by J. A. Jance
“Are you all right?” Joanna asked.
He nodded. “I’ll be okay,” he said. “I’ve got some medication in my truck. Just help me back to it.”
With him leaning against her for support, Joanna led him back to his pickup. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?” she asked. “I can call for an ambulance and have them take you to a hospital in Tucson.”
He waved her away and then reached for a lunch-box-sized cool chest on the seat beside him. “No,” he said, as he opened the lid. “Just let me be for a little. I’ll be fine.”
Sergeant Mallory appeared at that moment. “What’s going on?” he demanded, looking from Joanna to a dust-covered but still belligerent Susan Jenkins.
“I want that woman arrested,” Joanna said, pointing at Susan. “She’s to be charged with assaulting a police officer.” “Who is she?” Mallory asked.
“Susan Jenkins, the dead woman’s daughter.”
Mallory looked puzzled. “I thought the son was the one who was on his way.”
“They’re both here,” Joanna told him. “Clete Rogers is over there in his truck. Somebody had better check on him. He may need medical attention.”
Mallory whistled. “Nice family.”
“Isn’t that the truth!”
While Mallory went to check on Clete Rogers, Ernie walked over to Joanna. His thick, bushy eyebrows were beetled into a frown. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
“As I drove up, I saw what was happening,” Ernie continued. “The woman was coming right at you, Joanna. She’s so much bigger than you are, I thought for sure you were a goner. The next thing I knew, though, she was flying through the air like some kind of rag doll. Nice move. Who showed you that one?”
As relief flooded through Joanna’s body, she remembered those countless summertime sessions out in the yard at High Lonesome Ranch where Andy had taught both his wife and daughter a collection of self-defense moves. He had taught them to use a thumbhold that could bring even the most burly opponent to his knees. Not only that, Andy had shown Joanna and Jenny how an attacker’s own body weight could be used against him. Or her, as the case might be.
On wrestling mats Andy had borrowed from one of his old high school coaches at Bisbee High, they had practiced time and again until they had perfected their technique-until Joanna could throw Andy and until Jenny, in turn, could throw her mother. At the time it had seemed like little more than a game-something inexpensive that the financially strapped family could do together. Back then it had never occurred to Joanna that those very skills might one day mean the difference between life and death-between walking away from a fight as opposed to being carried away on a stretcher.
“It’s a gift,” Joanna told Ernie.
Ernie’s frown deepened. “You mean it’s something you were born knowing?”
Joanna shook her head. “No, I mean it’s something Andy taught me before he died. A gift from him.”
“Well,” Ernie Carpenter said. “It’s pretty damned impressive.”
Frank Montoya came up behind them. In his early thirties, Frank was a tall man with a medium build. In hopes of disguising his receding hairline, he kept his hair barbered in a precision crew cut.
“Ernie!” Frank exclaimed. “You’re already here. Good. Doc Daly sent me to find you. She’s almost ready to start the proceedings, and she was hoping you’d arrived.” Frank stopped and looked around at the collection of haphazardly parked cars. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Was there a fender bender or something?”
Joanna chuckled nervously. “No. Chapter two in the Rogers family feud. I’ve asked Sergeant Mallory to place Susan under arrest. Other than that, everything’s fine.”
“You’re sure?” Frank asked.
The very real concern fellow officers showed one another never failed to touch Joanna. “Really,” she said, “I’m fine, Frank. Lead the way to the crime scene. Let’s not keep Fran Daly waiting.”
“If you expect me to arrest her,” Mallory objected, “what about statements? I’m going to need to talk to both you and your detective here.”
“We won’t go back to Bisbee without talking to you, Sergeant Mallory,” Joanna reassured him. “But right this minute, working with Dr. Daly takes precedence.”
As Joanna followed Frank Montoya and Ernie Carpenter into the cholla grove, she slipped her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed Dick Voland’s number. “I just had a little run-in with Clete Rogers’ sister,” she told him. “She seems to think her mother’s boyfriend may have had something to do with all this. His name’s Farley Adams or Adams Farley. I forget which. Anyway, if Detective Carbajal turns up there, you might have him take a run to the mining claim out on Outlaw Mountain. Regardless of what Susan Jenkins thinks about the guy, we owe him the common courtesy of letting him know what’s happened to Alice. I don’t think anyone else is going to do it. Besides, in the process, between Sunday and now, maybe he’ll have remembered some little detail that might help us.”
“Will do,” Dick replied. “Besides, regardless of whether or not they’re suspects, it never hurts to chat with survivors.”
“Also, you may want to have one of the town marshals over in Tombstone slap some crime scene tape across the entrance to Alice Rogers’ house until we have a chance to process it and make sure whatever happened didn’t happen there.”
“I’m one jump ahead of you there,” Dick Voland told her. “By now, the crime scene tape should already be in place.”
“Thanks, Dick,” she said. “I knew I could count on you.”
Talking as she walked, Joanna had been threading her way into the thick grove of ten-foot-high teddy-bear cholla. Not paying close enough attention, she came too close to one of the monster cacti. A gust of breeze caught the end of her duster and blew it against one of the buds of new growth at the end of a branch. Instantly, a spine-covered ball the size of a baseball came loose from the branch and attached itself to the duster. Before Joanna could disengage it, the next gust of wind whipped the duster, cactus and all, against her shin. Several of the needle-sharp barbed spines sliced through several layers of material and jabbed into her leg. Yipping in pain, Joanna reached for her leg, only to knock into another branch with her elbow.
Alerted by her yelp, Frank turned around just in time to see Joanna pull away from the second cactus with a second spine-covered ball sprouting from one elbow.
“I always thought they called cholla jumping cactus because the cactus jumped,” he observed with a smile. “I see now the cactus stays put. It’s really the people who jump.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” she ordered curtly, “Come help me. This hurls like hell.”
Without another word, Frank pulled his Leatherman multi-purpose tool from the pouch on his belt. Flipping it open to the pliers configuration, he used that to remove the two offending cactus segments. Once the spines had been pulled free from her body, Joanna stood alternately massaging first her burning leg and then her arm. Even though the needles were gone, her flesh still hurt. It felt like the aftermath of a bee or wasp sting. Adding insult to injury, under her fingertips she felt a run tear through her brand-new pair of No Nonsense panty hose. When it came to crime scene investigation, panty hose were the most common casualty.
“Thanks,” she said gratefully as Frank restowed his Leatherman. “I couldn’t believe how much those spines hurt.”
Frank shook his head. “If you think this was bad,” he warned, “just wait till you see what happened to Alice Rogers.”
They both moved forward then. Deep in the grove of cacti they came to a small space where the cholla wasn’t as thick. Several of them appeared to have been knocked down. In the middle of the fallen cacti and on top of one-impaled on the three-inch spines-lay a small female form that was covered with ants and surrounded by a cloud of buzzing flies. Hundreds of needles dug deep into the woman’s back and sprouted from her legs and arms. The slightly bloated body was clad in a pr
int dress and a lightweight sweater. There were torn nylons on her legs, but no shoes. Her vacant, empty eyes stared upward. One tightly clenched fist rested on her breast. The other lay outstretched on the rocky ground, as if searching for the pair of wraparound sunglasses that lay in the dirt just out of reach.
Fresh from her own excruciating encounter with the cacti, Joanna had difficulty looking at the cholla needles piercing Alice Rogers’ insect-covered sunbaked flesh. She didn’t want to think about how much the poor woman had suffered. It hurt Joanna to realize that she had died in such a horrific way-alone and in appalling pain.
A stiff breeze, blowing out of the west, swept across the scene and filled Joanna’s nostrils and lungs with the awful stench of death. Once she would have turned and fled from that all-pervasive odor. Now she simply waited, hoping that eventually her gag reflexes would settle and that her nostrils would adjust.
Engrossed in what was going on around her, Joanna lost track of the fact that Frank was standing at her elbow. When he spoke, she started reflexively, almost as though she had been awakened from a sound sleep.
“Well,” he said. “I’ve heard of people sleeping on a bed of nails, but this is ridiculous.”
It was a nonsensical comment, and it certainly wasn’t funny, but somehow it did the trick. The bile that had been rising dangerously high in Joanna’s throat receded. What came out of her mouth was a chuckle-a hoot of utterly inappropriate, necessary, and life-affirming laughter.
“It’s ridiculous, all right,” she agreed when she finally sobered enough once again to be capable of speech. “Ridiculous but deadly.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Fran Daly proceeded through the examination process with Ernie Carpenter and the two Pima County detectives, Hank Lazier and Tom Hemming, observing her every move. With four people crowded around the body, there was no room for Joanna and Frank Montoya to move any closer. They remained on the edge of the clearing. They were close enough to hear most of the crisp comments Dr. Daly spoke to the detectives and into a small tape recorder but not close enough to see what was happening.
Losing interest, Joanna turned to Frank. “You were here when they found her?”
“Not right here,” he said. “I was over by the cars. When the Search and Rescue guys found the body, Lazier and Hemming took off like a shot. I stayed put because I wanted a chance to talk to Joaquin Morales. I figured it was probably the only shot any of us would have at him without his attorney hanging on every word.”
“What did you find out?”
“That his lawyer negotiated a real sweetheart deal.”
“What do you mean?”
“All he had to do was lead us to Alice. Once he did that, he walks. Blanket immunity. No arrest, no charges, nothing. When his buddies come to trial, he doesn’t even have to testify.”
“Come on, Frank,” Joanna objected. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes sense to someone,” Frank countered. “They claim it was a humanitarian gesture based on the fact that at the time there was a chance Alice Rogers was still alive, since finding her in a timely manner might have saved her life. The other considerations have to do with the fact that Joaquin Morales is only fourteen. He comes from one of Tucson ’s fine ‘old Pueblo ’ families, and this is supposedly his first offense. His pals are older and, according to him, their hands are anything but clean. Once they’re extradited, they’ll be up on charges of grand-theft auto and murder.”
“Not car-jacking?”
“That would make it a federal case. According to the detectives, the county attorney is looking forward to next year’s election and won’t let this one out of his personal jurisdiction.”
“What exactly did Joaquin Morales tell you?”
“That there were several carloads of kids. They came out to the desert for a keg party on Saturday night. He says they were on their way back to town from the kegger when Morales and his buddies came across Alice ’s Buick. He claims it was just sitting abandoned by the roadside with the windows wide open and with a mostly empty bottle of Scotch sitting in the front seat. After the kids polished off the rest of the booze, they decided to take Alice ’s car out for some late-night drag racing. He claims he never even saw the old lady, but it could be he was too drunk to remember.”
“He wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t remember where they found the car,” Joanna pointed out.
Frank nodded. “That’s true,” he agreed. “So on Sunday, after the kids had sobered up, one of them came up with the bright idea of driving the car down to Nogales. He said he knew someone across the line who would pay good money for a car like that, no questions asked.”
“Sounds perfectly plausible,” Joanna said with a grimace. “And I’m sure Joaquin is pure as the driven snow. What do Lazier and Hemming think happened?”
“They think the old lady pulled over and stopped. With the booze in the car, there’s probably a good chance she was drinking, too. Maybe she had pulled over and was passed out in her car. Maybe she had stopped to take a leak. Whatever, Lazier theorizes the kids found her, chased her into the cactus, and left her there. Since her death happened in the course of the commission of a felony, that makes it murder.”
“But only for perpetrators who don’t have connections or a sharp wheeler-dealer attorney,” Joanna said.
“Right,” Frank agreed. “Whoever said the world is fair?”
“Justice is supposed to be,” Joanna countered.
She glanced around the area. “Any sign of footprints?” Even as she asked the question, she saw the futility of it. The terrain was far too dry, rough, and rocky to retain usable prints.
“None,” Frank said.
As he spoke, a shadow fell across Frank’s face. Joanna looked up. High above them a buzzard rode the updrafts, drifting in long, lazy circles, hoping for access to the feast. Seeing the carrion eater, Joanna realized that the agreement Joaquin’s attorney had negotiated may not have saved Alice ’s life, but it had, at least, forwarded the investigation. Without the fourteen-year-old’s help in locating the body, it might have been months or even years, before anyone located Alice Rogers’ remains. And with the desert’s numerous carrion caters always on the lookout for their next meal, there might not have been much left for Fran Daly to examine.
Meanwhile, Frank Montoya moved on to a different topic. “I came up just as Ernie was putting the cuffs on Susan Jenkins,” he said. “What happened?”
“Pretty much the same thing you had to deal with in the Grubsteak on Sunday. Susan showed up all pissed off that her brother hadn’t done something about their mother’s boyfriend. She’s of the opinion that Farley Adams is behind whatever happened to Alice Rogers.”
“I doubt that,” Frank said. “I met the man Sunday afternoon. Talked to him in person. He seemed genuinely mystified by Alice ’s disappearance. And in view of what we’ve found here, he sure as hell didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would be the mastermind behind a gang of juvenile car thieves.”
“You’re probably right,” Joanna told him. “But with Clete Rogers second-guessing every move we make, I don’t want to leave any stone unturned. I’ve told Dick that we need to go over Alice ’s house from top to bottom. I want it treated like a crime scene even if it isn’t one. I’ve also asked that Jaime Carbajal stop by Outlaw Mountain and talk to Farley again, now that we’ve found the body.”
Joanna paused and looked back toward where Fran Daly was still working. “I’m not being of much use here, so I could just as well go back to the cars and talk to Sergeant Mallory about Susan Jenkins. He needs statements. I can give him mine now, and he can take Ernie’s later.”
Leaving Frank in the clearing, Joanna headed back to where the cars were parked. On the way, her pager went off. Once again Dick Voland’s number appeared on the screen, followed this time by the word “Urgent.” Without waiting to get back to her radio, Joanna used her cell phone to return the call. “What’s up, Dick?” she asked.
&nb
sp; “After I talked to you last, I sent Detective Carbajal out to Outlaw Mountain just the way you asked. He called in a couple of minutes ago. He said nobody’s there. Farley Adams is gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“Jaime tried peeking in some of the windows. He says it looks like the place has been emptied out. The clothes closet was standing wide open and empty. The dresser drawers are empty, too. I’m sending Deputy Pakin uptown to get a search warrant. I’m betting Farley Adams is our killer.”
That theory didn’t square with Frank Montoya’s ideas about Farley Adams. Nor did it work with the Pima County cops’ hypothesis that Alice had died as a result of being hassled and/or frightened by a gang of juvenile-delinquent car thieves. In her time as sheriff, Joanna had come to realize that often unimportant leads-ones that don’t seem to go anywhere-provide the critical details that point investigators in entirely different directions, leading them eventually to things that are important.
“A search warrant is probably a good idea,” she told her chief deputy. “Anything else?”
“Nothing that I know of,” Dick told her. “Later on, once Pakin gets the search warrant, I’ll follow him on up to Tombstone. With you, Frank, and Ernie all tied up in Tucson someone should go oversee the situation in Tombstone.”
“How was the board of supervisors meeting?” Joanna asked. “Did you go?”
“Oh, I went all right. I told you I would, so I did. The whole thing was nothing but a gigantic waste of time.”
“No surprises there,” Joanna said. “Those meetings usually are.”
“You mean you don’t like attending them, either?” Dick Voland sounded surprised.
“Fortunately for both of us, Dick, Frank Montoya actually gets a kick out of all that political wrangling.”
“Is that so,” Voland said wonderingly. “Maybe the guy has some redeeming qualities after all. Just don’t tell him I said so.”
