.

  “I suspect she is,” Joanna returned. “Possibly to herself more than anyone else, but I don’t think you and Mr. Lowrey should take any more chances.”