by J. A. Jance
“She’s dead, then?” Joanna asked.
“Yes,” Beaumont responded. “I’m afraid so. It turns out she has been for several months. The partial remains of an unidentified female homicide victim were found near a town called North Bend, Washington, late last week. It took until today for the M.E. over in Kittitas County to get around to entering the victim’s dental X rays into a national missing persons database. Notification of the hit came back to her office late this evening. When the local homicide dick called to tell me about it, I felt I should make the call.”
During the course of the evening, Jaime had gradually loosened up. For the first time in months, Joanna had actually heard him laugh. The previous summer, Jaime’s life had been slammed with two separate disasters. First had come the line-of-duty death of his young protege, Deputy Dan Sloan. At about the same time, Jaime’s sister, Marcella, had abandoned her son and disappeared. Since then, Jaime had walked around with a black cloud over his head. Peering around the doorjamb, Joanna looked into the family room, where she spotted Jaime chatting amiably and sharing a joke with Frank Montoya’s new second in command.
Joanna wished she could preserve that precious moment of lighthearted banter, but she couldn’t. It would be gone the moment Jaime heard the bad news.
“Her next of kin is listed as her brother,” Beaumont continued. “A man named Jaime Carbajal. I think we met when I was there in Bisbee.”
As he spoke, Joanna could find no discernible subtext in Beau’s Joe Friday, “just the facts, ma’am” delivery. Maybe she was the only one who actually remembered that moment.
“Yes,” Joanna replied. “That’s correct. Jaime is one of my homicide detectives.”
“In view of that, I was hoping I could ask you to let the family know.”
“Of course,” she said at once. “Absolutely. You don’t even have to ask. I’ll handle that right away.”
The moment I get off the phone with you, she thought.
“The information I have also makes mention of the victim having a son,” Beau continued. “Is there a chance he could provide us with any information about his mother?”
Joanna suspected that might be true. It seemed likely that Luis had known more about his mother’s lifestyle and her unsavory friends and associates than he had ever admitted to anyone, including his uncle or his cousin. Joanna also understood that’s what homicide investigators do-they backtrack through the victim’s circle of family and friends trying to find clues about what happened and why, but Joanna’s first instinct was to protect Luis Andrade from everyone, including J. P. Beaumont.
“He might be able to help you,” Joanna conceded, “but not right now. First he learns his father is dead, and now his mother-”
“Wait a minute,” Beau interrupted, pouncing on that bit of information. “You’re saying his father is dead, too? What happened to him?”
“Luis’s father, Marco Andrade, was a small-time drug dealer. Detective Carbajal learned this morning that Andrade was murdered in prison several months ago.”
“I’ll need the details on that as well,” Beau said. “The two cases could be related.”
“Yes, they could,” Joanna agreed. “And I’ll have Jaime be in touch with you about that as soon as I can. I’ll have him call you, but not until after the family is notified.”
“Of course. Do you need my number?”
“No, thanks. If this is the right number, I can get it off caller ID. But tell me about what happened to Marcella, and why you are involved.”
“My agency is investigating a series of homicides that all have the same MO,” Beau said.
“Which is?”
“It’s ugly,” he said. “We have a total of six young female victims. We suspect that some or all of them may have had connections to prostitution, although Marcella had evidently been making some effort to get out of the business. All of them were bound and gagged, wrapped in construction tarps, and then set on fire.”
“While they were still alive?” Joanna asked.
Beaumont sighed before he answered. “Possibly,” he said. “And in every case but Marcella’s the victims’ teeth were forcibly removed at the time they were killed.”
“In order to make identification more difficult?” Joanna asked.
“Exactly.”
Joanna was appalled. And she hated hearing about these horrifying details. What she hated even more was knowing they would have to be passed along to Jaime so that he in turn could give the devastating information to his parents and to Marcella’s son, Luis.
Joanna retreated into her office far enough to collect a piece of paper and a pen. “When did all this happen?” Joanna asked. “And where?”
“We haven’t established a definite time of death. At the time she disappeared, Ms. Andrade was living in Federal Way, Washington, under an assumed name. She had evidently appropriated the ID of one Marina Aguirre, who died as a child. She was waiting tables in a local Denny’s. As I said before, I think she was trying to put her past behind her.”
That may be a comfort, Joanna thought. But not much.
“Any idea when the body will be released?” she asked.
“We’re not talking about a body,” Beau cautioned. “Skeletal remains only. Her family needs to be prepared for that. As far as a schedule for releasing the remains, her family will need to discuss that with the medical examiner over in Ellensburg.”
He gave her the names and applicable phone numbers.
“And where exactly is Ellensburg?”
“A couple of hours east of Seattle on I-90.”
“All right,” Joanna said after writing it all down. “I’ll talk to Jaime, and then I’ll have him call you.”
When the call ended, Joanna stood in the quiet of her office for a moment, gathering herself. Out in the living room she heard the sound of easy laughter, but she had moved far away from the world of bachelor party fun and playing poker. She went back to the kitchen looking for Butch, who was grabbing a fresh set of sodas. He took one look at her face and got it.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“How are you at Texas Hold’Em?” she asked.
“I stink. Why?”
“Because Jaime and I are leaving,” she said. “I just found out that his sister’s been murdered. I have to go tell him.”
Joanna went back into the family room and beckoned for Jaime to come with her. He put down his cards and followed her into the hallway. “What’s up?” he asked.
“It’s Marcella, Jaime,” Joanna said with a catch in her throat. “I’ve just received a call from a homicide detective in Washington State.”
“A homicide detective.” He repeated the words aloud and in the process seemed to come to an understanding of what they meant, even if he didn’t want to. “She’s dead, then?” he asked.
Joanna nodded. “Murdered.”
The naked shock on Jaime’s face left Joanna momentarily unable to speak. She knew that look from the inside out as well as all the hurt that went with it. She had been there herself on the day Andy died.
After a few moments, though, Jaime’s cop mind switched on. “Where?” he asked. “When? What happened?”
“I don’t know the details, but she’s evidently been dead for several months,” Joanna replied. “Her skeletal remains were positively identified through dental records late this afternoon.”
“I’d better go,” Jaime said. “I need to tell Luis and my parents.”
He made as if to turn away, but Joanna caught his arm. “Wait,” she said. “Let me change my clothes. I’ll go with you.”
“You don’t need to…”
“Yes, I do,” she insisted. “Please.”
She handed him the piece of paper with her scribbled notes. Jaime studied it for a moment. Before he could say anything more, she pressed her cell phone into his hand.
“Use this to call the detective,” she said. “I put his number in this. All you have to do is hit ‘send’ twice. That
should take you straight to Mr. Beaumont. I’ll be right back.”
Joanna hurried into the bedroom, where she stripped off her jeans and the bright green top. Next-of-kin notifications were tough, but this one in particular required a certain protocol and decorum. One of the grieving family members happened to be a teenager who was about to lose his second parent. Such an occasion called for nothing less than a full-dress uniform.
As Joanna went about putting on her uniform, it seemed to her as though she was also putting on the job. She had zipped up the pants, had fastened the Kevlar vest, and was buttoning her shirt when the name she had been searching for finally came through.
“S.H.I.T.!” she muttered aloud, just as Butch came through the bedroom door and closed it behind him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “If you’ve lost a button, change shirts. Cussing about it isn’t going to help.”
“I wasn’t cussing,” she said. “I just remembered. S.H.I.T. is the name of the outfit in Washington, the one J. P. Beaumont works for. It’s called the Special Homicide Investigation Team.”
“Oh,” Butch said. “I see. Beaumont. Isn’t that the same guy you worked with a couple of years ago?”
Joanna nodded and hoped to hell she wouldn’t blush again. Fortunately she didn’t.
Butch walked over and waited patiently for her to finish with her shirt. Once she had fastened the last button and tucked in the tail, he gathered her into his arms for a long hug.
“I know you have to go,” he said. “I came in to kiss you good-bye and tell you to be careful.”
“Thank you,” she said, kissing him back. “I will be.”
I always am.
Once I hung up, it seemed like only a few minutes had passed before the phone rang again. Mel had gone into the bedroom and slipped into “something comfortable,” as they say. It was a slick enough outfit that, as soon as I saw her again, I started having amorous ideas. The ringing phone, however, effectively put an end to any considerations other than work.
“Beaumont here.”
“My name’s Jaime Carbajal.” The man’s voice cracked as he spoke.
I hadn’t expected to hear back from him quite that soon. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I told him.
If Jaime heard my expression of sympathy, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he asked a question I didn’t expect. “Did you find the money?”
I paused for a moment, taking stock. Was Carbajal referring to the same money Tom Wojeck had mentioned? And if so, how did Marcella’s brother know about it? Maybe he was involved somehow, and if he was, he wouldn’t be the first cop who had been enticed over to the dark side by the siren song of easy money.
“What money?” I asked aloud. If you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, answering a question with a question is usually a good strategy.
“When my sister left here, she had a sum of money in her possession.”
“How much?” I asked.
“I have no idea how much,” he returned. “I didn’t see it. Her son, Luis, did. He said it was quite a lot.”
So we need to speak to the son after all, I thought. “Do you have any idea where the money came from?” I said aloud.
“We believe it was money Marcella’s husband had stolen from a drug dealer down here in Arizona. But now the husband is dead, too. He was murdered in prison in California several months ago. Somebody shanked him. I’m guessing that whoever killed him may also be responsible for killing Marcella.”
“Do you have any idea who?” I asked.
“I’ve only been able to pull up one name, Juan Francisco Castro,” Jaime said. “His street name is Paco. He’s a drug dealer who moves back and forth between Arizona and Mexico, and probably California as well.”
I wrote down the name.
“Do you have any idea where Paco might be right now?”
“Not really. I’ve had feelers out all along. So far nothing’s turned up.”
In the background I heard Joanna Brady’s voice. “Ready?” she asked.
“I have to go now,” Carbajal said. “We’ve got to go talk to my nephew, Marcella’s son.”
That wasn’t a job I envied.
“You go ahead,” I said. “But keep me posted. If you learn anything on your end, let us know. We’ll do the same.”
“What?” Mel asked.
I handed her the piece of paper I had used to jot down Juan Francisco Castro’s name. “Let’s look into this guy,” I told her. “He may be the one.”
Without another word, we both reached for our respective laptops.
When they stepped out of the house, Joanna took one look at the yard. The garage door was blocked by several parked cars. The only way to retrieve her Crown Victoria would have meant going back inside and asking several guests to abandon their poker hands long enough to come move their vehicles. When Jaime wasn’t at work, he drove a Toyota Camry. As a latecomer to the party, no one had blocked him in.
“It’s all right,” Joanna said. “I’ll ride with you.”
“Why don’t you just stay here-” Jaime began.
Joanna cut him off in mid-sentence. “I’m coming,” she said determinedly. “When we finish, if I need to, I’ll get one of the nightshift deputies to bring me home.”
Once buckled into Jaime’s car, they were silent as he maneuvered down the bumpy dirt track that led from the house back down to High Lonesome Road. As they bounced across the cattle guard at the end of the of the ranch’s private road, Joanna caught sight of a vehicle tucked in close to the fence line and the stand of mesquite trees behind it. Caught up in his own thoughts, Jaime seemed not to notice and started to drive past.
After registering the vehicle’s presence, it took only a moment for Joanna to identify it. The snub-nosed Toyota RAV-4 sitting just beyond Joanna’s mailbox belonged to none other than reporter Marliss Shackleford.
“Stop, please,” Joanna said. “Go back.”
Jaime pulled a U-turn. The Camry’s wheels had barely stopped moving when Joanna hopped out of the passenger seat. She charged over to the parked SUV and rapped sharply on the window, which Marliss eventually opened.
“What are you doing?” Joanna demanded. She asked the question, but she already knew the answer. Marliss was here hoping to dredge up some dirt on someone; whose dirt it was hardly mattered.
“It’s a party,” Marliss said.
“Yes, it is,” Joanna agreed. “And I’m quite sure you weren’t invited. As I said before, what are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see who all came.”
You wanted to see if anyone had too much to drink before they left, Joanna thought. “Now would be a good time for you to leave,” she said.
“This is a county road,” Marliss objected. “You can’t order me off it. I have every right to be here.”
“She’s right, boss,” Jaime called from behind her. “Leave her be. Let’s go.”
“Where are you going?” Marliss asked. “What’s so important that you’re leaving in the middle of your own party?”
Joanna definitely didn’t want Marliss trailing along behind them. Taking a deep breath, Joanna suddenly found herself remembering Marianne Maculyea’s sermon from the previous Sunday. It had been all about turning the other cheek, along with the verse from Proverbs about a soft answer turning away wrath. Maybe, in this situation, giving a soft answer was the only solution.
“When we left, Butch was about to serve dessert,” Joanna said. “I’m sure there’s plenty to go around. Why don’t you mosey on up to the house and see for yourself who all’s there?”
Joanna saw at once that her invitation left Marliss torn. She wanted to know all the details about who had come to the party and what was going on. She was also curious about where Joanna was going. In the end, curiosity about the party won out.
“Are you sure it’ll be all right?” she asked, turning the key in the ignition.
“Absolutely,” Joanna said. “Tell Butch I sent you.”
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Joanna stood there and waited while Marliss turned her RAV-4 around and headed up the road toward the house. As soon as she got back in Jaime’s car, he put it into gear.
“Thanks for getting rid of her,” he said. “I don’t think I would have been that nice.”
CHAPTER 13
When the next-of-kin notifications had been made, Joanna asked Deputy Raymond to drop her off at home. By then the bachelor party was long since over. She fell into bed and into a sound sleep. When she staggered into the kitchen the next morning with Lady at her heels, Joanna was amazed to see that the place was clean as a whistle and unnaturally quiet. Dennis and the three other dogs were evidently still at Carol’s place. Butch had made use of the child- and dog-free time to haul the rented tables and chairs out of the family room and to return pieces of furniture to their customary positions.
“How was it?” Butch asked, studying her face as he handed her a cup of coffee.
“Pretty rough,” she admitted, stroking Lady’s long smooth fur.
“Pretty rough” was an understatement. It had been more than rough. Joanna would never forget how fifteen-year-old Luis had heard the awful news of his mother’s murder in stoic silence. Only when Jaime finished had the boy’s narrow shoulders slumped. He had turned away and tried to bolt from the room, but Jaime had caught him on the way past. Engulfed in a smothering embrace, the boy had sobbed brokenly into his uncle’s chest.
Eventually, leaving the boy in the care of Jaime’s wife, Delcia, Joanna and Jaime had gone on to take the bad news to Jaime’s parents’ house. The moment Elena Carbajal answered the bell and saw who was standing on her doorstep, she knew why they were there. She had burst into a keening wail of grief before either Jaime or Joanna said a word. The gut-wrenching sound had prompted Jaime’s father to burst into the living room. He had emerged from the bedroom wearing slippers and pajamas.
“What is it, Elena?” Conrad Carbajal, Jaime’s father, had asked. “What’s going on?”
Jaime, as he had done with Luis, was the one who gave his parents the bad news.
“Naturally the parents blame themselves for what happened to their daughter,” Joanna told Butch over coffee. “But parents always do. Marcella was evidently a headstrong, out-of-control teenager. She ran off at age seventeen without ever completing high school. Her parents disapproved of her friends and her lifestyle, but they were thankful when she and Luis moved back here a year or so ago. At least that gave them a chance to look out for Luis.”