J P Beaumont 16 - Joanna Brady 10 - Partner In Crime (v5.0)

by J. A. Jance

  “What was she a witness about?”

  “Todd wasn’t saying, at least not to Doc Winfield,” Jaime replied. “Said he had to check with his superiors before he could release any information to anyone, including us. However, he did request that he be kept informed about all aspects of the investigation. He gave Doc Winfield the name, phone number, and address of Latisha’s mother and sister back home in Georgia. The father is deceased, and the mother is in poor health. The ME says authorities from Washington will contact the next of kin.”

  “Thank God for small favors,” Joanna said. “What about the preliminary results from the autopsy?”

  “Inconclusive. No wounds of any kind. No bruises or abrasions. No defensive wounds that would indicate a struggle, and no sign of disease, either. Doc’s not willing to say she died of natural causes, though. He’s ordering a full set of toxicology tests. You know how long those take.”

  “Weeks,” Joanna murmured.

  “Right,” Jaime said. “So where does that leave us?”

  Joanna thought for a moment before she answered. “Okay,” she said. “We’ll handle this case like a full-blown homicide investigation until we know otherwise. If we learn later that Latisha Wall took her own life or died from some kind of accidental poisoning, all we’ll be out are the man-hours we’ve devoted to the investigation. But we have to pay attention right now, while the evidence is fresh. If someone did murder her and we wait for toxicology reports, the trail will be cold by the time we start looking for the perp.”

  “What should I do then?” Jaime asked.

  “Go back to the crime scene,” Joanna said without hesitation. “Make sure Dave and Casey went over every inch of that place without missing anything. I want you to check with the alarm company and see if there was anything the least bit out of kilter in the last few days or weeks. Talk to people. Canvass the neighborhood.”

  “I’m on it, boss,” Jaime said. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. You should interview Bobo Jenkins up in Old Bisbee, since he and Rochelle Baxter had something going. Bobo told me he was in her home last evening. He must be the last person to have seen her alive.”

  “You think he’s involved?” Jaime asked.

  “He and Shelley Baxter were romantically involved,” Joanna replied. “But if you’re asking if I think he killed her, the answer is no. I personally told him about what had happened. He was absolutely devastated.”

  “He could have been acting,” Jaime suggested.

  “Wasn’t,” Joanna returned.

  “All right,” Detective Carbajal said. “I’m on my way.”

  Joanna shut off the phone and turned back to Butch. He had sat down in front of the family room blueprint. The disappointed expression on his face made her feel as though she’d just told some unsuspecting kindergartner that there was no Santa Claus.

  “Butch, if you really want to have a train shelf, it’ll be fine. I can live with it.”

  “You’re not supposed to live with it,” he countered. “You’re supposed to love it.”

  “The rest of the house is great,” Joanna continued. “And I do love the kitchen and the bathrooms. There’ll be so much more space than we have now. My problem is that I want the house to be sort of . . . well, normal,” she said finally.

  “Normal as opposed to bizarre,” he said. “You’re right. It’s a dumb idea. I should just grow up.”

  “We’ll find a place for your trains,” she assured him. “I promise we will.”

  “Where? Not in the house. None of the other rooms are big enough.”

  “We’ll sort it out. Isn’t that what marriage is all about—compromise?”

  “I guess.” Butch began reassembling and rolling up the set of blueprints. “Sounds like you need to go,” he added.

  “I do,” she said. “But not like this. Not if we’re quarreling.”

  “We’re not quarreling,” Butch returned. “You were right; I was wrong. The train shelf’s out of there.”

  “But you really wanted it.”

  “Look, Joey,” he said. “You can’t have it both ways. The train shelf was an oddball idea. You happen to want normal. That’s reasonable enough. You win. We’ll have normal.”

  “But I don’t want to win,” Joanna objected. “I want us both to be happy with the house.”

  “I’ll be happy.”

  “How much trouble will it be to take it out of the plans?”

  He shrugged. “Not much. The train shelf was a late-breaking brilliant idea I added in just a few days ago or so. All I have to do is take it back out. I’m guessing Quentin will be ecstatic to avoid all that extra electrical work. So there you are. Two to one—I lose.”

  “It’s going to be okay, then? You’re not mad?”

  “Not terminally mad, but you can buy lunch,” he said. “By the time you pay up, chances are I’ll be almost over it.”

  Out at the cash register, Junior took Joanna’s money and then painstakingly counted out her change. When he had finished he flashed Joanna a triumphant smile. “Daisy taught me,” he said proudly.

  “Daisy’s a very good teacher.”

  “Yes,” Junior agreed, nodding vehemently. “Very good!”

  By then Butch, with blueprints in one hand and motorcycle helmet in the other, had followed Joanna out of the backroom. He arrived in time to watch the end of the monetary transaction. He waited until they were out in the parking lot before commenting.

  “Amazing,” he exclaimed. “When we first met Junior, I never would have dreamed he’d be capable of making change.”

  “Kindness and patience go a very long way,” Joanna said. “Now kiss me. I have to go back to work.”

  He gave her a halfhearted smooch and opened her car door.

  “Can’t you do better than that?” she demanded.

  “Not in public,” he said.

  He grinned when he said it. Even so, a troubled Joanna Brady headed back to the Cochise County Justice Center. Getting married and combining households wasn’t easy. She had expected that she and Butch would have tough going over child-rearing practices; over the chores of looking after a ranch full of animals in need of care and feeding.

  Whoever would have thought we’d end up fighting over model trains? she wondered. Compared to that, everything else has been a picnic.

  WASHINGTON STATE ATTORNEY GENERAL Ross Alan Connors had just returned from a meeting with the governor when O.H. Todd came into his office to give him the bad news.

  “Damn!” Connors muttered. “You’re sure it’s her?”

  “No mistake, I’m sorry to say,” O.H. returned. “What do we do now?”

  Connors rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. “We’d better send someone,” he said at last. “But who?”

  “One of the special investigators?” O.H. Todd suggested.

  Connors considered and then nodded.

  “Which one?”

  “What about that new hire?” Connors returned. “The one who just retired from Seattle PD.”

  “You mean J.P. Beaumont?”

  “Right,” Connors said, nodding. “That’s the one. He hasn’t been on board very long. You should probably check with Harry Ball and see if Beau’s up to speed.”

  O.H. Todd stood up and made for the door. “Right,” he said. “Will do.”

  Five

  JOANNA AND FRANK MONTOYA FINALLY HAD their much-delayed morning briefing right after lunch. Late in the afternoon Joanna was boning up for her Friday-morning appearance before the board of supervisors meeting when Detective Carbajal knocked on her door.

  “How’s it going?” Joanna asked.

  Jaime shook his head and sank into a chair. “I just finished preliminary interviews with Dee Canfield and Bobo Jenkins. Bobo stopped by so Casey could print him. I caught up with him while he was here.”

  “What do you think?” Joanna asked.

  “Gut instinct?”

  Joanna nodded.

  “You may be convinced he’s in
the clear on this, but I’m not sure I agree.”

  “Fair enough,” Joanna said. “We’ll agree to disagree. Did anything more turn up at the crime scene?”

  “No. I canvassed the entire neighborhood. No one saw or heard anything out of line until the EMTs showed up and started breaking down the door. What about you?”

  She told him everything she had learned earlier from both Bobo Jenkins and Dee Canfield.

  “Since she’s going ahead with the show,” Jaime said, “I guess I should be there. One of the guests may be able to fill in some of our blanks on the victim.”

  “Speaking of blanks,” Joanna said. “Have you talked to that guy up in Washington?”

  “O.H. Todd?” Jaime replied. “I’ve tried. I’ve called his number three different times. All I get is voice mail. So far he hasn’t bothered to call me back.”

  “The man must have a boss,” Joanna said. “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Find out, Jaime, and get me his number,” Joanna said. “I’ll give him a call. Maybe the big boss can set a fire under Mr. Todd’s butt.”

  Jaime Carbajal grinned. “Works for me,” he said. He left the room. A few minutes later he returned with a slip of paper.

  “Good luck,” he said, handing it over.

  Joanna glanced at her watch. “It’s already after five. He’s probably gone.”

  “Try anyway,” Jaime said.

  Picking up her phone, Joanna dialed. “Attorney general’s office,” a woman’s voice answered.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Ross Alan Connors,” Joanna said. “This is Sheriff Joanna Brady of Cochise County, Arizona.”

  “May I say what this is concerning?”

  “Latisha Wall.”

  There was a noticeable pause. “One moment, please.”

  As soon as the operator went away, canned classical music began playing, interrupted periodically by a recorded voice apologizing for the length of the wait and assuring Joanna that her call was very important to them and that someone would be with her as soon as possible. The third time she heard the equally canned apology she was ready to blow.

  Five minutes later a live voice finally returned to the line. “I’m sorry. Mr. Connors is in a meeting right now.”

  “Any idea what time he’ll be through with it?”

  “None at all. Sorry.”

  Like hell you’re sorry, Joanna thought. “What about O.H. Todd?” she asked. “Is he available?”

  “He’s also in a meeting.”

  The same one, no doubt.

  “Would you like to be connected to Mr. Connors’s voice mail?” the woman asked.

  “No, thank you,” Joanna said. “I’d like you to personally take a message. Tell him Sheriff Joanna Brady needs to speak to him, urgently. Detective Jaime Carbajal, the investigator working Latisha Wall’s death, has so far been unable to reach Mr. Todd. Obviously, time is of the essence.” After leaving her office, home, and cell-phone numbers, Joanna hung up. Across the desk from her Jaime Carbajal scowled.

  “You got the same treatment I did,” he said. “Don’t hold your breath waiting for a callback.”

  HARRY IGNATIUS BALL HAD TURNED off the light in his office and was about to close the door and head home when his phone rang. Muttering irritably under his breath, he returned to his desk and grabbed up the receiver.

  “Special Unit B,” he said. “Ball speaking.”

  “Harry, glad I caught you,” O.H. Todd said, sounding relieved. “I just got cut loose from a meeting that lasted all afternoon.”

  Harry rattled his car keys, hoping O.H. would get the message. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “How’s Beaumont doing?”

  “What do you mean, how’s he doing?”

  “Is he up to speed?” O.H. asked. “Ready to send out on a case?”

  Harry snorted. “He was ready for that the day he got here. Why?”

  “We’ve developed a problem down in Arizona. A place called Bisbee. Ross may need to ship someone down to check it out.” Todd paused. “What can you tell me about Beaumont?” he added. “About him personally, I mean. What kind of guy is he?”

  “From what I’ve seen so far,” Harry replied, “he isn’t exactly a team player.”

  “Maybe that’s okay,” O.H. Todd said thoughtfully. “In fact, for this case, that may be just what the doctor ordered.”

  IT WAS ALMOST SEVEN when Joanna finally pulled into the yard at High Lonesome Ranch. The house was dark and locked up tight. Once inside, she discovered that Jenny and Butch had evidently already eaten. A single place setting remained on the table in the breakfast nook. In the middle of the plate was a note from Butch saying he had taken Jenny back into town for a play rehearsal and that there was a green chili casserole waiting for her in the fridge. All she had to do was heat it up.

  After locking her weapons away and changing clothes, Joanna dished up a serving of the casserole and put the plate in the microwave. “Looks like I’m in the doghouse, too,” she said to Sadie and Tigger, who sprawled comfortably on the kitchen floor. Other than thumping their tails in unison, the dogs made no further comment.

  Joanna picked halfheartedly at the casserole—a dish that was usually one of her favorites. All the while she couldn’t help wondering if Butch was still mad at her about the model train situation. He said he wasn’t, but he still must be, she surmised. After all, he hadn’t bothered calling to remind her about having to eat early due to Jenny’s rehearsal. If he had, she could have come home earlier rather than waiting for Ross Connors to have the common decency to return her call. Now Joanna was home by herself when she didn’t especially want to be alone.

  No longer hungry, she divvied the remaining casserole on her plate into two portions and plopped them into the dog dishes. Uncharacteristically, Sadie showed no interest in the proffered treat. She stayed where she was, allowing Tigger to lick both dishes clean.

  Joanna leaned down and patted the bluetick hound on her smooth, round forehead. “We’re both a little out of sorts today, aren’t we, girl,” she said.

  Joanna spent the evening catching up on reading, watching the clock, and waiting for the telephone to ring. It was after nine before Butch’s Subaru finally pulled into the yard. Joanna and the dogs went out to greet the new arrivals.

  “How was rehearsal?” Joanna asked.

  “Awful,” Jenny said. “The show’s just two weeks away and most of the boys still don’t know their lines. It’s going to be a gigantic flop, Mom. I wish Miss Stammer would cancel it. We’re all going to be up on stage looking stupid.”

  “It’ll be fine, Jen,” Joanna reassured her, tousling Jenny’s blond curls. Behind Jenny’s back, Butch rolled his eyes and shook his head as if to say Jenny’s assessment was far closer to the truth than any motherly platitudes.

  Jenny took the dogs and went into the house. Joanna turned to Butch. “Is it really that bad?”

  “I’ll say,” Butch said.

  Joanna changed the subject. “You should have called and reminded me to come home early.”

  Butch reached into the car and removed the roll of blueprints that, these days, seemed to be a natural extension of his arm. When he turned to reply, he wasn’t smiling.

  “I had to remind you to come to lunch today,” he said. “I figured you were a big enough girl that you could decide when to come home for dinner on your own.”

  Ouch, Joanna thought.

  She followed him into the house and locked the back door once she was inside. Butch put the blueprints on the dining room table. Joanna thought he would unroll them and pore over them as he did almost every night. Instead he said, “I think I’ll turn in.”

  “You just got home,” Joanna objected. “Don’t you want to talk?”

  Butch shook his head. “I’m beat. Quentin and I have a meeting first thing in the morning. Night.”

  He gave Joanna a halfhearted peck on the cheek and left her standing in the middle of the dining
room. Rebuffed and hurt, Joanna returned to the kitchen. In a bid for sympathy, she had wanted to tell her husband about her day. She had wanted Butch to give her a loving pat and tell her that of course Ross Connors from Washington State was an unmitigated jerk. But Butch Dixon had surprised her. He had given her a cold shoulder rather than one to cry on.

  Joanna sulked in the kitchen for a while. Then, wanting to talk and thinking Butch must still be awake, she crept into the bedroom, only to find him snoring softly. So much for that! she thought.

  It was midnight before she finally went to bed and much later than that before she fell asleep. And overslept. If it hadn’t been for the telephone ringing at ten after eight the next morning, she might have missed the board of supervisors meeting altogether.

  “Hello,” she mumbled into the phone. Staring wide-eyed at the clock, she staggered out of bed. The caller ID box next to the phone said the number was unavailable. Taking the phone with her, she headed for the bathroom.

  “Sheriff Brady?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “My name’s Harry Eyeball and—”

  “Look, mister,” she said, cutting him off. “If this is some kind of joke—”

  “Believe me, Sheriff Brady, it’s no joke. My name is Harry, initial I, Ball. I’m with the Washington State Attorney General’s Special Homicide Investigation Team. I’m returning the call you made to Ross Connors yesterday afternoon.”

  “Oh, yes,” Joanna said. “I called about Latisha Wall.”

  “Making any progress?”

  Joanna bristled. “My call was to Mr. Connors,” Joanna said. “I’m not in the habit of discussing ongoing cases with people I don’t know.”

  “I just told you—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. Your name is Harry Ball. But I don’t know you from Adam’s Off Ox, Mr. Ball,” she said, resorting to one of her father-in-law’s favorite expressions. “My homicide detective, Jaime Carbajal, has been trying to contact Mr. Connors’s office for information regarding this case. Up to now there’s been no response.”

  “So Latisha Wall was murdered, then?”