Desert Heat

by J. A. Jance

  “I think I’ll go to bed,” Joanna answered. “As far as I’m concerned, if the ladies from church want to come to my house and examine the kitchen cupboards with a fine-toothed comb, they deserve whatever they find.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Still cradling Clayton’s unexpected package as well as her purse, Joanna slammed the bedroom door shut behind her and then stood leaning against it, hoping to cool off. She was amazed by the intensity of the anger she felt toward her mother. She wanted to go back out into the kitchen and scream at Eleanor to get down off the damn ladder and leave her kitchen the hell alone. But that had never been her way where Eleanor was concerned. Instead, following her father’s lead, Joanna had always avoided direct confrontation, going around her mother rather than through her.

  To be fair, the rules of the game were somehow changing, and Eleanor had yet to figure it out. In the past, right or wrong, Joanna would have swallowed her anger, returned to the kitchen, and helped her mother put things right. But tonight she didn’t. If she had wanted the kitchen cleaned right then, she would have done it herself. Instead, Joanna Brady had other concerns.

  Like coming to terms with this room, for in-stance. Twice now, she had raced through it as though the space was full of demons. Now, she needed to find a way to stand here and look around at the familiar furniture, seeing it as a stranger might and trying to decide if it was, indeed, still the same place it had been two days earlier. Now, with Andy gone and the rest of the world conspiring to rob her of his memory, she wondered if there would ever again be a time when she could be comfortable in this room. Or would she forever feel as alien in this place as she did in this instant?

  Walking haltingly, like someone uncertain of footing on rough terrain, she made her way to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. Gingerly she began unwrapping the layers of faded pillow case surrounding the gun until at last a Colt.44, naked and deadly, lay in her hand. Remembering Molly Rhodes’s voluminous aprons, Joanna could see how the gun would easily have fit into one of her pockets. And living out on the Rhodes place through the years, Joanna could see how Molly might have needed to take a shot at an occasional chicken-stealing coyote or at a rattlesnake that might choose a spot under the clothesline to sun itself.

  But Clayton Rhodes wasn’t thinking about either rattlesnakes or coyotes when he gave the gun to Joanna. And now that she was holding the weapon in her hand, Joanna wasn’t either.

  For a few moments it was almost as though Joanna’s father himself was standing there in the room with her, reminding her of all the old lessons-how she should never handle a gun of any kind without knowing for sure whether or not it was clean and loaded. She checked. The answer was yes as far as the cleaning was concerned, but the weapon wasn’t loaded.

  Joanna loaded it herself, taking bullets from the box Clayton Rhodes had given her, then she hefted the.44 in her hand, gauging the weight of it, fingering the grip, remembering the importance of balance and the necessity of the two-handed, spread-footed stance her father had taught her. And she recalled how he’d patiently worked with her, teaching her how to handle recoils-to expect them and flow with them rather than fighting against them.

  In remembering D. H. Lathrop’s lessons, Joanna missed him anew with almost the same force as she missed Andy. A wave of grief that was also physical pain washed over her.

  Resolutely, she stood up and tried to think of something else. Clayton was right. She would have to practice in order to regain some of her former proficiency, and that wouldn’t be tonight. Probably not in the next few days, either. In the meantime, she needed a safe place to keep the weapon, a place where Jenny wouldn’t accidentally stumble across it.

  Kicking off her shoes, Joanna got up and padded over to Andy’s rolltop desk. It was locked, but the key was in its usual place in the pencil cup on top. Joanna turned the key in the lock and shoved up the lid, thinking the small drawer at the back of the desk would be a good place to keep the gun, but when she opened the drawer and tried to put the gun inside, it wouldn’t fit. Something else was in the way.

  Exploring the drawer with her fingers, she drew out a small address book. It was Andy’s-she recognized it instantly-but she was surprised to find it there. He usually kept it with him, and she would have expected it to be with the packet of personal effects she had been given in the hospital.

  She put the gun and the extra ammunition in the drawer in place of the address book, closed the top of the desk, locked it, and put the key in the pocket of her jeans. Then, taking the book with her, she started to return to the bed.

  On the way, a piece of paper slipped out from between the leaves and fluttered to the floor. Joanna scooped it up and unfolded a piece of rich, creamy white stationery with the

  Ritz Carlton logo emblazoned across the top. In the upper right-hand corner the date was listed as September 10.

  Dear Andy,

  I’ve been thinking about your offer. It’s hard to get to be my age and realize you’ve been a first-class asshole all your life. Thanks for giving me a chance to make the world a better place, if not for me, than maybe for my kids and yours.

  There are a few things I need to straighten out before I can leave here. When I get those cleared up, I can meet you in Nogales or Tijuana, wherever, and we’ll go to York then. Together we ought to be able to make it stick. I guess I don’t need to tell you that if anybody finds out about this I’m a dead man. And so are you.

  Be careful, Lefty

  Joanna read the note through several times in rapid succession. Each time another little piece of understanding slipped into place. Without telling her, Andy had been in touch with Lefty O’Toole. Why had he been so secretive? She had thought that she and Andy had a good marriage, that they had shared almost every-thing, yet here was another proof, almost as damning as Sandra Henning’s, that Andrew Brady’s sharing with his wife had been woefully incomplete.

  In the note, Lefty had warned Andy to keep whatever was going on between them a secret. Andy had certainly complied with that request, at least as far as Joanna was concerned, she thought angrily, but someone else must have guessed or found out. Whoever that person was, Joanna was convinced he was responsible not only for Lefty O’Toole’s murder but for Andy’s as well.

  It wasn’t until the third reading that the name “York” registered. Andy and Lefty had been planning to go to York. That would have to be Adam York with the DEA. Who else could it be? But why, Joanna wondered. Were they going to tell York something about someone else, or was York himself the source of the problem? The DEA agent’s attitude toward her had been a puzzle from the start. What could explain his antagonistic suspicion of her when Joanna knew she had done nothing wrong?

  Sitting there, she tried to remember what had happened in each of her encounters with the man. What if he was the one who was actually behind all this and his questions about possible insurance fraud were only a device to throw suspicion in someone else’s direction. He had been with her at the Arizona Inn at the exact moment of Andy’s death, but he had also been lurking around the waiting room off and on all morning. It would have been simple for him to alert an accomplice that Joanna was leaving for a time, thus clearing the field for the real killer, the man with the gold in his teeth.

  So what did an ordinary citizen do if they suspected a federal peace officer of wrongdoing? Did you go to the local authorities, someone you knew and trusted like Walter McFadden or Ken Galloway? Did you tell them what you knew and hand over your evidence, or did you go looking for someone else, someone further up the DEA chain of command and report your suspicions to him?

  Regardless, Joanna knew there was nothing to be done about it tonight, and until she chose a definite course of action, it was important that Lefty’s letter, a vital piece of evidence, be kept in a safe place. Her first instinct was to lock it away in the desk drawer along with the gun, but that seemed too obvious. Besides, even with the desk locked, she wasn’t sure it would be safe from Eleanor’s prying ey
es. In the end, she took the only reasonable course of action and placed the carefully folded paper in the side pocket of her purse.

  Then, she picked up the address book once more. No matter how much it hurt, it was time to find out. For years she and Andy had argued over his unorthodox filing system. They kept separate address books because he, with-out a truly bureaucratic mentality, kept things filed under first names rather than last. With trembling fingers, she turned to the “C” page, and there it was, at the very bottom, the single name Cora with two phone numbers, both with Nevada prefixes.

  Fighting back tears, Joanna copied them onto a note pad she carried in her purse. She was just fastening the purse shut when the phone on Andy’s night stand rang shrilly. The noise startled her, and she jumped involuntarily before picking up the receiver. “Hello.”

  There was a slight pause. For a moment Joanna thought it might be a crank call with no one on the line, but then a woman spoke. “Joanna Brady?” the caller asked hesitantly, speaking in little more than an exaggerated whisper.

  Joanna strained to hear, trying to recognize if the voice belonged to someone she knew. “Yes,” she answered. “This is Joanna. Who’s this?”

  “You don’t know me,” the woman replied, “hut I need to talk to you about your husband.”

  Instantly Joanna’s whole body went on full red alert. Here was a strange woman who wanted to talk to her about Andy. The voice sounded young and undeniably sexy. Could this be the same woman Sandra Henning had told her about, the one who had come into the bank, hanging on Andy’s arm and counting out all that money?

  “What’s your name?” Joanna asked.

  “Tammy Sue Ferris,” the woman said, this time with no hesitation whatsoever.

  Sure it is, Joanna thought, but if this was Cora, it was probably better not to accuse her of lying, not just yet. “What about my husband?” Joanna asked guardedly.

  “I believe I know who killed him,” Tammy Sue answered.

  Not trusting her ears, Joanna couldn’t stifle a sharp intake of breath. “What did you say?”

  “I said I think I know who killed him,” Tammy Sue replied. “In the hospital.”

  A storm of questions roared through Joanna’s head. “Who is it?” she demanded. “And how do you know about that? Do you work in the hospital? Are you a nurse? Have you talked to the police?”

  “I can’t go to the police.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if I do and Tony finds out, he’ll kill me.”

  “Who’s Tony?”

  “The man who killed your husband, Mrs. Brady”

  The killer had a name and this woman knew it? Tell me who he is. How do you know he did it? Did you see him?”

  “Not personally, but I know he did.”

  “You’ve got to talk to the police,” Joanna insisted. “Where are you? I’ll call and have someone come talk to you right away.”

  “No, please. No police!” the woman returned. “If you call the police, I’ll disappear. You’ll never hear from me again.”

  Joanna was afraid the woman would hang up on her. Even if the woman on the phone was the same woman who had been with Andy in the bank, she was also the first person, other than Joanna herself, to insist that Andy had been murdered. She couldn’t afford frighten Tammy Sue Ferris away.

  “What do you want then?” Joanna asked. “Why are you calling me?”

  “I want you to help me work a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “With the cops.”

  “What kind of deal?” Joanna repeated.

  “I have something of Tony’s,” Tammy Sue explained. “Something important that the cops are going to want.”

  “‘That’s simple enough,” Joanna said. “Why don’t you just take it to them?”

  “I want them to buy it. I need the money.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re saying you have an important piece of evidence, and you expect to be paid for it?”

  Although the young woman seemed to be speaking in dead earnest, for some reason Joanna found the whole scheme wildly implausible. Maybe Tammy Sue Ferris was a mental case.

  “This is Cochise County,” Joanna said, “a place where budget cuts are the order of the day. I don’t think you’ll find many likely buyers.”

  “Oh, they’ll buy, all right. Once they know what I have, somebody will be willing to buy, but I have to stay alive long enough to negotiate. That’s where you come in.”

  “Me?” Joanna echoed. “What does any of this have to do with me?”

  Tammy Sue Ferris took a deep breath. “I already told you. Tony’s a killer. If you can put him in prison for killing your husband, then he won’t be able to come after me. That’s the only way I’ll be safe, if Tony’s dead or in jail.”

  Suddenly Joanna could see that it had everything to do with her. If the woman was telling the truth, if this Tony really was Andy’s killer, then there was nothing she wanted in the world more than putting him in jail. But how could she determine whether or not Tammy Sue was on the level?

  “II you didn’t see him do it, how do you know this Tony’s responsible?” Joanna asked.

  “He got paid for it,” Tammy Sue answered. And when he saw on the news that your husband wasn’t dead…”

  “He got paid to do it? Why would someone pay to have Andy killed?”

  “‘That’s what Tony does for a living. He kills people.”

  “But who does he work for?”

  “I don’t know, not for sure. Drug dealers most likely. They’ve got plenty of money.” Joanna’s mind was awhirl. Some things in Tammy Sue’s wild story made sense in a way that Joanna desperately wanted to believe, and yet she couldn’t escape the sense that she was somehow being suckered. She wanted to be smart about all this, to walk into whatever it was with her eyes open.

  “Are you going to tell me about the money?” she asked.

  This time the sharp but unmistakable intake of breath was on the other end of the line. “How do you know about that?” Tammy Sue managed. “Maybe I was wrong. I never should have called.”

  Joanna could tell that her lucky guess about the money was causing Tammy Sue to lose heart. “Please, don’t hang up,” Joanna put in quickly. “Maybe we can work something out. Where are you?”

  “But if you know about the money…”

  “That doesn’t matter. You’re right about me. There’s nothing I want more than putting this Tony, whoever he is, away. Where are you? Let me come see you. We’ll talk. I do know people around here. If you can help me find Andy’s killer, if you can help me put him where he belongs, then I should be able to help you with your problem.”

  “And you won’t tell the cops about me?” There was something vulnerable and plaintive in the way Tammy Sue asked the question, something that reminded Joanna of junior high-school-aged girls, telling one another tales of adolescent love and swearing each other to secrecy.

  “Were you ever a Girl Scout?” Joanna asked.

  “No.”

  “I was, and I give you my word of honor that I won’t tell the cops. Where are you?”

  “At a place called the Copper Queen.”

  “You’re here in Bisbee? Why didn’t you say so? I can be there in ten minutes. What room are you in?”

  “Four twelve.”

  Joanna didn’t want to give Tammy Sue time to change her mind. “Stay right there,” she said. “ I’ll be up as soon as I can.”

  She slammed down the phone and leaped to retrieve her shoes. Just then there was a tentative knock on the door, and Jenny popped her head in.

  “Grandma Lathrop wants to know if you want some cocoa and toast.”

  ‘“No. I’ve got to go back uptown.”

  “Can I go along?”

  “No. I’ll have to go alone. Ask Grandma if she can stay here with you until I get back.”

  “I’ll go ask.”

  Jenny disappeared while Joanna tracked down another denim jacket, a new fleece-lin
ed one that she had given Andy the previous Christmas. Andy wouldn’t be wearing it now, but putting it on made him feel closer to her somehow in a way Joanna couldn’t explain. She picked up her purse then stood in the middle of the room, looking at the desk, torn by indecision.

  All her life she had lived in a small town, insulated from some of the harsher realities of life in other places. But this past week violence had touched her life and home. Her husband was dead, murdered, and she was going to meet with a woman, a stranger, who claimed to know Andy’s killer. Clayton Rhodes had given her a gift, a weapon, an equalizer, that could help deal with any number of unexpected contingencies. Could she, in good conscience, afford to thumb her nose at his gift?

  Shaking her head, Joanna went back to the desk, extracting the key from her pocket as she did so. Once the loaded.44 was out of the drawer, she stuck it into her purse which, in its own way, was every bit as spacious as Molly Rhodes’s apron pockets. She was well aware that she had no permit to carry a concealed weapon, but, considering the circumstances, that was a risk she’d have to take.

  The gun had no more than disappeared into the purse when Jenny returned. “Grandma says she’ll stay, but she wants to know where you’re going.”

  The house was one of the old Sears Crafts-man homes, a Somerset, that had come West by rail in the early teens-precut and premilled, ready to be assembled. By current standards, the two-bedroom house may have been small, but it did have both a front and back door. The front door was seldom used on a day-to-day basis, but it was available. Maybe the rules between Joanna and her mother still hadn’t changed all that much.

  Slinging the purse over her shoulder, Joanna headed for the front door with Jenny trailing along behind. “But you still haven’t said where you’re going,” the child objected.

  DESERT HEAT

  Joanna stopped, leaned down, and pulled Jennyy to her in a brief but fierce hug. “Tell Grandma that I’m going out to see a man about a white horse.”

  Jenny frowned. “You’re going to buy a horse in the middle of the night?”