He looked at it and frowned. “Do you think something’s happened to her or not?” he asked.
That was precisely what Joanna was thinking—that something terrible had happened to Irma Sorenson—but she didn’t want to say so. “Not necessarily,” she hedged, but Brent Hardy wasn’t so easily put off.
“When you first got here, you said Irma’s phone call was placed right after a 911 call. What was that all about?”
“There was a call to Tucson’s emergency communications center about a bloodied vehicle found at Tucson International Airport. That vehicle, a Lincoln Town Car, belonged to a woman named Connie Haskell, who was found murdered in Apache Pass last Friday night.”
“What color Lincoln Town Car?” Tom Lowrey asked suddenly. “And what year?”
“A 1994,” Frank Montoya answered before Joanna had a chance to. “A dark metallic blue.”
“I saw that car,” Tom Lowrey said. “Or at least one like it. I never noticed when it drove up. All I know is there was a dark blue Lincoln Town Car parked right behind Irma’s Nissan early Saturday morning when I headed into Tucson to get groceries. I didn’t think all that much about it. I saw it and figured Irma must have been entertaining overnight guests. When I came back home around noon, it was gone, of course. So was the Nissan.”
“Are you saying Irma Sorenson is somehow mixed up in this murder thing?” Brent asked. “That’s ridiculous. Preposterous.”
The pieces were tumbling into place in Joanna’s head. It didn’t seem at all preposterous to her. Irma Sorenson was mixed up in it all right, and so was her son. Had Rob Whipple been on guard when Connie Haskell tried to gain admittance to Pathway to Paradise to see her husband? Had that been Connie’s fatal mistake—speaking to the armed guard stationed in the shack outside the gates of Amos Parker’s treatment center?
“She may be involved,” Joanna said carefully after a momentary pause. “It’s also possible that she may be either an unwitting or an unwilling participant. The woman who called herself Alice Miller—the one who made that 911 call—obviously wanted the car to be found. From what Mr. Hardy has told us about his abortive conversation with Irma a few minutes later, I believe she may have been interrupted and wasn’t able to finish saying whatever it was she had intended to say when she called here.”
“So she’s most likely in danger,” Tom Lowrey concluded.
If she’s not already dead, Joanna thought. “Possibly,” Joanna said with a sigh.
“Is there anything we can do to help?” Brent asked.
“You’ve already helped more than you know,” Joanna told them. “Whether Connie Haskell’s killer turns out to be Irma’s son or someone else altogether, there’s obviously some connection between your Irma Sorenson and the dead woman’s car. So if you hear anything from her or her son or if she turns up, please call us immediately. I don’t suppose I need to add that these people should be considered dangerous. Whatever you do, make no attempt to detain either of them on your own.”
The two men nodded in unison as Joanna left the porch and followed Frank Montoya out to the car. He headed for the driver’s seat, but Joanna stopped him. “I’ll drive,” she said. “You run the mobile communications equipment.”
For months, and in spite of unstinting derision from his fellow officers, Frank Montoya had tinkered with his Crown Victoria, taking it beyond the normal patrol-car computing technology and adding additional state-of-the-art equipment whenever the opportunity presented itself. The chief deputy’s Civvie now boasted a complete mobile office with the latest in wireless Internet and fax connections powered by the department’s newest and most expensive laptop. And the investment of both time and money had paid off. In the last several months, Frank Montoya’s high-tech wizardry had saved the day on more than one occasion. Around the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department, joking references to Frank’s “electronic baby” had been replaced by grudging admiration.
“To do what?” Frank asked.
Joanna got behind the wheel and held out her hand for Frank to pass the keys. “Do you have a cell phone signal?” she asked.
“I get it. You want me to run Rob Whipple’s name through the NCIC database? What makes you think he’ll be there?”
“It’s a long shot, but Doc Winfield says our guy wasn’t a first-timer. I’m thinking maybe he’s been caught before.” With that, Joanna shifted the Crown Victoria into gear and backed out of the parking place.
“And where are we going in the meantime?” Frank asked as he picked up the laptop and turned it on.
“Paradise,” she returned. “We’re going to pay a call on our friend Mr. Rob Whipple. You did get his driver’s license info, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And his address.”
“That too, but do you think going to see him is such a good idea?” Frank asked. “After all, we don’t really have probable cause to arrest the man, and we sure as hell don’t have a search warrant.”
“We’re not going to arrest him,” Joanna returned. “If he’s our man, he may already have taken off for parts unknown. Or, if he is the killer and he’s still hanging around, showing up for work, and acting as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened, he may be thinking he’s getting away clean. All I want to do is shake him up a little. Put the fear of God in him. Give him a shove in the right direction and see if we can get him to give himself away.”
Frank shook his head. “I still don’t like it,” he said. “How about calling Jaime and Ernie and letting them know what’s up? They ought to be in on this, you know, Joanna. You and I shouldn’t be off doing this all by ourselves.”
“Jaime and Ernie are in Tucson,” she reminded him. “You can call them, but we’re here—a good hour and a half earlier than they can be. We’re going anyway.”
“But why the big hurry?”
“Because I happen to agree with Mr. Hardy back there. He thinks Irma Sorenson is in danger, and so do I, and I’d a whole lot rather look stupid than hang around doing nothing but wringing my hands until it’s too late.”
Joanna paused uncertainly at the entrance to Quartzite East. “Which way’s faster?” she asked. “Right or left?”
“From here, I’d say down the New Mexico side,” Frank told her.
Joanna nodded. “Time for a little mutual aid,” she said, switching on the flashing light. “Before you start dialing up that database, you’d better call somebody over in New Mexico and let them know we’re coming through.”
15
With the Civvie’s warning lights flashing, Joanna tore east on I-10 and across the state line into New Mexico. By then Frank had alerted the Hidalgo County Sheriff’s Department and let them know what was happening. Once off the interstate and onto an almost deserted Highway 80, Joanna shoved the gas pedal down and let the speedometer hover around ninety.
“Damn,” Frank muttered finally.
“What’s the matter?”
“I finally managed to dial into the NCIC database, but now I’ve lost the signal. That’s the problem out here in the sticks. Cell-site coverage is still too spotty. I’ll have to try again when we get a stronger signal.”
“You could always radio in and have Dispatch run it,” Joanna suggested.
Frank was quiet for a moment but reluctant to give up. “I’ll wait for a better signal,” he said.
Joanna understood completely. He didn’t want someone else to run the computer check any more than she had been eager to call Ernie and Jaime in to contact Rob Whipple.
“What’s the plan in the meantime?” Frank asked.
“We’ll go straight to Pathway,” Joanna said. “Whipple may be there, but I’m guessing he’s taken off. Mostly, I want to talk to Caroline and Amos Parker. I want to know how long Rob Whipple has worked for them and where he came from before that. What’s his address again?”
Frank consulted his notes. “Box 78, San Simon/Paradise Star Route, Paradise, Arizona.”
“Get on the radio to Dispat
ch about that, then. Have them give us an exact location on that address, complete with detailed directions,” Joanna said. “When it’s time to go there, I don’t want to be fumbling around in the dark getting lost. And while you’re at it,” she added, “find out where Ernie and Jaime are. If they’re not on their way, see if there are any other available units who could back us up on this. Better safe than sorry.”
Nodding, Frank picked up the radio microphone. Meanwhile, Joanna drove on with the heightened sense of awareness left behind by all the extra energy flooding her body. The arch of sky overhead took on a deeper shade of blue while the steep green flanks of the Chiricahua Mountains stood out against the sky with a three-dimensional clarity that mimicked one of her old View Master photos.
In her time as sheriff, Joanna Brady had seen enough action to understand what was happening to both her body and her senses. They were gearing up for whatever was to come, switching into a state of preparedness—a sustained red alert. Although Joanna welcomed the sudden burst of energy, she also recognized how long periods of that kind of tension could sometimes backfire. That was how endorphin-fueled hot pursuits sometimes exploded into incidents of police violence. In hopes of holding herself in check, she deliberately slowed the Civvie and switched off both siren and lights.
On the passenger side of the car, Frank had relented, swallowed his high-tech pride, and asked Dispatch to check on Rob Whipple’s criminal past. Now he was busily jotting down directions to Whipple’s house located off San Simon/Paradise Road. When the Crown Victoria slowed for no apparent reason, he glanced in Joanna’s direction and nodded approvingly.
“Ask Larry what else is happening,” Joanna said.
Frank relayed the question. “There’s been another carjacking,” Larry Kendrick answered over the radio speaker.
“Where?” Joanna demanded. This time no relay was necessary because she had wrenched the radio microphone out of Frank’s hand and was using it herself.
“The rest area in Texas Canyon.”
“When did it happen, and was anybody hurt?”
“About forty minutes ago,” Kendrick replied. “No one was hurt, but it sounds like the perpetrator was the same guy who did the old guy from El Paso last week. This time it was a couple from Alabama. The husband went in to use the rest room, leaving his wife sitting in the car with both the motor and the air-conditioning running. A guy came running up, opened the door, pulled her out, and threw her on the ground. Then he jumped in and drove off. She had a couple of bruises and abrasions, but that’s about it. Her husband’s upset about losing the car. She’s upset about losing her purse.”
“Okay,” Joanna said, shaking her head. “That’s it. I’m tired of nickel-and-diming around with this thing. We’re going to put a stop to it once and for all! Get hold of Debbie Howell and one of the other younger deputies. I know: team her up with Terry Gregovich and Spike. Have them dress in plain clothes and drive one of the late-model cars we have locked up in the impound yard. I want them to cruise the freeway and stop at every damn rest area for the remainder of their shifts today. In fact, I want them to do the same thing every day until I tell them otherwise. And if they feel like working longer than that, tell them overtime is authorized—as much as they can handle. Have Debbie stay in the car with Spike while Terry uses the phone or the rest room or whatever. If somebody tries to pull a carjacking then, he’ll be in for a rude surprise when a trained police dog comes roaring out of the backseat.”
By then the Civvie had reached the turnoff to Portal. Needing both hands to keep the speeding Crown Victoria on the washboarded surface of the road, Joanna relinquished the microphone to Frank.
“Sounds like a plan,” he said mildly, even though Joanna knew that when it came time to cut checks for the next pay period, Frank would be griping about having to pay the extra overtime. “You still haven’t heard anything from Detectives Carpenter and Carbajal?” Frank asked into the radio.
“I have now. They’re just leaving Tucson on their way to Sierra Vista,” Larry Kendrick replied. “Anything you want me to tell them, or would you like me to patch you through?”
Frank glanced questioningly in Joanna’s direction. “Tell them to go on to Sierra Vista as planned,” Joanna said. “See who else can work backup for us.”
After doing so, Frank put the mike back into its clip. “It could be days, you know,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“If the carjacker got away with a vehicle today, it could be days before he comes back looking for another one. How much overtime are you planning on paying?”
“As much as it takes,” Joanna answered grimly.
It was only four-thirty in the afternoon, but as they drove toward Portal, the sun slid behind the mountains, sending the eastern side of the Chiricahuas into a shadowy, premature version of dusk. Fifteen minutes later Joanna drove up to the guard shack at Pathway to Paradise. With her shoulders aching from suppressed tension, she waited to see if Rob Whipple would emerge from the shack. She was disappointed when a young, buck-toothed man in his early thirties approached the Crown Victoria instead. His name tag identified him as Andrew Simms and his cheerful, easygoing manner made him far less menacing than Rob Whipple had been.
“May I help you?” he asked, leaning down to peer in the window.
“I’m Sheriff Brady,” Joanna said, presenting her ID. “We’re here to see Caroline Parker.”
“If I could tell her what this is concerning—” Simms began spouting the party line, but Joanna cut him off.
“It concerns urgent police business,” she told him. “I’m not at liberty to disclose anything more.”
She expected an additional argument. Instead, without further objection, Andrew Simms retreated to the guard shack and returned with both the sign-in clipboard and a visitor’s pass for the windshield.
“Just fill this out, if you will,” he said. “Do you know the way, or do you want me to have someone come down to guide you up?”
“We know the way,” Joanna said.
A few minutes later, when the Crown Victoria entered the Pathway to Paradise compound, Caroline Parker was waiting for them on the front veranda.
“What is it now?” she demanded with a frown. “Ron Haskell’s gone, if that’s who you’re looking for.”
“We want to talk to you about Rob Whipple,” Joanna said.
Caroline’s face grew wary. “What about him?” she asked.
“When is he due to work again?” Joanna asked.
Caroline glanced at her watch. “He was supposed to work today, but he traded with Andrew Simms. They’re not permitted to do that without getting prior approval, but since the shift was covered . . .”
Joanna felt a hard knot of concern form in her gut. She was right. Rob Whipple had missed work. That meant there was a strong likelihood that he had also fled Joanna’s jurisdiction. “Do you know when he made those arrangements, the ones to cover his shift?” she asked.
Caroline Parker shook her head. “No,” she said. “I have no idea.”
“How long has Rob Whipple worked for you?” Joanna asked.
Caroline shrugged. “A long time. Five or six years. He came as a client to begin with. After he finished his course of treatment, he ended up hiring on to work here. He did grounds maintenance for a year or two. After that he transferred to security. He’s been doing that ever since.”
“What was he treated for?”
Caroline Parker smiled and shook her head. “Come on, Sheriff Brady. Don’t be naive. You know I won’t tell you that.”
“What about his mother?” Joanna asked. “Did you ever meet her? Her name’s Irma Sorenson.”
“Irma, oh yes,” Caroline Parker replied. “I believe I did meet her once, only her name was still Whipple back then. She came to Rob’s family-week program. Unless I’m mistaken, she’s also the one who paid for him to come here in the first place—as a client, that is.”
“You haven’t seen Irma Sorenson si
nce then?”
“No.”
“How many patients do you have here at Pathway to Paradise, Ms. Parker?”
“Clients, not patients,” she corrected. “And not more than thirty at a time. That’s when we’re running at full capacity.”
“Generally speaking, how long do they stay?” Joanna asked.
“Two months. Sometimes longer than that, depending on what’s needed and the kind of progress they’re making.”
“That means that, in the course of a year, you see several hundred different ‘clients’?”
“Yes. That’s true.”
“You said Rob Whipple was a patient—excuse me—a ‘client’ here five or six years ago, but you still remember exactly who paid for his course of treatment. Do you remember the details of every client’s bill-paying arrangements so clearly?”
Caroline Parker looked uncomfortable. “Well, no,” she admitted. “I don’t suppose I do.”
“And yet, after all this time, you still remember clearly that Irma Sorenson paid for Rob Whipple’s stay here. Why is that, Ms. Parker?”
“The circumstances were unusual, but I’m not at liberty to disclose what they were since that would be a breach of Mr. Whipple’s presumption of confidentiality.”
“What would you say if I told you that someone’s life was at stake?” Joanna asked.
“My answer would still have to be the same, Sheriff Brady,” Caroline answered primly. “We don’t do situational ethics here at Pathway to Paradise. Ethics are ethics.”
“And murder is murder,” Joanna returned. She swung back to her chief deputy. “Come on, Frank. Let’s go.”
But Caroline stopped them. “Wait a minute. Are you implying that Rob Whipple had something to do with the murder of Ron Haskell’s wife?”
“I didn’t say that; you did,” Joanna told her. “How come?”
Realizing her error, Caroline Parker shook her head. “I can’t say,” she declared.
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