by J. A. Jance
“Wait a minute. Did you say the person who hired you was a woman—female?”
“Yes, I did,” Fredericks replied. “She was quite a bit older than I was, but good-looking. Now that I think about it, women who have money to burn always seem to be good-looking, even when they aren’t. Once she gave me that first five thousand dollars in cash as a down payment, I thought she was good for it and that I’d get the rest of it later.
“Of course, for me there was no later. I was in jail. When I tried to track her down, she didn’t exist. She had given me a phony name—Liz Hanson—and a phony address along with the phony bar in Guaymas. Besides, no one believed me anyway. If anyone went looking for her, I doubt they tried very hard. I didn’t, either. For one thing, I was in jail. I had killed a cop. The judge offered me bail, but I had no way of raising the money. So I sat there and thought about what I had done. I decided that I was going to take my medicine—plead guilty, go to jail, and pay my debt to society. Even before I went to Florence, I had made up my mind that when I got out, I was going to turn my life around, and I did.
“Once I was out of prison, my brother, my parents, and my grandparents all pitched in to help me buy my first truck. The only truck I could afford at the time was a used equipment hauler, so that’s the business I went into—hauling oversize equipment. My family stayed in the background as silent partners. As I did well, they did well, too. I’ve made plenty of donations to charity over the years. I always try to make them in five-thousand-dollar increments as a reminder that I need to give that amount back, over and over.”
“So you’re saying that five-thousand-dollar down payment was all you ever got? You never got the rest of your money?”
“Never, but you see, that didn’t matter. Being sent to prison was what I needed. It’s what it took to straighten me out. If I hadn’t gone to jail, I’d probably be dead by now. I certainly wouldn’t be talking to you on the phone.”
“So how did you manage to make a fortune in the equipment-hauling business?” Joanna asked.
“By doing the best job I could for the lowest possible price. I always tried to bid low and do a top-dollar job. It paid off.”
“You did work for mining companies?”
“I probably worked for all of them at one time or another,” Fredericks said.
“Does the name Wayne Stevens ring a bell?”
“Not that I can think of. Why?”
“He was the superintendent of the mines here in Bisbee. He never steered any business in your direction?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Tell me about the woman who hired you.”
“She told me her name was Liz Hanson.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“At a bar in Sierra Vista—the Sundowner. It’s long gone now. A few years after I got out of prison, I tried tracking her down. I just wanted to know who she was, but I was never able to find her.”
Liz, Joanna was thinking, as in Elizabeth Stevens, maybe? Suddenly Fredericks’s story was starting to make a lot more sense.
“Did she ever say what she had against the supposedly crooked cop?”
“Some kind of family problem. Something to do with a teenage daughter, I think. She was a little vague about that. I figured the guy had probably knocked up the kid.”
“If I could show you a photo of someone named Liz, would you recognize her?”
“I don’t know if I’d recognize her now. After all, it’s been more than twenty years, but I do have one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The note she gave me with the down payment.”
“A handwritten note? You still have it?”
“It says, ‘There’s ten more where this came from.’ Once I got out of prison, I had it laminated so I could keep it in my wallet. It’s still there. It’s one way of making sure I never forget where I came from.”
Joanna took a deep breath. “If I could locate this Liz person, would you be willing to testify as to her part in the conspiracy to kill my father?”
“Absolutely, Sheriff Brady,” Dave Fredericks said. “The law says I’ve paid my debt to society, but I don’t believe it’s true. I owe that much to you, and I certainly owe it to your mother.”
CHAPTER 28
JOANNA WENT TO BED RIGHT AFTER THAT. NOT SURPRISINGLY, SHE didn’t go to sleep—at least not right away. She lay awake thinking about her mother and Mona Tipton. Her father had assumed Eleanor knew nothing about his indiscretion, but it turned out that assumption was wrong. Eleanor had known enough to ban Mona from attending D. H. Lathrop’s funeral. Which brought Joanna right back to Nelda Muncey. How much had she known, and when had she known it?
Butch was right, of course. Bringing all this up and having the late Mad Dog labeled as a confessed killer was bound to bring plenty of heartache into Nelda Muncey’s life, but maybe not as much as might be expected. What if she had known about it all along—like Eleanor had known about Mona? Looking at it that way, Joanna was finally able to go to sleep.
She slept because she had finally decided what she was going to do, and she was at peace about it. Her father had been right, this was a judgment call. She was making it—for him, for Fred and Abby Holder, and maybe even for Nelda Muncey.
When Joanna emerged from the bedroom showered and dressed the next morning, breakfast was well under way. “Your oatmeal is in the microwave,” Butch told her as she poured a mug of coffee. “What time is the morning briefing?”
“Eight,” she said.
“You have time then. Carol will get Jenny and the boys down to the bus stop.”
The luxury of Butch usually having breakfast on the table when she came out of the bedroom was one of the side benefits of being married to the man, and one that she didn’t take for granted, either. She zapped her oatmeal long enough to reheat it, then brought it to the table.
“You must have been awake a lot last night,” Butch observed. “When I got out of bed, you were still sound asleep.”
“I tossed and turned some,” Joanna admitted, “but I’m good now.”
“You’ve made up your mind about what you’re going to do?”
She nodded.
“You’re not going to tell me?”
She shook her head. “No, because you might not approve.”
“Okay then,” Butch said. “I hope it works. Be safe out there.”
Joanna arrived at the Justice Center with five minutes to spare. She and her people were gathering in the conference room when Arlee Jones bounded into the room hours earlier than his usual Justice Center arrival time. He looked rumpled and disheveled—as though he had slept in his clothes—but there was no mistaking the triumphant look on his face.
“Got it,” he said gleefully, slapping a sheaf of papers down on the table. “Signed, sealed, and delivered, complete with a handwritten confession and a plea agreement. Mr. Cameron claims he did it because, according to him, it was all his sister’s fault that their father killed himself. He came here looking to hold her accountable for destroying their family. He’s convinced that since there was never a trial about Daddy being a spy, his father was innocent. By the same token, I’m sure he’s convinced that by doing a plea bargain, he’s no more guilty than his father was.”
“He really is a nutcase then,” Joanna observed.
“Probably,” Arlee agreed, “but what matters is that he took the deal. He was more than ready to kill other people, but he isn’t willing to face the death penalty himself.”
“His grandmother called him a coward to his face,” Deb said. “She was right.”
“Works for me,” Arlee said. “Now I’m heading home to get some sleep. I haven’t done an all-nighter like this since I was in law school.”
He hustled out then, leaving the conference room in stunned silence. Deb Howell summed it up in a single word. “Unbelievable,” she said, shaking her head, and that pretty well covered it. There was a palpable feeling of letdown in the room. Everyone had co
me to the staff meeting prepared to go to war, only to find that Arlee Jones had stolen their thunder.
“So it’s back to business as usual,” Joanna said after a moment’s pause. “I want you to pull your paperwork together. It’s time to do CYA in a big way. Let’s be sure that everything we did or didn’t do is properly documented. The county attorney seems to think that once he has his plea bargain in place, there’s no way it’ll be appealed or reversed. Unfortunately, in my experience, Arlee Jones doesn’t always have all his ducks in a row.”
Joanna turned to Tom Hadlock. “In other words, we still want to have that DNA report from the crime lab as soon as we can get it. We still want to connect all the dots on Debra Highsmith’s murder and on Maggie Oliphant’s.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“Did you go by TMC last night?”
Tom nodded. “Michael Hirales was flying back to Albuquerque from Tucson. He needed to be in class this morning. Sue Ellen is staying in Tucson for the duration. Isadora’s surgery is scheduled for sometime today. It’s probably happening as we speak. She signed over a power of attorney to Michael. That way he and Sue Ellen will be able to start making final arrangements for Debra Highsmith.”
“Speaking of which, what’s happening on that?” Joanna asked.
Jaime raised his hand. “Machett already released Debra Highsmith’s body to the Higgins Funeral Home. They’re expecting that the funeral or memorial service or whatever will be held sometime later this week, possibly in the high school auditorium.”
Tom Hadlock nodded. “We won’t know about Maggie Oliphant’s arrangements until after her daughter arrives in town later today.”
The remainder of the meeting was devoted to routine issues. When it was over and people started filing out, Joanna asked Deb Howell to hold up.
“What do you need?” Deb asked.
“I want you to do something for me,” Joanna said. “I want you to go up to the Bisbee Bee and see if they have any stock photos of Elizabeth Stevens, preferably something from twenty-five or thirty years or so ago. She and her husband were in the top stratum of Bisbee society, so there should be pictures of them at events—balls at the country club or charity events of one kind or another.”
“Elizabeth Stevens?” Deb asked. “Why?”
“It’s a piece of unfinished business,” Joanna replied. “Once you find one of her, I want you to locate photos of four other women taken around the same time so they’re more or less contemporary in terms of clothing and hairstyles. Have them blown up so they’re all the same size.”
“This sounds suspiciously like we’re putting together a photo montage.”
“We are,” Joanna said, “but don’t mention that to Marliss Shackleford.”
“Once I have the photos, what happens then?” Deb asked.
“Call me,” Joanna answered. “By then I’ll know what the next step is.”
“You’ve got it, boss,” Deb said. “On my way.”
“I’m going to be out for a while,” Joanna told Kristin as she headed from the conference room to her office.
“Any idea about when you’ll be back?”
“None,” Joanna said. “I may be gone for the rest of the day.”
“What about calls from the media?”
“Send them to Chief Deputy Hadlock. Ball’s back in his court.”
Before Joanna headed out, she was forced to resort to using an old-fashioned phone book to locate Nelda Muncey’s address. With that in hand, Joanna let herself out through the back door, got in the Yukon, and headed for Briggs. The house was situated on Cottonwood Street. An aging Honda sedan parked in the driveway served notice that Nelda Muncey was home, and the blue handicapped sticker dangling from the rearview mirror went a long way toward explaining why the tiny front yard was a weed-choked wasteland.
When the houses in Briggs and Galena had been built as company housing in the fifties, it was during a period when modest two- and three-bedroom bungalows were the order of the day. Stepping up on the small front porch, Joanna realized that Nelda Muncey’s home was still a modest bungalow. A sign over the doorbell said it was out of order, so Joanna rapped sharply on a front door marred by sun-damaged varnish. There was a long pause before she heard movement inside the house. Finally the door cracked open.
“Who is it?”
“Sheriff Brady, Mrs. Muncey,” Joanna said. “May I come in?”
There was no reply, only the sound of movement again as the woman walked away from the door, which remained open.
Joanna gave it a small push and opened it wider. “May I come in?”
“Help yourself.” It was a grudging invitation, but an invitation nonetheless.
The living room Joanna entered was small and shabby and dimly lit. The faded flower pattern on the wooden-armed sofa was barely discernible. There was a battered wooden coffee table, covered with outdated magazines. Nelda Muncey sat in one of those ejection-seat recliners with a walker and several TV trays positioned close at hand. One held a collection of prescription medications; one held a coffee cup and a thermos of coffee; while the third held a Kindle.
Nelda caught Joanna eyeing the one thing in the room that didn’t match.
“I love to read,” she explained, “but these days it’s hard to get out to buy books or even go to the library. By the way, I read your husband’s first book,” Nelda added. “Liked the story, don’t much like his name. It must have been hell growing up with a fruity name like Gayle.”
Because Butch’s fictional protagonist was female, both his agent and his editor had advised him to use a non-gender-specific pen name—Gayle Dixon rather than Frederick W. or even FW. Joanna was already feeling ill at ease due to the nature of her business with Nelda, and the woman’s unsolicited comments about Butch and his work didn’t improve things. Besides, Joanna thought, how could a woman who had spent her married life with a guy named Mad Dog have nerve enough to complain about someone else’s name?
“I’ll pass that along,” Joanna said. “May I sit down?”
Nelda gestured toward the couch. “As I said before, help yourself.”
Joanna sat. Nelda was a relatively thin woman who, Joanna assumed from the extra folds of skin on her chin and neck, had once been far larger than she was now. She was dressed in a pair of knit pants topped by a brightly flowered print blouse. On her feet were a pair of bright green high-topped Keds. Maybe wearing running shoes was her way of thumbing her nose at the fact that she was now reduced to using a walker. Her thin white hair was pulled back in a pair of long, neat braids that wrapped around her head. Nelda might have had trouble walking, but braiding evidently wasn’t a problem. She peered at Joanna inquisitively through a pair of thick glasses.
“What’s this all about?” Nelda asked.
“It’s about my father,” Joanna said.
Nelda nodded but said nothing.
“I believe he came to the hospital to see your husband a few days before he died.”
“Before they both died,” Nelda pointed out. “Your father died on Saturday. Edward died a week later, also on a Saturday.”
Edward? Joanna wondered. That was the first time she had ever heard or known Mad Dog Muncey’s first name.
“Did you have any idea what they talked about?”
“Of course I knew,” Nelda said. “I’m not stupid, you know. They talked about Fred Holder’s death and my husband’s part in it.”
“As in the fact that he was responsible?”
“Yes, he was.” It was a definitive statement.
“I was under the impression that you were out of the room when my father talked to your husband.”
“Believe me, that wasn’t the only time Edward talked about it,” Nelda said. “The new minister we had at the church back then convinced him that confession was good for the soul. He talked about things right and left, but only to me and to your father. He wanted to die with a clear conscience, you see. Clearing his conscience may have been good for Ed
ward. It wasn’t much of a favor to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, Sheriff Brady. You know how this works. A husband goes out catting around, he dies, and his widow is left holding the bag with whatever emotional damage his clearing his conscience may have left behind in her life.”
“I thought we were talking about Fred Holder’s death.”
“We are,” Nelda said. “Why do you think Edward did it? Oldest reason in the book. Because he was having an affair with Elizabeth Stevens, and whatever she wanted, she got.”
“Did Mr. Stevens know about it?”
“Maybe,” Nelda said. “Wayne Stevens had a serious problem—a wife who was several years younger than he was and a growing problem with not being able to get it up. At least that’s what Elizabeth told Edward. Back then there was no such thing as Viagra. Wayne Stevens gave Elizabeth her head and let her do whatever she wanted because he didn’t want to lose her and he didn’t want word to get out that he wasn’t man enough to keep his woman.”
“You’re saying Elizabeth Stevens is the one who hired your husband to kill Fred Holder?”
“That’s what he told me. That she paid him cash money for doing the job. He went right out and splurged—bought himself that Pontiac and never had a moment’s peace with it, either. That thing was a lemon from day one. Served him right.”
“When my father died, only a few days later, why didn’t you come forward?” Joanna asked.
“Why do you think?” Nelda asked in return. “He and Edward were both gone. It was over. I had no way of proving what Edward had told me. Besides, I had a lot of things on my plate at the time. If someone had come around asking me about it, I might have told them, but since no one ever did, I saw no reason for me to bring it up.”
“Because you didn’t want to deal with the whole tawdry affair,” Joanna suggested.
Nelda nodded. “There was more to it than just that. When I realized Edward was dying, I knew money would be tight, so I went looking for a job. A few weeks earlier I had managed to land a job as a part-time checkout clerk at the company store. How long do you think that job would have lasted if I had blown the whistle on Edward and Elizabeth? Wayne Stevens would have had me fired in a heartbeat if I had gone to the new sheriff with that unsubstantiated story. Besides, what good would that have done? I didn’t have any more proof than your father did about what had happened, and I had a whole lot less credibility. It would have been my word against Elizabeth Stevens’s. You know how that would have gone over.”
