Paradise Lost jb-9

by J. A. Jance

  “Accessories?” Caroline Parker repeated weakly. “Us? You can’t do that, can you?”

  “I can sure as hell try,” Joanna said grimly.

  “But you have no idea what that kind of trauma would do to my father. It would kill him. It would be the end of everything he’s done; everything he’s worked for—everything we’ve both worked for.”

  “That may well be,” Joanna returned. “But at least you’ll both be alive, which is more than can be said for Connie Haskell and most likely for Irma Sorenson as well. And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t lose Rob Whipple’s badge or weapon, because if we end up needing them, they’d better be here! Come on, Frank. We’re done.”

  “You can’t do that, can you?” Frank asked once they were out of earshot inside the Civvie and buckling their seat belts. Once again, Joanna was driving.

  “Do what?”

  “Charge Amos and Caroline Parker with being accessories.”

  “No, probably not,” Joanna conceded. “But it did my heart a world of good to tell her that we could. I loved seeing that look of sheer astonishment wash across her face, and I’m proud to be the one who put it there. Caroline Parker lied to us. Frank, and I lied right back. Maybe that makes us even.”

  “Maybe so,” Frank agreed. “Where to now?”

  “Rob Whipple’s house, but I’m guessing he’s not there. Notify Dispatch about where we’re going and find out where those damned backup units are. Then call the DMV and get whatever information they may have on all vehicles belonging to either Rob Whipple or Irma Sorenson. That way, when it comes time to post the APBs, we’ll have the information we need to do it.”

  Before Frank could thumb the radio’s talk button, Larry Kendrick’s voice boomed through the car. “We got a hit on Rob Whipple,” he said. “I tried faxing it to you, but it didn’t go through.”

  “We’re out of range,” Frank told him. “What does it say?”

  “Robert Henry Whipple served twenty-one years in prison iii South Dakota. He was convicted of two counts of rape and one count of attempted murder. He was paroled in 1994. One of the conditions of his release was that he seek treatment as a convicted sex offender.”

  “So much for treatment,” Joanna muttered.

  While Frank handled the radio, Joanna dealt with the road. From the highway to Portal the washboarded surface had been had enough, but the five miles from Portal to Paradise were even worse. Several times the winding dirt track climbed in and out of the same dry wash and around bluffs of cliff that made for treacherous blind curves on a road that was little more than one car width wide. At last a brown-and-gold Forest Service sign announced that they had arrived in Paradise. Despite the sign, there were no houses or peo­ple in sight, only a long line of twenty or so mailboxes that stood at attention on the far side of the road. It was just after five o’clock in the afternoon, but the false dusk created by being in the shadow of the mountains made it difficult to read the numbers on the boxes. Naturally, Box 78 was the last one in the row.

  From that T-shaped intersection, San Simon/Paradise Road veered off to the north. Following the directions Frank had obtained from Dispatch, Joanna followed a new stretch of road that was only slightly worse than the previous one had been. Both of them made her long to be driving her sturdy Blazer rather than picking her way around rocks and boulders in Frank’s relatively low-slung Civvie.

  “There,” Frank said, pointing. “Turn left here. From what I was told, the house is just beyond that ridgeline.”

  “How about if we stop here and get out and walk?” Joanna sug­gested. “I’d rather our arrival be a surprise. If we drive, we’ll show up trailing a cloud of dust. He’ll see us coming a mile away.”

  “It’s okay by me,” Frank said. “But before we leave the car, let me radio our position one last time.”

  Joanna drove up the rutted two-track road until she reached a point where a grove of trees crowded in on the roadway. By park­ing in that natural bottleneck, she effectively barricaded the road, making it impossible for anyone else to drive around. Setting the parking brake, Joanna stepped out of the car and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. She wasn’t at all surprised to find that once again there was no signal. For the third time in as many hours, the high-tech world had let her department down. Sighing with disgust, she turned off the useless device and shoved it back in her pocket.

  When Frank finished with the radio and got out, Joanna locked the doors and passed him the keys. “From here on out, you’re driv­ing,” she said.

  “The DMV says Whipple drives a ‘97 Dodge Ram pickup,” Frank told her. “I’ve got the plate number. I told Larry to go ahead and post that APB.”

  “Good,” Joanna said. “What about your phone?”

  Frank checked his. “Still no signal,” he said.

  “I know that,” Joanna told him. “All the same, turn the useless thing off. We may not be able to talk on them, but you can bet they’ll still be able to ring just when we don’t want them to.”

  Frank complied, and the two of them set off up the road. As she walked, Joanna was grateful that on this particular day she had cho­sen to wear a uniform complete with khaki trousers and lace-up shoes rather than office attire, which most likely would have included heels and hose, neither of which would have cut it for this rocky, weed-lined hike.

  It turned out that Rob Whipple’s house was set much farther back from San Simon/Paradise Road than Dispatch had led them to believe. Joanna and Frank hiked the better part of a mile, cross­ing two ridges rather than one. Between the two ridges lay another sandy creek bed. This one showed signs of numerous tire tracks, but there was no way to tell which ones were coming and which were going. Signaling silently for Frank to follow, Joanna skirted the tracks, leaving them intact for later in case the need should arise to take plaster casts.

  At last, panting and sweating, they topped the second steep rise and saw a house—little more than a shabby cabin—nestled in a small clearing below. No vehicle was parked outside, but for safety’s sake they took cover and watched silently for several min­utes before moving forward again. There was no sign of life. Even so, when Joanna set out again, she did so by dodging carefully from tree to tree.

  Moving and consciously maintaining cover, Joanna was all too aware of the danger and of their vulnerability. Her breathing quickened and she heard the dull thud of her own heart pulsing in her ears. Once again she found herself utterly aware of everything around her—a dove cooing in the trees just ahead of her; the abra­sive cawing of a crow; the white-noise buzz of cicadas that was noticeable only when, for some reason unknown to her, the racket stopped and then resumed once more. A small puff of cooling breeze caressed the overheated skin of her face.

  At any moment, an armed and dangerous Rob Whipple could have materialized out of the house or from between trees in front of her. Given that, it was with some surprise Joanna realized that although she was being careful, she wasn’t necessarily scared. She was doing her job—what she was supposed to do; what others expected of her and what she expected of herself. It was during that silent and stealthy approach to Rob Whipple’s isolated cabin that she realized, for the first time, that she was doing the one thing she had always been meant to do.

  Struck by that electrifying thought, Joanna sidled up to the gnarled trunk of a scrub oak and leaned her full weight against it. Standing in the deepening twilight, she suddenly felt closer to both her dead husband and her dead father than she had at any time since their deaths. It was as if she were standing in the presence of both Sheriff D. H. Lathrop and Deputy Andrew Roy Brady and hearing once again what both of them had tried to tell her from time to time—how once they set out on the path to “serve and protect,” it had been impossible for either one of them to do any-thing else.

  Joanna’s father had spoken time and again about the importance of “making a contribution” and “doing one’s part.” Andy had insisted that he was in law enforcement because he wan
ted to make the world “a better place for Jenny to live.” And now Joanna Brady was amazed to realize that she had been bitten by the same idealistic bug. She, too, wanted to make a contribution. There were far too many Connie Haskells and Irma Sorensons who needed to he saved from the many Rob Whipples that were loose in the world.

  Still leaning against the tree, Joanna wiped away a trickle of tears that suddenly blurred her vision. She had never been someone who believed in ghosts, yet she sensed ghosts were with her right then, watching and listening.

  All right, you two, she vowed silently to her father and Andy. I’ll run for reelection. In the meantime, let me do my job.

  Ahead of her and off to the left, Frank Montoya was waving frantically, trying to attract her attention. He had moved forward far enough that he was almost at the edge of the clearing. Now, with broad gestures, he pantomimed that he would creep around to the side of the cabin and try looking in through the window. Nodding for him to go ahead, Joanna looked around her own posit ion while she waited.

  She and Frank had moved forward on either side of the road. Eventually he sidled up to the cabin and peered inside. Then he turned back to her. “It’s okay,” he called. “There’s nobody here.”

  Looking down, Joanna noticed a faint pair of tire tracks branching from the road and winding off through the trees, leaving behind only the slightest trace in the dense ground-covering layer of dead oak leaves. Curious, she traced the dusty trail of crushed leaves. The snapping and crackling underfoot told her she was leaving a trail of her own. In the deepening twilight she threaded her way between trees and bushes and around freestanding chunks of boulders the size of dishwashers. A quarter of a mile from where she had started, the tracks stopped abruptly at the edge of a rock bound cliff

  For a moment, Joanna thought the vehicle had simply reversed directions and returned the way it had come. But then, studying the terrain on her hands and knees, Joanna realized the vehicle had gone over the edge and down the other side. Easing her way to the precipice, Joanna peered down. Immediately she was aware of two things: the form of a vehicle, lying with its still wheels pointed sky-ward, and, rising from the crippled wreck, like a plume of evil smoke, the unmistakable odor of carrion.

  “Damn!” Joanna exclaimed. With a heavy heart, she drew back and out of the awful stench which, caught in an updraft, eddied away from the cliff. “Poor Irma,” she whispered softly. “I’m so sorry.”

  It was then she heard Frank calling, “Joanna, where did you go? I can’t see you.”

  “I’m over here,” she called back. “I found a car. And you’re wrong, Frank. There is somebody here—somebody who’s dead.”

  Frank trotted up a few moments later. For the better part of a minute the two of them stood on the edge of the cliff trying to ascertain the best way to climb down. Joanna found herself feeling sick to her stomach.

  “I don’t want to look,” she said. “Seeing Irma’s body is likely to make me puke.”

  “I’ll go then,” Frank offered. “You stay here.”

  But as soon as Joanna said the words, she realized they were wrong—a cop-out. It was her job to look; her sworn duty. “We’ll both go,” she said.

  Twenty minutes later Joanna Brady and Frank Montoya finally managed to reach the crumpled remains of Irma Sorenson’s pale pink Nissan. By then it was mostly dark. When they were finally able to approach the driver’s side together, Joanna found it neces­sary to switch on the tiny flashlight she kept clipped to her key ring. Steeling herself for what lay inside, Joanna was astonished to see that the driver’s seat was empty. The passenger seat wasn’t. There, a lone figure, still secured by a seat belt, dangled upside down.

  When the beam of light from her flashlight finally settled on the figure’s face, Joanna could barely believe her eyes. “I’ll be damned!” she exclaimed. “I don’t believe it!”

  “What?” Frank demanded.

  “See for yourself,” she said.

  Joanna handed him the flashlight and then let her body slip down beside the crumpled doorframe. The person hanging in Irma Sorenson’s Nissan wasn’t Irma at all. It was her son, Rob Whipple, with what looked like a single bullet hole marring the middle of his forehead.

  “How the hell do you think that happened?” Frank Montoya asked.

  “The usual way,” Joanna returned. “We’d better go back to the car and change that APB. So much for saving the Irma Sorensons of the world.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  By the time Joanna and Frank had climbed back up the cliff and hiked back to the Civvie, they were both beat. Fortunately, by then their requested backup had arrived in the person of Deputy Dave Hollicker. While Frank set about making the necessary notifications, Joanna brought Hollicker up to speed on what had happened.

  “I want you to go up to the wash and make plaster casts of the tire tracks you’ll find there,” she told him. “If nothing else, the tracks can tell us which was the last vehicle to drive out this way. The sooner the casting is done, the sooner we’ll be able to get other vehicles in and out to the crime scene. If we’re all on foot, it’s a hell of a long walk.”

  Hollicker retrieved his casting kit and set off for the wash just as Frank finished up on the radio. “I talked to Doc Winfield,” he said. “He’s on his way. So are Jaime and Ernie. And I revised the APB. I gave them Irma Sorenson’s name and driver’s license num­ber so they can post her picture. I also said she could be armed and dangerous.”

  “Good,” Joanna returned.

  Frank went to the trunk and returned with two bottles of water, one of which he handed over to Joanna. “Better have some of this,” he said.

  The water was warm, but as soon as Joanna tasted it, she realized how dehydrated she was. “Thanks,” she said. “I needed that.”

  They both drank silently until the bottles were empty. “Do you really think Irma did it?” Frank asked at last. “Rob Whipple was her son, for God’s sake.”

  Joanna nodded.

  “How come?”

  “How come she did it or how come I think so?”

  “Both,” Frank replied.

  “The reason Caroline Parker talked to us as much as she did is that both she and her father are grappling with the fact that their supposedly ‘cured’ killer has killed again. I’m guessing Irma reached the same conclusion. She must feel responsible for what her son did. I think I’d feel the same way if I were in her position.”

  “Enough to kill your own child?” Frank returned.

  Joanna sighed. “Probably not,” she said.

  “But aren’t we jumping to conclusions here? We don’t know Irma Sorenson has done anything wrong. For that matter, who’s to say that Ron Haskell didn’t set the whole thing up? Maybe he hired Whipple to unload Connie for him. We still don’t know for sure that Ron Haskell’s in the clear. Maybe he stopped by and took care of Rob Whipple before he came into town to deliver those DNA samples. If there was a conspiracy between them, it’ll be a whole lot more difficult to prove with Whipple out oldie way.”

  “I still think Ron Haskell had nothing to do with it,” Joanna insisted.

  “Why?” Frank countered. “Because he sounded innocent when we talked to him? He sure as hell isn’t innocent of relieving his wife of her money.”

  “That may be true,” Joanna agreed. “But that doesn’t make him a killer.”

  “And as for Irma, just because she may have discovered her son had killed again doesn’t mean she’d put him out of his misery like a rabid dog. Not only that, her driver’s license says she’s seventy four years old. How the hell would she get the drop on him?”

  “If we ever catch up with her, I guess we’ll have to ask her.”

  “But I still can’t understand it,” Frank said. “How does a parent do something like that to her own child?”

  “I don’t know,” Joanna said wearily. “Maybe it was self-defense. Or maybe she shot her rabid-dog son to save others.”

  “Sheriff Brady?” Tica Romer
o’s radio voice reached them through the open window.

  Finishing the last of her water, Joanna got into the Civvie and unclipped the mike. “Sheriff Brady here,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “I’m in for Larry now. Doe Winfield says to ask you if you ever had a chance to speak to your mother.”

  Joanna sighed. Wasn’t it enough that she was out in the desert climbing up and down cliffs and finding dead bodies? Expecting her to find time to be a dutiful daughter was asking too much.

  “Tell him no,” Joanna said. “I tried calling her, but she wasn’t home.”

  “He says she still isn’t home,” Tica relayed a moment later. “He says he’s really worried about her.”

  “Tell him I’m worried too, but I’m on the far side of the Chiricahuas at a crime scene right now, and there isn’t a whole lot I can do about it at the moment. But Tica, once you let him know, you might also radio the cars that are out on patrol right now and ask the deputies to keep an eye out for my mother. Eleanor Lathrop Winfield drives a light blue 1999 Buick sedan. I can’t remember the license plate number right off, and don’t ask Doc Winfield for it. Get it from the DMV and put it out to everyone who’s cur­rently on duty”

  “Will do, Sheriff Brady.”

  “And when you finish with that, would you mind calling out to the ranch and letting Butch know that I won’t be home until later.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Shaking her head, Joanna went back to where Frank was stand­ing with the heel of one boot hooked on the Civvie’s rear bumper. “What was that all about?” he asked.

  “My mother,” Joanna grumbled. “She and Doc Winfield must be having some kind of row. George called me this afternoon and wanted me to talk to her. I tried calling, but she wasn’t home. According to George, Eleanor was upset last night when she heard about what had happened to Dora Matthews. And that’s under­standable. I’m upset about what happened to Dora, too, but my best guess is that Eleanor is pissed at George about something else altogether. She’s decided to teach him a lesson, so she left the house early this morning without making his coffee, and she hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”