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 eaters 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.
“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.”
Joanna laughed. “My lips are sealed. Now, how about putting me through to Kristin?” Seconds later, Joanna was speaking to her secretary. “Any messages?”
“Your mother, for one,” Kristin said. “She’s called three times so far. There was also a call from Father Thomas Mulligan. You know, the head of Holy Trinity, that Catholic monastery over in Saint David. He asked to speak to you directly. I told him you were working a case and asked him if it was an emergency. He said no, but that he did want to speak to you as soon as possible. Here’s the number.”
Pulling a notepad from her pocket, Joanna jotted down Father Thomas’ name and number. “Anything else?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Good.” Joanna glanced at her watch. The afternoon was speeding by at an alarming rate. It was already past time for school to be out. Jenny usually called the office in the afternoon, just to check in. “Jenny will probably call once she gets to Butch’s house,” Joanna said. “Tell her to try reaching me on the cell phone.”
Walking as she talked, Joanna emerged from the cholla and was now within sight of the cars. She was shocked to see Susan Jenkins, freed from Ernie’s handcuffs, standing beside her Chrysler and smoking a cigarette. An unconcerned Sergeant Mallory stood nearby, talking to another uniformed deputy.
“Wait a minute,” Joanna said. “Why’s she still here, and where are her cuffs? I asked you to place her under arrest, and I thought someone would have hauled her away by now.”
Folding his arms across his broad chest, Sergeant Mallory sauntered over to Joanna. “Before we did, I talked to my lieutenant about it. He said no dice.”
Joanna’s temper rose. A sudden flush fired her cheeks. “What does that mean?” she demanded.
Mallory shrugged. “You know how it is,” he said. “My supe wanted me to get those statements first. In other words, no paper, no jail.”
Over by the Sebring, Susan Jenkins ground out her cigarette and came walking toward Joanna and Mallory. Preparing for the possibility of another attack, Joanna tensed, but as Susan came closer, it became apparent that the woman had been crying.
“I’m sorry, Sheriff Brady,” Susan Jenkins apologized at once. “I don’t know what got into me. I was so mad at Clete right then, I couldn’t see straight. All the way here, I kept thinking that if only he had listened to me yesterday or if he had used his brain before that, maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe our mother would still be alive.”
Much as it hurt her to do so, Joanna had to admit that right that minute there was nothing the least bit threatening about Susan Jenkins. With her faced blotched with tear-stained mascara, she looked just like any other bereaved relative—brokenhearted but not dangerous.
“You and your brother have both suffered a terrible loss,” Joanna said. “And you both have my sympathy.”
“It is her then?” Susan asked, nodding in the direction from which Joanna had come.
“Yes. Pending positive identification, of course. But yes, we’re pretty sure,”
Susan Jenkins’ eyes filmed with fresh tears. She buried her face in her hands. “I kept hoping the cops would be wrong, that it would turn out to be someone else.”
“What was your mother wearing when you saw her last?” Joanna asked.
“A dress,” Susan said. “A pink dress.”
“What about a sweater or coat?”
“Mother was very warm-blooded. She hardly ever wore a coat. She wasn’t wearing a sweater when she left my house the other night, but she might have had one in her car.”
Susan cast a wary look in the direction of the cholla. “Should I go over there and look—tell them whether or not it’s really her?”
Joanna thought about how it would feel for a daughter—any daughter—to see her mother lying on a deathbed of cactus and teeming with marauding insects. It had been hard enough for Joanna, a stranger, to see Alice Rogers that way. For a grieving daughter, the sight would be a nightmarish one that would haunt the rest of her life.
“No,” Joanna said kindly. “It’s probably better if you don’t see your mother right now. As I told Clete earlier, that kind of ID is usually done after the body has been transported to the morgue. Speaking of your brother, is that where he went?”
Susan shook her head. “I don’t know. He didn’t say a word to me. He just drove off in his pickup truck.”
Joanna turned to Sergeant Mallory. “Did Mr. Rogers tell you where he was going?” she asked.
“He said he wasn’t feeling well and that he was going home.”
“Typical,” Susan said, with a trace of anger leaking back into her voice. “Clete always talks a good game, but when it’s crunch time or when there’s some kind of real crisis, looking for him to do anything useful is like leaning on a bent reed. I can understand his not having guts enough to do something about Mother and Farley Adams, but if Clete had bothered to mention the situation to me, I’ll bet I could have.”
Joanna was tempted to put a stop to that whole line of reasoning, to tell Susan Jenkins that there was nothing either she or her brother could have done to keep Alice Rogers from tangling with a gang of car thieves. That would have been the kind thing to do. But in the back of her mind, Joanna kept thinking about her phone call from Dick Voland—the one telling her that it looked as though Farley Adams had packed his gear and left Outlaw Mountain.
“Tell me what you know about your mother’s boyfriend,” Joanna said. “Had you ever met him?”
“Sure,” Susan said. “He started out about a year ago doing yard work for her—trimming and pruning, mowing the lawn, raking, hauling out some of the old dead century plants. I didn’t actually meet him until he was building the wall. Mother had always dreamed of having a wall around her place—one of those six-foot-high stucco affairs that looks like it came off a Spanish hacienda. She was thrilled when she finally found someone who could do the work for her. When the wall was finished, I expected Farley to move along. The next thing I knew, she had booted her previous renters out of the mobile home on Outlaw Mountain so Farley Adams could live there and work her claim. Even then, I didn’t worry about it. I thought it was strictly a business arrangement.
“But Saturday night, she told me what was really going on—that the two of them were in love and getting married. Mother and I had a big fight about it. A huge fight. I told her she was crazy, that the man was just after her money. After all, Farley’s at least twenty years younger—closer to my age than hers. What else could it be?”
What else indeed? Joanna thought. She couldn’t help empathizing with Susan Jenkins in that moment. After all, Joanna Brady had felt exactly the same kind of shocked disbelief about her own mother and George Winfield when the medical examiner had finally worked up the courage to tell her that he and Eleanor Lathrop had eloped. Joanna had been so stunned at the time that she had almost driven off the road. And ever since, even though she liked George—even though she could see that the marriage between Eleanor Lathrop and George Winfield was clearly a love match—there was a small hard corner of Joanna’s heart that couldn’t quite forgive the love birds for their sneaky, underhanded maneuvering.
For a moment Joanna considered offering Susan Jenkins the benefit of some of her own hard-won experience. In her old life, that’s precisely what she would have done. But now she was a cop—a detective—and it was her job and responsibility to ask questions. Counseling could wait.
“How much money’s at stake?” she asked.
“Quite a bit,” Susan returned. “It’s not liquid. It’s mostly in real estate. Daddy was always a great one for buying up property. There was a time in the early fifties when most of Tombstone was up for grabs. In those days, he and Mother worked like crazy to hang on to what they’d bought. Now, though, all the mortgages are mostly paid off and the rents keep going up. Consequently, Mother’s been growing what should be a healthy little nest egg, from her rental income alone. There’d be more than that if she hadn’t been such a soft touch where Clete was concerned.”
“What do you mean?”
“Who do you think Clete’s landlord is? And not just for his restaurant, either. He was supposedly paying Mother rent on the house he lives in, too, but he hasn’t paid a dime. Mother should have evicted him years ago. That’s one blessing anyway. At least I won’t have to listen to that anymore—to Mother telling me how I have to make allowances for poor, sickly little Clete.”
“So your mother had a fair amount of property in Tombstone,” Joanna observed. “What about the mine at Outlaw Mountain—the claim Farley Adams was supposedly working. What kind of a mine is it?”
“Turquoise, mostly,” Susan replied. “Dad picked it up years ago for back taxes. That was sometime in the forties, I think. For years he dinked around with it, working a vein of high-grade turquoise. He had some Indians he sold to—silversmiths up on the Navajo Reservation. I guess after Farley Adams went to work for her, Mother went back to selling to craftsmen on the various reservations. There never has been a whole lot of money in it, but I think Mother got a kick out of being a captain of industry.”
“Let’s go back to Saturday night,” Joanna said. “You told me the two of you had a big fight about Farley Adams. Then what happened?”
“She left. She told me I should mind my own business and she left.”
“What time was that?”
“I don’t know. Eight or eight-thirty. Maybe later.”
“Was she drunk when she left your house?” Joanna asked.
“Well, we’d all had a few drinks before dinner and wine with, but she didn’t seem drunk, not to me.”
“How do you think she got here? Houghton Road is a long way from Tombstone.”
Susan shook her head. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“What did you do after she left?”
Suddenly Susan looked wary. “Why are you asking that? You don’t think I had anything to do with what happened?”
“It’s a routine question, Mrs. Jenkins. We’ll be asking everyone.”
“I went to bed.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anyone who can verify that?”
“No. My husband had an appointment of some kind.”
“An appointment Saturday night?”
“Yes.”
“With whom?” Joanna asked.
“I’m not sure. He must have told me, but you’ll have to ask him. Tyler, my stepson, never liked being around my mother much. He was out, too, with some of his friends.”
“My detectives will need to verify where they were and who they were with.”
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”
“What time did your husband come home?”
“I have no idea. As I told you, I went to sleep. But Sunday morning when I woke up, the more I thought about what was going on, the madder I got. That’s when I went to see Clete. He’s a pretty useless human being, and I don’t like him much, but I didn’t want to see either one of us cheated out of what our father and mother had built up. It just didn’t make sense to hand something like that over to some gold-digging outsider.”
“After you left your brother’s restaurant, where did you go?”
“To my mother’s first. When she wasn’t there I went to Farley Adams’ place on Outlaw Mountain.”
“What happened?”
“I gave that worthless son of a bitch a piece of my mind. I told him I knew what he was up to and that I’d figure out some way so he wouldn’t get a dime.”
“And what did he say?”
“What do you think? He told me that he loved her, that he wasn’t after her money. Do you know what he did then? Laughed in my face. Told me that Mother would never give him up. That was a lie, of course. He must have known then that she was already dead. He told me to leave, to get out. He treated me like I was some kind of interloper on my own mother’s property. Acted like he already owned the place. I was dumbfounded! I guess things got a little bit out of hand about then. I do have a bit of a temper, you know,” Susan added ruefully.
A bit of a temper, Joanna thought. She did indeed know. It was such a gross understatement that Joanna had to struggle to keep from laughing aloud.
“You attacked him?” she asked.
“Well, I would have, but he went inside and locked the door. Then he called nine-one-one. That’s when the deputy showed up—the same one who was at Clete’s restaurant earlier that day.”
“Frank Montoya,” Joanna supplied.
“Right. Well, he came out to Gleeson. It was while he was talking to me that I finally realized what had probably happened, that my mother was already dead. I was upset, I guess. Deputy Montoya called my husband to come drive me home.”
Joanna thought about that. She was looking for motivation, and what Susan Jenkins was telling her didn’t quite add up. “If, as you believe, Farley Adams killed your mother or had her killed in hopes of inheriting her estate, how would he do that?”
Susan looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Do you think they were already married?”
“In secret, you mean?” Susan asked, incredulously. “Why, that’s crazy! Who would do something like that?”
Joanna knew several people—herself and Andy included—who had done that very thing, but there was no sense in saying that to Susan Jenkins. “Supposing he and your mother were already married. If she died, as her surviving husband he could go against an earlier will and inherit at least the spouse’s share of her estate. Or maybe she had already rewritten her will and put him in it. That way he could inherit regardless of whether or not they had gotten around to tying the knot. Without one of those two options, Farley Adams doesn’t have an obvious motive.”
“I remember Mother did go on a road trip a few weeks ago. She said she drove up to Laughlin, Nevada, for the weekend. Until Saturday, I was under the impression that she went by herself. It turns out I was wrong,” Susan added bitterly.
Thinking about her mother and George Winfield, Joanna knew very well what else might have gone on in Laughlin, Nevada. “Those things do happen,” she said. “But what about a will? Did your mother have an attorney?”
Susan nodded. “Her name is Dena Hogan. She’s a friend of mine with an office out in Sierra Vista. A few years ago Mother went to one of those living-trust seminars and she got all riled up about the high cost of estate taxes. She asked me if I could recommend a good attorney, and Dena was the only one I knew. I gave Mother the phone number and Dena’s the one she called.”
“Did Ms. Hogan ever discuss the terms of your mother’s will with you?”
Susan shook her head. “Absolutely not. I told you, Dena’s an attorney, and a good one, too. I trust her completely. She never discussed my mother’s business affairs with me, and I’m certain she didn’t discuss mine with Mother, either.”
Joanna nodded. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Frank Montoya coming out of the cacti and motioning toward Sergeant Mallory. That probably meant Fran Daly was ready to have someone come pick up the body and load it for transport.
“You’d probably better go on home now, Mrs. Jenkins.”
“That’s it? You mean I’m not under arrest after all?”
“No. I can see that earlier you weren’t in full possession of your faculties. Considering what all’s happened to you these past few days, that’s not too surprising. Go on home. Try to get some rest. Over the next few days you’ll probably have several detectives needing to talk to you, but they’ll call and make appointments. In the meantime, don’t attack any more police officers.”
Susan grimaced and nodded ruefully. “What about identifying Mother’s body?” she asked. “Should I drive on up to Tucson and do that today?”
“Why not talk it over with your brother first,” Joanna advised. “Either he should do it, or you should. Or even, possibly, the two of you could do it together. After all, with your mother gone, isn’t it about time the two of you buried the hatchet? Maybe that’s something you could both do in her honor.”
For a moment, Susan Jenkins’ face almost dissolved in tears, but then she got a grip on herself. “You’re right,” she said with a sigh. “With Mother dead, it’s about time Clete and I grew up.”
“Try to keep a handle on your temper,” Joanna advised. “You’ve been lucky so far, but one of these days, it’s going to land you in jail.”
“I’ll do my best,” Susan said.
She went back to the Sebring, climbed in, and started flie engine. She was about to drive away when Joanna thought of another question.
“What about your brother?” Joanna asked. “How badly does he need money?”
“Clete always needs money,” Susan replied. “There’s never been a time in his life when he didn’t. When we were kids, he used to come to me, begging to borrow some of my allowance. Now that he’s been elected mayor, he can act like he’s a big deal and throw his weight around all he wants, but he wouldn’t be where he is today if Mother hadn’t bailed him out of trouble time and time again.”
Susan Jenkins paused and frowned. “Wait a minute, you’re not suggesting Clete might be responsible for this, are you? Surely not. He’s an A-number-one jerk at times, but he loved Mother to pieces. He’d never do anything to hurt her.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Joanna agreed soothingly, but in the back of her mind she knew it was still far too soon to rule anyone out. The Pima County detectives might well be placing their bets on four young joyriding punks, but in the course of one afternoon, Joanna had found several other people all of whom stood to benefit substantially from Alice Rogers’ death. As far as Joanna was concerned, it was far too early in the investigation for her to rule anyone out.
If nothing else, Alice Rogers deserved that much consideration.