by J. A. Jance
“You can’t park there,” she said, pointing a finger at the offending Tahoe. “Didn’t you read the sign? Everybody thinks they can park here for free.”
Joanna pulled out her badge wallet. “This is police business,” she said. “I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady and this is Homicide Detective Deb Howell. We need to speak to one of your guests.”
“You must mean Richard Reed,” the woman said. “He’s the only guest staying here at the moment.”
With that, she darted down the steep flight of steps with all the grace of a bighorn sheep. The muscles on her calves looked like she did those stairs, all of them, several times a day with no apparent difficulty.
“Is that his car?” Joanna pointed at the rusty VW.
“No. That’s mine. Mr. Reed is driving a Honda, a blue CR-V with California plates. Since his car isn’t here, he’s probably out painting somewhere, or maybe not painting since today is the last day of the conference. He’s due to check out tomorrow, but I can tell you for sure that he isn’t in his room right now. I was just up there changing the bedding and replacing his towels.”
“I’m sorry,” Joanna said. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Denise,” she said, holding out a tanned, leather-tough hand. “Denise Fuller. My partner and I are relatively new here in town.”
“You’re sure Mr. Reed’s vehicle had California plates?” Joanna asked.
“Absolutely.” With that Denise Fuller reached into an invisible pocket and withdrew an iPhone. “I can even give you the number on the plate.”
With just that much notice Deb had a notebook and pen in hand, ready to take dictation. Denise read off the plate number while Deb wrote it down.
“I always keep a list with me so I can be sure that the people parking here are registered guests,” Denise explained. “There isn’t much parking on this street, and I make it my business to make sure that what’s on the registration form matches what’s on the vehicle. With Mr. Reed, for example, I discovered that he had inadvertently transposed two letters. Maybe he’s dyslexic or something. I’ve done that myself on occasion.”
From across the canyon, Joanna heard the sound of a wailing siren on some emergency vehicle. She knew what county sirens sounded like and the sirens on the local ambulance service. This was most likely a City of Bisbee patrol car. That meant whatever was happening was the city’s problem, not hers.
Joanna gave Deb a brief nod. Understanding Joanna’s unspoken command to check out the vehicle registration, the detective took herself out of the conversation, heading for the Tahoe with her phone to her ear. Meanwhile Joanna turned back to Denise Fuller.
“So the number you just gave Detective Howell is the one on Mr. Reed’s vehicle, not the one on his registration form?”
Denise Fuller smiled a toothy smile. “They’re both the same now,” she said. “I fixed the registration form.”
A second siren joined the first, and maybe that of an ambulance as well, both of them echoing back and forth across the narrow confines of Tombstone Canyon.
Joanna shut out the noise and concentrated on Denise Fuller. “You’re telling us that Mr. Reed has been here all week?” Joanna asked.
“Let’s just say he paid for the whole week,” Denise said with a knowing wink. “From the looks of the bedding, I’d say he hasn’t been here much of the time. Some people rent rooms from us and then don’t want to admit that they can’t handle going up and down those seventy-eight stairs. I do it every day, carrying loads of laundry back and forth. I’m used to it. I’m guessing Mr. Reed wasn’t willing to admit that and ended up finding somewhere else to stay that didn’t entail climbing stairs. Part of the problem is the altitude. People come here thinking that Bisbee is in the desert. They don’t realize that it’s a mile-high desert.”
Down by the Tahoe, Deb Howell was nodding emphatically. Then she looked up, caught Joanna’s eye, and motioned for her to come. Immediately.
“What?” Joanna said as Debra held the phone away from her ear, motioning that she was on hold.
“Margaret Mendoza just got a name on that plate number. You’re not going to believe it.”
“What?”
“Richard Reed’s CR-V is registered to one James Gunnar Cameron of Palo Alto, California,” Deb said. “Wasn’t Cameron Isadora’s former daughter-in-law’s maiden name, the one she took back when she returned to Indiana?”
Joanna felt the blood drain from her face. “You mean Richard Reed is really Debra Highsmith’s long-lost half brother, Isadora’s grandson?”
“That’s how it looks. With a name like Gunnar, it couldn’t very well be anyone but him, could it? But what’s he doing here?” Deb asked. “Why here? Why now?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Joanna answered. “He came here to kill his sister.”
“How did he find her?” Deb asked. She signaled to Joanna that Margaret Mendoza was back on the line.
“Okay,” she said into the phone. “No criminal record other than traffic infractions. You can get me a list of those later. In the meantime, give me his address.” Joanna waited while Deb scribbled a long series of notes.
Joanna thought back to everything they had learned about the man known as Richard Reed. He had come to the Plein Air conference at the last minute, apparently dropping everything to come for a weeklong stay. Paying cash for his tuition. Paying cash for his room. Coming to town under a pseudonym. Pretending to be an artist when he wasn’t even a talented amateur. It was all beginning to add up, and Joanna didn’t like where it was going.
By then Joanna had her own iPhone out and was googling James Gunnar Cameron. He turned out to be Professor James Cameron of Stanford University, with a doctorate in computer science engineering, one of the country’s best-known experts in developing facial recognition software.
Over the years Joanna had taken several continuing education classes that dealt with cold cases—cases that involved using artistic techniques to artificially age both suspects and missing persons. The resulting sketches had shown how someone might look decades after they had disappeared from view. What Joanna had learned in those classes was that although facial features changed over time, the foundations did not; the basic bone structure did not. If James Gunnar Cameron, once James Creswell, was an expert in facial recognition …
Then it came to her. Only a few weeks earlier, Marty Pembroke’s “Die, Bitch” video had shown up on YouTube. The video that had gone viral. Nobody had needed to be listed as Marty’s friend on Facebook to watch it. The video had been out there on the Internet for all to see. Suddenly Debra Highsmith, a woman who had done her best to keep her presence out of all kinds of electronic media, was all over it. If Jimmy had been prowling the Internet systematically, using facial recognition software in hopes of locating his sister, Martin Pembroke’s video meant he had finally hit pay dirt. Once he had done that, he moved heaven and earth to come to Bisbee. To murder his long-lost sister? Why? What kind of sense did that make?
While Joanna had been lost in thought, the two sirens had turned into a cacophony. It seemed as though every emergency vehicle inside the city had suddenly been summoned to some incident down on Main Street, where they had converged in a spot that was totally invisible behind a collection of intervening buildings.
Deb was still on the phone with Records. “Switch over to Tica if you can,” Joanna suggested, almost having to shout over the racket of the continuing emergency response. “See if she knows what’s going on here in Old Bisbee. Find out if they need officers from my department to render assistance.”
It took longer than Joanna would have expected to get through to Dispatch.
“Hey, Tica,” Deb began. Then she fell utterly silent. A moment later, she handed the phone over to Joanna. “You need to hear this,” she said.
The dismayed look on Detective Howell’s ashen face spoke volumes. Joanna took the phone at once. “What?” she said.
“There’s been a carjacking at the Copper Queen,”
Tica said. “The hotel, not the hospital. An elderly woman was sitting in a limo while the driver carried her bags into the lobby. While the driver’s back was turned, someone jumped into the limo and took off in it with the woman still inside. So far the woman hasn’t been identified,” Tica continued.
Maybe no one else knew who the victim was, but Joanna did. How many limos were dropping elderly passengers off at the Copper Queen Hotel on that particular day?
“We’re hearing all kinds of sirens …”
“The carjacker raced away from the hotel. First he turned down Subway, then he ran the stop sign at Main Street. Halfway up the street he lost control for some reason. He drove the limo up onto the sidewalk and smashed into a group of pedestrians who were gathered outside one of the galleries. The scene is chaotic. One suspected fatality and several injuries, some of them serious. EMTs are on the scene. More are coming.”
“What about the limo?”
“Hit-and-run. The guy stepped on the gas and kept right on going. One of the victims didn’t fall off the hood of the limo until it rounded the curve up by Castle Rock. He’s the fatality.”
“You put out an APB?” Joanna asked.
“Already done. That’s what I was doing when Deb was trying to call in.”
“I want every available officer we have on alert to help with this, whether they’re currently on duty or not,” Joanna ordered. “How long ago did it happen?”
“The first call came in to 911 seven minutes ago.”
Joanna thought about times and distances. If the guy was northbound through town, the first turnoff would have been at the top of Tombstone Canyon where Cameron could get on Highway 80 in either direction—northbound or southbound. Enough time had already elapsed that he would already have reached that intersection. If he had turned southbound, even on the highway he wouldn’t have had enough time to get all the way back downtown.
“We need roadblocks, ASAP,” Joanna said into the phone. “Where’s Jaime?”
“Back at his desk, I think.”
“Tell him to take one other officer and set up a roadblock at Lavender Pit. If the guy doubles back through town on the highway, we need to nail him before he gets to Lowell or the Traffic Circle. From there, the bad guy will have a lot more choices and be harder to find. Call Chief Deputy Hadlock at home and let him know we need him to come in and hold down the fort. Call me back after that.”
By then Deb was already at the wheel, with the engine running. “Where to?” she asked as Joanna jumped into the passenger seat. Joanna’s Yukon was still parked at Horace Mann. With traffic on Main Street stopped, it might have been possible to go up and over School Hill to get it, but she didn’t want to take the time.
“Go out to the highway and head north.”
With no further urging, Deb charged out of the Miner’s Camp parking lot with her lights flashing and siren blaring. The intersection to the highway was only a block or so behind them, but at that point OK Street was a narrow one-way road, going in the wrong direction. A blind curve at the entrance to the street made going the wrong way out of the question. The last thing they needed to do was crash into someone coming up the hill.
“He’s got too much of a head start,” Deb objected. “We’ll never catch him.”
“Try,” Joanna urged.
As Detective Howell maneuvered up the narrow, shoulder-free street and down the hair-raising curves of Youngblood Hill, Joanna held on to the grab bar for dear life. As they started down Brewery Gulch, Tica called back. “Detective Carbajal and Deputy Ruiz are on their way to the Pit,” Tica said, “with an ETA of two minutes out.”
Joanna looked at her watch. “Good enough,” she said. “That should work.”
“Chief Deputy Hadlock is on his way in. Is there anything else you need?”
“Who’s coming from Sierra Vista on Highway 90?”
“That would be Deputy Stock. He’s just leaving Sierra Vista now.”
“Have him set up a roadblock east of the San Pedro River. He should be able to get that far before the carjacker does. Then call the Border Patrol. We’ll use their inspection station at Davis Road as our northbound roadblock. Tell everyone concerned that the carjacker is a suspect in not one but two homicides, and that the woman in the car with him is the grandmother of one of the victims. He is definitely to be considered armed and dangerous.”
Joanna had worked hard to maintain a good rapport with the local Border Patrol guys. Whatever the head honchos in D.C. might do or say, the guys on the ground knew Sheriff Brady on an up-close and personal basis. When she asked for something, they paid attention.
“Tell Chief Deputy Hadlock to have everyone else stand by. If Chief Bernard says he needs assistance, we’ll give him whatever he needs.”
“He already asked,” Tica said. “He needs people to divert traffic away from the downtown area. We’ve got people on their way there now.”
Approaching the tunnel, Deb slowed and pulled over to the shoulder. Joanna watched as two speeding ambulances, sirens screaming, burst onto the highway from the entrance ramp behind them and then headed north, taking injury victims to other hospitals. The most seriously affected were likely headed for the trauma center at University Medical Center in Tucson. They were not Joanna’s concern. Her problem was James Gunnar Cameron. Where was he going, and how much time did they have?
Joanna was convinced that time was running out for Isadora Creswell. If her grandson had his way, Jimmy’s reunion with his grandmother was destined to end the same way the reunion with his long-lost sister had ended. Debra Highsmith was already dead; soon Isadora would be, too. Unless a miracle happened, Isadora Creswell was doomed.
“I’m sure we’ve missed them,” Detective Howell said. “What do you want me to do now?”
“Pull over here,” Joanna said, pointing to a parking spot in a decommissioned rest area.
“He’s driving a limo,” Deb said. “That should be easy to spot. He’s never going to get away with this. You’ve got roadblocks everywhere. We’re bound to catch him.”
It took a moment for Deb’s words to sink in. When they did, Joanna was left feeling sick to her stomach.
“Maybe that’s it,” she said. “Maybe James Cameron has zero intention of getting away. That puts every police officer who comes across this guy in mortal danger.”
Which made an already bad situation that much worse. If Cameron had made up his mind that he was on his way out, the only question was, how many people would he take with him?
CHAPTER 23
JOANNA AND DEB HOWELL SAT IN THE CAR FOR A FEW MOMENTS. Joanna appreciated the silence. It gave her time to think. Seconds later, inspiration hit. Maybe someone could get a line on the limo’s GPS.
She called Tica back. “Is the limo driver still at the hotel?”
“As far as I know.”
“Give me the number of the hotel.”
Once Joanna had the number, she dialed it. After several rings someone answered.
“This is Sheriff Joanna Brady. Is the limo driver still there?”
“He’s busy. He’s talking to a Chief Bernard right now. I’m not sure I should interrupt.”
“Let me talk to Chief Bernard, then. It’s important.”
A moment later Alvin Bernard came on the phone. “Joanna, what’s up?” he asked. “Do you really think the carjacker is the killer?”
“Yes, I do. How did he pull off the carjacking?”
“He was evidently sitting on the patio having a leisurely breakfast or brunch or whatever. When the limo pulled up, he waited until the driver went inside, then he jumped over the barrier and took off.”
“So he knew she was going there. How?”
“The clerk says someone called earlier to ask if Ms. Creswell had checked in yet. When she told him no, he declined to leave a message.”
“Because he was the message,” Joanna said.
“So who is this guy? What’s he up to?”
“Isadora Creswell is
Debra Highsmith’s grandmother. James Cameron, the carjacker, is Debra’s half brother and Isadora’s grandson. He signed up as one of the Plein Air artists under the name Richard Reed, but that was all a cover to get close to Debra. He killed his sister, and I believe he intends to knock off Isadora, too. Maggie Oliphant was collateral damage. She had to go when she discovered late yesterday afternoon that Richard Reed didn’t exist. James Cameron registered for the conference under an assumed name.”
“In other words, if we don’t find him right away, the old woman is a goner.”
“Exactly.”
“We’re already working on that,” Chief Bernard said. “The limo isn’t equipped with a GPS, but the driver’s phone is. That was left on the front seat. We’ve got someone from the Department of Public Safety working with the cell phone provider to see if they can triangulate the position on the cell phone. If he didn’t throw it out, that is. In the meantime, where are you?”
“On the far side of the tunnel.”
“Tica told me that you had roadblocks set up everywhere, but that so far there’s no sign of him.”
“That’s the problem,” Joanna said. “What if he isn’t going anywhere? He took Debra out into the desert to kill her. If he’s doing the same thing with Isadora, somewhere between here and the San Pedro River or this side of Tombstone, there’s nothing but wide-open spaces.”
“Yes, but it’s broad daylight,” Chief Bernard replied. “Most of the roads out there lead to ranches or houses. We’re putting out a news bulletin to all the media for people to be on the lookout for this guy. He’s bound to turn up.”
“How bad is it there?” Joanna asked.
“On the scene? One guy dead. Two critically injured are being transported by helicopter, but we have to get them down to the hospital here before that can happen. They’re being transported to Tucson. Four more with serious injuries. Two are on their way to Sierra Vista. The other two are going to the hospital here.”
