by J. A. Jance
“Your husband got Lefty O’Toole to agree to come into the Witness Protection Program,” York said. “Andy had contacted me and told me to expect Lefty within a matter of days. When it all fell apart, when Lefty showed up dead and then Andy suddenly laid his hands on a considerable sum of unexplained money,
I figured the cartel had turned him. Then,when Andy was killed as well it made sense that there was some other traitor pretty close to home.”
“You thought it was me?” Joanna asked.
York shrugged. “Why not? I was casting my net around and you turned up in it. You’re right, I do owe you an apology, and not just over the autopsy results. I wouldn’t be surprised to find that Ken Galloway was the one who typed the suicide note in Andy’s file. We’ve known for years that Cochise County was a major conduit of the drug trade and we figured there had to be someone in law enforcement working with them, but it wasn’t until Andy connected with Lefty that we figured we were going to get a break. Now, thanks to you, we finally know who some of those people were.”
“If Lefty knew Galloway was involved, why didn’t he warn Andy?”
“Maybe he did or maybe he didn’t. It’s possible he tried to and Ken intercepted the message. Andy and Ken were supposedly good friends, weren’t they?”
“Supposedly,” Joanna agreed, bitterly. “We thought he was a friend.”
“With Lefty out of the picture, I figured the whole investigation was blown, but now, with this book…”
“What book?” Joanna demanded.
“Angie’s book. She’s scared to death and tired of running. I guess she finally decided she had to trust somebody. She spilled her guts about Tony and his little black book. She even suggested a possible deal.”
“Angie trusted you?” Joanna asked sharply. “Why not?” Adam York returned. “You don’t think I’d cheat her, do you?”
“Until I read that book for myself and make sure your name isn’t in it, I’m not trusting anybody “
York studied Joanna’s face for some time before he nodded. “Considering what you’ve been through,” he said, “that’s probably a very wise position to take. By the way,” he added, “are you aware that you have what appears to be a bullet hole in your jacket pocket? You may want to mention that to the crime le investigators here. Otherwise, they’re not going to understand some of the evidence they’re looking at.”
It was several hours later before anyone made a move to go home. Marianne Maculyea had shown up in her 1967 sea foam-green VW Bug. Jeff Daniels, who kept the old Bug running perfectly, turned up in Joanna’s Eagle, which he had hot-wired to bring down from the hotel. When it was time to go, Joanna loaded her mother into the car first and then went to find Jenny.
“What’s going to happen to Tigger?” Jenny asked. “We can’t just leave him here, can we?”
And, of course, the answer to that question was no. Jenny and Tigger rode in the back while a strangely subdued Eleanor rode in front. “Thank you for the ride,” Eleanor said when Joanna dropped her off in front of her own house at four in the morning. “Thank you for everything.”
Try as she might, Joanna could never remember hearing her mother saying those words ever before.
At home at last, Joanna was so tired she could barely walk. Without thinking, she went directly to the bedroom. Looking at it, she realized there would be times in the future when the memories of that bed would make sleeping there impossible, but now she was too tired. Joanna tumbled across it. With the comforting scent of Andy’s pillow lingering in her nostrils, she was asleep within minutes.
She didn’t stir again until almost ten that morning. When she went padding through the house to check on things, she discovered that both big dogs were curled up on Jenny’s bed. They opened their eyes and looked at her, but neither Sadie nor Tigger made any effort to get down, and since Jenny was still sound asleep, Joanna left them there.
In the kitchen where she went to start a pot of coffee, Joanna discovered a note from Jim Bob Brady saying he’d been out to feed the cattle and also that one of Norm Higgins’s boys had stopped by to see about picking up Andy’s clothes for the funeral. Jim Bob had told him to come back later.
Steeling herself for the ordeal, Joanna went back to the bedroom to pick out Andrew Brady’s clothing for the last time. She marched directly to his side of the closet. Norm Higgins had hinted that maybe, under the circumstances, it might be better if Andy were buried in civilian clothes rather than his uniform, but Joanna had decided otherwise.
One at a time she started sorting through the selection of carefully pressed clothing until she located Andy’s newest dress uniform shirt, one that wasn’t frayed around the cuffs and didn’t have any cracked or chipped or missing buttons. She picked out trousers and socks and a full set of clean underwear. After all, Andy never went anywhere without clean underwear.
When the clothes were all laid out neatly on the bed she retrieved the plastic package she’d given in the hospital and sorted through until she found Andy’s badge. Then, taking badge and his best dress boots, she headed for the kitchen. There, drinking coffee and shedding quiet, private tears, she polished the boots to a high gloss and cleaned the badge with Brasso. When she finished, she took the boots and badge back to the bedroom and carefully pinned the badge to the pocket of the shirt, using the previously made holes in the material as a guide to placing the badge properly.
Seeing his clothes all laid out like that made her feel lightheaded. It was as though he had put them there himself and was in the bathroom taking a shower, getting ready to go to work. It was almost too much. Joanna was relieved to hear a car drive into the yard. It meant she had to pull herself together. Otherwise she would have drowned in self-pity.
Marianne Maculyea came in the kitchen door without bothering to knock. “Where’s Jenny?” she asked.
“Still asleep,” Joanna answered.
Marianne shook her head. “Poor little tyke,” she said. “She must have been worn out. How about you?”
“I’ve been better,” Joanna allowed. “How’s Ken Galloway?” Part of her wanted him dead; the other part dreaded whatever investigation would inevitably follow.
“Still nip and tuck,” Marianne answered. “They’ve flown him to Tucson now. He’s at University Hospital under a heavy police guard.”
Joanna shook her head. “It hurts so much,” she said. “We thought he was our friend.”
“I know,” Marianne said. “The only way an enemy can betray you is by becoming your friend, but when friends…” She broke off, knowing that beyond a certain point, words are no comfort.
“I’ve been working on Lefty O’Toole’s eulogy,” she added, changing the subject. “I’ve spent the whole morning doing my homework. I’ve talked to Adam York. Bobo suggested I talk to him. It sounds to me as though Gertrude O’Toole was right after all, that Lefty really was getting his life turned around.”
“You’ve been talking to York, too?” Joanna asked. “First Bobo and now you. Next thing you know, Adam York’s going to be so popular around here that somebody’ll run him for sheriff.”
Marianne cocked her head. “No,” she said slowly, “but he did have a suggestion in that regard.”
“Oh, really?” Joanna snorted. “What’s it”
“You.”
“Me?” Joanna echoed. “Are you kidding?”
“Nobody’s kidding, Joanna. And he’s not the only one who’s mentioned it, either.”
Joanna Brady shook her head. “Oh, no,” she said. “Absolutely not. Not me.”
“It’s going to take a complete outsider to straighten up this mess, Joanna,” Marianne said. “Someone who has nothing to gain by taking on the job.”
“I’ve already got a job,” Joanna reminded her.
“That’s funny,” Marianne replied. “It turns that Milo Davis was one of the ones I heard talking about it over coffee this morning.”
“Do we have to discuss this now?” Joanna asked.
&nbs
p; Marianne shook her head. “no, I stopped by to pick up Andy’s clothes if they’re ready.”
Joanna nodded. “They’re in the bedroom, laid out on the bed.”
Jenny picked that precise moment to come dashing into the kitchen, trailed by the two dogs. Within minutes a carload of women from the church arrived with the beginnings of what would be several days’ worth of casserole meals. Just when it seemed as though Joanna’s home had turned into a complete circus, a silver-grey Taurus with government plates drove into the yard.
Not wanting to talk to Adam York in front of her other guests, Joanna hurried out to meet him. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I came to invite you to the unveiling.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your friends, Bobo Jenkins and Angie Kellogg, just went up to the hotel to pick up that book. I wanted you to be there when they brought it back so you’d be able to see with your own eyes that I’m not in it.”
Joanna looked at him steadily. He met her gaze without faltering. “I really am a good guy, Joanna, and from what I’ve learned around town, I’ve pretty much figured out that you are too.”
“I’ll go tell Jenny that I’m leaving,” Joanna said.
The Taurus sped down High Lonesome Road. “Is that where it happened?” Adam York asked, nodding at the wash beneath the bridge.
Joanna nodded stonily.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s a terrible, terrible thing.”
“Thank you,” Joanna murmured.
They drove for a while in silence. “I’ve been thinking about Angie Kellogg,” Adam York said at last. “She wants to sell me that book of hers.”
“I know,” Joanna responded.
“But if I do that, I’ll have to go through channels and across desks. The book will end in an official inventory somewhere, Angie becomes an official witness, a paid informant, and the money she has in that damn beach bag of hers becomes part of an official investigation as well. Since it’s most likely drug cartel money, it would automatically be forfeit.”
“So?”
‘She came up with the idea on her own, and it seems like a good one. She gives me the book. and I don’t ask any questions about the money in her beach bag. The taxpayers aren’t out any money, and I have access to Tony Vargas’s clientele without anyone knowing I have it.”
“I’ll know,” Joanna said.
“Is that a threat?” York asked.
“You could call it that.”
“Listen, Joanna. There may very well be other crooked cops in that book, trusted officers in other jurisdictions, maybe even some in my own. This book, if it’s kept under wraps, may be our one chance to clean house.”
“And if you don’t use it to do just that, you’ll be hearing from me.”
York laughed. “According to the rumors around town, I may be hearing from you any-way.”
“What rumors are those?”
“I heard you’re running for sheriff.” “You heard wrong.”
“Oh,” he said.
A moment later Joanna asked, “Why are you telling me all this, about this under the table deal with Angie? Wouldn’t you be better off with it just between the two of you?”
“Because she won’t finalize the deal until you give the okay.”
“And I’m not okaying anything until I see for sure that your name’s not in that book.”
York laughed again. “You really are one stubborn woman, aren’t you, but believe me. My name’s not in there.”
They found Angie Kellogg with her foot still securely wrapped in bandages sitting on the tiny front porch of Bobo Jenkins’ home in Galena Townsites, one of Bisbee’s subdivisions. Galena was an area where look-alike homes had been built as company housing during Bisbee’s mining heyday. After the mine closures in the mid-seventies, the houses, previously rented to employees, had been sold off at rock-bottom prices.
Angie was wearing what was evidently a pair of Bobo Jenkins’ oversized sweats. The arms had been rolled up several times and the legs bagged out around her ankles like pantaloons. She was holding two books in her lap. One, black leather with gold-embossed letters on the front, looked like a date book of some kind. The other was the same shabby bird book Joanna had seen before. The well-thumbed field guide was open and Angie’s face was alight.
“Bobo actually has a hummingbird feeder, right here by the porch,” she said pointing. “Two of those cute little things were here just a couple of minutes ago. I’ve never been that close to hummingbirds. Have you?”
“Not that I remember,” Joanna said.
“Did Mr. York tell you about my offer?” Angie asked.
Joanna nodded.
“What do you think?”
“I told him you shouldn’t make up your mind until we checked to see if his name is in Tony’s book”
“It isn’t,” Angie Kellogg said. “I already looked.”
TWENTY-TWO
That evening, the visitation at the mortuary went on for hours. Joanna shook hands with what seemed like hundreds of people, all of whom came to express their condolences. It was a wary, reserved gathering. Everyone in town was still in shock over the revelations about Walter McFadden and Ken Galloway, and they were all leery about how many others of their law enforcement officers might be caught up in the dragnet.
Toward the end, when visitors were finally beginning to dwindle, a young woman breezed into the room, pushing a wizened, much older man in a wheelchair. The two of them came directly to Joanna.
“Hello,” said the woman, holding out her hand. “You must be Joanna. I’m Cora, Cora Hancock. This is my Uncle Henry, Henry Adkins. I can’t tell you how sorry we are. Andy was such a nice young man. I just don’t know when I’ve ever met anyone nicer.”
Cora, Joanna wondered as her heart skipped a beat. She had planned to call that phone number in Nevada eventually-someday much farther down the line when she would be better prepared for what she might hear. But she had deliberately put it off for a while, until she felt stronger, until the raw wounds from the last few days had begun to heal. She had not expected to confront Cora, who seemed to have a last name after all. Yet, here she was, on Joanna’s home turf-and with Andrew Brady not yet in his grave.
But Cora, with her bleached blonde hair and amazing makeup, looked every bit the fallen woman Sandra Henning had described, except for her laugh which was warm and irrepressible.
“When I heard the funeral was scheduled for Saturday, I told Uncle Henry that I didn’t know if I’d be able to get off, since weekends are always the busiest time at Harrahs. Have you ever been to Laughlin, Nevada, by the way?” she asked, pausing minutely for breath. “It’s just across the Colorado from Bullhead City.”
Joanna shook her head. “Anyway, the director got somebody to fill in for me, so I told Uncle Henry we could come, and here we are. It’s been a long drive, although not as long as it seemed the last time I made it.”
Again she paused for breath, but Joanna was too dumbstruck to say a word. “That reminds me, did Andy get you that ring he was going to?”
Joanna held out her hand and finally found a way to speak. “This? He told you about my ring?”
“Oh, yes. There it is, just as pretty as he said it would be. And he told me about the rest of the surprise as well.”
“What surprise?”
“About the money. He told me he wasn’t going to tell you about it until your anniversary dinner because he was afraid you would make him take the ring back and remodel the bathrooms instead. He was such a wonderful man, such a nice man,” she added breathlessly. “This is all so terribly sad that I think I’m going to cry.” And she did.
Uncle Henry reached out and patted her elbow with one of his bony, gnarled old hands.
ere, there,” he said. “Don’t take on so, girl.”
Jim Bob and Eva Lou, en route to the door, happened by at that precise moment. Jim Bob stopped and looked down at the little old man in puzzled con
sternation, as if trying to remember the name of someone he knew.
“Henry?” he asked tentatively. “Is that you?”
Uncle Henry smiled broadly. “Jimmy B? I’ll be damned. The last time I saw you, you were still in short pants. It’s a shame that it takes such a sad occasion to get together after all these years. I mean, I barely remember what the original argument was about all those years ago, and now it doesn’t matter.”
“Uncle Henry?” Joanna asked.
Jim Bob nodded. “He’s my mother’s second-oldest brother. He and the rest of the family had a falling out years ago, when I was just a boy. Uncle Henry, this is Joanna, my daughter-in-law.”
Uncle Henry nodded. “Glad to make your acquaintance, and this is Cora. She’s actually my third wife’s niece-my wife’s dead now-but that’s too confusing, so we just say she’s my niece. She’s a dancer during the weekends, but she helps out in the office during the week.”
“Office?” Jim Bob asked. “What office?”
Uncle Henry waved impatiently. “Now that I’m too old and broke up to go out prospecting any more, I’ve got me a little one-man office in Searchlight. Sell a few things now and then, lease a few mineral rights here and there. That’s where Andy’s little windfall came from, by the way. Over the years, I’d put one of the grandnephews’ names on a claim, and if that one came in, I’d send them the money. Told ‘em not to say where it came from, of course. Didn’t want ‘em to get in trouble for having anything to do with an old black sheep.”
Cora blew her nose. “You’re not so bad for a black sheep,” she said. “And none of those kids ever turned the money down, either.”
“Including you,” he said with a smile.
She nodded. “Including me.”
“And you only give the gifts in cash?” Joanna asked.
Uncle Henry straightened in his chair. “Young woman, the Income Tax is the most abominable piece of illegal legislation ever palmed off on this land, but it exists. And to my mind, the only thing lower than a revenuer is a banker, so I try to conduct my business in a way that keeps those vermin out of it. If I give away less than ten thousand dollars at a time, nobody gets excited. And if I do it in cash, I don’t have to deal with banks. If I have a gift to be delivered, Cora usually handles it for me on her days off from the casino. I don’t like banks, but it’s still a very bad idea to send that much cash through the mail, understand?”
