Outlaw Mountain : A Joanna Brady Mystery (9780061748806)

by Jance, Judith A.

  Monday morning roll call was the one time a week when as many of her far-flung deputies as possible assembled in the conference room. That gathering was one Joanna tried to attend on a regular basis. It was a way of staying in touch with officers in the field. Once roll call was over, Joanna retreated to the privacy of her own office for the daily briefing with her two chief deputies.

  As usual, Chief Deputy for Operations Richard Voland was on hand and on time. He brought with him the routine sheaf of incident reports that had come in county-wide over the weekend. Tossing the papers onto Joanna’s desk, Voland eased his bulky frame into one of the captain’s chairs in front of Joanna’s desk.

  “I don’t know where the hell Frank Montoya is,” he grumbled. “I was told he’s up in Tucson chasing after the kid who stole Mayor Rogers’ mother’s car. Isn’t it about time he got his butt back here to Bisbee and started tending to business? I’m sick and tired of having to cover for him—of having to do my work and his, too.”

  Relations between Joanna’s two chief deputies had never been cordial. Frank Montoya’s temporary posting to Tombstone had made things worse. Not only that, Frank’s continuing absence meant that Joanna and Dick Voland were thrown together alone for much of the time.

  In public, Dick carried on with total professionalism. Alone in Joanna’s office, however, the man’s continuing infatuation with her was growing more and more apparent. He often came to the morning briefing with two cups of coffee in hand. When he gave Joanna hers, fingers brush-big in the process, his face would flush—whether with embarrassment or pleasure, Joanna couldn’t tell. She did know that a call to her from Butch Dixon while Dick Voland was in her office would be enough to send her Chief Deputy for Operations into a day-long funk.

  It bothered Joanna that, once the briefings were over, Voland would often find one excuse after another not to leave her office. He would linger in the doorway, making small talk about anything and everything. Sometimes those doorway discussions were official in nature, but more often they revolved around personal issues—around Voland’s bitter divorce and his difficulties as a part-time father. Joanna knew the man was searching for sympathy, and not undeservedly so. But she worried that any personal comments or kind gestures on her part might be misinterpreted.

  Before her election to the office of sheriff, Joanna’s experience with law enforcement had been entirely secondhand, as the daughter of one lawman and, later, as the wife and widow of another. Because she had come to the office as a novice police officer, she remained largely dependent on the professionals who worked for her to give her much-needed advice and direction. Richard Voland was an eighteen-year Cochise County Sheriff’s Department veteran. As such, she needed his counsel and help, but his increasingly personal attachment to her forced Joanna to walk a fine line between not alienating the man and not leading him on, either.

  On this particular morning, she welcomed Dick Voland’s ill-tempered griping about Frank Montoya. Focus on work usually helped keep personal issues at bay. Without replying, Joanna buzzed her secretary, Kristin Marsten, whose desk was just outside the door.

  “Did Chief Deputy Montoya call in to say he’d be late?”

  “Actually,” Kristin returned, “he’s on the line right now. I was about to buzz you when you beat me to it. Do you want me to take a message or should I put him through?”

  “Let me talk to him,” Joanna replied.

  When her line buzzed seconds later, she punched the speakerphone. “What’s up, Frank? Where are you?”

  “Still in Tucson,” Montoya answered. “Sorry to miss the briefing, but I wanted to stay with this thing. I was afraid if I didn’t stick around and keep prodding, Pima County would drop the ball.”

  “What’s going on?” Joanna asked.

  “Everyone has this one filed as juvenile joyriding, which makes it a pretty low priority. When the kid came out of surgery, they didn’t even have any Santa Cruz County detectives here to talk to him. I was it. His mother was there and so was a hotshot attorney who happens to be the kid’s uncle.

  “All I wanted to know was where they picked up the car so we’d have some idea of where to go looking for Alice. The kid’s name is Joaquin Morales. His attorney wouldn’t let him talk to me without having some kind of deal in place first. I tried to tell him that if there was a chance Alice was still alive, we needed to find her as soon as possible. The uncle didn’t buy it. He insisted that I call in someone from Pima County. Since the missing person is from Cochise and the shoot-out happened in Santa Cruz, the guys from Pima County weren’t exactly chomping at the bit to come out.

  “Finally—reluctantly—Pima County sent out a pair of detectives. According to them, they’ve talked to the kid. He told them he and his buddies found the car out on Houghton Road. If his doctor will release him and if the county attorney will agree to drop all charges, he’s willing to show us where the car was.”

  “Wait a minute,” Joanna objected. “That doesn’t make sense. How can anybody put together a deal when they still haven’t found Alice Rogers and when they have no idea whether she’s dead or alive?”

  “Good question,” Frank said. “I’m a little curious about that myself. Morales’ attorney made a big squawk about how this is Joaquin’s first offense. I don’t think so. This is just the first one he’s ever gotten caught on, but no one’s particularly interested in my opinion. Besides, all I’m trying to do right now is find Alice while there’s still a remote chance that she’s among the living.”

  “I’d say there’s not much of a chance right now,” Joanna murmured.

  “You’re right,” Frank agreed. “She disappeared on Saturday night, and now it’s Monday morning. That means she’s been missing at least thirty-six hours. An older woman like that, if she’s been out in the weather all that time, she’s probably succumbed by now—hypothermia if nothing else.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Joanna asked.

  “I’m going to hang around here. If Pima County cuts a deal and they take Joaquin out to look for the crime scene, I intend to ride along.”

  “Good,” Joanna said. “Keep me posted.”

  Switching off the speakerphone, Joanna turned back to Dick Voland and business as usual. Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. “The Pima County attorney gave Morales his sweetheart deal. If Joaquin leads us to the crime scene, all charges are dropped. That’s where I’m going now—someplace out on Houghton Road. Morales and the Pima County cops are going in one vehicle and I’m going in mine. Once we get out in that general direction, we’re supposed to rendezvous with a Search and Rescue team.”

  “Has Clete Rogers been informed about any of these latest developments?” Joanna asked.

  “No,” Frank said. “I haven’t called him. Up to now, I didn’t think I had enough information to clue him in. Once we locate where the kids picked up the car, we’ll have a probable place to start looking for his mother. Now is most likely a good time to bring him up to speed. Clete Rogers may be a complete jerk. Even so, he deserves some advance warning about what’s going on. And, taking all the political implications into consideration, Joanna, you’re the one who should tell him,” Frank added.

  Not so very long ago, Joanna Brady herself had been on the receiving end of a next-of-kin notification. She knew how much that kind of news hurt—knew that it tore people apart from the inside out. Not only that, her own wounds were still fresh enough that there was no way for her to distance herself from other people’s hurt. Those were her private concerns, but she was careful not to make them part of her voiced objection.

  Across the polished surface of Joanna’s desk, Dick Voland shook his head. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I’ve got too much work to do.”

  “Look, Sheriff,” Frank Montoya said in a placating tone that was calculated to win her over, “I know how this guy operates. Clete Rogers is an arrogant jerk, but he’s also a master manipulator. You’ll be doing yourself and your whole department a big favor if y
ou handle this in person. Clete will be a lot less likely to get his nose out of joint and make trouble if news of his mother comes to him sheriff-to-mayor rather than deputy-to-mayor. Most people don’t give a rat’s ass about who gives them the bad news, but Clete Rogers isn’t most people. He’s a guy who walks around with a huge chip on his shoulder just waiting for somebody to cross him or slight him in any way. That’s why I ended up in Tombstone in the first place. Rogers somehow got the idea that the previous marshal wasn’t respectful enough toward him, regardless of whether or not he deserved anybody’s respect.”

  “In other words,” Joanna said, “if I don’t do this, Mayor Rogers is going to make your life miserable for as long as you’re stuck in Tombstone.”

  “My life and yours, too,” Montoya told her. “He’ll pull out all the stops.”

  Sighing, Joanna glanced at her watch. “What about the board of supervisors meeting this morning?” she asked. “If I can’t go and you’re not going, who will handle that?”

  “Let me guess,” Voland grumbled from the far side of Joanna’s desk. “I suppose that’s going to wind up in my lap. I’ll take care of it. I’d much rather do that than have to deal with Clete Rogers.”

  “Okay, then Frank,” Joanna said. “Since Dick has agreed to handle the board meeting, I’ll be responsible for notifying Rogers. But what about his sister? Who’s going to notify Susan Jenkins? If Clete merits the benefit of the full deluxe treatment, including a personal visit from the sheriff, shouldn’t his sister deserve similar consideration? What if she feels slighted?”

  “Let me point out that Susan Jenkins isn’t an elected official with a sizable voting constituency,” Frank said. “I’m sure someone should go talk to the woman in person, but that someone doesn’t have to be you.”

  “Good,” Joanna breathed. “Maybe Dick has some stray deputy or other he can spare long enough to send out to Sierra Vista.”

  The Chief Deputy for Operations was already examining his duty roster. “There’s Deputy Gregovich,” Voland said. “He and Spike are heading that direction first thing this morning. They’re due at the Oak Vista construction site outside Sierra Vista. If he stops by to see Susan Jenkins, it won’t be that far out of his way.”

  Oak Vista Estates was a new mammoth-sized housing development being built at the southern end of the Huachuca Mountains. The previous Friday afternoon, sign-carrying protesters—people who preferred grassy, oak-dotted foothills to freshly bulldozed urban blight—had held hands across the development’s construction entrance in an unsuccessful effort to block the arrival of flatbed trucks delivering bulldozers, backhoes, and front-end loaders to the site. In the end Mark Childers, the developer, had carried the day by simply waiting out the protesters. He had delivered his equipment after the tree-huggers had all gone home for the night.

  Now, in a new week and with work on the project underway in earnest, no one knew quite what to expect. Which was why Voland had dispatched Deputy Gregovich and Spike to the scene in hopes of preventing trouble before it could start.

  Terry Gregovich was a Bisbee native and a former marine who had been riffed out of the service after two tours of duty. Back home in Cochise County, Gregovich had done such outstanding work with the Search and Rescue team that Joanna had brought him on board, hoping to turn him into a detective. That plan had been shot down by budget considerations, but when Frank Montoya had located grant money to establish a K-9 unit, Terry’s previous K-9 experience working airport security with the military as well as time spent as an MP had put him on a fast track. He and Spike, an eighty-five-pound German shepherd, were the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department’s newest rookies. They generally worked nighttime shifts, but Voland had posted them to days to help handle the Oak Vista protesters.

  “Terry’s pretty new on the job,” Joanna observed. “Do you think he can handle talking to bereaved relatives on his own?”

  “No doubt about it,” Voland said. “Terry may be new to our department, but it’s not like he’s never been a cop before. He’ll be fine.”

  “And what about Spike?” Joanna asked.

  “What about him?”

  “Here’s Clete Rogers getting a personal visit from the sheriff herself while his sister ends up with a rookie officer and a slobbery German shepherd besides. It sounds a little inequitable to me.”

  Dick Voland didn’t seem to appreciate the joke, but Frank Montoya laughed aloud. “No doubt Hizzoner will approve. I’m not so sure about Susan Jenkins.”

  “It’s Gregovich or nothing,” Dick Voland growled. “He’s the only deputy I can spare this morning.”

  “All right,” Joanna said. “That settles it then. I’ll head for Tombstone as soon as I can. Talk to you later, Frank.” With that she once again switched off the speaker and focused her attention on Voland. “Anything urgent before I hit the road?”

  “Nothing that won’t keep,” he said. With that Dick Voland stood up and lumbered toward the outer office. This time he marched straight into the reception area. Breathing a sigh of relief, Joanna followed him. At a desk just outside Joanna’s office, Kristin Marsten was busily sorting through a stack of mail.

  “I’m on my way to Tombstone to talk to Clete Rogers,” Joanna told Kristin. “Just put the mail on my desk. It’ll have to wait until I get back.”

  Letting herself out of her private entrance and into the parking lot behind the building, Joanna was faced with a decision. As sheriff, she had two vehicles at her disposal—a battle-scarred Chevy Blazer and a shiny and relatively new Crown Victoria. Because she wanted to make an impression on Clete Rogers and because she wasn’t anticipating driving through any four-wheel-type terrain, she opted for the Crown Victoria. Other jurisdictions sometimes referred to Crown Victoria cruisers as “Vics.” Joanna and Frank Montoya preferred to call them Civvies.

  The twenty-five-mile drive from Bisbee to Tombstone gave Joanna plenty of time to contemplate how Cletus Rogers would react to the news that his mother’s car had been stolen and that, although she was still officially missing, it was becoming more and more likely that she was dead. Like Frank Montoya, Joanna feared the mayor of Tombstone would come unglued and overreact. What if he decides to go traipsing up to Tucson himself? Joanna wondered. Having him show up at a crime scene will drive the Pima County guys crazy.

  Thirty minutes later and still dreading the task ahead, Sheriff Joanna Brady pulled into the parking lot of Clete Rogers’ Grubsteak Restaurant and Saloon on Alien Street. The clapboard-covered building, complete with phony white shutters, looked more like a refugee from a film set than a genuine product of the Old West. As Joanna stepped up on the sidewalk, she noticed, on closer examination, that the exterior paint was chipped and peeling. And when she pushed open the front door, she noted that the carpeting in the front entryway had been tacked down with a few strategically placed strips of duct tape.

  Stationed in front of an old-fashioned cash register stood a well-endowed peroxide blonde holding a stack of menus. “Smoking or nonsmoking?” she asked.

  Joanna hauled out her badge and flashed it. “I’m looking for Mr. Rogers.”

  The hostess stuck a pair of red-framed reading glasses on her nose long enough to examine the ID. “Mr. Rogers is busy,” she said in a brusque manner designed to forestall any further discussion. “He’s upstairs in his office and on the phone long distance. Monday’s order day around here. He’s not to be interrupted.”

  “I’m sure he’ll want to speak to me,” Joanna said. “It’s about his mother.”

  The hostess sniffed disdainfully. “Well,” she said. “It’s about time someone started looking into that. We’ve had that useless deputy hanging around here for weeks on end, but as soon as there’s a real problem, he up and disappears.”

  “Frank Montoya didn’t disappear,” Joanna corrected, coming to her chief deputy’s defense. “He spent the whole night working on this situation, first down in Nogales and now up in Tucson.”

  “Oh,” said t
he hostess, sounding somewhat mollified. “If you’ll just take a seat, I’ll try to catch Mr. Rogers’ eye the next time he’s between calls. Care for a cup of coffee while you wait?”

  Joanna was finishing her second cup of coffee when Clete Rogers finally appeared. He was a large, rawboned man somewhere in his mid-to-late fifties. His eyes had the look of someone dealing with life on too little sleep. As soon as he had settled into the booth across the table from Joanna, the hostess hurried up behind him and set a large tumbler of orange juice on the table in front of him.

  “Are you all right?” she asked solicitously. Her double chins waggled when she spoke. So did the ample cleavage that showed over the top of her peasant-style blouse.

  “Goddamn it, Nancy!” Clete Rogers grumbled at her. “I know if I’m fine or not! Leave me the hell alone. Don’t hover, and get back to work!”

  Behind red-framed glasses, Nancy’s enormous blue eyes filmed with tears. Her lower Up trembled right along with her chins, but after a moment she seemed to pull herself together. “Well, excuuuse me!” she snapped back at him, and flounced off.

  Clete Rogers looked after her. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell who’s the owner around here and who’s the employee.”

  Even though Frank Montoya had warned Joanna about Clete Rogers’ arrogance and ill temper, she was nonetheless surprised by his shabby treatment of someone who was, as far as Joanna could see, a fiercely loyal employee.

  Finished with what appeared to be an unwarranted attack on Nancy, Clete turned his attention back to Joanna. “So what’s the deal here, Sheriff Brady? Have you found my mother or not?”

  “We’ve located her car,” Joanna said carefully.

  “Where?”

  “A group of juveniles were stopped while attempting to take it across the border into Mexico.”