Damage Control (17 page)

COMING BACK TO THE OFFICE AFTER LUNCH, JOANNA FOUND SHE
was feeling better. The food had helped, but so had the fact that Butch hadn’t been freaked out by the idea of their being the focus of a possible federal investigation. Doing her best to emulate his “What—me worry?” attitude, she turned to her desk and tackled the bane of her existence—the never-ending routine paperwork that had to be read, assimilated, and signed. She was making reasonably good progress when Kristin tapped on the door.

“Ms. Edwards would like to see you,” she announced.

“Somebody bailed her out?” Joanna asked.

Kristin nodded.

Having already been threatened with a police brutality lawsuit by the husband of one of the Beasley sisters, Joanna wasn’t eager to talk to the other one. For a moment she was tempted to
call Frank to come into her office and run interference—or at least to serve as a witness.

“Did she say what she wants?” Joanna asked.

“To apologize,” Kristin said.

“All right, then,” Joanna said, relenting. “Send her in.”

The Samantha Edwards who had walked into Joanna’s office on Saturday had been totally put together. Then she had been dressed in a stylish pantsuit. This time she entered wearing a worn pair of jeans and a tank top, both of which were much the worse for wear. There were spatters of blood on the shirt and jeans, and there was a three-inch tear in the side seam of the tank top. These were evidently the same clothes she had worn during the Branding Iron bar fight. Whoever had come to post her bail hadn’t bothered bringing along a change of clothing. And the visible damage wasn’t limited to the way she was dressed. The cuts and scratches on her face and arms were starting to scab over, and the bruises were far more vivid than they had been the day before.

“Have a seat, Ms. Edwards,” Joanna said. “What can I do for you?”

“Sammy,” Samantha said, sliding into one of the captain’s chairs. “Please call me Sammy. I came to apologize for my behavior yesterday. And for Sandy’s as well.”

Her contrition stood in stark contrast to her bloodied clothing and her distinctly fat lip. “You were both under a lot of stress,” Joanna said graciously.

“I also wanted to say thank you,” Samantha added.

Kristin had given Joanna some advance notice that an apology was in the offing. Samantha’s heartfelt thank-you, however, came as a complete surprise.

“Thank me for what?” Joanna asked.

“For giving me back my sister,” Sammy returned. “You were right. The two of us hadn’t been together for any length of time in more than forty years. Being locked in the same cell like that finally gave us a chance to talk—to clear the air. I doubt we’ll ever be close, but at least we’re speaking. That’s progress.”

“You’re welcome,” Joanna said. “You said you had been praying about this, and it sounds like your prayers have been answered. I’m sure your parents would be pleased.”

Sammy nodded. “I’m sure they would be. Surprised, too. You see, we never did get along, not even when we were kids. Sandy was always better-looking than I was, and smarter, too. When I came along, the teachers always expected me to be the same kind of brain she was, but I never measured up. I was never quite good enough.”

Since the two sisters still looked so much alike as to be virtually indistinguishable, Joanna wondered where the bogus “better-looking” complaint came from. She doubted there was any merit to the smarter/dumber comparison, either, but it seemed likely that nothing anyone else said to the contrary would change Samantha Edwards’s mind.

“So when I had a chance to steal Norbert away from her, I did it,” Sammy continued. “That’s the only reason I did it—because I could. I admit it was mean, and I never meant for it to turn into a war that would last a lifetime, but it did. Like a little snowball growing into an avalanche. By bringing up the subject of Norbert yesterday, you actually fixed it, Sheriff Brady. You got us started talking and helped us see how ridiculous it was. We ended up laughing about it, so thank you—thank you very much.”

Due to Joanna’s efforts, Sandra Wolfe and Samantha Edwards
were finally back on speaking terms. So were George and Eleanor.
That’s me, all right,
Joanna thought.
Just call me Madame Peace Broker.

“You’re welcome,” she said aloud. “I’m glad it worked out.”

“As you said, I’m sorry our parents didn’t live to see it,” Samantha added. “But at least we can plan their funeral now without being at each other’s throats. Well, not plan, really, since they already did all that. But we can schedule it.”

“And your parents’ will?” Joanna asked.

“That’s been handled, too. A woman from Mr. Kimball’s office is bringing a copy of it up to the Copper Queen, where Larry and Sandra are staying. I’m supposed to meet them there in an hour or so. That way we’ll be able to go over it together. It’ll be good to have that out of the way.”

Samantha glanced at her watch and stood up. “I’d better go,” she said. “Someone’s taking me down to the Branding Iron to pick up my car.” She held out her hand. “Again,” she said, “I can’t thank you enough.”

In Joanna’s experience as a police officer, there weren’t many thank-you moments. This was something to be savored.

“You’re most welcome,” Joanna told her.

Samantha left. Joanna turned to her next paperwork challenge. More than a year earlier, the county’s perennially understaffed and overworked Animal Control Department had been unceremoniously dumped in Joanna’s lap. At the time Joanna had been assured that the move, done as part of a “cost-cutting realignment,” was strictly temporary. Unfortunately, “temporary” was now looking more and more permanent.

One of Joanna’s key AC officers, Jeannine Phillips, had been severely injured in a shoot-out back in March. After weeks in
the hospital and months of physical therapy, Jeannine had now been cleared by her doctor to return to work on a “light duty” basis, but her physical condition made it unlikely that she would ever again be able to handle the rigors of ordinary patrol. Not wanting to lose Jeannine entirely and hoping to divest herself of some of the Animal Control responsibilities, most specifically scheduling, Joanna had come up with a plan. She wanted to create a new administrative slot—half-time if need be—that would bring Jeannine back to work and put her in charge of handling Animal Control’s day-to-day activities. With Jeannine out on disability, keeping the Animal Control duty roster up and running had been a major challenge. They had managed by juggling the schedules of existing officers. Putting Jeannine at a desk, however, meant that Joanna would need to hire a permanent patrol officer replacement. That created a major stumbling block.

Months earlier, the Board of Supervisors had imposed a countywide hiring embargo. With NNP—No New Personnel—as the watchword of the year, the idea of bringing Jeannine back in a different capacity while also hiring an additional officer was anything but a slam dunk. By moving money from one category to another, Frank Montoya had managed to carve out a complex system of budget wiggles that could conceivably provide an “expenditure neutral” way of getting the job done. Now, however, it was Joanna’s task to boil down Frank’s complex budgetary mumbo jumbo and arcane pie charts into something the Board of Supervisors would deem acceptable. Joanna had asked for and received a slot on this week’s Board of Supervisors agenda. By Friday she’d need to have her presentation pulled together, polished, and ready for seamless delivery.

She was deep in the process of working on that when Jaime showed up in her doorway. “Got a minute, boss?” he asked.

Joanna pushed her laptop aside. “Sure,” she said. “What’s up?”

“Look what I found.” He tossed a thin file folder across Joanna’s desk.

“What is it?”

“I decided to check out the Tucson PD Missing Persons file for anyone named Wayne. I think I may have found Wanda Mappin’s missing friend. His name’s Wayne Leroy Hamm, age twenty-six. He disappeared on May 12, 2005, from East Twenty-fourth Street, off South Swan, Tucson, Arizona.”

Joanna picked up the folder and glanced through it. “What makes you think this Wayne is related to Wanda’s Wayne?”

“You have to read all the way through it before you come to the meat of it. Turns out that the address on East Twenty-fourth is for another group home, one that’s operated by the same organization—the Flannigan Foundation—the same people who ran the one Wanda was living in when she disappeared.”

“But if they weren’t in the same one—” Joanna began.

“Maybe they had joint outings of some kind,” Jaime suggested. “But what I’m thinking now is that Wanda’s imaginary friend wasn’t so imaginary after all.”

Joanna nodded. “What kind of halfway house?” she asked.

“Flannigan Foundation is real coy about that,” Jaime said. “Their Web site says they operate group homes to fill any number of ‘critical needs’ in the community—places for drug and sex offenders and for recently released inmates as well as homes for mentally and physically disabled adults. This particular one is called Warwick House. I got the number from the reverse directory. The person
who answered the phone there, however, refused to give out any information, citing client confidentiality, of course. She referred me to the corporate offices, which ultimately led me back to Flannigan Foundation’s CEO, Mr. Donald Dietrich. He hadn’t returned my previous phone call, and he hasn’t returned the latest one, either.”

Joanna turned back to the papers in her hands and scanned through them. The details were sketchy. Wayne Hamm, a ward of the state of California, had been sent to Tucson for reasons that weren’t specified in the missing persons report. There was no way for Joanna to tell from what was written there why the man had been remanded into a custodial setting.

“Has Mr. Hamm ever been found?” Joanna asked.

“Not according to Tucson PD,” Jaime told her. “They still have the case listed in their active missing persons file—as active as those things ever are.”

“Wanda missed Wayne enough that she complained about it to her mother, but the date Hamm disappeared is almost two months after Wanda Mappin herself went missing,” Joanna pointed out.

“I noticed that, too,” Jaime said with a nod. “Maybe he got moved from one facility to another, and Wanda was no longer able to see him the way she had before. Maybe it was just a matter of scheduling. But if Wayne Hamm is Wanda’s Wayne, why did the people at Flannigan Foundation tell Lucinda Mappin that he didn’t exist, that her daughter had made him up?”

“You’re right,” Joanna said. “That is very interesting. Where’s Flannigan Foundation located?”

“They have properties all over in both Phoenix and Tucson,” Jaime said. “But their corporate offices are located in a business park out near Tucson International Airport.”

Joanna looked at her watch. It was verging on four, and Tuc
son International was a good two hours away. By the time they got there, the offices would most likely be closed, and Joanna didn’t relish making a wasted trip.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “How about if the two of us take a ride up there tomorrow morning and drop by to see Mr. Dietrich in person? It’s one thing to ignore requests for returned phone calls. It’s a lot harder to ignore people who are milling around outside your office, especially if two of those people happen to be wearing badges.”

Jaime grinned at her. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he said. “You’ve been known to charm open a few closed doors on occasion. What time?”

“Eight-thirty or nine,” she said. “As soon as we finish the briefing.”

“I need to head out, then,” he said. “Pepe’s got a Little League game tonight. I try not to miss them.”

“What about Luis?” Joanna asked. “Have you heard from your nephew?”

“I tried calling him a little earlier,” Jaime said. “There was no answer. I thought tonight, after the game, Pepe and I would stop by and check on him. Marcella may let Pepe in to see his cousin even if I’m persona non grata.”

Once Jaime left Joanna’s office, she closed her computer and started packing up to go home. George called before she managed to get away.

“How did you do that?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Find Ellie, for starters,” George replied. “She told me this morning that you’d come to see her at a hotel out in Sierra Vista. What in the world was she doing in a hotel?”

“That I don’t know,” Joanna answered.

“Whatever you said to her must have worked. She’s gone home. She called me from there just a little while ago. She wanted to know when I’d be home so she’ll know when to start dinner. She acted like nothing out of the ordinary had happened and completely ignored the fact that she’s been on the warpath for days. Weeks, even.”

Should I tell him what she said about my father?
Joanna wondered. In the end, she let things be.

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Joanna advised. “Go home. Whatever you do, don’t be late for dinner. You might even go for broke and stop by Safeway for a bouquet of flowers.”

“Good thinking,” George said. “I’m on my way.”

This time Joanna made it out to the parking lot without the phone summoning her back inside. There was another storm building over the mountains to the east, and once again she took the Explorer home, just to be on the safe side of the water cascading down the walls of Mexican Canyon and into their wash. Butch’s rain gauge reported that they’d had close to two and a half inches of rain in the past three days. With the ground saturated, that meant that it wouldn’t take nearly as big a storm to create another torrential runoff.

At home, she and Butch both pitched in to make it through the evening chores—dinner, dishes, baths, bedtime. She had loved Andy, but their relationship had been far more tempestuous than her relationship with Butch. When Jenny was a baby, Joanna never remembered the two of them working together as a team to take care of her. Andy Brady had come to parenthood with a macho mind-set that child rearing was women’s work. For a while Joanna had gone along with that program, but over
time the world had changed. So had Joanna’s expectations. Dennis Dixon’s parents were older than Jennifer Ann Brady’s had been—older and wiser both, Joanna hoped.