Fire and Ice jpb-19

by J. A. Jance

  “Now where’s that little brother of mine?” he asked as Joanna ushered him into the house. And with that, Thomas Montoya went wandering off in search of the groom.

  CHAPTER 12

  About the time Butch stepped outside to grill the steaks, Frank’s ritual roasting began in dead earnest, and for the most part it was good clean fun. Old and new colleagues alike teased him about trading in one short red-haired woman for another, taller model. (Frank’s fiancee, LuAnn Marcowitz, was a good six inches taller than Joanna, and her hair-a wild tangle of bright red curls-was a good six inches longer than Joanna’s hairdo as well.) Joanna was glad no one mentioned that both she and the bride tended to be bossy at times.

  People pulled Frank’s leg about his going for an “older woman.” LuAnn was four years older than Frank, and there were plenty of people who were ready to assure him, jokingly or not, that, as a longtime bachelor, he would soon regret stepping into the middle of a ready-made family.

  That thought had occurred to Joanna as well. Frank was used to the peace and quiet of living by himself. She wondered how he’d manage with a new wife, two teenage stepchildren, and a mother-in-law, all living under the same roof. On the other hand, Joanna knew he’d been lonely for a long time. Even so, a sudden dose of that much togetherness, combined with a stressful new job, might be challenging for anyone to handle.

  But Tom Montoya had the final word on the family situation. “My mother had given up on Frank’s ever having children a long time ago,” he told them. “I can tell you she’s thrilled to have a new set of grandchildren, no matter how she gets them.”

  For the time being, his comment carried the day.

  A while later, Butch enlisted Tom’s help in bringing the steaks back into the house. They brought in separate platters loaded with mouthwatering grilled rib eyes on Fiesta Ware platters. Steaks on the red platter were rare. The ones on the peacock-blue platter were medium, and the few scrawny steaks on the black platter were well done.

  Before Carol left, she had set out stacks of plates, silverware, and napkins that would make serving easy. The platters of cooked steak took the place of honor at the top end of the counter, next to the plates and cutlery, but they were soon joined by the rest of the abundant feast: a huge bowl of mixed-greens salad; two kinds of potato salad, hot and cold; a steaming crock of cowboy beans accompanied by a vat of fiery jalapeno-dotted salsa. At the far end of the counter was the bread-and-butter station, which boasted two loaves of freshly baked and sliced sourdough bread and several pie plates of corn bread.

  Joanna waited until the guests had loaded their plates before she filled her own. Then she wandered into the family room and took one of the few remaining spots at one of the tables-a chair that happened to be next to Jaime Carbajal’s. He had come to the party because he had said he would be there, and he was clearly having to make an effort to be part of the festivities.

  “How’s it going?” Joanna asked.

  He shrugged. “Okay, I guess,” he said.

  “You don’t sound very convincing,” Joanna told him. “Did you talk to Luis about his father and about the locker situation?”

  “Yes,” Jaime said.

  “How did it go?”

  Jaime shrugged. “He was pretty mad at first and stormed off into the bedroom. But I think you’re right. He’ll get over it and come around eventually. It’ll take time. He and Pepe were still in their room talking when I left to come here. I could hear their voices, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.”

  Pepe, Jaime’s son, was only a few months younger than his cousin.

  “I suppose Luis had already told Pepe about what had happened to his father.” Joanna’s comment was more a statement than it was a question, and Jaime shot her a sidelong glance.

  “How did you know that?” he asked.

  “You’ve told me before that Pepe and Luis are close, more like brothers than cousins. Since they’re also kids, it stands to reason that if Luis had confided in anyone, it would have been Pepe. That’s a good thing, Jaime. Give Luis some credit. He was smart enough to realize he couldn’t deal with this crisis by himself. We should all be thankful that he had someone to go to with his troubles. We should also be glad that he was smart enough to go looking for help.”

  “You’re right,” Jaime agreed. “I am glad about that, but what about Pepe? My son knew all about this for a long time, but he never let on to me. That hurts, boss. It really hurts. Pepe and I have always been close. I don’t like finding out that he’s been keeping secrets.”

  “Of course he’s keeping secrets,” Joanna told him. “Why wouldn’t he? Pepe may be your son, but he’s also a teenager. Keeping secrets goes with the territory.”

  Even as she said the words, Joanna couldn’t help wondering what secrets her almost-fifteen-year-old daughter might be keeping from her. On the surface, Jenny was a joy. She helped around the house, adored her little brother, and had a part-time job helping out at a local veterinary office. She was also within months of having her learner’s permit. Joanna knew only too well the kinds of secrets she had kept from her own mother at that age. The possibility that Jenny might be doing the same thing and pulling the same stunts was disturbing. Joanna didn’t want to go there. On the other hand, it turned out that at the time Joanna’s mother had been keeping quite a few secrets of her own.

  “The boys will be all right,” Joanna assured him. “Both of them.”

  “I hope so,” Jaime said.

  Joanna waited for a moment before she went on. “With all the turmoil at home, I don’t suppose you had much time to work on the Action Adventures video enhancement problem.”

  “I made some calls,” Jaime said. “I’ve got an appointment at the DPS crime lab in Tucson tomorrow morning. I’ll hand over what we’ve got and see what they can do with it.”

  I dropped Mel off at the restaurant parking lot where she’d left the Cayman, and we drove back into town in the throes of afternoon traffic. I know, I’m always griping about the traffic here, but I can’t help it. There are too many cars and not enough roads, and when I see one of those signs that say construction is coming and drivers should find alternate routes, I know it’s a joke. For a lot of roads around here there are no alternate routes.

  Once back at Belltown Terrace, Mel went out for her daily run while I worked my way through several crossword puzzles. After that, we set out on foot to find some dinner. Even on rainy days, the late afternoons and early evenings are often clear and warm. And that was the case as we walked down Second Avenue.

  When I first moved to the Denny Regrade, the streets had been lined with tiny sticks of newly planted trees. Now they’re fully grown, complete with root systems that play havoc with the smooth surface of the sidewalks. Still, I enjoyed our walk along beautiful, tree-lined Second Avenue with bright green leaves softening the hard-scape lines of surrounding buildings.

  We walked as far as Mama’s Mexican Kitchen, where we managed to score an outside table. That gave us a chance to watch the varied denizens of the Regrade-from the homeless people wheel-ing their possession-laden grocery carts to the high-flying BMW drivers jockeying for free parking spaces.

  But we also talked shop. While Mel sipped her Dos Equis and downed a combination plate and I nursed a root beer along with my order of taquitos, we picked apart everything we had learned about the timeline of Marina Aguirre’s disappearance and death. I had just popped the last bit of taquito in my mouth when the phone rang.

  “Bingo,” someone said in my ear.

  I didn’t recognize the voice, and I didn’t recognize the phone number, either. For a moment I thought maybe it was one of those annoying solicitation calls where the Knights of Something or Other want me to buy a ticket to their annual charitable auction.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said. “Who’s calling, please?”

  “It’s Lucy,” she said. “Detective Lucy Caldwell from Ellensburg. This is my cell. I thought you’d want to know that we’ve IDed
our victim. I just got the notice from Bob Craft over in the M.E.’s office. They entered her dental X rays in the national dental records database and got a hit. Her real name is Marcella Andrade. She was reported missing on July 16 of last year.”

  I had pulled my notebook and pencil from my pocket, and tipped my head in order to hold the phone to my ear while I took notes.

  “Marcella Andrade,” I wrote. “Disappeared July 16. From where?”

  “From Arizona,” Lucy answered. “The missing persons report was written by someone named Detective Jaime Carbajal. He’s with the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department,” she added. “He’s also listed as the next of kin because he’s the victim’s brother. Dr. Hopewell and I thought that since this goes across state lines and since the attorney general’s office is involved, it might be best if the next-of-kin notification came from you instead of from one of us.”

  That’s what I mean about God having a sense of humor. I had been reluctant to blab to Mel about my partnership with Big Al Lindstrom, but that was nothing compared to this!

  You see, I happen to know the sheriff of Cochise County. Her name is Joanna Brady. She’s a cute little redhead-make that a feisty little red-haired fireball. The two of us had worked a case together a couple of years ago. In the aftermath of a dramatic shoot-out where either one of us might have been killed, Joanna and I had shared a powerful but momentary attraction.

  And that’s all it was-momentary. Admittedly it was a hug that could have turned into much more, but Joanna Brady was married, even if I wasn’t at the time, and neither one of us was prepared to play that game. So I came back home to Seattle, she stayed on in Bisbee, and life went on as usual. Until now.

  “What?” Mel wanted to know.

  I ignored her. “How do you spell that last name again?” I asked.

  Lucy read off the letters. “It’s Hispanic,” she explained. “I believe the j’s are pronounced like h’s.”

  I remembered meeting Detective Jaime Carbajal. The j’s were most definitely h’s.

  “What’s going on?” Mel asked.

  “They’ve identified our victim,” I told her.

  “Where’s she from?”

  “Arizona,” I told her. “Bisbee, Arizona.”

  But, of course, Lucy hadn’t said a word about Bisbee. I had supplied that little detail on my own.

  “Obviously you know Cochise County,” Lucy said. She sounded relieved. “I hope that means you’ll be willing to handle the next-of-kin notification. I’ve only done one or two of those, and I’m not very good at them. I’m always afraid I’ll fall apart and make a fool of myself.”

  “Right,” I agreed. “We’ll take care of the next-of-kin notification. Can you give me the contact information?”

  So she did. She dictated all the gory details-the phone numbers and addresses that would make it possible for me to mess up Detective Carbajal’s life with the terrible news that his sister had been murdered. And just because he was a cop wouldn’t make it easier. In a way it made it worse, but diligently writing it all down gave me a chance to put off having to tell Mel what she was waiting to hear. It was a useless diversion, however. It didn’t work, not at all.

  Mel was still gunning for me when I got off the phone. “Something’s the matter,” she said accusingly. “I saw the look on your face. It was like you had seen a ghost. What’s going on?”

  The waiter came by. “Can I get you anything?” he asked.

  He had people standing outside, waiting for tables. The question was a polite way of saying how about getting moving, but I didn’t take the hint. Instead, I ordered another beer for Mel and another root beer for me. Then I told Mel everything. I told her all about my encounter with Sheriff Joanna Brady; about how the two of us had chased a bad guy down a dry riverbed and how we had survived a shoot-out that left the bad guy dead. As for us? We were very much alive and grateful to be so.

  “But nothing happened,” I said as I finished. “Nothing at all.”

  There was a long disturbing moment when Mel said nothing. Finally she nodded. “All right then,” she said, making up her mind to accept what I’d told her at face value. “You should call Sheriff Brady. If the victim’s brother works for her, she’s the one who should tell him. It’ll be better coming from her rather than from a complete stranger over the phone. And we shouldn’t make that kind of call from here.”

  Mel looked around the sidewalk patio and caught the waiter’s eye. “Check, please,” she said. “We need to go.”

  We started back toward Belltown Terrace walking hand in hand.

  “Did I ever tell you about Big Al Lindstrom?” I asked.

  “Not really,” Mel said. “Other than what you told me today. Why?”

  “He’s a great guy,” I told her. “I worked with him for a couple of years-up until he got himself shot.”

  “Oh, boy,” she said. “Don’t tell me this is another one of those J. P. Beaumont missing partners stories, is it?”

  “Pretty much,” I said.

  “You’d better tell me then,” she said. “I need to know.”

  So I told her about that, too. Thinking about it now, I can see exactly what I was doing-stalling. The longer it took us to get back to Belltown Terrace, the longer I could put off making the call to Sheriff Brady and ultimately to Jaime Carbajal.

  No matter how long I do this job, making those tough calls never gets any easier.

  Once dinner was over, people began sorting themselves into tables for the poker games. Joanna had learned to play poker at her father’s knee. D. H. Lathrop had taught her well, and her skill at the game was well known both within the department and beyond. As a consequence, her table was the last one to fill up.

  The other tables had already started playing and Joanna was about to cut the cards for hers when the landline phone rang in the kitchen. For several years after Joanna’s first election, she had served as county sheriff while still keeping her residential phone number listed in the phone book. In the course of a rancorous reelection campaign, however, she’d been the target of so many crank calls that she and Butch had finally been forced to move to an unlisted number. Now when calls came in on the landline, they were usually for Jenny.

  When the phone rang, Joanna assumed that would be the case this time as well. Instead, a moment later Butch appeared in the doorway between the rooms, holding the kitchen’s portable receiver in one hand and motioning for her to come answer it with the other. Joanna tried shaking her head, hoping he’d take the hint and tell whoever was calling that she wasn’t available. Her head shake seemed to make Butch’s motions that much more insistent.

  What now? she wondered irritably. Can’t Tom Hadlock handle anything on his own?

  With a resigned sigh and without dealing the cards, she passed the deck to the guy sitting next to her-Bisbee’s chief of police, Alvin Bernard. Then she excused herself and went to the kitchen to take the call.

  “Sheriff Brady?” an unfamiliar male voice said when Butch handed her the phone.

  “Yes,” she said. “Who is this? I’m really busy at the moment. I have guests. If you’ll excuse me-”

  “It’s Beaumont,” the man said urgently. “J. P. Beaumont. Remember me?”

  The words stunned her. Beaumont? She remembered-all too well. Hearing both the voice and the name, she was reminded of that one moment in particular. To her dismay she found herself blushing from the top of her collar to the roots of her hair.

  Even though their encounter was years in the past, she remembered it as if it had been yesterday. She and the Washington State investigator had found themselves conducting a joint investigation, one that had ended with a life-threatening encounter with a dangerous killer. In the aftermath of that, Joanna and the visiting detective had been caught up in a moment of emotional heat that could easily have gotten out of control.

  There was no question that the attraction had been mutual. They had both felt the momentary magnetism. What shamed Joanna now was k
nowing she had been the instigator in that situation, the one who had made the first move. She might well have gone on to moves two and three as well if Beaumont hadn’t called a halt by summoning her back to reality. She was, after all, a married woman. And once Joanna came to her senses, she agreed wholeheartedly.

  As the blush subsided, Joanna stepped into the doorway of her home office to continue the call.

  “Of course I remember,” she said. “How nice to hear from you again.”

  That was an outright lie. Hearing from him again was anything but nice. With Butch back in the kitchen cleaning up after the party and with a houseful of company, this was not a good time to be reminded of things past. It wasn’t that Joanna had been unfaithful to her husband-it was that she might have been.

  “How are you doing?” she asked. “And how did you get my number?”

  It seemed unlikely to her that Beaumont would have kept her old phone number or had access to her new one.

  “I called your office and spoke to your chief deputy,” Beaumont told her. “A Mr. Hadlock, I believe. When I told him why I was calling, he said I should probably speak to you directly.”

  Joanna’s heart gave a little squeeze-a premonition that something was seriously out of whack. Everyone in the department, including Tom Hadlock, knew that handing out her unlisted number to anyone was a big no-no. This had to be important.

  “Why?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “Actually, there is,” Beau replied. “I’m calling about one of your cases-a missing persons case from last year, a young woman named Marcella Maria Andrade.”

  Jaime’s sister! Joanna thought at once. “Marcella,” she repeated. “Have you found her?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m afraid we have.”

  Right at that moment Joanna was unable to recall the name of Beau’s agency, but she understood that he worked homicide and the tone of his voice told her what she didn’t want to hear-Marcella’s story wouldn’t have a happy ending.