Outlaw Mountain : A Joanna Brady Mystery (9780061748806)

by Jance, Judith A.

  Andrew rolled over onto his side, planted one bony elbow in his pillow, and cushioned his chin in the palm of his hand. “Are you really the sheriff?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How come?”

  “Because the people elected me. I ran for office and I won.”

  “I wouldn’t mind being sheriff,” he said. “But I don’t think I’d like it if people tied me up with duct tape.”

  Joanna smiled. “Fortunately that doesn’t happen very often. Thanks again, Andrew, and remember, if there’s ever anything I can do for you—”

  “Would you come speak to my social studies class sometimes?” Andrew asked. “The DARE officer is at school all the time, but I think it would be cool to have the real sheriff come talk to us.”

  Joanna reached into her pocket and pulled out a card. “I’ll be glad to. Have your teacher call me to set up a time.”

  She started toward the door. “One other thing,” Andrew said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Are you going to get in trouble for shooting a hole in those tires?”

  “I could, but I doubt it,” Joanna said. “I had to make a choice, Andrew, between public property and public safety. If the crooks had made it to the cars, it would have been a lot harder for them to get away in a vehicle with one flat tire than it would have been in one with four good tires. My deputies sometimes have to make those kinds of choices as well. As long as what they do is justified, no one gets in trouble.”

  “Who decides whether or not they get in trouble?”

  “I do.”

  “How come?”

  Joanna smiled. “Because I’m the boss. I’m going now, Andrew. See you later.”

  As she walked back out to the crime scene, she hoped her explanation of the bullet hole in the Blazer’s right front tire would make as much sense to Danny Garner in Motor Pool as it had to Andrew Styles. Then there was the matter of the broken glass.

  Out on the street, Chief Deputy Montoya was waiting for her. “What took you so long?” he asked.

  “I had to see someone, Frank—the little boy who saved my neck. And I need some badges.”

  “What kind of badges?”

  “Some I can keep in my purse and hand out as necessary.”

  “Fake ones, you mean. For little kids?”

  “And grown ones.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Frank said, jotting down a note. “Anything else?”

  “Remind me to look into a new gun. The Colt misfired twice this afternoon. Both times when a crook was using it instead of me, but twice is two times too many.”

  She paused and looked around. “Now, where are we?”

  “Deputy Pakin is just finishing changing your flat. The Blazer’s drivable, even though part of the windshield’s blown, or we can have it towed.”

  “Tape the windshield,” Joanna said. “I’ll drive.”

  “Meantime, we have Dena Hogan all loaded up in my Civvy and ready to go. I mirandized her, but she’s waiving her right to an attorney. She claims to be representing herself. She wants to see the prosecutor about a plea bargain, and she wants to do it right away. Now. Tonight.”

  “Of course she does,” Joanna said. “She’s got to hurry and strike a deal before Ross Jenkins gets out of surgery, otherwise he may beat her to the punch.”

  “You know what they say,” Frank said with a smile. “No honor among thieves.”

  “Or killers,” Joanna said. “Any idea where Ross and Dena were headed when I was lucky enough to interrupt them?”

  “She had two tickets to Mexico City in her purse—one for her and one for Ross Jenkins. But I’m sure Mexico City wasn’t their final destination.”

  “What was?”

  “Rio. Brazil doesn’t have capital punishment. Authorities there won’t extradite someone if it looks like they’re going to come back to the States and face a possible death penalty.”

  “Fortunately, neither one of them made it that far. What kind of a deal do you think old Arlee will strike?” Joanna asked.

  Arlee Campbell Jones, Cochise County’s aging prosecutor, had his own peculiar way of doing things—one that didn’t seem to stand in the way of his winning reelection time after time.

  “Dena Hogan’s pretty enough,” Frank Montoya observed. “And she’s got nice legs. Nice legs always seem to count for something when it comes time for Arlee to wheel and deal.”

  “Tough luck for Ross Jenkins,” Joanna said.

  Just then, a car—this one a silver-gray Camry—wheeled around a blocking patrol car and surged up the street. Despite three different officers signaling for the vehicle to stop, the driver refused to slow down until he was directly behind Joanna’s Blazer, then he jammed on the brakes. A balding, paunchy, middle-aged man jumped out of the car and slammed the door.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded. “What’s going on here?”

  “I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady,” she told him. “Who are you?”

  “Rex Hogan,” he said. “What are all these people doing here? Why’s the street blocked off? And what’s the meaning of all these cars parked in my driveway?”

  Looking at the man, Joanna sensed that Rex had no idea what was going on. She felt a stab of empathy. His face was flushed. He looked as though he was already a candidate for a coronary even without hearing what Joanna was about to tell him. Before opening her mouth, she glanced in the direction of Frank Montoya’s Crown Victoria. From where she and Rex Hogan stood, it looked as though the Civvy’s backseat was empty. Dena Hogan had ducked down in the seat, concealing herself from her husband’s view.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, Mr. Hogan. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  Rex Hogan’s face crumpled. “Not Dena. There’s been some kind of an accident, hasn’t there! Please, God, don’t tell me something’s happened to Dena. I couldn’t stand it. She’s not hurt, is she? Not dead?”

  “Your wife’s not dead,” Joanna said quietly. “She’s under arrest.”

  “Arrest? Did you say under arrest? For what? You can’t be serious. This has to be some kind of joke.”

  “I can assure you, Mr. Hogan, it’s no joke. Your wife is under arrest on suspicion of murder—for the murder of a woman named Alice Rogers. There may be other charges as well, but for right now, that’s how things stand. She’s waived the right to an attorney and insists she wants to represent herself.”

  Rex Hogan staggered backward and rested against the fender of Joanna’s Blazer. For the space of almost a minute he seemed to be hyperventilating, and Joanna was afraid an ambulance would have to be summoned to care for him next. Eventually, though, he settled. “This can’t be,” he gasped when he was finally able to speak. “It’s utterly impossible. Preposterous. Where is she? Let me talk to her.”

  “She’s in that car over there, Mr. Hogan. If you want to, I suppose you could exchange a word or two, but once we take her away, you won’t be able to talk to her again until after she’s been questioned and booked into the Cochise County Jail. At that point, you’ll be able to speak with the jail commander and make arrangements for visitation.”

  Taking Rex by the arm, Joanna led him to Frank’s Crown Victoria. Frank unlocked the front door and got inside. By then Joanna and Rex were close enough to the vehicle that they could see Dena Hogan through the Civvy’s tinted glass windows. Frank said something to the woman and was answered with a decisive shake of the head. Frank spoke again and was answered with another head shake. Finally, the chief deputy stepped back out into the street.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Hogan,” he said. “Your wife refuses to speak to you.”

  Rex walked up to the car, bent down, and put his face directly in front of the window. “Please,” he mouthed. His plea was answered by another adamantly negative response.

  “Why?” Rex asked. He turned back to Joanna. His face screwed up and his eyes threatened to fill with tears. “What have I done? Why’s she so mad at me?”

 
“I don’t think she’s mad at you,” Joanna said softly. “I think she’s mad at herself.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Rex Hogan said. “I don’t understand at all. You said Dena murdered someone—someone I’ve never even heard of. How can that be? Won’t someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  Joanna looked at the broken hulk that was Rex Hogan and felt her heart swell with pity. If his and Dena’s marriage had been as loveless as Ross Jenkins had claimed, it had been a very one-sided lovelessness. Rex Hogan obviously adored his wife, but Joanna suspected that there was a lot he didn’t know about Dena. Joanna had done her official duty in telling Rex what legal charges were pending against his wife. She refused to tell him the rest of it. If the poor man knew nothing of his wife’s liaison with Ross Jenkins, he wasn’t going to learn about it from Joanna Brady. Dena Hogan was going to have to do that much of her own dirty work.

  “You’ll have to ask your wife,” Joanna said quietly. “Maybe she can explain what’s happened to you. Now is there anyone who can come be here with you tonight, Mr. Hogan? You probably shouldn’t be here alone.”

  “I can call my daughter, I suppose,” he said. “She’s married and lives up in Tucson, but I’m sure she’ll come down.”

  “I hope so, Mr. Hogan. Come on, Frank,” Joanna added. “We need to get going.”

  She didn’t mention that one of the reasons she needed to leave right then was that she couldn’t bear being around Rex Hogan’s pain for even a moment longer. Gratefully Joanna observed that Frank and Deputy Lance Pakin had finished fixing her flat tire and had duct-taped a piece of clear plastic sheeting over the bullet hole and the accompanying cobweb of cracks that criscrossed the rider’s side of the Blazer’s windshield. Joanna climbed into the truck and shifted it into gear. She was barely back on Highway 92 when her cell phone rang.

  “What is it now?” she asked wearily, expecting the caller to be Tica Romero.

  “It’s me,” Butch said. “I came by your office a few minutes ago and found out all hell has broken loose. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I’m not so sure I’m proud to be a member of the human race at this point, but I am alive.”

  “And lucky to be so, from what I’ve heard,” Butch said grimly.

  “Yes,” Joanna agreed. “Very lucky. But the good news is, we’ve caught ourselves two killers.”

  “I don’t believe there was any we involved,” Butch said. “People tell me you took it all on yourself—single-handed. Are you—”

  “Butch, please. I did the best I could, and I kept two murderers from getting away. I’m not hurt, although I must say my clothes have seen better days. So let’s not fight. Let’s just be grateful that we’re both alive. Is that why you called me? To chew me out? Or to tell me that you love me?”

  “Well, not exactly. I do love you, of course, but that’s not why I called.”

  “Why did you then?”

  “Ellen Dowdle,” Butch replied.

  “Who?”

  “Dowdle,” Butch said, then he spelled out the name. “D-O-W-D-L-E.”

  “Who’s that?” Joanna asked.

  “Junior’s mother,” Butch said. “She lives in a nursing home in Rapid City, South Dakota.”

  “So Frank found her!” Joanna exclaimed. “We’ve both been so busy with this other deal that we haven’t had a moment to talk about it.”

  “Frank, nothing,” Butch said irritably. “He may have called a few law enforcement agencies looking for a missing person, but no one back there knew Junior was missing because no one had bothered to report it. I’m the one who found her, and I demand full credit.”

  “You did?” Joanna asked in amazement. “That’s wonderful. How did you do it?”

  “I called the Special Olympics headquarters in Yankton. They keep track of special athletes by both first and last names. Once I got hooked up to their database, I had what I needed in less than sixty seconds.”

  “But how did you even know to look there? Did Junior tell you about Special Olympics?”

  “Well,” Butch said reluctantly, “I suppose I have to give some credit where it’s due. Jim Bob and Jenny came by this morning to give me a break and take Junior off my hands for a little while—which I appreciated, by the way. Anyway, Jim Bob asked if I had any other picture books they could take along, since Junior clearly got such a hoot out of that copy of America the Beautiful. All I had to offer were some old photo albums. I didn’t think anything of it, but it turns out there were some pictures of me in there with some of the Roundhouse’s Special Olympics teams from over the years. And once again, as soon as Junior saw something he recognized, he went ballistic. When that happened, Jim Bob called me, and the rest you know.”

  “So have you talked to her?” Joanna asked. “Or has Junior? How soon can we make arrangements for him to go back there?”

  “We can’t,” Butch said.

  “What do you mean, we can’t? Maybe Junior isn’t capable of flying home by himself, but one of us could travel with him.”

  “He doesn’t have a home,” Butch said.

  “How can that be? You just said—”

  “I said I found his mother. Ellen Dowdle is in a nursing home. She had a stroke and is totally incapacitated. Long before that happened, she sold off all her assets, including a family farm, and put them in trust so Junior would be properly taken care of. A niece and her husband, Chuck and Irene Johnson, agreed to take Junior in and look after him.”

  “And where are they?”

  “Supposedly in Mesa somewhere. The nursing home gave me their name, address, and phone number, but when I tried calling I found out that the phone has been disconnected with no forwarding message. They’ve skipped, Joanna. My guess is that those sons of bitches have disappeared. I’m sure they thought they could just walk off and leave him and no one—including Junior’s mother—would ever be the wiser.”

  “Sort of like the people who come by and drop off baby chicks and rabbits once Easter is over.”

  “Exactly!” Butch agreed. He sounded utterly outraged, and Joanna loved him for it.

  “There’s a big difference, though,” Joanna said. “We can’t do much about people who abandon baby chicks, because chickens don’t have money. That’s not the case here. And, if there’s money involved—most likely including social security as well as the private funds—then my guess is the guardians have made mail-forwarding arrangements so they can continue receiving Junior’s checks. That all adds up to fraud and embezzlement. Did the nursing home have the name of the attorney who set up the trust and handled the guardianship arrangements?”

  “I’m sure they do, but they wouldn’t give that information to me.”

  “They’ll give it to someone with the word ‘sheriff’ in front of her name,” Joanna said. “I have to go by the hospital and get a tetanus shot. As soon as I get back to the office, though, I’ll get right on it.”

  “See you at dinner then?” Butch said. “Remember, we’re all supposed to meet at the Bradys’ for dinner to night. I believe Jim Bob was threatening to go out and buy some champagne.”

  “I don’t know for sure what time I’ll get there,” Joanna said, “but I’ll show up as soon as I can.”

  Twenty-One

  AN HOUR after returning to the department, Joanna was sitting at her desk, resting her aching head in her hands. Her whole body hurt from her collection of scrapes and bruises and from being slammed against the wall of Dena Hogan’s garage. She had ditched her torn clothing in favor of some of her crime scene duds, but the denim jeans were rough and uncomfortable on her chafed knees.

  Ernie and Jaime had come in to perform the interview honors with Dena Hogan and to confer with Arlee Jones. Meanwhile, Joanna had tried to deal with the Junior issue. She was right. Having the word “sheriff” connected to her name had enabled her to extract the information she needed from Ellen Dowdle’s nursing home. Armed with the name of Ellen’s attorney, Drew Gunderson, she had tried c
alling, only to fall victim to the time-zone difference and to the fact that Gunderson had no answering machine at his office and an unlisted number at home.

  Joanna had just decided to wait until morning to call when someone tapped on her door. “Anybody home?”

  She looked up to see her stepfather, Dr. George Winfield, standing in the doorway. “Come on,” he said. “Ellie just called me at the office and gave me my marching orders to come pick you up. We’re late for dinner and it sounds like we’re both in the doghouse.”

  Looking at her watch, Joanna was dismayed to see that it was already after seven. She stood up and reached for her jacket. “I’ll have to run down to Motor Pool and see if they have a car I can use,” she said. “My Crown Victoria still isn’t fixed. Between a damaged windshield and a flat tire on the Blazer, that won’t really be usable until sometime tomorrow.”

  “I heard rumors about that,” George said. “The word is out that you’re tough on the county’s rolling stock. First you shot the tire, and then somebody else blew out the window. Or are those just vicious rumors?”

  Joanna scowled. “They’re true.”

  George Winfield grinned. “I thought so. Come on. Don’t bother checking with Motor Pool right now. I’ll give you a ride over to the Bradys’ place. I’m sure someone there—” he gave Joanna a conspiratorial wink—“some certain someone—will be only too glad to give you a ride back.”

  Joanna started to argue, but she was too tired to object. She realized it would be good to be driven for a change—good to be pampered. “Let’s go,” she said.

  She picked up her purse and started toward the door. “You may want to fix your face,” George suggested.

  “My face? What’s the matter with it?”

  “A matched pair of shiners, for one thing,” George replied. “How’d you do that?”

  Joanna ducked behind Kristin’s desk and examined her face in the mirror that hung there. George was right. Both eyes had distinct shadows under them, shadows that weren’t yet purple but they would be.