Damage Control

by J. A. Jance

  As if to prove him right, there was a sudden sharp rap on the window beside Joanna’s head. When she turned to look, Joanna was dismayed to find Marliss Shackleford standing next to the Crown Victoria, notebook and pen in hand.

  “Gotta go,” Joanna said to Frank. “I’ll have to get back to you.” She rolled down the window. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “Good morning to you too, Sheriff Brady,” Marliss said pleasantly. “And what I’m doing is my job. One of the few advantages to being menopausal is the insomnia that goes along with it. Whenever I can’t sleep, I entertain myself by monitoring the police channels. Tonight I hit the jackpot.”

  “This is a police matter, Marliss,” Joanna said. “We need you to leave the area at once.”

  “I’ve learned that one of your deputies died tonight,” Marliss continued, pointedly ignoring Joanna’s terse order to leave. “I understand his name hasn’t yet been officially released, but anonymous sources tell me it was Sloan, Deputy Daniel Sloan. Would you care to comment on that?”

  Let me get my hands on one of those “anonymous sources,” Joanna thought savagely. “No,” she muttered. “No comment.”

  Joanna reached for the window control, but Marliss beat her to the punch by jamming her leather-bound notebook into the opening to keep the window from closing. Not wanting to burn up the control, Joanna gave up and left it open.

  “I noticed that the alleged shooting took place at the home of Alfred and Martha Beasley,” Marliss continued. “Does what happened tonight have anything to do with the deaths of Alfred and Martha last Friday?”

  “I said ‘No comment,’” Joanna repeated. “I mean no comment.”

  But Marliss was nothing if not determined. “According to the Beasleys’ next-door neighbor, Maggie Morris, one of Martha and Alfred Beasley’s daughters—I believe it was Samantha—was involved in some kind of difficulty yesterday afternoon. I understand police were called to the residence, shots were fired, and someone was taken away by ambulance, possibly to the county hospital down in Douglas. Your public information officer, Chief Deputy Montoya, issued a blanket statement on the topic early yesterday evening, but I’ve been unable to contact him for an additional comment or details. Could you confirm whether or not Samantha Edwards was the person taken away by ambulance?”

  Thank you so much, Maggie Morris, Joanna thought. There’s nothing like a little small-town gossip to fan the flames of rumor.

  “I’m confirming nothing; I’m denying nothing,” Joanna returned.

  “Getting back to Deputy Sloan—”

  “Look, Marliss,” Joanna said. “I can’t say it any more plainly than I already have. No comment means no comment.”

  A car pulled up directly behind her. She expected and hoped that the new arrival would be another member of her SAT unit. That hope was soon dashed.

  “Hello, Chief Bernard,” Marliss said, greeting Bisbee’s chief of police by name. “We seem to be having quite a night around here.”

  “What are you doing here, Marliss?” the chief growled.

  “My job,” she said.

  “Well, clear out.”

  Two uniformed officers trotted up behind Chief Bernard. “Get her out of here,” he ordered, nodding in their direction.

  “Where do you expect me to go?” Marliss asked.

  “I’d prefer to have you on the far side of the moon,” Bernard replied uncharitably. “But for right now, I’ll take what I can get. We’re setting up a perimeter on the far side of Main Street. I’d suggest you wait over there in the parking lot. That should be far enough to keep you out of harm’s way.”

  Marliss looked as though she was prepared to argue, but finally, removing her notebook from Joanna’s window opening and still protesting the injustice of it all, she allowed herself to be led away. As soon as she was out of earshot, Chief Bernard rounded on Joanna.

  “Who the hell do you think you are, Sheriff Brady?” he demanded. “I’m sorry as hell that you’ve lost one of your officers, but still, you can’t set up an armed confrontation in the middle of my jurisdiction without saying one word to me about it beforehand.”

  Joanna knew he wasn’t wrong to be pissed. “Sorry,” she said. “I was just—”

  “Never mind. What’s the deal here?”

  “We believe the armed killer who gunned down Deputy Dan Sloan may be holed up in a room in the Copper Queen. My people are coming here to take him down before he has a chance to get away.”

  “You’re bringing in your SWAT team?”

  “SAT,” Joanna corrected.

  “Whatever!” he returned. “And you’re planning on staging a shoot-out right here in the middle of town?”

  “It’s not going to be—”

  “Think about it,” Chief Bernard advised. “You’re upset. Your people are upset, and why wouldn’t they be? But somebody else needs to handle this. Your guys are too damned close to it. Don’t get me wrong, so am I. Danny Sloan played Little League for me for three years when he was a little shaver, and I’m mad as hell that he’s dead. But I’ve only got one detective. Phil Lester’s a hell of a nice guy, but it’s been years since he’s worked a homicide.”

  Bernard seemed to be washing back and forth between being pissed at Joanna and being reasonable; between telling her to shove off and asking for her help, wanted or not.

  “What are you suggesting?” Joanna asked.

  “We should bring in DPS,” Chief Bernard said. “Let the Arizona Department of Public Safety handle this.”

  Joanna knew Alvin Bernard had a point—almost the same one Frank Montoya had expressed earlier. But what would DPS do if she ran up the flag to them? They certainly had far greater numbers of highly qualified personnel to bring to bear on the situation than either she or Chief Bernard did. The question was: Would they? Would an agency with statewide law enforcement responsibilities give Deputy Sloan’s murder the kind of attention Joanna thought it deserved, or would they do lip service only?

  “Maybe later,” Joanna said. “But not tonight. They wouldn’t get here soon enough to do any good. How about if we leave DPS out of it and handle it ourselves?”

  Alvin Bernard blinked. “As in a joint operation?”

  “You have one homicide detective. I have three. That would give us four altogether. With all of our people pulling in the same direction, maybe we can get this creep off the street.”

  Joanna could see Chief Bernard was mulling over her proposition when Ernie lumbered over to the car. He was practically giddy with excitement. “They found the shirt!” he announced gleefully. “A blood-spattered Hawaiian shirt.”

  “Where?” Joanna demanded.

  “In a trash bin three houses down the street from the Beasleys’ place. And Frank says to tell you that—”

  A bloodcurdling scream cut through the still dark night. At the sound of it, a shocked hush fell over the collection of mismatched police officers gathered at the bottom of Brewery Gulch.

  Joanna remembered her mother telling her that, back in the old days when the hospital was still located in Old Bisbee and air-conditioning wasn’t an option, women in the delivery room would often bring the whole of uptown to a standstill with their soul-shattering screams. The same thing happened now. The whole crowd stood transfixed while one horrendous scream after another echoed off buildings and steep canyon walls.

  Moments later, a young woman shot out through the front door of the hotel. She bounded down the front steps and raced down the street to where the officers were assembled. Ernie Carpenter was the one she seemed to know, and she focused in on him.

  “Come on,” she yelled, gesturing frantically. “It sounds like he’s killing her.”

  “Which room?” Ernie demanded.

  “The one you were asking about earlier. Number 218. The Wolfes’ room.”

  Joanna had seen Darla MacPherson on occasion and knew that she worked part-time as the Copper Queen’s night desk clerk. Having delivered that chilling piece
of information, Darla turned and raced back up the hill. Hot on her heels were Detective Carpenter, Lieutenant Williams, and Deputy Ed Singleton, Joanna’s latest SAT arrival.

  As the horrific screams continued to pulse through the night, Joanna knew that waiting for the rest of her team was no longer an option. Delaying until the arrival of a search warrant was also out of the question. With someone in physical danger—someone suffering bodily harm—all of the usual checks and balances evaporated.

  She turned to Alvin Bernard. “Do we have a deal?”

  The chief nodded. “Yes, Sheriff,” he replied. “I believe we do.”

  “All right, then,” she said. “We’re going in. Get your people and the rest of mine to shut down the streets and keep them clear. I’ve got somebody up at the top of Howell Avenue, so that end of the street is covered, but Deb could probably use some reinforcements. Send someone around to the back of the hotel in case he tries to get out that way. And if he tries to make a break for it, stop him. Make sure everyone knows the score—armed and dangerous.”

  “Will do,” Chief Bernard replied. “Good luck.”

  As he began barking orders to the remaining officers, Joanna dashed up the hill while the appalling screams went on and on. Joanna crashed through the double glass doors into the hotel lobby to find that Ernie and the others had disappeared. Trembling and out of breath, Darla was the only person visible. She was planted in front of the elevator door, pointing up the carpeted stairs.

  “They went that way,” she gasped. “Second floor. To the left. End of the hall.”

  “Can you shut down the elevator?” Joanna wanted to know.

  Darla nodded wordlessly.

  “Do it, then,” Joanna ordered. “Do it now.”

  As Darla reached for the set of keys that hung on her side, Joanna scrambled up the stairs. As she raced down the hall, doors opened along the corridor as startled hotel guests, awakened by the racket, peered out of their rooms to see what was going on.

  “Shut your doors,” Joanna told them. “Stay inside. Don’t come out until we tell you it’s safe.”

  She caught up with the others, standing with their weapons drawn, at a door marked 218. Using the door frame for cover, Lieutenant Williams rapped sharply on the wood-paneled door. Nothing happened. No one came to the door, and the screaming never changed, either. After waiting the better part of a minute, Williams knocked again. Still nothing. Finally he tried turning the knob. It moved in his hand, but the door didn’t open. That meant the dead bolt was fastened from the inside. The door would have to be opened with a key—or a kick.

  “Wait,” Lieutenant Williams said. “I’ll do it.”

  Joanna and Ernie stayed to one side while Williams took a running start at it. He slammed into the door, shoulder first. The wood shuddered under his weight but held firm. He hit it again, this time with a waist-high kick. Wood splintered under the blow as the door began to give way. A second powerful kick sent the door flying. Forward momentum carried Jimmy into the room and almost across it. Ed Singleton rushed in directly behind him, but the keening screams didn’t stop or even change.

  “Clear,” Jimmy shouted, followed a moment later by Ed shouting the same thing from inside the bathroom.

  Pausing in the open doorway, Joanna was surprised to see Sandra Wolfe, stark naked and completely alone, standing in front of the closed closet door, screaming her lungs out. Her hands were empty. She apparently had no weapon, and she didn’t appear to be injured. There was no visible sign of blood. She seemed completely unaware that anyone else had entered the room.

  “Sandra?” Joanna asked tentatively, holstering her own weapon. Deputy Singleton and Lieutenant Williams kept theirs at the ready, just in case.

  “Are you all right?” Joanna asked. “Has something happened? Are you hurt?”

  Still staring at the closet door, Sandra Wolfe appeared to be entirely oblivious to the fact that someone was speaking to her. All the screaming made hearing impossible.

  Careful to make no sudden moves, Joanna crossed the room toward the distraught woman. Passing the bed, she plucked a floral-patterned bedspread from the mound of covers. Holding the spread at arm’s length, Joanna moved closer. When she reached Sandy, Joanna placed the bedspread over the woman’s bare shoulders and wrapped it around her. For her part, Sandy never stopped screaming.

  “Is someone in there?” Joanna demanded. “Is he hiding in the closet?”

  When Sandy didn’t respond, Joanna grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around. “Talk to me,” she urged. “Tell me what’s going on. Did he hurt you?”

  For a scant second a look of comprehension crossed Sandy’s face, then she tuned up again. As a two-year-old, Jenny had pitched some screaming fits. In Joanna’s bag of motherly tricks there had been only one countermeasure that actually worked.

  “Quick,” she ordered over her shoulder to Ernie and the others. “Bring me some cold water. Throw it in her face.”

  Frank looked at Joanna as though she were nuts, but Jimmy Williams was an experienced father of five. He knew how it worked. Instead of heading for the bathroom as Joanna expected, he backed out into the corridor, where a guest from a neighboring room—someone who, despite Joanna’s warnings, had ventured into the hallway and listened to the whole exchange—handed him a champagne bucket full of icy water. Jimmy brought the bucket into the room and flung the ice-laced contents full into Sandy Wolfe’s face. She gasped, sputtered, and fell quiet. Out in the hallway, Sandy’s neighbors applauded the welcome silence before her screams changed to hopeless sobs.

  “What is it, Sandy?” Joanna asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “My face,” she managed between racking sobs. “It’s my face.”

  Joanna was looking Sandy full in the face. She saw no blood and no bruising, and no sign of damage other than the scabbed-over scratches and purple bruises Samantha had inflicted during their bar fight on Saturday night.

  “What about your face?” Joanna asked. “What’s the matter with it?”

  “Don’t you see?” Sandy demanded shrilly. She turned back to the closet door and pointed. “Look,” she said, pointing. “See there? It’s gone.”

  The problem was she was pointing at a door—a plain wood-paneled door covered with layers of white enamel. There was no mirror on the door—and no way for Sandra Wolfe to see her reflection or her “missing face.”

  She started sobbing again, sobbing and shivering. “Please,” she begged, moaning. “Please give it back to me. I need it.”

  Joanna turned to Ernie. “I think she’s been dosed with the same thing Samantha took earlier. Call an ambulance. Jimmy, help me get her on the bed, and then shut the door.”

  While Ernie reached for his phone to summon help, Jimmy picked Sandy up and deposited her on the bed. She lay there weeping. “I need my face,” she whimpered over and over. “People can’t live without faces. I need it.”

  But at least she’s not screaming, Joanna thought.

  An open suitcase sat on a stand next to the bed. Joanna rummaged through the contents until she found a lightweight track suit. While Ed Singleton and Jimmy Williams faded discreetly into the background, Joanna set about getting the woman dressed. It took lots of coaxing and prompting, but eventually she succeeded. Joanna didn’t want Sandy to suffer the indignity of having the EMTs haul her through the corridors and out the hotel’s front doors dressed in nothing but a bedspread.

  Ernie closed his phone. “The EMTs are on their way,” he announced. “They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “Good,” Joanna said.

  Lieutenant Williams had taken advantage of the relative quiet to return to the bathroom. “You’ll never guess what’s in there in the garbage,” he said when he reemerged. “A used syringe and an empty vial labeled ketamine. That stuff is wicked. No wonder the poor woman is out of it. If he gave her the whole dose, it’s a miracle she’s not dead.”

  But Larry Wolfe is long gone, Joanna thought. And maybe that w
as a good thing. If he was out of the county, Frank Montoya’s “excessive force” worries would prove groundless. Still, she was sick at heart that she could no longer delay going to see Dan Sloan’s widow. Not only would Joanna have to tell Sunny Sloan that her husband was dead, she would also have to admit to the grieving woman that so far the bastard who had killed Danny had gotten away clean.

  Joanna turned to Ernie. “You need to call Dispatch and amend that APB,” she said. “Then call Jaime and let him know that as soon as the EMTs get here, I’ll be on my way to notify the next of kin. And one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I still haven’t made it to the crime scene up Tombstone Canyon. Let Doc Winfield know that he’s not to move that body until I get there. Once the next-of-kin notification is out of the way, the crime scene’s my next stop.”

  “Got it, boss,” Ernie Carpenter said. “I’ll tell him.”

  CHAPTER 16

  IT WAS WELL AFTER THREE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING BEFORE Sandy Wolfe’s ambulance pulled away from the front of the Copper Queen. With a heavy heart Joanna got into her vehicle for the drive to Bisbee’s Warren neighborhood and to the house at the top of Congdon where she’d been told Dan and Sunny Sloan lived in a basement apartment.

  In five years, Sheriff Joanna Brady had done her share of next-of-kin notifications, but she dreaded this one far more than any of the others. This was a first for her. Dan Sloan was one of her own, an officer who had died in the line of duty.

  On the trip down the canyon she worried about what she was going to say, and she remembered, with some regret, her earlier confrontation with Marliss. Since Joanna had refused to give the frustrated columnist any help, what if she had decided to move forward on her own? What if Marliss, in order to get back at Joanna, had done her own ham-fisted version of a next-of-kin notification?

  As Joanna drove around the long flat curve of Lavender Pit, she noticed that a vehicle—another wide-bodied sedan—had dropped in behind hers and seemed to be mimicking her every move. It stayed with her around the traffic circle and all the way through Warren.