by J. A. Jance
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When Mr. Ortega returned to the waiting room, he seemed to have regained control.
‘All right,” he said. “What next?”
“We’ll need to gather some more information, if you don’t mind,” Johnny Cruikshank said. “There’s a little coffee shop just around the corner. Maybe we could go there and talk.”
Esther’s Diner was a long, dingy place with a counter on one side and a string of booths on the other. At mid-afternoon on a Saturday, the place was virtually deserted.
Even so, Johnny led them to a booth in the far corner. With no peanut butter anywhere on the menu, Joanna settled on ordering a tuna sandwich. Johnny Cruikshank ordered key lime pie, while Randy Trotter and Diego Ortega had coffee.
“Please tell us about your sister,” Johnny urged Diego once their gum-chewing waitress had departed with her order pad.
Diego’s eyes dimmed with tears. “She was always such a cute little kid,” he said.
“She was what my mother called an afterthought-one of those babies that come along when women think their childbearing days are over. My brothers and I were all in high school or college when Carmen was born. My parents were good Catholics. They wanted to have a whole bunch of kids, but after I showed up, Mama had several miscarriages in a row. The doctor told her she’d never have another child, but he was wrong. When Mama was forty-two, along came Carmen.
“When she was born, things were different from the way they had been when the rest of us were little. For one thing, Dad was making good money by then. We older kids always had to make do with secondhand clothes and hand-me-downs. But then we were all boys, so that made a difference, too. Everything Carmen got was brand-new, from her crib to her clothing.
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“The truth is, I think my brothers and I all resented her a little -thought she was spoiled rotten. And she was, too, but it wasn’t her fault. Dad and Mama just worshiped her and wanted her to have the very best. Which is how Carmen ended up going to St.
Ambrose, a private Catholic school, while all the rest of us went to public schools.
One of the parish priests at St. Ambrose is the one who molested her.”
“But she didn’t tell the family about it right away,” Johnny Cruikshank put in.
“Of course not,” Diego agreed. “That’s not the way child abuse works. When it came time for Carmen to go to high school, Mama and Dad were ready to enroll her in another private high school, but she wasn’t having any of it. She wouldn’t go. In fact, she absolutely refused. About that same time, she stopped going to church, too. She wouldn’t attend mass or go to confession. It broke my mother’s heart. But Mama’s never been one to take something like that lying down. She insisted that they go to counseling.
That’s when she first learned that Carmen was … well… different.”
“You mean that she was a lesbian?” Johnny asked.
Diego nodded. “It’s also where Carmen first told our mother about what had happened to her all those years ago when she was in second grade. Mama was furious. She went to the bishop and found out that the priest had been transferred to another parish-one right here in New Mexico, I think.”
“Right,” Randy Trotter said. “It’s common knowledge that for a long time the Catholic Church used New Mexico as the dumping ground of choice for pedophile priests.”
“Sure enough, the priest was still up to his old tricks,” Diego Ortega continued.
“Mama hired a lawyer and took her case first to the bishop and then to the cardinal.
I think she would have
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gone all the way to Rome itself, except the Church settled. It was one of the early settlements, the ones that came complete with a nondisclosure agreement. In other words, they paid, but the terms of the deal kept all parties from revealing the amount of the settlement or even that a settlement existed.”
“Hush money,” Joanna murmured.
Diego nodded again. Their food order came then. Joanna’s tuna sandwich was surprisingly good, but she had to edge herself into the far corner of the booth to keep from smelling everyone else’s coffee.
“The settlement was large enough that it paid for Carmen’s education, with some left over, but Mama always said it wasn’t enough. She’s convinced the abuse Carmen suffered is what made her turn out the way she is. I don’t think that’s true, and neither does …” He paused and took a deep breath. “Neither did Carmen,” he corrected.
“She told me once that she always knew she was different. But Mama’s set in her ways, and none of us are about to try convincing her otherwise.”
Joanna nodded. “Good plan,” she said.
“So, anyway,” Diego continued, “when Fandango wanted to do a piece about the pedophile priest scandal, Carmen went knocking on their door and begged them to let her work on it. She had done some other freelance work for them prior to that. They hired her for the project and teamed her up with Pamela. Carmen told me that when she and Pam met, it was love at first sight for both of them.”
“Tell us about Pamela Davis,” Johnny Cruikshank urged. She had finished her key lime pie and was taking detailed notes.
“Her father, Herman Davis, was an executive for one of the big studios,” Diego Ortega said. “Herman died of a stroke years ago, but I understand he was one of the off-screen movers and
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shakers behind launching that first Star Trek series. Her mother, Monica Davis, is in her eighties now. In her heyday, before she married Herman, she made a decent living as a bit actress in B-movies.”
“Do you know how we can get in touch with her?”
Diego nodded. “She lives in an assisted-living facility in Burbank. It’s called Hidden Hills, and it’s exclusively for movie and television folk. I can get you the number if you want, but I’m not sure it’ll do you any good. She’s an Alzheimer’s patient, and she’s pretty well out of it. If you contact her, she probably won’t know who you’re talking about.”
“But the facility may have a list of other people-other relatives of Pam’s-who should be notified,” Johnny persisted. ‘And don’t worry about the number. I’m sure I can get it from directory assistance.”
“Did Ms. Leigh say what kind of a story Pam and your sister were working on here?”
Joanna asked. “Not more pedophile priests, I hope.”
“Bigamy,” Diego Ortega answered.
“Bigamy?” Johnny Cruikshank demanded.
“They spent the better part of two weeks up in northern Arizona, in both Page and Kingman. Ms. Leigh said they made several trips to a place called the Arizona Strip investigating a breakaway Mormon group called The Brethren. From what I understand, The Brethren practice bigamy quite openly.”
What Joanna Brady knew about the Arizona Strip came from Arizona Sheriffs’ Association meetings where Mojave County Sheriff Aubrey Drake had complained at length about trying to enforce the law-any kind of law-in the part of his jurisdiction that lay north of the Colorado River. Relatively inaccessible, it was a haven for people who had a penchant for wide
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open spaces and a lack of law enforcement oversight. It was an open secret that bigamy was practiced among some of the reclusive people living on ranches in and around some of the more remote communities.
“They’re not,” Johnny Cruikshank announced abruptly.
“Not what?” asked Sheriff Trotter, looking at his detective with a puzzled frown.
“The bigamists aren’t real Mormons any more than the 9/11 terrorists are real Muslims.
They’re jerks who’ve decided to use religion to justify any kind of outrageous behavior.”
Not even the dim lighting of Esther’s Diner concealed the two angry red splotches that had suddenly appeared in Johnny Cruikshank’s tanned cheeks. So she’s a Mormon, Joanna realized.
Joanna turned her attention to Diego Ortega. “I’ve heard of The Brethren,” she said.
“Edith Mossman, Carol’s gra
ndmother, mentioned that her son Eddie, Carol’s father, belonged to a group by that name.”
Diego Ortega’s eyes hardened. “Have you talked to him yet?”
“No,” Joanna said. “We’ve been trying to contact him, but as far as I know, he’s still in Mexico.”
“If I were you, I’d do more than just contact him,” Ortega said.
“Why?”
“Because,” he replied, “Carol Leigh told me that Carmen and Pam made contact with a second group, one that calls itself God’s Angels. It’s made up of women who have escaped from bigamy situations. The whole purpose of God’s Angels is to help other women do the same thing-escape. Within two days of making contact with that group, Pam received a threatening e-mail that she forwarded to Candace Leigh at Fandango Productions.”
“Do you have any idea what it said?” Joanna asked.
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Diego reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I can do better than that,” he said. “I can show you. Look.”
He unfolded the paper and placed it on the table. The message was short: “Leave my daughters alone” was all it said. It was signed Edward Mossman.
‘At the time, no one at Fandango took it seriously, not even Carmen and Pam,” he said quietly. “Nobody believed it was a death threat. Unfortunately, now we know it was.”
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An hour later, when Joanna finally emerged from Esther’s, she found herself in the strange half-darkness of a full-fledged dust storm. The humidity had shot up, making the heat that much worse. Off to the south, but far closer now, thunder rumbled in unseen clouds. It was the oncoming storm that had finally brought the joint interview with Diego Ortega to a halt. He was hoping to take off and fly north far enough to escape the brunt of the wind and rain.
“Are you sure you want to head home in this?” Randy Trotter asked as he walked Joanna back to her Ciwie.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “Most of the culverts on Highway 80 have been replaced.
And usually there’s not that much runoff from the first summer storm.”
Famous last words. The rain hit just as she turned off I-10 onto Highway 80 at Road Forks. The wind-driven rain had so much dust mixed in with it that the water turned to blinding
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mud on her windshield. For the better part of an hour she crept along at twenty and thirty miles per hour. By the time she finally made it as far as Rodeo, the roadside ditches and dips were beginning to run. The storm let up for a while, then returned with renewed vigor about the time she hit the curves at Silver Creek. One after another, the newly replaced culverts were running with deep reddish-brown, foam-flecked water, spreading from one sandy bank to another. The place where the speeding Suburban had crashed off the road and landed upside down was totally underwater.
Joanna breathed a quick prayer of thanksgiving. If that accident had happened tonight rather than last night, she thought, those people would have drowned. It could have taken months just to find the bodies.
Once she was inside radio range she checked in with Dispatch. “How are things?”
“This is a major storm,” Tica replied. “Two cars washed away in the dips between Double Adobe and Elfrida. Everyone’s safe, but we still have units on the scene, including Chief Deputy Montoya.”
“I’m almost home,” Joanna told her. “Have Frank call me when he finishes up out there.”
It was still raining when she finally reached High Lonesome Ranch. Water more than a foot deep partially covered the road that led to their old house. If she had been going there, she would have had to abandon the car and walk. As it was, she was able to drive to the new house with no difficulty. When she finally pulled into the garage, the door from the laundry room opened and three dogs shot out, followed immediately by Butch.
“I’m really glad to see you,” he said. “I was worried. How was it?”
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“The drive was wet,” she told him as she divested herself of her weapons and locked them away. “But I’m glad I went. We’ve got a positive ID on the two New Mexico victims and a definite connection between them and Carol Mossman. How was your day?”
“I made real progress,” Butch replied. “I was sitting on the couch in the living room when the first clap of thunder rolled overhead. Lady was over under the dining room table, but as soon as she heard the thunder, she came streaking out of there and landed in my lap. She was so petrified, I ended up holding her for the better part of an hour.”
Joanna laughed. “Does that mean you and Lady are friends now?” She laughed.
Butch shook his head. “I think it means any port in a storm. The funny thing is, Lucky slept right through the worst of the thunder. Is it possible he’s deaf?”
“Deaf?”
Butch nodded. “He comes when he’s called, but that may be because he’s mimicking what the other dogs do.”
Joanna thought about it. “I wonder if that’s how he ended up being left behind at Carol Mossman’s house. Maybe when she called the other dogs, he wasn’t with them.”
Butch grinned. “As you said, lucky for him. But how do you go about training a deaf dog?”
“Sign language, maybe?” Joanna asked.
“Remind me to check with Dr. Ross and see what she says,” Butch said thoughtfully.
“Where’s Jen?”
“At Cassie’s, remember? I thought I told you that she’s staying the night. I called to make sure they were out of the pool as soon as the thunder and lightning started.
The big news of the
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day is that one of the girls from school is planning a slumber party that’s supposed to be the social event of the summer. Both Jenny and Cassie are hoping for invitations.”
“What about parental supervision?” Joanna asked.
“How about if we don’t worry about that just yet,” Butch advised. “First let’s see if Jenny’s invited or not.”
“Fair enough.”
“Hungry?” Butch asked.
“Not very. I had a tuna sandwich a while ago. Why? What’s for dinner?”
“Roast-beef hash,” Butch answered.
“In that case, the tuna sandwich was hours ago and I’m starved.”
“By the way,” Butch added, “Dr. Lee called today. Tommy said that his feelings are permanently hurt that he had to read all about your pregnancy in the Bee. He wants to know when you’re going to show up at his office for your first prenatal checkup.”
Dr. Thomas Lee, a Taiwanese immigrant, had come to Bis-bee right out of medical school.
He had planned to stay long enough to pay off his student loans. Ten years later, he was still there. Joanna had known him first as patient to doctor, but through his friendship with Jeff and Marianne Maculyea he had become friends with Joanna and Butch as well. Tommy Lee was also an exceptional cook who had set out to teach his group of new friends the fundamentals of Chinese cooking, which they were all still learning.
“What did you tell him?”
“That you’ll call for an appointment next week.”
“Fair enough.” Joanna went into the bedroom and slipped into shorts and a T-shirt.
More comfortable now, she returned to the kitchen. ‘Anything else?” she asked.
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“Nothing much. You remember we’re having dinner with Jim Bob and Eva Lou after church tomorrow?”
“Thanks for the reminder,” she said. “I had forgotten all about that.”
After dinner Joanna and Butch enjoyed a quiet evening together. Joanna Brady reveled in just watching TV, while several of Butch’s O-gauge trains chugged around and around the room on the shelf that had been built for them just over the tops of the windows and doors. Frank Montoya never called her, and for a change Joanna resisted calling him. If there was nothing that pressing demanding her attention, she was better off lying low. And tomorrow or the next day would be time e
nough to write up her reports and pass along to her investigators the information she had gleaned from her trip to New Mexico. The past few days had been hell for her department. She figured they all needed a bit of a break.
At nine-thirty, though, the phone rang. It was late enough that Joanna was tempted not to answer, but when she saw the call was coming from Jeannine Phillips of Animal Control, Joanna took it.
“What’s up?” she asked, worried that some of the AWE activists had decided to picket the Animal Control offices.
“How’s Blue Eyes?” Jeannine asked.
“You mean Lady?” Joanna returned. “Jenny renamed her, and she’s settling in fine.
She’s great with the other dogs, and she’s even starting to accept Butch.”
“Good,” Jeannine said awkwardly. “That’s good.”
There was a long pause. “Is that all you wanted?” Joanna asked. “To check on the dog?”
“Well, not really.”
“What then?”
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Jeannine took a deep breath. “I just wanted to thank you,” she said. “For what you said about us-about Animal Control. It was nice. When I saw it on the news, I felt like … well … like somebody had finally noticed what we’re doing here. And how.”
“You’re welcome, Jeannine,” Joanna said. “You are doing a good job.”
There was another strained pause. It seemed as though there was something else Jeannine Phillips wanted to say, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it.
“It’s about hoarders,” Jeannine said. “We used to call them collectors. Now we call them hoarders. What exactly do you know about them?”
Joanna gathered her thoughts. ‘As I understand it, it’s a kind of mental disorder, an obsessive-compulsive disorder that causes people-women, mostly-to gather animals in hopes of taking care of them, of protecting them. The disorder can be controlled with medication and it comes back without it.”
“But do you know what causes it?”
“No,” Joanna said. “Not really.”
“The women almost always have one thing in common,” Jeannine Phillips said.
“Really. What’s that?”
There was another long pause. “They almost always have a history of childhood sexual abuse.”