Maureen Edgeworth stopped speaking and seemed to become aware that her hospitality was somehow lacking. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you,” Joanna told her. “I just had lunch.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll fix some for myself.”
As Maureen moved around the kitchen, Joanna wrestled with her conscience. The poor woman was clearly devastated by what was going on with her daughter. She needed someone to talk to right then, and Sheriff Joanna Brady was the only person who happened to be there.
“Karen’s fortunate to have you and your husband for parents,” Joanna said tentatively. “Not everyone would be willing to step in and handle things in a situation like this.”
Maureen shrugged. “What choice do we have?” she asked. “What choice do parents ever have? Karen was always a handful—she and those wild pals of hers, Dena and Monica. They were all smart and they all got good grades, but they were always getting into mischief together, always walking the fine edge.”
“Dena Hogan and Monica Foster Guilders?” Joanna supplied.
“Dena James then,” Maureen said. “And yes, Monica Foster. I thought it was just because they were teenagers. I told myself that it was just a phase they were going through and that they’d grow out of it eventually. And I guess Monica did, but Karen and Dena are both in their mid-forties now. That’s a little late for them to keep falling back on that old ‘just-a-phase’ excuse.”
“Did Karen say anything to you about her dealings with Mark Childers?”
“More than we wanted to know,” Maureen Edgeworth said sadly. “She had more than ‘dealings’ with the man. And to think he was her best friend’s husband!”
Maureen shuddered, and her voice rose with indignation. “You have to understand, Sheriff Brady. I tried to raise my daughter to have good morals and high standards. I tried to teach her about right and wrong. I thought wife-swapping went out with the AIDS virus, but I guess not. These days all the kids learn about safe sex in junior high. Somebody needs to teach the parents. They’re the ones who need to grow up. I don’t blame Paul for leaving, not at all.”
“From the sound of it, I’d say your daughter was involved with a whole group of people,” Joanna said gently. “Did she give you any names?”
“Other than Dena? Not really. I’m sure you can ask her yourself if you need to, but I don’t know how soon that’ll be. According to Ed, the first thing that happens at the center is the addicts go into detox for a while—for several days at least. They can’t have any visitors at all until they complete that portion of the treatment. Do you need the address?”
Joanna nodded. “And a phone number,” she added. “Both would be helpful.”
“Just a minute. I wrote them down, but I put the piece of paper in my purse.”
While Maureen went to get the information, Joanna sat considering her next move. Dena Hogan was handling Monica Foster’s divorce from Mark Childers, but she was also palling around with someone who was Mark Childers’ drug-using mistress. This sounded very much like a conflict of interest. Dena Hogan may have left work sick that day, but it seemed to Joanna that it was time someone paid the woman a visit at home.
“Do you happen to know where Dena lives?” Joanna asked when Maureen returned to the kitchen.
“Kino Road,” Maureen replied. “Just south of Ramsey. You’re not going to go see her, are you?”
“I may,” Joanna hedged.
“If you do, please don’t tell her I said anything. I don’t want to cause any more trouble than I already have.”
A car—an old T-Bird—pulled into the yard and stopped. “That’ll be Derek,” Maureen said. “He drives himself to and from school. Please go now, Sheriff Brady. I hope you won’t mind if I don’t introduce you. I’m sure you understand. I just can’t upset him any more right now.”
“Of course,” Joanna agreed, standing up to leave. “I understand completely.”
In the end, there was no problem with introductions, because once Derek Brainard came into the house, he slammed the front door and disappeared into the depths of the house without ever showing his face in the kitchen. Joanna let herself out, climbed into the Blazer, and headed back for Sierra Vista. She used her cell phone to get Dena and Rex Hogan’s exact address on Kino Road. Half an hour later, Joanna approached the Hogan address just as a woman, blond and carrying two suitcases, exited the house.
Driving slowly and checking house numbers, Joanna stopped to watch. The woman heaved two massive bags into the open trunk of a car parked in the driveway. It was only when she turned around to reenter the house that Joanna realized she wasn’t a woman at all. The long blond locks and the missing trademark buckskin jacket had fooled her. No, the person returning to Dena Hogan’s house was none other than Ross Jenkins. The car the suitcases had been loaded into was the same Chrysler Concorde Joanna had seen Jenkins driving on Houghton Road three days earlier. In front of that was a pearlescent-white Lexus.
All at once, the threads of the two separate cases came together for Joanna like crosshairs in the sights of a rifle. She felt an eerie prickling at the back of her neck and knew that Ernie Carpenter had been dead-on right. She never should have come here alone.
Nineteen
AS ROSS Jenkins disappeared into Dena Hogan’s house, Joanna switched off the Blazer’s engine. From a discreet distance two houses away, she grappled with what to do. Other than instinct and moral indignation, she had very little to go on. Despicable behavior wasn’t criminal. If Dena Hogan was screwing around with Susan Jenkins’ husband, that was the business of the four people most closely involved. It certainly wasn’t Joanna’s. And standing someone up for an appointment while claiming to be sick but really heading out of town couldn’t be considered criminal either.
Sure, there were clear conflicts of interest involved. Even in small-town legal circles people would frown on an attorney who, while representing one party in a divorce proceeding, was also best friends with the opposing spouse’s mistress. But that called for disciplinary action from a bar association and nothing more, especially since wife, mistress, and attorney were all long-term friends with a supposedly “close” relationship that dated all the way back to girlhood.
All those things were bothersome—worrisome, even—but not cause for involvement by a local law enforcement agency. Still, Joanna knew instinctively that whatever was going on right then was more than morally wrong. Dena Hogan had been privy to the contents of Alice Rogers’ will. More than privy, she was the attorney who had drafted the damned thing. Alice’s two children, as well as her Johnny-come-lately husband, would have benefited to some extent from Alice’s premature death. With one of those beneficiaries dead and the other among the missing, that left only one, Susan Jenkins—and her husband Ross, who had just loaded a pair of suitcases—Dena’s, presumably—into his car.
What’s the relationship between these two? Joanna wondered. And how much of this is Susan Jenkins in on?
The door opened once more and again Ross Jenkins emerged from the house. This time he crammed one more, smaller, suitcase into the trunk, then slammed the lid shut before he tossed a heavily loaded garment bag into the backseat. As he returned to the house once again, Joanna realized she didn’t have much time. The car was full. When it was completely loaded, Ross and Dena would most likely drive away from the house. When that happened, Joanna wouldn’t have sufficient probable cause to pull them over.
She wanted to confront them sooner than that, without the necessity of what might later be characterized as an illegal traffic stop. The problem was, she was there by herself. Approaching a pair of suspected killers alone was downright foolhardy.
After first slipping her cell phone into the coat pocket of her blazer, she thumbed the talk button on her radio. “Dispatch,” she said. “Sheriff Brady here. I need backup.”
“Where are you?” Tica Romero asked.
“Kino Road, just south of Ramsey. It’s a residence that belon
gs to Rex and Dena Hogan.”
“That’s the same address I found for you a few minutes ago, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Two suspects are loading a vehicle. I want to keep them from leaving. How long before you can have another unit here?”
“We’re short-staffed in that sector right now, Sheriff Brady. The closest county unit is over at Palominas, finishing investigating a multi-car accident. Deputy Pakin can probably be there in half an hour or so. Do you want me to ask for mutual aid from Sierra Vista PD?”
“Yes,” Joanna agreed at once. “Better safe than sorry.”
The door to Dena Hogan’s house opened again. This time two people walked out and headed for the Concorde. The woman was wearing a coat and carrying a purse. That meant the loading was done. The suspects were leaving. There would be no time to wait for backup, none at all.
“I’m going to have to go in alone,” Joanna said. “But when I do, I’ll leave my cell phone turned on. That way, you’ll be able to monitor what’s happening.”
Quickly Joanna punched up Tica’s direct number and then waited for the dispatcher to answer before stowing the phone itself inside the cup of her bra. By then, Ross Jenkins and the woman were standing on either side of the Chrysler. Switching on the ignition, Joanna sent the Blazer roaring forward. Once it was astraddle the driveway and blocking the Concorde’s exit, Joanna slammed the Blazer into neutral and then stepped out onto the parking strip.
“Hi there, Ross,” Joanna said. “Do you have a minute?”
From the dismayed look that passed across his face, it was clear that Ross Jenkins was startled to see her. He recovered quickly, however.
“Well, hiya there, Sheriff Brady,” he said easily. “We were just leaving. If you don’t mind, we’re a little pressed for time at the moment.”
“I’m sure you are,” Joanna replied. “I only have a few questions. I presume this is Dena Hogan?”
“Yes, I’m Dena.” The woman’s answer was chilly and wary at the same time. “What do you want?”
Joanna wavered momentarily. She could play it cool and pretend that all she was looking for was a copy of Mark Childers’ financial records. Or she could go for broke. She could take a page from her father’s old poker-playing days and bluff like hell.
“I’m curious where you both were last Saturday night,” she said quietly. “Where you were after Alice Monroe left Sierra Vista to drive back home to Tombstone?”
Glances might not be admissible in a court of law, but the dagger-filled look Dena Hogan shot across the top of the car toward Ross Jenkins spoke volumes.
“We were together,” Ross said with a dismissive shrug, as though the fact that he was sleeping around behind his wife’s back was an unimportant detail too insignificant to bother denying. “Right here. I came over after dinner and was here until late—until two or three in the morning.”
“With no witnesses, of course,” Joanna said.
Ross smiled. “I should hope not. I don’t think Susie would like it much if she found out. She’s been through so much lately. I wanted to spare her feelings.”
“We both did,” Dena said.
“How very thoughtful of you,” Joanna observed. “And I suppose you’re also sparing your husband’s feelings at the moment, Ms. Hogan? I’m assuming Rex isn’t home. Otherwise he’d be the one lugging your suitcases out to the car, not Mr. Jenkins here. And speaking of suitcases, from the size of them I’d say you’re planning on being gone for some time. Maybe even longer than next Monday morning, which is when your receptionist said you might be recovered enough to return to work.”
There was no way for Joanna to tell if her cell phone was picking up any of the conversation. It was buried under both her bra and the Kevlar material woven into her soft body armor.
Dena looked at her watch. “Come on, Ross. It’s getting late. Let’s go. She’s got no reason to hold us. If you have to drive across the grass to get around her, do it.”
Ross Jenkins made no effort to comply, and when he didn’t get in the Concorde, neither did Dena Hogan.
“Look, Sheriff Brady,” he said, turning on a gratingly wheedling tone, the persuasive one that could have been dubbed straight into one of his auto dealership’s radio commercials. “You may not be able to understand this or believe it, but Dena and I are in love. Neither one of us planned for it to happen quite this way, but it did. And yes, we are leaving town. We’re going away to try to get some perspective on things—to try to figure out what we should do about it. Maybe you’ve never been trapped in a loveless marriage, but we both have. We feel like we owe it to ourselves to salvage whatever bit of happiness we can.”
Angered by his phony-baloney excuses, Joanna crossed her arms. “As they say in rodeo, Mr. Jenkins, nice try, but no time. This isn’t about love or lack of it. It’s about murder—your mother-in-law’s first and now, quite possibly, your brother-in-law’s as well.”
Dena’s jaw dropped. A dumbfounded expression flitted across her face. The look caught Joanna’s eye and her attention wavered momentarily. That was all the opening Ross Jenkins needed. His attack came without warning. One moment the man was standing at ease beside the Concorde, with one arm draped casually across the vehicle’s roof. The next moment he sprang at Joanna in a flying tackle that caught her smack in the midsection and sent her flying backward.
The force of the blow knocked her to the ground and drove the wind from her lungs. Before a gasping Joanna knew what had happened or could inhale another breath, the man was on top of her, sitting astride her waist. He wrestled Joanna’s Colt 2000 out of her shoulder holster and stuffed it in his pants pocket. Then he grabbed both her arms, twisted them behind her, and threw her face-down in the dirt.
“For God’s sake, Ross, what are you doing?” Dena demanded. “Are you crazy?”
“I’m not crazy. I’m saving our lives. Do you have any duct tape in the garage?”
“Yes.”
“Go get it then. Hurry. No, on second thought. I’ll bring her into the garage. There’s not much time.”
Wrenched to her feet, Joanna looked up and down the street, hoping there would be someone around to see what was happening. But there was no one. No children were outside for an afternoon bike ride. No retirees took advantage of the crisp afternoon to rake leaves or do other yard work. Ross Jenkins might as well have launched his attack in a completely deserted village.
When he hauled her to her feet, Joanna was afraid the phone might have been jarred loose or turned off. She worried that it would fall out of its hiding place, but it remained where she had put it, the battery warm against her breast as he hustled her past the two parked cars and up the driveway. Moments later, with the whir of an electric motor, the door of Dena’s garage moved slowly open. Jenkins didn’t wait for it to rise all the way before he ducked underneath and pulled Joanna into the garage with him. Immediately the door whirred shut again.
“Dena’s right, you know,” Joanna managed when she was finally able to speak. “Assaulting a police officer is a bad idea. I’ve already called for backup, Ross. Other cars will be here momentarily.”
Still slightly dazed, Joanna tried to assess her situation. Jenkins was far bigger than she was, and his attack had caught her so much by surprise that she hadn’t been able to utilize any of the countermeasures Andy had taught her. Her Colt was gone, but in his haste to hustle her into the garage and out of sight, Ross Jenkins had failed to discover Joanna’s reserve weapon. Her Clock 17 still rested securely in her small-of-back holster. And, as long as he was busy keeping her arms pinned to her shoulder blades, he might still miss it.
“Don’t listen to her, Dena,” Ross admonished as the woman reappeared with what looked like a brand-new roll of duct tape. “And don’t worry. We’ll be gone momentarily. Here. Wrap the tape around her wrists. When you finish that, tape her ankles together as well.”
With a rip, a length of tape tore loose from the roll. Behind her back, Joanna felt the sticky stuff wrap
around her wrists, lashing them together. Any second, Joanna expected one of Dena’s hands to fall against the Glock, but that didn’t happen. When Dena had finished with the wrists, she knelt to tape Joanna’s ankles.
“You can’t kill her, Ross,” Dena was saying. “Aren’t we in enough trouble already?”
“Shut up and tape. Ankles first and then her mouth. I’ll go outside and juggle cars.”
“What are you going to do with her, Ross?”
“You’d be surprised. Right now I’m going to move the luggage from my car to hers. Then we’ll load her into my trunk. If she isn’t bluffing and if cops are on their way, we sure as hell can’t leave her here. All we have to do is make sure that by the tune reinforcements show up, we’re long gone.”
With that, Ross let go of Joanna’s arms and moved away, leaving her standing unsteadily, trying to maintain her balance. With her feet taped together, that was almost impossible. Meanwhile, Dena closed in on Joanna’s face with her roll of tape once more firmly in hand.
Joanna noticed that she and Dena Hogan were fairly evenly matched in size. Had Joanna’s arms and legs been free, Joanna no doubt could have taken the woman in a fair fight. But for now, all Joanna could do to defend herself was to hop away, with the ungainly crooked hop of a drunken Easter bunny. As she did so, she looked around the virtually empty two-car garage, trying to get her bearings.
At the far end of the garage was a door that opened into the house. Lining the front of the garage were recycling baskets, a refrigerator/freezer, and a workbench. The right-hand wall of the garage, from workbench to corner, was lined with a collection of garden tools and equipment—rakes, hedge trimmers, grass shears—hanging on a series of wall-mounted hooks.
Having her feet bound was like being caught in a life-and-death sack race. Hopping along, Joanna made for a small open space between the freezer and workbench, all the while dodging away from Dena and her tape and trying, at the same time, to drive a wedge between the two conspirators.
Outlaw Mountain : A Joanna Brady Mystery (9780061748806) Page 27