by J. A. Jance
“I didn’t mind,” Angie answered with a laugh. “It was fun—almost like playing house. And it’s so peaceful here. I never knew there were homes like this.”
Over the months, Joanna had heard bits and pieces about Angie Kellogg’s past, about the sexually abusive father who had driven his daughter out of the house. For Angie, life on the streets in the harsh world of teenaged prostitution had been preferable to living at home. Only now, living in her own little house, was she beginning to learn about how the rest of the world lived. Joanna looked around her clean but familiar kitchen and tried to see it through Angie’s eyes. The place didn’t seem peaceful to her. There was still a hole in it, a void that Andy’s presence used to fill.
“I didn’t know where all the dishes went,” Angie continued. “I told Jenny that if she’d put them away for me, I’d give her a ride to school.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Joanna said.
“Why not?” Angie returned. “Greenway School is just a little out of the way. It won’t take more than a couple of minutes for me to drop her off. That way you can go to bed. You look like you need it.”
Unable to argue, Joanna stood up. “If anything,” she said, “I feel worse than I look.”
She staggered into the bedroom and dropped fully clothed onto the bedspread. Jenny stopped by on her way to her own room. “Aren’t you going to get undressed?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” Joanna said, pulling the bedspread up and over her. “I’m too tired.”
Sound asleep, she didn’t stir when Jenny and Angie left the house a few minutes later. The phone awakened her at eleven. “Sheriff Brady?” Kristin Marsten asked uncertainly.
Joanna cleared her throat. Her voice was still thick with sleep. “It’s me, Kristin,” she said. “What’s up?”
“Dick Voland asked me to call you. There’s going to be a telephone conference call with someone from the governor’s office at eleven-thirty. Can you make it?”
“I’ll be there,” Joanna mumbled as she staggered out of bed. Showering and dressing in record time, she headed for the office. The governor’s office, she thought along the way. Why would Governor Wallace Hickman be calling me?
As Joanna drove into the Justice Center compound, she saw that the front parking lot was once again littered with media vehicles, including at least one mobile television van from a station in Tucson. Fortunately, out-of-town reporters, unlike Kevin Dawson of the Bisbee Bee, had no idea about the sheriff’s private backdoor entrance. Joanna took full advantage of that lack of knowledge. Without having had the benefit of a single cup of coffee, she wasn’t ready to face shouted questions from a ravening horde of reporters. For them, Hannah Green’s life and death meant nothing more than a day’s headline or lead story. For the police officers involved, Joanna Brady included, Hannah Green’s death meant failure.
Climbing out of the Blazer, Joanna heaved out her briefcase as well. She had dragged it back and forth from the office without ever unloading it or touching what was inside. No doubt today’s batch of correspondence was already waiting for her. Any other day, the thought of all that paperwork would have been overwhelming. Today, Joanna welcomed it. By burying herself in it, perhaps she’d be able to forget the sight of a massive, lifeless Hannah Green slumped at the end of her jailhouse bunk, the air choked out of her by the tautly stretched elastic of a grimy bra that had been wrapped around and around her neck and finally around the foot rail of her upper bunk.
As soon as Joanna was inside, Kristin Marsten brought her both the mail and a much-needed cup of coffee.
“What’s happening?” Joanna asked. “And who all is here?”
“Mr. Voland, of course,” Kristin answered. “He was here when I arrived. Detective Carpenter showed up a few minutes ago, along with Tom Hadlock.” Tom Hadlock was the jail commander. “Deputy Montoya is here, but he probably won’t be included in the conference call. He’s out front dealing with the reporters.”
“Better him than me,” Joanna said grimly.
Cup in hand, feigning a briskness she didn’t feel, Joanna marched into the conference room with five minutes to spare. Ernie Carpenter, Dick Voland, and Tom Hadlock were already there. Grim-faced and red-eyed, none of them seemed any better off than Joanna felt.
Joanna looked questioningly at Dick Voland. “What’s this all about?”
Voland shrugged. “Politics as usual,” he said. “It’s no big thing. Whenever something off the wall happens, Governor Hickman wants to be in on it. He probably wants to be reassured that this isn’t something that’s going to come back and bite him in the butt during the next election.”
“What’s going to bite him?”
“Hannah Green’s death.”
“How could what happened to Hannah Green hurt Governor Hickman?”
Voland shrugged. “You know. Allegations of possible police brutality. Violations of constitutional rights. That sort of thing.”
Joanna could feel her temperature rising. “Are you saying Hickman may try to turn that poor woman’s death into a political football?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Ernie said. “And it sure as hell won’t be the last.”
When the phone rang, Joanna punched the speaker button. “Yes,” she said.
“Lydia Morales with the governor’s office is on the phone,” Kristin said.
“Put her through.”
Lydia Morales sounded young—about Joanna’s age, perhaps—and businesslike. “Governor Hickman wanted me to get some information on the incident down there last night,” Lydia said. “He’ll have access to the Department of Public Safety’s files, of course, but he did want me to ask a question or two. For instance, the victim, this Hannah Green, she wasn’t black by any chance, or Hispanic, was she?”
“Black or Hispanic?” Joanna repeated. “What does that have to do with it?”
Lydia paused. “Well, certainly you understand how, when a prisoner dies in custody, there can always be questions of racism or police brutality or…”
“Or violation of constitutional rights,” Joanna finished.
“Right,” Lydia Morales confirmed brightly.
Hearing Lydia’s response, Joanna knew Dick Voland was right. This really was politics as usual. Lydia Morales and Governor Hickman had no real interest in Hannah Green’s tragic life and death. They were looking for votes, plain and simple. They were checking to see if there were any political liabilities involved or gains to be made in the aftermath of what had happened the night before in the Cochise County Jail. How many constituents would be adversely affected, and could the governor be held accountable?
“You never answered my question about Hannah Green,” Lydia persisted.
Joanna tumbled then. In the minds of the governor’s political strategists there were, presumably, both a black voting block and an Hispanic one as well. Unfortunately for her, Hannah Green fit in neither category.
“Hannah Green was an Anglo,” Joanna said tersely.
“Good,” Lydia returned. “That will probably help.”
“Help what?” Joanna asked.
“How this thing is handled,” Lydia returned. “The kind of press it’s given. Believe me, trying to fight a racism charge is tough. Definitely lose/lose all the way around.”
Joanna was stunned at being told that having an Anglo woman die in her jail was somehow less politically damaging than having a black or Hispanic prisoner die under similar circumstances. Joanna was still reeling under the awful burden of her own part in Hannah Green’s death. So were the other weary, grimfaced police officers gathered around the conference table.
All her life, Joanna had been teased about her red hair and her matching fiery temper. Something about Lydia’s glib response set off an explosion in Joanna’s heart, one she made no effort to contain.
“What you’re saying, then,” Joanna said, “is that violations of constitutional rights are more important if the person being so violated happens to fall i
n one or another of the politically approved minority categories?”
The question stopped Lydia cold. “I’m sure I…” she began.
“Perhaps you could give Governor Hickman a message for me,” Joanna continued. Her voice had dropped to a dangerously low level. “You can tell him that Hannah Green’s constitutional rights were violated.”
“Were?” Lydia Morales repeated. “Don’t you mean weren’t?”
“No,” Joanna corrected. “I mean were. I believe that our investigation will find that her civil rights were violated for years. Every day, in fact, starting with the moment thirty years ago when her father slammed her hand in a car door and then refused to take her for proper medical treatment. From that time on, and maybe even earlier, Hannah Green was denied life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
“By her family, you mean,” Lydia said, sounding relieved once more. “Not by a police officer. That would make her death unfortunate, of course, but it shouldn’t be a problem from the governor’s point of view.”
From the governor’s point of view!
“It should be,” Joanna shot back. “Hannah Green may not have a natural base of constituents, but let me remind you, Ms. Morales, two people are dead down here. Most likely those two deaths are attributable to the rising tide of domestic violence. An abuser is dead, and so is his victim. If Governor Hickman isn’t worried about that, he sure as hell ought to be. Good day, Ms. Morales.”
Reaching out, Joanna jabbed at the speaker button, depressing it and disconnecting the call. Then she looked at the three men gathered around the conference table. Tom Hadlock said nothing, but Dick Voland was grinning from ear to ear. Ernie Carpenter was actually applauding.
“Way to go,” Dick Voland told her. “It’s not exactly how to go about winning friends and influencing people, but I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Tom Hadlock pushed his chair back and stood up. “Glad that little coming to God is over. Now, if you don’t mind, Sheriff Brady, I think I’ll go home and try to get some sleep.”
As Hadlock shuffled out of the room, Joanna turned back to the others. “What about you?”
Ernie leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He looked as though he was barely awake. “I’m here now,” he said. “I could just as well go to work on something. God knows there’s enough for me to do.” Joanna had hoped he would go home to get some sleep, but she decided not to argue the point.
Turning to Voland, she realized that the sudden spurt of anger toward Governor Hickman’s deputy had helped clear her own head. “Anything from Patrol I should know about?” she asked.
“Dr. Lee dismissed Hal Morgan from the hospital a little while ago,” Voland answered. “According to Deputy Howell, he’s gone back to his motel room, to the place he rented when he first came to town several days ago.”
After the intervening crisis with Hannah Green, Hal Morgan seemed worlds away. It took a few seconds for Joanna to switch gears. News that Hal Morgan had been turned loose meant that soon the heat would be turned back up on the Buckwalter murder investigation.
“What motel?” Joanna asked.
“The Rest Inn, out in the Terraces.”
“There’s still a deputy with him?”
“So far. Deputy Howell again.”
Joanna turned to Ernie. “Have you made arrangements to talk to Helen Barco yet?” she asked.
Ernie had been sitting there with his bloodshot eyes half-closed. Now they came open. “Why on earth would I want to talk to Helen Barco?”
Joanna turned back to Dick Voland. “Didn’t you tell him what I told you?”
Voland shook his head. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Things got so hectic around here that it must have slipped my mind.”
“What slipped your mind?” Ernie asked.
“Sheriff Brady is under the impression that Terry Buckwalter may have something going with Peter Wilkes, the golf pro out at the Rob Roy,” Voland said.
There was no sense in Joanna’s making a fuss about Dick Voland’s neglecting to pass along her lead to Ernie Carpenter. They were all so tired and so overworked right then that it was to be expected that some things would drop through the cracks. Still, she wasn’t going to sit there quietly and let Voland discount her suggestions.
“I know they’re up to something,” Joanna said. “Ernie, the reason I want you to go see Helen is that Terry Buckwalter had a complete makeover at Helene’s yesterday morning. She did it early enough so she could go out and play a round of golf afterwards—the day after Bucky’s death. I’m under the impression that Terry told Helen something of her plans for the future. Those plans need to be checked out.”
Joanna returned to Dick Voland. “Is there anything more happening in the Buckwalter case? Anything else Ernie should know about?”
Eager to make his escape, Voland stood up. “Not that I can think of,” he said, heading for the door. “That should just about cover it.”
Once the chief deputy was gone, however, Ernie Carpenter made no move to get up. “I need to talk to you about this,” he said.
“About what?” Joanna asked.
Ernie sighed. “Look,” he said, “I’ll be happy to run out to the Rest Inn and interview Hal Morgan. And I’m more than happy to drive out to the Rob Roy and talk to this Peter Wilkes. No problem. But I can’t go talk to Helen Barco. I won’t.”
“Why not?” Joanna asked.
There was a long pause. “Because she won’t speak to me,” Ernie Carpenter answered.
“She won’t speak to you? Of course she will. You’re a detective. Talking to people is your job.”
Ernie considered for some time before he answered. “Years ago, I dated Helen’s daughter Molly. Did you ever hear anything about that?”
“No,” Joanna answered. “I didn’t even know Helen has a daughter.”
“Had, not has,” Ernie corrected. “And not many people do. Molly Barco and I went to high school together. We dated for a while. I was older than she was by a good three years. After graduation, I went away to college. That’s where I met Rose. It was love at first sight. The real thing, not just some kind of puppy love. When I came back to Bisbee at homecoming to break the news to Molly that Rose and I were going to get married, she more or less went haywire. She had always been a little on the wild side. She took off. Went to San Diego to live with her cousin. She died two months later, three months shy of her seventeenth birthday. A sailor on leave stabbed her to death just outside Balboa Park. He claimed she was a prostitute and that when she pulled a knife on him, he stabbed her in self-defense. He was tried, but he got off.”
“That’s why Helen Barco doesn’t speak to you?” Joanna asked. “She blames you for what happened to her daughter?”
“Helen has every right to blame me. I blame myself,” Ernie said. “Molly was an only child. She was young and sweet and vulnerable, and far more in love with me than I was with her.”
Joanna thought of the many times she had been in Helen Barco’s beauty shop and the countless times Eleanor Lathrop had gone. Yet Joanna did not remember ever hearing any mention of the Barcos’ murdered daughter.
“That’s one of the reasons I became a cop,” Ernie continued. “And a detective, too. I always felt as though I owed Molly that much—to do what I could to help others, even though I couldn’t help her. I’ve run into Slim around town on occasion. He’s always civil, if not pleasant. Helen cuts me dead whenever she sees me. It would be useless for me to try to talk to her about Terry Buckwalter.”
The room grew still. “Should I go see her?” Joanna suggested at last.
Ernie nodded. “That’s probably a good idea,” he said. “If you don’t mind, that is. Otherwise, I could ask Jaime Carbajal to do it, but I just sent the poor guy home to get some shut-eye himself.”
“I don’t mind,” Joanna said. And then, because Ernie looked so beaten up, she tried to lighten his load. “I’ve been needing a haircut for weeks anyway. This would be a
good excuse, and subtle, too, don’t you think? Sort of like going in undercover?”
Ernie Carpenter stood up and gave Joanna the ghost of a grin. “You may be able to get away with that line,” he said, “but it wouldn’t work for me. Not in a million years.”
Once back in her office, Joanna picked up the phone and dialed Helene’s Salon of Hair and Beauty. The first time she dialed the number, the line was busy. While waiting to dial again, she thumbed through her newest stack of correspondence. Halfway down, she found that morning’s issue of the Bisbee Bee.
Curious, Joanna picked it up. There staring back at her, was her own picture. The photographer had caught her in the flash of the camera as she exited her Blazer. Next to that was a very uncomplimentary mug shot of Hannah Green.
The caption under Joanna’s picture said, “Sheriff Joanna Brady returns to her office by a back entrance following the suicide of a Cochise County Jail inmate.”
“That wormy little son of a bitch!” Joanna said.
Tossing the paper aside, Joanna dialed Helen’s number once again. This time it rang. Helen Barco herself answered the phone.
“Joanna Brady here,” Joanna said. “There isn’t a chance you could work me in for a haircut sometime today, is there?”
“How soon can you be here?” Helen returned. “Lonnie Taylor canceled just a few minutes ago because she has to take her mother out to Sierra Vista to see the doctor. If you can be here in the next twenty minutes or so, I can work you in with no problem. Otherwise, you’re out of luck.”
“I’m on my way,” Joanna said. “Hold the chair for me.”
She drove into town feeling as though she were privy to something she didn’t want to know—to a part of Ernie’s history as well as of Helen Barco’s that shouldn’t have been any of Joanna Brady’s business. But it was. She felt as though, with her newfound knowledge, she owed Helen Barco the courtesy of a condolence. And yet, since Helen herself hadn’t mentioned her daughter, Joanna realized that her saying anything at all about Molly Barco would be a rude intrusion.
When Joanna walked into the beauty shop that day, she felt weighted down by all that secret knowledge. The eye-watering smells of permanent-wave solution and chemicals made her want to run for cover. A woman Joanna didn’t recognize sat enthroned under a beehive-shaped dryer with a dog-eared People magazine thrust in front of her face. She looked up and nodded in greeting when Joanna opened the door.
