Remains of Innocence

by J. A. Jance

  Deb’s brief description of the scene made it sound as though Guy Machett’s murder was anything but a random event. He’d been targeted by someone, but why? Was the cause to be found in his work life or in his personal life? Guy had always struck Joanna as an arrogant twit with a very high opinion of himself and his accomplishments and little regard for others. Joanna realized now that she had no idea who his friends or relations were. Was he married? Had he ever been married? He never failed to mention going to Harvard and getting his medical training at Johns Hopkins, but he’d made almost no mention of where he had grown up. In order to understand why the man was dead in the here and now, Joanna and her investigators would need an encyclopedic understanding of Guy Machett’s past and present.

  As Joanna approached the first Willcox exit, the Subaru’s fuel gauge showed she had less than a quarter of a tank left. She pulled off and stopped at the first gas station. She was reaching for the hose when her phone rang again. This time Claire Newmark’s name and number appeared on the screen.

  “We won’t be able to make this official until next week’s meeting,” Claire said, “but for right now, if you can talk Doc Winfield into coming back on a contract basis, you’re authorized to do so.”

  “All right,” Joanna said. “Thank you so much. George will be fine, but wish me luck with my mother.”

  “Always,” Claire said with a laugh.

  She was about to hang up when Joanna had a sudden stroke of inspiration. “Wait,” she said. “There’s one more thing.”

  “What?” Claire asked. The shortness of that clipped one-word question indicated that Claire Newmark felt she had already done more than her share of Cochise County business for a weekend afternoon.

  “When the board of supervisors hired Guy Machett to be the new M.E., did you run a background check on the man?”

  “Of course we did,” Claire answered. “We wouldn’t have been doing our due diligence if we hadn’t.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “We must. In fact, I might even have a copy of it on my laptop. Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve asked Dave Hollicker, one of my CSIs, to look into whatever there is to be found about Guy Machett. Having access to that background check would give us a huge leg up.”

  “But that was a confidential report,” Claire said, hesitating. “I’m not sure I can release it to just anyone.”

  “This is a homicide investigation,” Joanna reminded her. “Machett is dead, and I’m not asking you to release that report to just anyone. I want you to send it to Dave Hollicker, the criminalist I’ve assigned to look into Machett’s past. Using that report as a jumping-off point will save huge amounts of wasted time and effort. If you’re concerned about liability issues, check with the county attorney. Arlee Jones should be able to advise you on that.”

  “Okay,” Claire agreed. “I was looking through my files. It turns out I do have it. I’ll check with Arlee and then get back to you.”

  That was exactly how Joanna wanted it to work. In the complicated world of Cochise County bureaucracy, a request that came to Arlee Jones top down from a member of the board of supervisors was more likely to receive favorable treatment than one that came from Joanna. She was coming up on the end of her second term in office, and she had learned it was better to dodge certain obstacles than butt up against them.

  Having put that request out into the universe, Joanna finished filling the tank and got back into the car before taking a deep breath and punching in the number for her mother’s landline.

  “Good afternoon,” George Winfield boomed. “How are things in the world of barrel racing?”

  Grateful to hear her stepfather’s voice on the phone and not Eleanor’s, Joanna knew she was in the clear, but only temporarily.

  “We’ve got a homicide, George,” she said. “Alvin Bernard and I need you.”

  “Excuse me,” George said with a chuckle. “I believe you must have perfected the art of time travel. I’m not the medical examiner anymore. Guy Machett is.”

  “The problem is, Guy Machett is the victim,” Joanna explained. “I’m calling on behalf of the board of supervisors to ask if you’d consider coming back on a contract basis for however long it takes to work out some other more viable plan.”

  When George spoke again, he was no longer joking. “Where and when did he die?” George asked seriously. “And where and when do you need me?”

  “When is your call. As to where? The body was found at Machett’s house on the Vista over an hour ago after he failed to show up for a scheduled autopsy. I took the time to check with the board of supervisors before I called you. Claire Newmark just now got back to me with the okay. They’ll pay you the same rate they paid Pima County when they subbed for you a couple of years ago.”

  “How sure are you this is a murder?”

  “Deb Howell says that’s how it looks to her. I’m prepared to believe her, but I haven’t arrived at the scene yet. I’m coming from Silver City. I’m on I-10 west of Willcox, but I’ll be turning down 191 in a couple of minutes. Traffic is light. I’m making good progress.”

  For the longest time, there was dead silence on the phone. Joanna held her breath. If George turned her down, she was in trouble. She’d have to go crawling to Pima County. After already wasting an hour, she knew there was no telling how much longer it would take to get another medical examiner to the scene.

  Finally George spoke again. “Ellie is not going to like this. You do know that we’re supposed to leave for Minnesota next week?”

  “I do,” Joanna conceded, “and I didn’t suggest this to make your life miserable. I’m asking because I’m desperate, because I’ve got two deaths that both need investigating.”

  “Junior’s and this one?” George asked.

  “Right.”

  “I’ve got no equipment.”

  Joanna had sold insurance long enough to understand this as a pro forma objection. George had already said yes. Now he was merely haggling over the details. She went for the assumed close.

  “I’ll have Ralph Whetson, Guy’s assistant, meet you at the crime scene. He’ll bring along everything you need. Do you want me to talk to Mom about this?”

  “I’ll tell her myself,” George said, “but I expect you’ll be hearing from her soon.”

  Joanna barely had time to give Ralph Whetson the lowdown before Eleanor’s call came through.

  “My husband is supposed to be retired.” Eleanor launched into her tirade without bothering with the telephone nicety of saying hello. “You can’t just disrupt our lives willy-nilly. I have some say in the matter, you know, and I won’t stand still for this kind of treatment.”

  “We need him, Mom,” Joanna said as soothingly as she could manage. “Desperately. Did he tell you what’s happened?”

  “He said Guy Machett is dead.”

  “That’s true,” Joanna agreed. “Who knows how long it will take the board of supervisors to find a permanent replacement? In the meantime, without an M.E. available, my people can’t process the scene.”

  “Well, I guess you’ve got him,” Eleanor returned ruefully. The speed of her concession was one for the record books. “He took off like he’d been shot out of a damned cannon. He hasn’t moved that fast since last fall when he was chased by that swarm of yellow jackets, the ones that had taken up residence in his outdoor grill.” Eleanor paused. “You said two cases?”

  “Yes, Guy Machett’s case and Junior Dowdle’s.”

  “Well, then,” Eleanor said with a sniff, “if that’s the case, I suppose you really do need him, but I won’t have him taken advantage of, either. You promised to pay him a fair wage, right?”

  “Yes,” Joanna said. “I’ve already verified that with the board of supervisors.”

  “I guess that means he won’t be home for dinner.”

  “I don’t suppose he will,” Joanna agreed.

  Joanna hung up the phone with the sad realization that she wouldn’t be home
for dinner, either.

  CHAPTER 11

  LIZA LAY IN THE UPSTAIRS BUNK OVER THE CAB OF A RUMBLING Peterbilt and watched as the ribbon of asphalt that was westbound I-90 unspooled in front of her. She had lain there, awake and watchful, for hours as the gigantic rig lumbered through the late afternoon and on into the night.

  It turned out Candy Small’s underground railroad wasn’t a railroad at all. It was trucks, first the bread truck that was really nothing more than a delivery van and now this long-haul rig heading west. It had been a long day of riding and waiting. After exiting Candy’s Impala, Liza had spent several uncomfortable hours being bounced around in the back of Andrew McConnell’s van. He had finished his route in the early afternoon and immediately hustled Liza into his own car, a rusted-out Jeep.

  “Where to now?” she asked.

  “Next stop is Albany, New York,” he told her. “We work with a women’s shelter there. They’re the ones who put together the rest of the transportation package.”

  “You’ve done this before?”

  Andrew nodded. “More than once. Candy says most of the time cops can’t do much to help in domestic violence situations. When the best thing for someone to do is get out of Dodge, that’s when we step in.”

  Liza stole a self-conscious glance at the bruises Candy had deliberately planted on her upper arm. She could see now that his was an ingenious plan. Those telltale marks gave Liza a visible and perfectly understandable reason to be an anonymous woman fleeing for parts unknown. Those injuries apparently had also served to mobilize an invisible cadre of committed people who were willing to help domestic violence victims escape their tormentors and who would therefore respect Liza’s need for secrecy. She would leave behind no trail of plane, rail, or bus reservations or even gas station receipts that would reveal where she had gone.

  As far as her pursuers were concerned, it would seem she’d simply vanished into thin air. She couldn’t help but wonder, though. What would happen if some of Half-Moon Miller’s stray mobsters or even the cops caught wind of Andrew’s involvement? How much would it take for him to blurt out everything he knew?

  Andrew’s Jeep was noisy and came with a nonexistent suspension system. Even so, riding in the passenger seat of that was far more comfortable than bouncing around on the floor of the delivery van. It was comfortable enough that Liza actually dozed off. When she awakened nearly an hour later, they were pulling into the underground parking garage of a low-rise mixed-use building.

  “Take the elevator up to the first floor,” Andrew directed. “You’re looking for Aimee’s House of Beauty. Ask for Doreen. They’re expecting you.”

  “I thought you said you were taking me to a shelter,” Liza objected. “You’re dropping me off at a beauty shop?”

  “Trust me,” Andrew said. “If you want to disappear, this is the place to do it. Good luck.”

  Walking in the front door of the salon and dragging her precious roll-aboard behind her, Liza discovered that Aimee’s looked like any other beauty shop on the planet. A row of shampoo basins lined the back wall. Along the other walls were six separate operator chairs, five of which were occupied with customers. Liza stopped at the front desk and asked for Doreen. That transaction caused an immediate but subtle shift in the atmosphere of the room as everyone—beauticians and customers alike—glanced in her direction, while the young woman at the reception desk came to attention.

  “Of course,” she said. “Right this way. Doreen’s expecting you.”

  The receptionist hustled Liza past the other stations, through a curtained doorway, and into a back room, one that contained little else but another station complete with a chair and a shampoo bowl. A woman stepped forward to greet her, hand outstretched. “I’m Aimee,” she said.

  “What about Doreen?” Liza asked.

  Aimee gave her a wink accompanied by a conspiratorial smile. “There is no Doreen,” she explained. “It’s a code. I take it you’re Candy Small’s friend?”

  Liza nodded mutely.

  Aimee gave Liza a critical up-and-down appraisal. “Did you bring along any other clothes?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the roll-aboard. “Maybe something a little more comfortable?”

  Liza glanced down at the rumpled outfit she had worn to her mother’s funeral. More than twenty-four hours later, it was much the worse for wear. Then she looked guiltily at the suitcase. She suspected that most women fleeing abusive spouses did so with a suitcase full of spare clothing rather than one full of money.

  “Sorry,” she said quickly, making up the story as it tumbled off her lips. “My mother just died. My husband forbade me to go to the funeral. One of Mother’s friends brought some of her things to the funeral for me—photo albums and stuff. When I decided I was leaving, I couldn’t just abandon it. It’s all that’s left of my mother’s life.”

  It was a lie, of course, but it was also close enough to the truth to ring true.

  “Don’t worry,” Aimee said soothingly. “You’d be surprised how many women in your situation show up with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Believe me, we’re fully equipped. We’ve got a room down in the basement that’s full of donated clothing and toiletries. You’ll be able to find whatever you need there, including something suitable to wear and a bag to carry it in, too. Right now, let’s work on your hair. You left home today as an abused wife. Right now you’re a brunette with a long ponytail. I could probably turn you into a blonde, but there’s another option I’ve found to be faster and more effective.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’ll turn you into a cancer patient.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People don’t stare at cancer patients,” Aimee said. “It’s not polite. If we shave your head and give you a scarf to wear, I promise people will do their best not to look at you. That includes anyone who is actually looking for you. Of course, if you don’t want to do something that drastic . . .”

  Liza thought about Olivia lying dead on the stairway. The people who had murdered her landlady were also looking for her. In other words, drastic was exactly what was called for. “Shave away,” she said.

  Liza’s transformation took less than an hour. Once her head was completely bald, Aimee spent the next twenty minutes demonstrating how to properly wrap her bare skull in a bright blue silk scarf. Looking at her unfamiliar reflection in the mirror, Liza was stunned by the difference.

  “Amazing,” she murmured.

  “Wardrobe is next,” Aimee announced. “Come on.”

  Liza followed her guide out into the corridor and down in the elevator to an underground storage area that had been cordoned off from the parking level. Inside was a room that looked like a department store’s bargain basement. Racks of clothing filled the center of the space. Glass-topped counters along the sides of the room were stocked with everything from toothbrushes and dental floss to compacts and multiple shades of lipstick. Aimee stopped just inside the door and handed Liza an athletic bag she took down from a nearby shelf.

  “You’ll be able to carry this on top of your roll-aboard,” she explained. “Fill it with what you need, but be sparing. In your situation, traveling light is better than being bogged down with too much luggage. As I said, don’t take too much and don’t take too long,” she added, glancing at her watch. “This is a well-oiled machine. We’re due to meet up with your ride at four o’clock. Do you have somewhere to go?”

  “I have a brother in Arizona,” Liza said.

  “Okay, tell your drivers your general direction,” Aimee advised. “Don’t give them too many details. In fact, it might be better to say you’re going to California. That way, if your ex does come looking for you, it’ll be harder for him to pick up your trail. You’ll start out on I-90. Go west on that until you want to turn south. This is a tag-team operation. The drivers of one truck will hook you up with the next one.”

  Liza was no stranger to thrift shop shopping. The process took her straight back to her c
hildhood. She had spent most of her school years buying her clothing from other people’s castoffs at the thrift stores both before and after Selma became a hermit. The differences between those trips and this one weren’t lost on Liza. Then she had been resentful and angry. This time she was supremely grateful.

  Liza spent the better part of an hour on her “shopping” spree. The racks and furnishings in the place looked as though they’d been liberated from a shut-down JCPenney store. Deep drawers that had once stocked lingerie for sale now stocked the same items for free. The selection of bras and panties came in a variety of sizes and, although donated, they were clearly new, most of them with price tags still attached. Liza had no problem finding some that fit. For clothing she settled on two pairs of worn jeans and several different T-shirts.

  The far end of the room featured several racks of shoes. Liza looked through the section marked size eight and happily traded in her worse-for-wear heels for a pair of leather sandals. At the purse counter she emptied the contents of her own purse—a bargain basement last year’s model from Marshall’s—for a slightly used but still serviceable Coach bag. She had always longed for a Coach bag but had never imagined coming into possession of one, especially not under these circumstances, as someone on the run.

  On their way out of the dressing room, Aimee handed Liza two more silk scarves—one red and the other bright yellow. “Variety’s the spice of life, you know,” she said with a smile as Liza tucked the silk pieces into the top of her now bulging athletic bag.

  As a last order of business, Aimee opened a file drawer, took out a black, no-frills cell phone, and handed it over.