Paradise Lost jb-9

by J. A. Jance

  “And this was when?”

  “Night before yesterday. Monday, it must have been. Monday evening.”

  Joanna wanted to ask more questions, but right at that moment she could no longer think of any. Shooting her son in cold blood hadn’t bothered Irma Sorenson, but she had been sure to have his seat belt buckled when she sent the Nissan over the cliff.

  Shaking her head,, Joanna clicked off the recorder. The criminal mind was more or less understandable; motherhood unfathomable. In sending her son to Pathway to Paradise, Irma Sorenson had hoped to save him. Instead she had lost everything.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “We’re going to do what?” Detective Ernie Carpenter demanded. By the time the Double Cs arrived, the whole cir­cus of Irma’s RV, her son’s pickup, and the collected entourage of police vehicles had moved to the parking lot of a defunct motel east of Benson.

  “You heard me,” Joanna told him. “We’re going to drive Mrs. Sorenson into Tucson. First we’re going to drop off her personal possessions at a storage unit and then have her at the dealer’s lot prior to that one o’clock deadline so she can unload her RV. After that, there’ll be plenty of time to take her back to Bisbee and book her.”

  “That’s crazy.” Ernie scowled in objection. “The woman has just confessed to the murder of her own son. You’re going to let her unload her stuff at a storage unit and sell off her RV without even bothering to search it?”

  “Do you happen to have a search warrant on you at the moment?” Joanna asked.

  “Well, no,” he admitted.

  “Who’s to say we can’t serve the search warrants later, at the RV dealer’s or even at the storage unit, for that matter?”

  “But still ...”

  “But nothing, Ernie,” Joanna said. “I gave Irma Sorenson my word, and I fully intend to keep it. In exchange for letting her sell her RV, what do we get? A signed confession that clears not one but two of the three murders that have happened in Cochise County in the last week. That sounds like a good deal to me.”

  Ernie Carpenter recognized there was no changing Joanna’s mind. “All right,” he conceded. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Can you drive this thing?” Joanna asked, indicating the motor home.

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, here’s the address of the storage unit, and the ignition key. You drive it there, and I’ll send along a contingent of deputies to do the unpacking. Once the boxes are out of there, come to the dealer—Tex’s RV Corral in the 5700 block of East Twenty-second Street. Frank and I will bring Irma with us and meet you there.”

  Grumbling under his breath, Ernie Carpenter stalked off. Joanna went looking for Frank. Two hours later, and a good fifteen minutes before the one o’clock witching hour, a small parade con­sisting of Irma Sorenson’s RV, the towed Dodge Ram, and two police cars pulled into the parking lot at Tex’s RV Corral. A bow-legged man in boots, jeans, Western shirt, and ten-gallon hat saun­tered out of the office. He looked as though he would have been far more at home riding the range than running an RV dealership.

  He held out his hand as Ernie Carpenter stepped down from the RV. “Howdy. Tex Mathers is the name,” he said wish an easy going grin. “And you are?”

  “It doesn’t matter who I am,” Ernie muttered. “The owner’s the person you need to talk to. She’s back there.”

  Tex Mathers’ grin faded when he saw Irma Sorenson climbing out of the backseat of Deputy Raymond’s Bronco. As, Joanna had directed, Matt Raymond had removed Irma’s handcuffs prior to letting her out of the vehicle.

  “This is Mr. Mathers,” Ernie said, as Joanna came forward, bringing Irma along. “He evidently owns the place. And this is Cochise County Sheriff Joanna Brady.”

  Tex Mathers sized Joanna up and down, then he glanced in the direction of the other uniformed officers. “What’s this all about?” he asked. “And why the cops? Mrs. Sorenson didn’t tell you I’m doing anything illegal, did she? Because I’m not. Assuming the rig is in the kind of condition her son said it was in, I’m paying her a fair price. Low blue book, of course, because she wants her money up front, but it’s a good deal.”

  “And you’re still prepared to go through with it?” Joanna asked.

  “Well, sure,” he said. “I suppose I am, as long as it’s in good shape and all that. Her son told me it was low mileage and in excellent condition.”

  “Help yourself, Mr. Mathers,” Joanna said. “Go have a look.”

  Joanna had been astonished at the luxury of the motor home when she had first stepped inside, from the flat-screen entertain­ment center and full-sized appliances to the etched-glass walls between the bathroom and the hallway. She could see why Tex Mathers was itching to get his grubby hands on it. Although the deal he had struck with Rob Whipple wasn’t strictly illegal, Joanna had a hunch it wasn’t in Irma’s best interests, either. When it came to protecting widows and orphans, she doubted RV dealers would be very high on the trustworthy list.

  “How much more would Irma get if you sold this on consign­ment?” Joanna asked.

  Tex Mathers shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I dunno,” he said. “Maybe forty or fifty grand more. It’s a top-of-the-line and very desirable model, but the lady’s son said his mother needed her money right away”

  “Supposing she didn’t need it instantly,” Joanna said. “What then?”

  “I pro’ly wouldn’t have much trouble selling it,” Tex admitted. “Might take a couple of months—until the first snowbirds show up this fall.”

  Without another word, Joanna left Tex Mathers to finish exploring the motor home and went outside to where a petite Irma Sorenson stood dwarfed by a circle of towering uniformed deputies.

  “Irma, who said you needed an all-cash deal?” Joanna asked.

  “Robby. He said it would be worth taking the lower price now just to have the cash in hand.”

  “It may not be worth it,” Joanna said. “If it were mine, I wouldn’t sell it for cash. I’d write it up as a consignment deal.”

  “But I told you. I need the money to hire an attorney”

  “You’ll have more money to work with if you don’t take it now,” Joanna said. “There are probably several attorneys in Bisbee who’d be willing to take you on without having the money up front.”

  “Are you sure?” Irma asked uncertainly.

  “I’m pretty sure. Once you have an attorney, though, you might ask him about the deal as well.”

  Tex Mathers reappeared, looking abashed. “It’s a sweet rig,” he said. “Just like your son told me it was. And I’m still prepared to write out a check to you for the full agreed-upon amount today, but if you’d rather put it on consignment ...” He gave Joanna a sidelong glance, as if checking to see whether or not she approved.

  “And then Mrs. Sorenson receives what?” Joanna asked.

  “The sales price less my commission.”

  “From what you said to me inside, that would be substantially more than what you offered to pay her today?”

  Tex Mathers scuffed the toe of his boot in the gravel. “Well, yeah,” he said. “I s’pose it would.”

  “All right,” Irma Sorenson said after a moment. “We’ll do it that way, then. Let’s get the paperwork done. I don’t want to keep these people standing around waiting all day.”

  “Frank,” Joanna suggested. “Why don’t you go along to keep an eye on things?” Tex Mathers took Irma’s arm and led her inside. Frank, shaking his head, dutifully followed. Once they were gone, Joanna turned to her officers. “Okay, Matt, maybe you and Jaime could get the pickup unhitched from the RV”

  “What do you want me to do?” Ernie asked.

  “As soon as the pickup is loose, you drive it back to Bisbee. Get the taped confession transcribed onto paper, so Irma can sign it and get the gun in to Ballistics. Deputy Raymond will bring Irma back to Bisbee. If you need to ask her any more questions, have Frank sit in with you, since he was in on the other interview.”

&
nbsp; “What are you going to do?”

  “Jaime and I are going to go do that interview with Christo­pher Bernard.”

  “Look, Sheriff Brady,” Ernie began, “with all due respect ...”

  “Ernie, with the caseload we’ve got going, the department is at least two detectives short. For right now, until we can hire or train more, Frank Montoya and I are going to fill in as needed. Do you have any objections to that?”

  “No ma’am,” Ernie said. “I guess not.”

  “Good.”

  By one twenty-five, Ernie Carpenter was on his way back to Bisbee, but Frank and Irma had yet to emerge from Tex Mathers’ office. “What time did you say that appointment was?” Joanna asked Jaime Carbajal.

  The detective glanced at his watch. “Two,” he said, “and their house is a ways from here.”

  “We’d best get going,” Joanna told him.

  Thirty minutes later, Jaime stopped the Econoline van in front of a closed wrought-iron gate. Beyond the gate sat an enormous white stucco house with a red tile roof. The house looked like a Mediterranean villa that had been transported whole and dropped off in the middle of the Arizona desert.

  “Quite a place,” Joanna commented. “Whereabouts do Dora’s former foster parents live?”

  Jaime pointed at a much more modest, natural adobe-style house that was right next door. “That’s the Dugans’ place right there,” he said.

  In addition to size, the other major difference between the two residences was in the landscaping. The Bernards’ place was newly planted with baby trees, shrubs, and cacti. The mature shrubbery around the Dugans’ house showed that it had been there far longer.

  “There was evidently another house on the Bernards’ lot origi­nally,” Jaime Carbajal explained. “They bought it as a tear-down and had their own custom design built in its place.”

  A phone was attached to the gatepost. Jaime picked up the handset and announced who they were. Moments later the iron gate swung open, allowing them admittance. The garage doors were open, revealing two cars parked inside. Scattered around the circular driveway were several more vehicles, including an obviously new silver Porsche Carrera.

  “Get a load of the rolling stock,” Jaime said. “The Porsche, a BMW-Z3 Roadster, a Mercedes S-600, and a ... I’ll be damned. Look at that—a Lexus 430. That’s what the kid in Sierra Vista told us. Buddy Morris said he thought he saw Dora Matthews getting into a white Lexus. But I don’t remember seeing one when we were here yesterday. By the time Ernie and I finished up in Sierra Vista, all hell had broken loose in Portal. We never had time to check with the DMV.”

  “It’s all right, Jaime,” Joanna said. “Just keep cool.”

  The blue-eyed, blond-haired woman who answered the door was only a few years older than Joanna, but she was so polished and cool-looking that she made Joanna feel dowdy in comparison. Amy Bernard was pencil-thin. Her navy-blue pantsuit and white silk shell accentuated her slender figure and made Joanna wish she had been wearing something other than a khaki uniform.

  “I’m Amy Bernard,” she said. Then, without giving Joanna a second glance, she added, “Come in. This way.”

  The woman of the house led Jaime Carbajal and Joanna through a spacious foyer and into a formal dining room. Under an ornate crystal chandelier stood a long, elegantly carved table sur­rounded by twelve matching chairs. Three people were seated at the far end of the table in front of a huge breakfront. Two were serious-looking men, both of them wearing the expensive but casual dressed-down attire that had long since replaced suits and ties among members of Tucson’s upper crust.

  Next to the man at the head of the table slouched the only incongruity in the room, a homely gangly young man with braces and spiked purple hair. A series of gold studs lined the edges of both ears. What looked like a diamond protruded from one side of his nose.

  “Here they are,” Amy said, before gliding down the tar side of the table, where she slid gracefully onto a chair next to her son.

  Both men rose. After some prodding from his father, Christo­pher rose as well. “I’m Dr. Richard Bernard,” the man at the head of the table said. “This is my son Christopher, and this is our attor­ney, Alan Stouffer. I was led to believe there would be two detec­tives corning this afternoon, Detective Ernie Carpenter and Detective Jaime Carbajal. So you would be?” he asked.

  “I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady,” she replied. “Detective Carpenter is otherwise engaged at the moment, so I’m accompanying Detective Carbajal. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Have a seat,” Dr. Bernard said. “What we do mind is having this unfortunate situation intrude on us. I’m sure Dora Matthews’s life wasn’t all it should have been, and I’m certainly sorry the poor girl is dead, but I can’t see how you can possibly think our son Christopher had anything at all to do with what happened to her.”

  “I’m sure my officers didn’t mean to imply that Christopher was involved in Dora’s death,” Joanna said soothingly. “But we do know that he spoke to her on both Friday and Saturday, prior to her death on Sunday. In situations like this it’s our policy to inter-view all the victim’s friends. We’re here to learn if Christopher has any information that might help us track down Dora’s killer.”

  “I don’t know anything,” Christopher Bernard blurted. “All I know is she’s dead, and I’m sorry.”

  To Joanna’s surprise, he turned sideways on his chair then and sat staring at the breakfront with its display of perfectly arranged and costly china. It was only when he brushed his cheek with the back of his hand that Joanna realized he was crying.

  “As you can see, Chris and Dora Matthews were friends,” Dr. Bernard said. “‘They met a few months ago when she was staying here in the neighborhood. Naturally he’s grieved by her death, but—”

  “Christopher,” Joanna said. “Were you aware Dora Matthews was three months pregnant when she died?”

  Chris Bernard swung back around on his chair. He faced Joanna with his eyes wide. “You’re sure then?”

  Joanna nodded. “Are you the father of Dora’s baby?” she asked.

  Chris looked at his father before he answered. Then he lifted his chin defiantly and straightened both his shoulders. “Yes,” he answered, meeting and holding Joanna’s questioning gaze. “I am.”

  “Christopher,” Amy Bernard objected in dismay. “How can you say such a thing?”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “Excuse me,” Alan Stouffer said, leaping into the fray. “I’m sure Chris has no way of knowing for sure if he was the father of that baby, and I must advise him—”

  “I was too the father,” Chris insisted. “Dora told me on the phone Friday night that she thought she was pregnant. I told her she needed to go to the drugstore and get one of those test kit things so she could find out for sure. I told her if she was, we’d run away to Mexico together and get married. Dad says I’ll never amount to anything, but I do know how to be a man. If you have a kid, you’re supposed to take care of it. That’s the way it works. I have my trust money from Grandpa. We would have been all right.”

  The dining room was suddenly deathly quiet. From another room came the steady ticking of a noisy but invisible grandfather clock.

  “Really, Chris,” Alan Stouffer said. “You mustn’t say anything more.”

  “But I want to,” Chris argued, his face hot and alive with emo­tion. “Dora’s dead, and I want to find out who did it. I want to know who killed her. I want that person to go to jail.”

  With that, Chris buried his head in his arms and began to sob. Meanwhile Joanna grappled with a whole new sense of respect for this homely and seemingly disaffected kid whom she had been prepared to write off as a privileged, uncaring jerk. She could see now that her own and Eleanor Lathrop’s hopes had indeed been granted. The boy who had impregnated Dora Matthews had cared for her after all. Somehow, against all odds and against all rules of law and propriety, the two of them had met and fallen in love. And even though Dora was
dead, Christopher Bernard loved her still.

  Amy Bernard reached out and patted his shoulder. “There, there, Chris, darling. It’s all right. Shh.”

  “Sheriff Brady,” the attorney said, “I really must object to this whole situation. You haven’t read Christopher his rights. Anything he has said so far would be automatically excluded from use in court.”

  “No one has said that Christopher Bernard is suspected of killing Dora Matthews,” Joanna said quietly. “I’m just trying to get some information.”

  “It’s all right, Alan,” Dr. Bernard said. “It’s my understanding that Dora Matthews died sometime Sunday night. Is that correct?” Joanna nodded.

  “Well, that’s it then, isn’t it? Amy went to see a play at the Con­vention Center that night, and Chris was with me and some of our friends. Two of the other doctors at the hospital—at TMC—have sons Christopher’s age. The six of us spent Sunday night at a cabin up on Mount Lemmon. We went up Sunday before noon and didn’t come home again until Monday morning.”

  “What play?” Joanna asked.

  “Annie Get Your Gun—one of those traveling shows,” Amy said. “Richard doesn’t care for musicals all that much.”

  Joanna turned to Dr. Bernard. “You can provide us with the names, telephone numbers, and addresses of all these friends?”

  “Certainly,” he returned easily. “Amy, go get my Palm Pilot, would you? I think it’s on the desk in my study.”

  “They’re not my friends,” Chris put in bitterly. “In case you haven’t noticed, Dad. Those guys were jocks. I’m not. If it was supposed to be a ‘bonding experience,’ it sucked.”

  Amy Bernard returned from her errand. After placing her husband’s electronic organizer within easy reach, she once again patted her son on the shoulder. He shrugged her hand away. “Would any one care for something to drink? Iced tea? Coffee?”

  “Oh, sit down, Amy. This isn’t a social visit. We’re not serving these people hors d’oeuvres.”