Downfall (13 page)

JOANNA'S PLAN TO USE ROBIN WATKINS AS A HUMAN SHIELD ENDED
up working far better than she had intended or even wanted. It turned out that from the moment Robin and Bob Brundage were introduced, the two of them had settled into chatting as though they were long-lost buddies. During his years in the Pentagon, Bob had been in and out of the White House on numerous occasions, and he was quite sure he must have met Robin's brother at least once.

That initial point of connection soon evolved into a long discussion about the politics of government—not politics per se so much as the complexities of operating inside chains of command and inside governmental entities where no allowances were made for any kind of common sense. Bob and Robin might have been from entirely different agencies, but as far as dealing with inflexible command structures that seemed hell-bent on
promoting waste and mismanagement, the two of them were definitely in the same corner.

Joanna had brought Robin home to dinner in hopes of deflecting some of the conversation about Eleanor and George's deaths, but she hadn't intended to deflect all of it. She went to bed feeling frustrated and annoyed, and awakened early the next morning—long before her alarm went off—feeling the same way. She crept out of bed, dressed quietly, and was in the process of tiptoeing out of the bedroom when Butch woke up.

“Where are you off to at the crack of dawn?” he asked, sitting up. “And what about breakfast?”

“I have to be in Sierra Vista by seven thirty,” she said. “Since I'll be fighting rush hour for people heading on post, I thought I'd get an early start. As for breakfast, Sierra Vista PD is springing for that.”

“All right, then,” Butch said. “Be safe.”

“Will,” she answered, and hurried out.

In actual fact, leaving the house for a seven-thirty appointment at six fifteen was a clear case of overkill, but right that minute, she didn't want to discuss with Butch what had or hadn't gone on at dinner. One of the things that annoyed Joanna about Butch on occasion was his unfailing ability to see both sides of any given argument. There were times when she loved his penchant for playing devil's advocate, but only when the two of them happened to land on the same side. This wasn't one of those times.

Joanna was annoyed that Bob seemed to be exhibiting none of the grief over their mother's death that she herself was feeling. Of course, having outlived both his adoptive parents, Bob had already experienced this challenging process, and he had done so
after becoming an adult. Joanna's father's death had come about while she was still a teenager. Inarguably, Bob had already been there and done that. Maybe that helped explain why he had been able to maintain dinnertime small talk in such a free and easy fashion, focusing on safe, theoretical topics and general philosophy without ever coming close to mentioning the emotionally draining reality of the upcoming funeral.

On an intellectual level, Joanna understood that the dynamics of the relationships Bob had shared with Eleanor and George had been forged in adulthood. Her own complicated relationship with her mother dated from childhood. In that two-character family drama, Joanna was forever cast in the role of “wayward teenager”—as the irresponsible girl who had “gotten herself in trouble”—as though Andrew Roy Brady had had nothing whatsoever to do with it.

As a consequence, even though Joanna had been right in front of Eleanor the whole time, Eleanor had never seen her daughter in the same light as, say, the voters of Cochise County, who had overwhelmingly elected her to a very responsible position twice over, and who, hopefully, would vote the same way again in a few months' time. The fact that Eleanor had ignored the steady presence of her levelheaded daughter and chosen Bob to function as her executor was something that rankled more than Joanna could say.

So even though she understood all those things on a logical level, it didn't mean she wanted to stand around while Butch explained it all to her in his perfectly reasonable and patient fashion. She was still driving and fuming a few minutes later when her phone rang.

“Hey, Mom,” Jenny greeted her. “How's it going?”

“Fine,” Joanna said. Of course, things were far from fine, but she hoped Jenny wouldn't be able to suss that out.

“Sorry I didn't get back to you yesterday,” Jenny went on. “As soon as I got out of class, I went to work out with Maggie. By the time we finished up, it was too late to call. Did you need something?”

Yes, I needed something,
Joanna thought.
I needed to hear the sound of your voice.
What she said aloud was, “I just wanted to say hi and see how things were going.”

“Yesterday I went by to see the professors and instructors from my Friday classes,” Jenny said. “I told them what was going on back home and let them know that I need to miss class on Friday so I can come to the funeral. The thing is, most of the lectures are available online these days, so I'll be able to listen to them coming and going. I'll leave as soon as my last class gets out tomorrow afternoon. I should be home by ten or so—no later.”

Joanna's first instinct was to say, “No, you shouldn't,” but she stifled it. She and Butch had decided between themselves that Jenny should ditch the funeral in favor of heading off to school on time. Now, though, Jenny was making a decision that suited her needs and was hers alone.

“What about Maggie?” Joanna asked.

“Mom!” Jenny exclaimed, sounding affronted. “Who do you think I am? Of course I've found someone to look after Maggie!”

Properly reprimanded, Joanna did an immediate about-face. “It'll be lovely to have you here,” she said. “Dealing with all this is harder than I thought.”

“So I heard,” Jenny responded. “The situation with Grandma and Grandpa has to be hard enough, but adding a double homicide on top of that makes it that much worse.”

“How do you know about the double homicide?” Joanna wondered aloud.

“Hello? Earth to Mom. Haven't you heard of the Internet? I read Marliss Shackleford's column first thing this morning, as soon as it was posted online.”

“I hate to think what she said.”

“Don't bother reading it,” Jenny advised. “She interviewed Don Hubble, of course, and guess what? He thinks your being involved in an active homicide investigation when you should be off on personal leave is setting a bad example for your department. He also mentioned something to the effect that you should be wise enough to recognize that it's best for all concerned for you to stand down when you're caught up in an emotional turmoil that might cloud your judgment and cause you to be a less than effective law enforcement officer.”

I solved Grandma and Grandpa's murder, didn't I?
Joanna thought the words but didn't say them aloud.

“That figures,” she said. “How very kind of Marliss to give Don Hubble an opportunity to spout his campaign rhetoric for free without his having to bother placing an ad.”

“Is Marliss going to give you a chance to respond?”

“Not likely.”

“Bitch,” Jenny muttered fiercely.

Joanna couldn't help smiling. “My sentiments exactly,” she said.

By then she had arrived in Sierra Vista, was driving down Busby Drive, and was about to turn into the parking lot at Holy Redeemer Chapel. She was early, but Ian's sleek Interceptor and Agent Watkins's Taurus were already parked and waiting so all three vehicles could approach the house together.

“I've gotta go, Jenny,” Joanna said. “Thanks for the call. See you tomorrow.”

“You're not going to give me any grief about coming home?” Jenny asked.

“Nope,” Joanna said. “Not this time. Your life, your decision. You get to make the call.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Jenny said. “I love you.”

Twang
went Joanna Brady's emotional rubber band, one more time. Home and family versus work and murder. Maybe Don Hubble wasn't completely wrong after all.

AS THE THREE POLICE VEHICLES CARAVANNED TOWARD THE
house, another vehicle, a blue Ford Fiesta, came toward them, approaching the officers from the opposite direction. When it drove by, Joanna noticed a woman behind the wheel, but there was no time to grab a phone and photograph either the driver or the vehicle's license. Instead, she drove into the parking area in front of Drexel Nelson's house, hopped out of her Yukon, and hurried forward to knock on the door.

“What now?” Reverend Nelson demanded, banging open the door—which suddenly stopped moving in midswing. “Oh,” he said. “I thought you were someone else. What do you want?”

Despite the fact that Nelson was looming over her in the same blue-and-white PJs Joanna had seen before, there was a visible trace of lipstick on his lower jaw. An unidentified female visitor had just driven away from his house at this very early
hour of the morning. In other words, if the good reverend had already sought out female companionship for overnight visits, he wasn't exactly letting grass grow when it came to dealing with the grieving process.

By then the others had walked up onto the porch behind Joanna. “You've already met Detective Waters with Sierra Vista PD,” Joanna said. “And this is Agent Watkins of the FBI. We wanted to speak to you for a few minutes about your wife's remains.”

“What about them?” Reverend Nelson demanded, not opening the door any wider or showing any indication that he was about to invite his visitors inside.

“Dr. Kendra Baldwin, the ME, says she'll be able to release your wife's body today. She'll need to know which funeral home you'd like to have handle the arrangements.”

“All right,” he said. “Fair enough. I'll give her office a call and let her know.”

He made as if to shut the door, but Joanna managed to insert the toe of her shoe between the door and the frame. “We'd also like to ask you a few additional questions.”

“What about?”

“Wouldn't it be easier if we did this inside the house?”

With a reluctant sigh, he opened the door wide enough to allow the three officers to enter. As Joanna walked past him, she realized how tall the man was—six-four at least. Either she hadn't noticed that detail the previous night or she hadn't remembered it. In her autopsy overview, Kendra Baldwin had mentioned that Susan Nelson had been five-six. The male figure captured in the surveillance films escorting her from the school grounds was probably only four or five inches taller than she was—so six feet
or maybe six-one at the most, including the hoodie. In other words, when it came to the kidnapping, Reverend Drexel Nelson was the wrong guy. That didn't mean, however, that he was completely off the hook.

It took a moment for the visitors to arrange themselves in the small, overly furnished room.

“So?” Nelson said impatiently once they were seated. “What is it you want to know?”

“Are you aware that most homicide victims are murdered by someone close to them—a husband or boyfriend, perhaps?”

“Of course,” he replied. “Everybody knows that, and the husband is usually the one who did it.”

“Did you murder your wife?”

“No, most assuredly not!”

“Are you aware that your wife was expecting a child?”

His jaw literally dropped. “She was what?”

“She was with child—as in pregnant.” Joanna answered. “You mentioned last night that you had a vasectomy performed years ago, so presumably the baby isn't yours. If you, the husband, didn't kill your wife, then to our way of thinking, the boyfriend would be a good bet. Do you have any idea who that might be?”

“She let herself get pregnant by another man?” Nelson demanded in shocked disbelief. Before anyone in the room could react, he rose out of his chair, took a powerful swing at the wall behind him, and punched a fist-sized hole in the Sheetrock.

“That little bitch!” he exclaimed, rubbing his dust-covered, bleeding knuckles. “How dare she do that? Couldn't she see how shame from that would reflect on me? If word of her pregnancy gets out, it'll be a permanent stain on my reputation.”

Speaking of stains,
Joanna thought,
what about that visible lipstick
mark?
The words “pot and kettle” crossed her mind about then, but she didn't utter them aloud.

“Please sit down, Reverend Nelson,” she urged. “What we're wondering is if there was anyone inside your wife's circle of acquaintances with whom she was particularly close. A good friend, perhaps, someone in whom she might have confided?”

“I don't socialize outside the church, and I didn't approve of Susan doing so, either,” Nelson countered. “I suppose she may have had friends—unsuitable friends—at the school, but her school life was outside my realm. I didn't know any of those churchless, godless people, and I didn't care to.”

“You know of no one inside or outside the church with whom she may have been involved?”

“Certainly not! This dreadful news comes as a complete shock to me. Since I know nothing about it, you could just as well be on your way. If you wish to speak to me again, it will be in the presence of my attorney.”

Now that he had invoked his right to an attorney, there was nothing more to discuss. Joanna and the others rose as one to leave.

“And about those remains,” he added. “You can tell the medical examiner from me that I won't be bothering to claim them. As of this moment, I wash my hands of the woman. You can haul her off to the nearest landfill for all I care. I refuse to have anything more to do with her.”

Joanna had been the first one in and now she was the last out. She was a cop, and she shouldn't have let Nelson get under her skin, but the man's blatant hypocrisy was more than she could stomach.

She paused in the doorway. “I should have thought a man in
your position would be more forgiving of his wife's transgressions. Isn't that what Jesus would have done?”

Reverend Nelson leveled a cold-eyed stare in her direction. “I'm sure He probably would have,” he responded, “but forgiving sins is a little above my pay grade.”

Joanna caught up with the others on the way back to the cars. “Other that learning that Reverend Drexel Nelson is a complete hypocrite, that visit wasn't much help,” Agent Watkins grumbled.

“Not true,” Joanna said, “because it did help. We know now that Nelson isn't the guy who walked Susan Nelson out of her classroom.”

“How do we know that?” Robin asked.

“For one thing, he's far too tall, and for another, he's right-handed.”

“So he's not our guy?” Ian Waters concluded.

“Not our guy so far as the abduction is concerned, but that doesn't clear him from having a hand in her murder.”

“Why?” Robin asked.

“Because we've been thinking all along that both victims would have had to climb Geronimo under their own steam. Maybe that's not true.”

“What are you saying?”

“Did you see the hole Reverend Nelson punched in that wall with his bare fist? Anyone strong enough to do that could probably throw someone over his shoulder and carry her fireman-style wherever he wanted to—including straight up Geronimo.”

“But if he did that,” Agent Watkins concluded, “he'd most likely need an accomplice.”

“Who, given what he's told us so far, is also likely to be a member of Holy Redeemer Chapel.”

“Right. Since he doesn't socialize outside the confines of his church, Reverend Nelson most likely wouldn't go shopping for a hit man outside it, either.”

“So it still comes down to the boyfriend or the husband,” Ian Waters suggested.

“Or maybe both,” Joanna replied. “But first of all, whoever that boyfriend is, we need to find him.”