Rattlesnake Crossing : A Joanna Brady Mystery (9780061766183)

by Jance, Judith A.

  Not wanting to broadcast everything that had gone on over the police band, she used her cell phone to check in with the office. She wasn’t surprised to hear that everyone was out. In fact, considering that week’s impossible caseload, Joanna would have been disappointed if her officers hadn’t been.

  “I can have one of them call you as soon as they show up,” Kristin Marsten offered.

  “No,” Joanna said. “Don’t bother. I’ll be there in person soon enough. One other thing, though. Did Stu Farmer leave an envelope for me? It was supposed to be on your desk when you came in this morning.”

  “It was there, all right,” Kristin answered. “There was a piece of paper inside with Clyde Philips’ name on it, and nothing else. It’s a rap sheet with nothing on it.”

  “Nothing? Not even a minor vehicle mishap?”

  “Nothing at all. I figured you’d know what it means.”

  “I’m afraid I do,” Joanna said grimly. “It means there’s a serious problem in my department, and I’m going to fix it.”

  When her cell phone rang barely a minute later, Joanna assumed one of her several officers had turned up at the Justice Complex and was returning her call. She was startled to hear a man she didn’t know announce himself to be Forrest L. Breen, FBI Agent in Charge, Phoenix.

  “Monty Brainard must have called you,” she said. “He told me he was going to.”

  “Yes,” Breen replied. “With some wild-assed idea about your department wanting to borrow some weapons. Fifty-calibers, I believe.”

  “Well, I—”

  “I told him I’d get back to you, Sheriff Brady. I can see from the news reports that you and your people have your hands full right now, but you have to understand the agency’s position. If you want to call us in officially, that’s one thing. I can have people there in jig time. But the other is out of the question. Bisbee and Phoenix may be from the same state, but we’re not exactly neighbors. And borrowing a fifty-caliber weapon isn’t the same thing as borrowing a lawn mower or a cup of sugar. You do understand what I’m saying, don’t you, Ms. Brady?”

  Yes, Mr. Breen. I certainly do, you overbearing ass-hole, Joanna thought. “Of course,” she said.

  “So,” Breen continued quickly, before she had a chance to finish her response, “as I said, if you’d like to call us in, I’ll be glad to send in a team, along with someone to take charge of the entire operation and personnel who are actually qualified on the kinds of weapons we’re talking about. Otherwise…”

  Like hell you will! “Thanks, but no, thanks,” Joanna said curtly. “I don’t believe I’m interested.” She ended the call then, hanging up on Mr. Overbearing Agent-in-Charge Breen before he could say anything more.

  Joanna was still steamed about both Agent Forrest Breen and Deputy Eddy Sandoval when she drove through Benson some twenty minutes later. There, next to the curb outside the Benson Dairy Queen, she caught sight of Eddy’s parked cruiser. Speak of the devil! Joanna thought.

  Executing a U-turn, she drove back and pulled up beside his vehicle. “Meet me at the Quarter Horse,” she told him. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Sure thing,” he said.

  Ten minutes later, Joanna had ordered a sandwich and was drinking a cup of coffee when Sandoval came sauntering into the restaurant. At the Triple C crime scene two days earlier, the man hadn’t seemed nearly as large as he did now, walking across the tiled restaurant floor to her booth, pushing his paunch ahead of him. “What’s up, Sheriff?” he asked, slipping into the bench opposite her.

  Joanna had used the intervening minutes to plan her approach. She had decided not to soft-pedal any of it. “You’ve been with the department for a long time,” she said for openers. “I’m assuming you’d like to continue.”

  A veil of wariness closed down over Deputy Sandoval’s eyes. “What’s this all about?”

  “Frankie Ramos.”

  Joanna waited, giving the name a chance to settle between them. After it did, she waited some more, not offering any explanation, leaving the officer to wonder and squirm under her withering scrutiny.

  “What about him?” Eddy asked finally.

  “I understand you and Ruben are old buddies.”

  Sandoval bristled then. “I don’t know what Ruben told you,” he began, rising off the bench, “but I—”

  “Sit, Eddy,” Joanna commanded. “You and I both know what he told me. And you know what you did, so let’s not play games.”

  Reluctantly, he settled back down. “Frankie’s dead,” he said. “So what do you want? My resignation, is that it?”

  “I may want your resignation eventually. But right this minute, what I want is information.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “Did you ever break up any parties at Clyde Philips’ house over in Pomerene?” she asked.

  Eddy Sandoval’s eyes flickered and then slid sideways toward one of the many horse pictures painted on the wall. “A few, I guess,” he admitted.

  “How many would you say? Two? Five?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember exactly.”

  “And how many of those show up in the official log?”

  Sandoval dropped his eyes and stared down at the tabletop. His finger traced a chip in the edge of the Formica. “Probably none,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Who knows? Maybe I forgot. But I don’t have to answer any of this,” he added sullenly. “I’ve got a right to an attorney.”

  “You do have to answer, Eddy,” Joanna said. “You have to because lives are at stake. Now tell me, was there anyone else in Clyde Philips’ car the night you failed to arrest Frankie Ramos for that MIP?”

  Eddy hung his head. “Yeah,” he said at last. “There was one other guy there, a buddy of Frankie’s, I guess. Last name of Merritt.”

  “What about this Merritt kid?” Joanna asked. “Was he of age, or was he a juvenile, too? And if so, did you write him up or not?”

  Eddy continued to stare at the table and said nothing.

  “That’s answer enough, I suppose,” Joanna said.

  “When I looked the other way, Clyde was always good for it,” Eddy mumbled.

  “Good for what?”

  “I don’t know, some ammo now and then. A gun, I suppose. Nothing big. Just little stuff.”

  “And you somehow never wrote up any of those citations.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I suppose that’s it.”

  “What about Ruben Ramos?” Joanna asked. “Did you make him pay, too?”

  Eddy straightened up. “Ruben’s a good friend of mine,” he said. “We’ve been buddies a long time. I never charged him nothin’.”

  “What about the other boy? What was his name again, Merritt?”

  Eddy shrugged. “He’s over twenty-one, so all he was looking at was an open-container. I went out to see his folks but ended up talking to his stepmother. I could see right away that wasn’t going anywhere, so I gave it up.”

  “Who’s his stepmother?”

  “Sonja Hosfield,” Eddy Sandoval said. “Out at the Triple C. As far as she’s concerned, that boy could be drowning, and she wouldn’t lift a finger to drag him out. I just let it go.”

  “Merritt Hosfield?” Joanna was puzzled. “I don’t remember Sonja Hosfield mentioning a child by that name.”

  “Ryan Merritt,” Eddy returned. “Lindsey Hosfield was all screwed up when she left Alton. Took back her maiden name when she got a divorce and changed the kids’ names, too. Changed them legally. That’s the kind of thing women do sometimes when they’re really mad.”

  As the connections came together, Joanna’s neck prickled with hair standing up under her collar. Ryan Merritt! She remembered meeting Alton Hosfield’s son Ryan two days ago. He had given the impression of being a fine, upstanding, hardworking young man. She remembered the polite way he had doffed his hat upon being introduced to her.

  But what if that politeness is all façade? she wondered. What if a col
d-blooded killer lurks behind those clear blue eyes?

  Joanna held out her hand. “I want your badge, Mr. Sandoval,” she said. “Your badge, your gun, and your ID. As of this moment, you’re on administrative leave. Hand them over.”

  Sandoval drew back in surprise. “Wait a minute, Sheriff Brady. You can’t do that.”

  “Yes, I can. Watch me. I don’t know about criminal charges. Right now you’re out pending the formality of a dismissal hearing. You’re to drive your county-owned vehicle back to your house and park it. I’ll send someone out there later on this afternoon to pick it up.”

  Eddy hesitated, then grabbed his badge and wrenched it off his uniform. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his ID holder and slammed both of them down with a blow that sent dishes skittering across the table. The gun he slapped into Joanna’s outstretched hand.

  “There! Are you satisfied now?” he demanded furiously. “But you’re not going to be able to nail me on any of this, Sheriff Brady. You never read me my rights. My attorney wasn’t present during questioning. You won’t be able to use a single word I said against me.”

  The old Joanna might have been intimidated by Eddy’s show of physical force. The new one held her ground.

  “Maybe,” she replied, keeping her eyes focused on his florid face while she gathered up his credentials and weapon and shoved them into her purse. “But I don’t think I’ll have to stoop to that. I’m betting there are plenty of other irregularities that’ll turn up in this sector, and I can assure you, Mr. Sandoval, I’m not going to rest until I find them.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  BACK IN the Blazer, Joanna gripped the steering wheel with both hands and wondered what to do next. She opted finally for calling the department. “Who’s in?” she asked Kristin.

  “Nobody. Chief Deputy Montoya expected to be back by now, but the lady he was supposed to get to send to Tucson wouldn’t go. He’s been stuck at her house all afternoon.”

  “And not very happy about it, either, I’ll bet,” Joanna surmised. “Can we raise him on the radio?”

  “I can’t,” Kristin said, “but I’m sure Dispatch can.”

  “Never mind,” Joanna said. “I’m already as far as Benson. I can be in Pomerene by the time Dispatch gets us linked together. There are two things I need you to do for me. Number one, send a deputy over to Eddy Sandoval’s place to pick up his cruiser. Then tell the patrol duty officer that Sandoval is off the roster until further notice.”

  “All right. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Ask the records clerk to run a check on someone named Ryan Merritt. I don’t have a date of birth, but he’s probably around twenty or so.”

  “Just here in Cochise County?” Kristin asked. “Or do you want a statewide check?”

  The very fact that Kristin had asked the question was a sign that she was becoming more savvy. In the early days of Joanna’s administration, the recently elected sheriff and her newly assigned secretary had been at loggerheads more often than not. Now Joanna sometimes found herself wondering if Kristin Marsten had actually grown that much smarter in the intervening months or if the changes in Kristin were a reflection of changes in Joanna herself.

  “I’m glad you asked, Kristin,” Joanna said. “A statewide check is what I need.”

  “Do you have an address?”

  “No. He’s currently living on the Triple C spread up in Cascabel. That address would be somewhere on Pomerene Road, although I can’t give you the exact number. Before that, he most likely lived somewhere else. Try the Phoenix metropolitan area or maybe even Tucson.”

  “Do you want me to call you back on this, or can it wait until you get into the office?”

  “Call me back,” Joanna said. “I need the info ASAP.”

  Leaving Benson, Joanna drove straight to Sarah Holcomb’s house in Pomerene. She found Chief Deputy Montoya dozing in the shade of one of Sarah’s towering cottonwoods. Frank might have tried to convince Kristin that he was suffering, but in actual fact, it was clear to Joanna that he was being treated like an honored guest. An old Adirondack chair and matching foot-stool had been moved from the elderly woman’s covered back porch to the shady front yard, along with a small wooden table. On the table sat a metal tray laden with napkins, a tall ice-filled glass, a generous pitcher of iced tea, and a platter of cookies.

  Joanna parked the Blazer and went over to where he was sitting. “Hey, Frank,” she said. “Wake up. No fair sleeping on the job.”

  He came to with a start. “I wasn’t really sleeping,” he said. “Just resting my eyes.”

  “Sure you were. I thought you were supposed to be guarding her. As in making sure nobody comes anywhere near her.”

  “I am,” he said. “Nobody can get past me.”

  “I almost did,” Joanna told him. “And what’s the deal with all the cookies and the iced tea? I’ve interviewed this woman twice so far, and she’s never offered me so much as a piece of gum.”

  Frank shrugged. “What can I tell you? Sarah must like me.”

  “Did you bring the yearbooks?”

  “Yes,” he said. “We’ve already been through all of them. We did that over lunch, to no avail. She claims she didn’t recognize anybody.”

  “Where are they?”

  “The yearbooks?”

  Joanna nodded.

  “In the back of my car,” Frank said. “If you want to see them, I’ll be glad to go get ’em.” He headed for his Crown Victoria, his Civvy, as he affectionately called it.

  Through overuse compounded by an error in purchasing, the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department was long on Crown Victoria-type cruisers and short on four-wheel-drive vehicles. Because his position as chief for administration called for very little fieldwork, Frank now drove one of the Ford sedans despised by the other deputies. With some money and a little technical knowhow, Frank Montoya had managed to turn his departmental Crown Victoria into a credible mobile office.

  “Here we are,” he said, putting the books down on the table. “Eight yearbooks in all. Four from St. David and four from Benson.”

  Taking the top book off the Benson pile, Joanna quickly thumbed through it, checking each class listing for Ryan Merritt. “Are you looking for someone in particular?” Frank asked when she finished thumbing through the first book and started on the second.

  “Yes,” she said. “His name’s Ryan Merritt. He’s Alton Hosfield’s son, Sonja’s stepson.”

  “If you don’t mind a little help,” Frank suggested, “we can probably hurry this job along.”

  There was only one unchecked yearbook remaining, the last one from St. David, when Joanna’s cell phone crowed. As she juggled it out of her purse, Frank made a face.

  “You’re the sheriff,” he said. “Couldn’t you find a ring that sounds a little more dignified?”

  Joanna ignored the gibe. “Yes,” she said into the phone. “What do you have for us, Kristin?” Seconds later, she held the phone away from her mouth. “Don’t you have a mobile fax rigged up in your Civvy?”

  “Sure do,” he said. “It’s hooked up to a slick little laptop.”

  Joanna went back to the phone. “Yes, Kristin,” she said. “Go ahead and send it to Chief Deputy Montoya’s mobile fax machine. Does it include a mug shot? Great. What about fingerprints? Amen. Send the whole thing. And thanks, Kristin. Good work.”

  “Send what whole thing?” Frank Montoya asked as he gathered and restacked the collection of yearbooks.

  “Ryan Merritt’s rap sheet,” Joanna said. “It even includes a mug shot.”

  “The fax does have a small problem at the moment.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The printer went off-line. I sent it in for repairs. Whatever material Kristin sends will show up on the screen, though. We can look at it there.”

  “Look at it nothing,” Joanna said. “We’re going to show it to Sarah Holcomb.”

  “Showing a single photo like this isn’t going to comply with the mo
ntage requirements,” Frank began. “Shouldn’t we—”

  “Lives are at stake,” Joanna interrupted. “Bring it.”

  Within two minutes Frank and Joanna were sitting in the front seat of Frank’s Crown Victoria, peering through the glaring afternoon light into the dimly lit computer screen.

  “There’s too much light here,” Frank said. “We’ll have to take it inside to be able to see it.” He unplugged the laptop, folded it under his arm, and carted it out of the car and up the steps onto Sarah Holcomb’s front porch. She answered his knock with a charming smile that faded as soon as she caught sight of Joanna.

  “Why, Deputy Montoya,” she said, returning her gaze to his face, “is there something more I can do for you?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Holcomb, there is. I have a computer here with a picture I need you to take a look at. If you don’t mind our coming in to show it to you, that is. There’s too much light outside for you to read the screen.”

  “That beats all,” Sarah said. “Never heard of havin’ too much light to read by. Usually it’s the other way around. Is this somethin’ that’s on what they call the Innernet? One of those chat-room kinds of things? Although how people can sit around havin’ a chat inside a computer is more’n I can figure.”

  “It’s a little like the Internet,” Frank allowed, “only it’s not exactly the same thing. May we come in?”

  “Sure,” Sarah said. “You could just as well.”

  Frank led the way into the house. Rather than being bullied onto the unsittable sofa, he headed for the dining room table. Sarah followed, brandishing her cane more than leaning on it. “You’re sure this won’t scratch the finish or nothin’?” she asked as Frank started to put the laptop down on her highly polished table.

  “No,” he said. “It’ll be fine.”

  “And won’t you need a place to plug it in?”

  “No, ma’am. It works off a battery.”

  “Like a flashlight, you mean? Lordy, Lordy, what will they think of next!”