Shoot Don't Shoot

by J. A. Jance

  While Carol consulted with her sergeant, Joanna went over to the lobby bar and sat down. “What can I get you?” the bartender asked solicitously.

  “A glass of water, please,” Joanna said. “That’s all I want.”

  Carol came back. “I’ve told the sergeant where you are,” she said. “As soon as someone is ready to talk to you, he’ll send them here.”

  Joanna nodded. “Thanks,” she said.

  “Can you tell me anything Dysart said that might help us know where to look?”

  Joanna shook her head. “Just that if anything happened to him, the girls would die. As though he had rigged some kind of timer or maybe left them with someone else.”

  “Okay.” Carol nodded. “We’ll go to work.”

  She left then. Desolate, Joanna sat at the bar. Jim Bob stopped by when the officer finished questioning him. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Joanna nodded. “How about you?”

  “I’m all right. Eva Lou went up to lay down. She was feelin’ a trifle light-headed. As for me, I’m just all bent out of shape that I’m not as young as I used to be,” he said disconsolately. “If I’da been ten years younger, he wouldn’t of made it past me.”

  “It was a good try,” Joanna said. “It was a very good try.”

  “We’ll be up in the room,” Jim Bob said. “You let us know if you need anything.”

  “Right,” Joanna said.

  An hour and a half later, Joanna had finished giving her statement to both a Peoria police officer named Sergeant Rodriquez and a female FBI agent named LaDonna Bright. She was still sitting at the bar and still sipping her water when Butch Dixon sauntered into the room. Uninvited, he hoisted himself up on the stool beside her.

  “I heard,” he said. “When it comes to bad news, Peoria’s still a very small town.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Joanna asked. “Go away. Leave me alone.”

  “Wait a minute,” Butch said. “The last thing I knew, you and I were pals. You came into my place and had a drink. Now you’re treating me like I have a communicable disease.”

  “You are a communicable disease,” Joanna returned pointedly. “I don’t know what you had to do with all this, but—”

  “Me?” he asked. “What makes you think I had anything at all to do with anything?”

  “Larry Dysart walks in here, he takes my daughter God knows where, and then the next thing I know, he’s buying me a drink. ‘Diet Coke,’ he says. ‘The lady will have a diet Coke.’ Where would he have picked that up, if not from you?”

  “Sure he got it from me,” Butch Dixon said. “So what?”

  “Why were you talking to him about me?”

  “Damn Larry Dysart anyway. Why shouldn’t I talk about you?” Butch returned. “Pretty girl walks into my bar and walks right back out again with my heart on her sleeve. I’ve been doing what any red-blooded American male would do—bragging like crazy. Telling everybody who’ll hold still long enough to listen all about her. You think I put in private reserve drinks for everybody?” He sounded highly offended.

  Joanna looked at him as though she couldn’t quite decipher what he was saying. “You mean you were talking about me to him because you like me?”

  “What else?” Butch exploded. “What’s not to like? Now, are you going to tell me what’s happening with Jenny, or not?”

  And so she told him. In the middle of telling the story, the phone at the end of the bar rang. Joanna held her breath when the bartender said the call was for her.

  “Yes?” she said hopefully, when she heard Carol Strong’s voice.

  “Nothing so far,” Carol answered. “We’ve gone over the whole house. The dogs are out searching the yard right now. We haven’t found his car yet, but we’re looking.”

  Joanna took a deep breath and let the words soak in. “I’ve got to know, Carol. You told me on the phone that you had him. What did you mean?”

  “I talked to Serena’s attorney. I was reading over that thing Butch Dixon wrote for you, the part about Serena’s attorney swearing out a restraining order. Madeline Bellerman is a junior attorney for a very big-time firm here in Peoria—Howard, Howard and Rock. For the first time, I found myself asking how Serena Grijalva came to have such a gold-plated attorney representing her in the no-contact-order department. It’s Thanksgiving weekend, and I had to track Madeline down at a ski lodge in Lake Tahoe. Larry Dysart was a process server. He did some work for Madeline. He talked her into doing Serena’s restraining order on a pro bono basis. Turns out he also served divorce papers on Dean Norton.”

  Carol paused for breath. “I finally figured it out. He only targeted women for murder when he thought he could get away with it because—”

  “Because there was someone else to blame,” Joanna finished.

  “I’m sorry to say,” Carol Strong added, “he sucked me right in.”

  When Joanna put down the phone, Butch Dixon was anxiously watching her face. “Anything?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” she returned.

  Joanna resumed her seat on the stool. By then Butch had ordered her a diet Coke, which she accepted with good grace. With Jenny in danger, Joanna was surprised she could drink a soda or sit still or even talk. It was as though she existed—living and breathing—in a little vacuum of normalcy, one that Butch Dixon somehow helped make possible.

  When she came back from the telephone, he didn’t say anything for a long time. He seemed to be lost in thought. “While you were gone,” he said, “I was sitting here thinking. I just remembered something. Larry Dysart didn’t stop drinking booze until just a few months ago. And sometimes, when he used to be on the sauce, he’d get off on a big nonstop talking kick. One time he was telling me about what a crazy bastard old Tommy Tompkins was. I always figured that was the pot calling the kettle black.

  “But anyway, he was talking about this bomb shelter Tommy used to have. It was supposed to be a big secret, because when Armageddon came, Tommy didn’t want too many people knowing about it. I’ll bet it’s still there. You don’t suppose…”

  Joanna was already on her way to track down Sergeant Rodriquez. “Get hold of Detective Strong,” Joanna told him. “Tell her they’re looking in the wrong place.”

  Moments later, the phone rang at the end of the bar. Joanna answered it herself.

  “Where?” was Carol Strong’s one-word question.

  “Somewhere on the APOA campus,” Joanna answered. “My best guess is you’re looking for a bomb shelter.”

  26

  It was almost 8 P.M. when the Search and Rescue dogs picked up a trail that led to a manhole just off the railroad right-of-way. The manhole was labeled UTILITIES, with no specification as to what kind of utilities might be involved. Inside were conduit runs and circuit-breaker boxes—all of which proved to be dummies.

  The girls’ trail led down the ladder and through a concrete tunnel to what was, ostensibly, a dead end. Carol Strong had Butch Dixon and Joanna brought to the scene while a lock technician tried to solve the problem of how the trail the dogs had followed down the tunnel could pass through what appeared to be a solid concrete wall.

  “They’re in there,” Carol told an anxious Joanna once she was standing near the head of the line of people at the far end of the tunnel. “I don’t know if they’re both there, and I don’t know if they’re all right,” Carol continued. “All I do know for sure is that when we tap on the wall, somebody taps back.”

  Joanna felt her knees go weak with relief, but it was another half hour before the locksmith discovered the release mechanism. With a creaking groan, the seemingly massive wall slid aside, moving smoothly on well-oiled rollers. At once, seven separate flashlights probed the darkness beyond the opening.

  Jennifer Brady, wearing the same clothes she had worn that morning, stood illumined in the glow of lights, both hands on her hips. Blinking in the sudden glare, she tumbled out of the darkness with Ceci Grijalva right on her heels. Tears of joy course
d down Joanna’s face as she gathered both girls into her arms.

  After enduring her mother’s fierce hug for as long as she was willing, Jenny pushed away. “Mommy,” she said accusingly. “It was dark in there. What took you so long?”

  A jubilant Butch Dixon let out a yip that was a cross between a rodeo rider’s triumphant Yippee and a fairly respectable imitation of a coyote’s yip.

  “Who’s that?” Jenny asked, peering up at him. “And what happened to his hair?”

  “That’s Butch Dixon,” Joanna said. “He’s a friend of mine. It’s because of him that we found you as soon as we did. And as far as his hair is concerned, it all fell out because his grandmother gave him a permanent when he was a little boy.”

  Jenny’s eyes widened. “No! Is that true?”

  Butch Dixon grinned. “If your mother says so,” he told her, “then it must be.”

  Epilogue

  Butch Dixon hosted the celebration dinner that night. All the cops and FBI agents who could be corralled into doing so came to the Roundhouse Bar and Grill for freebie dinners, which included Caboose dishes of ice cream, peanuts, and chocolate syrup all the way around.

  The party lasted until well after midnight. The Duffys had long since taken Pablo and Ceci and headed for home. Joanna and the Bradys were about to do the same with Jenny when a drained Carol Strong limped into the restaurant carrying her signature high heels, one of which was sheared off under the sole. The lighting in the bar wasn’t the best, but even in its dim glow, Joanna was surprised by the haggard expression on the detective’s face.

  “What’s wrong?” Joanna asked when Carol sat down beside her. “You look awful.”

  “You would, too, if you’d just been through what I’ve been through.”

  “What?”

  “We discovered Larry Dysart had closed off all the air ducts to the bomb shelter,” Carol answered. “I don’t know exactly how long the girls would have lasted before they ran out of air, but it wouldn’t have been forever. It’s a good thing we found them when we did.”

  “Oh,” Joanna said. It was all she could manage.

  “And we found a jewelry box,” Carol continued. “A jewelry box that he evidently used as a trophy case. It had nine pairs of panties in it. Eight officially, because I didn’t catalog this one.”

  Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a pair of nylon panties and placed them in Joanna’s hands. “Mine?” Joanna asked without looking.

  Carol nodded. “You said it was part of a set your husband gave you. If I had listed them in the official evidence inventory, you never would have seen them again. Put them away fast before anybody else sees them,” Carol ordered. “That FBI agent, LaDonna Bright, and I are the only ones who know about them so far. I want to keep it that way.”

  Guiltily, Joanna shoved the panties into her blazer pocket. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “You’re welcome,” Carol Strong replied.

  They sat in silence for a moment watching and listening while Butch Dixon charmed a weary Jenny with an old shaggy-dog story that was nonetheless brand-new to her. She laughed delightedly at the punch line.

  “You said eight other pairs?” Joanna asked eventually.

  Carol nodded. “There’s an index of sorts taped to the bottom of the box,” she said quietly. “It contains names and dates. Matching codes have been inked into the labels of each pair of panties. I guess he must have been afraid the toll might one day go so high that he’d forget which panties belonged to which victim.”

  Joanna swallowed hard. “Eight. How could there be so many?”

  “Scary, isn’t it,” Carol said. “Number six was Serena Grijalva. Seven was Rhonda Weaver Norton. Leann Jessup is listed as number eight, except she didn’t die. Once we finish examining all the trace evidence, I’m pretty sure we’ll find that Dave Thompson didn’t commit suicide.”

  “Larry killed him, too? Why?”

  “I think so. This morning, before I went looking for Madeline Bellerman, I went by the hospital to see Leann Jessup. I ended up talking to her friend, Kimberly George.”

  “Her ex-lover, you mean.”

  “Current, not ex,” Carol returned. “Kimberly told me that after she saw you on the news with Leann, she realized she was wrong, that she wanted to get back together.”

  “When she saw the two of us?” Joanna echoed. “But I’m not—”

  “I know,” Carol said. “Don’t worry about it. I told Kimberly that this morning. But on Wednesday evening, Kim evidently stopped by Leann’s room on the APOA campus to see if they could patch things up. I don’t know how explicit their reconciliation was, but I think Larry Dysart saw what was happening. He saw one more chance to add to his collection, this time with a deceased Dave Thompson holding the bag.

  “I’d like to think that it wouldn’t have worked, that we would have been smarter than that. And I think Larry was beginning to fall apart. That’s what happens to guys like that. They convince themselves that they’re all-powerful and that the cops are too stupid to figure it out. They kill at shorter and shorter intervals until finally their fuses blow.”

  Another long silence fell between the two women. “Who were the others?” Joanna asked finally. “Were they all from around here?”

  Carol shook her head. “I believe we’ll find they’re from other parts of the country and that the murders took place over a number of years. Larry Dysart knocked around some, working pickup jobs here and there. We’re currently checking with other jurisdictions where he either lived or traveled. Only one other case—number five—for sure happened anywhere around here. When that victim died, her death was listed as natural causes. You’ll never guess who that one was.”

  “Who?” Joanna asked, wanting to know and yet feeling a sense of dread as she waited for Carol’s answer.

  “Emily Dysart Morgan,” she said. “Larry’s mother. She was an Alzheimer’s patient right here in Peoria. She disappeared from a nursing home during a rainstorm in the dead of summer four years ago. Everyone assumed she had died of natural causes and had been washed down the Agua Fria. Her body was never found. Until today.”

  “Today?”

  Carol Strong nodded, her mouth grim. “Today wasn’t the first time Larry used Tommy Tompkins’s vapor-barrier-wrapped bomb shelter. With Jenny and Ceci, it didn’t work, thank God, but with Larry’s mother, I’d say it did.”

  Butch Dixon came around the bar. “Are you off duty now?” he asked Carol Strong.

  “Yes.”

  “What can I get you to drink, then? It’s on the house.”

  “Whiskey,” Carol Strong said. “Jack Daniel’s straight up.”

  By Sunday afternoon, as the Bradys were packing up to go back to Bisbee, Joanna already knew that the remainder of her APOA session would be postponed until after the first of the year. “So why can’t you come home today?” Jenny insisted.

  “Because I need to pick up my stuff from the dorm,” Joanna answered. “And that won’t be available until tomorrow morning. Not only that, Dave Thompson’s funeral is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. I should go to that.”

  “All right,” Jenny said. “But I wish you were coming with us today.”

  “So do I,” Joanna said.

  The next morning, Joanna had to pack twice—first to check out of the hotel and next to leave the dorm. Even so, the process didn’t take long. After closing up her own APOA room, Joanna helped Lorelie Jessup pack up Leann’s things.

  “Will Leann be coming to the funeral this afternoon?” Joanna asked.

  Lorelie shook her head. “She wanted to, but the doctor says no. It’s still too early for her to leave the hospital.”

  “That’s probably just as well.”

  At noon, Joanna stood on the steps of the Maricopa County Courthouse, watching from among the crowd while a newly released Jorge Grijalva emerged with his children. As the television cameras rolled, Joanna tried to slip away, but Ceci had spotted her. She dragged the man she knew a
s her father over to where Joanna was standing.

  “Thank you,” Jorge said.

  “You’re welcome,” Joanna answered. “Will the kids be going back to Bisbee with you?”

  Jorge shook his head. “Not right now. They’re in school. They’ll stay with their other grandparents, at least until the end of the year. It’ll all work out.”

  “Yes,” Joanna said. “I’m sure it will.”

  Four hours later, Joanna was part of a large contingent of police officers, both in and out of uniform, who gathered respectfully in Glendale Memorial Park for Dave Thompson’s graveside funeral service. Listening to the minister’s laudatory eulogy, Joanna found herself wondering what the truth was about Dave Thompson. On the one hand, some of the cigarette stubs from the tunnel behind the mirrored walls were the same brand Dave Thompson smoked. But no one—Butch Dixon included—had ever seen Dave smoking inside.

  Had he been the one in the tunnel or not? If Larry Dysart had been smart enough to plant evidence in Jorge’s pickup, he might also have planted the incriminating cigarette stubs. But there was no way to know for sure. Not ever.

  Toward the end of the service, Joanna watched the mourners. There was an elderly couple—probably Dave’s parents—and then two children—a boy and a girl—who were evidently Dave’s kids.

  The program provided by the mortuary listed among Dave’s survivors his children, Irene Danielle and David James Thompson. The girl looked to be a year or so older than Jenny, while the boy was maybe a year or so older than that.

  The funeral was over and Joanna was almost ready to leave when she saw the boy standing off by himself. Despite the warm afternoon sunshine, he stood with his shoulders hunched as if to ward off the cold. He looked so lost and miserable that Joanna couldn’t walk past without speaking to him.

  “David?” she asked tentatively.