Outlaw Mountain : A Joanna Brady Mystery (9780061748806)

by Jance, Judith A.

  “I was following you,” he said sheepishly. “I was worried. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “You know this guy?” one of the Douglas officers asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Joanna Brady said. She was grateful that in the pulsing glow of lights it was impossible for anyone to see the vivid blush that had flooded her face. “His name’s Butch Dixon. He’s my fiancé.”

  “I guess that means we should let him up?” the patrolman asked.

  “I guess so,” Joanna said.

  Furious and embarrassed both, Joanna turned on her heel and marched back to the Bronco to tell Jonathan Becker that everything was under control. Meanwhile the two Douglas officers helped Butch to his feet and removed the cuffs. They were still apologizing and brushing the dirt off Butch’s clothing when Joanna returned.

  “It’s all right,” Butch said to them impatiently. “I’m fine.”

  “You only think you’re fine,” Joanna corrected. “What the hell were you thinking of?”

  “What were you thinking of?” Butch returned. “You said you were going to the hospital, but when you left there, instead of going home you took off in the opposite direction. What was I supposed to think?”

  “That I was doing my job.”

  “And I suppose that includes laying a trap for me—having a whole squad of cops pull me over, handcuff me, and throw me on the ground?”

  “I happen to have an endangered witness in my car,” Joanna told him. “A witness somebody’s gone to a lot of trouble to get rid of. When I saw your car, I thought someone had followed me and was going to try to kill him.”

  “So who is he?” Butch grumbled. “Shouldn’t I at least get to meet the guy?”

  Something in the way he said the words touched Joanna’s funny bone. She stopped being mad and started to laugh. The release of tension was catching. Within moments, Butch was laughing uproariously too, as were the two Douglas cops.

  Holding her sides, Joanna staggered up to the door of the Bronco and opened it. “Jonathan Becker,” she gasped. “I’d like you to meet Butch Dixon—the man I’m going to marry.”

  Butch temporarily stifled his laughter. With dead-pan seriousness he shook Jonathan Becker’s hand. It was enough to make Joanna giggle that much harder. Only when two cars came by, passing carefully and gawking, did Joanna realize how ridiculous they all must have looked.

  “We’d better get out of the road before someone does get hurt,” she said.

  “Where to?” Butch asked.

  “Let’s go to High Lonesome Ranch instead of my office,” Joanna said. “And if Dick Voland happens to be there, it’ll make it that much more interesting.”

  Twenty-Three

  FRIDAY DAWNED clear and cold. Joanna awakened bone-tired and completely alone. After hours of strategic planning, Butch had taken Jonathan Becker into town and booked him into a room at the Copper Queen. Both Junior and Jenny had spent the night with Jim Bob and Eva Lou.

  During the contentious discussions that followed their arrival at High Lonesome Ranch, Butch Dixon hadn’t been shy about voicing his opinions. With Becker and possibly Joanna in danger, Butch had been in favor of scrubbing the whole idea. To be fair, Joanna herself had wavered back and forth a dozen times. On the one hand, using Becker as bait seemed like a daring enough plan that it just might work. On the other, if Alice Rogers’ funeral was stocked with cops on loan from jurisdictions all over southeastern Arizona, how would it be possible to tell all the strangers apart? How would anyone be able to separate good guys from bad guys?

  The drug-selling activities of the rogue North Las Vegas cops were enough to justify calling in the DBA, and in the end it was Adam York, Joanna’s friend at the DBA, who tipped the scales in favor of mounting the operation when he offered Joanna the use of one of his crack squads of undercover agents. That way, all the visiting officers would be known to one another and, hopefully, unknown to whatever bad guys might show up.

  At one o’clock in the morning, when Butch and Jonathan Decker had left, the outlined game plan had seemed feasible enough. At seven-thirty that same morning and in the cold, harsh light of day, it didn’t seem like nearly such a good idea.

  Stiff, sore, sluggish from lack of sleep, and with her two black eyes glowing like purple beacons despite a dusting of Coverup, Joanna straggled into the office at ten after eight. When she tore off the topmost sheet on her desk calendar, it didn’t help her mood when she saw that the date was Friday the thirteenth. Leaving her purse on her desk, she hurried out into the lobby in search of a cup of coffee. She found Frank Montoya waiting by Kristin’s desk, a cup of coffee in one hand and a stack of paperwork in the other.

  “Whoa,” he said when he caught sight of Joanna. “That’s a matched pair of shiners if I ever saw one.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “That’s not exactly what I wanted to hear.”

  By the time Joanna returned to her office with her own cup of coffee, Frank was already seated at the conference table and sorting through copies of incident and contact reports. Joanna stopped by her desk and picked up two messages. Drew Gunderson’s name and telephone number was on one. The other was from Detective Hank Lazier with the Pima County Sheriff’s Department.

  “What’s this?” Frank asked when she set Gunderson’s message in front of him.

  “The name and number of the lawyer who set up Junior Dowdle’s guardianship arrangement.”

  “Junior Dowdle?” Frank repeated. “You mean we’ve figured out Junior’s last name? We know where he lives? How did you do that?”

  “I didn’t,” Joanna admitted. “Butch did. He located the mother with the help of some people from Special Olympics. Her name is Ellen Dowdle, and she’s in a nursing home in Rapid City, South Dakota. Because Ellen has been left incapacitated by a stroke, Junior was placed in the care of relatives—Ellen’s niece and the niece’s husband, Chuck and Irene Johnson. Last known address on them was in Mesa, but they’ve skipped. My guess is they’re the ones who ditched Junior at the arts fair. I’d also be willing to bet that just because they’re no longer caring for Junior doesn’t mean that they’ve stopped cashing the checks that were supposed to go for his care and upkeep. I want someone to start skip-chasing on them right away. I tried calling the lawyer, Drew Gunderson, last night, but he had already gone home for the day.”

  “Would you like me to call him?” Frank asked.

  “No,” Joanna said. “I will, but not until after I drink at least one cup of coffee and get my head screwed on straight. In the meantime, I need to bring you up to speed on the Jonathan Becker situation.”

  “What about him? He’s still missing, isn’t he?”

  “No, he’s not. I found him last night. Becker’s going to be at his wife’s funeral this afternoon, along with several other people.”

  “What people?” Frank asked. “What all went on last night?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Joanna told him. Half an hour later, Frank Montoya left Joanna’s office with a whole series of marching orders which included checking with the attending physicians for both Ross Jenkins and Dena Hogan as well as coordinating the joint operation which would include Adam York’s DEA squad along with Detectives Carpenter and Carbajal.

  By ten o’clock that morning, Joanna was on the phone with Drew Gunderson in Aberdeen, South Dakota. “I wish I could say I’m surprised,” he said, when Joanna finished reeling off her story. “I never did like the man Irene Wilcox married. Smiles all the time, but smarmy. Tried to tell Ellen as much, but she insisted it would be all right. It was either let Irene and Chuck have Junior or send him to a home. Ellen’s kept her son out of a home all her life. In fact, I’m sure the strain of it is part of why she ended up having that stroke. She’s not very old, you know, only seventy-five.”

  Listening to him, Joanna wondered how old Drew Gunderson was—probably some years older than Ellen Dowdle.

  “I’ll have to make arrangements to go over to Rapid to see Ellen thi
s weekend,” he continued. “I had other plans, but I’ll change them. Ellen and I will talk it over and try to decide what to do, although talking isn’t quite the right word. I talk and Ellen blinks—one for yes and two for no. I’m not sure what to do with Junior in the meantime. Is there someplace down there where you can send him to be cared for until I can make arrangements to have someone come get him?”

  “Sure,” Joanna said. “That won’t be a problem. Junior’s staying with a friend of mine right now—Butch Dixon. He won’t mind keeping him for a few days longer.” I hope.

  As soon as Joanna had finished that call and put down the phone, it rang. That was the story of her life. It seemed she spent most of her waking hours with a phone held to her ear.

  “Joanna? Ernie.”

  “What’s up?”

  “A couple of things. Have you talked to Hank Lazier?”

  “I hadn’t gotten around to calling him. I’ve been too busy.”

  “And I guess he couldn’t wait any longer. He called to let us know that one of the search warrants paid off. They found a television set and a VCR that match the makes and models missing from Alice Rogers’ house. They also found a paper bag stuffed with jewelry and savings bonds made out in Alice Rogers’ name.”

  “Where did they find them?” Joanna asked.

  “You’ll never guess. In Joaquin Morales’ mother’s garage.”

  “Joaquin Morales?” Joanna repeated. “The guy the Pima prosecutor cut a deal with?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “What’s Hank Lazier going to do about that?” Joanna asked.

  “Beats me,” Ernie replied. “That’s his problem.”

  “Is that all?” Joanna asked.

  “Not quite. I just talked to Doc Winfield about Clete Rogers’ autopsy. According to the doc, Clete put up quite a fight. He’s got flesh and fiber scrapings from under Clete’s fingernails. That means that if we ever find the guy, we may not have any fingerprints, but we should have DNA.”

  “That’s good news, Ernie,” Joanna told him. “As far as it goes. Now what?”

  “Jaime and I are about to head over to Tombstone to meet up with Adam York’s guys from DEA. I just heard Frank’s already there. You’re bringing Becker?”

  “That’s right. He’s still up at the hotel. The funeral starts at two. I told him I’d pick him up around one.”

  “All right,” Ernie said. “See you there. I hope this works.”

  So do I, Joanna thought.

  A few minutes later, when Joanna’s private line rang, she wasn’t at all surprised to hear Butch on the phone.

  “Am I forgiven about last night?” he asked.

  “Pretty much,” Joanna conceded.

  “Lunch, then?”

  Joanna had planned to tell Butch about Junior right away and ask if he’d mind keeping his charge a little longer. On second thought that request seemed like something best discussed in person.

  “As long as it’s soon,” Joanna said. “I’m famished.”

  They met at Daisy’s. “Beautiful pair of shiners,” Daisy announced as Joanna slid into the booth where Butch was already seated.

  “Thanks,” Joanna said. “I forgot and left my sunglasses in the car. From now on, I’m keeping them in my purse. For the next few days, I’m going to be wearing them inside and outside both. Now, what’s for lunch?”

  “Fresh Welsh pasties today,” Daisy replied. “Just out of the oven ten minutes ago. Big, though. I’d think about splitting one if I were you.”

  “Good idea,” Joanna said. “Sold.”

  Butch grinned as Daisy reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a one-dollar bill which she slapped down on the table in front of him.

  “What’s that all about?” Joanna asked.

  “I told her that’s what you’d say,” Butch said. “And she bet you wouldn’t.”

  Daisy, after writing down their order, stuck her pencil back into her beehive hairdo and picked up their menus. “If I were you, honey,” she advised Joanna, “I’d try not to be so predictable. If he already knows you this well and you’ve only been engaged for two days, think what’ll happen after you’ve been married twenty years. It’s better to keep ’em guessing.”

  “I’ll see what I can do about that,” Joanna said.

  “And where’s Junior today?” Daisy continued. “I didn’t see him at all yesterday. Isn’t he about due for another chocolate shake? Have you done anything about finding his people yet?”

  “We’ve found them all right,” Joanna said. “Butch here is the one who located his mother in a nursing home in Rapid City, South Dakota. I just talked to her attorney a little while ago. The news isn’t good.”

  There were other noontime customers coming into the restaurant, but Daisy Maxwell didn’t leave Joanna and Butch’s booth until she had heard the whole story. “Don’t that just beat all,” she said, shaking her head. “Some people are such low-down worms they don’t hardly deserve to live!” With that, an irate Daisy stalked off to the kitchen.

  “So do you mind?” Joanna said to Butch after Daisy left.

  “Mind what, keeping Junior a few days longer?” Butch asked. “No. Not at all. I suppose we could think about offering to take him permanently. I mean, if the only other alternative is to put him into a home…”

  Butch’s voice trailed off. Joanna heard the plaintive tone in his voice and knew they were in real danger. Neither one of them could resist a needy stray, human or otherwise. But Joanna was living a life that was already filled to capacity.

  She shook her head. “No,” she said firmly. “Absolutely not. Our world is complicated enough already. Besides, we’re not even married.”

  “That could be fixed,” Butch suggested with a grin.

  “No,” Joanna said. “We’re not going to bring that up. Period.”

  They ate lunch. “So what’s going to happen then?” Daisy asked, as they stood in front of the cash register after lunch, paying their bill. “Is Junior going to end up being put in a home somewhere?”

  “That’s how it looks,” Joanna said, avoiding Butch’s eye. “According to Drew Gunderson, there’s no other alternative.”

  Daisy shook her head. “That’s what I call criminal,” she said. “Plain and simple.”

  Butch reached for the door and held it open. Before Joanna had a chance to step outside, Marliss Shackleford walked in, followed by none other than Dick Voland.

  “Why, Sheriff Brady,” Marliss said brightly. “Imagine running into you this way! Whatever happened to your face?”

  “I ran into a door,” Joanna said. Nodding curtly in Dick’s direction, she and Butch stepped outside, where Dick’s old Bronco was parked next to the door.

  “What the hell is that all about?”

  “I don’t know,” Joanna said. “If those two have their heads together, you can bet it isn’t good. Right this minute, though, I don’t have time to think about it. I need to get uptown and pick up Jonathan Becker.”

  Butch leaned inside the car window and gave Joanna a peck on the cheek. “You’ll be careful?”

  “I’ll be careful,” Joanna said, “as long as you promise to stay home where you belong.”

  “In other words, I’m not quite forgiven.”

  Joanna smiled. “Close,” she said, “but not completely.”

  The death of the mayor’s mother, followed days later by that of the mayor himself, was more excitement than Tombstone had seen since the gunfight at O.K. Corral. The street outside Tombstone’s Episcopal Church—billed as the oldest Protestant church in Arizona still operating in its original location—was filled to capacity, with excess mourners spilling out onto the street where people from Garrity’s Funeral Home were busy erecting a bank of temporary speakers.

  Adam York and Butch both had suggested that someone besides Joanna escort Jonathan Becker to the funeral, but she had insisted otherwise. This had been her harebrained idea, and now she was going to see it through to its inevitable c
onclusion.

  With Joanna holding tightly to Jonathan Becker’s arm, the two of them were escorted down the aisle. She heard a few whispers as they passed—noticed a few discreet coughs and knowing nods—but nothing out of the ordinary. With each wary step, Joanna glanced from side to side, trying to sort out who was who. Adam York himself stood by the guest book, but if his men were there, they blended in with the locals well enough to be completely invisible. That also went for the killers. If they were there in what was fast becoming an overheated oven of a sanctuary, they too had melted invisibly into the congregation.

  The front two pews of the crowded church had been reserved for family members, but when Joanna and Jonathan Becker arrived, only one person was seated there—Alice Rogers’ sister, Jessie. As soon as she caught sight of Jonathan Becker, she reached out one gnarled hand to him, beaming as she did so.

  “I’m so glad you came,” she said. “People have been saying such awful things, but I knew you cared too much to let Ali down.”

  “Where’s Susan?” Joanna asked, sliding into the pew beside Jessie.

  “She isn’t coming,” the old woman answered. “She’s up in Tucson, staying at the hospital with Ross. If he did even half the things they’re saying he did, I can’t see how she could tolerate being in the same county with the man. I wouldn’t waste another breath on him, but then Susan’s always been different. And I can see how even Susan might not have nerve enough to show up here in town and face people. I doubt I could.”

  The funeral had been scheduled to start at two, but it was actually two fifteen before the ushers finished moving people around and cramming rows of extra chairs up and down the side and middle aisles. Once the service finally started, it seemed to take forever. Joanna kept sitting there, waiting for something to happen, and nothing did. It was almost an hour and a half before Alice Rogers’ friends and neighbors finished eulogizing her. By then, Joanna was convinced she had been completely wrong. No one was going to come looking for Jonathan Becker. The Kevlar vest she had lent him was probably completely unnecessary.