by J. A. Jance
“Plain.”
“Thick or thin?”
“Thin—really thin—with peanut butter and maple syrup.”
While Sadie and Sandy went on talking about food, Latisha withdrew from the conversation. It was odd to realize how much she missed Lyle and his pancakes. When he had first shown up in her mother’s life, she’d regarded Lyle Montgomery Richards as a threat and the source of all evil.
For one thing, through most of Latisha’s life it had been just her mother, Lou Ann, and her. What Latisha knew of her father came from the gold-framed photo of him in his marine dress uniform that had always sat on the chest of drawers in her mother’s bedroom next to the presentation box containing the folded flag from his coffin. Corporal Samuel Honoré Marcum had perished in an IED blast near Mosul, on December 21, 2005. He was twenty-four at the time of his death and left behind a twenty-two-year-old widow and a four-year-old daughter. Latisha’s first memory was of the man in the uniform kneeling in front of her mother and handing her that carefully folded flag—all blue and white, her mother had told her, with no red showing.
After the funeral they had gone to live with Lou Ann’s mother, Granny Lou, in her shotgun house on Gaty Avenue in East St. Louis. Granny Lou wasn’t your basic sweetness-and-light kind of grandmother. A diabetic who had lost both legs, she was a wheelchair-bound, mean-spirited, and cantankerous old woman, one who needed her daughter’s help every bit as much as Lou Ann and Latisha needed a place to stay.
Lou Ann had some widow’s benefits coming in, and she contributed most of that to the household expenses. She also looked after her mother, doing the bulk of the cooking and cleaning. But Lou Ann was also determined to improve herself in order to provide a better life for Latisha. To that end she had enrolled in the four-year nursing program at St. Louis University. The fact that she could leave Latisha at home with Granny Lou was the only thing that made the two-hour commute and long days of classes remotely possible.
And then one day, when Latisha was nine, Lou Ann had come home with Lyle. He was more than ten years older than her mother—thirty-nine to Lou Ann’s twenty-seven—and a lifelong bachelor. Like Latisha’s father, Lyle had served in the Middle East—U.S. Army rather than Marine Corps. Now out of the service, he drove the #10 bus, and they had met in the course of Lou Ann’s daily commute. He was the driver on the #10 bus that took her from Seventeenth and Missouri to the MetroLink. Over time they had become friends. Now they were about to become more than friends, and Latisha was less than thrilled.
During the long hours when Lou Ann was at school, Granny Lou had ostensibly been in charge, but her babysitting skills were minimal. She was much more engaged in watching whatever was on TV than she was in watching Latisha, who was allowed far greater freedom of action than was probably good for her.
By the time Lyle appeared on the scene, Latisha was in the fifth grade at Dunbar Elementary, the neighborhood’s perennially underachieving school. The fact that Latisha was bringing home indifferent grades from a failing school was a problem for Lou Ann and an even bigger problem for Lyle. He had grown up in University City, another area not known for its outstanding public schools, but his devoutly Catholic parents had seen to it that he attended Christ the King School, and he came away with a solid education, one that had served him well when he went on to University City High School.
When it came to courting Lou Ann Marcum, Latisha’s education was one of Lyle’s big selling points. He had inherited his parents’ two-story, three-bedroom home on Amherst Avenue in University City, and that’s where he continued to live. He assured Lou Ann that if she married him, he’d see to it that Latisha got into Christ the King, too.
By then Lou Ann had been a widow for close to a quarter of her life, and she had spent almost that whole time caring for her mother. Over time Granny Lou’s situation had deteriorated. Now, in addition to being wheelchair-bound, she was virtually blind. Not only did she require more care than Lou Ann could provide, she was almost useless when it came to supervising the headstrong Latisha.
So Lyle, a fixer at heart, had asked Lou Ann to marry him and had come out with all guns blazing, suggesting a nearby assisted-living facility for Granny Lou in addition to a better education for Latisha. It should have been no contest, but he hadn’t taken into consideration that Granny Lou, a lifetime Baptist, would raise holy hell not only about her daughter’s marrying a Catholic but also about his idea of putting Latisha into one of those “dirty papist” schools.
The battle lines had been drawn—with Lyle Richards and Lou Ann on one side and Granny Lou and Latisha on the other. When Lou Ann converted so she and Lyle could have a church wedding, Granny Lou threw a hissy fit and refused to attend. She also insisted that she’d rather die than be stuck in some bedbug-infested nursing home. While Lyle and Lou Ann went off on their honeymoon, Latisha had stayed with Granny Lou, listening to her rant and rave. When the newlyweds returned and it was time for Latisha to move to her new home on the far side of the river, she wasn’t exactly a willing participant.
Lyle had never been married. He’d never had kids. He thought children were to do as they were told and to be seen but not heard. He wanted Latisha to go to school, pay attention, study, and get good grades. He wanted her to keep her room clean and respect her elders. Latisha wanted none of it, except for Saturday-morning breakfasts. That was when Lyle Richards routinely made and served his incredibly wonderful pancakes.
But now, from the vantage point of Latisha’s solitary cot, with her leg chained to the wall and with dry kibble her only food, she thought about Lyle Richards a lot. He was someone who couldn’t help himself. He was always saying dorky things to her and giving her what she thought was stupid advice: What’s to be done is best begun. By the inch it’s a cinch; by the yard it’s hard. If it is to be, it is up to me. God helps those who help themselves.
She could see now that he’d been a kind man who had wanted only the best both for her and for her mother, and she wished she could tell him that she was sorry—sorry for everything.
In the background Sandy and Sadie were still talking about food, while Latisha thought about the people back home. When Lou Ann and Latisha moved out, Granny Lou had disdained her daughter’s suggestion about moving into assisted living. Just because Lou Ann had her nursing degree, that didn’t mean Granny Lou had to listen to her. Assuring Lou Ann that she’d have no trouble hiring someone to take over Lou Ann’s caregiving responsibilities, Granny Lou had insisted on staying on in her own place. Not surprisingly, when the new hired help arrived, they didn’t amount to much. Less than two months after Lou Ann and Latisha moved out, Granny Lou had died alone in her bed after falling into a diabetic coma. Her funeral at Southern Missionary Baptist Church on State Street had been sparsely attended. It was also the last time Latisha had set foot in East St. Louis.
But what about her mother and Lyle? Were they worried about her? Did they suspect that something bad had happened to her? Did they even know she’d gone missing? Did they still care? And what were they doing now? Just before Latisha ran away with Trayvon, her mother had gotten a job working the night shift in the ER at Kindred Hospital. Was she still working there? And what about Lyle? Latisha supposed he was still driving a bus, but was he still making those wonderful pancakes on Saturday mornings?
Chapter 4
ACTING SHERIFF TOM HADLOCK LEANED BACK IN HIS CHAIR, PUT his hands over his eyes, and closed them. It was four thirty on Friday afternoon. He had almost made it through his second week of being in charge of the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department. That meant he had to live through a little more than two weeks and survive two more board of supervisors meetings before Joanna came back from maternity leave. Compared to sitting through those meetings, running the jail had been a breeze.
Kristin Gregovich—Joanna’s secretary and currently filling that role for Tom—popped her head in the door. “They’re here,” she said. “Are you ready to come meet Mojo? I just took Spike outside so the two o
f them could meet.”
On the night of Jeremy Stock’s suicide, it had been Joanna’s K-9 unit—Kristin’s husband, Terry, and his dog, Spike—who had risen to the occasion. Joanna might well have died of gunshot wounds herself had Spike not lunged to her rescue. The brave dog had taken a bullet intended for Joanna and had suffered severe injuries. Four months later Spike had recovered better than anyone thought possible, but his days of active-duty K-9 work were over, and that was where Mojo came in.
Years earlier Joanna’s department had taken down a pit-bull puppy mill that had been in operation near Bowie in the northeast corner of the county. Joanna had brought the starving, mistreated animals home to Bisbee and had put her jail inmates to work fostering the animals. The mommy dogs especially had required extensive socializing before they were ready for adoption.
Joanna’s participation in that case had put her and her department in the crosshairs of any number of animal-rescue organizations. The Pit-Bull Brigade was an organization located outside Dallas that specialized in taking abandoned pit bulls from shelters, rehabbing them, and preparing them to perform law-enforcement duties. Some were trained to do drug interdictions. Others specialized in bomb or cadaver sniffing. Still others, the top dogs, were deemed worthy of K-9 training.
Spike and Terry had come to Joanna’s department as a matched set, having served together in the military. When it became apparent that the severity of Spike’s injuries made it unlikely that he would ever be able to return to duty, Joanna had gone looking for a replacement. Spike was a purebred German shepherd, but the cost of finding an exact substitute was prohibitive. That was when she had stumbled across the Pit-Bull Brigade. While the organization was mostly involved in training dogs, it also trained people, giving them the necessary qualifications to be hired as K-9 officers themselves. The dogs came from shelters and were mostly free; the people paid tuition. That meant that a dog trained at PBB could be purchased for a fraction of the price charged by other K-9 dog-training entities.
With an eye on her budget, that’s where Sheriff Brady had gone looking. The director had suggested a dog named Mojo as a possible candidate, and she had dispatched Terry to Texas to meet the dog and see what he thought. After declaring all things a go, he had spent the past two weeks in Texas, working and training with Mojo before driving the dog home to Bisbee.
“Where are they?” Tom asked, pushing back his chair.
“Out in the parking lot,” Kristin said.
By the time Tom and Kristin made it out to the parking lot, Terry was crouched down on one knee with a dog on either side of him. If there had been any stiff-legged interaction between the two animals when they met, that was over.
“Looks just like Petey,” Tom said.
“Petey?” Terry asked. “Who’s Petey?”
“Didn’t you ever see the Little Rascals on TV? I think Petey was a Staffordshire terrier instead of a pit bull, but Mojo looks just like him.”
“I was thinking he’s more like the dog on the Target commercials,” Kristin said.
“That, too, I suppose,” Tom allowed. “How’d he do in the car?”
“Slept most of the time,” Terry answered. “He’s a good traveler. Loves Burger King.”
“That makes two of us,” Tom said.
“Chief Deputy Hadlock?” Sunny Sloan’s voice came through the radio attached to the shoulder of the chief deputy’s uniform. Some people called him “Acting Sheriff.” Some called him “Chief Deputy.” Tom Hadlock answered to both.
“I’m out back in the parking lot, Sunny. What’s up?”
Sunny was the widow of a fallen deputy, Dan Sloan. She had come to work as a clerk for the department in the aftermath of her husband’s death and following the birth of their baby. Believing that her department should take care of its own, Joanna had hired Sunny to work the reception desk out in the public lobby.
“There’s someone here to see you,” Sunny said.
“Can you tell me who it is and what it’s about?”
“It’s a Mrs. Carver from Douglas—June Carver and her son, Jack. All she would say is that it’s urgent and they need to speak to you directly.”
Tom glanced at his watch. The idea of leaving work at five had just gone out the window. “Okay,” he said. “Give me a minute to get back to my desk.”
Minutes later Sunny escorted the new arrivals into his office. June Carver was a tall, slender woman with ash-blond hair and generous curves in all the right places. The permanent scowl imprinted on her face made her look as though she was mad enough to chew nails. She was trailed by an even taller, half-grown kid. He was lanky and scrawny and appeared to be somewhere in his mid-teens. The boy paused uncertainly in the doorway as if reluctant to enter.
“Come on,” his mother ordered. “Get your butt in here!”
Jack Carver shuffled into the room, staring at his feet rather than looking anyone in the eye. It wasn’t until he approached the desk that Tom noticed Jack was lugging what appeared to be a worn leather bowling bag.
“Put it there,” his mother commanded, pointing to an empty spot on Tom’s otherwise cluttered desk.
When the kid placed the bag on the desk as he’d been told, it landed with an alarmingly heavy thud.
Tom had risen to his feet in order to welcome the new arrivals. “I’m Acting Sheriff Thomas Hadlock,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m standing in for Sheriff Brady, who’s currently on maternity leave. And you are?”
“I’m June Carver.” The woman responded to his greeting with a surprisingly firm handshake of her own. “This is my son, Jack.”
The kid’s limp, halfhearted handshake was nothing at all like his mother’s.
“Won’t you both please have a seat?” Tom invited.
June sat down, perching primly on the front edge of her chair, while her son flopped loosely into his, as though his legs had suddenly turned to jelly.
“How can I be of service?” Tom asked.
“Tell him,” June ordered. “Tell him now.”
“We didn’t mean to do anything wrong,” Jack began in a self-effacing whimper, but his mother wasn’t having any of it.
“Cut the excuses and tell him,” she snapped.
“Me and my friend Randy went out hunting,” he began.
“My friend and I,” June corrected. “And you need to get real. They weren’t out hunting—they were out poaching. They ditched school, made off with Randy’s father’s shotgun without permission, and then went after quail without either one of them having a hunting license! Their harebrained plan was for Randy to shoot and clean the birds while Jack was supposed to cook ’em. What a joke! The most this dork has ever managed to cook in his life is mac and cheese—and he only makes that work because it comes straight out of the box.”
“We looked up how to do it on the Internet,” Jack whined. “We watched the video and everything.”
“Hah,” his mother snorted. “Sure you did.”
“Besides,” Jack continued, “we didn’t get anything. We didn’t see any quail. In fact, Randy never even fired the gun.”
“Tell him why,” June urged.
Jack hesitated for a moment before he answered. “Because we found something else,” he said meekly.
“When did all this happen?” Tom asked. “Today?”
“No,” Jack said. “It was early in October during quail season. We thought there would be other hunters out there, and the place we went was so far out of town we didn’t think we’d get caught.”
“Did you get caught?” Tom asked.
“No,” Jack answered.
“Then what’s so urgent about talking to me today?” Tom asked.
June butted in with an answer before her son had a chance. “My husband works for the Border Patrol,” she explained. “He’s being transferred to Tucson. He lives in an apartment up there during the week while Jack and I stay on here in Douglas so he can finish out his senior year and I can get the house ready to sell. We were planni
ng on painting his room this weekend. This morning when I went to clean out his closet, that’s what I found.” She nodded accusingly toward the offending bag.
“And that is?”
“Well,” she urged her son, “what are you waiting for? Open up the damned bag and show him.”
“Do I have to?” Jack whined.
“Yes, you have to,” June snarled back at him. “You don’t have the option of going all squeamish on me now. It’s a little late for that.”
Reluctantly, Jack leaned forward, unzipped the bag, and dug inside with both hands. What he pulled out was a human skull—or at least what was left of a human skull. Even from across the desk, Tom could see the single bullet hole in the rounded back of the sun-bleached bone. The front of the skull was a shattered mess—entrance wound, exit wound. The victim, whoever he or she was, had been shot in the back of the head at what was likely point-blank range.
“Where the hell did you get that?” Tom demanded.
“We found it,” Jack said miserably, carefully returning the skull to the bag. “Out in the Peloncillos east of Douglas. It was just lying there out in the open, all by itself. I thought maybe we’d stumbled on an old Apache burial ground or something. I didn’t think anyone would care about some old dead Indian, so we brought it home—sort of like those steer heads people put on their fence posts sometimes.”
“You kept it as a trophy, you mean?”
“I guess,” Jack admitted, squirming uncomfortably in his seat.
“Do you realize that in the state of Arizona interfering with a human corpse is a class-C felony?” Tom asked.
Jack nodded. “I do now,” he said. “Mom told me.”
Tom glanced back toward June Carver. “Are you an attorney?” he asked.
“Hardly,” she said. “I looked it up on the Internet. But I’m a mother, and I know a little something about how this game is played.”
“What game?”
“Long ago, on a planet far away, I used to be a stripper, so I know how law enforcement works. Jack’s already signed up with a recruiter to join the army once he graduates from high school next May. His grades aren’t good enough to get him into college right now. His father and I are hoping the military can help him get his act together.
