by J. A. Jance
“How long was Wanda there?” Joanna asked.
Some detectives might have objected to having Joanna join in the questioning process. Jaime Carbajal seemed to welcome it. It was clear to all of them that Lucinda’s own mental state was so fragile at that point that a womanly touch was a help rather than a hindrance.
“She lived there a little over two years,” Lucinda answered.
“And she was happy there?”
“Not at first, but she adjusted all right. Eventually. By the time Bill died, she was settled enough that bringing her back home would have required another huge adjustment. Besides, I needed to work all the hours I could.”
“And when she disappeared?” Joanna asked.
“That would be on Monday, the twenty-first of March. They called me at home at nine that morning. I was asleep because I had just come home from working a double shift at the Trucker’s Café in Eloy. Whoever called me said Wanda had been missing at her midnight bed check. They had reported her missing to Tucson PD right away—at twelve forty-five that morning. They said they didn’t call me until several hours later because they were hoping that maybe she’d just wandered off somewhere and that she’d turn back up.”
“But she didn’t.”
“No.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Saturday of that week. That’s when I always drove down to see her—on Saturdays. If it wasn’t too cold or too hot, I’d take her to visit the Reid Park Zoo. That’s really close by, and she loved going there. Or, if the weather didn’t cooperate, I’d take her to Park Mall or to a movie. She didn’t like movies all that much, though. She had a hard time sitting still long enough to watch them.”
“And was everything all right when you saw her that last time?” Joanna asked.
“She was upset. She said her friend had gone away. His name was Wayne, and she was sad that he was gone. Wanda didn’t have many friends, you see.”
“What happened to him?” Jaime asked. “Where did he go?”
Lucinda shrugged. “I asked, but I never found out. At first I thought that he might have had something to do with it—that wherever Wanda was, Wayne was there, too. But the people I talked to at the group home said they didn’t know anyone named Wayne—that Wanda must have made him up. That wasn’t true, though.”
“What do you mean, it wasn’t true?”
“Wanda had Down’s syndrome. People like that deal with the world in a very simple way—things are either black or white; real or not; yes or no. They don’t think in abstracts. They don’t imagine things. They don’t make things up.”
“So you think Wayne was a real person, then.”
“Yes, I do.”
“But the Flannigan Foundation wouldn’t provide you with any information about him?”
“They said they have a responsibility to protect patient privacy, but that no one named Wayne had been involved with Wanda’s particular group home. Ever.”
“And you just let it go at that?” Joanna asked.
For the first time Lucinda Mappin bristled. “What else could I do?” she demanded. “If I had gone to the police, what would I have told them? Without Wayne’s last name, they wouldn’t give me the time of day. And I couldn’t hire a private detective because I couldn’t afford one. I’m a waitress, Sheriff Brady. I work for minimum wages plus tips. If I ever get around to retiring, I’ll be living on whatever comes in from Social Security and that’s it. There was some life insurance that came to me when Bill died, but I ran through most of that just paying his final expenses. And I used the rest of it to pay Wanda’s way at the group home because by then she liked it there. Flannigan Foundation may be a charity, but the care they provide in their facilities isn’t free. Not even close.”
Having the woman’s whole financial situation laid bare in those few sentences left Joanna feeling as though she’d somehow overstepped. With a glance in Jaime’s direction, Joanna handed the process off to him.
“So, other than the fact that Wayne had disappeared, there was nothing else out of the ordinary in your daughter’s life in the days before she went missing?” Jaime asked.
“Nothing that I know of,” Lucinda said.
“And she didn’t mention having any kind of difficulties with her caregivers or with any of the other residents.”
“No, but then she wouldn’t have. Wanda was a sweet child,” Lucinda responded. “A sweet, loving person. She wasn’t the kind who would get mad at someone or carry a grudge. That didn’t make it easy to care for her, though. She would get into things she wasn’t supposed to occasionally. That meant she had to be looked after all the time—like a toddler almost. After she disappeared, one of my friends—someone who used to be a friend—said to me, ‘Well, Lucinda, maybe it’s all for the best.’ But it isn’t for the best. Wanda was my baby, and I loved her, and now she’s dead.”
With that Lucinda Mappin lowered her head onto her arms and then sobbed into them as though her heart was broken, and Joanna Brady had no doubt in the world that was true.
“I’m so sorry,” Joanna said to her again. “And I promise you that my people and I will do our best to see that whoever did this is brought to justice.”
Joanna looked around the room and saw both Jaime Carbajal and Dave Hollicker nodding in solemn assent. Joanna meant it, and so did they.
“Thank you,” Lucinda said, straightening up and wiping the tears from her face. “That’s the best I can hope for and the best Wanda can hope for—that you’ll find whoever did this and put him away.”
CHAPTER 7
TO JOANNA’S SURPRISE, WHEN THE INTERVIEW ENDED LUCINDA Mappin insisted that she wanted to view her daughter’s remains before heading back to Eloy. Joanna couldn’t help thinking that if skeletal remains were all that was left of Wanda, there wouldn’t be much for her mother to see.
“You may not be able to do that,” she warned instead. “Today is Sunday. There’s a good chance Dr. Winfield, our medical examiner, won’t be available.”
But Lucinda wasn’t easily dissuaded. “Would you mind checking?” she asked. “Please.”
Hoping George wouldn’t be there, Joanna picked up her phone and dialed his number. George answered on the second ring. “Have you heard from Ellie?” he asked.
“This isn’t about that,” Joanna said. “I have Wanda Mappin’s mother, Lucinda, with me. She drove down from Eloy this morning and would like to view her daughter’s remains before she goes home.”
“I’m not at all sure that’s wise,” George said. “There won’t be anything she’ll recognize, and the last thing I need is to have some hysterical woman—”
Although Joanna was inclined to agree with the medical examiner on this subject, it seemed only fair that Lucinda’s wishes should take precedence over theirs. “Ms. Mappin’s daughter has been missing for months,” Joanna interrupted. “She’s been apprised of the condition of Wanda’s remains, but she still wants to view them. It’s her choice.”
“All right, then,” George agreed reluctantly. “Tell her she’s welcome to stop by. That way I’ll be able to discuss whatever final arrangements she’ll want to make once I’m ready to release the remains. Will the mother be alone or with someone?”
“She’ll be accompanied by Detective Carbajal.”
“And about your mother—” George began.
“We’ll have to deal with that later,” Joanna interrupted. “For right now, let’s focus on Ms. Mappin.”
Once Jaime and Lucinda left the room, Joanna reached across the table and picked up Dave Hollicker’s evidence bag, the one with the heart-shaped locket in it.
“Fingerprints?” Joanna asked.
Dave shook his head. “Casey says not.”
Peering at the locket through the clear material, Joanna studied the diamond-studded monograms on either side. Using the tip of her finger, she began to count them.
“There are fifty altogether,” Dave said. “Originally there were fifty-two. Two of th
em must have come loose from their settings and gotten lost along the way.”
“But even with these tiny baguettes, that’s a lot of diamonds,” Joanna observed. “How much do you think the locket is worth?”
“The last time I priced diamonds was when Shannon and I were engaged and we were out shopping for her ring,” Dave said. “From what I saw back then, I can say with reasonable certainty that this little piece of jewelry is worth a lot of money—several thousand dollars at least.”
“Someone’s treasure, then,” Joanna said. “It looks old-fashioned and a little clunky—more like an heirloom rather than a piece that would be worn on a regular basis. So the question remains: Where did this come from and why did Wanda have it? Was it something she was wearing at the time of her death, or is it something that was thrown into the bags with her?”
“No way to tell,” Dave said.
“It’s pretty distinctive,” Joanna said, handing the bag over to Dave. “Maybe it was lost and Wanda found it somewhere—on the street or in a park. With her intellectual deficits, she might have picked it up because she thought it was pretty without having any idea about how valuable it was.”
“On the other hand, it could be stolen,” Dave said as he put the bag with the locket back in the evidence box. “It might even be on a stolen-property list somewhere, but I don’t know how we’d go about finding it. Since Wanda lived in Tucson, I can start with the property guys at Tucson PD, but I’m not sure if they maintain a computerized list. Without something like that to work from, we’re looking for a needle in a haystack.”
Joanna grinned at him. “But isn’t that why I pay you the big bucks—to look for needles in haystacks?”
Nodding, Dave took the box and went to return it to the evidence room. As Joanna started into her own office, the telephone was ringing. When Joanna answered, Lisa Howard, the weekend desk clerk from the public office in the outside lobby, was on the phone.
“Sheriff Brady,” she said, “I know you’re in right now, but since it’s Sunday, I didn’t know if you’re really in, if you know what I mean. There’s someone out here who’s asking to see you.”
“Who is it?”
“Says his name is Irwin Federer. He’s an attorney hired to represent one of the ‘sister’ inmates in the jail. He’s made a special trip down from Tucson, and he says that it’s urgent that he speak to you in person.”
“Which one of the Beasley girls are we talking about?” Joanna asked. “Sandra or Samantha?”
“Sandra,” Lisa replied. “Sandra Wolfe.”
“And he’s already stopped by to visit his client?”
“Evidently.”
“Is Tom Hadlock anywhere around?”
“Not as far as I know.”
In other words, Joanna was on her own on this one. “All right,” she said. “Can you bring him back to my office?”
“Sure thing.”
The man Lisa escorted to Joanna’s office a few minutes later was casually dressed in Dockers, a Boss golf shirt, and a pair of high-end loafers, no socks. He looked to be in his early forties. From the studied casualness of his hairstyle to his artificially whitened teeth, Irwin Federer appeared to be immensely impressed with himself. Joanna didn’t like him on sight. Nonetheless, she stood to greet him. Federer, however, didn’t seem inclined to be civil.
“Sheriff Brady,” he announced brusquely. “I’m here to protest your casual disregard of my client’s safety and well-being. Considering the fact that Samantha Edwards viciously attacked Sandra last night—a completely unprovoked attack, I might add—it’s entirely irresponsible for you and your department to have those two women locked in the same cell. It’s irresponsible, and totally uncalled for.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Joanna returned calmly. “Once Sandra Wolfe and Samantha Edwards were placed under arrest, I’m the one who determined where they’d be held. For as long as they’ve been here, the guards in charge of my jail facility have been monitoring the situation in that cell very carefully—the same way they monitor all the other cells, by the way. I can assure you there’s been no problem between the two women, none whatsoever, but if there had been, my people would have moved in to put a stop to it. Keeping the peace among prisoners is a major part of their job description.”
“There may have been no problem so far,” Irwin said ominously, “but that doesn’t mean there won’t be. And if something bad were to happen to Mrs. Wolfe as a result of your actions here—if Samantha Edwards were to harm Sandra in any fashion—I must warn you that there would be very serious consequences…very costly consequences.”
Joanna Brady, a woman with a flash-point temper that matched her bright red hair, had never reacted well to being patronized or threatened.
“You’re saying you’d sue me?” Joanna asked. “Let me be sure I have this straight. You would prefer that we keep your client locked up with inmates in the regular jail population—with my two accused female murderers, for example, or with several assorted drug dealers and DUI offenders—rather than being confined to a cell with her very own sister? I’d say we were being incredibly lenient with your client instead of the other way around.”
Federer remained unconvinced. “As I said, that ‘very own sister,’ as you call her, viciously attacked my client last night. When she did so, she was intent on inflicting serious bodily harm.”
“It turns out there was plenty of bodily harm to go around,” Joanna interjected. “Neither of the two sisters is what you could call blameless. I happen to have copies of their individual booking sheets right here, and I was reviewing them while I waited for you to come down the hall. Yes, two separate booking statements and the results of two separate Breathalyzer tests. As it turns out, at the time Samantha Wolfe and Sandra Edwards were busy breaking up housekeeping at the Branding Iron Restaurant dining room and bar, assaulting my officers, and resisting arrest, both of them were more than legally drunk. Now that they’re sober, I think it’s a lot less likely that they’ll do each other any additional bodily harm.”
“But you can’t guarantee that it won’t happen,” Federer asserted. “Besides, my client was simply defending herself. People in this state are allowed by law to do that—to protect themselves in the event of a physical attack.”
“So are my officers,” Joanna pointed out. “According to statements from my two deputies, when they arrived on the scene they were assaulted by both Samantha and Sandra. That’s what often happens in domestic-violence situations, Mr. Federer. Feuding family members stop fighting with one another and turn their ire on the officers who’ve been sent to intervene in their dispute. That’s why Ms. Wolfe and Ms. Edwards landed in jail—for assaulting my officers and for disturbing the peace. As for their being locked up together? If your client was assigned to a cell with one of my two accused murderers—one of them a long-term drug user—I couldn’t guarantee her safety in that instance, either.”
“So you’re not going to move her?”
“I’m not going to move either one of them,” Joanna replied. “The preliminary hearing is tomorrow, probably ten A.M. or so. I’d suggest you come back then and do what you can to bail your client out.”
“But, Sheriff Brady,” the attorney sputtered. “I really must protest—”
“You can protest all you want, Mr. Federer, but I don’t believe we have anything further to discuss,” Joanna said evenly. “Sandra Wolfe and Samantha Edwards aren’t media stars, and this isn’t Hollywood. In addition, I’m quite busy at the moment, so if you don’t mind, I’ll let you see yourself out.”
She gave the man enough time to get back down the hall to the lobby. Then she went over and slammed her door shut behind him. “Arrogant jerk,” she muttered under her breath.
Joanna didn’t like Federer and, by extension, she didn’t like his client, either. Lucinda Mappin, faced with the tragedy of her daughter’s murder, was responding to the crisis in her life with considerable dignity and grace. Dealing with a similar
ly tragic loss, Alfred and Martha Beasley’s bickering daughters came up short. Behaving like aging spoiled brats and caught up in their own selfishness, all they were capable of was broadcasting their decades-old feud far and wide. Joanna sat at her desk for a few moments, contemplating the vast difference.
I think Alfred and Martha deserve better, she told herself finally.
Picking up her phone, she dialed Lisa Howard’s extension. “I’ll be out of the office for a while,” she said. “I’m going over to the jail.”
Managing the jail and its attendant difficulties was a troublesome job all its own. Joanna’s first jail-related crisis had occurred less than a month into her tenure as sheriff, when the then cook, who had been skimming food and money to his own advantage, had decamped, taking the jail’s supply of Thanksgiving turkeys with him. Since then, Joanna had been doing what she could to improve conditions inside the county’s lockup facility. She had allowed the establishment of a jail ministry and had encouraged inmates to participate in GED classes. On one occasion, when the need had arisen, she had even used the jail as an emergency shelter for pit bull puppies rescued from a puppy mill. In the process Joanna had come to see the inmates as individual people rather than nameless prisoners—two of whom happened to be female and also accused murderers.
One of them had come home from work and found her philandering husband in bed with another woman. She had shot her husband dead on the spot and had chased his stark-naked lover out of the house. The other, a drug-dealing prostitute, had plugged her pimp in the course of an argument over money. Joanna had implied to Irwin Federer that Sandra Wolfe would be safer if kept apart from the two accused killers, but that had been more for effect than anything else. Joanna doubted either of those unfortunates posed an actual threat to anyone other than the two people they’d already done away with.