Minor in possession jpb-8

by J. A. Jance

  "How far to civilization?" I asked him.

  Owens shook his head. "I don't know. There's probably a ranch or two on up the road, but I have no idea how far."

  I retrieved my most recent freebie Alamo map from the dead Beretta and read the bar news for myself. Nogales, a town which looked as though it might be big enough to have its own hospital, was a good twenty miles away, but the faint gray lines leading to it were the same ones we were already on. In my estimation that indicated dirt tracks, not roads. Sierra Vista appeared to be much closer, but only as the crow flies, and to get there we would have to cross back over Montezuma Pass.

  In the case, the vehicle situation was downright hopeless. Only one of the three wrecked cars-the Trooper-seemed potentially driveable, and that was only if we could somehow manage to tip it over and get it back on its feet.

  Even then, I couldn't see how we'd make do since our current tour group included seven passengers, four of whom were wounded and three of whom were prisoners. Nice bunch.

  After a brief consultation with Guy, we decided to try to right the Trooper. That wasn't such a crazy idea once we discovered that the Blazer came complete with a winch. With Rhonda and me doing the moving and with Guy Owens sitting guard with the remaining assault rifle, we removed Paco and Tony from the Trooper and fastened them to the Beretta. Paco was still dead to the world, and Tony didn't offer any resistance. He was still so pissed at Monty leaving him that he seemed to have abandoned all thought of getting away in favor of getting even.

  Rhonda managed to start the Blazer and maneuver the limping hulk into position. We were just beginning to hook up the winch cable when Guy Owens alerted us to look up the road, where a swirl of dust announced the swift approach of an oncoming vehicle.

  I looked at the carnage around us, broken cars and bound and battered people, and wondered if anyone would believe our story. If some local rancher happened on the scene, would he take time to listen, or would he shoot first and ask question later?

  The vehicle turned out to be an ugly yellow Forest Service Suburban driven by an earnest young man in a brown uniform. I've never been so happy to see an untried, beardless youth in my life.

  He stopped the van next to the wrecked Beretta and got out, moving forward uncertainly. As soon as he saw the weapon in Guy Owens' hands, he stopped short and began to scuttle back toward his truck.

  "Wait," I called. "Please. We need your help. "People are injured."

  He checked his headlong flight, but only barely. He ducked his head and cleared his throat before he spoke as if he was having trouble swallowing.

  "Looks like you're having a little difficulty here," he croaked.

  "As a matter of fact, we are," I said. "I'm a police officer. You wouldn't happen to have a radio in that thing, would you?"

  "Yes. What's the problem? Are these guys wetbacks or what? Do you need me to call the border patrol?" Now that he had found his voice he spat out the questions one after another without waiting to hear any answers.

  "Actually, there's a whole catalog of calls to be made," I said. "Start with the nearest hospital, the local sheriff's department, and the F.B.I. And when you finish with them, you should probably call a tow truck."

  "The hospital in Sierra Vista?" our rescuer faltered.

  "No, not that one," Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens interrupted from his seat on the ground several feet away. "Call Colonel Miler at the base hospital on post. Tell Joe, if one's available, to send a chopper for a dust-off."

  "A what?" the beardless youth stammered.

  All I can say is he must have been a babe in arms during the Vietnam War. The term mystified him.

  "A Med-evac helicopter," Guy grumbled in explanation. "My name's Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens. Give him our location. Tell him it's for me and Michelle. Joe'll handle the rest."

  What followed could easily have passed for a mini-convention of local law enforcement personnel. Guy and Michelle Owens were already loaded into the helicopter and on their way to Raymond W. Bliss Army community Hospital at Fort Huachuca before the first patrol car arrived, bringing a Santa Cruz County deputy who had come across the valley from some place called Patagonia.

  Next a Border Patrol van showed up, not because they were summoned, but because they had been on their way. One of their informants had notified them that something unusual might be going on up in the pass. They had been coming to check that rumor out when they heard the series of emergency radio communications from the Forest Service Suburban.

  Two ambulances, an enthusiastic D.E.A. officer, and a tow truck arrived from Nogales almost simultaneously, followed closely by two F.B. I agents summoned from Tucson who disembarked from another helicopter and immediately took charge.

  Time and again Rhonda and I explained what had happened as far as we knew. All three of the prisoners seemed to be a more-or-less known quantity to the D.E.A. guy, who was beside himself with joy at the idea of having al three of them in custody.

  According to him, Paco and Tony each had long rap sheets. Monty, presumably a much bigger fish, had never before been nailed, although both his existence and his name had long been rumored in drug-dealing circles.

  What seemed to puzzle everyone concerned was why guys who were basically successful drug runners would suddenly involve themselves in the much less lucrative and potentially far riskier crime of kidnapping. It wasn't logical. I certainly couldn't shed any light on that topic, and the prisoners didn't either.

  With everyone else deciding who should go where and how it should all be accomplished, there was little or nothing for Rhonda and me to do but sit in the background, huddle under ambulance blankets, try to keep warm, and watch the three-ring circus unfold around us.

  "You know that. 38 I gave you earlier?" I asked her in careful undertone when we were alone.

  "Yes. What about It?"

  "So far it hasn't been fired, right?"

  "Right."

  "So how about if I make you a gift of it? I don't want any of these hotshots getting me on a concealed weapons charge."

  "What about me?" Rhonda asked.

  "You're an artist, not a cop. People expect artists to do crazy things."

  She nodded and laughed. "Thanks for the present," she added. "Remind me to return the favor."

  The sun had gone down and it was becoming increasingly chilly when one of the tow-truck drivers-there were now three separate tow trucks on the scene-came looking for us.

  "You J. P. Beaumont?" he asked.

  I nodded.

  "I called Alamo," he said, almost apologetically, "you know, to see where they wanted me to tow the Beretta. Someone from there is on the radio. They want to talk to you."

  I'll just bet they do, I thought, as he led me to his truck and handed me the microphone. I pushed down the switch. "This is J.P. Beaumont. Over," I said.

  "Mr. Beaumont?"

  "Yes. Over."

  It was woman's voice, controlled but furious. "My name is Lucille Radonovich, District manager for Alamo Rent A Car."

  "What can I do for you, Ms. Radonovich? Over." I tried to sound reassuring, engaging, casual. It didn't work.

  "You are a dangerous man, Mr. Beaumont," she declared.

  "Look," I said, reasonably, "I took the extra collision insurance you sold me. Ten dollars a day. Everything's fine, right? Over."

  Lucille Radonovich was not to be dissuaded. "Mr. Beaumont, everything is not fine. You may have taken the additional insurance, but it may or may not be valid depending on the exact geographical location of accident."

  "It wasn't an accident," I interrupted helpfully. "That guy shot it with a Colt. 45. On purpose. Over."

  She continued, as though I hadn't spoken. "Mr. Beaumont, I have been directed to tell you to turn your keys over to our representative, the tow-truck driver. Immediately. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Later on, someone from this office will be in touch with either you or your attorney to settle your account."
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br />   "Does this mean I don't get another car? Over."

  I already knew the answer to my question, but I had to ask, had to hear it from her own lips.

  And Ms. Lucille Radonovich's reaction was exactly what I expected-no more, no less. A pause. A long pregnant pause, and then a slowly released breath like a dangerously stressed valve letting off excess pressure.

  "Some things go without saying, Mr. Beaumont. Over and out!"

  Without a word, I handed the keys to the Beretta over to the tow-truck driver. He looked at them for a moment, then walked away, shaking his head.

  I watched him go and realized that it would be a hell of a long walk back to Ralph Ames' home in Paradise Valley some two hundred miles away.

  I went back to where Rhonda sat waiting. She was chilled. Her teeth were chattering. I put my arm around her shoulder and she snuggled close to me.

  "Are these the people who killed Joey?" she asked. "Or was it somebody else?"

  I squeezed her shoulder and held her tight. "No way to tell," I answered, "at least not right now."

  We sat there for another half hour and watched while the tow trucks began to haul away wrecked cars.

  "How are we going to get home?" she asked, lifting her head off my shoulder to look at me as though the thought hadn't occurred to her before.

  "I don't know. It could be a very long walk."

  Rhonda Attwood must have been starting to feel better.

  "You mean that nice Ralph Ames won't come get us the way he did for you up in Prescott?" she asked.

  "We'll see," I said. "He may have run out of patience with me the same way Alamo has."

  CHAPTER 21

  Fortunately, Ralph Ames is a forgiving man-a most forgiving man with an inexhaustible supply of good connections. Once alerted to our plight, he hired another helicopter and came to Tucson to get us.

  By three the next morning he had successfully extricated Rhonda Attwood and me from the clutches of the F.B.I. By four he had dragged us home to Paradise Valley. When it was time to go to bed, Rhonda made not the slightest pretense of going to her own designated room. She undressed in mine, crawled into bed, snuggled contentedly against my chest, and instantly fell asleep.

  There was no seduction, no game-playing. We were both far too tired. I drifted off within minutes as well and slept the heavy, dreamless sleep born of exhaustion. My body's resources had been driven far beyond the reaches of endurance.

  My own noisy snoring woke me up the next morning. The sun was already well up behind the looming hump of Camelback Mountain, and I was in bed alone.

  Guiltily, I wondered if my snoring had awakened Rhonda and driven her from the room, but a quick check of her room showed it was empty as well, the bed untouched. I glanced at the bedside clock. It was already almost ten-high time to be up and about, especially considering the fact that Joey's funeral was scheduled for three that afternoon.

  I hurried into the bathroom, took a quick showed, dressed, and then went prowling Ames' house in search of intelligent life. There wasn't any. Rhonda Attwood was nowhere to be found, and neither was Ames, but the coffee carafe was full of hot, aromatic coffee. I was just pouring myself a cup when the phone rang.

  "Detective Beaumont?"

  I recognized Guy Owens' brisk voice at once. "Hello, Guy. How's Michelle?"

  "Much better, thank you. They pumped her stomach. She's up and around."

  "What about you? How's the leg?"

  "In a cast, but it'll mend." He paused, sounding somewhat uncertain. "I need to ask you a question, Detective Beaumont. I never had a chance yesterday, but today I need to know the answer."

  "Shoot."

  "Why did you and Rhonda Attwood come to Sierra Vista?"

  I could feel myself being painted into a corner. I sensed the hidden traps inherent in any answer I might give, so I waffled. "You should ask Rhonda that question, Guy, not me."

  "Put her on the phone, then, and I will," he returned.

  "Sorry. She's not here right now."

  "But now is when I need the answer," Guy insisted stubbornly.

  I heard a hard edge come into his voice, a tone that I recalled hearing once before during our long, fruitless wait in my cabin, that night seemingly eons ago. Then we had been linked by the mutual bond of outraged fatherhood. A lot of painful water had gone under the bridge since then. Now, five long days later, my connection with Rhonda Attwood had somehow, inexplicably, forced me into a separate camp. Guy Owens and I were no longer on the same team. I could hear it in his voice.

  "I'm sure Rhonda will be back soon," I countered. "She may just have gone out to have her hair done or do some shopping."

  Truthfully, neither of those two options sounded much like the Rhonda Attwood I knew, but they were the best I could come up with at a moment's notice, and Guy Owens didn't question them.

  "There are decisions to make," Guy Owens replied stiffly. "Important decisions, and they need to be made now. This morning. So you tell me, Detective Beaumont. Why did she come to the house? What did she want?"

  And suddenly all the responsibility for the future of Rhonda Attwood's single potential grandchild was thrust solely onto my shoulders. With Michelle Owens already a patient in a hospital where the lieutenant colonel's best buddy ran the show, I knew there wouldn't be any problem scheduling her for a bit of minor surgery. The innocuous diagnosis would say that some unspecified female difficulty had prompted a routine D amp; C. In the process, the embryo of Joey Rothman's posthumous progeny would be summarily scraped out of existence.

  "Rhonda wanted to talk to you," I said lamely.

  "What about?"

  Guy Owens wasn't making it easy for me. "To try to talk you out of the abortion," I replied. "She's willing to help with the baby, financially, I mean, and with raising it too. Joey was her only son, you see, and-"

  Guy Owens cut me off before I could say any more. "That's all I wanted to know," he said bluntly, hanging up the phone without bothering to say good-bye.

  I stood there holding the handset, looking at it gloomily, listening to the empty buzz of dial tone, and knowing I'd blown it. Completely blown it! Maybe Rhonda herself could have convinced him, but I sure as hell hadn't. Feeling both powerless and inept, I flung the phone back into its cradle. Where the hell was she anyway? Why wasn't she here to handle her own damn problems?

  Far away, in some other part of the house, I heard a shower turn on. It was a welcome diversion. It meant someone besides me was still hanging around. I settled down to drink a cup of coffee and to wait and see who would appear.

  Ames, still bleary-eyed, stumbled into the kitchen a few minutes later. He headed straight for the coffee. "Rhonda's still asleep?" he asked.

  I shook my head. "Up and gone already," I told him. "I thought you and she had taken off somewhere together."

  "Are you kidding? Not me. I just woke up a few minutes ago. Where'd she go, and how?" he asked.

  "Beats me." I shrugged, but I was beginning to feel uneasy about her absence. Walking over to the door that led out to the garage, I opened it and looked inside. Ames' enormous white Lincoln wasn't parked where we had left it.

  "Did you give her permission to use your car?" I asked.

  Frowning, Ames came over to where I was standing and looked out at the empty garage for himself. "No," he said, shaking his head. "Not that I remember."

  He turned back into the room and checked in the cupboard drawer where he usually deposited the fistful of car keys whenever he entered the house.

  "The keys are gone," he announced.

  "Stealing car keys must run in the family," I commented humorlessly.

  Ralph ignored me. "She must have taken it, then. Are you sure she didn't leave a note somewhere telling you where she was going?"

  "No. Not that I found."

  "Great," Ralph muttered. "That's just great. Here we are, stuck without a car, and she's off God knows where doing God knows what. We'll just have to wait for her to turn up, that's all."r />
  Maybe Ralph is constitutionally capable of sitting patiently and waiting for someone to "turn up," but I'm not. I'm terrible at waiting.

  "You could always call and report the Lincoln stolen," I suggested.

  "Are you kidding? Have Rhonda Attwood arrested for car theft?" Ralph asked incredulously. "Not on your life. She'll come back. You'll see. I'm going to go out and sit by the pool. Care to join me?"

  "No thanks."

  Instead, I paced the floor for a while, trundling back and forth through the house, looking out the windows and peering up and down the street hoping to catch sight of the Lincoln as it turned in at the end of the driveway. No such luck.

  Time passed. I don't know how much, but finally, when Ralph came in to pour himself another cup of coffee, I couldn't wait any longer. I picked up the phone and dialed Detective Delcia Reyes-Gonzales' direct number at the Yavapai County Sheriff's Department. It was Monday morning, and she was at her desk.

  "I see you're splashed all over the front page of the Republic again this morning, Beau," Delcia said with a musical laugh when I identified myself. "There are only fourteen counties in this state, and so far you've raised hell in five of them. How much longer do you plan on staying around?"

  "This is serious, Delcia," I cut in. "Rhonda's missing."

  "No!" Delcia sounded alarmed.

  "I woke up around ten, and she was gone. So is Ralph Ames' car."

  "No note?"

  "Nothing."

  "Any sign of a struggle?"

  "No."

  "These bastards don't give up easy, do they," Delcia breathed. She was leaping to the same uncomfortable conclusion that was beginning to dawn on me.

  "Not very. What do you suggest?"

  "Have you reported her missing?"

  "No. Ralph didn't think it was necessary. He won't even report the car being gone. He's convinced she's just out running errands and that she'll be back."

  "He could be right," Delcia said dubiously, "but I'm not so sure, especially considering what all's happened in this case during the last few days. But since it is his car…"