by J. A. Jance
“One room for all five of you?” Brandon asked.
“It was a big room with two double beds and a roll-away.”
“What happened after you got there?”
“We’d stopped for dinner in Yuma on the way over, so we went for a walk on the beach.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“All of us, all five. But on the beach Sully and I hung out together—that night and the next day, too. We were sort of . . . well, you know . . . acting up. My parents were strict Mormons. I wanted to sow some wild oats while I still had the chance, and I figured being out of town on spring break was the best time to do it. We smoked and we drank—we drank way too much. You know how wild kids can be when they set their minds to it.”
Brandon nodded. He knew exactly how wild kids could be.
“What happened?” he asked.
June sighed, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable. “I thought Sully and I were just friends, but it turned out she wanted to be more than that, and right then so did I. This was the next afternoon, Saturday. We were in the room, changing into our bathing suits, when she came over and kissed me—on the lips. I was bombed out of my gourd on rum and Coke. At the time it didn’t seem like such a bad idea. After all, considering the rum and Coke, going to bed with another girl was just another bit of forbidden fruit. We were on one of the beds, doing it, when one of the other girls walked in on us. I’ve always suspected it was Margo, but I’m not sure. It could have been any one of them.”
“What happened then?”
“I was ready to die of embarrassment. I mean, I knew Sully was different, but I’d never put a name on it before. I don’t think she had, either. I remember she just kept smiling at me, like what had happened between us was our perfect little secret. The thing is, as soon as I sobered up, I knew that wasn’t for me—that it wasn’t what I wanted. But Sully looked so happy—so over the moon—that I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her.”
“And then?” Brandon prompted.
“That evening we had a bonfire on the beach. We roasted hot dogs and marshmallows and drank lots more booze. At least I had more booze. I don’t know about Sully. She was still out by the fire when I went to bed.” She paused. “That’s not true,” she corrected. “The part about going to bed. First I was sick. Then I passed out.”
“But Sully was still outside.”
June nodded.
“By herself?”
“As far as I know. The last time I remember seeing her, she was sitting there in her bathing suit, looking at the moon on the water. The next thing I knew, it was morning. Someone was outside the room screaming and screaming. That’s when I found out Sully was dead, that she’d been stabbed to death.”
“The San Diego cops investigated?”
“Yes,” June said. “We all had to go into the police station for questioning. It seemed like we were there for days on end, but none of us knew anything. One moment she was alive and on the beach with everybody else. The next moment she was dead. Finally the cops turned us loose, and we drove back to Tempe.”
“What happened then?”
“First there was the funeral. Her parents were heartbroken. After that I really don’t remember much. The rest of that semester was like living in a nightmare.”
“Did you tell Sully’s parents about what had happened between you and their daughter?”
June shook her head. “No,” she answered. “Why would I? Finding out something like that about their dead daughter would have made things that much worse for them. Besides, I kept thinking that eventually we’d find out who had done it—that there would be some closure—but months went by and then years, and nothing happened. We all talked about it among ourselves. We figured her killer must have been someone—some stranger—who had found her alone on the beach. That’s what I always believed, anyway.”
Brandon heard that last throwaway sentence and immediately understood the implication.
“Now you know better?” he asked.
June nodded. First she smoothed her skirt, then she straightened her shoulders. “Yes, I do,” she murmured, but her voice was barely audible.
By then Brandon’s eyes had adjusted to the dim light. Every flat surface in the room and most of the wall spaces as well were covered with a collection of photos. He could tell from June’s voice that they were venturing into dangerous waters, and he wanted to make it easier for her.
“Your kids?” he asked, nodding toward the nearest set of photos and breaking the tension.
June nodded. “Seven kids, fourteen grandkids, and two greats,” she replied. “Fred died two months short of our fiftieth.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “He died two months ago—about the time I sent that note to Mr. Farrell.”
“And that was because . . .” Brandon prompted.
“Because Fred did it,” June Holmes declared. Her lips trembled as she said the damning words. “He’s the one who killed Sully.”
“And how do you know this?” Brandon asked.
“Because he told me so himself—five years ago, when he was first diagnosed with lung cancer. He wanted me to be grateful and to understand what he had done for me.”
“For you?” Brandon asked.
June nodded. “I told you my parents were strict Mormons. So was Fred. The LDS Church doesn’t countenance homosexuality now and it certainly didn’t back then, either. The very fact that I’d had that one encounter with Sully—one other people knew about—made me damaged goods. When I came home from San Diego, I expected Fred to drop me like a hot potato if he heard any gossip about what had happened. So I told him myself. I thought he’d break our engagement, but he didn’t. He said he could hate the sin and still love the sinner.”
The imprisoned cat finally gave up and shut up. June seemed to be waiting for Brandon to say something more. When he said nothing, she continued. “Fred wasn’t ever what you could call a forgiving kind of guy. I should have wondered about that, but I didn’t. I was so incredibly grateful that he didn’t turn his back on me and walk away. No one would have blamed him if he had.”
“In other words, he got big points for standing by you?”
She nodded. “To say nothing of a proper marriage in the Temple—a marriage for time and all eternity, as they say. Then, five years ago, he got his cancer diagnosis and dropped his bomb.”
“About Sully?”
June nodded again. “He told me one of his friends was in San Diego that spring break, too. He heard about what had happened, and he was the one who called Fred. Fred’s father had just died. His mother was getting ready to sell their house and needed to have it painted. That’s what Fred was doing over spring break—painting the house inside and out. Someone—this unnamed friend—called Fred that afternoon and told him what had happened. He drove over that night. After he did it, he walked into the ocean and rinsed off the blood. He left Phoenix after his mother went to bed and was back home before she woke up in the morning. As far as she was concerned, he never left. When he got back to his mother’s house, he burned all the clothing he was wearing that night—even his shoes.”
“Was he ever considered to be a suspect?” Brandon asked.
“Not as far as I know,” June answered. “There may have been a few questions asked about him in the beginning, but his mother’s word carried the day, especially since no one remembered seeing him in San Diego, no one who knew him, that is. He came and went without anyone being the wiser. Back in those days there were no credit cards. He paid cash for his gas and food.”
“If he got away with it for that long, why did he bother telling you?” Brandon asked.
June shrugged. “I guess his conscience was bothering him,” she said. “He thought he was dying. The doctors only gave him six months or so. That was before they let him into that first chemo protocol. He said he hoped that I could do the same thing for him that he had done for me.”
“As in hate the sin and love the sinner?”
“I tri
ed,” June said. “But I couldn’t do it. I had been in touch with Sully’s parents from time to time. I went to both her father’s funeral and, much later, her mother’s. I knew how much it had hurt them to lose their precious daughter, and it hurt me to think it was my fault.”
“You weren’t the one wielding the knife,” Brandon said. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“But if Sully and I hadn’t had that encounter—if Fred hadn’t found out about it . . .” June’s voice dwindled to nothing.
“What happened after he told you?” Brandon asked.
“It was just a few months after Fred told me that I heard from Mr. Farrell again. I was surprised that he was still working on the case after all those years, but Sully’s mother had won a bunch of money in one of the big lotteries, and she was using it to start a cold-case organization of some kind.”
“Yes,” Brandon said. “It’s called TLC—The Last Chance.”
“Mr. Farrell said he was going back through the case and interviewing everyone who had been connected to Sully. He wanted to talk to me, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t face telling him the truth and have my children’s father go to prison. I was afraid they’d want me to testify against Fred, and I couldn’t do that. Besides, to be honest, I guess I didn’t want my children to know about what I had done, either. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to live down that one indiscretion, but it’s always there with me. It never goes away. I also didn’t want to lie to Mr. Farrell.”
“Did your husband offer you any proof of what he’d done?”
“He didn’t offer it to me, but I think I found it.” June reached into her purse and pulled out a Ziploc bag, which she handed over to him. Inside it was an old hunting knife. Through the clear plastic, Brandon could see that the blade was dull and rusty, as though it had been left untouched for a very long time.
“One of my sons found this hidden in the back of one of Fred’s toolboxes out in the garage. In all the years we were married, I never saw this one before. I know from watching TV that sometimes it’s possible for investigators to get usable DNA evidence from items like this.”
“You’re giving it to me?” Brandon asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I want you to take it and do whatever you need to do to find out for sure.”
“All right,” Brandon said, dropping the bag into his jacket pocket.
“So that’s it,” June said, using the arms of the chair to rise to her feet. “I’m ready to go whenever you are. I just have to drop the cat off on the way.”
“On the way where?” Brandon asked.
“To jail,” June answered. “Isn’t that what this is all about? Aren’t you here to arrest me? Doesn’t all this make me some kind of accessory after the fact?”
Suddenly the suitcase and the crated Miss Kitty made sense. June Holmes had invited Brandon into her home with the expectation that he was there to take her into custody.
“No,” Brandon said. “I came to find some answers, and you’ve provided those, but I’m not here to arrest you.”
June seemed astonished. “Are you sure? I thought that since I knew about it and didn’t tell . . .”
“No,” Brandon said. “Knowing about it isn’t the same as doing it.”
Momentary relief flashed across June Holmes’s face, then the doorbell rang.
“Now who can that be?” she asked. “I certainly wasn’t expecting anyone. I’m usually at church at this time of day.”
Tucson, Arizona
Sunday, June 7, 2009, 9:40 a.m.
84º Fahrenheit
Brian Fellows had gone back to his office, where he spent the better part of the early-morning hours on the telephone. Detective Mumford had gone to a hotel to interview Corrine Lapin, Jonathan Southard’s dead wife’s sister. Brian and Alex had agreed that he could participate in the interview by long distance. Brian knew that eventually some departmental bean counter would give him hell about racking up so many long-distance charges, but he would handle that when the time came. Right now, he and Alex Mumford were both on the trail of the same killer.
Corrine was able to provide a lot of information about what had been going on in Jonathan and Esther Southard’s family in the previous several years—or at least what her murdered sister had told her about what was going on. Jonathan Southard had been let go by his bank and had been unable to find another job. He had been depressed and angry.
Corrine said she suspected there had been some instances of physical abuse, but she didn’t know that for sure. She allowed as how she “thought” Esther might have been seeing someone, but she was coy about it. She either didn’t know who the boyfriend was or wouldn’t say. Brian was pretty sure the boyfriend’s identity would become obvious once they gained access to Esther’s telephone records.
“So Esther was planning on leaving Jonathan, but she was holding out for the arrival of Jonathan’s 401(k) payout?” Alex asked.
“That’s pretty much the size of it,” Corrine admitted. “But Esther is the victim here. The way you’re asking the questions, it sounds as though you’re going to drag her name through the mud right along with her husband’s.”
“We’re just trying to get the lay of the land,” Alex assured her.
“About that 401(k). Do you have any idea about when those monies were due to arrive?”
Brian was the one who asked that question, and that was the real advantage of participating in a real-time interview. He was able to ask his own questions.
“The last time I spoke to Esther, she told me she expected the check to arrive anytime. As in the next few days.”
And it probably did, Brian thought. Rather than share it with his soon-to-be-ex-wife, Southard converted it into cash. That’s what he’s using for running money.
“How much money was it?” Detective Mumford asked. The question let Brian know that she was following the same set of assumptions.
“Esther thought it was going to be close to half a million dollars. She expected them to split it fifty-fifty.”
“The prospect of a quarter-of-a-million-dollar payoff makes it worthwhile for her to wait around,” Alex Mumford said.
That comment had Brian Fellows’s full agreement. It’s also enough to kill for, he thought, but he didn’t say that aloud.
Brian’s cell phone rang. With the landline receiver still at his ear, he pulled his cell out of his pocket. He thought the caller might be Kath, letting him know that she and the girls were on their way to church. Not recognizing the caller ID number, Brian put the interview line on hold and answered.
“Detective Fellows? It’s Dan Pardee.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I was talking to Angie a couple of minutes ago. She told me the bad guy’s arm was hurt. It may even be broken. I believe he was wearing a sling of some kind.”
“So Major did get him,” Brian murmured.
“Major?” Dan asked. “Who’s Major?”
Detective Fellows paused for a moment before he answered. Dan Pardee was not an official part of the investigation into the Komelik shooting, but for some reason Brian Fellows didn’t understand, the man seemed to have skin in this game. The Border Patrol agent was involved enough and cared enough that he was still at the hospital and still looking out for Angelina Enos long after most other officers would have gone home. And if Jonathan Southard was as screwed up as he appeared to be, Fellows reasoned that Angie might very well need to have someone looking out for her, preferably someone armed with a handgun and trained in the use of it.
“Major was Jonathan Southard’s wife’s dog,” Brian said.
“Was?” Dan asked. “And who’s Jonathan Southard?”
“Abby Tennant’s son,” Brian replied. “Her estranged son. Major was the son’s wife’s dog. We believe the dog died attempting to protect his owner, Esther Southard, Jonathan’s wife. Major is dead and so is Esther, and so are their two kids. All three of them were shot to death. The bodies were found in Thousand Oaks, California, late las
t night or early this morning. I’m not sure which.”
There was a period of stark silence before Dan Pardee spoke again. “He wiped out his whole family. When?” he asked. “How long ago did they die?”
“Long enough ago for Southard to get here from Southern California,” Brian said. “Long enough for him to track down Jack and Abby Tennant and blow them away. His father and stepmother live in Ohio. We’re concerned that he may try to target them next. That’s my next call—to let them know what’s happened but also to notify them that they, too, might be in danger.”
“What about Angie?” Dan objected. “If what’s-his-name, Southard, finds out he left a witness behind, what happens then? Who’s to say he won’t come back looking for her as well?”
“It’s not a matter of if he finds out,” Brian Fellows said. “Somebody already let that cat out of the bag. Mention of a surviving witness, an unidentified child, was on a TV news report earlier this morning. With a little motivated effort, the bad guy could probably find out who she is and where she is.”
“Great,” Dan muttered sarcastically. “That’s just terrific.”
“How long do you expect to hang around?” Brian asked.
“I told Angie I’d stay on until one of her family members shows up to take her home. I figured someone would have come for her by now.”
“If and when someone does come by to pick her up, give me a call back on this same number,” Brian said. “That way I can clue Law and Order in so they can keep an eye out, too.”
“All right,” Dan said. “Will do.”
The interview line was still lit—still on hold—but now the desk phone was ringing again on the second line.
“Oops,” Brian said. “Gotta go. There’s another call.”
This time when Brian picked up, the departmental operator was on the line. “A call from the big guy,” she said.
Around the Pima County Sheriff’s Department, “the big guy” was none other than Sheriff William Forsythe. It was not a term of endearment.
“You should have called me!” Forsythe said accusingly, once Brian came on the line. “The people who run Tohono Chul are constituents of mine—important constituents. Once you made that connection, you should have called.”