Minor in possession jpb-8

by J. A. Jance

  "I see," I said.

  "Do you?" she demanded, her voice rising until it verged on shrill. "I'm not so sure I do. Marsha got everything-JoJo, Joey, the house, although they have a different house now-with another child they needed a bigger one-and the cabin in Pinetop."

  To say nothing of the snake, I thought. I said, "Where did she come from?"

  "Marsha? She was my babysitter once." There was no concealing the bitterness in her answer. "I had begged JoJo to let me go back to the university and get my degree. Marsha lived two houses up from us in Paradise Valley. She was still in high school when they started screwing around behind my back. It took me three years to figure out what was going on. I'm a slow learner."

  "Nice guy," I said. "Like father, like son."

  "I've wondered sometimes if Joey didn't know about it before I did. I asked him once. Of course he denied it, but that's about when he started going haywire. By the time I got the divorce, even if I had gotten custody, I'm not sure it would have made any difference. I think by then the damage with Joey was already done. Besides, by then I had too many problems of my own." Close to tears, she stopped, swallowing hard.

  "Giving up isn't a crime," I said.

  She smiled gratefully. "Thank you for saying that, Mr. Beaumont. Maybe it isn't, although I've blamed myself for years. I tried to get him back later, after I got through school and was back on my feet financially and emotionally, but whenever he came to stay with me, he lied and stole and cheated. At first I chalked it up to genetics. Later on I told myself it was because of the drugs. It would kill me if I had to think that it was my fault."

  I tossed her the nearest, handiest platitude. "I'm sure it wasn't."

  "Maybe not. I hope not," she added.

  Rhonda Attwood sat quietly for a moment before continuing. "So that's how it happened. I locked Joey out of my heart so he couldn't hurt me any more, the same way I locked out his father. And now, I don't have anything else to lose. Nothing."

  "And with nothing left to lose, you're forming a one-woman posse, is that it?"

  "Why not?"

  "Because it's illegal for one thing and dangerous for another."

  "I don't have any faith in the criminal justice system, Mr. Beaumont. They let my son off, and they'll let his killers off the same way. That's why I came to you for help."

  "You haven't been listening, dammit. I can't help you. You need to go to the detective on the case. The one from Prescott. Talk to her."

  "A lady detective?"

  "Her name's Delcia Reyes-Gonzales. She's with the Yavapai County Sheriff's Department up in Prescott. She seems to know her stuff. I ought to talk to her myself and let her know where I am."

  Abruptly, Rhonda Attwood stood up. "Let's go, then," she said.

  "Go where?"

  "I'll take you there, to Prescott. We'll talk to the detective together, if that's what you want."

  "Now?"

  "Yes. Why not? They say the phones here could be out of order all the rest of the night. I want to get moving on this."

  That wasn't exactly what I'd had in mind, but it did give me a way to get out of Wickenburg. "Tell me one thing," I said. "What exactly do you intend to do once you catch up with these characters, the drug suppliers or whoever the people are you think are responsible for Joey's death? What are you going to do then? You said earlier that you planned to ‘take them out.' You didn't really mean that, did you?"

  "Didn't I?" she returned.

  It wasn't a reassuring answer. In fact, it was a downright crazy answer. Nice middle-aged ladies don't go up against big-time drug dealers, at least sane middle-aged ladies don't. Fortunately, I'm not a psychologist, and it wasn't my job to talk her out of it.

  Still, crazy or not, Rhonda Attwood had wheels and she was offering me a one-way immediate departure ticket out of Wickenburg, Arizona. Maybe in Prescott I could rent another car and still get to Phoenix before morning to see old Mr. Fixit, Ralph Ames.

  "So let's go," I said. "What are we waiting for?"

  I knew at the time that I was misleading her some, offering an implied alliance that I had no intention of honoring, but I let her draw her own conclusions. If anyone asked me later, I'd tell them that I had just gone along for the ride. Literally.

  It turned out not to be such a wonderful bargain.

  Happy to escape my one-night sentence at the flea-bitten Joshua Tree Motel, I left the room key on the table, locked the door behind us, and followed Rhonda Attwood outside to her Fiat for what turned out to be one of the most hair-raising rides in a lifetime of hair-raising rides.

  To begin with, my six-foot-three body was never intended to fit inside a 128 Spider. At first I thought I'd have to spend the entire trip sitting with my head cocked to one side. Fortunately, once the car was moving, the convertible's canvas top ballooned up enough that I was able to put my head into the bubble created by air movement. That way I could sit up straight, but it also cut my line of vision down to a few feet in front of the car and an acute angled view of what was directly outside the rider's window.

  Highway 89 climbs abruptly up from the desert floor, winding around the flank of a mountain locals call Yarnell Hill. That's what they call it, but believe me, it's a full-fledged mountain.

  Rhonda Attwood drove with the heater turned on high and the driver's window wide open. Wind whipping through her hair, she pushed the aging Fiat like a veteran sports-car-rally driver, coaxing more speed and life out of that old beater than she should have been able to.

  My left shoulder was jammed against hers. There was only one spot in the V-shaped foot well big enough to hold my feet, and they promptly went to sleep. I felt like a horse with blinders on, for all I could see was the vast darkness falling away from the side of the car and the fast-dwindling lights of Wickenburg and Congress Junction twinkling fitfully in the valley far below.

  Every time Rhonda swung around a bend in the road, the Fiat clung like a bug to the white line on the far outside edge. Vainly groping for a steadying handhold, I wondered what would happen if the wheels slipped off the blacktop. How far would the car plunge down the pitch-black side of the mountain before it came to rest on solid rock? Or maybe in the branches of some scruffy desert tree.

  Twice, with no warning to me, we came around hairpin curves only to have Rhonda set the car on its nose because traffic was flagged down to only one lane. Looking out the driver's window as we crept past, I caught glimpses of muddy slides where stove-sized boulders-three-man-rocks they call them in the landscape business-had broken loose from the steep embankment and washed down onto the roadway to block the inside lane.

  I don't like backseat drivers, and I most particularly don't like being one, especially when I'm hitching a free ride in somebody else's vehicle. At one point I mentioned offhandedly that the Yavapai County Sheriff's Department was most likely a twenty-four-hour operation and that they'd still be there once we arrived in Prescott, no matter how long we took making the drive. Rhonda didn't acknowledge the comment one way or the other, and she didn't ease her foot off the gas pedal, either.

  So I shut up and hung on for dear life, remembering all the while what my mother always used to say: Beggars can't be choosers.

  CHAPTER 10

  Unlike those in Wickenburg, the phones in Prescott were working. At midnight I awakened Ralph Ames out of a sound sleep. It served him right.

  "What time is it?" he grumbled. "And why are you calling me at whatever ungodly hour it is!"

  "I need your help, Ralph. Come get me."

  "Come get you! You're not due to be out for another two weeks. Besides, what's the matter with the rental car? I distinctly remember asking my secretary to make arrangements for one."

  "They've impounded the rental, Ralph. I'm in Prescott, not Wickenburg. Nobody rents cars in Prescott. Not only that, Calvin Crenshaw threw me out."

  "Of Ironwood Ranch? You're kidding." There was a pause. "Maybe I should have enrolled you in the Dale Carnegie course first. They're
the ones who teach you how to win friends and influence people."

  "This is no time for jokes, Ralph. I really need you to come get me."

  "Who said I was joking? Where are you, Whiskey Row?"

  "I'm at the sheriff's department, waiting to talk to a female homicide detective named Delcia Reyes-Gonzales. They've called her at home, and she's on her way, should be here any minute. Did you get the name?"

  "Detective Reyes-Gonzales," Ralph Ames repeated. Then, with a sudden change of inflection that told I had his undivided attention, he added, "Did you say with homicide?"

  "I certainly did."

  The sound of muffled movement told me Ralph was throwing off his covers and scrambling out of bed. "It'll take me two hours or so to get there. This sounds serious, Beau. Are you all right?"

  "I am now. My roommate's dead, though. From what I can gather, I seem to be fairly high on the list of possible suspects."

  "Great," Ralph said. "Make that a little less than two hours. I'm on my way."

  I put down the phone and turned back to the center of the lobby where Rhonda Attwood stood waiting. Just then Detective Reyes-Gonzales appeared at the opposite end of the room. She stepped forward swiftly and was gravely shaking hands with Rhonda when I joined them in the middle of the room.

  "I'm so sorry about your son, Mrs. Attwood. I understand that the deputies weren't able to reach you until late this afternoon," Detective Reyes-Gonzales was saying.

  Rhonda nodded. "I was out working all day. They were waiting for me at the house when I came home." Rhonda turned to me, drawing me into their conversation. "I guess you already know Mr. Beaumont here."

  "Yes," Detective Reyes-Gonzales said, nodding curtly in my direction. She didn't appear to be overjoyed at the prospect of seeing me again. "We met earlier today, although I guess it's yesterday now. Would you mind stepping into my office, Mrs. Attwood?"

  I'm sure the invitation was directed to Rhonda alone, but when I started to drop back, Rhonda took my arm and led me along with her. Detective Reyes-Gonzales shrugged as though it didn't much matter to her one way or the other. She conducted us through a secured door and into a compact two-desk office where she motioned Rhonda into the lone visitor chair and left me standing, making no effort to bring me the extra chair from the other desk.

  Her message was clear-just because I had entered the office with Rhonda Attwood didn't necessarily mean I was welcome. Visiting detectives who might try to horn in on Detective Reyes-Gonzales' case and/or territory could damn well stand. I got the chair myself and pushed it over next to Rhonda's while the detective watched, sitting perched on the desk with her arms crossed and her head cocked to one side. As soon as I was seated, she asserted her authority by coming after me with no holds barred.

  "I understand you were the subject of a number of interdepartmental communications last night, Detective Beaumont." She said it carelessly enough, but I knew she was sniping at me, baiting me.

  "Is that so?" I replied innocently, wondering if maybe Calvin Crenshaw had come to his senses after all and had decided to report the snake incident himself. "I'm certainly relieved to hear that."

  It wasn't the answer she expected. Detective Reyes-Gonzales raised one impeccably arched eyebrow. "You are?"

  "Absolutely. If I had known Cal was going to report it, I wouldn't be here bothering you."

  She smiled, a belittling, patronizing smile. "Report what, the snake in your room, you mean?"

  Her attitude was starting to irritate me. "Yes, the snake in my room! You're damn right! Somebody was trying to kill me."

  "I think you're overreacting, Detective Beaumont. Rattlesnake venom isn't instantly fatal, you know. I haven't yet been in direct contact with Mr. Crenshaw, but I was told to inform you, if you did by any chance happen to show up here, that the snake is safely on its way back to wherever it came from."

  "Gone back to where it came from?" I echoed. "What does that mean? How could it? Snaked don't drive, do they?"

  She threw me a quizzical look. "Drive? What are you talking about? That snake wasn't driving anywhere. The last I heard, Shorty Rojas was supposed to take it outside and let it go. In this state it's illegal to keep snakes in captivity, unless you happen to be operating a legitimate museum. By now that snake is probably safely back in its cozy little nest or den or whatever it is snakes live in."

  Up until then, Rhonda Attwood had kept completely quiet. Before I could launch a verbal counterattack, she cut in.

  "That snake hasn't lived in the wild for the past fourteen years, Detective Reyes-Gonzales," Rhonda commented quietly. "Ringo was my son's snake, you see. He's lived most of his life in a terrarium in Joey's bedroom."

  Frowning, the detective focused her attention fully on Rhonda. "But Mr. Crenshaw told the sheriff-"

  "I don't care what Mr. Crenshaw said or why. That snake was a pet snake-my son's pet snake-and if they've turned it loose in the desert by Wickenburg, Ringo will most likely die. Black rattlesnakes from the Mogollon Rim can't live in the low desert, you know. It's not their natural habitat. Not only that, Ringo hasn't lived in the wild since he was tiny. He's old for a snake, and he doesn't know how to hunt. Without someone to feed him regularly, he'll probably starve to death."

  Detective Reyes-Gonzales seemed genuinely taken aback. She looked first at Rhonda and then back at me for confirmation. "My understanding was that the snake had been displaced by the flood waters."

  Rhonda shook her head. "No. That's not the case here at all. I'm sure Ringo was deliberately planted in Mr. Beaumont's room, probably by Joey himself, unless I miss my guess."

  Detective Reyes-Gonzales' eyes narrowed, but she was obviously intrigued by what she was hearing. So was I. Even if they know it's true, perpetrators' mothers don't generally voice those kinds of accusations to law enforcement personnel. Detective Reyes-Gonzales evidently found it as disquieting as I did.

  Leaving her perch on the desk, she went around to the back of it and sat down in her chair, leaning back with her fingers crossed and regarding Rhonda Attwood intently.

  "Why would your son do a thing like that, Mrs. Attwood? And how?"

  Her questions were asked with disarming directness. Rhonda responded in kind.

  "How is easy. My guess is that Ringo was there for several days. Snakes can be in a room without people being aware they're there."

  For a moment an echo of atavistic fear lurched through me. Rhonda was right. Ringo could have been there for some time without my knowing it, just as he had been loose in Rhonda's house years before.

  "As for the why," Rhonda was saying when I came back to the discussion, "Joey believed Mr. Beaumont was a narcotics agent planted at Ironwood Ranch for entrapment purposes."

  I caught the sudden shadow of doubt that flitted briefly across the detective's face. She looked at me questioningly. "Were you there on assignment, Detective Beaumont?" she asked.

  "No way. Joey Rothman may have thought that," I countered, "but that doesn't mean it's true."

  Detective Reyes-Gonzales nodded, gravely acquiescent. "I see," she said.

  There was something odd in her manner toward me, but I couldn't put my finger on it. She regarded me for a long moment, studying me, assessing my reactions, wondering. Was I fish or fowl, ally or enemy, suspect or potential witness? Her attitude was equal parts professional courtesy and professional jealously. I wasn't offended. If anything, I respected her for it. After all, it was far too early in the investigation for a careful detective to remove any names from the list of possibles-including that of a visiting fellow detective.

  Detective Reyes-Gonzales turned from me to Rhonda Attwood. "How did you come to be aware of your son's suspicions about Mr. Beaumont here?"

  "He called me last night and told me."

  "You mean the night he died?"

  Rhonda nodded. "That's right. It's tomorrow already, isn't it."

  "What was the purpose of his call?"

  "He wanted to hit me up for some money."
/>   "Why?"

  "I'm not sure. I used to lend him money all the time, but then I stopped because he never paid any of it back."

  "So his calling you was unusual?"

  "Yes."

  "How much did he want?"

  "Ten thousand dollars. He said he was planning to leave the state, but that was probably a lie."

  "Did you give your son the money he asked for?" Detective Reyes-Gonzales asked.

  Rhonda shook her head. "I don't have that kind of money, at least not at one time. Even if I had it, I wouldn't have given it to him. I learned the hard way. My son was a liar and a cheat. I quit lending him money years ago. I thought it would help him grow up and learn to stand on his own two feet."

  "Mrs. Attwood, do you believe your son was involved in drug trafficking?" Detective Reyes-Gonzales asked the pivotal question gently.

  "Yes," Rhonda replied.

  "According to what I've seen so far, he got sent up on a Minor In Possession, an MIP. I can't find anything official that links him to drugs."

  "Keep looking," Rhonda said grimly. "It's there."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because he told me. He told me JoJo had gotten him off."

  "JoJo?" Detective Reyes-Gonzales asked.

  "James Rothman, his father, my ex."

  "And you believe that's possible?"

  "Where JoJo is concerned, anything is possible."

  Detective Reyes-Gonzales nodded. "All right. I'll do some more checking into that end of it. By the way, in his discussion with you, did your son every mention someone by the name of Michelle Owens?"

  "No," Rhonda returned decisively. "Not that I remember."

  Detective Reyes-Gonzales continued. "Michelle's young, only fifteen, a girl your son met while they were both in treatment at Ironwood Ranch. She told us Joey was in the process of ‘working some deals' and then they were planning on running away together."