IN THE office, it took only a few minutes to formalize the paperwork to have Dena Hogan admitted to Southeastern Arizona Medical Center. Once Joanna had managed to locate the necessary forms, she typed them up herself. Twenty minutes later, she was part of a two-car caravan headed for Douglas. Handcuffed and shackled both, Dena rode in a patrol car accompanied by two deputies. Joanna drove the aging white Bronco that had, for years, been assigned to Deputy Dick Voland.
S.A.M.C., was still called County Hospital by locals, situated just outside the town of Douglas. As Joanna drove there, she couldn’t help thinking about Alice Rogers and those first few chapters of her memoirs—the ones that dealt with her happy childhood years spent in Douglas. Reflecting about Alice inevitably led Joanna to the missing Parley Adams.
Her investigation had determined that Adams wasn’t his real name. That meant that he, like some of the other people Joanna had encountered in the past few days, had played fast and loose with the truth. If there were people in North Las Vegas who were looking for him and wanting to kill him, maybe Jonathan Decker had good reason to lie about his name. What Joanna wondered was, had he lied to his wife or not? Had he told Alice the truth about his past, or had Becker been as dishonest with Alice as Dena Hogan had been with Rex? Had he married Alice in hopes of inheriting a portion of her estate, as Susan Jenkins believed? Or was it possible that the man who called himself Parley Adams had really loved Alice Rogers and that the look captured on his face in Jessie Morgan’s postcard wedding portrait had been one of real affection rather than a supreme job of acting?
Keeping one eye on the road, Joanna dug around in her purse until she located the copy of that picture she had stowed there. Switching on the reading light, she held the picture close to the light and glanced at it several times. There was no getting around it. Both people pictured looked incredibly happy. Neither of them seemed to be faking it.
Joanna put the piece of paper down on the seat. Supposing he really did love her and supposing he’s still alive, she wondered, what will he do now?
Joanna suspected that the people looking for Jonathan Becker were prepared to go to a good deal of trouble to find him and get rid of him. And there was always a chance that they had already succeeded in doing so. But if they hadn’t, and if he had really loved Alice Rogers, would he simply turn his back and walk away, or would he be there for her—even in death?
Once at the hospital, Joanna turned Dena Hogan over to the emergency room people and directed the deputies to take turns guarding her. Meanwhile, Joanna went to work on the admissions process. Even though she had come armed with all the necessary information and documents, it still took the better part of an hour before Dena Hogan’s admission was complete. And all the while the watch on Joanna’s arm and the clock over the admission clerk’s head continued to tick.
Free at last, Joanna raced out to the Bronco. It was eight-thirty. No doubt Alice Roger’s visitation at the funeral home would end at nine. With no time to lose, Joanna started the Bronco and switched on the pulsing blue emergency lights for the next several miles. Once she hit Douglas proper, she turned off the flashing lights and slowed to a more reasonable pace. By the time she drove under the railroad underpass, she was actually driving at the speed limit.
Garrity’s Funeral Home had once been a massive old house on G Street. It was situated only a few blocks from Jessie Monroe’s Golden Agers Nursing Home, and only a few more blocks from where Alice Monroe Rogers and her brothers and sisters had played hide-and-seek as children.
Joanna shivered as she stepped out of the Bronco and walked toward the mortuary. It was a cold, brisk night, but the chill she felt was more than that. Joanna knew from reading Alice’s own words that she had lived her whole life trying to escape Douglas. Now, at the end of her life, here she was again, mere blocks from where she had started. To Joanna, it all seemed pointless somehow, and, at the same time, inevitable.
With her copy of the wedding picture folded into a small square in her hand, Joanna walked into the plushly carpeted lobby of the mortuary. A man in a suit and tie met her at the door. “Are you here for Mrs. Rogers?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Second door on the right,” he directed. “But the visitation is almost over,” he added. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of it or not, but there’s been another tragedy in the family today. As a result, most family members had to leave earlier than expected. There are only a few stragglers left.”
The man’s politely unspoken message was clear: It’s over, lady. All the important people are gone already, so don’t hang around and waste my time.
“That’s fine,” Joanna said. “I won’t be long.”
She walked into the room. Like the lobby, the small, chapel-like room was plushly carpeted. An open casket, eerily lit, sat at the front. Glancing around the room, Joanna realized that the man in the lobby was wrong. Besides Alice, there was only one person left in the dimly lit chapel—a man, seated near the front. His head was bowed. He appeared to be deep in prayer.
Walking silently, Joanna moved forward. She took a seat three rows back from the man and waited. For a long time, he continued to sit there without moving. Finally he stood up. As he turned to walk toward the aisle, Joanna recognized him. She also saw that he was carrying something—a flower, a single rose. Once in the aisle, he walked to the casket and placed the rose inside.
It was such a simple, moving gesture, that Joanna felt her heart squeeze. He does care, she thought. The look on his face in the wedding picture isn’t a lie.
Knowing the man known as Parley Adams still thought himself alone, Joanna waited for him to turn. She had no idea what he would do when he saw her. Was he armed? Would he think she was someone sent to kill him?
As soon as he saw her, Joanna saw the look of dread that passed briefly over his tear-stained face. His eyes shifted desperately from side to side, as if searching frantically for some other way out of the room. Realizing there was none, he turned back. For a long moment, the two people stared silently at one another. Finally Parley Adams shook his head. The look of fear on his face was replaced by one of profound resignation. His shoulders sagged, then, slowly, he raised his hands.
“All right,” he said. “It’s no use. I can’t run anymore. You’ve got me. Go ahead and get it over with.”
“It’s all right, Mr. Becker,” Joanna said softly. “I’m not one of them. My name’s Joanna Brady, Sheriff Joanna Brady. We need to talk.”
“But you called me Backer,” he objected. “You must know all about me then?”
“And about your son,” Joanna replied. “And about the dirty cops from North Las Vegas who killed your son and who want you dead as well.”
Becker dropped into one of the rows of seats and covered his face with his hands. “If you could find me this easily, they will, too. I knew better than to go to the funeral, but I thought I could take a chance on coming here. There were so few people. Nobody recognized me—except you. I know it’s all my fault. That’s why Alice is dead. The people who are looking for me must have thought she would lead them to me, although I don’t know how they found out.”
“They didn’t,” Joanna said.
“They didn’t?” Joanna saw the smallest flicker of hope register on the man’s haunted features. “You mean somebody else killed her?”
“Yes,” Joanna said. “Her son-in-law.”
“Ross Jenkins? But why?”
“For money,” Joanna replied. “We found evidence at the scene that made us think Clete Rogers was responsible. But since Ross Jenkins’ accomplice has already confessed to her part in Alice’s murder, I suspect that was a frame job.”
“Clete would never do such a thing,” Becker declared. “He thought the world of his mother. In fact, I’m surprised he wasn’t here tonight. I was hoping to get a chance to tell him how sorry I am.”
For the first time Joanna realized Jonathan Becker hadn’t yet heard the rest of the news. “Clete Rogers didn’t come to the visitation because he couldn’t,” Joanna said softly. “He’s dead, too.”
“Clete? No. What happened to him? The stress was probably too much.”
“It wasn’t stress,” Joanna said. “Somebody threw him in the deep end of an empty swimming pool and broke his neck. It happened last night.”
“Did Ross do that, too? I knew Ross and Susan didn’t get along with Clete, but I never thought they’d do something so—”
“How did you first meet Alice Rogers?” Joanna interrupted.
“I suppose you’ve figured out about the Witness Protection thing,” Becker ventured.
“Yes. Nobody told us for sure, but we’ve pretty well pieced it together.”
“Well, I couldn’t stand it. It was too confining—a jail with no bars on the walls, but a prison nonetheless. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I split. I was on my way through Tombstone headed God knows where—Mexico, probably—when I heard Clete complaining that he couldn’t get anybody to come help him patch his roof. I offered to help out. I ended up hanging around town doing odd jobs. It was summer, so the rents were cheap. Clete introduced me to Alice because she needed some work done, too. So I started doing handyman jobs for her, but it turned out we liked each other—really hit it off. One thing led to another, and before long—well, you know how it goes. Some people thought Alice was cantankerous, and maybe she was. But she also had an independent streak. I liked that about her.”
“Going back to you and Clete Rogers. Would you say the two of you were close friends?”
“No. Clete was a good guy, and he was nice to Alice—a lot nicer than Susan and Ross. But no, we weren’t really close.”
“Still, though, since Clete was really your first point of contact in Tombstone, mightn’t someone think you were good friends? If someone came to town looking for you, might they assume that of all the people in town, Clete Rogers would know where you’d gone off to?”
Joanna’s question was followed by a long silence. “You think that’s who killed him?” Jonathan Becker asked. “The people who are looking for me?”
“The only other possibility would be Ross Jenkins,” Joanna said. “He’s undergoing surgery in Tucson at the moment, so he’s in no condition to tell us one way or the other. But his accomplice says not.”
After a long moment Jonathan Becker nodded thoughtfully. “They’d do it in a minute,” he said. “They swore they’d get to me, and they probably will. As soon as I knew Alice was missing, I was afraid it was them. That’s why I took off. But how did you find me?”
“Your prints,” Joanna said.
“The Witness Protection people said they had pulled my prints, but still I worried about that. That’s the reason I tried to wipe down everything in the house. Where did you find them, at Alice’s?”
“No, at Outlaw Mountain,” Joanna said. “They were on the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. You forgot to run it. I think it’s possible that the Witness Protection folks did pull your prints, but somebody came behind them and put them back into the system. Have you ever heard of a Detective Garfield?”
“Who’s he?”
“A phony detective who called my AFIS tech claiming to be a North Las Vegas detective. He called within minutes of her getting the hit on your prints when the regular clerk had already told her you were dead. It was enough to arouse suspicion, especially since Detective Garfield doesn’t exist and the phone call placed to my tech came from a North Las Vegas pay phone and not a police department.”
Behind them in the chapel, the man from the lobby cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said. “The visitation is over. I really do need to lock up now.”
“Fine,” Joanna said. “We were just leaving.”
“I’m sorry I’ve caused so much trouble,” Jonathan Becker said. “I guess I’ll just head on down the road. Although there doesn’t seem to be much point. It won’t matter where I go. They’ll just track me down again.”
He sounded so beaten—so defeated and alone—that Joanna ached for him. And in that instant, she had an idea. “What if we let them find you?” she asked.
Becker frowned. “What do you mean?”
“What about if we lay a trap for them, tomorrow, at Alice’s funeral?”
“How?”
“I’m not sure. I’d have to check with some friends of mine, including Adam York, the local agent in charge at the DBA. I’m sure he could point us in the right direction.”
“I don’t know…”
“Excuse me,” the man from the funeral home insisted. “I really must close up now.”
“Come on,” Joanna said, taking Becker by the arm and pulling him from his chair. “We’ll talk more about this outside.”
“Do you think it would work?” Becker asked once they were outside the mortuary.
Joanna looked up and down the street, but there was almost no traffic. G Avenue seemed completely deserted.
“It might,” she said, “but it could also be very dangerous. We’d need to have you in body armor, of course. And we’d have the whole funeral laced with plainclothes officers.”
Becker shook his head. “Even if we succeed—even if we catch whoever they’ve sent this time—who’s to say they won’t try again? They’ll just turn around and send someone else.”
“Maybe not,” Joanna said. “Maybe if we nail the messenger, he’ll lead us back to whoever sent him, and we’ll get those guys, too.”
A long silence followed as Jonathan Becker seemed to consider Joanna’s idea. At last he sighed. “Tell me what to do,” he said. “I’m tired of running. I don’t want to do that anymore. When Alice let me move into her little place at Outlaw Mountain, I finally started feeling like I was alive again. For the first time since my son died, I felt like life was worth living. Maybe someday I’ll feel that way again, but not if I’m forever on the run.”
“Come on, then.”
“Where are we going?”
“Back to my office at the Justice Complex. I need to make some calls. Where’s your car?”
“I ditched it. It was too distinctive. I drove it into a wash out east of town, right along the border. I thought maybe I could trick people into believing that I’d crossed the line into Old Mexico. All I have left is this.” Becker held up a small single suitcase Joanna hadn’t noticed before. “When you’re on foot,” he added, “you have to travel light.”
Joanna smiled. “You’re not on foot now. We’ll go in my Bronco.” She pointed. “It’s over there on the corner.”
Leading the way, Joanna climbed in the driver’s door and then used the electronic lock to let Becker in on the other side. Once they were both strapped in, she started the engine and eased into the sparse late-evening traffic on G Avenue. She had barely started up the street when a car pulled out of an alleyway and fell in behind them.
Concerned but unwilling to show it, Joanna made at least three separate turns, following the old truck route back to the highway and keeping her eye on the narrow pair of headlights that duplicated her every maneuver. By the third turn, Joanna knew she was in trouble. She realized that the men tracking Becker must have worked their way through the same assumptions Joanna had and decided that they, too, would attend Alice Rogers’ visitation. The question now was: What to do about them?
Had Joanna been in her own Blazer, she would have had a spare Kevlar vest for Jonathan Becker to slip on and wear. As it was, she didn’t.
“Don’t turn around, Mr. Becker,” she said evenly, “but someone is following us. I’m going to call for backup. As soon as we have another car or two to make a squeeze play, I’m going to pull over and try to trap this guy. When I do, you’re to hit the floor and stay there. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
Calling into Dispatch, Joanna learned there were no county units available anywhere in the near vicinity, other than the two deputies who had been left guarding Dena Hogan at the hospital. One could be spared, but at best he would be a good ten minutes away.
“What about Douglas cops, then?” Joanna asked. “Are any of them available?”
Two minutes later, just after Joanna had crossed the road to Pirtleville, a city of Douglas patrol car met Joanna. The cop flashed his lights briefly, and then pulled a U-turn as a second car came sliding to a stop in the lefthand lane and cut off all means of escape. Joanna jammed on the brakes, and so did everyone else. Within seconds, the desert lit up with the glare of flashing red lights.
Joanna remained in the Bronco long enough to make sure Jonathan Becker had hit the floorboard and would stay put. By the time she stepped out of the vehicle, the Douglas cops had already wrestled the suspect out of his vehicle and had him pinned flat on the pavement. One of them was just snapping shut a pair of handcuffs when Joanna arrived on the scene.
“Here he is, Sheriff Brady,” one of the Douglas cops announced proudly, shining a flashlight down on the suspect’s shiny bald head. “He never had a chance.”
“I’ll say!”
Joanna recognized Butch’s voice the moment he spoke. Finally, without the headlights glaring in her eyes, she recognized his Outback, too. “Butch, what on earth are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I was following you,” he said sheepishly. “I was worried. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“You know this guy?” one of the Douglas officers asked.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Joanna Brady said. She was grateful that in the pulsing glow of lights it was impossible for anyone to see the vivid blush that had flooded her face. “His name’s Butch Dixon. He’s my fiance.”
“I guess that means we should let him up?” the patrolman asked.
“I guess so,” Joanna said.
Furious and embarrassed both, Joanna turned on her heel and marched back to the Bronco to tell Jonathan Becker that everything was under control. Meanwhile the two Douglas officers helped Butch to his feet and removed the cuffs. They were still apologizing and brushing the dirt off Butch’s clothing when Joanna returned.
“It’s all right,” Butch said to them impatiently. “I’m fine.”
“You only think you’re fine,” Joanna corrected. “What the hell were you thinking of?”
“What were you thinking of?” Butch returned. “You said you were going to the hospital, but when you left there, instead of going home you took off in the opposite direction. What was I supposed to think?”
“That I was doing my job.”
“And I suppose that includes laying a trap for me—having a whole squad of cops pull me over, handcuff me, and throw me on the ground?”
“I happen to have an endangered witness in my car,” Joanna told him. “A witness somebody’s gone to a lot of trouble to get rid of. When I saw your car, I thought someone had followed me and was going to try to kill him.”
“So who is he?” Butch grumbled. “Shouldn’t I at least get to meet the guy?”
Something in the way he said the words touched Joanna’s funny bone. She stopped being mad and started to laugh. The release of tension was catching. Within moments, Butch was laughing uproariously too, as were the two Douglas cops.
Holding her sides, Joanna staggered up to the door of the Bronco and opened it. “Jonathan Becker,” she gasped. “I’d like you to meet Butch Dixon—the man I’m going to marry.”
Butch temporarily stifled his laughter. With dead-pan seriousness he shook Jonathan Becker’s hand. It was enough to make Joanna giggle that much harder. Only when two cars came by, passing carefully and gawking, did Joanna realize how ridiculous they all must have looked.
“We’d better get out of the road before someone does get hurt,” she said.
“Where to?” Butch asked.
“Let’s go to High Lonesome Ranch instead of my office,” Joanna said. “And if Dick Voland happens to be there, it’ll make it that much more interesting.”