AS FAR as Joanna was concerned, Tuesday morning’s briefing was more three-ring circus than anything else. Every officer came to the meeting bringing his own particular piece of the puzzle. The problem was, in addition to business as usual, there were far too many puzzles and not nearly enough people.
Frank Montoya, cut loose from Tombstone for the morning, came tapping on Joanna’s back-door entrance, the private one that bypassed the main lobby and led directly into her office. “What’s going on out there?” he demanded. “The lot is parked full of media vans. Don’t tell me Clete Rogers’ mother’s death merits this kind of full-court press.”
“They’re here about Oak Vista Estates,” Dick Voland said. “That’s the current local hot button.”
“What’s happening at Oak Vista?” Frank asked. “Why don’t I know anything about it?”
“Because you’re so damn busy gallivanting around Tombstone that you aren’t tending to business here at home.”
Before Frank could respond, Joanna came to his defense. “Lay off, Dick,” she said. “Give the man a break. He’s spent the last two days tied up on the Alice Rogers homicide. I’m sure you can bring him up to speed on Oak Vista. In fact, while you’re at it, why don’t you tell us all.”
She glanced around her office. Since the waiting reporters were currently stashed in the staff briefing room, the morning briefing itself had been bounced into Joanna’s private office. Usually Joanna, Dick Voland, and Frank Montoya were the only attendees. This morning they had been joined by Detectives Ernie Carpenter and Jaime Carbajal. In the far corner of the room sat Deputy Terry Gregovich. Peacefully sleeping at his feet lay Spike.
“I suppose you know all about the Monkey Wrench Gang,” Voland said.
Frank nodded. “You mean those enviro-nuts from Tucson who used to go around the state trying to put developers out of business?”
“Forget ‘used to’,” Dick Voland said. “They’re back, or at least we’ve got ourselves a group that could be a carbon copy. Not only are they back, but they’re here—in our very own Cochise County. They’ve been raising hell at Mark Childers’ newest development, Oak Vista Estates. Just last week the contractor started clearing the area, the back side of which butts up against Forest Service land at the base of the Huachucas.
“The developer’s no slouch. He has all his ducks in a row on this one. He’s properly permitted and has submitted all his environmental studies, but that doesn’t mean diddly to some people. Twenty or so of them showed up yesterday afternoon armed with rocks and clubs and a whole bunch of tools which, from what we’ve been able to discover, they planned to use to take apart or disable Childers’ fleet of bulldozers, front-end loaders, and dump trucks.”
“Wait a minute,” Frank Montoya said. “I remember now. Mark Childers is one of the movers and shakers out in Sierra Vista.”
“Right,” Dick Voland said. “As a matter of fact, he turned up at the board of supervisors meeting yesterday morning. At that point, all that had happened was what went on Friday, when the demonstrators formed a human chain to keep him from unloading equipment. Yesterday at the meeting, all he was worrying about was construction delays and wanting to know what we were going to do to protect him and his equipment. After what went down later on in the afternoon, my guess now is he’s mad as hell.
“It turns out some of Childers’ opposition came to the meeting as well. They wanted to know who it was who approved the project in the first place. Actually, for a board of supervisors meeting, it was pretty entertaining since they were the ones in the hot seat for a change.”
“So, what happened?” Joanna asked.
“Nothing. Don’t forget, those folks are politicians, every last one of them. It didn’t take long for them to read the writing on the wall. Since a lot of people are obviously unhappy about the Oak Vista project, the board took about half a minute to pass the buck. They’re blaming the whole mess on the head of Planning and Zoning—Planning and Guessing, if you ask me. Looks like Lewis Flores is going to be elected scapegoat. He isn’t going to like taking it in the shorts. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he ends up handing in his resignation over the deal.”
“That’s too bad,” Joanna observed. “Lewis Flores has always struck me as a real nice guy.”
“You know what happens to nice guys,” Voland said. “Unfortunately, when the board finishes chewing him up and spitting him out, guess who’s next in line? Us. The sheriffs department. With Childers pissing and moaning about the county having an obligation to protect his people and equipment, the board had to agree with him. Surprise, surprise! Which is why, when Deputy Gregovich called for help yesterday afternoon, I made sure he had it in a hurry.”
Dick Voland stopped talking long enough to hand each attendee a sheaf of papers—incident reports from all of the deputies who had been summoned to Oak Vista. For the next few minutes, the group read through the reports in silence. Joanna was relieved to see that no one had been hurt in the melee. Twelve individuals had been arrested and hauled off to jail, but not before they had done considerable damage to Mark Childers’ equipment.
Joanna’s heart sank as she read through the list: four punctured oversized tires; the track pried off one of the bulldozers; sugar in the fuel tanks of three dump trucks. She looked at Dick Voland. “This is going to be expensive,” she said.
He nodded. “And you’ll never guess who called me just a couple of minutes ago—Mark Childers’ attorney. He’s putting us on notice that we’re being held responsible; claiming that we acted negligently in not providing adequate protection. According to him, we needed to have more and better-trained officers on the job.”
Joanna had watched Terry Gregovich’s shoulders slump lower and lower under the weight of Dick Voland’s litany. Now, in the silence while everyone read through the various reports, he sat staring at his sleeping dog. Joanna supposed he was wishing he could be somewhere else—anywhere else!
Reading through the reports, Joanna couldn’t see what could have been done differently. Her department didn’t have nearly enough manpower to mount an armed guard around an entire subdivision. Not only that, the protesters had arrived at quitting time, having let most of the day pass without incident and lulling authorities into thinking there would be no further trouble.
When people finally looked up from their papers, Joanna turned to Deputy Gregovich. “Do you have anything to add, Terry?” she asked.
Gregovich leaped to his feet, and Spike did the same. Then, when no direct order was forthcoming from his master, the dog circled three times, heaved a huge sigh, lay back down, and closed his eyes. A part of Joanna envied the dog. She could have used a little more shut-eye herself.
“There were too many of them,” Gregovich was saying. “There must have been ten carloads at least. When they showed up last Friday, it was just one of those nonviolent protests, with people lying down in front of the tracks and that sort of thing. I thought this time it would be the same thing, but it wasn’t. Not at all. These guys came packing crowbars and sledgehammers and all like that. As soon as I saw they meant business, I called for backup, but there was only so much Spike and I could do. We weren’t able to be everywhere at once. We did our best, but I’m afraid…”
“It’s all right, Deputy Gregovich,” Joanna assured him. “I’m sure you did everything possible. It sounds as though you and Spike were outgunned and outmanned at every turn, so don’t be too hard on yourself. Considering what was going on, we’re lucky no one was hurt—you and Spike included.”
“What about the dirty dozen who were arrested?” Frank asked.
“They’re being arraigned right now, but I’m betting they’ll all be bailed out this morning and back on the streets by early afternoon.”
“Just in time for round three,” Joanna said, shaking her head. “Who are they? Anybody we recognize?”
“Not really,” Voland said. “From the booking sheets, it looks like they’re mostly from Tucson. Professional demonstrator types. At least several of them have been arrested for this kind of thing before.”
“If they’re paid professionals,” Joanna said, “who’s writing the checks?”
“Good question,” Dick said. “That’s what we’re trying to find out now. I’ve got three deputies working on it. If we can find out who’s really behind the demonstrations, maybe we can talk them into calling them off.”
“What do we do in the meantime?” Joanna asked.
“Spike and I are heading right back out there, ma’am,” Deputy Gregovich said.
Voland nodded. “They’ll be on-site this morning. By noon—about the time the last of our jailbirds gets bailed out—I expect to have several deputies patrolling on and around Oak Vista Estates.”
“Are you worried about being sent there by yourself this morning, Deputy Gregovich?” Joanna asked.
Terry Gregovich was an awkward-looking young man with a shy, self-effacing way about him. He was immensely likable. The fact that Spike obviously adored him didn’t hurt, either.
“Not at all, ma’am. Spike and me’ll do just fine.”
Joanna smiled. “I’m sure you will, but remember: If it turns out you need to call for reinforcements, I’d rather you did it sooner than later. Understand?”
“Will do, Sheriff Brady. Is that all?”
Joanna nodded.
“Come, Spike,” Terry ordered.
Obediently, the dog rolled to his feet, and the two of them marched out the door. “All right now,” Joanna announced to those remaining. “On to Alice Rogers.”
Ernie Carpenter took the first turn in the barrel, reporting that Clete Rogers and Susan Jenkins had shown up at the Pima County morgue late the previous evening and had, together, positively identified their mother’s body. The two of them were also due at their mother’s house later that morning. There they would meet with Detective Carbajal and try to determine what items had been removed from Alice Rogers’ home. Joanna couldn’t help smiling at that bit of news. It pleased her to know that Susan had taken that much of Joanna’s advice to heart.
“Do we know when Doc Daly has scheduled the autopsy?” Joanna asked.
“First thing this morning,” Ernie replied. “What she told us at the scene was that she didn’t think the body had been moved. If Alice died where we found her, that means the case belongs to Pima County, and we’re out of it. Which is why Detective Lazier as good as told me that I’d be persona non grata at the autopsy.”
“Went all territorial on you, did he?” Joanna observed.
Ernie nodded. “You could say that. Lazier is focused on getting the case pulled together enough to extradite those other three kids from Old Mexico but that’s not going to be easy since so far the Mexican authorities aren’t very keen on cooperating. They haven’t even ID’d the suspects they have in custody.”
Joanna nodded. “It’s tough to extradite someone when you don’t have a name to go by. Do the Pima County detectives know anything about Alice Rogers’ house in Tombstone being ransacked?”
Carpenter shook his head. “Not that I know of. They didn’t ask and I didn’t tell. Actually, at the time I left to come home, I didn’t know about it, either.”
“Let’s think about this for a minute,” Joanna suggested. “Did Dr. Daly say anything about when Alice died?”
“Not exactly. Her preliminary estimate is sometime Saturday night or Sunday morning.”
“All right, so the kids took the car—with keys?”
This time Frank was the one who answered. “Without. It was hot-wired.”
“But they had Alice’s identification along with her address. They could have gone to her place and taken it apart. Was there any sign of stolen goods in the car, anything that might be traceable back to Alice’s house in Tombstone?”
“Not that I know of,” Frank said.
“Here’s my position then,” Joanna said. “The murder may not have taken place in Cochise County, but it’s possible that a burglary did. And until we see how all these dots are connected—Alice’s death, the ransacking of her house, and the sudden disappearance of her boyfriend, our department is involved. Is that clear?”
There were nods all around the room. “I’ll be in touch with Fran Daly’s office and let her know that we’re still in the game and need to be apprised of the postmortem results.” She turned to Jaime Carbajal. “What’s happening with the crime scene crews?”
“As I told you last night, there were fingerprints all over the place at Alice’s house. We’ve collected a ton of them. It’s going to take time to process them and feed them into the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. What’s interesting, though, is the fact that while Alice’s house is full of prints, we’ve hardly found any in the mobile home at Outlaw Mountain. We’ve dusted the whole place and haven’t come up with more than one or two partials. There aren’t any on the light switches or doorknobs or on the cans of soda in the refrigerator. How does that strike you?”
“Odd,” Joanna said.
Jaime nodded. “It’s odd, all right. Ernie suggested that I have them check the wall above the toilet in case the guy leans there when he’s taking a leak.”
“Right,” Joanna said, hoping to forestall a blush. “Good thinking.”
“We’ll make sure that gets done today,” Jaime continued. “The dresser drawers and closets are all empty. That means Farley Adams packed his bags and left, but before he took off, he must have raced through his house wiping every possible surface clean of fingerprints.”
“Sounds like somebody with something to hide,” Joanna suggested.
“That’s what we thought,” Jaime agreed. “So Ernie and I will be taking the crew back out there again this morning. Maybe in the clear light of day, we’ll find something we missed last night.”
“What about papers?” Joanna asked. “Did you happen to stumble across anything that looked like a marriage license?”
“A marriage license?” Jaime asked.
Joanna nodded. “Susan Jenkins thinks Farley Adams was about to marry her mother in a phony ruse to lay hands on Alice’s money.”
“So there is money then?” Ernie asked.
“Some, but I don’t know how much. I have Alice Rogers’ attorney’s name out in Sierra Vista. Hogan, Dena Hogan. My thinking is if Farley figured he already had the money bagged, there must have been a reason. Either he and Alice had already tied the knot, or else she had rewritten her will in his favor.”
Ernie frowned, once again beetling his thick eyebrows together until they formed a single rope-wide track across his forehead. “It sounds like you’re saying Farley may be responsible for her murder instead of those kids in the lockup down in Nogales.”
“What I’m saying is that there’s more going on here than meets the eye. I’m not prepared to accept Pima County’s slam-dunk clear until some of the strange stuff in our jurisdiction gets straightened out. That includes checking with Alice Rogers’ attorney. You or Ernie can go talk to her. Or, if you guys are too busy with the crime scene investigators, I can handle Ms. Hogan myself.”
“As far as I’m concerned, have a ball,” Ernie said. “Jaime and I already have more than enough to do.”
Avoiding looking at the burgeoning stack of mail Kristin had piled on her desk, Joanna added Dena Hogan’s name to her To-Do list.
“Anything else?” Joanna asked.
“Not from us,” Ernie said.
“All right then, you and Jaime go ahead and get with the program.”
The two detectives stood up as one. “Wait a minute,” Jaime Carbajal said. “What about that weird guy from Saint David, the one who was with you last night when you stopped by Alice Rogers’ place? Whatever happened to him? Did you locate his family?”
“What guy?” Dick Voland asked.
Caught being less than candid with her subordinates, Joanna blushed to the roots of her bright red hair. She had thought about mentioning Junior’s situation to the briefing as a whole but had decided against it—right up until Jaime’s awkward question brought the issue out into the open.
“I guess I just haven’t gotten around to telling you,” Joanna replied. “His name is Junior. He’s developmentally disabled. His family evidently drove off and left him behind when they finished up with the Holy Trinity Arts and Crafts Fair over in Saint David.”
“Where’s this Junior now?” Voland demanded. “You didn’t take him home with you, did you?”
“No,” Joanna replied. “I didn’t. He’s staying with a friend of mine, someone who’s had experience with people like Junior.”
“Whoever he is, he’d better have experience,” Voland growled. “If anything happens to that guy while he’s in our custody, our ass will be grass. His family may not have wanted him last Sunday, but if he croaks out while we’re in charge of him, you can bet they’ll hit us with a million-dollar lawsuit so fast it’ll make our heads spin.”
“Nothing is going to happen to him,” Joanna declared firmly.
“Who says, and how are you going to go about finding his family?”
“I don’t know yet,” Joanna admitted. “I still haven’t decided.”
“Let me remind you, Sheriff Brady,” Voland said. “We’re in the business of law enforcement, not social service. Considering what’s gone on around here the last few days, we’ve got our hands plenty full playing cops and robbers without going out of our way to collect lost retards and drag them home.”
Joanna sent her chief deputy a frosty glance. She was accustomed to that kind of comment from Voland. In the privacy of the morning briefing, where only she and Frank Montoya were present, she cut the man some slack. In front of her two homicide detectives, it was absolutely unacceptable.
“The proper term is developmentally disabled, Chief Deputy Voland, not retard,” Joanna told him. “We’re not calling Junior that in this office—not to his face and not behind his back, either. And don’t think for a minute this is some kind of mindless acquiescence to political correctness. It’s called common decency. Is that clear?”
Voland backed down. “It’s clear all right,” he said.
Joanna turned back to the detectives. “You go on now. If we need your help on the Junior situation, I’ll let you know.”
As soon as the two detectives let themselves out of the office, Joanna zeroed in on Voland once again. “Don’t pull that kind of stunt again, Dick. Understand?”
He nodded glumly. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“And now,” Joanna continued, “do either of you have any bright ideas about how to locate Junior’s family?”
“Not me,” Voland said.
“Frank?”
“You’ve checked his clothing for ID?”
“Right,” Joanna said, “and found nothing. It looks suspiciously as though all the labels have been deliberately removed.”
“So you’re suggesting that whoever left him in Saint David did it on purpose, that they don’t want to be found.”
“Right.”
Frank tapped a thoughtful finger ori his forehead. “Maybe we should take a lesson from that television show, ‘America’s Most Wanted.’ Let’s try to spread the word on this. Maybe we could even hit the wire services. We’ll show Junior’s picture, tell where he was found, and all that. If we make a big enough splash, maybe someone will recognize him.”
“That might work,” Joanna concluded after a moment’s thought. “Any ideas about how to go about it?”
“This is human-interest stuff. I think it’s the kind of story Marliss Shackleford could really sink her teeth into.”
“Not Marliss!” Joanna objected, setting her jaw. “After all, she’s not even a reporter anymore. She’s a columnist.”
“Yes, but I bet she’d jump on this one, especially if it gives her a crack at national exposure.”
Of all the people involved in the local news media, Marliss was Joanna’s hands-down least favorite. However, if this really was the only way to help Junior get back home, Joanna knew she’d have to do it.
“All right,” she agreed. “When you finish up with the Oak Vista Estates press conference, see if Marliss will play ball. Speaking of Oak Vista, what do you plan to tell the press?”
During the meeting Frank had continually thumbed through the sheaf of incident reports. “My usual media soft shoe, I suppose.” He grinned. “What do you think they’ll want to know?”
“Whether or not the county is under attack by a bunch of outside environmentalists who are going to try to bring the current building boom to a screeching halt. They’re going to want to know the same things we do—where the protesters come from, what they’re doing here, and who’s behind them. Tell the reporters that when we have some answers, so will they.”
Recovered from Joanna’s reprimand, Voland took them through the other routine reports from the day before. Afterward, he pushed his chair back and heaved himself out of it. “I have real work to do,” he announced. Even so, he paused at the door long enough to glower at Joanna one last time.
“I still think you’d better provide full documentation concerning anything and everything to do with your friend Junior since you took charge of him,” he said. “That’s the only way to go on a deal like that, otherwise you can pretty much count on the incident coming back and biting us in the butt.”
“Dick,” Joanna assured him. “I’ll take care of it.”
Mumbling under his breath, Voland left Joanna’s office and slammed the door behind him. “He is right about that, you know,” Frank said.
“About Junior?” Joanna asked.
“About the full documentation bit. Are you sure the person Junior’s staying with is absolutely trustworthy?”
“I can tell you this,” Joanna said. “Junior’s a hell of a lot better off with somebody like Butch Dixon than he would be in a cell out back in the jail which, at the time, was my only other option.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Frank agreed.
They both fell silent. There wasn’t much more to add. “So what are you going to do now?” Joanna asked finally. “Handle the press conference here and then head back to Tombstone?”
Frank nodded. “That’s right. Back to my home away from home. What about you?”
“I plan to take a crack at the correspondence. When I finish up with that, I’m going to head out to Sierra Vista to talk with Alice Rogers’ attorney.”
“While you’re out that way,” Frank suggested, “you might consider stopping by to see Mark Childers.”
Frank Montoya may have been a latecomer to the Oak Vista crisis, but already he had some helpful suggestions for handling the situation.
“How come?” Joanna asked.
“You do know who his girlfriend is, don’t you?”
“No, who?”
“Karen Brainard.”
Joanna was stunned. “As in Karen Brainard, member of the Cochise County Board of Supervisors?” she asked.
“None other. As a matter of fact, I’ve heard rumors here and there that Childers backed her to the hilt, that he even helped bankroll her campaign.”
“And now, miraculously, he’s gotten permission from the board of supervisors for a controversial construction project lots of other people around here hate.”
“Have you looked it over?” Frank asked.
Joanna shook her head. “I haven’t had time.”
“Maybe the tree-huggers are up at arms for a good reason. I’ve never been much of an environmentalist myself, but I hate to see another section of the Huachucas get chewed up by uncontrolled development.”
“Your opinion and mine notwithstanding,” Joanna said, “if the supervisors have already given Childers the go-ahead, what’s the point of my going to see him?”
“If he’s somebody who can make or break a member of the board of supervisors, he could also make or break a sheriff—if he sets his mind to it, that is.”
Joanna thought about that for a moment. “So you’re advising me to do a little political fence-mending.”
Frank nodded. “It couldn’t hurt.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll think about it, but I’m not making any promises.”
After Frank left, Joanna sat alone in her office staring at the pile of mail on her desk. From the moment she had been sworn into office, there seemed to have been an unending avalanche of the stuff. It drifted in mountainous heaps from Kristin’s desk to hers and back again. Joanna took the topmost sheet off the stack. Then, for the next five minutes, lost in thought, she stared uncomprehendingly at the piece of paper in her hand without the words ever sorting themselves into meaningful sentences.
What if what Frank had said was true? What if there was a far too cozy relationship between Karen Brainard and Mark Childers? She thought about what Dick Voland had said concerning the previous day’s board of supervisors meeting. She couldn’t help wondering if, besides chewing up a pristine desert landscape, Childers and his lady accomplice weren’t also destroying someone else’s life and career in the process.
“Kristin,” Joanna said, picking up her phone. “Get Lewis Flores on the phone for me, would you? He’s the head of Planning and Zoning. No, I don’t know his number.”
She put down the phone and then waited for it to ring again, which it did—a minute or so later.
“I talked to Linda, the secretary at Planning and Zoning,” Kristin said. “She told me Mr. Flores is out sick today.”
I’ll just bet he is, Joanna thought grimly.If I were in his shoes, I probably would be, too.