“Put him through, then,” Joanna told her. “Good morning, Mr. Hardy. What can I do for you?”
“It’s about Irma. She just left.”
“Left from where?” Joanna demanded.
“From here, from Quartzite East,” Hardy said. “Tommy and I had a big argument about whether or not we should call you. He said we ought to mind our own business, but I told him, ‘No way. I’m calling.’ ”
Joanna switched her phone to speaker. “What exactly happened?”
“Irma must have shown up late last night, after we were asleep. When we woke up this morning, there was a strange car—a big blue Dodge pickup—parked next to her RV. I went over to check, because I was afraid whoever was there was someone who wasn’t supposed to be. I knocked, and Irma herself came to the door. After what you told us about her son, I was really relieved to see her. She told us that the pickup belongs to her son, but that didn’t exactly set my mind at ease, especially since Irma’s been hurt.”
“Hurt?” Joanna asked. “How so?”
“She’s got a gash on her hand. It’s bad enough that it probably should have had stitches. I told her it looked infected to me and suggested she see a doctor. She said she’s been putting Neosporin on it, and she’s sure it’ll be just fine. She told me she’d had an accident in her Nissan and that was how she hurt her hand. Anyway, she said the car was totaled and that Rob, her son, had lent her his pickup. She also said that she’s decided to sell the RV. She’s found an RV dealer—in Tucson, I think—who’s willing to pay her for it in cash rather than selling it on consignment. With that kind of hurried sale, she’s probably being taken to the cleaners over it, but it’s not my place to say. Anyway, she asked Tommy and me to help hitch up the pickup to the back of the RV and off she went.”
“How long ago?” Joanna asked.
“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Just long enough for Tommy and me to get into a pissing match over it. Like I said, she came sneaking back into the park late last night, after we had gone to bed. We didn’t even know she was here until this morning. Since neither Tommy nor I actually set foot inside Irma’s RV, I’m thinking it’s possible that her son may be in there—that she drove it out of the park herself so we wouldn’t see her son and know that she was hiding him.”
“Irma Sorenson’s son isn’t in her RV,” Joanna said. “He’s dead.”
“Dead!” Brent exclaimed. “How did that happen?”
“The incident is currently under investigation. Now, Mr. Hardy, thank you so much for calling, but if you’ll excuse me, I have some other matters to attend to. If Irma Sorenson should happen to return, please call us immediately. Dial 911 and have the operator locate me.”
“You sound as though you think she’s dangerous,” Brent Hardy said hesitantly.
“I suspect she is,” Joanna returned. “Possibly to herself more than anyone else, but I don’t think you and Mr. Lowrey should take any more chances.”
“We won’t.”
“I’ll go get a car,” Frank said as Joanna ended the call.
Joanna nodded and dialed Dispatch. “Larry,” she said. “The subject of our APB, Irma Sorenson, is believed to be heading west on I-10. She left Bowie about twenty minutes to half an hour ago, driving a bronze-and-black Marathon motor home and towing a blue ’97 Dodge Ram pickup. I want her pulled over and stopped in as deserted a place as possible. Not in town, and not, for God’s sake, at one of the rest areas. Maybe it would be a good idea to put down some spike strips on that long grade coming up from the San Pedro River in Benson. It’s a long way out of town, so there shouldn’t be lots of people around. She’ll already have lost speed by then, and it’s less likely she’ll lose control when the tires go.”
“Got it,” Larry Kendrick said.
“This woman is armed and dangerous,” Joanna continued. “As soon as she’s spotted, I want you to set up roadblocks and stop all westbound traffic immediately behind her. Eastbound freeway traffic coming into Cochise County should be stopped at J-6 Road. Frank and I are on our way. Once you alert all units, get back to us. We’ll try to deploy manpower in a way that blocks off as many freeway exits and entrances as possible. The fewer innocent people we have caught up in this action, the better.”
By the time Joanna put down the phone and grabbed her purse, Frank Montoya was parked beside her private entrance with his Crown Victoria’s engine fired up and running.
“Did you tell Kristin we’re leaving?” Frank asked as he wheeled away from the door and through the parking lot.
“I didn’t have time.” As soon as she was settled in with her seat belt fastened, Frank handed her an atlas. After opening it to the proper page, Joanna unclipped the radio. “Okay, Larry. Where do we stand?”
“I’ve notified DPS and let them know what’s happening. They’re sending units as well. Currently I’ve got a long-haul trucker named Molly who says the subject just passed her at Exit 344,” Larry returned. “Molly is convoying with another trucker. They’re going to turn on their hazard lights and stop on the freeway. That should bottle up all the traffic behind them, and it takes care of the westbound roadblock. If I can find someone else to do the same thing at J-6 Road, our people will all be free to deal with the stop itself. City of Benson is closing all exits and entrances to the freeway there. The chief of police in Benson wants to know if we’re putting down the spike strips, or are they?”
“Do we have anyone on the scene yet?”
“Not so far,” Kendrick said. “Where are you and Chief Deputy Montoya?”
Joanna looked up and was amazed to see that they were already out on the broad, flat plain between the Mule Mountains and the hills leading into Tombstone. “Not quite halfway,” she told him.
“I tried Deputy Rojas from Pomerene. He’s up at Hooker Hot Springs investigating some dead livestock. It’ll take him a while to get back down from there. Matt Raymond and Tim Lindsey are on their way from Elfrida and Sierra Vista respectively. Tim should be there first.”
“Okay,” Joanna said. “Have Matt try to catch up with the subject from behind and keep her in visual contact. Put Matt and Tim in touch directly, so Tim can lay down the strips with just enough time to get back in his car and take cover. And then, in your spare time, call the Double Cs. Tell Detectives Carpenter and Carbajal that we need them both in Benson ASAP.”
Joanna settled back in the seat and listened to the squawking radio as Larry Kendrick relayed her orders to various officers. Meanwhile Frank’s Civvie flew through Tombstone and out onto the straight stretch of newly repaved highway between Tombstone and St. David.
“Sounds like you’ve got things under control,” Frank said.
Joanna shook her head. There were too many variables; too many jurisdictions and people involved; too much opportunity for ordinary citizens to be injured or killed. “We’ll see,” she said.
They were halfway between St. David and Benson when Larry Kendrick’s voice addressed her once again. “Sheriff Brady?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve got a problem. Deputy Raymond reports that the subject is pulling off on the shoulder just west of Exit 318.”
Joanna studied the map. “The Dragoon Exit?” she asked.
“That’s right.”
That meant Irma Sorenson was stopping far short of Tim Lindsey and his tire strips. “Why’s she stopping?” Joanna asked.
“Matt’s not sure. No, wait. He says a lone woman has stepped out of the vehicle and is walking back toward the rear. He says it looks like maybe she’s got a flat.”
Joanna took a deep breath. It could be a trap. Irma Sorenson might have noticed the sudden reduction in traffic volume traveling in both directions on the freeway. She might also have noticed the presence of a marked patrol car following her even though Deputy Raymond had been directed to keep his distance. There was no question in Joanna’s mind that Irma Sorenson was capable of murder. What were the chances that she was faking the flat for some reason? On the other hand, it
was possible that since the RV had been parked in one place for more than six months, it really did have a ruined tire.
“All right, Larry,” Joanna said, steadying her voice and trying not to think about Matt Raymond’s wife and the five-year-old twin girls who were the light of his life. “Here’s what I want you to do. Tell Matt to drive past the vehicle and see if he can tell if the woman is carrying any kind of weapon. If none is visible, have him put on his lights—the orange ones, not the red—and back up on the shoulder. Have him—”
“Deputy Raymond’s on the radio now,” Larry reported. “He says the subject is attempting to flag him down. He doesn’t see any weapon. I’ve directed Deputy Lindsey to leave his position in Benson and back up Deputy Raymond.”
Holding the radio mike clenched tightly in her white-knuckled fist, Joanna looked entreatingly at Frank Montoya. “Can’t you drive any faster than this?” she begged.
Frank merely shook his head. “Not if you want us to get there in one piece,” he said.
Now they heard Deputy Raymond’s static-distorted voice coming through the speaker, broadcasting into his shoulder-mounted radio. “Ma’am, is something the matter?” That transmission was followed by something garbled that Joanna was unable to decipher, followed by Raymond again, “Well, let me take a look.”
Holding her breath, Joanna gripped the microphone even harder and wondered why the hard plastic didn’t simply crumble to pieces in her hand. Suddenly she heard the sound of a scuffle. “Get down! Get down! Hands behind your back. Behind your back!”
Then, after what seemed an eternity, Joanna heard Deputy Raymond’s voice once more. “Got her.” He panted jubilantly. “Subject is secured. Repeat: Subject secure. She wasn’t carrying a weapon, and she really does have a flat. Lost the whole tread on her right rear tire. I just finished checking out the RV. It’s full of packing boxes, but there’s no one else inside.”
In the background of Deputy Raymond’s transmission Joanna heard the screeching of a siren announcing the arrival of Tim Lindsey’s patrol car. It was all under control and her officers were safe. Joanna’s voice shook with gratitude and relief when she spoke into the microphone again.
“Okay, Larry. Tell Deputy Raymond good work. Have him put the subject in the back of his patrol car and wait for Frank’s and my arrival. Under no circumstances is he to ask her anything until we arrive, understand?”
“Got it.”
“And tell our trucker friends who’ve been stopping traffic that they can let things start moving again. If possible, I’d like their names, company names, and addresses. I want to be able to write to their bosses and express my appreciation.”
“Will do.”
Joanna put down the microphone, leaned back in the seat, closed her eyes, and let out her breath.
“Way to go, Boss,” Frank said. “Running an operation like that by radio is a little like giving somebody a haircut over the phone, but you made it work. Congrats.”
A few minutes later, Frank turned the Crown Victoria onto I-10 east of Benson. With the emergency over, he had now slowed to the posted legal limit, and the Civvie dawdled along at a mere seventy-five. By the time they made a U-turn across the median, they could see that backed-up traffic from both sides of the freeway was now approaching the scene. Frank and Joanna’s Civvie was the third police vehicle in a clot of shoulder-parked vehicles lined up behind the massive RV.
As soon as Joanna stepped out of the car, she went straight to her two deputies. “Good job,” she told them.
Matt Raymond still seemed a little shaken by the experience. “It could have been a whole lot worse,” he said.
Joanna nodded. “I know,” she said. “Believe me, I know.”
“I haven’t talked to the woman much, but she’s begging us to change her tire and let her drive on into Tucson,” Matt Raymond said. “She claims she’s got a deal to sell the Marathon, but she has to deliver it to the dealer by one o’clock this afternoon. Otherwise, he rescinds his offer to buy.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Joanna said. “She’s under arrest for murder. She’s not in any position to be selling a motor home.”
“I tried to tell her that myself,” Matt said. “I don’t think she was listening.”
Joanna looked up as a speeding eighteen-wheeler blew past in a burst of hot air, followed by a long, unbroken line of other vehicles. “We need to get this mess off the road. It’s not safe for any of us. Is this thing drivable, or are we going to need a tow truck?” she asked, looking down at the mangled flat.
“All we have to do is change the tire,” Matt Raymond replied.
Joanna walked over to the idling Bronco that was Matt Raymond’s marked patrol car. There Irma Sorenson, a white-haired unassuming lady with a pair of thick glasses perched on her nose, sat handcuffed in the backseat. She looked like somebody’s grandmother, not a cold-blooded killer.
“Mrs. Sorenson?” Joanna said. “I’m Sheriff Brady. Having all these vehicles parked on the shoulder of the freeway is causing a hazard. We need to move them. Would it be all right if one of my deputies changed that tire?”
“Please,” Irma said. “I don’t know where the jack and spare are. I’m sure they’re in one of those locked compartments. The keys are still in the ignition.”
“So you don’t mind if my officers enter your vehicle? We don’t have a search warrant.”
“You don’t need a search warrant,” Irma said. “I’m giving you permission to enter. If you need me to sign something, give it to me and I’ll sign. And if you’ll just let me take it on up to Tucson, I’ll tell you whatever you need to know. But I have to sell this thing, and I have to sell it today.”
“Because it contains evidence?” Joanna asked.
“No. Because I need the money. I’m going to need a lawyer.”
Joanna closed the car door and walked back to where her deputies stood waiting. “She says the keys are in the ignition. You have permission to get the keys and change the flat tire, but whatever you do, don’t touch anything else. You got that?”
Raymond and Lindsey nodded. Together they set about finding the keys, locating the jack and spare, and changing the tire.
“Frank, do you happen to have that miniature tape recorder of yours in your pocket?”
“Sure do, why?”
“Bring it,” Joanna said. “I want you to Mirandize Mrs. Sorenson. And I want that recorded as well.”
“You don’t think she’s going to confess, do you?”
“Yes, I do.” Feeling half-guilty about what she was about to do, Joanna led the way back to the car. “Mrs. Sorenson, you told me a minute ago that if we let you keep your appointment with the RV dealer in Tucson, that you would tell us everything we want to know. Is that true?”
Irma Sorenson nodded.
“We’ll have to record your answers.”
“That’s all right. It doesn’t matter.”
“This is my chief deputy, Frank Montoya. I’d like him to switch on his recorder and read you your rights.”
“Sure,” Irma said. “Go ahead.”
Frank and Joanna sat in the front seat of the Bronco. Irma remained in the back.
“So what happened?” Joanna asked, once the legal formalities had been handled.
“I killed him,” Irma said simply and without blinking. “I shot my son in the middle of the forehead.”
“Why?”
“Because he was going to kill me,” Irma replied. “I know he was. I knew too much about what he had done. He just didn’t know I had the gun.”
“What gun?” Joanna asked sharply. “Where did you get it?”
“From the car,” Irma said. “From that blue Lincoln Rob had me drive to the airport for him. I knew something dead had been in that car. I could smell it, and given Robby’s past . . .” Irma paused then and gulped to suppress a sob. “Given that, I knew what it had to be. I knew it had started all over again, with him doing what he used to do. The only thing I could think of was
to let someone know about the car.”
“But what about the gun?” Joanna prodded.
“That’s what I’m telling you. I knew I had to have a reason for someone to look at it—at the car, I mean. I couldn’t just call up and say, ‘Oh, by the way, I need someone to go check out a car that’s sitting in the lot at Tucson International because I think maybe someone’s been killed in it.’ No, if an old lady calls in and says that, they’ll probably think she’s a complete wacko and pay no attention. But I thought if I said, ‘Hey, there’s a car at the airport with blood on it. Somebody needs to go check it out,’ maybe they would. But for that I needed some real blood, so I cut my hand. And it was when I was looking around on the floor of the car for something to use to cut my hand with that I found the gun. It must have belonged to the person Robby killed, the one whose car it was. Anyway, I found the gun on the floor along with an old Bible that was full of hundred-dollar bills. I put them both in my purse. I know it was wrong to take the money. It didn’t belong to me, and I should have left it where it was. But I took the gun just in case I needed it, you see. When you’re dealing with someone like Robby—someone that unpredictable—you just never can tell.”
“And where is it right now?”
“The gun? It’s still in my purse,” Irma said. “Inside the RV.”
“Getting back to your son,” Joanna said. “You’re saying you wanted him to be caught?” Irma nodded. “Then why didn’t you go ahead and call the Tucson Police Department? You could have turned him in right then instead of going through the ruse of making a phony phone call and pretending to be someone you weren’t.”
“He was my son,” Irma said as though that explained everything. “I couldn’t just turn him in. My heart wouldn’t let me do that.”
“But if you shot him, your heart evidently let you kill him.”
“That was self-defense,” Irma declared.
“You mean Rob Whipple had a weapon, too? He was holding a knife on you or a gun?”
“No. But he was going to kill me all the same. I knew too much. I had driven that car to the airport for him, and I had spent two days cleaning up the blood that was spattered all over that filthy cabin of his. I pretended to believe him when he told me he had hit a deer with his pickup and killed it. He claimed he had cleaned it inside the cabin so the forest rangers wouldn’t see it and nail him for hunting out of season. That’s the thing that really galls me. That he thought I was that stupid. But I knew it was no deer that had died there—it was a woman. It had to be.”
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