Dead to Rights

by J. A. Jance

  “If they’re looking to lay blame,” Frank said, “there’s more than enough to go around.” With that, he opened a file folder and dropped a sheaf of papers onto Joanna’s already cluttered desk.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Just for the hell of it, I went surfing the net last night. I called up all the press coverage I could find on the Bonnie Morgan case from last year. I also talked to some of the Phoenix P.D. guys who handled the case. You might want to take a look at all this before you make a final decision about stationing a guard at the hospital. Rather than taking a hike, I think it’s far more likely that Morgan is going to use this whole thing as a forum for focusing attention on what happened to him and his wife.”

  “All this time I thought you were lobbying against posting the guard because you thought Hal Morgan was innocent.”

  Frank Montoya shook his head. “I’m a good Catholic boy,” he said. “Anybody who’s been raised Catholic knows that martyrs always get the best press. So why should we spend money to guard him when he’s going to make far more of a splash by going to jail than he will if we just let him go?”

  Joanna smiled. “I’ll try to bear that in mind, but I’ll read through this all the same.” She glanced down at the top article, the headline of which said: “Wrong-Way Driver Kills Pedestrian.” Joanna looked back over at Frank. “Thanks for gathering all this together. Is that all?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “What’s your game plan for the day?”

  Frank checked his watch. “I’ve got a press conference in half an hour. After that I’ll most likely spend the rest of the day working on those budget figures. I’ll probably still be working on them when hell freezes over. What about you?”

  Joanna looked at the several separate stacks that covered most of the surface of her desk. “First I have to deal with a mountain of paper. That’ll probably eat up most of the morning. At noon there’s the annual women’s club luncheon. This is the meeting when they present the department with the framed photo of yours truly for our little photo display out in the lobby. I’m expected to give a speech.”

  “That should be fun,” Frank said. “Especially with all this Buckwalter business just hitting the fan.”

  “It’s not that. Mother made it a point of coming back from D.C. in time so she could be in attendance at the luncheon. I adore those kinds of events where I get to do double duty—daughter and sheriff at one and the same time.”

  Frank chuckled and headed for the door. “Good luck with that,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”

  Joanna was determined to infuse a little bit of humor into an otherwise grim morning. “It’s just as well,” she said. “You’d look pretty funny in two-and-a-quarter-inch heels.”

  Once she was alone, Joanna dutifully turned to the stack of correspondence Kristin had indicated was most urgent. Even as she filled out the registration form for the Arizona Sheriff’s Association meeting in Lake Havasu City in two weeks’ time, her eyes kept being drawn to the plain manila folder Frank Montoya had dropped on her desk. Finally, with the form half completed, she pushed it aside and opened the folder.

  The first article was a straightforward fatality accident account—who, where, when:

  A pedestrian struck by a speeding pickup in a downtown crosswalk has become Phoenix’s fifth traffic fatality of the new year.

  Bonnie Genevieve Morgan, fifty-two, a Wickenburg resident, was run down and killed last night at nine-thirty when a pickup crashed into a pair of pedestrians at the intersection of Third Street and Van Buren. Ms. Morgan and her husband, Halford William Morgan, also of Wickenburg, were returning to their hotel room after attending a movie. Ms. Morgan was pronounced dead at the scene while her husband was uninjured.

  The driver of the vehicle, Dr. Amos Buckwalter of Bisbee, was treated for cuts and bruises at Good Samaritan Hospital before being booked into the Maricopa County Jail on suspicion of vehicular homicide. Buckwalter was reportedly in Phoenix to attend the annual meeting of the Arizona State Veterinarians’ Association being held at the Phoenix Convention Center.

  Investigators at the scene say that the incident is most likely alcohol-related.

  Shaking her head, Joanna put down that page and picked up the next one. Here there was very little text, only a picture of a street sign with a bunch of balloons on strings tied to it. “Balloons, a bouquet of roses, and a single candle mark the corner of the intersection where Wickenburg resident Bonnie Genevieve Morgan died last night in the Phoenix area’s fifth fatality traffic accident of the year.”

  The third page contained the text of the article that accompanied the picture:

  In honor of their nineteenth wedding anniversary, fifty-six-year-old Hal Morgan of Wickenburg presented his wife, Bonnie, with a bouquet of nineteen balloons, a dozen long-stemmed yellow roses, and a weeknight’s stay in the honeymoon suite of the Hyatt Regency Hotel.

  Morgan spent his anniversary night alone. His wife, Bonnie Genevieve Morgan, the victim of an allegedly drunk driver, died in a crosswalk less than two blocks from their hotel.

  Today, balloons and roses as well as a number of candles form part of an impromptu memorial gracing the corner of Third and Van Buren where Bonnie Morgan became the fifth traffic fatality on Phoenix area streets so far this year.

  Joanna could stand to read no further. Her eyes blurring with tears, she looked again at the picture. Bonnie Morgan had died on the night of her wedding anniversary. Andrew Roy Brady had died on his wedding anniversary, too. Joanna had been sitting at home—waiting for him and steamed that he was late for their tenth anniversary getaway—when he was gunned down by the drug dealer’s hired hit man. Andy hadn’t died that very night. In fact, he hadn’t died until the afternoon of the next day, but as far as Joanna was concerned, he had died on their anniversary, when he spoke to her for the last time.

  “JoJo,” he had whispered, calling her by the pet name only he had used. “JoJo. Help me.” That was before the ambulance arrived, before the helicopter ride to Tucson and before the killer paid one final visit to finish his deadly work. But for Joanna Andy’s life had ended in the bloodied sand of the wash, and the date that had once marked one of the happiest days of her life now commemorated her worst nightmare rather than her wedding.

  For the space of several minutes Joanna stared at the picture with unseeing eyes, letting the events surrounding Andy’s death play themselves out one more time. What if she had gone looking for him earlier? What if she hadn’t left the hospital waiting room when she did? What if? What if? These were questions that still haunted her months later. The only difference was, usually they assailed her in the middle of the night when she was alone in her bed and attempting to fall into some kind of fitful sleep. This time, thrown into an emotional relapse by the eerie similarity between Bonnie Morgan’s death and Andy’s, Joanna found herself sitting at her desk with unchecked tears streaming down her face.

  “Sheriff Brady…” Unannounced, Joanna’s secretary burst into the room. Kristin stopped short when she caught a glimpse of Joanna’s face. “Excuse me,” she said in confusion. “I didn’t know…Is something the matter?”

  “It’s all right,” Joanna said, quickly wiping at her eyes. “Every once in a while, things just get to me. I end up all weepy with no real warning or reason. Just ignore it. Eventually it goes away.”

  Kristin was already backing out of the room. “I’ll come back later,” she said. “When you’re feeling better.”

  “No,” Joanna insisted. “Come back now. What’s up?”

  “Detective Carpenter just came in. He’s on his way to Sunizona again, but he wanted to talk to you for a few minutes before he leaves.”

  “Sunizona,” Joanna repeated. “Why’s he going back there?”

  Kristin shrugged. “He didn’t say.”

  Joanna sighed. “Give me a minute to fix my face,” she said. “Then send him in.”

  Reaching for her purse, she dug i
nside until she located her compact and lipstick. She had pretty well repaired the damages by the time Ernie let himself into her office.

  “Sunizona again?” Joanna asked. “Did somebody else fall off a fence up there?”

  She had thought a wry comment might help them both, but a somber Detective Carpenter seemed unmoved. “That’s the whole problem,” he grunted, sinking into a chair. “Nobody fell off a fence—not even Reed Carruthers.”

  “But I thought…”

  “So did I,” Ernie answered. “But I’ve just come from Dr. Winfield’s office. Reed Carruthers didn’t die of a single blow to the head from falling on a rock. According to the doc, he suffered from blunt-instrument head trauma—multiples of same. In other words, somebody literally beat his fucking brains in, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

  It was the first time Ernie Carpenter had ever used the F-word in Joanna’s presence. It was an indication of how distressed he was over missing something he now thought should have been obvious.

  “No need to apologize, Ernie,” she said.

  “Thanks. At any rate, I’m going to head back up there in a few minutes and try talking again to his daughter, Hannah.”

  “You think maybe she had something to do with his death?”

  “We’ll see. According to Carruthers’ doctor up in Willcox, Hannah Green has been her father’s sole caregiver for a number of years now. His condition has kept her virtually homebound. Who else would have had an opportunity? Maybe taking care of him got to be too much for her and she just lost it—lost control. That happens sometimes. What gripes me is that I didn’t see it to begin with.”

  Joanna nodded. “All right,” she said. “But if you’re off to see Hannah Green, what about Hal Morgan?”

  Carpenter gave Joanna one of his beetle-browed frowns. “What about him?” he asked. “The guy’s still in the hospital, isn’t he?”

  “As far as I know. Have you talked to him yet?”

  Ernie shook his head. “Not so far. His doctor wouldn’t let me near the guy last night. I may be able to see him later on this afternoon, when I get back to town. I wanted to wait until I had autopsy results, and they won’t be ready until later today. I just left the coroner’s office a few minutes ago. Dr. Winfield is up to his ass in alligators this morning. As I walked out the door, he was completing the paperwork on one autopsy and had yet to start the next one.”

  “Autopsy results or not,” Joanna interrupted, “you’re still convinced that Hal Morgan’s our man? That he’s responsible for Bucky Buckwalter’s death?”

  “No question.” Ernie Carpenter answered without the slightest hesitation. “We’ve got him dead to rights on this one. You can count on it, Sheriff Brady.”

  “All right,” Joanna said. “Keep me posted.”

  Moments later, with Ernie off and running, Joanna turned back to the various stacks of paper littering her desk. Determinedly, she shoved the material concerning Bonnie Morgan’s death back into its file folder, then she refocused her attention on the half-completed conference registration form. With that finished, she tackled the backed up correspondence.

  Concentrating on clearing her desk, Joanna totally lost track of time. She was reading over an incomprehensible set of new federally mandated guidelines regarding jail-inmate rights when Kristin tapped on her door once again.

  “What is it now?” Joanna asked.

  “Your mother’s on the line,” Kristin answered. “She’s wondering where you are and aren’t you going to be late for the luncheon?”

  It took a second or two for realization to dawn. “Damn!” Joanna muttered, leaping out of her chair and grabbing her purse. “What time is it, anyway?”

  “Twenty to twelve,” Kristin answered.

  “I’m late,” Joanna said as she bolted toward the private entrance in the corner of her office, one that opened directly onto her reserved parking place. “Tell her I’m on my way.”

  She started the Blazer and rammed the gear shift into reverse. If eleven-thirty was too late to pick up Eleanor Lathrop and Eva Lou Brady to take them to the women’s club luncheon, then eleven forty-five would be that much worse.

  Nice going, Joanna told herself as she headed for her mother’s house. What do you do for an encore?

  SEVEN

  EXPECTING TO be raked over the coals because of her late arrival, Joanna was surprised to find that her mother was in an expansive mood. While Joanna pushed the Blazer well beyond the posted speed limits, Eleanor regaled Eva Lou Brady with stories about her trip to Washington. It seemed that everything Bob and Marcie Brundage had done to entertain her had been perfectly wonderful, with the minor exception of finding a suitable beautician.

  “I was so happy to get back to Helen Barco this morning and have a real shampoo for a change,” she announced. “All those places I tried in D.C. believe in using blow-dryers and curling irons. That’s just not the same thing as rollers and a real hair dryer.”

  Only half listening as she drove, Joanna marveled at how easy it seemed for Bob and Marcie to get along with Eleanor. Having grown up in an adoptive family, he and Eleanor were evidently able to relate to one another as adults, without all the complications and conflicts of childhood and adolescence getting between them. In a way, Joanna felt almost jealous. Maybe, if she and Eleanor had met on an adult basis as well, in some kind of social setting, perhaps they, too, would have been able to like each other. As it was…

  Joanna came back into the conversation in time to hear her mother declare, “People like that are an absolute menace.” Eleanor was half-turned in the passenger seat and speaking over her shoulder to Eva Lou, who was seated in back. “They take the law into their own hands, without giving a thought to anyone else.”

  For a moment, Joanna thought the discussion had something to do with her driving. Carefully, she eased her foot off the accelerator and watched the speedometer fall from eighty back down to a more responsible sixty-five. Eva Lou’s reply, though, was proof enough that the Bucky Buckwalter murder was actually the subject under discussion.

  “I suppose Terry will have to close the place up,” she said.

  Eleanor nodded. “That’s what she said when I saw her this morning. That she’s already making arrangements to sell out. It has something to do with the fact that she can’t keep the clinic open without a licensed vet on the premises.”

  “What will people in Bisbee do about their pets in the meantime?” Eva Lou asked.

  “Drive sixty miles roundtrip, I suppose,” Eleanor answered. “They’ll either have to go all the way out to Sierra Vista, or down to Douglas.”

  Eva Lou clicked her tongue. “That could be a real hardship. Think about poor old Mr. Holloway. He just loves that cute little dog of his. He calls her Princess, and treats her like one, too. They go everywhere together, but Jed Holloway’s eyes are getting so bad now that he only drives in town anymore. He’d never dare go as far as Douglas. What’s he going to do the next time Princess needs a shot?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Eleanor sighed. “That’s exactly what I was saying a moment ago,” she added. “I feel sorry for the man, losing his wife and all. But still, he might have given some thought about how his actions would affect the rest of us.”

  Joanna felt like saying that Hal Morgan’s grief-fueled fixation on Bucky Buckwalter had most likely left no room for thinking about the consequences of depriving the citizens of Bisbee of their only vet. She thought about it, but let it go. Instead, she focused in on one part of her mother’s conversation—that Terry Buckwalter would be closing the Buckwalter Animal Clinic.

  “You saw Terry Buckwalter in town this morning?” Joanna asked.

  Eleanor nodded. “That’s right. At Helen’s,” she replied. “She was having her hair and makeup done. I have to say, she looked great—better than I’ve ever seen her.” Eleanor turned to Joanna and gave her daughter’s hairdo a critically appraising once-over.

  “Speaking of hair, isn’t it about time you had yours
cut again? It’s getting a little long. You probably should have had it done before today’s luncheon. Aren’t there going to be newspaper photographers?”

  This was part of what Joanna had dreaded about accompanying Eleanor to the luncheon. It was inevitable that she would end up on a tightrope, caught between the two widely divergent roles of dutiful daughter and sheriff honoree. In the past, she might have been pulled into one of Eleanor’s endless debates on the subject of beauty and grooming, but for once, she wasn’t. She was too preoccupied with something else, something Eleanor had said. The words had hit far too close home.

  Soon after Andy’s death, almost within days, any number of unscrupulous real estate vultures had shown up on her doorstep. All of them had been eager to buy her out—to take High Lonesome Ranch off her hands—at bargain-basement prices. She had felt as though they all thought the words “widow” and “sucker” were one and the same. Now she found herself wondering if some of those same kinds of low-life scum were busily targeting Terry Buckwalter for the same reason—to cheat her—without even having the good grace to wait for Bucky to be properly buried.

  “You’re sure Terry Buckwalter said she’s selling the practice?” Joanna asked.

  Eleanor hesitated. “She didn’t tell me exactly,” Eleanor said. “Not in so many words. She was leaving Helene’s at the same time I was going in. I only saw her on her way out the door, but that is what she told Helen Barco. And she’s not just unloading the clinic, either. She’s going to sell out completely—the house, the practice, everything.

  “Now then,” Eleanor added, blithely changing the subject. “Would you like me to make an appointment for you? At Helene’s, I mean. You should have seen what Helen did for that frumpy Terry Buckwalter. You’d be amazed. The haircut and makeup made all the difference in the world. In fact, I almost didn’t recognize her.”

  All the old conditioning was there and all the old patterns. Eleanor’s offer of help, which was actually nothing but artfully disguised criticism, was an old, old ploy. Joanna was within a heartbeat of rising to the bait when she caught sight of Eva Lou’s face in the rearview mirror. Eva Lou’s quick wink, accompanied by a sympathetic smile, were enough to bring Joanna up short. Let it go, the wink seemed to say. Don’t let her do this.