Fire and Ice jpb-19

by J. A. Jance

  “Warden Willison told me you’d be calling, but there’s not much I can tell you. Marco Andrade’s dead and so is my investigation.”

  “But-”

  “I was ordered to back off,” Lowell told me, “and I have.”

  “Who told you to back off?” I asked.

  “My boss,” Lowell said. “That’s who. When he said drop it, I did.”

  “Does Warden Willison know you’ve dropped it?”

  “For all I know, Willison may be part of the problem. So, no, I haven’t told him, and I’d be much obliged if you didn’t mention it either.”

  “Part of the problem-” I began.

  “Look,” Lowell interrupted. “This is evidently a much bigger deal than some worthless punk getting his on a shower-stall floor. At least that’s what I was told by the people who took over.”

  “What people?” I asked.

  Lowell sighed impatiently, as though I were a complete idiot. “How do you spell F-E-D-S?” he asked.

  “You’re saying the feds have taken over?”

  “Yes, they have-lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “What about Marco Andrade’s personal effects?”

  “Gone,” Lowell said. “I already told you. They took everything I had. I was told this is all part of a much larger investigation into one of those new Mexican drug cartels. The DEA doesn’t want any of us local guys getting in the way of something they’ve been working on for months.”

  “Did they give you any names?” I asked.

  Lowell laughed outright at that. “You’ve got to be joking. They didn’t tell me anything-not a single damned thing. They told me that the case operates on a need-to-know basis only. I must have come up short in that department because so far they’ve given me nothing. So what’s your interest in all this? If the DEA finds out you’re asking questions, my guess is that they’ll send you your very own personal cease-and-desist order.”

  For the next few minutes I told Gerald Lowell how I had run across Marco Andrade while working a series of Washington State homicides. I was telling him about Marcella Andrade’s murder when he interrupted me.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “What’s her name again?”

  “Marcella,” I said.

  “And where did you say she was from?”

  “A town called Federal Way,” I told him.

  “Just a sec,” he said. “Hang on.”

  He was off the line for several long seconds. In my ear I heard what sounded like someone paging through pieces of paper. Eventually he picked up the receiver again.

  “Here it is,” he said triumphantly. “I thought Federal Way sounded familiar.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “When the feds showed up here with a warrant, they went away with Marco Andrade’s personal effects, the evidence we had gathered, including the murder book. They’re planning to make a federal case of it, but they didn’t bother taking my trusty everyday notebook. You say her name was Marcella?”

  “Yes.”

  “In with Marco’s personal effects was a note from Marcella telling him she had met someone else and that she wanted a divorce.”

  “Was there a return address?”

  “There was no envelope,” Lowell answered. “Right, here’s what I was looking for. You might want to make a note of it. The address is in Federal Way.” He read off a street address complete with a zip code.

  “Whose address is that?” I asked. I knew for a fact that it wasn’t anywhere near Silver Pines.

  “Beats me,” Lowell said. “But it was important enough that Marco Andrade had it tattooed on the inside of his left arm. The M.E. found it during the autopsy. It’s a crude homemade job, just barely legible. My guess is that he did it himself. Before I got ordered off the job, I tracked it down through the reverse directory.”

  “And?”

  “Turned out to be a Denny’s restaurant. I spoke to the manager. He claimed he didn’t know anybody there named Marcella Andrade.”

  Of course he didn’t, I realized. Because Marcella Andrade had worked there under an assumed name.

  “Boy howdy,” Lowell said. “That would be a kick, wouldn’t it?”

  “What would be a kick?” I asked.

  “If that big federal case turned out to be nothing more than a little old romantic triangle. Marco wouldn’t give Marcella a divorce, so the boyfriend put out a hit.”

  I signed off the call. I thought Lowell was barking up a wrong tree. I had met Mason Waters, Marina Aguirre’s grieving fiance. He didn’t seem like the type to put out a hit on anyone, most especially not a complicated in-prison hit. Besides, Marina hadn’t let on to Mason Waters that she was still married. She had claimed to be dodging an ex-boyfriend, not a current husband.

  Knowing these background details caused a lot of other things to start making sense. Marcella had stayed in touch with her soon-to-be-ex-husband by using her work address instead of her home address. Worried about being found, she hadn’t told many people where she lived, including Mason. Once she disappeared, the poor guy had been reduced to hiring a private eye to find out where his missing fiancee had once lived.

  It occurred to me that if Marcella’s killer or killers had snatched her from her workplace, that would help explain why the man who had come to Tom Wojeck in search of Marcella’s missing money had no idea where she lived, either. He might have uncovered the Silver Pines part, but he couldn’t risk breaking into one trailer after the other until he finally hit on the right one.

  The conversation with Lowell brought me up against another realization-one I didn’t like. In all the busy hubbub-in finding out Marina’s real name and notifying Marcella Andrade’s family-I had forgotten all about Mason Waters. Down in Federal Way, Marcella had left behind one additional survivor, a not-quite-family member who had not yet been notified. My heart went out to the poor guy who still cherished the Seiko watch he had purchased as a Christmas gift for his missing fiancee. Somebody needed to go see him and let him know that the Christmas morning he had in mind was never going to come.

  I picked up my car keys and headed for Mel’s office. She was on the phone. When she saw me standing there waiting, she signed off. “That was Detective Carpenter on the phone,” she said. “He went by that house in Tucson and picked up the wallet. The name on the driver’s license is Tomas Eduardo Rivera. He lives on North Wright Avenue in Cle Elum. There was money in the wallet-five twenty-dollar bills and six ones. Carpenter said that tucked in among the ones and written in pencil on what appeared to be the corner of a paper napkin was the name Miguel, along with a phone number that listed a 360 prefix. There were also school pictures of two dark-haired boys. I told Carpenter that I’d see what I can do to track Rivera down, find out where he works, et cetera, as well as what his connection might be to Marina.”

  “Great,” I told her. “In the meantime, someone needs to have a talk with Mason Waters and tell him what we’ve learned.”

  Mel doesn’t like doing next-of-kin notifications any more than I do, and she was happy to pass the buck. “Good thinking,” she said. “And since you’re going to be so close to the airport, maybe you could stop by and pick up Jaime Carbajal. His plane’s due in at two-thirty.”

  I glanced at my watch. It was just past noon. “It should work,” I told her. She gave me the flight information and I headed out.

  When Joanna arrived at Daisy’s Cafe, she was surprised to find Daisy herself standing by the cash wrap. “Where’s Junior?” Joanna asked.

  Junior Dowdle was a middle-aged developmentally disabled man who had been abandoned by his caregivers and who had been taken in by Daisy Maxwell and her husband Moe. For several years now, Junior had been a constant presence at Daisy’s-greeting arriving customers, handing out menus, and busing tables. In the past few months, Joanna had noticed that his smile wasn’t as ready as it had once been and that he sometimes seemed confused.

  Daisy’s face clouded. “He’s a little under the weather today,” she sai
d, leading Joanna to the booth where Eleanor was already seated. “He’s at home with his dad.”

  “I’m sorry to miss him,” Joanna said.

  Daisy nodded. “Thank you,” she said.

  Joanna slid into the booth.

  “At least you’re here,” Eleanor said. “I thought you were going to stand me up, too. George is working on his baby. Packing. Everything has to be in just the right place. I swear, sometimes I think he loves that RV of his more than he loves me. He wants to be under way at the crack of dawn Sunday morning.”

  George’s “baby” was a hulking Newell motor home that they had bought used and would be traveling in on their jaunts back and forth between their two homes, one in Arizona and the other in Minnesota. Joanna was disappointed to learn that George wouldn’t be there for lunch. She had wanted to talk to her stepfather about the situation concerning Inez Fletcher’s possible autopsy and the poor woman’s two feuding offspring.

  “He had a great time at the party last night,” Eleanor added. “Where’s Butch? He’s late, too. Still cleaning up after the bachelor party?”

  “No,” Joanna said. “The cleanup is pretty much done. His publisher scheduled a surprise conference call for sometime today. He didn’t know if he’d be able to make it or not.”

  Eleanor clicked her tongue. “Men,” she said disapprovingly. “You can’t live with ’em and you can’t live without ’em.” But Joanna noticed Eleanor smiled when she said the words. From Joanna’s perspective, it seemed as though the last year or so, since George had retired, her mother seemed truly happy for the first time in her life.

  Now, peering across the top of her menu at Joanna’s face, Eleanor’s smile was suddenly replaced by a frown. “You look upset,” she said. “Don’t be. The two of us are perfectly capable of having lunch on our own.”

  It was Joanna’s turn to smile. “It’s not that,” she said. “I just came from the Board of Supervisors meeting. Peggy Whitehead would like to have my head on a platter. Marliss was there. I’m sure you’ll be able to read all about it in one of her upcoming columns.”

  The fact that Marliss Shackleford and her mother continued to be good friends was something that had bugged Joanna for years.

  “The two of you are a lot alike,” Eleanor said now. “Both of you are ambitious. Both of you are determined to make a mark in your hometown. Both of you have nontraditional jobs. I’ve never understood why you couldn’t be friends, the same way you and Marianne Maculyea are friends.”

  Because Marianne doesn’t come after me with knives drawn, Joanna thought as Daisy came to take their order. The daily special was two shredded beef tacos and a cheese enchilada. Joanna and Eleanor both ordered that.

  “So how’s the best man this morning?” Eleanor asked, changing the subject.

  Eleanor had been more than disapproving when she had first heard Joanna would be standing up with Frank Montoya, but when it came to planning the details, Eleanor was also the one who had tracked down a suitable outfit-a gray silk ankle-length skirt topped by a matching boxy jacket studded with rhinestone buttons. The material was a close match to Frank’s tux, and Joanna was relieved that she wouldn’t have to walk down the aisle in a tuxedo.

  “Fine,” Joanna said.

  “And you’re going to Helene’s this afternoon?” Eleanor asked.

  “For a cut.” Joanna nodded. “Right after lunch. It’s the only time Helen could work me in.” Helen Barco had added an e to her name in hopes of lending Helene’s Salon of Hair and Beauty a little class. But Helen was still Helen.

  “You might ask her if she could put a bit of a color rinse on your hair,” Eleanor suggested. “You may not have noticed, but you have some gray showing these days.”

  As soon as she said the words, Joanna knew her real mother was back. This sounded more like the Eleanor Joanna had known and loved all her life.

  “Sure, Mom,” she said. “I’ll see what can be done.”

  Even as Joanna said the words, she knew she would do no such thing. Yes, relations between Joanna Brady and Eleanor Lathrop Winfield had changed some. Things had improved but not that much. If Eleanor didn’t like the fringe of gray that was showing up on her daughter’s otherwise red head, too bad.

  I’ll wear that gray proudly, she thought ruefully to herself. Like a red and gray badge of courage.

  I could have called ahead, but I didn’t. Mason Waters deserved more than a phone call. Tracking him down in person to give him the information he dreaded was the right thing to do. At least, it was the right thing for me to do.

  I was relieved when I drove up the cul-de-sac and saw both the Kenworth and Mason Waters’s Honda parked out front. That meant he was home. I found him out in his carport. Armed with a DustBuster vacuum, he was cleaning the front floorboards of the little maroon sedan.

  When I walked up beside the car, he straightened up, looked at me, and said, “This is going to be bad news.”

  I nodded.

  His eyes filled with tears. “You’d better come inside,” he said, quickly brushing them away.

  I followed Mason into his house. By the time he lowered himself into the recliner, he seemed to be under control. “Tell me,” he said.

  So I did, explaining that the woman he had known as Marina Aguirre was actually Marcella Andrade. I didn’t spare any of the details. Eventually they’d end up being media fodder. I thought he was better off hearing them from me in the privacy of his own living room. He listened to it all, sitting in stark silence with his big hands folded in his lap. When I finished, he shook his head.

  “How do you know it’s her?” he asked. “How can you be sure Marina and this Marcella are one and the same?”

  “Marcella was found through dental records. But she was wearing a Timex watch at the time of her death-a Timex watch, an engagement ring, and a toe ring. I believe you bought the engagement ring for her.”

  He nodded. “From Fred Meyer Jewelers, here in the mall.”

  I reminded myself to check with the jeweler. They might be able to identify the stone as the one Mason had purchased.

  “And you think this is all about the money?” Waters said. “Some drug dealer’s money. But I never saw her using drugs, and if Marina had the kind of money you say she had, why was she busting her butt working at Denny’s? That makes no sense.”

  “My guess would be that she was trying to keep a low profile and trying to distance herself from her former associates. Can you remember anything at all unusual in the days before she disappeared?” I asked. “Did she seem worried or on edge?”

  Waters shook his head. “No more than usual,” he said. “She always seemed to be looking over her shoulder, but that was because of her ex-boyfriend. What about him? I know she was scared of him. Terrified, even. One way or another, I’ll bet he’s behind what happened.”

  Even though I had explained that Marco and Marcella Andrade were husband and wife and that Marco was already dead by the time Marina disappeared, Waters still clung stubbornly to the lies Marina Aguirre had told him. In a way, what he was doing was every bit as understandable as Warden Willison not wanting to consider that one of his people might be behind the security breach that had concealed Marco Andrade’s killer.

  “As I said, Marco couldn’t have done it, because he was already dead,” I told him. “But I have reason to believe that the two of them had maintained some kind of contact while she was involved with you.”

  Mason Waters shook his head. “No,” he said. “She didn’t.”

  I could have told him about Marcella’s note to Marco, the one saying she wanted a divorce. But at that point Mason’s mind was made up, and I didn’t try changing it.

  “So what’s going to happen to her now?” he asked woodenly. “To her body, I mean.”

  “Her brother, Jaime Carbajal, is due in on a plane from Tucson later this afternoon. I’m supposed to pick him up at the airport a little more than an hour from now. Once the M.E. in Ellensburg releases the remains, he’
ll be taking the body back to Bisbee for burial.”

  “Bisbee,” Mason mused. “That sounds familiar. I think I drove through there years ago, hauling a load of equipment down to Douglas. Do you think her family would mind if I came to her funeral?”

  “I doubt they’d mind,” I said. “When I see her brother, I’ll mention you to him. I think her family would be glad to know that she had someone like you in her life.”

  “And what about her son?” Waters asked. “Louis. What’s going to happen to him?”

  Marina had told him that much of the truth-that she had a son, but Waters had only heard the name spoken. He hadn’t seen it written down. “It’s L-U-I-S,” I corrected. “From what I’ve been able to learn, he’s staying with his aunt and uncle on a temporary basis.”

  Which will probably become permanent, I thought.

  I stood to leave. “I can show myself out,” I said. “I’m sorry to have brought such bad news.”

  Waters nodded. “It’s all right,” he said. “I guess I’ve been expecting it all along, and knowing is better than not knowing.”

  “Is there anyone you can call?” I asked. “Someone who could come stay with you.”

  “No, thank you,” he said. “I’ll be all right. I’ve been alone with it all these months. I can be alone with it now.”

  I left him sitting there brokenhearted, and made my way back outside. I had turned off my phone when I went inside to speak to him. When I turned it back on, there was a missed call from Mel. I called her right back. “Detective Caldwell and I have been tracking on Mr. Rivera. It turns out he didn’t show up at work today. Lucy’s afraid he may have skipped. She’s got an unmarked car stationed outside the suspect’s house in Cle Elum. Rivera’s truck isn’t there at the moment, so apparently he’s not home. She asked me if I wanted to be in on a sit-down with the suspect’s wife. I’m on my way there now. Care to join us?”

  “Give me the address. Once I pick up Jaime Carbajal, we’ll come there, too.”