Dead to Rights

by J. A. Jance

  “You didn’t see me at the clinic a little while ago?”

  Bebe shook her head.

  “I’m not surprised,” Joanna said. “I was just outside the door when you came rushing out. You and Terry were arguing when I got there. I couldn’t help overhearing what was said. It’s true then? You are pregnant?”

  Bebe nodded.

  “And Bucky Buckwalter is the father?”

  Instinctively, as if to protect her unborn child from Joanna’s prying question, Bebe’s hand went to her belly. “What if he is?” she asked. “Terry can’t take it away from me, and neither can you.”

  “You’re planning on keeping the baby?”

  “Yes,” Bebe whispered. “Of course. I want this baby. So did Bucky.”

  “He knew about it then?”

  Bebe hesitated. “He was happy about it. Glad.”

  “Wasn’t that awkward for him, having you turn up pregnant with his baby while he was still married to Terry?”

  Bebe’s chin jutted out determinedly. “They were married, but he didn’t love her anymore. And she didn’t care about him, either. Ask her. She’ll tell you. She was always busy with other stuff, like golf every afternoon. Even when she was there at the clinic, she was mean to him. Sometimes she said such ugly things to him, I was surprised he didn’t hit her. And she wouldn’t have kids. He wanted to, but she wouldn’t. Did you know that?”

  And there it was. As simple as that. Bucky Buckwalter had lied to this young woman, betraying her as well. “Terry Buckwalter couldn’t have children,” Joanna said softly. “She had a complete hysterectomy several years ago. I know because I helped handle the insurance claim.”

  Dismay washed across Bebe’s face. “But…”

  “That’s not what he told you, is it,” Joanna said.

  Bebe considered for a moment, then seemed to gather her resources. “It doesn’t matter what he said. Bucky wanted a baby, and now he’s going to have one.”

  Expecting contrition, Joanna wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. “Maybe,” she suggested. “Are you sure?”

  “You mean, am I sure I’m pregnant? Yes. I haven’t been to a doctor, but I know.”

  “No,” Joanna said. “Are you sure he wanted it?”

  Bebe’s tough facade crumpled. “No, I don’t know,” she wailed. “I was going to tell him, but I never got a chance. My appointment to see the doctor isn’t until next week. I was sure, but I wanted it to be official. But I know Bucky would have wanted it.”

  “And you thought he’d divorce Terry to marry you?”

  “Yes. He would have, too.”

  “How many other people know about this?” Joanna asked.

  “Other people? Terry and you, I guess.”

  “No one else?” Joanna asked. “No old boyfriends who might be jealous? No male relatives who might take exception to Bucky Buckwalter for taking advantage of you?”

  Joanna waited a moment to let those words register. Bebe’s lower lip trembled. Her eyes filled with tears once more. “I never had any other boyfriends,” she said. “Bucky was it. For me, he was the only one. I loved him, and I’m sure he loved me, too.”

  No, he didn’t, Joanna thought. But she didn’t say it. Didn’t contradict. Instead she sat back on the chair. “Tell me about him,” she said.

  And Bebe Noonan did.

  FOURTEEN

  IN THE course of the next hour and a half, as Joanna talked to Bebe Noonan, she learned something else about the stark realities of being a police officer. Yes, she had signed up to catch bad guys and do paperwork and do battle with the board of supervisors. But she had also signed up to share other people’s pain. Bebe Noonan was in pain.

  Her tidy little camper was totally at odds with the rest of the Noonan place. The trailer may have been small and cramped and hot, but it was also spotlessly clean. The chrome faucet gleamed. Covers on the neatly made bed were absolutely straight. No hint of dust or dirt marred the cracked linoleum floor. The room’s sole decoration was a hand-painted ceramic wall plaque that announced, “Jesus loves you.”

  Bebe’s trailer constituted a small, pitiful piece of order bravely wrested from the utter chaos around her. Listening to Bebe talk, Joanna realized that Bebe’s sense of desolation went far beyond the physical ugliness and apparent poverty of her surroundings. Her isolation was emotional as well as physical.

  Bianca Noonan lived on her parents’ place, but she lived separate from them as well. As she told her story, it was plain to see that she lived there out of necessity rather than choice or out of some sense of warmth and family togetherness. As Joanna listened to Bebe talk, she was surprised to notice, for the first time, that this plain young woman—with a wiry frame, dishwater-blond hair, and almost total lack of self-confidence—bore an eerie resemblance to a much younger Terry Buckwalter. A pre-Helen-Barco Terry Buckwalter.

  No wonder Bucky had hired Bebe to work for him. No wonder she had been so susceptible to his charms and empty promises. No wonder, either, that she so desperately wanted to keep Bucky Buckwalter’s baby. With or without the presence of a father, Bebe wanted this child. A baby would give her someone to love. Someone who, unlike her own family, might love her in return.

  The more Joanna heard, the more she realized how sad the whole situation was. She knew, too, that it would continue to be so far into the future. It was difficult for her to keep from saying some of the things that were on her mind—lessons she had already learned the hard way—about how demanding it was to be left to raise a child alone. Finally, exhausted by the telling of it, Bebe Noonan simply ran out of steam.

  “How old are you?” Joanna asked after a long pause.

  “Twenty-three,” Bebe sniffed.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell your parents?”

  “I can’t,” Bebe whispered.

  “You’ll have to tell them sooner or later,” Joanna insisted.

  “My dad’ll kill me when he finds out.”

  Joanna shook her head. “He won’t be happy, but he’ll cope,” she interjected. “That’s what parents do.”

  “But he’ll say I’m no good,” Bebe continued. “He’ll throw me out. I’ll have to find someplace else to live.”

  “Then you’ll find an apartment of your own,” Joanna told her.

  Bebe’s eyes filled with tears once more. “How? I’ve been living here for free. Even so, I can barely afford my car payments. That’s why I went to see Terry. I wanted to ask her for help with the baby. And she told me to…to…”

  “I heard what she told you,” Joanna said. “And you can’t very well blame her.”

  “No,” Bebe said. “I suppose not, but I thought maybe…”

  “You thought what?”

  Bebe shrugged. “That since it’s Bucky’s baby, that maybe she’d give me something. You know, that she’d offer to help out with money. She’ll have insurance and stuff. She’ll be able to afford it.”

  Joanna thought of Terry Buckwalter, suddenly unencumbered and liquidating assets as fast as she could so she could get on with her own life. In the meantime, here was Bebe expecting to put a very compelling, living and breathing wrench in the works. Joanna felt sorry for both women. She felt even sorrier for the baby.

  “Have you seen a lawyer?” she asked.

  “No,” Bebe said. “I haven’t even seen the doctor yet. Why would I need a lawyer?”

  “Because if you’re expecting to collect money from Bucky’s estate or from his Social Security account, you’ll have to file a paternity suit. You’ll have to prove Bucky is the baby’s father. In order to do that, you’ll need a lawyer. It’s not all that hard to establish paternity these days, but you’ll need to collect some DNA evidence. The only way to do that is with a court order. You’ll be better off doing it before Bucky is buried rather than afterward.”

  “But do I have to?” Bebe asked miserably. “Do I have to go through all that—get a lawyer and go to court and
all like that? If I do, my parents will know, and so will everybody else.”

  “I told you before, Bebe. People—your parents included—are bound to find out eventually,” Joanna pointed out. “And if what you say is true, if your parents really are going to throw you out, then you’d better start acting like a grown-up right now and making some arrangements to protect not only yourself but also the baby. Social Security isn’t going to pay survivors’ benefits to a child based on your unsubstantiated claim as to who the father might be. You’re going to have to prove the baby is Bucky’s. If I were you, I’d get on the telephone right now.”

  “Is that why you came to see me?” Bebe asked. “To tell me that?”

  “No,” Joanna said. “I came to ask you if you were with Bucky the night before he died. Terry told me he wasn’t home that night. I thought maybe he might have been with you.”

  “He wasn’t with me,” Bebe said. “I only wish he had been. The last time I saw him was that afternoon. The day before he died. At work.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might have been that evening, then?”

  Bebe shrugged. “Probably playing poker. He did that a lot.”

  “With whom?” Joanna asked.

  “I don’t know. He never really told me. And I didn’t ask. I didn’t think it was any of my business. That’s what love is all about,” she added. “Learning to trust.”

  Joanna was so astonished by that statement that she wanted to scream. He was married to another woman, screwing around with you, and you trusted him? How stupid can you get?

  Exasperated beyond bearing, Joanna glanced at her watch. “I have to go now,” she said, getting to her feet. “I have plenty to do, and so do you.”

  Bebe followed her out the door to the car. “Do you know which lawyer I should talk to?” Bebe was asking. “About the DNA thing, I mean.”

  Joanna realized that she had already said far too much. If she said anything more, she would simply be helping to pit two bereaved women against one another. “No,” Joanna said. “I don’t have any idea who to suggest. You’ll have to figure it out for yourself.”

  It’s part of being a grown-up, she wanted to say. Part of being a parent. But Joanna Brady had reached the limit on her ability to give advice. “If I were you,” she said, “I’d check in the phone book—the Yellow Pages.”

  Bebe’s face dissolved into a watery smile. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll go to work on that right away.”

  Feeling a little like King Solomon offering to carve up the baby, Joanna headed back toward the Cochise County Justice Center. Considering all that had happened in the past two days, that name had an ironic, almost cynical, ring to it. Was there any such thing as justice to be found in a case like this one? Or for people like Hannah Green? For two cents, right about then, Joanna Brady would have been happy to turn in her badge and go back to being the office manager of an insurance agency.

  By the time Joanna pulled into her parking place, it was well into late afternoon. She felt as though she had been dragged through a wringer. Lack of sleep from the night before gnawed at her whole body. Once again she was grateful for the privilege of that reserved parking space and for the private entrance that allowed her to come and go without having to face whatever crisis was currently in process in the main lobby.

  The door between Joanna’s office and Kristin’s was closed, and Joanna didn’t rush to open it. Stuck to the middle of her desk was a stack of messages. Thumbing through them, Joanna found the usual assortment. Two calls from Eleanor Lathrop, one each from Frank Montoya and Dick Voland. The last one came from Marianne Maculyea. That was the first message Joanna attempted to return. There was no answer. The moment Joanna depressed the switch hook to try making another call, Kristin appeared at the door, closing it behind her as she entered.

  “Until I saw your line light up, I didn’t know you’d come in,” she said. “There are some people outside waiting to see you.”

  “Who?” Joanna asked.

  “One’s a priest. He said his name is Father Michael McCrady. The other is a really scary-looking guy in leathers. He says his name is Frederick Dixon. He claims he’s a friend of yours. I checked your calendar and didn’t see any appointments, so…”

  “Frederick Dixon…” Joanna mused. “That doesn’t ring any bells. What does he look like?”

  “Thirties or forties maybe,” Kristin answered. “I can’t really tell. But he’s bald. Not a hair on his head.”

  “Butch Dixon!” Joanna exclaimed. “I always forget his name is Fred.”

  “Who’s Butch Dixon?”

  “He is a friend of mine. From up in Peoria. He runs a café that’s close to the Arizona Police Officers’ Academy. I met him in November and again this month when I was up there. What’s he doing here?”

  “I have no idea,” Kristin said sourly. “He showed up over an hour ago. I told him you were out and I didn’t know when you’d be back. He said it was all right, that he’d wait.”

  “And who’s the other one again?”

  “Father McCrady. Father Michael McCrady.”

  Joanna nodded. “Hal Morgan’s friend.”

  “By the way,” Kristin added, almost as an afterthought, “we had a call from the Highway Patrol a little while ago. There’s been a bad accident off Highway 80, east of Tombstone. A speeding van full of U.D.A.s lost control and flipped. It sounds like a real mess. We’ve got cars en route, but nobody from our department is on the scene yet.”

  The fact that people were waiting for her in the front office faded into insignificance. Traffic incidents involving vans packed to the gills with undocumented aliens, most of whom were never properly belted in, often resulted in terrible carnage.

  “If the Department of Public Safety is investigating, how come they’re calling us?” Joanna asked.

  “It was a pursuit. The officer tried to pull the van over for faulty equipment. Instead of stopping, the driver turned off onto a county road. That’s where the accident happened.”

  “Who all’s going?” Joanna asked.

  “All three deputies from that sector, and Ernie Carpenter as well.”

  “It’s a fatality?”

  Kristin nodded. “I guess,” she said. “At least one. There could be more.”

  “What about Dick Voland?”

  “He’s going, too. He’s still in his office right now, but he’ll be leaving in a minute.”

  It would have been easy for Joanna to sit back and let her deputies handle what was bound to turn into a major incident. But Sheriff Brady was working very hard at earning the reputation of being a hands-on sheriff. “So will I,” she said.

  “What should I tell the two guys out front, then?” Kristin asked.

  “Nothing,” Joanna said. “I’ll handle them myself.”

  Pulling herself together, she walked out into the reception area. Up in Phoenix, Joanna had heard Butch mention his Goldwing on occasion, but this was the first time she had seen him clad in full-leather motorcycle regalia. He was stretched out comfortably on the couch, feet on the glass-topped coffee table, reading a book. Appropriately enough, the book was none other than Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Meantime, an elderly gentleman in white-collared priests’ attire paced back and forth in front of Kristin’s desk.

  The moment Joanna came into the room, Butch closed the book, smiled broadly, and hurried to his feet. “Joanna,” he said. “There you are.”

  At only five feet seven or so, Butch Dixon was relatively short, but powerfully built. As Kristin had noted, Butch’s shaved head was absolutely bald, but the pencil-thin mustache he had sported several months earlier was gone. Its absence made him look younger.

  “What are you doing here?” Joanna asked, walking forward to shake his hand.

  “Decided to take a few days R and R,” he said. “A couple of years ago a guy showed up at the Roundhouse claiming that he could get drunk in any mining town in Arizona and wake up in any other mining town and n
ever know the difference. I decided to put that to the test.”

  “You came here to get drunk?”

  Butch grinned. “No. I came to see if there’s any difference. I’ve been to Globe and Miami and Superior. I’ve even been to Ajo and Morenci before, but I’ve never been to Bisbee. If you and Jenny don’t have plans for the evening, I thought maybe I could take my favorite lady cop and her daughter out for pizza or something.”

  Joanna shook her head. “Sorry, Butch,” she said. “Not tonight. A call just came in. I’ve got to go to Tombstone right away. It’s a traffic incident that will probably take most of the evening.”

  Disappointment washed briefly across Butch’s face, but that was followed by a good-natured grin. “Maybe tomorrow, then,” he said cheerfully. “I’m staying at the Grand Hotel from now through Monday. Give me a call and let me know.”

  Joanna was disappointed, too. Butch Dixon had been an interesting, fun person to be around. An evening of lighthearted conversation and pizza would have been just what the doctor ordered after this impossibly grueling week.

  She smiled. “It sounds good,” she said. “I’m sorry about tonight, but…”

  “I know,” Butch said. “Don’t worry about it. When duty calls, you’ve gotta go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  With that, Butch grabbed his helmet and book and left, leaving Joanna both relieved and sorry he was gone. She turned, then, to the priest: a white-haired, gaunt figure of a man. Behind thick steel-rimmed glasses his gray-blue eyes were at once piercing and kind.

  “I’m Sheriff Brady,” she said, offering her hand. “What can I do for you, Father McCrady?”

  “I’m a friend of Hal Morgan’s.”

  Joanna nodded. “I know,” she said. “From M.A.D.D. Mr. Morgan told me about you. I’d be happy to speak to you, but as you heard, there’s been an emergency…”

  “Yes,” he said, “I understand. But what I have to say won’t take long. I just wanted to thank you for putting Hal Morgan in touch with Burton Kimball. Hopefully it won’t be necessary for Hal to utilize Mr. Kimball’s services. Still, it was very kind of you to make that connection for him.”