Twelve
CASEY LEDFORD, the gifted young technician who ran Cochise County’s Automated Fingerprint Identification System, was a Bisbee girl who had gone off to college on a full-ride Veterans of Foreign Wars scholarship. She had enrolled in the University of Arizona’s College of Fine Arts, where she had planned on becoming a commercial artist. Smart, but not smart enough to avoid all the treacherous pitfalls of young adulthood, she had returned to her parents’ home two years later, with no degree, but with a four-month-old baby—a daughter named Felicity—in tow. Back in Bisbee, Casey had taken whatever work she could find, including stints waiting tables in the dining room at the Copper Queen Hotel while she continued to attend college-level classes on a part-time basis.
Like a lot of other things, the AFIS equipment had fallen into Cochise County hands through a law enforcement, War Against Drugs grant that paid for hardware and software, but no “liveware”—the people necessary to make the other two work. Prior to receiving the equipment, Joanna had mistakenly supposed that automated fingerprint identification meant just exactly that—automated. With the arrival of the equipment and the technical documentation that accompanied it, Joanna learned that fingerprints usually had to be augmented by hand before they could be fed into the computer. That meant that the department was going to need to hire someone who was not only artistically inclined but also more than moderately computer-literate. When the position was advertised in the paper, only one applicant had responded—Casey Ledford.
“What’s so urgent?” Joanna asked, poking her head in Casey’s lab, where dozens of images of Felicity Ledford—most of them framed pastels—covered the walls.
“It’s the Rogers case,” Casey said.
“You got a hit?”
Casey Ledford nodded, but she didn’t look any too happy about it. Joanna perched on a lab stool. “So tell me,” she urged. “What did you find?”
“The hit resulted from prints we found at the mobile at Outlaw Mountain.”
“Farley Adams’ place,” Joanna murmured. “The ones left on the dirty dishes?”
Casey nodded again. “Right,” she said. “None of the guys thought to look there. They had dusted the outside controls, but they hadn’t bothered to check inside.”
“Good work,” Joanna said with a grin “That’s what it takes around here sometimes—a woman’s touch. Go on.”
“I actually brought the dishes back here to process them,” Casey continued. “It was easier that way. And the prints I lifted were good ones. They didn’t need all that much augmentation or anything. And once I fed them into the computer, the hit came back almost right away.”
“So what’s the problem then?”
“The computer spits out the person’s name and the name of the jurisdiction that’s looking for him. We usually have to call that department by phone in order to get the original fingerprint card as well as details on the criminal activity in question. I’m the one who does that. It’s just a bureaucratic formality. I get the information and pass it along to whoever’s working our end of it.”
“You did that, then?”
“Yes. The hit was from North Las Vegas, up in Nevada.”
“Let me guess,” Joanna said. “Farley Adams’ name isn’t Farley Adams.”
“Right,” Casey agreed. “It’s Jonathan Becker.”
“What’s he wanted for?”
“He was wanted for conspiracy to commit murder.”
“You said was,” Joanna said. “You mean he isn’t anymore?”
“Jonathan Becker is dead,” Casey said. “At least that’s what the first person I talked to up in Nevada told me. He said Becker’s prints should have been pulled from the system because he’s deceased. According to the guy I talked to, Becker died in a one-car roll-over accident on the road between Vegas and Kingman. And that’s where he’s supposedly buried—Kingman, Arizona. The problem is, Becker obviously isn’t dead. If he were, he couldn’t have left fingerprints for us to find.”
“There has to be some kind of mixup,” Joanna suggested.
Casey shook her head determinedly. “There’s no mixup,” she said. “Not ten minutes after I get off the phone with the first detective, somebody else was on the line, calling me from North Las Vegas and pumping me for any and all information we might have on this case. It just didn’t sound right, Sheriff Brady. There’s something weird about this, and I don’t know what it is.”
“I don’t know either,” Joanna said, taking the fistful of computer printouts Casey handed her. “But I’m going to make it my business to find out.”
She went straight back to her office and shut herself inside. There she studied the papers and tried to make sense of the conflicting bits of information. The more she examined the materials, the more she agreed with Casey’s assessment. Something was wrong there. Obviously Becker and Farley Adams were one and the same. If Jonathan Becker really were dead, then the detective in North Las Vegas would have no possible interest in what was going on in Cochise County.
Joanna Lathrop Brady had learned the art of the full frontal attack at her mother’s knee. Eleanor Lathrop’s approach to life had often served her daughter well, and Joanna applied it now. Searching through Casey Ledford’s thorough paperwork, Joanna located the notes she had made concerning the incoming call from North Las Vegas. The inquiring detective’s name was listed as Garfield—Detective Sam Garfield, but he hadn’t left a phone number. There was one, however, listed with Jonathan Becker’s AFIS printed record.
Joanna dialed it and reached the non-emergency number for the North Las Vegas Police Department. “Detective Sam Garfield, please,” she told the operator who answered.
“Who?”
“Detective Garfield,” Joanna repeated, enunciating clearly. “Detective Sam Garfield.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have anyone here by that name. This is North Las Vegas. Have you checked with Las Vegas Metropolitan PD? Detective Garfield probably works there. People are always getting the two cities mixed up. Would you like me to give you that number?”
Joanna took the number, jotting it down mechanically, even though she knew in advance that she wasn’t going to call. Casey Ledford’s “weird” feeling had just become a whole lot weirder. Something was more than wrong, and Joanna knew the answers she needed wouldn’t be coming through regular channels in Vegas, or North Las Vegas, either.
After only a momentary delay, she dialed Frank Montoya’s number at the marshal’s office in Tombstone. “How are things?” she asked.
“Pretty quiet. I guess you heard about the fingerprints they found at Outlaw Mountain,” Frank said.
“I heard,” Joanna told him. “And that’s why I’m calling.”
Over the next few minutes she explained about Casey’s call from the mysteriously nonexistent Detective Garfield. “So here’s the deal, Frank,” she finished. “I’m hoping you can tune up that hotshot computer of yours, go on the Internet, and find out anything and everything you can about someone named Jonathan Becker. Look for articles about the accident, obituaries, whatever.”
Frank Montoya, a self-taught technophile, had created a totally mobile and wonderfully high-tech office for himself that was usually based in his departmental Crown Victoria. The fact that he was always more than willing to go online in search of esoteric pieces of information made it unnecessary for Joanna to do so.
“I’ll get on it right away,” he said. “By the way, did you hear about Alice Rogers’ funeral?”
“What about it?”
“Clete stopped by just a few minutes ago. He said it’s going to be Friday afternoon. The funeral itself will be at the Episcopal Church, with burial afterward in Tombstone Cemetery.”
“Did he say what time?” Joanna asked, pulling out her calendar.
“Early afternoon. Two, I think.”
“I’d better plan on going.” Joanna made a note of it. In the process she saw the notation for Wednesday, November 11. “Kiwanis,” it said. “
Seven A.M., Tony’s in Tintown, guest speaker.” She had almost forgotten about the speaking engagement. That would have been embarrassing.
“What’s happening out in Sierra Vista?” Frank asked, changing the subject. “Any word on the Oak Vista situation?”
“None so far,” Joanna told him. “I’m hoping that means no news is good news. It’s about quitting time, and this is when the trouble started the other day. As soon as I get off the phone with you, I’ll call and check.”
Moments later she was on the horn with Dick Voland. “Any sign of monkey wrenchers revisited?” she asked.
“None whatsoever,” he growled back at her. “Here I am with half the deputies for this shift stuck out here in the middle of nowhere with nothing happening. Meanwhile, big chunks of the county are totally without patrol coverage.”
“Any more weapons turn up among the workers?”
“No. But that’s hardly surprising. As much hell as you raised earlier, if they brought guns to work with them, they’ve stowed them out of sight. I’m guessing they’re in tool chests and glove boxes. At the moment, though, we’ve got no probable cause, so they’ll most likely stay there.”
“What happened with the snakes?” Joanna asked. “When I left, Ranger Brooks from Fish and Wildlife was just getting ready to write up a citation for hunting without a permit and taking wildlife for profit. She didn’t need to keep the snakes for evidence, did she?”
“No. She let them go.”
“Right there?”
“On the spot,” Voland answered. “Elvira had a snake stick hidden back up in the brush behind her car. Ranger Brooks used that to remove the snakes from the trunk and put them back where they belonged, more or less. According to Brooks, snakes are real homebodies, and they don’t like to be moved around at all. Naturally, it wasn’t possible to return them to exactly the places where they had been found. Which means the construction site is going to have snakes milling around for the next few days, looking for a way to get out of the cold once the sun goes down. That should make life interesting for Childers’ work crews. I wouldn’t be surprised if one or two of the workers gets bitten.”
“I’m voting for Rob Evans,” Joanna said. “If one of those displaced snakes has to go after someone, I hope it’s him. It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
“Is there anything else?” Dick Voland asked. “Deputy Pakin just radioed me that Marliss Shackleford is down by the gate on the highway. She evidently wants to talk to me about something. I told him to tell her that Frank Montoya is in charge of media relations and she should talk to him, but that had absolutely no effect. She still wants to talk to me. Any idea what it’s about?”
Joanna knew exactly what it was about—Junior. She felt a stab of regret that she hadn’t played the game better. “Remember Frank’s idea about having Marliss help find Junior’s family by writing a human-interest piece about him?” she asked.
“Right,” Voland growled. “Another one of Frank’s cockeyed ideas. But why is she coming to see me about it? Shouldn’t she be talking to you?”
“We tried that,” Joanna said. “I threw her out of my office.”
“That’s probably not the best way to treat one of our local newsies.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Joanna agreed. “So do me a favor, Dick. Talk to her. Try to smooth things over.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Voland replied. “But I’m not making any promises.”
Knowing Dick was about to be interviewed—make that grilled—by Marliss Shackleford, Joanna wasn’t at all eager to let him go. “By the way,” she asked, “did Mark Childers ever show up?”
“As a matter of fact, he didn’t,” Voland replied. “That’s what happens with high-rollers, though. They can afford to take lunches that last all afternoon, and nobody gives a damn.”
“If you do see him,” Joanna said, “let him know that we’re not going to tolerate his encouraging a range war. Pass along the message that his workers had better show up unarmed from now on.”
“I’ll spread the word,” Voland said. “First chance I get.”
Cringing at the thought of what Marliss would have to say to Dick Voland, Joanna put down the phone just as Kristin came into the office. “Jenny called,” she said.
That was the first Joanna noticed that she had used the private line for her calls to Dick and to Frank Montoya. That left Jenny no option but to call in through the switchboard. “I’ll call her right back,” Joanna said.
But she didn’t. Not right away. Instead, she sat staring at the phone and wondering how and when she was going to get around to telling Jenny what was going on with Butch. Obviously she couldn’t delay too long. If she did, Eleanor would steal a march on her and tell Jenny herself.
When Joanna finally did pick up the phone, she didn’t find it at all surprising that Jenny answered the phone at Butch Dixon’s house. “What are you up to?” Joanna asked.
“Me and Junior are playing video games.”
“Junior and I.” Joanna had tried to cut down on the reflexive grammatical corrections, but it was useless. It was one of those inevitable traits that had been passed down the DNA chain on her mother’s side.
“Well, we are,” Jenny said. “He’s pretty good. Not as good as me…I am. How are you?”
“Busy, but things are beginning to get better,” Joanna said. “How would you like to go out to the Pizza Palace for dinner tonight?”
“Do you think Junior likes pizza?” Jenny asked.
“I wasn’t asking Junior,” Joanna told her. “I was asking you.”
“You mean, just us? Not even Butch?”
“Not even.”
“How come? Am I in trouble or something?”
Joanna shook her head in exasperation. “Why would you be in trouble? And what’s the matter with just the two of us going out for pizza?”
“I guess that’ll be okay,” Jenny’s acquiescence was less than enthusiastic. “When?”
Joanna looked at her watch. “In about an hour,” she said. “I’ll come by to pick you up.”
Kristin came in again, this time bearing a stack of documents that had come through the inter-departmental mail. Topmost on the stack were the transcribed minutes from the previous day’s board of supervisors meeting. Curious about what exactly had been said concerning Oak Vista Estates, Joanna scanned through several pages. Reading the actual quotes, Joanna could see that Dick Voland had given her a pretty accurate report about what had gone on. If anything, Voland had underplayed Mark Childers’ vehement criticism over how the sheriffs department had handled the first set of demonstrators the previous Friday afternoon. Joanna hated to think what he would say at the next meeting, when the property damage to his equipment had all been properly tallied. Idly Joanna wondered if there wasn’t some out-of-town event—a law-enforcement seminar somewhere—that would cause her to miss the next meeting, the one where her department would inevitably be stuck on the hot seat.
After Mark Childers gave up the podium, several of his critics had stepped forward to voice their dismay and outrage over the fact that, with very little advance warning and with only negligible public notice, Mark Childers’ company was being allowed to tear up one of the last untouched tracts of Cochise County grassland. Childers’ critics were far more vociferous and adamant than the developer had been. As the tenor of their comments became more and more negative, so did the mood of the board. But rather than turning their wrath on Childers, the board members instead focused their ire on poor Lewis Flores. He was the one who had signed off on the Environmental Impact Statement. His was the signature on Mark Childers’ building permits.
Joanna knew Lewis Flores. He had been in Andy’s class in Bisbee High School. His wife, Carmen Rojas, was a year younger than Joanna. After graduating from Arizona State University, Lewis had worked in county government in both Pima and Final counties before he and Carmen had come home to Bisbee. He had accepted the job as head of the Planning and Zoning Depa
rtment while Carmen taught first grade at Greenway School. The two of them had taken up residence in Carmen’s parents’ old home on O.K. Street up in Old Bisbee.
Reading through the comments made in the meeting, including an especially vituperative one from none other than Karen Brainard, was upsetting. In his discussion of the meeting, Dick Voland hadn’t gone into much detail about the verbal confrontation between the board and Lewis. Joanna suspected that Dick didn’t have nearly the eye and ear for political intrigue that Frank Montoya did. It was entirely possible that Dick had no idea that there was a romantic relationship between the developer and the lady supervisor. Thanks to Frank, Joanna did know, and the outrageousness and unfairness of Karen’s attack on Flores made Joanna see red. She picked up the phone book and paged through until she found the Flores’ home number.
Carmen answered almost immediately. “Hello.”
“Hi, Carmen,” Joanna said. “It’s Joanna Brady. May I speak to Lewis?”
“He’s not home from work yet,” Carmen said. “Have you tried his office?”
For a second or two, Joanna had no idea what to say. She remembered Kristin’s message from earlier in the day. Linda, the secretary in Planning and Zoning, had said that Mr. Flores was out sick. Sick but not at home. That was worrisome. Joanna wondered if she should tell Carmen that she had already tried reaching Lewis at the office. In the end she decided not to. Considering what had gone on the day before, Lewis Flores probably needed some space. He’d come home when he was good and ready.
“I haven’t but I will,” Joanna said. “If I miss him or if you hear from him before I reach him, have him give me a call. Here’s my cell-phone number. I’ll be leaving the office right around five. I won’t be home until later, but I’ll have my phone on and with me.”
“This sounds urgent,” Carmen said. “Is anything wrong?”
Joanna scrambled for something to say that would sound reasonable and not too alarming. “It’s about that mess out at Oak Vista. Nothing serious, but I wanted to have the benefit of some input from Lewis—from someone who saw how this whole deal came together. You know, historical perspective, cover-your-butt kind of stuff.”
Outlaw Mountain : A Joanna Brady Mystery (9780061748806) Page 18